Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

fist. He quickly tried to move away from it, but abruptly discovered another had found the side of his head. Then he was considering who painted the frescos on the ceiling of the room his father had converted to a gymnasium. He really should ask someone.

      Shaking his head as he slowly sat up, he could hear James saying, ‘Your Father wanted us to impress upon you the importance of what you face tomorrow.’

      ‘And what might that be,’ said Borric, allowing Sergeant Palmer to help him to his feet. But the Sergeant didn’t release Borric’s right hand, but rather held it tightly as he brought his own right hand hard up into Borric’s stomach. Lieutenant William visibly winced as Borric’s breath exploded from his lungs and his eyes crossed as he sank to the floor once more. Erland began warily moving away from the other fist-boxer, who now was stalking him across the floor.

      ‘If it has escaped your notice, your uncle the King has sired only daughters since young Prince Randolph died.’

      Borric waved off the offered hand of Sergeant Palmer and said, ‘Thanks. I’ll get up by myself.’ As he came to one knee, he said, ‘I hardly dwell on the fact of our cousin’s death, but I’m aware of it.’ Then as he started to stand, he drove a vicious blow into Sergeant Palmer’s stomach.

      The older, harder fighter stood rock steady, forced himself to take a breath, then smiled in appreciation and said, ‘That was a good one. Highness.’

      Borric’s eyes rolled heavenward. ‘Thank you.’ Then another fist filled his vision and once more he considered the wonderful craftsmanship displayed upon the ceiling. Why hadn’t he ever taken the opportunity to notice it before? he mused to himself.

      Erland attempted to keep distance between himself and the approaching Sergeant Obregon. Suddenly, the young man was not backing up, but striking out with a flurry of blows. The Sergeant, rather than back away, raised his arms before his face and let the younger man strike his arms and shoulders. ‘Our uncle’s lack of an heir is a fact not unknown to us, Uncle Jimmy,’ observed Erland as his own arms began to tire while he futilely pounded upon the muscular sergeant. Abruptly, the Sergeant stepped inside Erland’s reach, and drove another blow into the youngster’s side. Erland’s face drained of colour and his eyes crossed, then unfocused.

      Seeing the reaction. Sergeant Obregon said, ‘Pardon, Highness, I’d meant to strike the uninjured side.’

      Erland’s voice was a bare whisper as he gasped, ‘How very kind of you.’

      Borric shook his head to clear his thoughts, then quickly rolled backwards and came to his feet, ready to fight. ‘So then, there’s a point to this iteration on our family’s lack of a Royal Prince?’

      ‘Actually, so,’ agreed James. ‘With no male issue, the Prince of Krondor still is Heir.’

      Erland’s voice returned in a strangled gasp. ‘The Prince of Krondor is always Royal Heir.’

      ‘And your father is Prince of Krondor,’ interjected Locklear.

      With a clever feint with his left, Borric drove his right into the jaw of Sergeant Palmer and momentarily staggered the older man. Another blow to the body and the boxer was retreating. Borric grew confident and stepped in to deliver a finishing blow, and abruptly the world turned upside down.

      Borric’s vision turned yellow then red for a long while, and while he hung in space, the floor came up to strike him in the back of the head. Then blackness crowded in at the edge of his vision and he saw a ring of faces looking down a deep well at him. They seemed friendly faces, and he thought he might know who they were, but he didn’t feel any need to worry on it, as he was so very comfortable sinking into the cool, dark of the well. Staring past the faces, he absently wondered if any of them might know who the artists of the frescos above might be.

      As his eyes rolled up into his head, William upended a small bucket over Borric’s face. The elder twin came back to consciousness sputtering and spitting water.

      Baron James was upon one knee and helped the Prince sit upright. ‘Are you still with me?’

      Borric shook his head and his eyes focused. ‘I think so,’ he managed to gasp.

      ‘Good. For if your father is still Heir to the throne, you royal infant,’ he slapped Borric on the back of the head to emphasize what came next, ‘then you are still Heir Presumptive.’

      Borric turned to study James’s face. The point of James’s message was still lost on the young Prince. ‘So?’

      ‘So, ninny, as it is unlikely that our good King – your uncle – will father any sons at this stage in his life, given the Queen’s age, should Arutha survive him, he will become King.’ Reaching out to aid Borric to his feet, he added, ‘And as the Goddess of Luck would have it,’ he slapped Borric playfully on the side of the face, ‘you almost certainly will outlive your father, which means that someday, you shall be King.’

      ‘May heaven forefend,’ interjected Locklear.

      Borric looked around the room. The two Sergeants had stepped back, as the pretence of a boxing lesson was forgotten. ‘King?’

      ‘Yes, you stone-crowned dolt,’ said Locklear. ‘If we’re still alive, we’ll have to kneel before you and pretend you know what you’re doing.’

      ‘So,’ continued James, ‘your father has decided that it’s time for you to stop behaving like the spoiled child of a rich cattle merchant and start acting like a future King of the Isles.’

      Erland came to stand beside his brother, leaning upon him slightly. ‘So why not just simply—’ he winced as he moved the wrong way, straining his re-injured side ‘—tell us what’s going on?’

      James said, ‘I convinced your father the lesson needed to be … emphasized.’ He studied the two Princes. ‘You’ve been educated, taught by the best instructors your father could employ. You speak … what … six, seven languages? You can calculate like engineers at a siege. You can discourse on the teachings of the ancients. You have music and painting skills, and you know the etiquette of the court. You are skilled swordsmen and,’ he glanced at the two boxers, ‘you are somewhat gifted students of fisticuffs.’ He stepped away. ‘But during the nineteen years since your birth you’ve never given any indication that you’re anything other than spoiled, self-indulgent children. Not Princes of the realm!’ His voice rose and his tone turned angry. ‘And when we’re done with you, you’ll be performing the role of a Crown Prince instead of a spoiled child.’

      Borric stood crestfallen. ‘Spoiled child?’

      Erland grinned at his brother’s discomfort. ‘Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? Borric shall have to mend his ways, and you and Father will be happy.’

      James’s wicked grin turned on Erland. ‘As will you, my lovely! For if this child of a foolish and capricious nature should go and get his throat cut by the angry husband of a Keshian court lady, it’s you who’ll wear the conDoin crown in Rillanon someday. And should he not, you’ll still be heir until the unlikely event of your brother becoming a father. Even then, you’ll most likely end up a duke somewhere.’ Letting his voice drop a bit, he said, ‘So both of you must begin to learn your office.’

      Borric said, ‘Yes, I know. First thing tomorrow. Come, let’s get some rest.’ Borric looked down and discovered a restraining hand upon his chest.

      ‘Not so fast,’ said James. ‘You haven’t finished your lesson.’

      ‘Ah, Uncle Jimmy—’ began Erland.

      ‘You’ve made your point,’ said Borric, simmering anger in his voice.

      ‘I think not,’ answered the Baron. ‘You’re still a pair of rude sods.’ Turning to the two Sergeants, he said, ‘If you please, continue.’

      Baron James signalled for Locklear to accompany him as he quickly left the two young Princes readying themselves for a professionally administered beating. As the two nobles left