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Without taking his eyes off his target, Tor drew back his bowstring, inhaling slowly as he did so. He had been tracking his quarry for over two hours and at last he had him in his sights.
The stag was a magnificent creature; its pure white fur a rarity, even in Remeny. He held his breath as, in his mind, he released the arrow and watched it fly through the air and imbed itself in the animal’s flesh, piercing the heart and killing it instantly. But Tor did not release the arrow; he had no need for food so there was no reason to kill it. Instead he observed it raising its head, looking around as if it was listening to sounds that had yet to reach his own ears.
He quietly exhaled as he lowered his bow, removed the arrow and returned it to his quiver. When he set out that morning to test his tracking skills, taught to him by the rangers, he had not expected to see such a breath-taking animal; following it had been a good way of making sure he had not forgotten his teachings.
Twice he thought it had heard him, but each time it resumed its journey after briefly assessing its surroundings. Other than the elves, nobody could move through woodland more quietly than the rangers.
Watching it closely he could see its eyes darting about and its ears twitching; it was definitely listening to something.
Then the sounds of movement reached his ears and he cursed under his breath. Only a human could make that amount of noise. Whoever was approaching was coming from behind him and the stag looked toward where he was crouching before running in the opposite direction.
Tor turned to see who was running through the undergrowth and swore once more when he recognised the ginger hair of his young squire. When Seth’s parents had died, Tor had taken him into his service, acting as a combination of employer, father figure and friend.
“I taught you better than that,” he admonished as soon as Seth was within earshot. Tor had been training the young man for a while and he could now move almost as quietly as Tor himself.
“Sorry Tor,” Seth panted, “but this is urgent.”
Tor regarded him as he spoke. Having only recently reached twenty years of age, he still had the gangly look of a teenager, but muscle was beginning to cover his thin arms and legs. He was not ugly, but his over-large nose prevented him from being attractive. The sweat trickling down his flushed face proved how much of a hurry he was in and his brown eyes held a level of concern Tor had never seen in him before.
Tor tried to soften the reprimand he had given by smiling. “Now what is so urgent you could not have found me without disturbing all of the wildlife living in this forest?” he asked.
“Your mother, the Queen, needs to see you immediately.”
‘I know who my mother is,’ Tor nearly snapped back, but managed to stop himself; it was not Seth’s fault that he had been forced to act as a messenger.
“Did she say what she wanted?” he asked through gritted teeth. His mother knew how annoyed he would be at being disturbed this way, but that had never stopped her doing it in the past. However, something in Seth’s manner told him something serious had happened.
“There has been an accident,” Seth stammered. “Your father...” He stopped speaking, unable to finish the sentence.
Tor did not need to hear any more; he took off at a run, not caring how much noise he made. While not having much affection for his mother, he loved and respected his father a great deal. If something serious had happened he would get to his side as quickly as he could.
He knew better than to tire himself out quickly, however, and kept his pace steady so he did not need to slow until he reached the edge of the trees. Ignoring the numerous greetings he received as he walked through the town, he headed straight to the castle.
The guards on duty at the gates opened them as soon as they saw him approaching. Seeing the look on his face, none of them spoke to him.
The stone building felt cold as he entered, as though a chill wind was flowing through its walls. The corridors were also dim; someone had neglected to relight some of the wall lamps.
Albian, wizard and advisor to his father, was the first person Tor saw as he strode through the castle, much to his disgust. He had never liked the man. His lack of any hair combined with his sunken eyes made him look almost inhuman and the pale red birthmark that ran down the left side of his face did nothing to soften the impression. Tor always felt that he had a hidden agenda and that nothing he said could ever be taken at face value.
“Where is my father?” Tor snapped. He was being impolite but didn’t care.
“Your mother is in her sitting room, your Highness,” the tall, thin man replied, bowing just low enough for it not to be insulting.
“I did not ask after my mother,” Tor snarled.
Albian was saved from responding by a door opening further down the corridor. “Vitkin,” Tor exclaimed, recognising his brother’s long dark hair, untidily tied back with string, and his tall, muscular frame. “What is going on?”
Vitkin had never been a happy man, but today he looked like a smile had never attached itself to his face. His deep brown eyes held a sadness Tor had never seen there before and a feeling of dread gripped him.
“There has been an accident,” Vitkin’s gruff voice echoed off the walls. “Father is dead.”
Tor felt like an icicle had pieced his heart as the words washed over him. His father was dead. The man who had taught him to walk, to ride, to hunt and to use a sword was gone. One of the greatest Kings Remeny had ever known was no longer alive to pass on his wisdom, his praise and his reprimands.
Pain ripped through Tor and he screamed. Vitkin gripped his shoulder, squeezing it tight, offering what comfort he could.
“Not here,” he whispered and guided Tor into the room he had just vacated.
“What happened, brother?” Tor rasped as he collapsed into a seat. He was shocked to find that his arms were shaking.
Vitkin took a seat opposite him. “Nobody knows for sure,” he replied quietly. “Father was leaving his study at the top of the tower and he must have lost his footing somehow. He broke his neck as he tumbled down the steps.”
Tor breathed deeply in a vain attempt to get his trembling under control. “It does not make sense,” he said, more to himself than his brother. “Father was not an old man and he walked up and down that tower a number of times each day. How could he have fallen?”
Vitkin shrugged his shoulders. “That is a question that can never be answered. He was alone when the accident happened. He was already dead by the time one of the servants found him.”
“I need a drink.” Tor eased himself out of his chair and headed toward the door, but Vitkin’s hand on his arm prevented him from leaving.
“You should go and see mother first,” the taller man advised.
“It is a little late for you to start playing the role of big brother.” He failed to keep the bitterness from his voice. Though only a few years apart in age, Tor and Vitkin had never been close.
“It is better to see her now rather than wait for her to send for you.” Vitkin was right and Tor knew it, but that didn’t make what he had to do any less unpleasant.
“Alright,” he murmured as he opened the door.
The corridor was empty, so he made his way to the Queen’s sitting room undisturbed. A maid answered his knock and he waited impatiently on the threshold while she obtained permission from his mother for him to enter.
Tor breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when he noticed his youngest brother, Cirren, sitting beside the Queen. At least his visit could be brief.
Cirren, ten years Tor’s junior, was a handsome young man. His long blonde hair and bright blue eyes had many a young lady swooning after him and, having yet to turn 25, the King’s advisors had not yet found reason to marry him off.
Today, however, his eyes were not bright; they were red and bloodshot, the stain of recently shed tears still present on his cheeks.
Queen Reena, in contrast, showed no outward signs of grief. Her long grey hair was tied in a neat bun and though she appeared pale, she seemed no whiter than normal. Her eyes were cold and full of steel as they settled on Tor, as though they contained no tears to be shed and never would.
“I see you have managed to drag yourself away from your precious forest at last,” she hissed at him venomously.
Tor did not react to her words, nor her manner. It was no different to what he had been expecting. Ever since he had left the castle to train with the rangers instead of learning how to be a ‘real Prince’, as his mother put it, she had treated him with distaste bordering on hatred. He knew the death of his father would not change anything.
“I wished to pay my respects, mother,” he lied. He had no wish to visit her at all and they both knew it, but protocol had to be followed, no matter how unpleasant. “But I see that you already have a dutiful son to look after you, so you have no need of my services. Do I have your permission to leave?”
“Get out,” she spat at him, “if doing your duty is too hard for you. I had hoped that something as dire as losing your father would make you think about your kingdom rather than yourself, but it seems I was wrong.”
Anger coursed through Tor as he turned around and strode out of the room, clenching his fists tightly in order to prevent himself retaliating. It may have been shock and grief that caused her to have such an acid tongue, but he doubted it.
He headed straight to the nearest inn and was pleased to find Brodin there. He was sitting alone in a corner, quietly sipping ale. Anyone seeing the two men together would recognise them as brothers. While Brodin had Cirren’s eyes and Vitkin’s build, he was very much like Tor in the shape of his face and both wore their dark brown hair tied neatly at the nape of the neck.
“Care for some company?” Tor asked, taking a seat at the table before receiving a reply.
“If you had been anyone else I would have said no,” Brodin responded, then looked at Tor closely. “You have been to see mother,” he stated, then signalled to a serving girl to bring over more ale.
“How can you tell?” Tor asked.
“You look like you want to kill someone and I have never known anyone else have that effect on you.”
“I wish I could say you were wrong.”
“Is she talking about who will take over the throne?” Brodin asked. “As soon as she brought up the subject with me I made my excuses and left.”
Tor shook his head, but did not verbally reply. The serving girl had just returned with two tankards of ale and though the two brothers were regulars at the inn and knew the staff were discrete, he had no wish to discuss something so politically important in front of anyone who was not family.
“Do you know what father’s wishes were?” he asked as soon as he and Brodin were alone once more.
“Unfortunately not. It was not something any of his sons discussed with him, as far as I know. It is not as if he suffered from poor health and we are at peace with all of our neighbours, making going to war unlikely, so his death was not expected to occur any time soon.”
“Except it did,” Tor said gravely.
“Yes, it did,” Brodin replied solemnly. “I think getting roaring drunk is a good idea.”
“I could not agree more.” Tor raised his tankard, emptied it, then ordered another.
––––––––
The next morning he was awoken by the smell of coffee. His head was pounding and he had no memory of getting home the previous night, but when he opened his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the window, he realised he was in his own room at the castle.
“Good morning,” a familiar voice said. Seth kept his volume low, for which Tor was grateful. “I thought you might be needing this.”
Tor looked over and saw a plate of freshly sliced bread, without any butter, on the table beside a steaming cup.
“Want me to bring it over?” Seth asked, grinning.
Tor shook his head, instantly regretting it, and slowly eased himself out of bed. Whoever had put him to bed had undressed him, but his nakedness in front of Seth did not bother him.
“How did I get home?” he asked after taking a sip of the coffee. It was strong, but drinkable, indicating that Seth had visited the cooks rather than making it himself. While travelling with Tor, the young man had become quite skilled at cooking, but for some reason the art of making a good cup of coffee still eluded him.
“When you fell under the table and Brodin started snoring the innkeeper had the good sense to contact the royal guards rather than go to the palace. They carried you both in, then woke me. Brodin is in a worse state then you this morning, in case you are interested.”
Tor wasn’t. “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon.” Tor groaned. If he did not make it to the midday meal, his mother would send for him and he really did not feel well enough for round two of their argument.
He ate a little of the bread, managed to keep it down, so ate a bit more. Once the plate and cup were both empty, Seth helped him to dress. Traditionally this was something that his squire should do every day, but Tor hated not doing things for himself, so it was not a task that Seth undertook very often.
Before leaving his room he looked in the mirror. His beard was in need of a brush, as was his hair, but he was unconcerned; his mother would find something about him to find fault with so it might as well be his appearance.
His mother was already in the family dining room when he arrived, as were Cirren and Vitkin; Brodin had yet to make an appearance. Queen Reena barely acknowledged his arrival and ignored his refusal of any food when offered by a servant. She was dressed in a plain back dress, with no evidence of the plethora of jewels she usually wore. ‘At least she has had the decency to wear proper mourning clothes’, Tor thought to himself. Not until Brodin finally made it to the table did she deign to speak.
“Your brothers have been sent for and should all be here within a few days. The funeral will be in a week,” she announced as though the words she was saying held no more significance than the menu for the evening meal.
“So soon?” Cirren asked. Reena ignored the question.
“The will will be read today at three in the King’s study,” she continued as though she had never been interrupted.
All four brothers displayed their surprise. “Father wrote a will?” Vitkin asked, needlessly.
“Evidently,” the Queen snapped at him. She stood up and glared at them each in turn before speaking once more. “Do not be late.”
Without waiting for their acknowledgement, she walked out of the room, an icy silence following her.
“I wonder who will be named King,” Cirren said when he could take the oppressive atmosphere no longer.
“Not you, I hope,” Brodin joked, trying to lighten the mood. Cirren scowled at him.
“Relax, pup,” Tor said in a placating tone when he saw the look on the young Prince’s face. Then he turned serious. “Am I the only one that finds it strange that the funeral is being rushed and the will is going to be read before all of our brothers have arrived?”
“No, you are not,” Brodin confirmed, as Vitkin shook his head. “How can a proper formal burial be organised? It will take monarchs from other countries more than a week to travel here.”
His three brothers had no answer.
As there was nothing more to keep them together, the Princes each went their separate ways, agreeing to meet again in the King’s study at the designated time.
Tor went to his rooms and paced. His head still ached, his stomach wanted to reject the bread he had eaten earlier and he felt frustrated that it was looking like his father was not going to be honoured with the sort of farewell such a great ruler deserved.
The third hour after noon arrived sooner than he expected and he had to run in order not to be late for the reading of the will, which he knew his mother would start without him.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the King’s study and shivered when he realised this must have been where his father’s body had been discovered.
He started abruptly when someone clapped their hand on his shoulder. “Try not to think about it,” Brodin said, his voice filled with understanding.
Tor nodded his head and together they climbed the stairs. They were the last ones to arrive and quickly sat themselves in the remaining two empty seats.
Albian was sitting behind the King’s desk, which Tor found annoying, but he kept his thoughts to himself. They were there on serious business and starting the grim affair with an argument would not make it go any better.
“Now that we are all finally here,” Reena said icily, “you may begin.”
Albian cleared his throat, making sure he had everyone’s attention.
“As chief advisor to the King, it is my solemn duty to read his last official will. I have already confirmed that the seal upon it is genuine. Does anyone have any questions before I proceed?”
“I do,” Vitkin surprised all those present by stating loudly. “Why are we doing this now instead of waiting for the rest of our father’s offspring to arrive? This may affect them as much as it does us.”
“There may be instructions regarding the funeral,” Reena snapped. “So it cannot wait. They can read it for themselves when they arrive. Albian, you may continue.”
“Not so fast,” Vitkin interrupted once more. “Surely that means it is all the more important to wait. What is the hurry?”
“This country will not run itself,” Reena replied sharply. “It needs a strong King to take over from my husband and the sooner that happens the better. As Queen I am entitled to call for the will reading early. Now if anyone else has any questions, keep them to yourselves.”
Vitkin opened his mouth, then, noticing the warning shake of the head by Tor, closed it again. Nothing would be achieved by arguing any further.
Reena nodded to Albian and the bald man continued. “Does anyone wish to examine the seal before I open the will?” he asked. Silence greeted his question so he held up the document, placed a knife under the seal and cut through it, scattering fragments of wax over the desk.
“This document is the official will and testament of King...” he began to read, but was interrupted by Reena.
“Skip the formalities,” she commanded. “Just tell us who will take over the throne.”
“Alright,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. His audience then watched as he read more of the document, his lips moving as he silently spoke the words on the paper.
“After the appropriate statements as to validity,” he announced, “the late King has made some specific requests in regard to some personal items. All of his clothes are to be donated to...”
Once again Queen Reena interrupted. “That can be gone through later,” she said waspishly. “Who. Will. Be. King?” The last sentence was said slowly and deliberately, with each word spoken individually.
Albian frowned at her, but declined to comment on her inappropriate attitude. “Very well,” he said and continued to peruse the will.
His eyes suddenly widened and he turned his gaze toward the Queen. “There must be some mistake,” he stammered.
Reena gave an exasperated sigh. “Just tell us what it says.”
As ordered, Albian restarted his oration. “Having adequately distributed my personal possessions, it is now time for this tontine to talk about the succession to the throne.”
“What is a ‘tontine’?” Cirren asked.
“It is another word for will,” Albian calmly explained, ignoring the glare that the Queen directed at her youngest son. He returned his gaze to the document he was holding and continued to read. “There is to be a quest.”
There were audible gasps from around the room. While many generations ago it had been popular to set quests in order to make sure the bravest and most fit man would become the next King, the practice had fallen out of favour over a century before.
“You cannot be serious,” Tor protested.
“Read for yourself.” Albion passed the will to the Prince, who snatched it and quickly scanned it.
I hereby assign the throne of Remeny to my son; which one is up to them. A succession of clues have been set up which must be solved to continue the quest. The last Prince to reach the location of the next puzzle is eliminated and cannot be King. The first of my sons to reach the final destination will receive the crown.
“What does it mean?” Cirren asked, his confusion written clearly across his face.
“It means,” Brodin told him, “that any of us who wish to be King must work against each other to be the first to solve all of the clues.”
“No,” Reena contradicted. “It means that you all have to take part in the quest.”
“No,” Tor said, with surprising calm. “I do not want the throne and I will not take part in this farce.”
Reena glared at him. “You will take part and you will be King if you are the first to succeed.” She emphasised each ‘will’. “As your mother I request it; as your Queen I command it.”
His three brothers were expecting Tor to explode, but instead they watched him turn his back on them and walk out of the room without slamming the door.