Page 8 of The Masked Princess

CHAPTER 6

The dark night sky was just brightening into dawn when Soren woke in his father’s house. Judging from the lack of dust, he assumed the maids came in to clean his old room occasionally, but otherwise it was exactly the same as when he’d left it over a decade before.

He dressed and went downstairs. Varley, their head butler, was already up and had nearly finished setting the table for breakfast. He bowed when Soren entered the dining room.

“My apologies, Lord Soren, but the cook is just starting on breakfast. Your father usually eats after the seventh bell. The sixth just tolled not too long ago. Would you like to eat now?”

“No, thank you, Varley. I’ll eat with him, but I’d appreciate a pitcher of water.” Soren paused, and the shadow of a rueful smile passed over his face. He’d spent so long as Captain Kierson that being addressed by his birthright title somehow felt wrong.

“Of course. Do you require it immediately?” Varley asked, placing a stack of unfolded napkins on the table.

“No need. If you’ll just bring some to the training room when you get a chance, I’d appreciate it.”

Varley bowed, and Soren walked through the dining room to the great room beyond. As he stood in the stately space, he breathed deeply and took in the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, the coffered ceiling with its ornate moulding, and the dark lacquered wood of the floors. Once upon a time, it was a ballroom, but it had been used as a weapons arsenal and training room for as long as Soren could remember and he’d spent many hours there learning how to fight.

He surveyed the wooden racks against the wall, which were filled with almost every weapon imaginable. Soren’s trusty sword hung in its scabbard at his hip, but it had been a long time since he’d had access to such a wide range of weapons, and the variety was intoxicating. On a whim, he picked up a battle-axe and, finding it well balanced and with a nice heft, started his old practice forms. He was rusty, but within a handful of minutes he was flowing through the movements like a leaf on a river.

Just as he finished, a slow clap sounded from the edge of the room. He turned to see a grizzled man standing in the doorway, a tray with several cups on a table at his side.

Soren re-racked the axe, then joined his father. He nodded at the older man as he gulped down the glass of water. Much could change in a decade away—but Rengard Kierson still looked every inch the hardened High General of Dovea.

He was of average height, with a heavily muscled frame that made him nearly as wide as he was tall. Several scars wound their way down his arms, and one on his left jaw twisted over his cheek toward his ear. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, as was his beard, and steely blue eyes peered at Soren from under bushy eyebrows. There were new wrinkles around his mouth and his forehead, like he'd spent a lot of time in fierce concentration, but he still wore the same plain clothes he favored when not at court. The only adornment he wore was the golden wedding ring he’d never taken off since his wife’s passing.

In contrast to his father, Soren had inherited his mother’s height and build, although there was nothing weak in his wiry frame. Years spent working the ropes of a sailing ship as well as loading and unloading boxes and casks of merchant vessels had packed on pounds of muscle and kept the fat off. In fact, it had been a point of pride for his crew that, despite his relative thinness, he was as quick as a diving osprey and strong enough to beat men twice his size in arm wrestling competitions at whatever tavern they stayed in between journeys.

He’d also inherited his reddish-brown hair, the color of fallen oak leaves, and his dark brown eyes from his mother, and sometimes he wondered if his father wished his only son looked a little more like his sire.

“It warms my heart to know that all the coin I spent on lessons wasn’t a waste,” High General Kierson said, as if it hadn’t been ten years since he’d last seen his son.

“Probably best not to assume. Perhaps I’ve forgotten everything except the use of a battle-axe,” Soren replied.

His father raised an eyebrow at his teasing tone, and Soren took the chance to take the measure of the man whose shoes he’d spent his entire life trying to fill.

“Well, I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t test what you’ve learned while you were gone. Do you still remember what you’re supposed to do with that stick at your side?” his father asked as he took a two-handed greatsword from the rack.

“You point the pointy end at your enemy and try to stab him with it, right?” Soren replied. He pulled his sword free from its scabbard and followed the older man, settling into a well-practiced stance when they reached the center of the room.

They met in a flurry of blows. His father used his strength and the heavy greatsword to his advantage, but Soren had plenty of experience sparring with larger men. After several minutes of dodges, parries, and thrusts, the high general discarded the great sword and grabbed a lighter blade, switching hands.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve kept up with your training,” he grunted as they closed quarters again.

Soren only smiled in response and changed his sword hand to mirror his father’s. High General Kierson was miserly with praise and quick with criticism, so any compliments were well-deserved and meant ten times as much. As time ticked on, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he was holding his ground against the man who was lauded as one of the most accomplished swordsmen in the entire kingdom.

After several more minutes, and as they both stood dripping sweat, the seventh bell tolled and his father stepped back and held up a hand. “Very impressive. Much better than I was expecting, actually. I was afraid your time at sea would teach you bad habits, but if you were to enter a tourney tomorrow, you wouldn’t disgrace this house.”

Soren bowed. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your kind words.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure that Varley has breakfast ready. We will eat, then get ready for court.” Lord Kierson frowned. “I assume you are comfortable being reintroduced to court today?”

“I would like nothing more.” Soren fought to hide his smile as he followed his father out of the training room. For the first time in years, he would get to see Annalise.

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, meat, potatoes, and bread, over which they discussed Soren’s adventures, the two men dressed in their finest clothes and entered their carriage. As they drove to the castle, Soren mulled over his conversation with his father during breakfast. Between what his father left unsaid, the port gossip he’d gleaned between sea journeys, and the information from the tavern the night before, it sounded like a lot had changed since he’d last set foot in Dovea.

“How has Princess Annalise fared while I’ve been away? I heard about her curse,” Soren said as the carriage bumped over the cobblestone main road that led to the castle.

“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances, I imagine.”

“Some merchants at the tavern said that it started the same night Queen Elvira passed.”