The Outcast Prince

He stood watching the waves rise and fall in the soothing rhythm he had grown used to. The ship under him rocked slowly back and forth, cradled by the water, the mother of all life. As he looked out across the beautiful rolling ocean, his thoughts drifted to the shore towards which he was sailing. Towards the palace on the cliffs and towards his father in his throne.

He stood there on the deck of the ship known as The King’s Glory, the royal ship. He had been out exploring a couple small islands on his father’s orders. Searching for troublemakers and those who would bring dissension to the kingdom, those who his father believed resided there. There had been no one there of course, he had known this when his father sent him out, but he went anyway. Anything to keep his father in a good humor, senile though he had become.

Now he was sailing back, to tell his father that there had been no rebel leaders, no assassins, and no spies. He hoped his father would believe him this time, though he doubted it. The Chancellor had more of his father’s ear than he, and the king was more willing to listen to the Chancellor than any other in the kingdom.

The captain of the ship saw him staring out over the water towards the shore and came over to him. “Do ye be feelin’ a little homesick, My Prince? Well, we will be settin’ into port in nigh on two hours. Ye do be almost home.” He gave Prince Devon a smile, meaning to be friendly and comforting, but it did no good. He wasn’t feeling homesick, he was apprehensive of the coming confrontation with his father, but he turned towards the captain and smiled slightly, meaning it to be thankful.

“Thank you Captain Gorthan. But I do not feel homesick, I was just thinking about all the women that have been deprived of my company while I was away.” He grinned, a stunning grin that had more the rogue in than anything else.

Captain Gorthan slapped Devon on the shoulder in a friendly way and laughed. “Aye, lad, they’ve all been missin’ your excellent company. By the Gods, if I had your charms when it came to the fair sex then I believe I’d ‘ave stopped sailin’ years ago. Well, when we set into port, you can go ‘round and tell ‘em all that you are back. ”

Devon grinned and gave the captain a wink “I will at that. And who knows…I may even drop a good word or two for you with a couple.” He laughed as the captain began to make protests saying how he didn’t need any good words.

Devon shook his head as the captain continued on, telling of a couple of his ventures with the fairer sex, and turned to stare back at the approaching shore and the palace on the cliffs. The light caught the domes of the palace making them shine and glimmer in the sunlight off the ocean. He smiled slightly as he always did when he saw the sight.

When they pulled into harbor, Devon didn’t even wait for the gangplank to be lowered; instead he jumped up on the railing and flipped off to land on the dock. He stood and turned, catching his travel bag as Captain Gorthan threw it overboard. He waved up at the captain as Gorthan shouted down, “Ye always were a show off, young rascal! Ye better do well, if you don’t I’ll be comin’ to get you and drag ye back out here!”

Devon laughed and waved again, striding confidently through the throng at the dock. Few stood in his way, those who knew who he was stepped aside for that alone, while those that didn’t stepped aside for his confidant movements and the hand he kept loosely on his sword hilt.

He moved through the town, stopping at almost every inn he passed, popping in to tell one girl or another that he was back and would be in to see them as soon as he could. He got smiles from all and a quick kiss from a couple. They were all pretty girls, though a little low in wit, but every last one of them could get a man to empty out his purse for her.

As he left the last inn, he smiled slightly, thinking about some of the girls, but as he turned towards the palace his smile slipped and his expression grew stern and hard. He more stalked through the streets now as he headed towards the palace, people scrambling out of his way, for none wanted to be in the path of the Prince when he wore an expression such as that.

When he got to the palace he strode in, past the guards, who started to move in front of him but thought better of it seeing who it was and his expression, and into the main courtyard. He tossed his bag to a passing servant, instructing him to take it to his suit. As the young boy hurried off with the bag, Devon started up the steps to the main gate of the palace; framed on both sides by the banner of his family, a black serpent wound around a silver sword on a field of blood red.

He entered the palace and within five minutes a young page came running up to him with a message that he was to come to the throne room for an audience with his father. Devon nodded slightly, sighing inwardly, and then followed the page. He knew the way to the throne room well, and could have probably found his way there in pith blackness, but by following the page it signified that he was only coming because he was summoned. His father was beginning to believe any man who came of his own volition was an assassin, come to kill him. So Devon followed the page to the king, all the while trying to come up with a story that would appease his father.

The page stopped and opened the door of the audience chambers, signaling that Devon should remove his sword and enter. Devon nodded and removed his sword from his belt, as well as his dagger, then turned and entered the great audience chamber.

It was a brilliant room, with high walls and a huge domed, gilded ceiling. Large windows lined the walls, stretching up towards the start of the dome. Candelabras and chandeliers place in strategic positions lit the room in such a way that made the ceiling sparkle brilliantly and the stained glass windows to be transformed into magnificent collections of the most precious gems. To one who had never been in the great audience chamber it would be stunning and breathtaking, but for Devon, who had at one point spent days on end in the great room, it was nothing more than a normal sight.

Devon strode into the audience chamber and towards the dais with a confident manor. This was one of his prime elements. He moved towards the throne, with long confident strides, easily hiding the discord going on in his mind. When he was within ten paces of the gilded throne he stopped and made a bow, not his best but enough to suffice for this encounter. The man on the throne lifted his head and looked at his son.

The kind was an old man, his hair gray and thinning. In his prime he had been an energetic and strong ruler, taking his own lead over that of others. But now, now he was old and withered his once well defined muscles weak and withered. His once sharp wit was now dulled, and his advisors had more control of the land than he did. In his old age he had grown senile and weak, trusting those who whispered venomous words in his ear.

As Devon approached his father watched him and when he bowed the king’s expression changed from one of indifference to one of curiosity. “Who are you and why have you come to my splendid halls?”

Devon repressed a sigh and a shake of his head. Instead he made another bow, suddenly deciding to tell his father the truth without any coat of sugar or lies to keep his suspicious tendency sated. That was for the black-hearted and poison-tongued advisors the king had surrounding him. “I am your son, my liege. You sent me to the isles to the east to investigate the rumors of rebellion and assassination plots. I sailed out to the isles and explored them thoroughly, Sire. There were no rebellious men and no hidden meeting places for assassins. The isles were deserted and none lived there.” He made another bow as he finished his report.

The king nodded and sat back “Ah…yes…I remember now…it is good to have you back, my son.” He smiled slightly, seeming for a moment to be almost himself, but then the smile faded and he shook his head. “But those who would sow dissonance through my kingdom are out there. I know it. They will come and a rebellion will rise, I am sure.” He shook his head again and then turned, raising his voice. “Tamorak, my faithful advisor, come to me. I need you.”

From behind and a little to one side of the throne, a seemingly old and wizened man stepped out of a door. He wore old black robes and around his neck the chain of office. Despite his homely appearance, he was the most powerful man in the kingdom, including the king. He walked up the king’s side with short, shuffling steps. Devon could see that it was a ruse but he could say nothing to his father about it. If he did he would be classed as a traitor and either beheaded or exiled and he wanted neither. When Tamorak reached the king’s side and bowed deeply. “What does my king wish of this humble advisor?” His voice was soft and falsely willowy as if he were an old man.

The king turned to him and smiled in relief. “Ah, Tamorak, look. My son has returned from his mission in the eastern isles. He says there were neither rebel leaders nor assassins on the islands. Advise me of what I must do.” He looked to Tamorak expectantly, as did Devon though for different reasons. Devon wished he knew what the serpent had told his father while he was away, wondered who would be the next man branded as traitor.

Tamorak pondered for a moment then, noticing Devon’s scrutiny he turned to the king. “My Lord, the Prince has been on a long and arduous voyage I am sure, and I am sure he would like to rest a while. Besides, council of this sort should be done in the privacy behind closed doors; do you not agree Great King?” Devon held back a groan. He was going to be sent away so that Tamorak could have his father’s ear unchallenged. Damn him, damn him to the lowest circle of Hell.

The king’s expression turned ponderous for a moment then he nodded. “Yes, this is wise council.” He turned back toward Devon and smiled slightly. “My son, I’m sure your journey has been tiring as Tamorak has said. Retire for now and on the morrow we will speak again.” He smiled again then made a dismissing gesture as he turned back towards Tamorak.

Devon bowed once more then stalked out of the audience chamber. He grabbed his sword and dagger as he passed the pedestal with them on it then moved through the halls towards one of the many courtyards that were scattered throughout the palace. As he moved through the corridors, stalking past nobles and servants alike, he planned what he would to Tamorak if he ever found him outside the sight of his father. He reached one of the practice courtyards and moved over to the area that was sectioned off for live blade practice. He drew his sword and threw the sheath and his dagger onto the soft sand to the side. He went through his warm up routines then, once that was done, he went into a more fearsome exercise. He continued on for hours, stopping only twice, once to remove his fine coat after the warm up then again to remove his sweat-soaked tunic. He flowed through the practice in nothing more than his trousers and boots. Soon his trim, muscular body shown slick with sweat but he continued on, Tamorak dieing countless times during the practice in his mind.

After long hours of practice he lowered his blade, breathing heavily. He had never done that much practice with the sword, and his body protested the smallest movements. He willed himself to move over to where he had left his sheath and dagger. He bent slowly, pain coursing through his body as his muscles resisted the movement. He picked up the sheath and slowly slid the sword back into it. He moved over to a nearby bench, and with a groan of relief he sat. Instantly there were five or six women of the serving staff there to offer him water or wine or a myriad of other things. He waved them all away, uncharacteristically ignoring them all. His mind was taken up still with Tamorak.

Finally, he waved away all the serving women and stood slowly, tossing on his tunic and carelessly putting on his coat before putting his sheathed sword back on his belt along with the dagger. He strode from the practice yard, still sore, and made his way up to his rooms. He entered and found a servant waiting for him, carrying a letter. The servant, a man who’s name Devon did not know, handed him the letter with a bow and silently left.

Devon looked at the letter in confusion then broke the blank seal and opened it. He read slowly, trying to glean every bit of information from it as he could, but little was there and he shook his head slightly, tossing the letter in the fire. The message had been short, just two sentences, and without a flowery introduction. It had been straight to the point with no idle information in it, but he had been able to find out a little from it. It had been written in a woman’s hand but the letter did not come from a woman, that he was sure. He sighed quietly and moved into the other room to change his clothes.

When he emerged he was wearing a dark midnight blue coat, with only the slightest embroidery at the cuffs and collar, over a black tunic. His trousers were black as were his highly polished boots. He put on his sword belt with the buckle resembling a crown and sword, the symbol of the prince, and slid his sword into its sheath. He tucked his dagger behind his belt on the side opposite his sword then grabbed his cloak, swirling it around him. With a practiced gesture he attached the silver clasp, a circle around a sword and arrow crossed, then nodded to himself and strode from the room.

He strode through the halls of the palace and out the gate, stopping for none, for none impeded him. He moved down into the city, a determined note in his stride. He left the main road to the docks and, instead, turned down one of the side streets, leading towards one of the seedier parts of the city. He moved through the masses of people with ease, for, though these people did not know him by sight, his confidant manner and the sword at his hip, caused people to think twice about moving in against him. His fine dress though, did draw eyes, and some were the hungry eyes of thieves and other such disreputable men. He shrugged off the gazes and instead moved with a set purpose. The letter had asked him to meet someone at an inn in this part of town. He did not look forward to the experience though.

He did take note of a group of men who, to the casual glance, appeared to just be strolling behind him, talking idly, but he knew they were following him. They had been following him since soon after entering the district. He ignored them though, if worst came to worst he could easily deal with the small group. He finally found the inn he was looking for; a run down place called The Sailor’s Rest, and opened the door, stepping in.

The place was packed with an assortment of patrons, all of which were probably a most disreputable sort. He shook his head slightly to himself as he moved further into the common room. Who would ask him to meet them in a place like this? True, due to the large number of people, it made hiding a conversation rather easy, but he still did not like it. He moved to the table indicated by the letter and sat down, shifting his sword slightly as he did so. At that gesture many of the patrons who had been eyeing him turned away, deciding that it was business best left alone. He nodded slightly as a serving woman came to get his order, and he smiled slightly, as he looked her up and down. She wasn’t a bad sort, pretty if not beautiful, and though her figure was not perfect, it had a kind of homely appeal to it. She returned his smile with a small wink then asked him again what he would like. When she had taken his order and left he turned his attention to patrons, wondering which was to be his mysterious host.

The night came and slowly began to pass as the common room began to fill up even more. Devon sat at the table he had been instructed to sit at though none of the new comers made a move to join him. The same serving woman who had brought him the drink earlier came back, to ask if he would like some food. He nodded slightly, giving her another small smile which she returned. He watched her as she went. Now that he thought about it, she was prettier than he thought, and had better than a homely appeal. He shook his head slightly and forced his mind from its favored past time and concentrated on finding his unknown host.

The woman came back again with a plate of food, mostly dry bread and cheese with a little overly cooked beef, and a note. She handed it to him with a smile and a wink then turned and walked over to one of the other patrons who had flagged her. He shook his head slightly, looking down at the note, reading it. It was in the same hand and he began to wonder if it was actually a woman, not just someone using a woman to write their note.

Come up to room 6. I have information that would be to your advantage to hear.

He crumpled the note in his hand and stood, leaving the food untouched. He moved towards the stairs and, as he passed the hearth, threw the letter in. He went up the stairs cautiously, on hand resting on the hilt of his sword, just in case this ended up being a trap. He reached the top and silently moved down the hall to the room that he had been told. He reached up and knocked once and the voice of a woman instructed him to enter. He slowly opened the door, holding no notions of possible entertainment in a place like this, and entered, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

The room was simple, a bed, a table and two chairs. The drapes were old and worn threadbare and the glass behind them grimy. He moved into the room slowly, leaving the door open behind him. A beautiful woman, even with the present situation he could not help but notice that fact, dressed in clothing worthy of the king’s court lounged on the bed, a book in her hands, as if she were reading. A tall man seemingly carved from stone for all the emotion he revealed on his face, stood beside the bed, his hand also resting on the hilt of his weapon, but in a much more relaxed manner than Devon’s. He was obviously much more comfortable with the situation than Devon was.

The woman waited a moment then closed her book and handed it to the man beside her, who placed the book on a small table nearby. She looked Devon up and down a moment, a small smile on her lips. She tapped one slender finger against her lips as she considered him. “Hmm…you are as handsome as the witless women in the palace say. I wonder if the rest of what they say is true as well.” She smirked slightly then shook her head slightly, her brown hair, put into delicate curls, bobbed slight. “No matter, I have not the time to find out now. But perhaps one day in the future.” She smiled a sultry smile then sat up, propping herself up against the wall behind her. “But, now, to business. I have information that perhaps you might be interested in. Concerning your father and a certain advisor of his. Are you interested, perhaps?”

Devon watched her suspiciously, his hand never leaving the sword at his side. He didn’t know who this woman was or where she was from, but he had an idea of what she spoke. He smiled slightly, seeming to come out of his suspicious and tense state and sat down in one of the rickety chairs the room boasted. “Hmm…indeed. You have me at a disadvantage though. You know me but I know nothing of you. Perhaps a name for you and your silent companion before we continue?” He smiled slightly again, falling further back in his falsely relaxed position.

The woman laughed softly, a smoky sound, and nodded slightly. “A cautious one you are, I see. That is good. You may call me Lady Seles. And as to the name of my companion, him you may call Carkan.” She smiled at Devon again “So, now that we have been introduced to you, do you wish the information?”

Devon hesitated for a long moment, unsure of whether to take the information or not, though without making it appear he was hesitating. Finally he nodded slightly. “Alright, Lady Seles, What information would you have for me? And what do I have to do to earn it?” He smiled slightly, knowingly as he studied her.

The Lady Seles smiled and shook her head slightly, her delicate curls bobbing behind her head once more. “Why, My Lord Devon, would you think I would not just be wishing to give you this information?” She smiled sweetly, appearing to be open.

Devon shook his head slightly, smiling knowingly and leaning back in his chair. Carefully leaning back. He didn’t want it to break underneath him. “Because, my dear Lady Seles, nothing in this world is free. And what you wish to give me is probably anything but. So don’t play that game. I know it all to well.” He smiled and dipped his head slightly to her “Besides, you don’t play it very well.” He smirked slightly.

She returned the small smirk and dipped her head slightly to him. “You are very insightful My Lord. As you say, nothing in this world is free, but this information is neither expensive.” She smiled that sweet smile and leaned forward slightly. “All I require is that you agree to help me or mine whenever I ask. A single favor to be named later is all that this information will cost you. In fact it is really a rather small price to pay for the safety of the kingdom, is it not?”

He considered it for a long time. If it was indeed for the safety of the kingdom then almost no price was too great. But there was something about this that tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. There was something that wasn’t right, but he couldn’t place a finger on it. Finally he nodded slightly, the smile gone from his face, driven away by his thoughts. “I agree to your conditions. Now, what is this information that you prize so highly.” He looked her in the eyes, his own hard and cold.

Lady Seles smiled her sweet smile though it did not touch her eyes as she studies his. “The eyes are a doorway to a person’s heart. Yours are cold and hard as steel, could this signify that you mean, if not at present but later, to break our bargain? Hmm…it doesn’t matter. A deal is a deal. Here is the information.” She spoke of plots within the king’s court, of men who wished to gain the throne through assassination and power-ploys. The one orchestrating most of it was a man in the King’s advisory staff, a man named Jackabs. She told of how he was even now hiring assassins to come in and slay the king.

Devon listened quietly, half believing half not. Jackabs was a friend, one of his father’s original group of advisors. He was almost family. Certainly he would not be hiring assassins to slay kill his father. But bits and pieces of her story rang true, making him reconsider the rest. He shook his head slightly, deciding to think more on it later, in more comfortable surroundings. He stood and bobbed his head once to Lady Seles “Thank you, Lady, for this information. It will be used as it is worth. Know that I shall not go against my part of the agreement. "Till we meet again, good evening Lady.” With that he turned on his heel and left the room and the tavern, never once looking back, not even to catch one last gimps of that serving woman who had earlier caught his eye.

He moved through the night, towards the palace, with out so much a light source. He did not fear footpads or cutpurses. He could handle most of them with ease. Indeed, he could handle all of them. As he walked he thought. Jackabs was the one trying to kill his father? That couldn’t be. They were nearly brothers. But his father had been queer of late and it was possible that Jackabs thought it best for the kingdom to cause his father to step down. But surely he wouldn’t hire assassins, would he?

He shook his head slightly. He would talk to Jackabs. He would be able to tell if Jackabs lied or spoke true. He had known him long enough for that. He sighed quietly. “What is it coming to when even family friends are looked upon with suspicion?” He shook his head slightly as he spoke to the night, and then stopped as the night responded.

“The world is shifting, the pattern is changing. The world is coming unraveled to be rewoven. That is what it is coming to.” Devon spun his hand going to his sword and he stared into the shadows from which the voice had issued.

“Who goes, who would speak with me? Show yourself, vagabond, and see what your Lord has in store for you.” His voice was cold as he spoke, his hand gripping his sword hilt. All his thoughts of plots and assassins had put him in ill humor and when that voice of the night had spoke he had instantly considered it one of the assassins or such. But he did not expect for Tamorak to step from the shadows and blow a whistle. An instant later, guards came rushing down the street towards them.

Tamorak raised his voice and pointed at Devon. “Arrest him! He is a rebel informant! The Prince is with the rebels. Arrest him and have him be judged by his father. He was also preparing to have me slain or to slay me now. Take him to the dungeons under the Palace!” The guards nodded and rushed forward, taking Devon’s arms while another grabbed for his sword.

With a roar of furry Devon spun away from the guards, his sword seeming to appear in his hand. He lashed out, cutting down two of the guards with unbelievable ease. The others backed away instantly, having watched Devon both in battle and on the practice field. They knew how dangerous he truly was when blade was in hand, and when not. Tamorak on the other hand did not. He yelled at the guards to take Devon but none made a move to do so, instead, moving around Devon so that he could not escape without slaying another one of them. Tamorak growled an almost animal growl and grabbed the sword from one of the guards’ hands. He ran forward, as if to spit Devon on the sword. Devon easily stepped aside and parried the clumsy blow. Tamorak went stumbling then, when he stood, he turned slowly towards Devon, his head b owed slightly. He raised the blade and suddenly all pretense was gone. He was not the old and wizened man whom advised the King, he was no longer even a man. He stood slowly, easily rising to eight feet, ten. When he lifted his head, two gleaming, cat-like eyes shone in the night as they locked on Devon, the fire of murder filling them. The sword he held was now nothing more than a dagger but he wielded it with uncanny ease and grace.

Devon’s eyes went wide as he watched the transformation. Now he knew his true enemy. The feline beast in front of him, Tamorak, was his enemy. Something in those eyes also reminded him of the silent man who had been with Seles. So, they were either one and the same or at least the same kind of being. Devon shook his head slightly and shifted his stance slightly, setting up for a fight. Devon lifted his blade and it began to glow with an almost holy white light that quickly turned to white flames. The blade soon appeared to be forged of nothing but the white flames. He moved forward slowly, his fire-forged blade up and ready.

The guards backed away, but never taking their eyes off the two combatants as the fight commenced. The beast that was Tamorak was quick and agile, moving with almost lightning speed to strike at Devon with the sword, that in his hand seemed nothing more than a dagger. Devon was quick enough to dodge and block the lightning quick strikes, his skill seeming a match for the beasts. The fight waged on, both suffering minor wounds, but neither gaining any ground against the other. The guards watched transfixed, unable to look away from the almost frightening spectacle. The blade of white flame danced in a graceful dance of death with the blade and claws of the beast.

The fight seemed to drag on for ages, neither gaining anything. Then suddenly with a roar of dismay the beast leapt back then spun on it’s heels and leapt up, easily clearing the wall of the nearest building, to land silently on its roof, dashing off into the night. Devon let out a roar of rage at the fleeing beast then spun on the guards surrounding him. “Why the hell didn’t you help me?!?” The guards were taken aback, never before had their prince been so angry with them.

The captain stepped forward tentatively, shaking his head slightly “I…I’m sorry my Lord…but Tamorak…your father…” He shook his head slightly, afraid to say anything more. Devon let out a derisive snort, slammed his now steel blade into its sheath, turned and stalked away, pushing through the ring of guards and heading towards the palace once again. He would kill Tamorak, he swore that oath again. The beast that was in control of the strings that guided his father. He shook his head and continued on, trying his best to think of nothing at all.

When he got to the palace though, any thoughts he might have had were dashed from his thoughts. At the palace gates a huge contingency of guards were stationed, weapons drawn and ready, as if expecting an assault from an army. When they saw him approaching they shifted their weapons slightly, bows were nocked and pulled taught, aimed at him, swords were hefted and grips shifted, halberds and pikes were lowered, blades and points directed towards him. He stopped and looked at the contingency with confusion plainly visible in his features. “What is the meaning of this? Would you bar the way to the palace from the Prince?”

The captain of the guard stepped forward, his hand gripped tightly to the hilt of the sword he carried, still sheathed but surely ready to be drawn in a moment. “Prince Devon Draca’al, Sword of the Land, Shield of the Crown, Blade of the Innocent. You are under arrest for plots against the kingdom, fraternizing with rebels, striking the King’s Advisor, Tamorak, and for slaying a company of the King’s Guard. Please, surrender your sword, along with any other weapons you may have about your person, and come peacefully. None of us here wish to see you slain this day.” There was a pleading note to the man’s voice at the last as he watched Devon.

Devon shook his head slightly. “Who has brought these charges against me? Tell me so that I may tell you the name of the true traitor. No, don’t tell me the name, I’ll tell you. It was Tamorak who has charged me with these crimes, is it not?” When the guard nodded once, Devon nodded as well. “Well then I tell you this, Tamorak is the traitor. Of the crimes he has charged me with, only one is true. I did strike him. I struck him when he accused me of many of the same things you just have.” The captain took a step back his eyes wide and his grip on his sword tightened. Devon only shook his head slightly, his voice remaining calm. “No, captain, I do not hold anything against you. It is Tamorak alone who holds my ire. He has lied to you and to the rest of the kingdom. He is a demon in disguise. A foul creature. It is probably he who has slain the guards that accompanied him in coming to arrest me, for they saw his true form. He is the traitor. Allow me to pass so that I may reveal the demon to my father.” He stopped and watched the guard intently, not wanting more slain this night than had already been.

The captain stood there for a long moment, considering Devon’s words. After a moment he let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. “I am sorry my Lord. I cannot permit you to pass through these lines to get to your father.” Devon’s eyes flashed with anger and he opened his mouth to speak but the captain held up a hand to silence him, which he would not have done under any other circumstances. “But, my Lord. We will accompany you. You shall be escorted to your father’s court to plead your case.” He then stepped aside and called back to his men. “Ready blades and bows. Have them trained on the Prince.” He then looked back at Devon with an apologetic expression. “I am sorry my Lord but I can take no chances.” Devon nodded once then moved forward, into the ring of blades and arrows, aimed at his heart.

They moved through the palace, towards the King’s Hall. Devon looked straight ahead, seeming cool and composed, and in complete control. But his mind was racing. If Tamorak had already beaten him to his father then it was lost and he would either be executed or exiled. But perhaps, if that was the case, he could make his arguments strong enough to get the sentence of exile. Then he would still be alive, if sent away, and he could still try to free his kingdom, and his father, from the demon Tamorak’s grip. IF, by some blessing of the Gods, he was there before Tamorak, perhaps he could make an appeal to his father that would finally break the spell the demon had laid on him. He hoped that was the case. But hopes alone could do nothing.

The door to the great audience chamber was open when they approached and as the guard entered, circling Devon, it was obvious that Tamorak had beaten him. His father sat on his throne, his eyes hard and cold, though filled with what was almost by now insanity. He glared at his son, a look that had caused most perpetrators of crimes against the crown fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness and mercy. At one point it had also been a look that could have found even the smallest shred of innocence in a man even when the evidence was weighted heavily against him. Now, though, it was a look that was filled with suspicion, seeing guilty men where ever they moved. Now they looked down upon Devon, his own son, and saw a traitor, someone who had slain his guards, had attacked his most trusted advisor and he saw no innocence and had no pity.

The guard parted and walked on either side of Devon, their weapons still ready to slay him where he stood if there was need. Devon moved forward and stopped about fifteen paces from the dais. He bowed low, once, and the king’s eyes flashed with anger. He leapt to his feet, glaring down at his son with the utmost fury and hatred on his features. “Do not bow to me Devon Draca’al! A traitor does not bow and show homage to those whom he betrayed!” Devon straightened but kept his eyes averted in a supplicating way.

“My Lord King…father…” The king made a slicing gesture with his hand, interrupting Devon, as he sat once again. “Call me not Father. You are no longer a son of mine. You have betrayed me and my kingdom. We all disown you. No longer are you Sword of the Land, nor Shield of the Crown. You have a chance to plead your case, but know that you will not be spared. Nothing you could say would be enough to save you punishment.”

Devon let out a nearly silent sigh. He knew it would be this way, he had expected it, and he figured he knew the sentence his father would give. He straightened then lifted his head slightly, looking the part of Prince as he had never done before. He steeled himself and told his tale. The king listened silently, though he listened more attentively to Tamorak every time he interjected; supposedly correct Devon and accusing him of being a liar. When Devon finished the king rose slowly, having made his decision, Tamorak’s decision really, before Devon had ever entered the hall. “I am ashamed to have once called you son. For your crimes against the city, I sentence you to death at dawn. You will be escorted to your quarters to contemplate your fate. Now, get out of my sight!” With that the king turned away and the guards circled Devon once more, escorting him out of the hall and back to his rooms.

Once in his rooms, Devon moved over to his armoire and pulled out his saddlebags and put a spare set of clothes in them. He then draped them over his shoulder. He then turned towards the balcony and moved out onto it. He looked around slowly, searching, but it appeared that the only guards were the ones at his door. He dropped his saddlebags over the edge of the balcony then went over himself, climbing down the wall, using the frieze to gain hand and foot holds. When he dropped down to the ground he picked up his saddlebags then moved towards the kitchens. He knew they would be nearly empty at this time of hour. He moved silently through the shadows, hardly anything more than a shadow himself. When he got to the kitchens, instead of going in, he went around to the cellar entrance. He slipped in and grabbed some provisions. After that he moved silently out of the cellar and to the stables. The guards there were sleeping as were the stable master and stable boys. He blessed their laziness right then as he slipped into the stable. He found his own black horse. He got the tack and saddled the big war horse. He then vaulted up and turned the horse towards the exit of the stable.

Right then one of the guards woke up, and, thinking Devon was a thief he ran forward and challenged him in a loud voice, causing the other guard to wake as well. Devon cursed his luck as he urged his horse into a gallop. As he charged towards the guards they fell aside. He charged from the stable yard and then the palace, moving swiftly down the deserted streets. The only time he stopped was to withdraw his money from his banker then he was off again, never looking back, though he had just run from his father, and more importantly Tamorak, who wanted him dead right then. For the rest of his life he would be a fugitive, until both Tamorak and his father were dead. He would never kill his father but the demon advisor was a different story. He would kill that man with his own hands if he ever got them around his throat. With these thoughts running through his head he galloped down to the docks, where a certain Captain Gorthan would be more than happy to give him passage out of this kingdom…out of his kingdom…