A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden (31 page)

“I know,” Diddy sighed. “But the politics of Arden run deep. There are those on the High Council who have always questioned Father’s judgment on allowing his children to be schooled with lesser nobles and commoners at Academy. They believe royalty should not mingle with anyone who is ‘beneath them.’ Of course, Father is defiant and has always fought against this, but in light of recent events, the idea has gained support within the council. They would use my performance today as an excuse to pull the royal family away from outside influences.”

Gib shook his head. It all seemed more confusing than it needed to be—confusing and dirty. But such matters were not up to a lowborn to decide. “If you should fail this today then you’ll be tutored? Is that such a terrible thing?”

Diddy’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked to the marbled floor. “I must sound a spoiled brat to you. It’s just—Father indulges our dreams of leaving the palace. I’ve always been taught outside of the palace and the thought of being tutored feels like I’m being sentenced to prison. I leave so rarely as it is—” The prince stopped there, head hung low. Gib would have never considered the palace to be a prison but now, in context, he thought he understood Diddy’s dilemma.

They had no time to discuss it, however. The arena doors flew open a final time and Seneschal Koal stormed through. The look on his face showed he was in no mood for merriment, and a moment later the sentinel trainee understood why. High Councilor Neetra Adelwijn followed just behind the billow of Koal’s red cape.

Neetra’s face was set in a foul sneer. Pointed nose in the air, he didn’t wait to be acknowledged before climbing the steps to the auditorium. Gib watched as Koal took a stance on the far side of the dark-haired stranger, putting the man between the seneschal and his brother. Gib watched with growing apprehension as Neetra bowed stiffly to the tall stranger. Who in hell was this man if the high councilor—arrogant and lofty as he was—had bowed to him?

Roland was bearing down on the trainees. No time was left to ponder the stranger’s identity.

“Formation!”

Roland’s voice filled the arena. Gib had no time to think about anything besides following the command. Falling into position, he shared one last meaningful look with the prince and Tarquin. They all knew everything rode on this performance.

At Roland’s command, they commenced. Gib and Tarquin advanced as they would on an enemy. Diddy was no longer their prince and close friend. He was an obstacle to overcome, and the prince had to prove he could undo them both. In whirling steel and clashing blades, Prince Didier proved himself to the gathered men. If Gib hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn the trio of boys had rehearsed this performance beforehand. He hoped Neetra didn’t accuse them of as much.

They pressed on until Gib’s shoulders were on fire and he could barely catch a breath of air. He had no idea how Diddy was continuing with two opponents trying to best him. Tarquin was likewise flushed and gasping for air when Koal finally raised a hand into the air.

Roland called them to halt, and the three students gratefully complied, only just managing not to drop their weapons on the floor. It took all of Gib’s reserve to hang his sword back where it belonged before kneeling to take a rest. Diddy handed his weapon to Gideon, but the young prince remained standing, anxiously watching the men in the gallery as they deliberated.

From the distance, Gib couldn’t hear their words, but he could see Neetra’s scowl. Likewise, Koal and the tall, dark-haired stranger with the long braid frowned and waved their hands as they argued with one another.

After a heated few minutes, the man whom Gib didn’t know flagged a hand, catching Roland’s attention. The Weapons Master barked a single command for the three students to follow him and they fell in line behind the instructor.

Tarquin’s eyes were wide as he rubbed his sweating palms across his leggings. He examined the occupied auditorium, and Gib felt one corner of his mouth turn up. He kept his voice low. “Seneschal Koal isn’t so bad. He was very hospitable when I met him before. High Councilor Neetra, on the other hand—”

The puzzled look on Tarquin’s face should have been a bigger clue. “I’m more concerned about the King.”

Gib’s stomach seized.
The King?
“Why? Are we going to meet him too?”

Tarquin didn’t have time to respond. They were too close to the group of men now. The sentinel trainee swallowed hard, a knot in his stomach. The sparkle in Tarquin’s eye suggested he was amused about something—only Gib couldn’t figure out what he’d overlooked.

Standing before the panel of judges, Gib bit his bottom lip and remained silent. The tall man who’d called them over addressed only Roland. “Weapons Master, how fares the prince with his lessons?”

Roland bowed to the stranger and as he did, a sickening realization began to dawn on Gib. Roland’s voice sounded a hundred leagues away as he responded, “Prince Didier is doing well for his age and build. The areas he needs to work on are—”

Gib wasn’t listening any more. How had he never realized this stranger looked so familiar before now? Tall and slender, he bore a striking resemblance to Hasain Radek. His dark, almond-shaped eyes, olive skin, and braided onyx hair—albeit silver dusted with age—were all testament to the truth now so painfully obvious. Save for the thin mustache resting above his lip, he looked so much like Hasain that no one could say this man wasn’t the young lord’s father. And if he was Hasain’s father then—Gib swallowed to keep from throwing up his midday meal.
Goddesses! How could I not know?

Neetra’s high whine needled its way into Gib’s consciousness, drawing his attention back to the conversing men. “Yes, yes. The prince performed well against his peers, but how would he do against a true enemy? A full grown man?”

Roland’s eyes were sharp. “Not as well. It would be unfair to pit him against a grown man.”

The high councilor threw his hands into the air. “I didn’t ask whether it would be fair or not. I asked how he would do! Surely you don’t think the enemy will concern themselves with being fair?”

“Of course an enemy won’t fight fair. Politicians, each one of them,” Roland replied through gritted teeth.

Neetra’s mouth fell open, aghast. He narrowed his eyes as if to respond but the tall stranger who so closely resembled Hasain cut the councilor off. “Roland Korbin, tell me the truth. Will the prince benefit from training with the royal guards? Should these two students be dismissed?”

“No. The prince is not so tall or built as fully trained soldiers. He wouldn’t stand a chance—”

Neetra snorted. “Then perhaps your training is little more than a waste of time and resources, Master Roland.”

Roland’s mouth pulled back into an ugly sneer. “With all due respect, High Councilor, how many soldiers have you trained? How many of Arden’s wars were won by troops you taught?” Neetra fell into angry silence. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to Arden’s defenses. I assure you all that I’ve taken the utmost precaution with Prince Didier.”

“Roland, what is your suggestion?” asked the tall, dark-haired man.

The Weapons Master scrutinized Gib and Tarquin for a long moment. “I would keep the students I’ve selected. And if you would like, I can bring in a couple of the older boys to train with Prince Didier as well. Nawaz Arrio, Otho Dakheel, and Lord Tular Radek would be suitable. All are taller and stronger than the prince and will give him a good comparison for fighting a grown man.”

The stranger—who Gib was now sure was no stranger at all—nodded his head as if his thoughts were deep. Diddy took the opportunity to step forward, bowing low. Tarquin did the same, and Gib was quick to follow. He couldn’t breathe. This was proof. Who else would the prince ever need bow to?

“Please, Sire, if I may request my friends stay, I would.” Diddy’s voice was eloquent as he took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t be caged now, having been free for so long. Please.”

Gib’s head was swimming. He feared his knees might buckle right there. The King of Arden looked over the three boys in silence. The weight of his dark eyes was enough to crush Gib’s lungs without so much as a touch.

“I’ll allow it, Didier,” King Rishi responded at length. “Unless there comes a time when the danger is too great. If and when such a time should come, I’ll do what I must to keep you safe. There are worse prisons than this palace.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Diddy stood slowly, the trace of a smile gracing his lips.

It wasn’t until King Rishi told them they may rise that Gib and Tarquin straightened their backs. Gib was so flustered he could barely tell which way was up anymore.
The King! I just met the King of Arden!
Diddy had a full-fledged smile while Tarquin was doing his best not to grin—and failing miserably. As Gib watched the King and his entourage depart, he began to shake his head slowly.
How did I not know?

The sennights sped by quickly after that, and before Gib knew it, the ice and snow covering Silver City began to recede. Cold rain fell in its place, sometimes for days on end, leaving the streets in muddy disarray. The rain was hardly any more tolerable than the snow, but at least an end to the bitter winter was within sight. Spring was just around the corner.

Gib had settled into a steady routine. In the mornings, he attended weaponry class with his peers. He would then scarf down his midday meal and report to the palace for training with Diddy. For Gib not to be tardy to his afternoon classes, he would then have to sprint from the royal grounds back to Academy and hope he arrived before Lady Beatrice began the day’s lesson. Nights were spent catching up on his studies with Joel.

Gib stayed so busy he had little time to think about the assassination attempt, and after a couple of moonturns, it seemed like everyone else had forgotten about it too. It was possible that after one botched effort, the assassin was too scared to act again.
Possible
, but nothing was ever certain.

The King never returned to watch Diddy spar, but other members of the royal family frequented the arena. The students’ daily training sessions were becoming quite the spectacle within the palace walls. Diddy introduced Gib to all the visitors as they arrived—cousins, siblings, family of family—it was all difficult for Gib to keep track of and he didn’t pretend to understand the different titles and ranks they associated with themselves. However, after two moonturns of training inside the palace, Gib certainly had learned how to bow correctly. He realized a gracious bow could spare an awkward conversation in situations where he simply didn’t know what to say or do.

“You gonna make it through class, Nemesio?”

Gib jumped to attention. He hadn’t realized he’d been slouching so low in his seat that his chin was resting on his chest. In fact, the sentinel trainee was so out of sorts that it took him a moment to remember he was sitting in his Ardenian Law class.

Gib held back a yawn and blinked his heavy eyelids fully open as he turned toward Nage. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

Nage clasped him on the shoulder. “I can tell.”

“We could hear you snoring,” Kezra snorted. She sat on the opposite side of Gib. “Better not let Lady Beatrice catch you sleeping in her class or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Gib grimaced. He believed it. “Lady Beatrice isn’t here yet. I can’t get into trouble if class hasn’t begun.”

Tarquin issued a groan, leaning around Nage to address Kezra. “Gib and I have to sneak in naps whenever possible. Training once a day with Roland is brutal enough. You guys try doing it twice in the same day and let me know how you feel by nightfall.”

Kezra’s green eyes speared the young highborn. “Spare me your whining, Aldino.”

The assembly hall was filling quickly; students poured through the open door in droves. A group of young, well-dressed ladies passed by, and Gib caught part of their conversation.

“—having a new gown tailored just for the celebration,” one girl squealed in an excited voice.

A second girl giggled. “My mother is allowing me to wear her fine golden jewelry. It’ll be sure to catch the attention of the young men in attendance.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for the dancing. The royal palace is the perfect place to hold such a glamorous ball—”

The rest of the conversation was lost as the two girls moved away. Gib furrowed his brow. “What do you suppose they were going on about?”

Kezra rolled her eyes. “Oh, just mindless twitter about the ball.”

“Ball? What ball?”

Kezra and Tarquin exchanged amused glances before the young lord elaborated further. “The ball held at the palace every year to celebrate Aithne.”

Gib froze.
Aithne. Daya, how could I forget?
Had he lost track of time so completely that he’d forgotten the most important holiday on the Ardenian calendar was less than a moonturn away?

Aithne was the celebration marking the day, some five hundred years ago, that Arden had won its independence from the Northern Empire. Like a phoenix emerging from the ashes, the people had risen against the tyranny of the Empire and fought for their freedom. The price of such freedom had been immense and many had lost their lives. Each year since, bonfires were lit in every village, town, and city to honor the sacrifice Arden’s ancestors had made for their children to be free.

But Gib had never heard of a ball to commemorate Aithne. Of course, he’d never spent time in Silver City either—among highborns who seemed to thrive on wealth, possessions, and extravagant celebrations.

“It must be a pretty spectacular event if it’s hosted at the royal palace,” Gib replied.

“Ha!” Tarquin spat, sarcasm lacing his tenor voice. “One would think so.”

“It’s not?”

Now it was Kezra’s turn to groan. “It’s awful.”

Tarquin echoed her sentiment. “Completely dreadful. It’s so boring. My father makes me go every year.”

“Mine too,” Kezra lamented. “He says it’s the ‘duty of every highborn’ to celebrate Arden’s independence in the presence of the King.”

“King Rishi goes?” Gib asked curiously.

“Yes,” Tarquin answered. “The whole royal family attends. And they always look just as bored as the rest of us. The whole thing is a waste of time!”

Nage let out a snort, shaking his head. “You highborns have it so bad,” he teased. “Being bored at some stuffy party with the King of Arden sure seems
awful
. You should try spending the holiday in the streets of Silver, scrounging for food and a warm place to sleep. I’ve had to do it a time or two in my life.” The lowborn boy turned a sly grin onto Gib. “It’s all right, Gib. While these two are enjoying the ball with the rest of the social elite, me and you can head over to the Rose Bouquet and have a real party, eh?”

The sentinel trainee frantically tried to think up an excuse for why he couldn’t accompany Nage to the tavern, but luck was with him as Lady Beatrice strolled through the door and announced class was beginning.
 

Gib returned to his room still pondering everything his friends had talked about during class. He’d never heard of such a thing as the Aithne Ball before—but then again, the residents of Willowdale were too poor to hold great feasts or festivals for any of the major Ardenian holidays. Families had always celebrated Aithne alone, in the privacy of their homes. Gib remembered his own family setting a candle in the windowsill each year and taking time to say a word of gratitude in tribute to the ancestors who had sacrificed so much for the country. But no splendid parties or grand dances had occurred.

Joel greeted him warmly as Gib came through the door. “Hey. You’re back early.”

“Yeah, Lady Beatrice dismissed us. The highborn students were restless today. She told us that if no one was going to focus then we all should get out of her assembly hall.” Gib grinned, though at the time, it hadn’t been the least bit funny. Lady Beatrice was known for her patience and kind heart, but even a woman of such petite stature could be intimidating when bellowing at her unruly students.

“Oh?” Joel asked, raising an eyebrow. He extended a hand to the sentinel trainee.

Gib graciously accepted the silent invitation. Taking the offered hand, he was pulled closer by the older boy. “Yeah, they were all going on about the ball—”

“Ah yes,” Joel interjected, smiling wistfully. “To commemorate Aithne. I should have known. In the highborn world, Aithne is the biggest celebration of the year.”

“Well, my friends didn’t seem very excited to go. Tarquin and Kezra were complaining all through class.”

Joel chuckled, stroking long fingers through Gib’s hair. “It can be dreadfully stifling. Being an event held for the social elite, I’m sure you can imagine the proper decorum and mannerisms that need to be followed. It’s certainly not like the party your friends took you to at the Rose Bouquet.”

The sentinel trainee grinned and relaxed against Joel’s sturdier frame, enjoying this private moment. Life had kept them so busy lately. “Will you be going?”

“Unfortunately it is expected of me.” Joel rested his chin on the top of Gib’s head, sighing into his curls. “People will take notice if the son of the seneschal is absent, and rumors will ensue. Of course, people will talk even if I do go. It seems as though I’m destined to be the subject of nasty gossip everywhere.”

Gib took hold of the mage trainee’s hand. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to stop it. No one deserves to be slandered in such a way—least of all you.”

Joel’s eyes were sad as he leaned his forehead against Gib’s. “I appreciate your words, but it’s my own fault. I should never have said what I did.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide.”

“No one should.”

Gib gave the older boy a gentle smile. “Maybe someday things will be different.”

Joel remained quiet for some time. His eyes were far away, as though he were caught in some momentous reverie. At last, the mage trainee spoke. His voice sounded a hundred leagues away, hushed as it was. “Gib, this might sound like a foolish request, but how—how would you feel about attending the ball with me?”
 

“Lady Mrifa, you really don’t have to go through the trouble—”

“Oh, nonsense! I don’t want to hear any of it,” Lady Mrifa lamented as she circled around the young seamstress who was taking Joel’s and Gib’s measurements. Her eyes were attentive, as though she were truly concerned the tailoring apprentice might overlook something. “I insist you have custom-made attire for the ball.”

Gib looked to Joel for help, but the mage trainee only shook his head and snickered. “Don’t. It’s not worth the argument.”

“I’ll have to work a lifetime to be able to repay this!” Gib protested, unable to quiet himself. The seamstress huffed for him to stand taller, and with a wince, the sentinel trainee jumped to do as he was told.

Mrifa scoffed. “My brother, Joran Nireefa, is Headmaster of the Tailoring Guild, and he owes me a favor or two. There will be no need to repay me, Gibben.” She smiled, blue eyes twinkling with warmth as she set a hand against Gib’s face. “Besides, truly it is I who am indebted to you.”

Gib met her gaze with shy, uncertain eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, m’lady.”

Mrifa sighed, her own eyes flickering to Joel for a moment. “This world can be so cruel. For a while, I believed my son would never recover from the scorn he was made to endure, only because he was—different.” She stroked the sentinel trainee’s cheek. “It wasn’t until you came into Joel’s life that I could once again hear his laughter or see a trace of a true smile. You brought him back to us, Gibben. And one silly outfit will never be enough to repay you for that.” Mrifa leaned forward, pressing her lips to Gib’s forehead as a mother might do to show affection for a child.

His cheeks were as hot as iron rods. “I–I, uh, it’s easy to like Joel. You raised a wonderful son.” Gib stole a glance at his roommate. Joel was smiling shyly back. “I’m honored to be able to call him a friend.”

For a moment afterward the room was silent, and the seamstress took advantage of the lull by clearing her throat and announcing her work was complete. “All done with the young lords, Lady Mrifa. Will you be needing measurements taken today as well?”

Mrifa turned away from Gib, dismissing the girl with a wave of her hand. “I assure you, my brother has made enough dresses by now to have dedicated my measurements to memory, and I haven’t grown—taller or otherwise—since Carmen’s birth nine wheelturns ago.” Mrifa laughed as she helped the seamstress collect her belongings. “If you could inform Master Joran to have Joel and Gibben’s outfits delivered to their dormitory room when they’re completed, it would be most appreciated.”