And So It Begins

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

And So It Begins

Copyright © 2013 by R.G. Green

Cover Art by Paul Richmond  

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only
and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-602-6

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-603-3

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

June 2013

To all those who offered unending support,

an endless supply of encouragement,

and an incredible amount of patience:

saying thank you isn’t enough, but it’s a start.

Thank you!

“…. B
ANEBERRY
can be found in richly wooded areas, and can reach heights of up to three feet. The leaves are large and spreading, with sharp-toothed edges. Small white or blue flowers decorate the topside, while fine hairs trace the veins on the bottom. The berries themselves are shiny and black, found most often in summer or autumn. Small doses of baneberry produce a burning stomach and dizziness, larger doses, nausea and convulsions. Milk or egg whites are given to nullify the poison, though fluids…”

The parchment crinkled as the page was turned.

“… are often depleted through bloody diarrhea.”

Kherin snorted. He leaned his head back to work out the crick stiffening his neck, then let out a deep sigh of resignation as he watched the all-too-familiar dust motes float through the late-day sunlight breaking through the equally dusty windows. Although there were undoubtedly more boring things he could be doing with his time, he would be hard-pressed to name one at the moment.

The rare coolness of the late summer day was a welcome relief from the stifling heat that had blanketed the Llarien kingdom and its capital city of Delfore during the last few weeks, but the pleasant enjoyment of the outdoors was lost to him for the time being. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed spending time outside the castle walls, maybe even wandering into the city itself, given that the angle of the light said it was still early enough to make it to the bustling square before dark. It would take almost an hour on foot, but he would have enjoyed the walk. He would have enjoyed the gait of a horse even more, with the feel of the muscles working beneath him and the race of the wind through his hair… hell, he would have enjoyed
saddling
the horse. He would have enjoyed
anything
but the forced idleness he was faced with now.

But the two linen-wrapped splints bracing the leg stretched out beneath the table in front of him put a definite end to those flights of fancy, even without the crutch leaning haphazardly at his side emphasizing the point. A broken leg was certainly not conducive to walking or riding, or apparently anything else of interest inside the walls of this castle. And it would remain that way for at least a few more weeks, or so the castle healer predicted. Kherin wondered if his sanity would hold that long.

At least the break wasn’t terribly bad, and it had been an accident,
and
one that had been mostly his own fault, he conceded willingly enough. A sparring match with Adrien, the Crown Prince of Llarien and his elder brother by three years, had resulted in Adrien first gaining and then pressing his advantage, and Kherin’s back-stepping into a hole in the training yard. Startled and thrown off balance, he had twisted in an effort to deflect his brother’s blow and dislodge his foot. Instead, the bone had snapped. That had been three weeks ago, and it would be at least another three before his leg would be declared healed. The boredom already chafed as much as the stiff bandages. He let out a soft growl as his gaze fell back to the book in his lap.

Bloody diarrhea. Wonderful.

At twenty-one years of age, he wasn’t used to sitting idle in his father’s dusty library learning the intricacies of the code and conduct of poisonings. He may not have the right age or status to assume any grand responsibilities of running the kingdom, but he wasn’t one to grow fat and lazy while the world went on around him either. And while it was true his reputation wasn’t
quite
the drinking, gambling, and whoring his father seemed convinced it was, it was close on occasion. It was also made worse, in his father’s estimation, by the sheer fact that those who
did
end up falling into his bed didn’t need wealth or noble standing to get there
.
They were, however, required to be male—the Gods and the castle staff could attest to that
—
and not even the scathing lectures from his father were going to change that particular preference, regardless of whether it was becoming or not of a prince of the kingdom, or a suitable attribute for a Defender of its border.

A Defender who was even now failing to fulfill his duty.

A sharp pain arced through his leg at the reminder of that particular failure, and he shifted irritably as he forced himself to focus on the words in front of him and not on the camp where he should be completing his tenure.

“Defenders” was the old and simple name for the men who served in the Defender camps that stretched across Llarien’s northern border, lining the river that separated this land from the plains of the northern tribes. There were thirteen Defender camps in all, with thirteen Defender cities having inevitably grown around them in the generations since their founding. Those assuming residence in the adjoining cities earned the unofficial title of Permanent Defenders, while the men who lived elsewhere in the kingdom were obligated to three months of service every year to augment and relieve the permanent guard.

The practice had been in place for centuries, and tradition said it began for every male the moment they reached their seventeenth year and ended the moment they reached their seventieth. That was how the arrangement had been written, and that was how it remained through the generations. Even today, there were few exceptions to this law. And the son of the king was not one of them, especially not the second son.

But while they were intended to meet the hostilities of the north, truth be told, it had been years, if not decades, since the threat of attack had proven anything but empty. A skirmish now and then perhaps, but pitched battles had ceased long before Kherin’s birth.

Even so, the Defender camps remained.

Kherin was sure somewhere in the castle was a clerk whose responsibility it was to know the whos and whens of each and every Defender and assignment rotation, but he would be first to admit
he
didn’t know the details of the alternating and assigning of Defenders. Like every other Defender, he knew only when and where
he
was supposed to be. And “when” was now, and “where” was the camp at Gravlorn, nearly centered between the eastern and western borders. Nearly two weeks into his tenure. Adrien was already there.

Another heavy breath escaped as his gaze drifted from the book in his lap to the cluttered shelves around him, each one packed with at least a dozen copies of every original tome his father owned. Kherin had no idea why his father wanted so many copies of each and every book, but in truth, he didn’t really care, and his gaze continued to circle the room, sliding past the shadows and flickering lamps, until his eyes at last rested on the face of his mother. And as he had done every day he had spent here, he paused long enough to meet the soft, direct stare that so mirrored his own.

A deft brush had captured the luster of the queen’s chestnut hair and the intensity of her deep brown eyes, the only two traits that were inherited by both her sons. But where the queen’s face was soft and round, Kherin and Adrien bore the sharper, angled features of their father, and while the queen appeared small and fragile, the princes had taken their father’s height, if not quite his girth. And while the queen seemed to watch him with maternal warmth, Kherin found it difficult to summon anything more than curiosity.

The queen had died shortly after Kherin’s birth, leaving her youngest son with no memories of his mother, just an artist’s rendering on tightly woven canvas. The woman in the painting was a stranger, and while it tended to make the courtiers of his father’s court uneasy, Kherin couldn’t summon it within him to miss something he had never known. At least any comments concerning his lack of feeling toward his mother’s death had long since ceased, although he was sure it remained yet another mark against him in his father’s eyes.

He let out another huff of breath as he broke away from the portrait, and raised a hand to massage his neck under his own fall of chestnut hair. While his mother might have never existed, his father did, though he hadn’t been one to garner the deep affection of his second son. He had never truly tried, as least as far as Kherin could see, though whether he was naturally distant or driven to it by the death of his wife, Kherin had long since stopped wondering. Adrien had clearly been deemed the favored son, and the gap between father and second son had only widened as Kherin had grown older—or grown wilder, as most would describe it. Not even Adrien had managed to change that, and the Gods knew how often he tried. Even if the Gods themselves had never intervened, on his side or opposed to it.

Perhaps that was why he paid them so little heed. Or perhaps he was simply the wastrel his father thought.

The chair creaked as he shifted uncomfortably, and he winced as the accidental movement of his leg sent another arc of pain around the bone. He exhaled sharply as he readjusted the book in his lap, returning to the page in front of him with a determination to focus on the words.
The Record of Deadly Poisons
had sounded infinitely more exciting than it turned out to be.

“My leg only encourages me to do what I should be doing anyway,” he muttered darkly, covering the words in dripping mockery as he drew the book closer. “The world is full of things unlearned and knowledge unfound. Who am I to ignore the collected wisdom of the elders?”