Gueryn looked to his left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirsk, Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why had they all believed Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility onto his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. Gueryn thanked the stars for giving the King wisdom enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near-fourteen-year-old into battle.

Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital, Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No, Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while . . . long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be.

Gueryn regarded the boy, with his distinctive flame-colored hair and squat frame. He so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.

Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster had worshiped his father, and who could blame him—most of Morgravia’s men had as well. It was especially sad that the boy had lost his father having not seen him in so many moons.

Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Wyl was a serious, complex child, and this would push him further into himself. Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.

The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this job only to his accomplished captain, whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. Gueryn understood and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live among the rolling hills of Argorn, among the lush southern counties of Morgravia.

He became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor, and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.

“Don’t watch me like that, Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.”

“How are you feeling about this?” the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.

Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of color to his pale, freckled face betrayed his next words. “I’m feeling fine.”

“Be honest with me of all people, Wyl.”

The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress toward the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. “But I know this was my father’s dying wish,” Wyl added, trying to cover his sigh.

“The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.” Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. “You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,” Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months—weeks even—just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.

Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity that belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed, seven years previous and after a determined fight, to the virulent coughing disease that had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.

Although he rarely showed it outwardly, Wyl seemed to miss her in his own reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl obviously adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.

There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion—his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife had chosen to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plainspoken, even plainer-looking man who walked side by side with a King.

Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colorful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.

Wyl interrupted his thoughts. “Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?”

He had been waiting for just this question. “I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you, and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir,” he answered tactfully.

“I see,” Wyl replied. “What else do you hear of him? Tell me honestly.”

Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. “The King, I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be molded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of, although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.”

“Why?”

“I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys, they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia, believing it to be filled with peasants.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “She said that?”

“And plenty more apparently.”

“Where was she from?”

“Parrgamyn—I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?”

Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia, in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. “Exotic then?”

“Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.”

“So she would have been of Zerque faith?” he wondered aloud, and Gueryn nodded. “Go on,” Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something other than the pain of his father’s death.

Gueryn sighed. “A long tale really, but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man, and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.”

“She died quite young, though, didn’t she?”

The soldier nodded. “Yes, but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.”

“The King’s?” Wyl asked, shifting in his saddle. “My father never said anything about this to me.”

“The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colors. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.”

“How could it have happened?”

Gueryn shrugged. “Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.” He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.

“So Celimus has never forgiven his father?”

“You could say. Celimus worshiped Adana as much as his father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,” he offered. “The lad, I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.”

“Better than me?”

Gueryn grinned. “We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat—excluding myself at your age, of course.” He won a smile from the boy at this. “But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.”

Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. “I understand.”

“Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.”

“Do I need protection?” Wyl asked, surprised.

Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. “I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.” He watched the sorrow as those last words took a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. “The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.”

“Oh?”

“Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.” Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. “Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.”

Wyl bit his lip and nodded. “Let’s not tarry then, Gueryn.”

The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse as the boy kicked into a gallop.