Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (4 page)

Connor noted his brother’s proper bearing as he walked away as the golden thread of the ram sigil on his cloak caught the light from the braziers. He knew he could never be duke. Far too much responsibility.

Now in his fifteenth year, Connor hardly remembered his parents. He looked upon his uncle, the high king, as his father now, and he was as doted on as any royal son. High King Alric II of the house of Gwalchgwyn gave him lavish gifts. A stable full of stallions was his gift the year prior. This year, he had been given a full suit of armor and a sword fit for a king, or a rather wealthy ealdorman. Alric also had several of the rarer herbs from the north brought to the castle to form a garden at the foot of the eastern window of Connor’s quarters. The sweet scent of the herbs wafted in through the window in the summer’s breeze, and was what Connor remembered with such fondness from his first years at Castle Cærwyn.

But now such a close relationship caused Connor much pain. His uncle no longer retained the healthy vibrancy of the man he once knew. He grew far thinner, wizened from years upon the throne, and there seemed to be such a tremble in his voice. But only Connor had noticed. When confronted, his uncle simply smiled and assured Connor no malady ailed him. So Connor decided to discuss it no further, neither with him nor with others.

Chilled, he wrapped his thick cloak of Helygen wool tighter.

Below, waves crashed against the cliffs. Connor licked his lips. He had been staring out at the sea for so long, he failed to notice the salt spray had dried his mouth. He ran his finger over one of the parapet stones and lifted salt residue, rubbing it between his fingers. With a heavy sigh, he turned from the waves and looked out across the perimeter of the castle, surprised to find that nobles still filtered into the castle walls with gleeful cheers as though the attack had never happened.

Having grown tired of staring at the waves and the nobles, and now chilled by the cool air, Connor decided to return to the warmth of the castle in hopes of listening in on the clansmeet. He had not been all too interested in learning what would be taking place, but the mere fact that he was disallowed an invitation piqued his interest.

He passed through the bustling kitchen. Nearly every noble from four provinces had come to the gates of Cærwyn to attend the clansmeet called by High King Alric II. It had been more than fifteen years since the last, and the excitement throughout the kingdom carried even to the servants.

They scurried around the kitchen, preparing the large banquet that would follow the meet. Mouth-watering dishes created with imported food from Ordanis were prepared to perfection. Mutton, coated in aromatics and dripping with flavor, turned slowly on the spit. Potatoes were below, baked in the ashes of the hearth. Baskets filled with candied nuts were accompanied by the last of the dried berry stores. Finally, Connor spied his favorite‌—‌fresh honeyed bannock on wooden platters with small crocks of imported honey and raspberry jam.

While not particularly hungry before he entered the kitchen, Connor felt the effects of the delectable aromas. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled. He could not touch any of the food being prepared, to his malcontent, so he had to settle for an apple from the larder.

As he left the larder, the din of people filled the halls of the castle. Connor took a bite of the apple, looking at the new formal garb the guards wore. The silver armor with gold trim and an under-tunic of fine Helygen wool were some of the most valuable sets of armor his uncle had to offer his men. Emblazoned with an intricate royal crest of Cærwyn, the armor was a remarkable work of smithery. The armor was created by the Duamor at special request from his uncle, brought to Cærwyn only yesterday. Rhodri had sent the woolen under-tunics as tribute the week prior. These garments were a far cry from the chain and splint mail the guards normally wore. But dear uncle had to keep up the appearances worthy of a high king.

Connor ducked around the corner to the hallway behind the great hall, where the clansmeet was about to take place. He crept toward the door of the great hall. With eager hands, Connor opened it. The door shuddered and let out a small groan, and he winced. No one seemed to notice him, however, so he peered inside.

There were guards posted around the perimeter of the room. Nobles had brought their own men. With the tension between all of the clans, it was to be expected.

High King Alric II had already taken his place, seated in the large chair at the head of the table. In addition to the king, five others sat nearby. Connor recognized only one of them, Gawain’s father, Duke Rodric Gweliwch.

Away from these nobles, four others sat at the table. Two were Cærwynian ealdormans, Amaetha and Barciau, rich land owners. The other two were Annwydian senators, whom Connor knew only by their richly embellished attire with the sigils of their respective houses: a scythe on one and a tower on the other.

Rhodri entered the great hall from the main entrance and closed the door behind him.

Connor hid behind the door as he listened to his uncle greet his brother. He wondered what action he should take. It was then it occurred to him the gallery above the great hall would be absent of any servants, as they were forbidden from the proceedings. He grinned at this brilliant idea. He was not banned from the clansmeet; he was simply not extended an invitation.

Connor crept down the hallway toward the stairs that led to the gallery of the great hall. Swallowing the last bite of his apple, he tossed the core into an empty brazier in the corner and proceeded with cautious steps on the bare floor.

The door hinges creaked at the top of the stairs, and his throat tightened.

A guard, dressed in full regalia, descended the stairs, gave him a polite bow as he passed and disappeared around the corner.

Connor allowed himself a deep breath before he walked up the dim passageway. To his delight, the braziers in the gallery had not been lit, allowing him to cloak himself in shadow, unnoticed by those gathering around the table. Only his uncle used the gallery. It was the shortest route from the great hall to the king’s quarters.

He had not been allowed into the hall while they prepared for the clansmeet, so it came as quite a surprise to see how lavish the room looked. Several brocaded banners of Cærwyn, hung on either wall, accompanied the royal sigil carved in the stone above the fireplace. Two small braziers upon the mantle, surrounded by garlands of ivy, freesia, and lilacs, the only wild flowers native to the area still in bloom, illuminated the Cærwynian crest, an eagle in flight with a golden crown on a field of four squares.

Such adornments were a far cry from the boring, bare bones of the hall to which he was accustomed with its naked walls and relatively empty room. In truth, the great hall functioned as the throne room on most days and only housed the king’s throne, which sat atop the raised platform at the northern end of the hall, beneath the gallery. For this, it remained mostly unused except when his uncle received homage from grandees or listened to behests.

In recent time, Connor recalled, it had been used only once, when Ealdorman Amaetha, a land magnate from the east, sought his majesty’s permission to leave his title to his daughter’s husband. Having no sons of his own, Ealdorman Amaetha needed the king’s seal on royal decree for affairs of his death.

The banquet table was decorated with freshly-dipped candles and flower sprays similar to those placed upon the mantle. The finest of tableware and gold chargers set in front of each guest in preparation for the feast. Connor frowned as he looked at the heavy, pewter goblets on the table. They did not look at place among the other more expensive tableware.

As he inhaled, a pleasant aroma filled his nostrils. Several large braziers were against either wall, and in one, he noticed, a bundle of braided sweet grass on the embers, filling the air with a scent he remembered well from his childhood.

The strong winds that blew in from the coast often frightened him as a boy, keeping him awake all hours of the night. To remedy this, his mother, a child of the Old Ways, tucked braids of sweet grass and other wildflowers between the reed-stuffed mattress and the skins that lay atop the linen. The sweet scent of the flowers caused him to drift off to sleep without fear.

A trick from her time learning the Old Ways among the Meïnir, she often wove wild flowers from the edge of the Hwerydh forest into her hair. After she died, that scent clung in his mind, painfully prevalent in his thoughts.

Connor found himself caught off guard by the surge of emotions that rushed over him. It had been some time since he thought of his childhood and his parents, and yet he had seen his mother in his fevered state‌—‌the pain of reminiscence shot through him. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and ignored the feelings.

“Announcing King Denorheim of Annwyd!”

Connor knelt down and inched toward the balustrade of the gallery. He peered through the space between the carved spindles, keeping his face out of the light.

“King Denorheim, it is good to see you.” Alric welcomed his guest with a certain formal inflection that Connor was unaccustomed to hearing from his uncle. “Please, sit here, at my side.”