Legends of Meras: The Ballad of Selvion Forcendi (I)

Author’s Note: This story which I’ll be serialising for alpha readers here on Medium is a prequel to an existing story which I wrote a decade ago called The Rebirth of Meras which, alas, I have yet to write a sequel for. But, current global events in mind, I was prompted to write a story set two generations prior to the events of Rebirth — one where a small cluster of nations dares to band together against a tyrannical superpower.

New chapters up every two weeks (I hope!) Please feel free to read and comment; thanks. Now, on to our tale…

Chapter One: Coming to Bellom

“I wish my parents had named me something else.”

Lissom Crell looked up and grinned as her friend flopped down gracelessly on the floor beside her. The younger girl looked more annoyed than angry, but her cheeks were flushed and were almost as red as her hair.

“Would you rather that your parents named you after your mother or either of your grandmothers?” Lissom asked her.

“Why couldn’t they have named me something more…” She paused groping for a word. “Normal; something that doesn’t stop people in their tracks whenever they hear it.”

“Would you rather be called by your second-name, then, when you come to the Academy? Amicia sounds about right, you know.”

“Still sounds fancy to me, Liss; sorry. It’s Granny’s name, but she is the Magistra of Bellom — everyone knows her.” She sighed, drawing up her knees and resting her chin upon them. “I wish I were ordinary.”

“With an attitude like that? You wouldn’t be happy if you were ordinary.” Lissom chuckled and closed the book she’d been reading. “See here, Thamance,” she said, putting the book down beside her. “It’s a lovely name — and a meaningful one, given where you’re from and which Clan you belong to.”

“But it feels like they’re expecting something from me!” Thamance Amicia Bellovre grated. “I mean, look!” She pointed at the portraits lining the walls of the hallway they were in. “That whole wall over there is every single Magistra who has borne the name ‘Thamance’ — and every one of them did something great when they were alive!” She sighed deeply. “What would I do? I’m barely even ten!”

“Don’t forget that five out of those eleven Thamances weren’t just Magistrae,” Lissom reminded her.

“The Phoenix Queens of Meras,” Thamance said gloomily. “From those times when crises arose, and someone had to step in and do something.” She shook her head in dismay. “This country is ruled by sixteen families — why in the Seven Hells does it always have to be my family that needs to do something?”

“Maybe it’s because you’re all raised to be more sensible than most,” Lissom said dryly.

“Well, yes,” Thamance conceded reluctantly. “There’s that.”

Lissom rose to her feet and helped her friend up. “Also, you’re all smarter than most people,” she said with a grin.

“Except for you,” Thamance teased her cheekily. “You got bundled off to the Academy three years ago — and you were my age, then!”

Lissom grimaced at this, but she said nothing as they made their way out of the hallway. Nearly thirteen, she was already about to enter her fourth year at the Merasine High Polymathic in Piema, the capital city of Meras. Known simply as the Academy — its original name having been The Souraingi Academy for Higher Education — it accepted students not just from Meras, but from other parts of the Souraingi continent as well, from Gafda in the north to Taryan in the south. It was also notoriously difficult to get into: not even the children of crowned monarchs could just saunter in. The Academy only took in the best and the brightest, grooming them to become leaders when they were grown up and ready to take on responsibilities in their home countries. The minimum age of admittance to the academy was thirteen, but exceptions were made for particularly gifted children.

Young Lissom Crell was one of them: an incredibly precocious child, the sole daughter and middle child of the military commander of Bellom and the favourite lady-in-waiting of the Bellomere heiress-apparent, trained from the cradle in warcraft and statecraft by her doting parents. It would be easy to say that Lissom’s background gave her a quick way in, but the girl had aced the exams without batting an eyelash and had a stern demeanour that made her mature for her age.

“I’m not the only one who got in early,” Lissom reminded Thamance as they made their way to the dining hall to get afternoon tea. “There’s you,” she said pointedly. “And I’ve heard that Matriarch Escher’s eldest granddaughter will be in your class. Also: Phaandrom and Selvion are my age, and the three of us came to the Academy at the same time.”

“Yes, which is probably why you and Phaan are thick as thieves,” Thamance teased her, a wicked grin playing on the corners of her mouth.

Lissom blushed deeply and glared at her. “You’re forgetting that His Highness is supposed to marry for duty,” she said sharply.

“That’s not what I heard from your mother and mine,” Thamance said glibly. “And from Auntie Carlissea. Mamma told Poppa that the ladies have pretty much sealed the deal between you and Phaan.”

Lissom winced at this. “You’re a naughty puss to call the Crown Princess of Xylia ‘auntie’ like that!” she exclaimed.

“Why not?” came the airy response. “She is, along with your mother, my godmother — but, of course, I would call her ‘Your Highness’ in public. I’m not stupid, Lissom.”

“Just a bloody gossip.”

“A bloody good gossip,” Thamance corrected her. She looked thoughtful as she said this. “Maybe I could use that to my advantage when I’m a little older: join the Intelligence Corps soon as I pass Nationals.”

Lissom laughed at this, mollified. “You’d be good at it,” she assured her little friend. “Though I’m not sure if your parents will agree.”

“Aye,” Thamance agreed reluctantly. “Granny’s recording secretary is the most likely job I’ll get after the Academy.”

As they reached the entrance of the dining hall, one of the Clan’s senior servants bowed respectfully and walked alongside them.

“Princess,” he told Thamance, “we have guests: the Princes Phaandrom and Torassen of Xylia have arrived and will stay a week prior to your entrance to the Academy.”

“Just them, Messire Harlevoy?” Lissom asked him.

“Oh, yes: the Crown Prince’s Ward, young Selvion Forcendi, is also with them.”

Thamance’s eyebrows furrowed in curiosity over this. She turned to Lissom inquisitively. “Poppa did tell me that Uncle Raghassen adopted the son of one of the king’s chief ministers,” she said.

“He didn’t exactly adopt Selvion,” Lissom corrected her. “His mother is still alive, along with all four of his siblings. It’s just that the Omarches took him under their care after he was rescued from that debacle in Peinan.” She shuddered. “The Gafdans slaughtered everyone in the Xylian Embassy after the Xylians refused to give them preferential status in trade.” Her face looked grim. “That’s the Gafdans for you: what you don’t give them willingly, they’ll happily take with brute force.” She shook her head. “A pox on the yellow bastards.”

“Lissom!” Thamance exclaimed in shock.

“Miss Lissom has a point, Princess,” Messire Harveloy grunted, his own face angry. “Those godless monsters have no respect for the lives or the property of others. They’re greedy pigs, that’s what they are.”

Lissom managed a faint grin at this. “That’s a real insult, Messire Harveloy,” she chided him, but her eyes twinkled with fun. “To the pigs, that is: they really are lovely creatures. It’s bad to compare them to the Gafdans.”

The old servant laughed at this and gently steered the girls to a table in the corner of the hall where three boys who were about their ages already sat. One was a dapper lad with a shock of unruly dark hair that no comb or brush could ever tame and dark blue eyes that glittered like sapphires; the younger lad who sat to his left bore a very marked physical resemblance to him, but with tamer hair. The third boy, the one who sat on the right, was a pale and slender youth with a grave expression on his face that made him seem older than he actually was. It was he who noticed the girls’ arrival and he rose gracefully and bowed most formally.

“I wish you wouldn’t stand on ceremony, Selvion,” Lissom grunted. “We are on vacation, after all.”

“That’s what I told him,” the boy with the unruly hair declared with a laugh. He rose, bowed, and then hugged her tight. “Hullo, beautiful!”

Lissom rolled her eyes as Thamance snickered at the greeting, but she embraced the boy tightly. “But it’s good to see you, Your Highness,” she said. He grimaced at this, but she laughed as he playfully tweaked her nose. When they let each other go, she warmly hugged the younger boy. “You, too, Tor.”

Thamance curtsied deeply and the boy with unruly hair — Prince Phaandrom Omarch of Xylia — responded with an equally courtly bow: equals meeting each other with mutual respect. But all formality went out the window as the prince gave the little princess a tight, brotherly squeeze.

“So!” he declared when he had released her. “You’re joining us at the Academy at in a few weeks.”

“She’s actually nervous about it,” Lissom informed him, smiling at Thamance who looked somewhat abashed. “I can’t see why: if we were able to fit in, I don’t see why she won’t.”

Phaandrom nodded at this. “It’s not like you’ll be all alone,” he chided Thamance as they all took their places at the table. “You have me and Lissom; you know us.” He gestured towards the serious-faced boy on his right. “And Selvion here is our beadle.”

“Your Highness,” the boy named Selvion acknowledged Thamance with a deep and formal bow. “His Highness has said much about you. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Thamance blinked, taken by surprise by the formality. But, princess that she was, she quickly recovered and responded with a deep curtsey that was every bit as formal — and, in keeping with her status, she maintained eye contact with him.

Phaandrom sighed in dismay at this. “Loosen up, Sel,” he chided his friend. “We are on vacation; it’s not like we’re accompanying Grandpa or Da on a state visit.”

“This is Selvion Forcendi,” Phaandrom introduced him to Thamance. “His grandfather was Xylia’s ambassador to the Gafda Union and his father was charge d’affairs.” A bleak look appeared on the prince’s face as he spoke. “They fought bravely during that awful mess of things in Peinan.”

“But we lost them, nevertheless,” Selvion said, his voice quiet but overlaid with a bitterness far beyond his years. He gulped, as if trying to steady himself. “I… I wanted to stay and fight with them, but Father managed to wrangle me out and into a shuttlecopter.” He drew a deep breath. “I was barely nine, but I saw how the Gafdans overwhelmed him even as the ‘copter took off.”

To everyone’s surprise, Thamance said nothing, but she fiercely hugged Selvion. When she released the startled boy, she meekly apologised.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Your father did what he could to protect you, but…” Her eyes grew steely as she spoke. “A pox on those Gafdans!”

Selvion blinked, taken by surprise by her vehemence. But he managed a small smile at this and nodded to her in acknowledgement. He drew a chair for the princess, waiting for her to be seated before taking his own place at table.

Lissom raised an eyebrow at this exchange, knowing both of them quite well. She slid a glance towards Phaandrom who had, in turn, pulled out a chair for her. He met her gaze and smirked, throwing a conspiratorial wink at her. It made her smile.

“So, you’re going to be starting at the Academy in a couple of weeks!” Phaandrom exclaimed to Thamance. “It’s not as bad as you think it might be, you know.”

Thamance regarded him nervously. “That’s what Mamma and Poppa have been telling me,” she said. “But I’ve never really been away from them or Granny and Grandpa, so, well…” Her voice trailed off and the colour seemed to drain from her face. “I am a bit scared.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Phaandrom assured her. “Like I said: unlike most people who come in for the first time, you won’t be alone.”

“We were just lucky we’d known each other well before we came,” Selvion added. He nodded towards Lissom. “And His Highness and Miss Lissom have also known each other well before we started.”

“Selvion, I do have a name, you know,” Phaandrom reminded him, a pained expression on his face. “Use it.”

“And you can drop the ‘miss,’ jackanape,” Lissom chimed in. “That makes me sound like I’m as old as our cranky old meisei in Mediaeval History.”

“Are you coming to the Academy, too, Tor?” Thamance asked Phaandrom’s younger brother.

Prince Torassen Omarch grinned impishly and shook his head. “Not yet, ‘Mance; sorry,” he replied. “Mum just sent me here to get me out of her hair for the rest of the summer.”

“He’s recovering from sarampion,” Phaandrom explained. He regarded his brother with an equally impish smile. “And you can’t blame him for getting antsy after being stuck in bed for a couple of weeks.”

“Tell me about it!” Thamance exclaimed. “Mamma wanted to ship me off to school because I was such a pest when I had it a couple years ago.” But she had to ask Torassen, “Don’t you get lonely when Phaan is away at school, though?”

“I do, and I don’t really mind as I’m used to it now,” Torassen replied, but he suddenly grew serious. “But Grandpa and Da have been thinking of sending me away from the capital.”

Lissom shot Phaandrom a startled look. “Security issues?” she asked.

Gravely, the prince nodded, looking at that point much older than just thirteen. “We managed to uncover a spy skulking near the old schoolroom at home,” he informed her.

“He was armed,” Selvion added grimly. “And he was Gafdan.”

“The bad part was that the Gafdan Embassy immediately decried any knowledge that they’d sent a spy to the Palace,” Phaandrom continued, looking quite angry.

Lissom narrowed her eyes at the two older boys. “Why do I have the feeling you dealt with him yourselves?” she asked them.

Phaandrom turned to Selvion; the latter smirked wickedly.

“Let’s just say that cats know,” Phaandrom remarked enigmatically.

“And the Gafdan was allergic to cats,” Selvion said. “It kind of gave him away — to the point that some of his knives clattered out of his clothes when he sneezed.”

“That’s when Phaan and Sel set on him,” Torassen declared with a relish.

Thamance gasped at this, but Lissom was livid and tore right into Phaandrom. “Idiot!” she grated, half-rising from her seat; she would have lunged at Phaandrom if Thamance hadn’t held her back. “What in the Twelve Hells would you two have done if he’d attacked first?”

“Just thank the gods he didn’t,” Phaandrom said soothingly, taking her by the hands and attempting to calm her down. “Sel and I were on him like a ton of bricks — and I used the techniques we were taught in defence class.”

“Defence class?” Thamance asked curiously.

“How to disarm someone without undue damage to yourself,” Selvion explained. “Essentially: how to disable someone by attacking certain nerves in their bodies.”

Thamance’s eyes widened at this. She jerked a thumb towards Lissom who looked calmer but still bore a disapproving frown on her face. “Lissom and Uncle Drengel were telling me about that,” she said. “Like, how you can pinch a place in someone’s neck to render them unconscious.”

Selvion nodded at this. “Or strike certain places on the torso,” he added.

“The idea is to keep someone from attacking you in the first place,” Phaandrom chimed in. “Especially if the other person is armed to the teeth and you aren’t.”

“Pure foolishness on your part,” Lissom grumbled, but she begrudgingly admitted that they probably did a good job. “Seeing how all three of you are alive, anyway.” She turned to Torassen. “I sincerely hope you had nothing to do with the ensuing melee?”

Torassen grinned hugely and, to Lissom’s dismay, vigorously shook his head. “No, Liss,” he said. “Selvion held him down while Phaandrom interrogated him and I trotted out to get help.”

Lissom groaned and clapped a hand over her face. Then, she grabbed Phaandrom by the lapels of his shirt, and shook him hard. “How could you put your little brother in danger, you godsdamned clot?!” she shrieked at him. “What if that bloody assassin wasn’t alone?!”

“You know, that would be considered lese-majeste in a court of law,” Selvion remarked critically to Thamance.

“I don’t think it applies, much as I understand it,” she replied with a smirk. “She isn’t a Xylian subject, and he isn’t king — not yet, at any rate.”

Selvion turned to her, and a small smile appeared on his face. “True,” he agreed.

— -

While Lissom and Phaandrom were bickering and Torassen was fruitlessly trying to referee, Thamance had been studying Selvion.

The little girl rather liked the look of the grim-faced lad. At thirteen, Selvion was shooting up and was a head taller than Thamance herself. Unlike most boys who were very much the hobbledehoy at that age, Selvion was quite elegant: dark hair combed back neatly, rather expressive eyes of silvery grey, his face and hands clean, and his clothes done up properly. He was also pale-complexioned, but not in the creamy freckled way that many people in Northern Meras such as herself were, or even much of Xylia. There was something about him — possibly the shape of his eyes — that made her think of the graceful, gracious people of Eno to the northwest.

Selvion asked, “Is something wrong, Princess?”

Startled, she blushed and shook her head. “No,” she assured him. “But I’m curious: Forcendi is a Xylian name…”

“But I don’t look Xylian,” he said, finishing the sentence for her. Again, he smiled. “You aren’t wrong, Princess. I favour my mother’s side of the family; she’s Enoise.” Wryly, he added that his mother often said he wouldn’t look out of place in an Enoise epic or one of the woodcut prints that hung in museums specialising in north-western art. “Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like to look more conventionally Xylian.”

“Brown or red hair, round eyes, and freckles?” Thamance asked him. She studied him for a moment and shook her head. “No, the way you look suits you.”

Selvion blushed at this, but he did not look displeased. In fact, Thamance thought that maybe he never got complimented enough for his looks.

“Thank you,” he said warmly, inclining his head towards her.

Thamance smiled back and waved to a passing servant who bowed to her when he stopped at their table. “Hello, Vylion,” she greeted him. “What’s for tea today?”

“Your mother invaded the kitchens earlier today, Princess,” Vylion replied with a smile. “Her Highness was fuming, unfortunately, so she threw herself into making one of everyone’s favourites. Can you guess which one, though?”

“Um, chocolate cake with strawberries?”

“No, not that one.”

“Hazelnut butter pie?”

“Close, but not quite.”

Thamance’s eyes widened eagerly. “Is it her chestnut cream cake?” she asked excitedly.

The servant smiled and nodded. “There you go,” he said. “Shall I get a plate of them for Your Highness and your friends?”

“Yes, please!” Thamance said, nodding. “And if there are any sandwiches, too; thank you Vylion.”

When the servant had gone, Selvion remarked to her, “Your court here in Bellom is like the court of Xylia: you don’t treat your servants like servants.”

“They’re family to us,” Thamance told him with a warm smile. “Some families have been working for ours for years.”

“Their loyalty is to be commended then,” Selvion said. “As well as your compassion for them.”

Thamance tilted her head to one side, studying him. “Are you always so formal, Messire Forcendi?” she asked him.

Selvion had the grace to blush. “Sorry,” he apologised. “It’s just that I haven’t been able to relax since Father and Grandfather were killed.”

Thamance clucked her tongue at this and shook her head. “You’re worrying yourself into an early grave,” she blurted.

Selvion winced. “That’s what Her Highness — I mean, Aunt Carlissea — tells me,” he sighed. “Frequently, if I may add.”

“But I can’t blame you.” Thamance shivered at the thought of losing any member of her family to an act of war or treachery. “Lissom said you stopped being a child that night.”

“Technically, I am still a child,” Selvion said gravely. “I’m only thirteen, after all. But you’re right: I stopped thinking like a child when Father died. Someone had to man up at home.”

Something in his tone warned Thamance that things had not been rosy for the boy since that terrible time, but she did not press him for details. Instead, she asked him about the Academy and whether or not he enjoyed being there.

Selvion’s overall demeanour changed at this point and he looked quite happy as he spoke of his time at school. “I’m going to be in the fourth form now,” he said, “the first year in the Senior School. I’m thinking of taking a dual focus: diplomatic studies, because it’s pretty much a family thing; and mechanical engineering.” Sheepishly, he admitted that he liked tinkering with things.

“When we lived in Peinan, someone sold Father a moto-coach that kept breaking down every other day,” he told Thamance. “He despaired of it ever working right, but I asked if I could work on it.” He grimaced at this point. “My older brother and his friends made fun of me back then; said I’d make a pig’s breakfast of the machine. But I had the last laugh.”

“You fixed the coach,” Thamance said with a smile.

“And then some,” Selvion agreed. “Father said I had a head for machines and taught me what he could after that. He bought me books and manuals and kits to work on.”

“You loved your Father dearly, didn’t you,” Thamance said quietly.

“I did, Princess; and I always will. The Enoise have a proverb, that you aren’t really dead until everyone forgets about you.” His smile was sad and gentle. “So long as I remember him, he will live on.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop calling me ‘Princess,’ though,” Thamance advised him. “Mamma is the Princess: the Heiress-Noble of Bellom. I’m just Thamance.”

“If you insist,” Selvion said. He tilted his head and considered her with a frown. “I suppose there’s just you? No brothers or sisters, I think?”

Thamance nodded sadly. “Poppa says I was supposed to have an older brother,” she said. “If he lived, he would have been your age — but something went wrong, and Mamma lost him before she could birth him. They lost two more babies before they had me, so there’s just me.” She added that she was lucky, nevertheless, that Lissom and her brothers had always been there. “Lissom’s been like a sister to me,” she said, “and her brothers also became mine — well, sort of, anyway. I’ve also known Phaan and Tor forever, so I sort of think of them as my brothers, too.” She narrowed her eyes at Selvion. “Something tells me you don’t like your brothers and sisters very much.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Selvion said with a shrug. “I have an older brother, two older sisters, and a little sister who’s your age.” He added that he never got along with his brother. “Up until Father died, he would always tease me,” he said. “But it got worse afterwards, particularly when I took the exam for the Academy because I got in and he didn’t. That’s why I ask Uncle Raghassen if I could stay with them for Frostide and the summer. He’s my godfather and was Father’s best friend, and I think Aunt Carlissea likes me enough to welcome me.”

“Actually, I think Mam loves you more than she loves us!” Phaandrom teased him, taking a break from baiting Lissom. “But even Grandpa and Grandma like you, Sel.”

Selvion shrugged. “Maybe,” he said noncommittally. “And I can’t stand either of my older sisters. They’re twins, almost sixteen, and are trying to get noticed in Her Majesty’s court.” He smiled, however, when he spoke of his youngest sibling. “Partecia is a dear, though; she’s about your age, Thamance. I worry whenever I leave her and Mother.”

“’Tecia’s lovely, ‘Mance,” Lissom chimed in. “I’ve met her and she’s terribly shy, but so sweet you can’t help but love her.”

“And she’s dead-smart,” Torassen added. “We go to the same school — and she gets starred marks in every subject.” He dimpled as he expressed hope that, in another few years, the girl would eventually join them at the Academy. “She’s too smart to go to just any other school.”

“She would be better off anywhere but home,” Selvion grunted. “The twins tend to terrorise her and Alserion isn’t exactly a good role model.” He sat back wearily. “I’m just amazed he even bothers to come home at all.”

Thamance got the sense that the conversation was making Selvion gloomier, and tactfully changed the subject. “I think you’d get on with my Poppa and Grandpa are forever tinkering with machines,” she told him with a warm smile. “Though Grandpa’s mostly keen on fighting technology, and Poppa’s more on defensive tech.”

Selvion perked up at this. “Uncle Raghassen did mention that,” he said, looking serious yet eager all at once. “I didn’t get to meet either of them when we made our courtesy call to the Matriarch, though.”

“You will soon enough.” Thamance looked around, and smiled when she saw a tall dignified looking man approaching their table. She rose and scampered up to meet him; she was immediately swept up into a tight embrace. “Poppa!”

“Well, young lady!” Prince Vendron Casetten du Bellovre exclaimed as he put her down. “I see you’ve been enjoying your last few days before you head to school.” He waved hello to the others at the table. “It’s good to see you all.”

“Will you join us for tea, Uncle Vendron?” Lissom asked, a big grin on her face.

“Well, seeing how the ladies are still in conference upstairs, I suppose I will!” He turned to the Omarches and politely inclined his head. He spoke to them soberly, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye. “And I take it you two got kicked out of the house a couple weeks early to spare your mother the grief of both of you running rampant!”

“Got it in one, Uncle Ven,” Phaandrom replied cheekily. He gestured towards Selvion who had risen to his feet. “This is Selvion, by the way.”

“Selvion Forcendi?” Vendron regarded the boy kindly. “Tellereon’s younger son, yes?”

Selvion blinked in surprise. “You knew my father, Your Highness?” he asked.

“Tell was my roommate at the Academy until we were in Fifth,” Vendron said as they took their places at table. “And he was a very good friend, though we rarely saw each other after we’d all left school. Raghassen and I were groomsmen when he married Haina.” He narrowed his eyes at Selvion. “How is your mother, by the way? Forgive me for asking, but Theone and I heard that she was in a bad way after your father was killed.”

Selvion gulped and looked away. “It…” he drew a deep breath, pausing as if looking for the right words today. “It’s been pretty bad, Highness,” he said miserably. “She just, well, mopes. She hasn’t been the same at all, and it’s been nearly five years.”

Thamance opened her mouth to speak, but her father motioned for her to be silent. As she regarded them, she felt that Selvion loved his mother dearly and that he felt powerless to help her. A compassionate child by nature, the little princess seemed to feel the older boy’s pain. She wanted to reach out, but she was just a new acquaintance. He might not want anyone to feel sorry for him, she thought.

Then, Selvion blurted out angrily: “I wish I were old enough to get back at those Gafdans who killed Father. Nothing’s been the same since then.”

The others had been startled by his vehemence, more so by the fact that tears began to spill over Selvion’s cheeks. Thamance realised that he had probably been keeping his emotions in for quite some time.

Vendron rose to his feet and held a hand out to the now-sobbing boy. “Come, child,” he said gently. “Walk with me for a bit and let’s talk about what a good man your father was.” Shrewdly, he added, “I daresay you’re made of the same stuff that he was; I’d be very surprised if you weren’t.”

Selvion nodded and wiped his face with a table napkin. Then, he took Vendron’s hand and allowed himself to be led out of the dining hall.

“We’ll be back in a bit,” Vendron told them. “’Mance, hold tea off until we return, all right?”

“Sure, Poppa,” Thamance said, somewhat dazed by this turn of events.

— -

“You know, people who think a certain way once accused your mother of marrying beneath her station.”

Selvion looked up at Prince Vendron, but he was not surprised by the statement. “Some of the teachers told me that when I came to the Academy, Highness,” he said as they walked down one of the long marble-floored corridors. “It was something unheard of: the youngest daughter of the High Shõgon of Eno marrying a minor nobleman — and a foreign nobleman, at that.”

Vendron nodded at this. “Minor nobility wouldn’t be the exact description for the Forcendi family,” he said. “More like new nobility, or working nobility: your family’s titles are barely four generations old — but Lord and Lady know your great-grandfather did Xylia a worthy service and then some.”

“He wrote the Sovereignty Statement,” Selvion remarked with a faint smile. “The one that pretty much told the Gafda Union to steer clear of Xylian waters, the one that kept them from establishing exclusive merchant enclaves within Xylian territory.”

“Aye, that he did,” Vendron agreed. “And that Statement pretty much became the basis of everyone else’s border laws against the Gafdans. Merasine law derived a lot from it, while our provincial law here in Bellom practically copied it word for word.”

He stopped before a massive door and pressed his palm against what appeared to be a nacre panel on one side. To Selvion’s surprise, the panel seemed to change colours on contact with the Prince’s hand and the door slid open.

“How…?” the boy gasped in wide-eyed fascination.

Vendron grinned at him and asked, “If I told you it was sorcery, would you believe me?”

“I’d like to, sir,” Selvion replied, moving closer and studying the smooth-looking panel, but not quite daring to touch it. “But I don’t think so.” He looked up inquisitively. “Father and Uncle Raghassen say that you’ve done experiments in biometry? Um, how you can secure things by attuning them to people’s handprints or something?”

Vendron looked at him with approval. “There you go!” he exclaimed. “Now: I noticed that you didn’t touch the panel, though I’m pretty sure you’re itching to take it apart and see how it works. That was prudent on your part, child: if you did touch it, you’d have had a nasty shock — not enough to hurt you or do serious damage, but enough to make you think twice about doing it again.”

He ushered the boy into what appeared to be an office — oh, but what an office! The technical-minded Selvion gasped at what he saw on one side of the room: a long table running along the length of the wall, various tools arranged neatly to one side, shelves full of books, and a blackboard where there were a number of equations scribbled in varicoloured chalks. There was a comfortable looking sitting area arranged near the fireplace on the opposite side, more bookshelves, and a massive desk whose surface was littered with books, papers, and other official items.

“My father-in-law is Lord Maeston here in Bellom,” Vendron explained as he motioned for Selvion to sit down on one of the armchairs, taking the one opposite. “You could say that I’m the Maeston-in-waiting at the moment. But, in the meantime, I work on defence technology.”

“Prince Consort,” Selvion murmured. “Because the provincial government of Bellom is a hereditary matriarchy.” He turned to Vendron curiously. “I’ve heard it said at the Academy, sir: the Lord Maeston looks after the Bellovre household, the Heiress-Noble looks after Bellom, but the Matriarch rules over Meras. I used to think it was a joke because I’m not from around here, but it was explained that Clan Bellovre used to rule all of Meras.”

Vendron smiled at this. “Technically, Meras is a parliamentary nation,” he said. “But it started out as a monarchy until Queen Thamance V thought that every Clan ought to have a say in the welfare of the nation: hence the Council of Sixteen — sixteen provinces united by a central government.” He chuckled wryly. “But it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Matriarchs of Bellom still carry a lot of weight on the Council.” Grimly, however, he added that it was a good thing for the country. “Otherwise, there are some provinces who would happily cut a deal with the Gafdans or the Tyuiki, thinking they could get ahead.”

Selvion was silent for a moment, mulling what had just been said. Then, “You don’t like the Gafdans any more than I do, sir?”

Vendron shook his head. “I detest them,” he said quietly. “Not only because they killed one of my oldest friends, but because they want everything to be theirs: land, resources, power most especially. For the life of me, though, I can’t understand why.”

“Some people want everything for themselves, sir,” Selvion said bitterly. “Even if it means taking it forcibly from someone else.”

“And they don’t care who is harmed or killed in the process,” Vendron declared darkly. But he regarded Selvion kindly. “Thank the gods that your father had the presence of mind to save you,” he told the boy. “I daresay you have quite a future ahead of you.”

Selvion winced at this, and blushed deeply. “I don’t know about that, sir,” he said nervously. “I’m only thirteen, after all. Besides: I’m a younger son — and that means there won’t be anything for me when the time comes.”

Vendron studied him for a moment; it felt like a long moment for Selvion who squirmed uncomfortably at the scrutiny.

Finally, “You know, for all that you look more like Haina, I have to blink every time you talk because it feels like Tellereon’s in the room with me.” Vendron smiled kindly at the boy. “You’re more like your father than you think,” he said. “I may have only met you now, but the way you speak and you behave — ah, it’s like being back in North Hall and having your father correct me on the finer points of geography.”

Selvion blushed, touched and flattered at being compared to his beloved father. But, curiosity got the better of him as he asked, “Highness, do you think Mother married beneath her station?”

“Honestly?” Vendron sat back and considered the question briefly — then, he firmly shook his head. “I actually agree with your grandfather about this — and he’s a man who considers these things more carefully than most! Haina and Tell adored each other from the get-go, and he was the one who would tell her off — quite bluntly at times — when he felt she was getting too much for comfort, and put her into her place. As your grandfather put it on their wedding day, his daughter married a man who was the perfect match for her.” He sighed. “But, from what you were telling us earlier, I take it that losing Tell was just too much for Haina.”

“She used to be so spirited and merry-hearted, sir,” Selvion said, feeling a great weight on his heart. “And it’s been a few years, but she hardly ever goes out. I did most of the errands before I was called up to the Academy. Now, I worry about her all the time.”

“But it isn’t your place to worry, child,” Vendron gently chided the boy. “You have three older siblings…”

“Yes, but it’s not like Mother can depend on them,” came the bitter words, and the tears followed.

Vendron let him cry for a moment, then he kindly reached across and patted the boy’s shoulder. “There, there,” he said softly. “You’re a good lad, Selvion; but your responsibility right now is to do well at school — not worry about your family back home. I understand that you’re all doing all right: there is a pension from the Royal House of Omarch for the widowed and orphaned, and I am aware that your grandfather in Eno has a purse set up for your family.” Selvion looked up, surprised that the Bellomere prince knew of such things. “There is enough to keep your family comfortable, so you should focus on your studies.”

“Princess Thamance actually asked me why I was so formal,” he confessed to the prince. “And I told her I stopped thinking like a child when Father died.”

“I don’t think your Father would be happy to know that you’ve been worrying yourself sick since he left you,” Vendron told him sternly. “As one of your father’s oldest friends, I hope you don’t mind me telling you to loosen up and breathe.”

Selvion blinked and managed a sheepish smile. “I’ll try,” he said shakily.

Vendron smiled and got up to go to the worktable. He beckoned the boy to come over and handed him a wired panel similar to the one that secured his office door.

“I want you to have this, seeing how you were so fascinated by how it works,” he explained as he gave the astounded child the small machine. “You can take it apart, put it back together, modify it if you want.”

“Really, sir?” Selvion exclaimed breathlessly. He looked up, delighted. “Thank you!”

“Let me know how this one goes for you,” Vendron assured him with a smile, ruffling his hair. “Lord and Lady, you’re so much like Tell: he used to get all giddy whenever he encountered some new piece of machinery.” He chuckled. “Except that he was never at all that good at fixing things.”

“That’s the gods’ own truth, sir,” Selvion said, grinning impishly. “I was telling the Princess that someone sold him a lemon of a moto-coach that he despaired of fixing — and I fixed it for him.”

The prince laughed delightedly at this. “You and Thamance will get along fine,” he said as he led the way out. “She has a thing for machinery, too.”