B2 – Chapter 34: A meeting with a prince

Tristan and Obadai were escorted well into the night, and thanks to his heritage he could spot the enormous fortification on the horizon. The troops were leading them via lantern light, and he mulled over what he would say to the ruler he was about to approach. Prince Merrill. Asking the soldiers was pointless – the one time he did inquire they just told him to, “shut up and keep riding.”

Obadai had no better luck, and he was not well versed in the politics of the island nation the two found themselves upon. And so, Tristan was left to play over various scenarios in his mind. In an ideal world, he would be able to talk to this prince and then convince him to let Tristan act as an emissary of goodwill to try and convince his brother to put down arms and embrace an idea of equal division of the kingdom.

It may work, he thought, since both men ultimately want control of some amount. But I’ll really have to try and understand what exactly led to such bad blood. Both having a claim to the throne…I mean that happens in kingdoms all over the world, I assume. Succession crises have to be a usual occurrence. Do they always result in this level of violence and hatred for one’s own kin?

They reached the fortification and were let inside. He subtly used his hammer, activating the Lucky Instinct spell. And, even more carefully, mid-dismount, he performed the Persuasive Charm spell. After getting fully off the horses, the two black steeds were led away by pages; young men in service to a lord or knight.

Tristan was confronted by a group of five guards alongside the squadron they had encountered on patrol. The captain of the guard, denoted by his plumed helmet, held up his hand in a fist. “Hold there. You cannot go before Prince Merrill armed as you are.”

“Felicity,” Tristan whispered. She got the message, and Tristan pulled his sword, bow, the quiver, his knife, and the maul off of his person – one piece at a time, and pushed them up into the air. Felicity then grabbed each and shoved it into the storage dimension.

To the soldier’s eyes Tristan had just held up each item and it vanished into nothingness, and many of them trained weapons on Tristan. He held up his hands, “You told me I cannot go forward so heavily armed, so there you go. They’re gone.”

“Where did they go?” The captain asked.

Tristan smiled, “I’m an essence-weaver. They are in another place. Far, far away from us. I will not be able to summon them back at-will.”

The captain frowned, “Then we must insist we bind your hands as well. Can’t have you using a spell upon our Prince.”

Tristan held out his hands and nodded, “My companion here is my advisor – he is unarmed.” He was approached by two of the guards who wrapped thin cords around his fingers, binding them together, and then placing a sack over that to keep him from possibly removing the cords.

Obadai was left unchecked, and a simple glance between him and Tristan confirmed to him that the older man would be able to free him at a moment’s notice if required.

“This way,” the captain said as he led Tristan and Obadai forward with their escort. The fortress was a simple one – a large outer wall, a town within those walls, and then a central keep with another inner wall surrounding it. The town was quiet, as most residents had gone to sleep by this time, and the only people they passed were some city workers who kept maintaining the streets – sweepers, trash-pickers, and ratcatchers.

The keep itself was a towering, fortified structure that did not match up to the defenses of Bhant’s Holdfast but was imposing and would be one hell of tough building to take by force. There was even a moat with spikes at the bottom, covered in foul-smelling sludge from the city’s residents most likely using it as a refuse disposal. Anyone impaled on those lengths of wood, even if they survived, would doubtless die of an infected wound shortly after.

Taken over the drawbridge and into the castle proper, Tristan and Obadai were once more checked over for weapons. Then, they were led into a large entry hall. A seneschal greeted them with a slight head nod. “What would you like to be introduced as?”

Tristan made sure his posture was upright and put himself back into the mindset of having to attend royal court with his parents and half-siblings. “I am Lord Tristan, ruler of the Fey Realm. This is my companion, Obadai.”

The seneschal curtly nodded and went to the doors, rapping three times with his rod. The doors swung inward, and he cleared his throat. “Announcing the Lord Tristan, ruler of the Fey Realm, and his companion Obadai.”

The throne room was cramped. A spacious enough room on its own, but it was filled with tables that showed troop movements, dozens upon dozens of scrolls, inkwells, quills – all manner of objects related to war and strategy. Seated upon the throne was a man in his early thirties or late twenties. Human, with just a trace of Demihuman heritage somewhere in the mix, as he had elongated canines and a tuft of fur on the back of his neck.

“Approach, Lord Tristan.” His voice was calm and commanding; a soft voice that Tristan knew was capable of convincing others to do what the man desired.

Tristan walked forward and bowed, “Prince Merrill, thank you for seeing me.” He stood up straight, “I came to you for two reasons. The first is that I took Rigger’s Cove. Captured, as it were, on behalf of the Pathfinders you hired whom I conveyed to this land.”

The Prince sat up and leaned forward on his throne, “Oh? And why would you do this?”

Tristan glanced at the nearby maps, “The Founts accosted me and wanted to search my ships. I rejected that order, and they wanted to confiscate my trade goods.” The map showed estimated troop positions, and from what Tristan observed, the forces were massing on a large, flat expanse of land near the center of the landmass – equidistant from both Prince Merrill’s keep and his brother’s. Bringing his gaze back to Prince Merrill, Tristan continued; “The second reason I am here is because I want the contract to ship your mead across the world on my burgeoning trade fleet.”

The Prince let out a barking laugh, “And what makes you think I’d trust an Elf? One claiming to be from another Realm, no less?”

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Tristan smirked, “I was going to offer to help you in your efforts. I am an essence-weaver and dragonslayer.”

A figure walked up next to the throne. An older woman, dressed in a fine if modest gown of dark green. “His highness has essence-weavers, Lord Tristan.” She dipped her chin slightly, “I am Marineaux Fovron.”

Tristan recognized the last name almost immediately, “Fovron as in the Fovros cadet house?” He tapped his chest plate with his held hands, “You would know my former house. My seal is under my armor, on a chain around my neck.”

Felicity reached down and grabbed the seal, pulling it out. The woman gasped, “Essence-weaving while your hands are bound? How?”

Tristan chuckled, “Elf secret.” Guards lowered weapons, and he tapped the emblem now clearly visible, “You can see I earned the favor of King Arinclex VIII, his Archon, and I am an Anorox.”

“The dragonslayers?”

“The same,” Tristan replied. “I’m the half-elf child. Well, if you were not around in the past eighteen years, you would not know who I am.”

She nodded tersely, “I knew your grandfather. Hurvun, I believe was his name. And no, I have not been to Bhant in some time.” She looked to Prince Merrill, “My liege, this man comes from one of the most prestigious and prominent families. His grandfather is the one who stopped the Dragonstorm.”

The prince’s eyes went wide and he looked at Tristan, “This is true?” Tristan nodded, and the man snapped his fingers. “Unbind him immediately.”