The Way of Kings

Why did it make him so angry to think that his father might bargain away most of the spheres in exchange for safety? True, if that happened, there wouldn’t be enough to send Kal to Kharbranth. But he’d already decided to become a soldier. So it didn’t matter. Did it?

I am going to join the army, Kal thought. I’ll run away, I’ll…

Suddenly, that dream – that plan – seemed incredibly childish. It belonged to a boy who ought to eat fruited meals and deserved to be sent away when the men talked of important topics. For the first time, the thought of not training with the surgeons filled him with regret.

The door into the kitchens banged open. Roshone’s son, Rillir, sauntered in, chatting with the person behind him. “… don’t know why Father insists on keeping everything so dreary around here all the time. Oil lamps in the hallways? Could he be any more provincial? It would do him some real good if I could get him out on a hunt or two. We might as well get some use out of being in this remote place.”

Rillir noticed Kal sitting there, but passed over him as one might register the presence of a stool or a shelf for wine: noting it, but otherwise ignoring it.

Kal’s own eyes were on the person who followed Rillir. Laral. Wistiow’s daughter.

So much had changed. It had been so long, and seeing her brought up old emotions. Shame, excitement. Did she know that his parents had been hoping to marry him to her? Merely seeing her again almost flustered him completely. But no. His father could look Roshone in the eyes. He could do the same with her.

Kal stood up and nodded to her. She glanced at him, and blushed faintly, walking in with an old nurse in tow – a chaperone.

What had happened to the Laral he’d known, the girl with the loose yellow and black hair who liked climbing on rocks and running through fields? Now she was wrapped up in sleek yellow silk, a stylish lighteyed woman’s dress, her neatly coiffed hair dyed black to hide the blond. Her left hand was hidden modestly in her sleeve. Laral looked like a lighteyes.

Wistiow’s wealth – what was left of it – had gone to her. And when Roshone had been given authority over Hearthstone and granted the mansion and surrounding lands, Highprince Sadeas had given Laral a dowry in compensation.

“You,” Rillir said, nodding to Kal and speaking in a smooth, city accent. “Be a good lad and fetch us some supper. We’ll take it here in the nook.”

“I’m not a kitchen servant.”

“So?”

Kal flushed.

“If you’re expecting some kind of tip or reward for just fetching me a meal…”

“I’m not – I mean–” Kal looked to Laral. “Tell him, Laral.”

She looked away. “Well, go on, boy,” she said. “Do as you’re told. We’re hungry.”

Kal gaped at her, then felt his face redden even more. “I’m… I’m not going to fetch you anything!” he managed to say. “I wouldn’t do it no matter how many spheres you offer me. I’m not an errand boy, I’m a surgeon.”

“Oh, you’re that one’s son.”

“I am,” Kal said, surprised at how proudly he felt those words. “I’m not going to be bullied by you, Rillir Roshone. Just like my father isn’t bullied by yours.”

Except, they are making a deal right now…

“Father didn’t mention how amusing you were,” Rillir said, leaning back against the wall. He seemed a decade older than Kal, not a mere two years. “So you find it shameful to fetch a man his meal? Being a surgeon makes you that much better than the kitchen staff?”

“Well, no. It’s just not my Calling.”

“Then what is your Calling?”

“Making sick people well.”

“And if I don’t eat, won’t I be sick? So couldn’t you call it your duty to see me fed?”

Kal frowned. “It’s… well, it’s not the same thing at all.”

“I see it as being very similar.”

“Look, why don’t you just go get yourself some food?”

“It’s not my Calling.”

“Then what is your Calling?” Kal returned, throwing the man’s own words back at him.

“I’m cityheir,” Rillir said. “My duty is to lead – to see that jobs get done and that people are occupied in productive work. And as such, I give important tasks to idling darkeyes to make them useful.”

Kal hesitated, growing angry.

“You see how his little mind works,” Rillir said to Laral. “Like a dying fire, burning what little fuel it has, pumping out smoke. Ah, and look, his face grows red from the heat of it.”

“Rillir, please,” Laral said, laying her hand on his arm.

Rillir glanced at her, then rolled his eyes. “You’re as provincial as my father sometimes, dear.” He stood up straight and – with a look of resignation – led her past the nook and into the kitchen proper.

Kal sat back down hard, nearly bruising his legs on the bench with the force of it. A serving boy brought him his food and set it on the table, but that only reminded Kal of his childishness. So he didn’t eat it; he just stared at it until, eventually, his father walked into the kitchen. Rillir and Laral were gone by then.

Lirin walked to the alcove and surveyed Kal. “You didn’t eat.”

Kal shook his head.