The Prince's Pet: Chapter One - Drevin's Gem

I waited too long before publishing another chapter, and for that I apologize. In truth, this is not an entire chapter but I began to realize that Steemit (with it's 60,000 character limit) and I have different definitions of what constitutes a "chapter," so what was intended to be the second half of this chapter (bearing the title "By Verdania's Light") will have to be a separate entry. This chapter is perhaps less bloody than the prologue.

The green moon, Verdania, was two days from its apex even as the other four moons were all nearing their new phase, giving the night sky a dim, misty green tint. This light shone through the window of Drevin's bedchamber, bathing the floor with the murky hue of a layer of moss. Beneath this layer, a dark colored sleeping robe lay in a crumpled heap beside the massive canopied bed, its true color imperceptible in the green moonlight. On top of the bed, within the shadow of the canopy where the rectangular shaft of light through the window did not reach, Drevin lay.

Beside him, her graceful, pliant body pressed tightly against him even in sleep, lay Lucia. Drevin's left arm was wrapped around her. His hand lay on the soft curve of her hip with the thin, diaphanous silk bunched between his fingers until the hem was practically at her hip. Her head rested on his chest with her arm draped across his chest and her leg wrapped around his. In this manner the young prince of Drakmark and his pet-turned-concubine had slept every night that they could remember. Tonight however, sleep eluded Drevin.

Two days hence, when Verdania reached its first zenith of Drevin's adulthood, Drevin was to attend his aging father's abdication, ascend the obsidian throne and be crowned King of Drakmark, Arch-Regent of Men. It was to be a day of celebration all over Drakmark, the dawning of a new age. Except that it will likely be nothing of the sort, Drevin thought as a brooding sigh escaped his lungs.

“What troubles you, Milord?” Lucia did not stir as she asked this in her soft, alto voice.

Having thought Lucia to be sleeping, Drevin waited a minute before tracing his fingertips affectionately across her hip and asking “what makes you think something is troubling me, gem?”

Lucia tilted her head just enough that her eyes could turn toward Drevin's and she answered casually, “it's nearly the third watch of the night and my gown is still on me, and not on Milord's floor.”

The comment earned Lucia a teasing smack on her almost bare thigh from Drevin's hand, and the sound of the smack almost covered Drevin's momentary chuckle. “Do you know my mind so well then?” he asked playfully.

Lucia pulled herself up to bring her face closer to Drevin's, and as her hand slid down the front of his uncovered chest she whispered into his ear, “I know a great deal more than your mind, my prince.” The last was emphasized by a deep kiss upon his lips and a highly suggestive squeeze elsewhere. As she pulled her lips away, she propped her head up on her hand so her eyes could meet his. “Milord, I've shared your bed since we were both too young to know what it was for. I know when your heart is heavy.” Her tone was more affectionate and less lustful as she asked, “what weighs on it?”

The girl's tender affection was not enough to keep Drevin's voice from sounding like a growl as he replied, “Dankirk.”

Lucia tensed, as she always did at the mention of the Duke of Lyndwyr, Drevin's uncle. “Milord,” her voice wavered as she spoke, “this room is your sanctuary. Why bring him into it?”

Drevin pulled the covers back with his free hand and rose from the bed, not stopping to kiss her as he usually did when rising. “It's the lords, Lucia,” he said as he picked up his robe from the floor and wrapped it about him, no longer whispering. “I'm to be King in two days. Yet it is my dear uncle who commands the loyalty of the entire court.” He passed from the room's shadows into the slant of Verdania's green rays with slow steps and made his way toward the window, where he leaned his hands across the dark granite windowsill. The coldness of the stone and the chill of a timely breeze through the window wrested from him what vestiges of sleep had been able to encroach on him through the night.

Lucia made no sound as she rose. Her delicate feet touched the floor silently as she began making her way to Drevin's side, heedless of the chill that her thin nightgown did little to protect her from. “You think he will be disloyal then?”

Drevin's gaze did not stray from the castle ramparts. “With my father's withdrawal, Dankirk will be nearest the throne and he knows it,” he finally said.

About three paces away from Drevin, Lucia knelt, placed both of her palms against the floor in front of her knees and bowed her head. “May a pet approach its master, Milord?” she asked in a timid tone.

Drevin's jaw clenched and he stifled a groan of annoyance. “Yes, yes of course,” he said more harshly than he'd intended, motioning her to his side with a hurried twirling motion of his right hand. “Come, come.” He didn't have to turn toward her to know his tone had stung her and he immediately regreted it. As much as he hated this ritual in the privacy of his own bedchamber, it was at his command that Lucia practiced it. If she were ever seen approaching him without presenting herself this way, they both knew it would cost her her life, and Drevin was unwilling to put her at risk by letting her get so comfortable with him in this room that she would unwittingly make that mistake elsewhere.

Lucia crawled the last few steps toward Drevin and rubbed her cheek against his knee. “Forgive me if I've displeased-”

Before Lucia finished speaking Drevin had lifted her to her feet, and his lips were pressed insistently over hers. “No Lucia,” he said when their lips finally parted. “You're the one person in this entire fortress who hasn't. And gem, I'd have you stop asking.” Slipping one arm about Lucia's waist, Drevin turned his attention back toward the window. His face turned away too quickly to see Lucia's child-like smile.

“Milord is the only one in the entire fortress who calls me that,” Lucia murmured shyly, pressing both of her hands and her forehead against Drevin's chest.

“Gem?” Drevin asked.

“A person, Milord,” was Lucia's hushed reply. Drevin gave no answer, and a few moments passed in silence, broken only by one more kiss from Drevin, this time on the crown of Lucia's head. Finally, turning her eyes toward Drevin's face, Lucia spoke more freely. “My prince, is Dankirk really to be feared like this?”

Drevin raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Lucia slid her arm up around Drevin's neck and went on. “You worry that he has ambitions for the throne, that he commands the loyalty of the lords. And yet, it seems that I recall seeing him once cowed, at the foot of that same throne, before the eyes of those same lords, by... who was it?” She pressed a fingertip to her chin in a mockingly thoughtful way before finishing. “Why, I think it was a six-year-old boy, protecting his new kitten.” Her eyes met Drevin's as she went on, “does Milord remember it so?”

A single huff of laughter escaped from Drevin as a smile formed on his lips, but his eyes still bore the shadow of worry. “A great deal can change in twelve years, Lucia.”

“Indeed it can, Milord,” Lucia agreed. “For example, that six-year-old boy has since then grown to one of Drakmark's most fearsome swordsmen. Before his sixteenth year he killed three hobgoblin patriarchs in single combat and made their clans his vassals.”

“Two,” Drevin corrected; “the one with three eyes wasn't a hobgoblin.”

Lucia went on as if Drevin had not spoken.“This same swordsman has slain a mountain drake with his blade and a Northern behemoth with his bow, defending that same druid girl who he once swore he would protect if he could.”

“I had Rafnir's help with the drake,” Drevin interrupted again.

Still Lucia went on. She leaned toward Drevin until her face was close enough to his that her lips nearly brushed his skin as she spoke before finishing, “and in two days time, he will take the throne of the most powerful kingdom under Heaven, becoming lord of all the civilized world.” As she finished, she slid both of her arms around Drevin's neck and kissed him deeply again, pressing her body hungrily against his as he squeezed her.

Drevin gave a smirking half-smile once the kiss was done. “My Lucia,” he mused with a shake of his head. “My gem. Hearing you speak of me, one would think I could slay rock titans and ascend to Heaven by climbing upon their carcasses.”

Lucia bit her lip and traced her fingers along Drevin's jaw and down to his chin. “And when Milord finished that climb, I would feel sorry for the gods if you judge that any of them have threatened your gem.” She emphasized this, his term of endearment for her, with another kiss before backing away from Drevin with his hands in hers. “Come to bed, my love,” she said in a manner that sounded like a plea but was almost an order. “Don't let your uncle trouble you.”

Drevin gave her the same half-smile, but stayed where he was.

“Milord,” Lucia took a step back toward Drevin. “Be at ease. Dankirk will never be a match for you and he knows it. He dares not challenge you. If for nought else, he knows he'd face the axe if he raised his hand against his king.”

Drevin's chest heaved with a long, deep sigh. “I suppose you're right,” he conceded at length. “And that leaves only one other problem.”

Lucia rested her hands on Drevin's shoulder again. “What problem is that, Milord?”

Verdania's hue failed to hide the mischief in Drevin's smile as his eyes caught hers. “It's nearly the third watch of the night and your gown is still on you, and not on my floor.”

---

It was the red light of the lesser sun beaming through the window that first roused Drevin, who had spent himself too thoroughly upon Lucia to be awakened by the softer yellow light of the greater sun. Beside him and still wrapped in the embrace of his left arm, the corners of her mouth still hinting at the ghost of the smile she wore when sleep finally found her, Lucia lay still sleeping.

On most days Drevin would have either let her sleep, or pulled her into a tighter embrace and awakened her for a few more moments of pleasure before beginning the day. Today, however, was not most days. There were things to be done, which Drevin could not do while he lay entwined with Lucia. After tracing his fingertips from her waist to her thigh one final time, he pulled her close enough to wake her with a kiss on top of her head.

The girl made a faint whimpering sound. “Morning,” she murmured. It was not so much a greeting as a grudging acknowledgement of the fact that it was time to wake up.

“Alas, it is,” Drevin answered. “And I have to be up.”

Lucia gave him a sleepy, pouting look. “Milord, linger a bit more,” she urged, tracing the toes of one foot along Drevin's leg as she pressed herself closer to him.

“All the gods know I should like to,” Drevin's answer was accompanied by another kiss, this time upon her lips. “But in order to be ready for Valdar I should have been awake at first dawn today, and I've nearly missed the second. As it is, I'm already certain there'll be no end of the Hell I'm to catch from him.”

Lucia rolled over onto her back and stretched for a moment, then spoke in a mockingly cracked, scratchy, froggish tone. “A king's son must be ever vigilant, young princeling. It'll do no good for the next sovereign to wallow the morning away, frollicking between his sheets with some Elfseed tart.”

What would have been a sigh of annoyance from Drevin was covered by a hearty laugh at Lucia's impersonation of the ancient swordmaster. “Well keep on then, m'love,” he taunted her. “Maybe I'll tell the old devil to spare me the lecture this time, as you seem prepared to deliver it for him in advance.” After a pause he added, “though I think Valdar would swear a bit more colorfully than you did, especially considering this'll be my final lesson with him... and gods be thanked for that.”

With that said, Drevin rose from the bed and began to dress. “In truth I should bathe first,” he declared as he fastened his trousers, “lest I arrive smelling of sweat and your perfume, but I doubt there's time. I suppose that will earn me another dose of the wrath of Valdar's tongue.”

Lucia slowly rose to her knees, letting the covers fall away from her as she postured temptingly. “Well, when Valdar's tongue is finished with you, beloved,” she said in a sultry and inviting tone, “I hope you'll make haste back here to be soothed by mine.”

Drevin's eyes made a tour of Lucia's body before finally making their way back to her face. The girl's bright purple eyes, the legacy of her race's Elvish forebears, flickered in the red light of the fast-rising second sun as she bit down on her lower lip. For an instant, the young king-to-be felt an urge to abandon his obligations elsewhere and pounce upon her again. Yet, with what felt like a superhuman effort, he turned away and picked up his tunic. “You, my love,” he said in in a scolding tone, pointing his finger at Lucia in a way that would have seemed like a rebuke if it had not been accompanied by a lustful smirk, “are far, far too good at what you do.” With that teasing remark he pulled on his tunic and donned his sword-belt.

“Milord has groomed his kitten well,” Lucia answered with a flirtacious wiggle as she laid back down.

This comment, which would normally have prompted Drevin to cross the room and kiss her once more before departing, instead made his face slowly darken. Something about the mention of the role Drakmark's law assigned to her, gnawed at the edges of his memory, rousing an unspoken worry. From Lucia's look of concern, Drevin could see that this worry was not unnoticed. “No, gem,” he said with a shake of his head. “Before you ask, you haven't upset me.”

“And yet, Milord, it's plain to see someone has,” came Lucia's response. “Surely you're not still troubled by...” her voice trailed off.

No, Drevin chided himself. No, surely I'm not. “Nothing troubles me, gem,” he declared with assurance that he hoped Lucia would feel even though he did not. “In two days time I'll wear the crown. And not long after that, you my love, will be enthroned beside me, where you belong.” Until then though... the thought went unfinished and unspoken, and Drevin realized that his left hand had been tightly clutching the hilt of his sword.

A look out the window at the second sun, now fully visible over the horizon line and inching its way skyward, brought Drevin's thoughts back to the moment at hand. “You're to wait here until I return,” he said lightly, and then with a bit more emphasis as he turned to face Lucia, “do not leave this chamber without me.” This command was delivered with a sternness that belied the concern on Drevin's face.

Lucia averted her eyes, and the smile she'd put on at Drevin's assurances faded. “I have never done so, my prince,” she said meekly.

Of course you haven't, Drevin thought, angry at himself yet again for being needlessly harsh with Lucia, who he knew could be cut deeply by even the slightest hint of his displeasure. Yet within his mind, a distant shadow of memory stood out. ”This isn't a good place for druids. I don't know if I can protect you...” He had no idea why, but this statement came to his mind more often as his coronation drew nearer. He stood silently for a moment, considering what to say to soften the blow. In the end, he took a few slow steps toward the bed, took both of her hands in his and kissed them. “My thoughts will be of you and nothing else until I return,” he said earnestly, availing himself of a final deep stare into her amethyst eyes before he turned to leave.

Once the thick ghostwood door of his bedchamber was closed behind him, Drevin turned his fierce eyes to the door sentinel, an aging ex-herdsman. “If this door latch moves so much as a quarter turn before I have returned,” he growled, drawing his sword and putting the point of the blade half a handspan below the sentinel's belt buckle. “These will be breakfast for a troll hatchling.” Before the sentinel could respond, Drevin siezed him by the chainmail breastplate he wore. “And if I'm feeling particularly merciful,” Drevin hissed, his eyes narrowed into murderous slits, “I'll remove them before the troll eats them. Am I clear?”

Once the sentinel was certain the prince had no further threats to add, he made a swallowing noise and quickly answered, “as Elven glass, Sire.”

Satisfied that his point was made, Drevin released his grip on the sentinel's armor and returned his sword to its scabbard. With a single glance back at the door, he walked away to his final lesson with Swordmaster Valdar.

---

It turned out that Drevin was mistaken in his expectations of a wrathful speech from Valdar. Rather, the swordmaster had very little to say, choosing instead to take advantage of his station as the only one in Drakmark who could strike the heir to the crown, in the only context in which he could do so: the training ground. By the time Valdar decided his pupils, Drevin and his third-cousin Rafnir, had enough bruises and cuts to appreciate the value of punctuality and released them, the greater sun had begun to fade to orange. The dim crescents of Lanzul and Alabas, the blue and white moons, had begun to make their trek across the evening sky and would lend their hues to the coming twilight until Verdania appeared over the horizon line midway through first watch.

As the youths crested the top of Bullwhip Hill, the rise that hid the training ground from Ramsdel Castle, Rafnir grinned at Drevin. “I owe you thanks, Highness,” the seventeen-year-old said cheerily with a sweep of his hand through his wavy, dark-golden hair.

Drevin raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“For being even later to practice than I was,” Rafnir answered, “and keeping me from being the old vulture's primary practice dummy for once.” This was emphasized by a hard smack between Drevin's shoulderblades, which happened to be exactly where the worst of the day's bruises was.

Once Drevin was through grimacing in pain, he found his tongue enough to reply, “if this is your gratitude, keep it next time,” which earned a laugh from Rafnir.

“Oh, did it hurt?” Rafnir asked mockingly. “Be glad it was my hand and not a rock-hob's club. Or, has Your Highness forgotten-”

“For the gods' sakes, Raf, that was one time. One time!” Drevin interrupted. “And it's been three years. Can you please just have done with it?”

“Easy for you to say,” Rafnir replied, still grinning. “You're not the one who needed three weeks in a faerie glen to have his bones put back together.”

“I don't seem to recall hearing many complaints from you about the attention of the faer-folk at the time,” Drevin quipped. “Nor do I recall you being eager to leave the glen once you were recovered.”

“Is it my fault that the Clan Matriarch's daughter fell hopelessly in love with me as I was in their care?” Rafnir asked in a mockingly dramatic tone.

“Yes,” Drevin answered flatly. “Yes, it is.”

Rafnir put a hand to his chest as if he had been struck by an arrow. “You wound me, highness,” he said in such an overly dramatic tone Drevin rolled his eyes.

“You mean you wish I would, so you could pay another visit to that same faerie glen,” Drevin answered, now grinning as broadly as Rafnir was.

Rafnir shrugged. “Wouldn't find it too contrary, and neither would most of the faeries.”

“Good gods, Raf... you're an utter hound,” Drevin laughed.

This time Rafnir made a more convincing show of looking hurt. “All I mean is that we weren't all lucky enough to grow up with our future mistress already beside us in our beds. Some of us have to find our own.”

“While others of us know how to actually keep one,” Drevin answered with a smack to the back of Rafnir's head. “And mind your twice-damned tongue.”

For a bit, the two walked in silence. As Ramsdel castle came within close enough viewing distance that the youths could see (and be seen by) the guards at the wall, Rafnir spoke again. “So then,” he mused with a casual glance at the sky. “In a few days time, we'll have a druid for a queen.” This blasphemy would have been so repugnant to most of Drakmark that he might as well have said 'in a few days time, a goblin will unseat the Regent of the Gods.' Yet Rafnir spoke it with no hint of emotion other than the cheery sing-song of one who finds the irony mildly amusing.

Drevin's face lost its color so quickly a chance observer would have thought he'd been struck by a necrotoxin dart. He's trying to look like he's scandalized by the notion, Rafnir noted, but the truth is he's wondering how I knew. “Ah, what... what do you mean?” Drevin finally stammered.

Rafnir cocked one eyebrow and gave Drevin a sidelong glance. “Oh, get off it, Drevin. I've spent more time in the company of you two than anyone else in the kingdom, and I'm likely the only one in the world who can count you both as friends without fearing one or disdaining the other. You love her.”

Drevin gave up his attempt at looking surprised, but the color still did not fully return to his face. “How long have you known?” He asked quietly.

“We were twelve,” Rafnir replied, reaching his hand out and grasping Drevin's right shoulder, “and you got this scar.” To Drevin's questioning look, Rafnir responded, “Hobgoblin marksmen don't miss, Prince. We both know that. That dart ended the day in your shoulder and not her chest because you flung yourself in its way.”

Drevin looked back ahead of him for a moment and let out a long breath. “You know Raf,” the prince said with a click of his tongue against his teeth, “you do a fine job of convincing the world you're a fool, but your dangerous habit of being right is going to give you away one day.” Rafnir offered a snicker, and Drevin continued in a very obviously deliberate tone of casual half-interest. “You're right on one count,” he admitted, pausing for a split second in mid-stride as if to make sure no others were nearby to hear a damning admission. “Druid or not, I love her. As to the other, you're half right. In a few days time Drakmark will have a druid for a Royal Consort.” As Rafnir nodded his head, Drevin went on quickly. “Once the heads of those lords who will object are on spikes atop the ramparts, then I'll inform the rest of the court that they're now going to have a druid for a queen.”

Drevin appeared to be waiting for an incredulous outburst from Rafnir, but Rafnir offered none. Finally, the younger swordsman nodded. “Aye. That's probably what it will come to, give or take a war here and there to bring said lords to the axe.” Neither of the two youths looked at each other for a moment until Rafnir finally proffered one question. “Highness, how much blood are you truly ready to spill for her?”

Drevin stopped walking and turned to face Rafnir, who walked another step or two before realizing Drevin had stopped. When he turned to face Drevin, he saw the prince's jaw set and his eyes flashing. The second sun's light, beginning to gain prominence as the greater sun began to descend, gave his dark red hair and tanned skin a bloody hue. “An ocean of it, if I have to,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable.

Rafnir held Drevin's gaze long enough to see if the prince would say anything more. When nearly ten seconds had passed in silence, Rafnir nodded his head once. His eyes flicked once to the castle walls and back to Drevin as he drew a breath and answered. “Your words, Drevin, are going to take us all down a dark and bloody road, and there'll be Hell soon to pay. But when that payment comes due... well,” he chuckled mirthlessly before finishing. “You'll have my sword and my arm.” After a pause to make sure Drevin had taken in his words, he added, “and so will your queen. If she's your beloved, she's as a sister to me.”

Drevin did not return Rafnir's smile. Instead, his face was utterly somber as he responded, “Thank you, Rafnir.”

Rafnir shrugged his shoulders again and grinned his half-grin as he turned and began walking toward the castle again. “There's nothing to thank, Your Highness. I always knew one of you two would be the cause of my death. Besides, I've no intention of living long enough to be old. You think I want to be Valdar?”

Drevin stifled a laugh and strode to overtake Rafnir again. “Oh, I doubt you're in any danger of living to be old, unless your everlasting mouth has offended the god of death so badly he won't have you.”

Rafnir laughed again, then took on the same smirking half-grin. “Tearing apart the kingdom, for one woman,” he mused in a manner that was equal parts aghast and impressed.

Drevin glanced at him once, then turned his eyes forward to the castle again. “Wouldn't you do the same for your lady?”

Rafnir appeared deep in thought for a long time before he finally gave Drevin an uncertain look and asked, “Which one?”

---

By the time he ascended five stairwells that led to his bedchamber, Drevin's legs felt as though they, rather than his chest and shoulders, had been the targets of Valdar's blows. A hot bath to soothe his aching muscles occupied most of his thoughts. A hot bath, made hotter by having Lucia beside me in it, he amended this thought with the kind of smirk only a young man can deliver, and only when motivated by a woman.

Approaching the door, Drevin afforded a quick glare at the sentinel, the same one who had stood on duty that morning. Drevin knew of no offense the sentinel had given, but experience had taught him that the hearts of Ramsdel's guards held room for only two attitudes; fear and contempt, and the latter made them useless at best, and dangerous at worst. The glare had more than the desired effect, and even Drevin was surprised at the nervous look on the guard's face as he drew near. “The troll-lings are a voracious lot today I'm told,” he sneered, taking some satisfaction at the audible gulping sound from the sentinel as he turned the latch and entered the room Lucia had called his 'sanctuary.'

“I regret that I kept you waiting so long, gem,” Drevin said as he closed the door behind him. “It seems Valdar was in a...” The sentence hung in the air unfinished as he looked around the seemingly empty room, not seeing Lucia. “Lucia?” he called out, elevating his voice a bit. There was no reply. Drevin shrugged. The pottage well of the bedchamber was separated from the rest of the room by a door of ghostwood made after the same fashion as the chamber door, and it was difficult to hear through it.

Except, the door to the pottage chamber was open and the lamp was not lit. It was empty.

Drevin frowned in annoyance and surprise. I gave her an explicit command not to leave, he thought with a shake of his head. After a moment's consideration, his anger cooled a bit. He had, after all, been gone most of the day, and Lucia had almost surely grown hungry in his longer-than-planned absence, and he had insisted repeatedly to Lucia that his first and foremost command to her at all times was to guard her well-being. Meals in the druid kennels were far from the quality of what Lucia was accustomed to at Drevin's table, but when duty required him to go somewhere without her for long enough, it was not unheard of for hunger to drive her there. It would be the work of fifteen minutes to walk there and retrieve her.

Which would be little more than a mild worry on most days, Drevin grimaced as he reflected. But with my coronation the day after tomorrow, surely that girl had the good sense to realize the risk of- This thought too, died unfinished, and annoyance turned in an instant to alertness as he opened the wardrobe to hang his tunic, and froze.

There were only two things Lucia wore. One was the sheer elven silk gown she wore in the evenings, when no eyes but his were upon her. The other was a longer, simpler, dark red frock-like piece that hung from her shoulders to just above her knees. It bore Drevin's personal iteration of the Fan-Bjorn Royal crest, the same that was branded into her lower abdomen the night she first came to Drevin, along with the words “fin-Drevin,” meaning “belonging to Drevin” in High-tongue, to warn any she might encounter of the consequences of touching her. The former was on the floor across the room from the bed, where Drevin had flung it the night before.

And the latter, Drevin saw now, was still hanging in the wardrobe.

Drevin's eyes darted toward the bed, in case he had missed the sight of her asleep under the heavy velvet quilt. Here, again, was a sight that made his battle-instincts rise. The quilt lay over the foot of the bed in a manner he had not seen it often before. It's appeared as if it was thrown there by the occupant. Or, by someone standing over the bed, Drevin realized. Slowly, realization came to Drevin. The scene before him, Lucia's absence, the sentinel's more-nervous-than-expected reaction to his approach, all assembled themselves to tell a tale of what had taken place.

Hands that trembled with fury clenched themselves into fierce fists at both of Drevin's sides as he reached for his sword-belt. He drew the sword, not bothering to don the scabbard, and wrested the heavy chamber door open as if it had been made of cotton. With the focus and ferocity of an arena-dog locking onto its opponents throat, Drevin was upon the sentinel before the elder man was aware the door had been opened. One hand clutched the sentinel's neck, pinning him against the granite wall while the other held a glistening, dwarven-steel blade at eye-height, its tip less than a hair from the bridge of the sentinel's nose.

“Was my command not clear?!” Drevin exploded. “This door was, not, to be, opened!” Each word grew less like speech and more like the roar of some primeival beast awakened too early.

“Highness, I-” the sentinel's grovelling apology was cut short both by Drevin's fist around his neck and the volcanic bellow of another, still more enraged question. “Where is she?!”

The sentinel's terror-stricken face tightened as he struggled to answer, but could only shake his head. “Please... Highness,” he managed to choke out.

With a growling, guttural scream of disgust, Drevin hurled the sentinel to the floor, where his face cracked against the cold blocks of stone. The sentinel hurriedly rolled over onto his back and tried to sit up, only to find Drevin's foot upon his ribs and the dwarfsteel sword's tip against his throat. “I will say this once more,” the prince hissed, his teeth barely parting enough for his words to come out. “Tell me who entered this room, and where they've taken her, and I'll make your death quicker than I'd otherwise prefer. Now speak!”

The Sentinel's lips began to quiver as he forced his eyes away from the edge of Drevin's sword and raised them to Drevin's now blood-red face. “Have mercy, Milord,” he pleaded. “I was only obeying orders.”

The tip of Drevin's sword quivered for an instant, scratching the skin on the front of the sentinel's neck. “Do you mean to tell me,” Drevin asked in a forced calm, “that you were the one who took her?”

By now, the sentinel's words came out in wrenching, choking sobs. “Please, Your Highness... the order came from your father, the King.”

“Do you say so?” Drevin answered with a smile that was far from jovial. “Well in that case, take comfort in knowing that you die a good servant of the king.” Drevin's sword rose, and the hands that the sentinel had raised to cover his face fell near the spot to which his head rolled as dwarven steel sliced through wrist and neck alike.

Though the prince's fury did not subside, his panic began to be replaced by calm. The notion of taking Lucia away was a threat Ramogoth had made before, out of “concern” that Drevin was growing too attached to the girl. The problem was that Drevin was not sure which of the lords his father would have given her too.

Yet he knew exactly who would know.

With slow, forced breaths to bring a facade of calm over himself, Drevin returned to his chamber to retrieve his sword-belt and tunic, and sheath his sword. Once that was done, he set off for the East Wing of Ramsdel. It was time to pay a call on his uncle, Dankirk.

---

Prologue - The King's Herdsmen