The Lost Prince

By Kiyoko Silvers

The sudden death of the Steward leaves the Kingdom in turmoil. With his young, inexperienced son on the throne and war threatening, the people are desperate for a miracle. Aster, a young farmboy, is just another one of these people, until the Kingdom's first and only Lady Knight approaches him and presents to him the legendary Excalibur, the sword of Kings.

Unwilling to turn his back on people who need him, Aster reluctantly takes up the mantle his long dead father, the previous King, left him. However, even simply claiming his throne turns out to be far more difficult than he expected as sickness, bandits and even demons stand in his way.

First in The Sword of Kings trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244102418

Book preview

The Lost Prince

The Lost Prince

First Edition

Copyright © 2018 Kiyoko Silvers

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-244-10241-8

A New Reign

Silence was a constant companion in the crypts beneath the castle. Any sound was muffled in the vastness of the underground chambers, and the weight of the many dead sleeping in the dark was enough to quiet even the loudest, most obnoxious voices. It was here that the Kings of old slept, in a single, huge room that spanned the breadth of the castle above.

The last King had been entombed here nearly fifteen years ago, the marble of his statue still brilliant compared to the oldest of statues. However, the latest addition to the castle crypts was not permitted to reside alongside Kings, for he was not truly one of them. The Steward for the last fifteen years had been entombed in an antechamber just off the main crypt, and that was where his son and wife stood, dressed in the black of mourning, cloaked in the silence that permeated the place.

The son stepped forwards, his jaw clenched tight against the tears that glittered in his eyes. Cautiously, he placed a trembling hand upon the knee of his father's statue. He was immortalised sitting on the throne, the crown upon his brow, but no sword across his lap as all the other statues had. He was not King, and therefore he was not worthy of the blade. Behind the statue was the tomb, white marble to match the statue, with faintest veins of soft grey and a light blue to match the eyes his son had inherited from him.

The marble was cold beneath the boy's fingers, and he was truly little more than a boy. Fifteen only last month and already he bore the weight of an entire kingdom. His soft blue eyes were wide as he gazed up at the image of his father; face austere and his shoulder length hair slicked back the way he'd worn it in life. There were so many things the young, new Steward wanted to say, to ask his father, but he knew he would get no reply, and found the words simply did not want to come.

A tear escaped his control and slipped down his cheek until it touched the corner of his lips. He wiped it away with shaky fingers, nearly poking himself in the eye. His mother laid a hand upon his shoulder. Come, Cassius. We have matters to attend to upstairs. She said in a sharp tone that didn't entirely disguise the raw pain in her voice.

Cassius nodded jerkily, his blond curls brushing his shoulders with the motion, then turned away from the tomb with great reluctance. He did not want to have to face the court. He was near to tears and feeling especially vulnerable only a day after his father's funeral, and he did not want any of the hyenas that disguised themselves as courtiers to see him grieve.

I know it is unpleasant. His mother said, understanding where his thoughts had taken him. But it is necessary. She finished sternly. Then, her expression softening slightly, she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped her son's face, drying the tears that lingered beneath his eyes. Grieving is a private affair. You must not let them see your tears. His mother warned him, and Cassius nodded mutely.

It was a lecture he had heard from his father many times. Tears were a sign of weakness, and if anyone whose loyalty was not certain saw him cry, they would see, too, his weakness, and how best to wound him. And the only ones you could really trust were family. Of course, Cassius wasn't sure he believed that last part any more.

When he nodded this time, the gesture was stronger, more confident. His mother saw this and nodded too. Then she swept out of the room and Cassius followed her, focusing on breathing deeply to help keep the pain away. It was only when he felt sufficiently calm that he dared to speak. What needs seeing to first, Mother? He asked, and he was proud that his voice didn't shake like he feared it might.

The Council of Advisors has convened and your presence is required. His mother answered him, taking a torch from the bracket near the door to the crypts and starting up the long staircase that led back up into the castle proper.

Cassius pulled a face, but schooled his expression into neutral when his mother glanced over her shoulder at him. She gave him a reproving look anyway, which made him suspect he hadn't been all that successful in hiding his contempt. What is on the agenda? He asked before his mother could begin to lecture him again.

His mother's pace faltered for just a moment, and Cassius felt his stomach lurch with nerves. It took a lot to unsettle his mother. When his father had flown into rages, his mother had always been the calm, steady one. She took everything in her stride, so anything that could unsettle her was a big deal indeed. Finally, his mother drew in a breath and said, in a tone that was tight with raw emotion, There is word of Nereida.

Immediately, Cassius understood his mother's tone. He felt an upsurge of emotion so strong it nearly choked him. He couldn't even say exactly what emotion it was. Grief, fury, betrayal, confusion, and hurt were mixed in there, he could tell, but it was so jumbled that it was hard to tell one from another. That bitch. He swore fiercely under his breath. It was quite telling that his mother didn't remind him to watch his language. What news? He asked after he managed to tamp down his emotions again.

By this point, they had finally reached the top of the stairs, and his mother placed the torch she was carrying in a waiting bracket and turned to look at him. I do not know. She confessed, and by the tightness in her tone, Cassius assumed that she had asked and been rebuffed. Probably because the advisors thought that she was in a fragile and delicate state after her husband's death. It took all of Cassius's willpower to hold back a scoff at the thought. His mother clearly correctly interpreted his expression, because she almost smiled. Quite. She agreed, then gave her son a pointed look.

It took a moment for Cassius to realise she was waiting for him to lead the way. The thought made him oddly nervous, but he did so, and left the relative privacy of the stairwell to step into a sunlit corridor. He understood, of course, why his mother wanted him to lead. That was his role now; to lead. To lead the people, to lead the army, to lead the entire kingdom. It would not do for the Steward and ruler of the Kingdom to be seen following his mother around like a faithful hound. He needed to appear strong, in order to inspire loyalty in the people.

Without pause, Cassius turned and strode off down the corridor, listening to his mother's footsteps behind him. He knew where he was going. He had sat in on enough council meetings when his father was Steward to know precisely where he was going. The journey to the Audience Chamber passed quickly in Cassius's haste to get the meeting over with so that he might retire to his rooms for some privacy.

The first thing he noticed as he pushed the door open was that the room was full of people. The second thing was that all of these people had been debating loudly and passionately, but fell silent as he entered the room. His mood, if it was possible, dropped even lower, because it was not respect he saw on their faces, but wariness and concern. His father could silence a room with his mere presence because the people respected and even revered him, but Cassius was not his father, however much he tried to emulate him.

One of the advisors stepped forwards and bowed, bending in half at the waist. My Lord. He murmured respectfully. Cassius nodded once to him, his expression hard and cold, and after a moment's pause that Cassius despised, the others in the room all bowed and echoed the respectful greeting.

Cassius strode to the spot his father usually occupied; stood in front of the relatively small throne that was meant to seat the King, but had to make do with a Steward. I was told you have news of Nereida. He stated without preamble, bracing his hands on the table and leaning forwards slightly. The advisors shifted, none of them wanting to be the ones to speak of the traitor before the Steward. Speak! Cassius ordered, his impatience overcoming him.

The advisor who had stepped forward before bowed again. My Lord. He murmured again. Our intelligence division reports that she has entered the Kingdom of Galendra. He stated.

They were not able to apprehend her before she crossed the border? Cassius asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it all the same. It was a huge disappointment, hearing that the woman had slipped through their grasp.

I am afraid that your aunt is a powerful enchantress and the soldiers who were sent to capture her are... not in their right minds. Another of the advisors spoke up.

Cassius whipped round to glare at the man, who jolted in shock and leaned back slightly. In a tightly controlled voice, Cassius grated out the words he wanted to shout. Do not call her that. She is no aunt of mine. She is a traitor and a murderer, and if we ever capture her, she will be treated as such, not as a member of the royal household. Is that understood? He asked. There was a lot of bowing of heads and murmuring of assent, and Cassius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. So. She has fled to Galendra. He stated, bringing the meeting back on track. Have we spoken to King Orpheus about the possibility of him handing her over if they catch her?

Here, the advisors glanced at one another and remained utterly silent. Cassius felt his heart dropping to his toes. Just as he was about to order an answer out of someone, one of the commanders of the army spoke up. We sent a messenger to King Orpheus with that very request. He said in a strong, military voice.

And? Cassius prompted.

The commander took a single moment to gather himself, and Cassius took the same time to brace himself for what he was absolutely certain was going to be bad news. He sent the messenger back... in pieces. The commander stated. Cassius's face contorted with a mixture of disgust, contempt and irritation. Along with a notice of his impending marriage. The commander added.

There was a swoop of horror in Cassius's gut, and he did his best not to gape incredulously at the commander. To Nereida? He confirmed, and the man nodded sharply. Then we can assume that her murdering my father was a wedding present to him? He sneered.

Precisely, My Lord. The commander replied, still stony faced.

Then this is a declaration of war against us. Cassius concluded, suddenly feeling very out of his depth. There was a sick, roiling feeling in his stomach that he realised was nerves, and the council nodding solemnly around him did not help in the least. Then we must prepare. He stated, perhaps unnecessarily. Double the border patrol and send out the call for the militia to prepare. He ordered, and the army commander nodded, bowed, and left. Is there anything else that needs my attention? He asked of the remaining advisors.

There was a sudden clamouring of noise as every council member tried to get him to listen to whatever problem they deemed most important. It was two long tedious hours later that Cassius finally escaped the audience chamber and was permitted to retreat to his rooms. He moved straight to the fireplace, within which a fire was blazing merrily, and leaned against the mantel, breathing deeply the scent of the fire in an effort to calm his stomach and heart.

You handled that rather well. The sound of his mother's voice made him jump, and he turned in time to see her closing the door to his chambers behind her.

Cassius was a little unsure how to respond to the praise. Thank you. He said finally. He wished his mother wouldn't act so different. He was already feeling unbalanced enough, with the prospect of fighting a war on the horizon and his father's guidance lost to him. His mother's suddenly tender behaviour was almost too much.

You must learn to contain your emotions, however. His mother added sharply, and Cassius relaxed. That was much better. Your thoughts were playing across your face that whole meeting. You need to school your features and hide your thoughts. You cannot let the people see your uncertainty, or your fear. She warned him sternly.

Yes, mother. He agreed, closing his eyes and nodding wearily. Suddenly, it all just felt like too much. He was tired of all of this. It was true he had looked forward to succeeding the throne, but always in his imagination, he had been a man, with perhaps a few battles under his belt and several notches in his bedpost. He'd had his final growth spurt, and rivalled his father in height, and his voice stayed deep, instead of cracking as it was wont to do at the moment.

In all his daydreams, he'd been ready to take the throne, and his father had passed it to him proudly, instead of leaving it to him in death. In his imagination, his father had been there to advise him, even though, in his mind, Cassius had never needed said advice.

It was not like that now. Now, Cassius was still only a boy. Admittedly a boy on the very cusp of manhood, and considered a man as of his fifteenth birthday, but, as the gossiping scullery maids called him, still a man-boy; not yet full grown. He had never donned armour, only lifted a blade in practice against his sword master, and the closest he'd gotten to 'notching his bedpost' was the time the daughter of a lord had cornered him in the corridor and kissed him. He'd bolted like a skittish battle charger, and had decided that it was absolutely nothing like his father had hinted and that he'd really rather not repeat the experience.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look at his mother. Her face was no longer an unreadable mask; now she wore an expression of great weariness and sorrow, her grey eyes looking colourless and lifeless. You should sleep, Cassius. She told him. You look exhausted.

It was a tempting suggestion, and Cassius didn't have the willpower to resist. He nodded to his mother and she kissed him on the forehead like she used to when he was little. Cassius swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and turned towards his bedroom as his mother left. As the door clicked shut behind her, he felt his eyes sting furiously with tears. He swiped them away angrily, wishing he were stronger, older, wiser. Wishing he was simply better, because he wasn't good enough. He'd never been good enough and now he had no idea what to do.

He went through the motions of undressing with jerky movements, pausing often to wipe his eyes clear of the tears that were constantly clouding his vision. By the time he was dressed in a simple nightshirt and had climbed into his large and extravagant bed, he had given up trying to stem the flow. He surrounded himself with the pillows in a mockery of comfort, curled into a ball beneath the plush covers and cried himself to sleep.

The Lady-Knight of the Realm

The rising sun shone straight in through the window and onto the face of the boy sleeping on the floor of the small, ramshackle house. His face screwed up against the harsh light and slowly his eyes opened, squinting against the glare. He raised an arm until the shadow fell over his eyes, and finally blinked them all the way open. After they had adjusted, he lowered his arm again and his irises flashed and gleamed golden in the sunlight.

Carefully, he levered himself up and yawned widely as the threadbare blankets fell off him. His hair, which was true black in colour, was stuck up on one side of his head, while the other side lay flat against his skull. He ran his fingers through it, smoothing out the messy side, and messing up the smooth side, until it was all equally ruffled.

He turned and grabbed his boots, which were sat next to the patch of floor he'd made his bed on, and tugged them onto socked feet. He'd slept in his day clothes to keep himself warm, and as he stood he brushed the wrinkles out of the fabric of his coarse tunic and too-large jacket. Sucking in a deep lungful of the chilly, early-morning air and letting it out in an explosive sigh, he readied himself for the day.

First on the agenda was breakfast. He stepped past the rough-hewn table and to the cupboards that held the meagre food supply. The best he could come up with was porridge, and it would be thin at that. Wearily, he got to the preparations, and just as he was serving up three bowls of the stuff, his guardians - for they never let him make the mistake of thinking of them as his parents - stepped out of their bedroom, dressed and ready for the day, even if they did look a little sleepy.

The boy didn't bother to sit. He knew he wasn't welcome at the table. The two adults seated themselves while he stood by the window and ate, letting the breeze play over his skin and wake him better than preparing breakfast had. He noticed the way the woman kept flexing her fingers and shivering slightly, and expected it when the man glanced towards the fireplace and saw the dwindling stack of firewood beside it. With a grimace, the boy scooped the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth and placed the bowl on the counter to be washed, along with the others, in the stream when he had time.

Oi. The man grunted. Boy.

The boy kept his expression neutral as he turned to the man. He was a hardy looking man, with the sort of muscle one gets when one works hard and earns little. His dark brown hair had streaks of grey in it, and his short, wiry beard was almost entirely grey. Yes, sir? The boy asked politely.

Get some more firewood today. He ordered, then huffed. Lazy, good-for-nothing, little-... He grumbled, trailing off into bitter silence.

Yes, sir. The boy replied wearily, far too used to the man's grumbling to be bothered by it. He took in the way the pair of them were eating their breakfast at a snail's pace, and resolved to wash the bowls later. He made his way to the chest where the tools were stored and pulled out an axe. Then he made his way to the door, collecting a large sack from a peg in the wall on his way. Is there anything else? He asked.

Don't forget my medicine. The woman snapped. She was thin, and even though she hadn't yet past fifty, she had the hands of an old woman. There were deep lines in her face from years of stress, and her mousy brown hair was greying in places. There were shadows that looked more like bruises under her eyes, and her skin was pale.

I won't. The boy said quietly and slipped out of the house before the pair could hurl any more abuse at him. Outside it was chilly and bright, the rising sun fighting hard to drive off the chill of the night. The village around him was just beginning to wake up and the boy decided to head to the healers house before he trekked into the woods to cut firewood.

The healer's house was on the other side of the village, but it wasn't far. The village was small, with less than a hundred people living there. Life there wasn't easy, most of the people were too thin and haggard from a life of hard work, but in general the people were content and friendly with one another, if not with outsiders.

And though the boy had been raised there for almost all of his life, he had not been born there. And for that, he was considered an outsider, and the people of the village tended to avoid him, though they were never outright cruel to him, with the exception of a very few. Of course, his brilliantly golden eyes tended to disturb the villagers, who almost invariably had much more bland colouring than the boy's rich black hair and metallic eyes.

Upon reaching the healer's house, the boy knocked and pushed open the door. The front room had been turned into a bad mimicry of a shop, with a rough, ramshackle counter and shelves that the boy's guardian had put up for them stocked with herbs and poultices and healing potions. Usually, the healer herself was behind the counter, but this morning, much to the boy's relief, he saw her second youngest son sitting there, looking for all the world as though he were still half asleep. He perked up a little, though, when the golden eyed boy stepped inside.

Aster! He greeted cheerfully, though the last half of the boy's name was muffled somewhat by a wide yawn. Blinking the tears the yawn caused away, the boy looked Aster over and took in his appearance. Firewood? He asked casually.

Yeah. Aster agreed, smiling. But Calla wants me to fetch her medicine, too. Did your mum tell you where it is, Emery? He asked, glancing around the shop.

Emery waved a dismissive hand in the air, yawning again and propping his chin in his hand as his eyes fluttered closed. You know I don't pay attention to any of that stuff. He mused. Just poke around, I'm sure you'll find it.

Trying not to laugh at his only friend's blatant disinterest, Aster did exactly as Emery had suggest and began poking around the shelves, hoping to come across the tincture that Emery's mother made up for Calla.

The thing that had drawn Aster to Emery in the first place was the fact that they both shared the affliction of unusual eye colours. Aster's were far more distinctive, and he had the added burden of not being born in the village, so Emery wasn't shunned as Aster was, but he still disturbed some of the more insular villagers. His eyes were lilac in colour, almost blue, but if one looked closely, they were distinctly purple. Due to the dark brown of his hair and warm honey tone of his skin, his pale eyes stood out against the warmer hues.

Both boys were also quite slight, compared to the other boys of the village, not that there were all that many youngsters that had survived past infancy. However, Emery had not yet experienced his growth spurt, and was still half a head shorter than Aster, who seemed to be heading rapidly towards six foot, which was rare among the common folk. Another thing that singled him out as different.

The sight of 'Calla' written in Emery's mother's neat handwriting caught Aster's eye and drew him out of his absent minded musing. He picked up the bottle, double checking the label just to be sure, and brought it to the counter. He passed over the single coin required, and Emery slipped it into a drawstring pouch without looking at it. Aster was a little amused and touched by this sign of trust. Well, see you later. He said, tucking the bottle of medicine into his pocket.

Wait. Emery called before Aster could take even a step towards the door. Mind if I join you? He asked.

Aster shook his head to indicate that he didn't mind at all. The company would be nice. He said, and Emery grinned at him. But won't your mother be upset if you leave the shop? Aster added, and Emery waved him off carelessly.

Nah. He replied. She can get one of the others to watch the shop. He stated, the dismissal in his tone clear. Aster knew that Emery's brothers were a touchy subject. There were eight of them, Emery being the second youngest with six older brothers, though most of them had left home by now, making their way in the world as full adults. MUM! I'M GOING WITH ASTER TO FETCH SOME FIREWOOD! He hollered through the doorway to the rest of the house.

DO BE CAREFUL, DEAR. His mother called, her tone vaguely fretful.

Yeah, yeah! Emery called back, rolling his eyes as he darted through the door for all of a few seconds, returning with his own axe and sack. Come on, let's go before she starts trying to fix my clothes or something. He muttered. Aster agreed with a small chuckle, and the two of them made their way through the village and into the surrounding woods together.

It was the days that he could get out of the village