His uncle disappeared down the hallway, a concerned look on his face. Alric sat back, resting his head against the wall, willing the ale to remain undisturbed in his stomach. He heard a door open, and then the familiar voice of his oldest brother, Alstan.
"He left early this morning, Father. I doubt he'll show his face around here anymore. There's nothing left for him in Weldwyn."
His father's voice, deeper but similar to his son's, boomed out, "About time. I can't stand people who work against their sovereign; it's the worse crime imaginable, in my opinion. You must remember that Alstan, for one day you'll be king."
"Yes, Father," the elder brother replied. "Do you think he'll cause any further problems?"
"I've made it quite plain in the capital that no one is to support his plan to rebel against the King of Merceria. We can't afford a war right now."
"Should we be taking precautions?" Alstan asked.
"I've sent word to the cities on the border. They'll keep an eye out for him. Hopefully, he'll skulk back under whatever rock he crawled out from and never be heard from again."
"So," muttered Alric, "the usurper has left. I suppose it'll be back to boring again. Pity, I was looking forward to a little excitement, not much happens around here these days."
He thought back to the joust and saw himself mounted on a large black horse. He was Alric the jouster, champion of all the cavaliers! A hand shook him awake, and he opened his eyes to see the face of his father looming over him.
"Alric? Are you all right?"
"Yes, Father," he stammered out, surprised at the interruption.
"Then get yourself to bed, boy. The last thing we need is a drunken prince passed out in the hallway."
Alric slowly rose to his feet and stood, wobbling, as he straightened his tunic. "Yes, Father," he said and staggered down the hall.
"And there," remarked Alstan, "goes the future of Weldwyn."
