Sedrick never cared for birds. Not even for a jay’s song would he bear a smile, oft to the discontent of family and friends. Many thought him listless and unfeeling. He had his reasons, of course, whether they were believed rational or otherwise. Noisy creatures, he’d complain, noisy and utterly jumpy. Why should they stir so suddenly at the merest cough?

A pod of swallows had torn the sky in a great rustling sheet until only their stragglers, a few sunbirds and a loping vulture were left in plain sight. Nothing majestic about them. It was laughable to have seen the scavenger following the songbirds, though he wondered what meal must be nearby to have drawn its like in the first place.

He looked back down to the earth before him and loosed a heavy sigh. The distraction was over and the pit in his stomach returned.

“No.”

His voice was the scraping of poured gravel, as though he hadn’t used it for days. Before him was a corpse with a smoldering green crater in its back. The man was stopped after a fashion, pushed forward during his sprint into a full collapse, the impact so hard that Sedrick wasn’t sure whether his death was the work of magic or head trauma.

The man he was addressing, several yards behind the corpse, stood with mouth agape.

“My prince?”

“You were not permitted to do that.”

The other man was startled by the icy response. “My… My liege, my prince… I thought you in danger!” he stammered.

“Aye, that I was,” Sedrick admitted as he massaged a temple in frustration. “Regardless, you have erred and acted dishonorably.”

The man, a mage of limited renown, gaped at the words. Go on, say it, Sedrick thought. Tell me that your duty was to defend me at any cost. That you have acted most honorably. Tell me the spell was necessary.

“Yes, my prince,” he conceded. It was a stout response, though it followed a long soundless deliberation. He chose his words carefully when he had the wits about him, and yet no man must rightly be expected to keep his wits when a royal would be assassinated.

Sedrick’s back and shoulders sagged as he sat there, pondering laboriously about nothing. His mind had gone blank, the blood of his thoughts drained from the attack he almost suffered. The sun had begun to dip into the horizon before he looked at the mage in earnest. Kenrath, he remembered. That was the mage’s name, embarrassingly forgotten for the last hour or so.

“Are you ashamed, Ken?” he asked, receiving a slow nod. Sedrick held out his hand, fingers relaxed and palm face down. “You may pay the Tithe, then.”

Kenrath had been kneeling submissively so that his knee creaked and popped as he rose. He nodded again, more assuredly, before approaching. He stopped and knelt again, near enough to take Sedrick’s offered hand in his own and observe the royal signet, of which he meant to kiss.

“There are no witnesses, my liege.”

Sedrick’s mouth twisted ever so slightly. “This is a matter of privacy. Best your secret be forgiven the same.”

It was flying in the face of tradition, and a stern tradition at that. Kenrath bent and kissed the ring, glad to have done the Tithe at all. A lord’s forgiveness was not taken lightly, whether witnessed by a full court or naught but buzzing insects. He trusted the prince’s gesture all the same.

The sounds of night came early. The sun was only half-tucked behind the world when a chorus of nocturnal lizards had crawled from their rocks and sandy blankets to sing their trilling songs. Small creatures, though with great wind, they hid from all manner of birds that would make a meal of them. As a wide radius was spooked of the winged creatures, the reptiles had nothing to fear, and Sedrick wasn’t sure how he felt for this duality.

Blasted things are just as noisy. Worse. A man’s ears would bleed from such a high pitch.

Kenrath escorted him from the Pearl Gardens. It was a long distance between them and the keep, and far too dangerous being amongst the likes of common folk. But they dressed well enough for the outing, even Kenrath, who wouldn’t be recognized as a mage, let alone in the retinue of royalty.

Sedrick was garbed all in gray-brown, threadbare cotton. His tunic was oversized, the knobs of his collarbones showing quite clearly from the low-hanging shirt collar. Breeches were a similar color, though not so baggy and ragged. A genuinely poor man would appear more consistently worn, the prince worried, but a lesser man might eventually save his coin for a second-hand piece of clothing, most probably only one at a time.

Kenrath’s tunic was a ghastly gray, coupled with a flowing sky-blue skirt. The illusion of poverty was better realized given that these lighter skirts were easier to produce than breeches, and they breathed far nicer for the hot, arid climate.

Magic users are something of a stigma, thought Sedrick. Royals are meant to have a modicum of paranoia. He was beginning to hold the illusion of some conspiracy and Kenrath, dashing hero that he must be, would be it’s best player. No. There are better reasons for him to have been in the garden, saving my life besides.

The outer village ended swiftly enough against the low walls of Reymon’s Seal, the first of three stone barriers to encircle the great keep. At the gate stood two pairs of watchmen, two of the men Sedrick instructed to “clean the refuse from the ‘Gardens.” They’d learn what he meant soon enough.

Buildings between the outer wall and the middle were sparse. The diminutive Reymon’s Seal was purportedly an expansion for the city’s rapid growth. Yet it was completed 180 years ago, give or take, and the number of settlers waned two hundred years ago. Quillmen would argue that the new capital held hope for a new golden age. Nobility, artisans, artists and peasants who deigned to dream of all the former, would fill the new partition to bursting. It was a farce.

Simple ladders would suffice to bring a grand host over the Seal. There was truly only one practical purpose for a short barrier and a wide underpopulated expanse - Sedrick could see it readily. The middle wall - Havla’s Bastion - was laden with ballistae, scorpions and trebuchet. Time was all these instruments needed to rain hell upon their foes. Reymon’s Seal wasn’t just the wall, but also the barrens in between. If a foe would retreat from the battery, they would have a long siege to lose their wits in the surrounding desert.

A manner of negligible businesses resided in these barrens, some orphanages, pillow houses and musty taverns. An occasional residence would be nestled in the bosom of something far too bawdy for its inhabitants, with whatever empty soil remaining a reasonable source of vegetable or grazing. The smell of shit was only half the fault of humans.

"If it please you, my prince, there is a matter you may attend."

Sedrick nodded without facing him. Ah, finally I learn why he found me. No one came to a valiant rescue without practical reasons for attending the scene.

A pause. "The lad is speaking again. I thought you should hear."

"Perhaps the next time," Sedrick answered.

In theory there may not be a next time. But the lad, who was truly well into his forties, would pipe his melodious tunes again soon enough. Such tunes would also crescendo into cryptic fantasy and shadow even sooner, diminishing into defeated whistles until ending in silence. It was either of two reasons one might avoid a Wasting One; the nuisance of incomplete thoughts or the time wasted trying to piece them together. A prince was not supposed to have time to waste.

The walk was refreshing in the onset of night. One unaccustomed to the desert might still find it warm, yet it was truly a comfort between the roasting sun and chill of dark. The sun was well below the horizon as they passed another gate, leading finally to Tumruck Holdfast. It was a long walk and Sedrick cursed himself for not requesting a mount.

The inner commons were dense, teeming with life and the vices that would snatch it away. One would never be uncertain where a working source of water might hide. The buildings crowded each other, true enough, but entire neighborhoods would be built facing its local well and skirted by rough side streets and hovels. Each home’s entry was meant to easily access the most efficient route to water. In time the idea proved fruitless against the congestion.

Amidst the crowd at the keep’s gatehouse stood many a familiar sight, though some were seldom seen together. Beggars tapped their pans. Petty merchants hawked the contents of their carts, a trinket or two might have been worth the price. The local priest, old and bald and scalp bespeckled with age, bobbed his head, clutched his book and offered soothing words from his Lord Protector.

It was all well and good, until Sedrick noted that the guards were accompanied by their captain, Ser Fadrid Hawk. And more, he was joined by the surly bronze-toothed soldier he’d sooner avoid than the wasting lad.

"My prince," Fadrid announced, loudly. It’s his job to rally with that voice. Thank heavens he’s good for something.

Sedrick stopped to regard them, Kenrath visibly anxious as he remained. The mage tended to avoid the likes of sellswords, and the sight of one cooperating with the city guard was unnerving for a commoner besides. This one wasn’t menacing so much as annoying. He withheld enough pay from his company to afford golden teeth but chose bronze, niggard as he was. Some bits of his armor were piecemealed for every time a plate was caved or some mail rusted - boiled leather was easy enough to replace. Least of all that did him service was the bowl of bloody blonde hair that cupped over his ears. That mop is liable to be tugged and cost him his neck one day, Sedrick thought.

"Good sers, I doubt there is a less conspicuous meeting grounds in all the city." Though he meant it in good humor, the two were robbed of their smiles. A bloody pox on the first man to take a royal so seriously. "Is there news you wish to tell me, or would you like some of mine?"

"Only is news that these folk don’ need," the mercenary captain answered, a ruddy twinkle in his grin as he gestured toward the mob.

Sedrick nodded curtly. "Suppose I could know what business you have out in public?" he asked, looking intently to Ser Fadrid. "The Hawks may not be the oldest nor most reputable house, but I dare say this lot appears beneath you."

"Such as it should," the knight replied, barging through a stammer. The mercenary’s grin widened. "I was seeing to the lads, being night shift and all. The exchange can be a touch off what with the pillow-talkers chirping for their finer hour."

"And here is where you reveal that the best whores are laid in the daylight?" It was a snide jape, one a lesser child would make. In truth Sedrick was still maiden at age sixteen, and how frustrating to be a budded lad with no place in a world full of sex and blood.

"They may yet be, my prince." He nodded to his companion. "Anyhow, Dremmon here joined for some banter. Near as I can tell."

Dremmon guffawed. "Ye say my wits be so dull, eh? Care to see if m’ blade is such a dullard?"

"And such has been our exchanges. I make him feel a fool and he threatens violence. What good comes from a sellsword who fights with wind and not steel?"

"It depends on the sellsword." Sedrick shook his head at the childish smirk Dremmon gave him. "Let us find our place in the keep, then."

They settled into one of several common rooms, one specifically facing east on the second floor of Prosper tower. Dremmon quipped that the prince intended to keep them awake until dawn. Sedrick disregarded him and saw that they had plenty of golden wine and plates of dried lizard. The night had borne especially chilly, Fadrid suggesting a helping of stew to warm them. Kenrath shivered at the mention of cold. He must feel weak from the spell. The soup came in cups gilded in gold. Its content was the regional "delicacy" of scarab meat with halves of sand onion and potatoes imported from the south.

Sedrick kept the refreshments meager, as he intended to keep his company brief. The subject of his near assassination never rose. Instead he listened intently to the gossip of war, far to the south along the coast. None of it passed for news until Fadrid shared a curiosity.

"Aye, the Dread Men have been pulled from their barracks," the knight said in hushed tones.

Sedrick was far less dramatic and replied in casual volume. "Who might be their patron?"

"Word isn’t clear as yet. I’m told it may be Count Saddlesworth or Count Paege. Dremmon here believes it is a southern lord, namely Ser Dietrich of Wellbottom." Fadrid paid no mind to the mercenary’s nodding. "Seems too obvious to me, and I don’t expect His Grace, your father, to grant the brigade to his like."

It was true enough. Sedrick belonged to house Shodrick, a family who held firmly by its old allies. As such a number of houses were given lands surrounding the new capital for their favor. Houses Paege and Saddlesworth were likely enough, as were Mordva, Umpton, Sherlewood, Falk and Tristien. He couldn’t help but wonder at Dremmon’s guess - the man was scarcely taken seriously already. Perhaps he carries some logic this time.

"Yes ’ndeed, I believe his holy Ser Dietrich was lookin’ to loose his spawn an’ brother."  He pondered with a dumb grin. “Methinks his fam’ly has more love fer chains than each other!”

“One would imagine,” Fadrid admitted.

The notion was absurd, however, that Ser Dietrich of the newly founded house Duneborne would be so foolish as to concoct an escape for his family. It was best he dissociated with his lawbreaking kin. Besides which, Sedrick’s father had no true love for the new house. Dietrich was elevated as a promise to King Feston’s seneschal more than a decade ago, yet he was purposefully given land far south of the capital region to keep his like away from court. Dietrich chose his surname as a slight, to proclaim that his family rightfully belonged in the desert, of which his ancestors called Jahafarai. Feston’s forebears came to call it by its translation, the “Sea of Sand.” Many suspect this is a mistranslation; none of the tribes were ever spotted to the east near the shore, so the concept of a sea may be lost on them.

All aside, the Ghost Legion bore grim tidings when mobilized. Its existence dated back to old Samwell Shodrick, reverently “Sorry Sam,” who filled the realm’s prisons to bursting. His was an insatiable paranoia, and he invoked laws as needed to land countless hundreds and thousands behind bars. Only his seneschal, Quillman Drayke, earned his trust. Drayke convinced Sorry Sam to empty his prisons into barracks, putting the captives to work as conscripts to settle various border disputes. It was Samwell’s regime that attempted to centralize power, and to combat the infighting he took to slaying men of all houses who dared raise ruckus.

Some five hundred years ago, before the desert was won and the nor’western colonies beyond were founded, this legion rose to prominence. All feared the Dread Men, and as such it would become a paramilitary group, enlisted by whomever gained the king’s favor or elsewise clinked the most gold. The brigade naturally aided the end of the centralization that Sorry Sam established, and many a historian would call them the rise and fall of a proper empire.

King Feston wanted little and less to do with the brigade, however it was still his rightful property and none would dare command it without his blessing. And father is not so easily taken by glitter. The man holding the Colonel’s baton would be a favored subject, that much is certain. It wouldn’t be the most honorable of his father’s men, either. The Dread Men were aptly named.

“T’ree t’ousand of ‘em,” Dremmon exclaimed. “The sorry pig lickers’ll ne’er know what hit ‘em afore their cocks are lopped and stuffed in their gullets!”

“Three thousand doesn’t end a war,” Fadrid insisted. “Fifty thousand may not equal the enemy’s numbers. The reputation does not make them invulnerable.”

No, but the reputation makes them decent shock troops, Sedrick knew, although he hadn’t studied warfare. If truth be told, his father discouraged the subject. “My reign will be of solidification, not fragmentation,” the bristling new sovereign of thirty-three decried with an air of heroism. Yet we are fragments. Mayors, high priests, barons, counts and earls, dukes, kings - we carve out lands and invent ceremonial names for the illusion of being unique and powerful.

The conversation soon fizzled and Sedrick bid his guests farewell. Kenrath was dismissed to his quarters while the soldiers went about their evening routines.

The prince visited his bedroom for a change of clothes and dab of perfume. As is customary, the silks of noble clothing bore the colors of both the house and regional standards. House Shodrick’s coat was a brown boar’s head beneath a high white chevron which divided a field of hunter’s green. The regional standard was a frontal-view of the same brown boar’s head against a solid field of goldenrod, aptly fashioned from the Shodrick perspective.

The garb was chiefly long-sleeved silks layered over a tunic, dark yellow atop brown atop deep green. The flowing yellow shirt was accented by hanging beads of brown, tied closed with a cotton lace belt of green dye and studded with small emeralds at the collar. His breeches were golden silk to complement the shirt with tan samite laces. His feet went bare.

Sedrick entered the great hall to meet with family, finding only his father and youngest brother in attendance. His mother had passed shortly after his birth. Lady Mirabelle, Sedrick’s step-mother and true mother to Willem and little Todrey, died from a bout with pneumonia six months ago when Todrey turned eight.

Willem didn’t have such an excuse and their father was insistent on family meals after he held court. Feston was barely into his forties, yet a glance would tell that he’d seen two decades more, generously lent from the stresses of crown and kingdom. He bade himself not wear the thing outside the throne room.

Sedrick was glad to learn he missed the first two courses of dinner. His dislike of birds extended to his appetite, and he was none too keen that father insisted upon two servings of fowl before the larger yet lighter course. Tonight they had already eaten medallions of boiled partridge in a light gravy followed by eggplant stuffed with smoked duck and boiled beets. Sedrick joined for the regional favorite salad, consisting of chopped beans, cucumber and almonds on a bed of the season’s first harvest of lettuce, dressed with spiced mixture of olive oil and apple vinegar. The salad was piled high on wooden trenchers and garnished with cutlets of baked mutton and basil.

Dessert hadn’t been planned. Feston believed that a light blend of vegetable and protein should sit comfortably in the stomach without sweets or grains to aid in digestion. The palace Quillman, Paulsen, did not have any wisdom of diets to contribute. He was a young scholar in need of growth and study, yet Sedrick’s father did not baulk when investing in the expanded library. He hoped to foster a long-tenured advisor for the remainder of his life.

As the small family neared their fill, Feston addressed Todrey. “You will be attending an event tomorrow, Todd,” he said, devoid of fatherly warmth. “I expect you to conduct yourself properly.”

The life of a royal might see any number of ceremonial “events.” By the look of Todrey’s face, Sedrick knew it wasn’t the pleasant sort. He thought to ask if a criminal was apprehended just to be certain, but one would only risk aggravating the king with questions of state. Besides which, there were few events that would require the youngest of three princes to attend.

“Sedrick.” Feston’s voice cut through his thoughts. Sedrick looked to his father, noticing that his gaze didn’t leave his trencher.

“Father?”

“This matter of the Pearl Gardens. I would know more of it.”

Bugger it all. Of course he would learn by now. Sedrick didn’t intend to speak of the assassination attempt, but now he dare not lie.

“A man brandished a blade on me,” he offered, his voice shakier than desired.

Feston scratched his brows as he peered farther down the table though still avoided looking at Sedrick. “I know as much from what the guards say. I also see that you live.” Very astute, father. “Did you put him down yourself?”

Sedrick wanted to claim as much. For all his father’s disagreement with warfare and strategy, knowing blade and shield was still paramount for a highborn.

“No, father,” he admitted. If he learned of the thing from the guards, he would surely have learned of how the assailant died. “Kenrath intervened.”

Feston seemed to admire the answer, if only for its honesty. “Ah. Did this budding wizard attend your outing?”

It was a trap, one Sedrick couldn’t avoid entirely. “No, father,” he repeated. “He meant to bring me home. His timing happened to be fortuitous.”

“You and the mage associate with one another too much,” Feston replied after a pause. A genuine father might be grateful, or at least amused at the understatement. The king could only lecture on what was proper.

Sedrick could taste bile. “Does this news not distress you?” he asked, the words rolling out unbidden.

King Feston finally gave his eyes to his oldest son. They were cold and stony, as always. Sedrick couldn’t tell if the temperament behind them was anger or remorse.

“Of course it distresses me,” he finally answered. “Our enemies mean to kill my princes, of which I have only three and I don’t deign to believe that I must marry again to produce more.”

Sedrick reflexively began eating the remains of his salad.

“Yes, you must have a hunger after your trials today.” It might have been mockery near as anyone could tell.

Quite the contrary, father. The trauma of his assault left him nearly without appetite. He simply had to avoid meeting his father’s eyes, and food was his only excuse. Little Todrey’s head hung low. If their father wasn’t so intent on his eldest brother, the boy might have been scolded for his posture.

When Sedrick could no longer press himself to swallow his food, he set down his bronze fork and collected his breath to ask leave from the great hall.

“Son,” his father began preemptively. Todrey jumped in his seat, keeping his head low when he realized he wasn’t being called. “I want you to attend to Todd on the morrow. Willem has taken absence from the city.”

“Yes, father.”

He might have asked hundreds of questions then, yet none would elicit a productive answer. King Feston pushed away from the dining table and silently excused himself. The hall was dead save for the brothers and Tilde, a middle-aged kitchen wench. Heavy swishes of her stiff broom echoed about as she made her rounds pushing away sand that had tracked in by foot. In time she passed by the table to scoop up the trenchers and bronzewear.

The boys continued to sit in the wake of their royal father nearly an hour after he left. For all his advanced growth at the age of sixteen, Sedrick felt meager next to his father. Todrey seemed worse for wear as well.

“Are you nervous, Todd?” He wanted to sound strong, but didn’t. Todrey nodded meekly. “Don’t worry yourself, little brother. Ser Wentley is the substitute for king’s judgment. He’s never done less than a single clean stroke.”

“I know,” the little prince squeaked. “But he’s still not Will. I miss Will.” Todrey then left the hall without another word, his lizardskin sandals brushing as loudly across the stone tile floor as Tilde’s broom.

Clearly the mother’s bond, Sedrick mused. His half-siblings did not bond with him much better than their mutual father. Would that his mother survived his birth, he might enjoy a familial relationship of his own. He dreamed heavily that night, of wars and parents and rolling heads.