Chapter 2 | The Tale of Two Kingdoms

Breakfast and a Ride, Not in That Order

Temmin woke early, as was his habit. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The bed curtains were the wrong color-deep red jacquard, not the brown paisley of his bed at Whithorse. As he woke, he realized he was at the Keep. Suddenly the curtains were pulled back, and he squinted at the sudden light. He sat up and ruffled his thick blond hair.

"Good morning, your highness," said Jenks.

"G'morning, Jenks! What's afoot, anything?"

"Well, young sir, since you and I are such disciplined fellows, we are already awake when everyone else is asleep." He waggled a pair of well-used riding boots at the prince. "I suggest we take advantage of it."

Temmin jumped out of bed with a whoop. He dressed and was down to the stables as fast as possible, though he was unable to persuade Jenks to come along. "I have duties here, your highness. Setting up your household in this unfamiliar place will take me some time."

As Temmin walked toward the stable yard, he breathed in the air with satisfaction, familiar even in this strange place: Hay and straw, mud, morning cool, leather, horses and all their effluvia. It almost made him want to give his chest a hearty thump for joy, but he wasn't that sort of young man.

His appearance in the yards set the grooms and horsemasters all aflutter. Before Temmin knew it, they were standing in nervous ranks, caps in hand, the youngest boy shifting from foot to foot while the nearest elder kicked at him to quiet down. This was not procedure at Whithorse, where he had been messing around in the stables and bothering the workers since he could walk and had been treated almost like one of them.

"Ah, hullo," he said a bit bashfully, then realizing they were looking to him for guidance, added in a firmer voice, "Really, I didn't come down here to inspect the place, I came down here to look after my horse and have a ride. So, ehm, if one of you could show me around, the rest of you can just go back to whatever it was you were doing." They all relaxed a bit.

"Oh," he said with a sudden thought. "And also." They tensed up again. "Please, I don't want to go through this every time I come down here, because I want to be here quite a lot. So when I do come round, just--I'm here to see to the horses, and you're here to see to the horses, right? So let's see to the horses." He grinned, and the men and boys slowly put their caps back on, the younger ones grinning right back. The stable yard emptied quickly, though many of the workers kept looking over their shoulders as if they weren't entirely sure the prince was serious.

Soon the only man remaining was an old one on the short side, wearing the red-trimmed boots of a Riding Master. His cap was back on his head, but he raised a knuckle to his brow and gave a slight bow. "Y'r highness," he said in the clipped, common accent of the Far Isles. "I am call't Cappel. 'T'will be my honor to show you your stables. Y'll find it trim."

"I'm sure I shall," said Temmin gravely, following Cappel into the building.

"I 'pologize for the formal response, y'r highness," said Cappel over his shoulder as they walked into the tack room. "Royal visits are rare, 'part from her majesty y'r mother. An' her we haven't seen in too long. P'raps you can persuade her to ride again, y'r highness. An' I hope I'm not over-forwar't."

"No, not at all, Cappel," said Temmin. His mother had stopped riding? Another question for Sedra.

The prince trailed the old man through the long ranks of immaculate stalls. The horses within were initially Whithorse stock, long-legged, steady and elegant riding horses and perfectly matched carriage horses with proud necks. In the second rank of stalls were the cavalry horses, crosses of the Whithorse breeds with the massive, powerful farm breeds of Barle. He wasn't quite strong enough yet to ride one of these, but soon, very soon, Temmin promised himself. And in the third rank were the curiosities: Gifts from the subject lords of the Southern Territories, beautiful, skittish beasts with flashing eyes that could run like anything; and stocky, indestructible, heavy-coated little horses captured in the skirmishes with the tribes of the Northern Wastes. Temmin resolved to saddle one of each up at some point soon, and wondered idly whether he could increase the speed of his own breeding stock by introducing a Southern stallion to one of his mares.

His own chestnut gelding Jebby he found in the separate stables where the personal horses of the royal household were kept, lodged between his father's dependable gray gelding Manse and his mother's gentle white mare Flor. "Hey, Jebby!" he crooned, lovingly stroking the big horse's nose. "Forgive me for the train ride?" Jebby whickered and began his habitual search of Temmin's pockets for treats. "Here's your apple, greedy guts," he said, holding it out in his open hand. Jebby gently lipped it from his palm and began crunching contentedly.

Temmin turned from his friend to head for the tack room, only to see the nearly-forgotten Cappel standing nearby, watching him appraisingly. "D'ya need help saddling up, y'r highness, or shall I leave you to it?"

"Oh, thank you, Cappel, but I'll manage on my own, I actually prefer it."

Cappel nodded approvingly. "Right, then." He pressed a knuckle to his forehead. "And welcome to Tremont Keep, y'r highness."

"Thank you, Cappel." He watched the old man stump off, then went off to fetch his tack.

Temmin saddled Jebby up as quick as he could and headed off into King's Woods for a leisurely walk. The moment they came to open country, though, Jebby pranced a bit, just enough to let Temmin know what he wanted. Temmin tapped his heels into the horse's sides, flicked the reins and said, "Gidyap, Jebby!" The chestnut took off at a full run, stretching his legs joyfully.

This was heaven. The fresh morning, the big horse moving beneath him, the wind whipping his blonde hair back--in the back of Temmin's mind, he was so afraid all this would be taken from him. But for now, he simply leaned down and let his horse run.

When they finally returned to the stable yard some time later, Temmin dismounted and led Jebby to the trough for a drink. He leaned down himself to splash a little water on his face, and got a shock. In the water's smooth surface he could see his own reflection, flushed, sweaty, a bit dirty, and happy. But underlying it, he saw a faint shadow of a different face. An older face, with intense eyes, hair pulled back in an old-fashioned tail. He started back in surprise.

Impatient, Jebby stuck his nose in the water and began to slurp. Ripples broke up the reflection. Temmin thought for a moment, then quickly rinsed his face with a handful of water. He must be hungry, he decided, if he was seeing things that weren't there.

Temmin got no further than the Keep's mud room when Jenks pounced on him, dragged him upstairs and almost threw him in the bath. "What's the matter with you!" hollered Temmin from the tub. "I was going to breakfast after I changed my boots!"

"This is court, your highness, you can't go to breakfast smelling like a horse, nor looking like a stable hand."

Temmin scrubbed and muttered to himself, dried and muttered to himself, and muttered some more as Jenks wrestled him into elegant morning clothes. "Oh, really, Jenks, a tie? At breakfast?"

"It's just a soft one, more of a cravat. That dark blue suits you," he replied approvingly. "And do at least try to keep egg yolk off of it, your highness, silk is the Bloody One's own to clean."

Temmin grumbled but turned to the mirror to tie the unwanted silk, stopping for a moment to examine his chin closely in hopes the scant whiskers were finally filling in. How could he grow a mustache and sideburns but no beard? Very vexing.

As he pulled back to attend to his tie, it happened again.

There in the mirror, as if he were looking through deep, deep water, was that faint image--the strange, serious face with eyes that looked straight into him. He blinked his blue eyes once and it was gone. "I really need to eat," he said to himself.

Temmin flipped his tie into place and pinned it with a little gold horseshoe stickpin instead of tying it, though Jenks fussed at him. "Too casual, your highness."

"Too hungry, my manservant," replied Temmin, escaping out the door.

His parents and Sedra were just going in to the morning room; Ellika was still fast asleep after dancing most of the night at a ball in town. He took his mother's arm affectionately and walked her to her chair at the round family table. He sat down on his mother's left, next to Sedra and across from his father.

The morning room was his mother's innovation. Before she had become queen, the royal family tended to breakfast alone in their rooms. Ansella had insisted on breakfasts in the Whithorse style, together, and wherever she was, that's how the morning meal was conducted. Temmin remembered the custom irritating his father on Harsin's annual visits to Whithorse. But this morning, his naturally stern face was softer, and he smiled his faint smile across the table at his son.

The morning room was cozy by Keep standards. Its many soaring east-facing windows flooded the room with sunlight. Light, gauzy curtains kept out any glare. The table was covered in pale yellow damask; strong coffee, cocoa, sausages and newsprint scented the air.

"Do you take a paper, your highness?" murmured Affton the butler at his elbow.

Temmin looked at the salver stacked with the morning's news. "Ehm, no," he replied.

"Very good, your highness," said the butler, moving on to Sedra. He deposited a large stack of papers at her right hand, a smaller stack next to King Harsin, and a single newspaper next to Queen Ansella.

"You really should read the papers, you know, Temmin," said Sedra loftily, already thumbing through the morning offerings. "Rulers need to know what's being said."

"Oh? And why are you reading them, then?" he answered with a little brother smirk. Usually a needling remark like that made Sedra huff a little, but this time, she was genuinely angry and hurt, staring at him as if he'd belittled her intelligence. "Seddy?" he said hesitantly. "What?"

She set her jaw, her already strong resemblance to their father sharpening. "Nothing. I've simply forgotten the style of your humor."

"Coffee, your highness? Cocoa?" said Affton beside him again. He jumped a bit.

"Ah. Might I have half of each?"

"Certainly, your highness."

Under the table, his mother put her hand on his knee and briefly squeezed it. He seized her hand and squeezed it back gratefully. Why did everything have to be so hard and strange here? Oh dear, now his father was talking to him. "I'm sorry, sir?"

His father frowned slightly. "I said, tomorrow morning will be your first meeting with Teacher. I want you to be ready for it. Tonight is a dance in your honor here at the Keep, and you will make an appearance. But you will not be at it until dawn. You will bow out at a sensible hour to be rested tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Sir, if tomorrow is as important as you say it is, I'd be happy to bow out entirely tonight," Temmin said hopefully.

"Did you not hear me say the dance was in your honor?"

Temmin drooped. "Yes, sir. Except--I don't know how to dance, sir."

"Temmin," said his mother, "Don't mislead your father. You have had dancing lessons." His father tapped impatiently on his soft-boiled egg, as Affton silently filled his plate with sausages and mushrooms.

"I'm just not very good at it," Temmin mumbled miserably, half-watching Affton fill his own plate.

"Son," said the king, "I have seen you astride a horse. You have natural grace, Temmin, your mother's grace. You simply need to become as habituated to the dance floor as you are to the saddle." Harsin took a long draw on his coffee and picked up his fork. "When Ellika finally graces us with her presence, I'm sure she will be pleased to take a few turns with you round the dance floor this afternoon." He nodded his dark head and tucked into his breakfast, rattling his first newspaper open.

Temmin saw his own glum face in the enormous mirror behind his father. He looked down at his plate and noticed that someone had apparently told Affton that he especially liked tomatoes with his breakfast. Considerably cheered by his father's tempering words and the butler's tomato slices, he reached for his fork, took a bite--and nearly choked.

Behind his father's head, for just a fleeting second, was the ghost in the mirror.

"Affton?" said Temmin, "I could do with some more coffee, please."