The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (3 page)

“Oh, I will remember for next time.” Daric snatched the beet from Theo’s hand and placed it gently back in its punnet.

“Anyway, Daric, there is another reason I’m here. Did you know a royal messenger is in the town?” Theo said, clasping his lapel and rocking back and forth on his heels. With chin raised, the fat man smiled as if there were something important to it and only he knew the answer.

Daric cringed; a flash of anxiety filled his eyes. “Why? What has happened? Are we at war?”

“What? No, no, no, nothing of the sort, nothing for you to be concerned about.” Theo waved away Daric’s comments. He looked a little surprised to hear them. “However, I would very much like to have a talk with you, once he has spoken, or even while he is speaking. It won’t matter if I tell you once the messenger has begun his announcement.”

“I suppose you already know what the message says.”

“Of course I do. He has to tell me first. It is the law.”

“And the contents of the message are what you want to talk to me about?” Daric couldn’t hide his annoyance.

“Have patience, Daric. As I said, it is no reason for concern. We are not at war, the palace still stands, and the Salrians have not invaded. I will come find you once the messenger is on stage.” Theo took a final look at Daric’s produce before walking off.

“That man!” Daric bit at his lip, almost growling the words. “What I wouldn’t give to have him in my battalion for a week.” He shook his head. “Small town bureaucrats, they are worse than city folk.”

And he meant it. Daric wasn’t one for repeating himself, but if Gialyn had heard it once… “If a man can’t look you in the eye and tell you what he thinks,” Daric would say, “then best you just walk away.” Conniving politicians were right at the top of Daric’s list of “scheming leaches”—as he called them. Indeed, getting away from that sort of thing was one of the reasons why they had left Bailryn. Although in truth, Gialyn didn’t know half of
that
story, nor did he want to.

“Can I go now?” Gialyn asked. “Father?” A distant, glazed expression had settled on Daric’s face, as though he were preoccupied, deep in thought. “Father!” Gialyn leaned forward to catch his father’s eye.

“Uh… oh yes, yes, go. Wait a second.” Daric fished into his shirt pocket and handed Gialyn two silver coins. “Here, and do not let me catch you buying ale. I don’t care if you’re old enough to carry a sword—no son of mine is going to be drunk in public, least not when I’m nearby.”

Gialyn grinned.
Two silver!
“Thank you, Father. Thank you very much!”

“And, uh
… don’t tell your mother I gave you that much. Go on, off with you, and keep out of trouble.” Daric waved Gialyn away before continuing to arrange his beets and beans.

It seemed strange
… somehow, watching his father arrange the food he had grown while standing behind a stall amongst other amateur gardeners and such. It just wasn’t him. Not that Gialyn thought it bad or wrong. It was just…. Well, he didn’t know what it was. He bowed and ran off towards the field—best to be gone quick before Daric thought up something else for him to do.

The centre field was busy. There wasn’t much in the way of farming in the northern Geddy
. The soil wasn’t very good. Beets, beans, and a few hardy vegetables were the best most folk could manage. Of course, Geddy wasn’t a farming town. It wouldn’t be there at all if it weren’t for the Rundair mines. Most of their food came from Beugeddy, shipped up the Geddy River once a week by barge. Despite this, the town folk were prideful of what little they
could
cultivate, and the soil was no bar to raising livestock; there was plenty of grassland.

Men gathered by the pens, showing off their pigs and goats and chickens. A few had cows, but not many; they ate too much. Women gathered by the stalls, discussing the best way to make country cake. Foot races were already underway. Groups of small children ran half the length of the field to win themselves some sweetroll or gum root. There was even a travelling minstrel pran
cing on a low stage, playing a harp and singing ballads of Ealdihain. No sign of a giant, though.

Most of the men—those that hadn’t brought pigs and such—gathered at one end of the field. The garden of the
Lesgar Inn backed onto the green. Taft, the landlord, had set up an ale tent. Gialyn was surprised men would be drinking this early, but given the weather, he could hardly blame them. He settled on lemonade, bought for a copper from one of the Miller’s young daughters. Cheap enough, but he had to go back to the cart and fetch his own cup.

Gialyn heard a shout, someone calling his name.

“I thought that was you, Gialyn. Is your father here?” Grady Daleman sauntered over with a mug of ale in one hand, waving a salute with the other.

Grady was an old friend, most likely Daric’s closest friend—they had both served together in the guards, and both chose to move to Albergeddy to make new lives for themselves. Grady wasn’t a very tall man, not that anyone would call him
short
, just… not tall. He had dark, cropped hair—a style left over from his guardsman days—a strong, manly face, and arms as thick as a blacksmith’s. He wasn’t married, nor did he have any children. Daric would often tell him that he spent too much of his time in the Lesgar Inn and he should “settle down.” Gialyn liked the man very much and thought of him as an uncle.

“Yes, sir,” Gialyn said. “He is over in the produce tent, showing off his beets.”

“
Showing off his beets!
” Grady laughed uproariously and slapped Gialyn on the shoulder.

Gialyn winced and rubbed the site of Grady’s slap, wondering if the thick-armed brute realised how painful his
friendly
slaps were. If he did, it didn’t show. He just kept talking.

“You are a funny one, boy. What are you doing all alone? Where’s that big friend of yours? Are you competing in the hill climb this year?” Grady had a habit of asking three questions at once.

Gialyn chose the latter. “I don’t think so, sir. I came seventh last year.”

“Well, seventh isn’t
that
bad, lad.”

“Out of eight! And the o
nly reason I beat Sal Reddish was because she stopped to pick up her hat.”

Gialyn just managed to move clear of yet another slap.

Grady laughed. “Lad, you should be on stage with the minstrel. You can’t be any worse. Gods, I can sing better than that fellow.” His broad shoulders shuddered just as the minstrel—as if for effect—plucked a raw note. “It sounds like the man’s strangling a cat. Who told him he could play the harp, his mother?”

Gialyn laughed. “I don’t know about that, sir. Telling funny stories on a stage, who ever heard of such a thing? As for the hill climb…”
Gialyn sucked air through his teeth. “I will have to think about it.”

“Well, you do that, lad. I’m going over to talk to your father, see if I can drag him away from his beets for half an hour.”

Grady left, promising to come find him later. This time, he only gave Gialyn a light tap on the shoulder; maybe he did realise.

Gialyn began to wander.

An hour passed. He had more lemonade, spent an annoying ten minutes listening to some of the wives talk about how tall he had become and how he would “make someone a good husband” one day. The ones that didn’t pinch his cheek ruffled his hair. He could do nothing but smile and be polite.

Some
of the serious competitions had started. Men, six to a team, pulled at rope. Others threw a sack full of sand over a high pole. A small group were racing to see who was quickest at cutting through a log with an axe, while another threw horseshoes as far as they could into a neighbouring field.

The women were mostly in the tents, mostly. However, a few braved the sun and joined in with the men.
Looks like Elspeth Tanner has them all at it. Even Mrs. Balland is doing the sack toss!
It did seem as though more women than usual joined in, though most of them were busy under cover and out of the worst of the heat. The largest group watched the fiddle contest. They made little picnics for themselves while sitting on blankets under an awning next to the ale tent.

Gialyn was about to go and listen for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Gialyn turned. Meric Taduin—one of the few people of his own age that Gialyn got along with, not that there were many his age, barely a handful in the whole town—smiled at him in between large mouthfuls of sweetroll. Meric was a big lad, as tall as Gialyn but twice as wide. His barrel-shaped stomach hung over his loosely fitted breeches, and a white shirt the size of a small tent hung on his broad shoulders.

“Hello, Meric. What have you been up to, then? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Aye… My father had me helping with the horses.” Meric was Gobin the blacksmith’s son. “He let me loose not ten minutes ago. He would have me shoeing half of them if Mother hadn’t turned up. You know what father is like. If I stand still for two minutes, he’ll find me a job to do. Are you coming to watch the archery tourney? See if your Elspeth wins?” Meric added a wry smile at the end of his question.

Gialyn tried not to flush. He looked down at the ground and scratched his fingers through his hair.
Does everybody know?
It’s not as if I have told anyone.
“I expect so,” Gialyn said, lifting his head while trying not to look
too
enthusiastic. “If only to see her beat Vin.”

Meric looked amazed. “Do you really think she can?”

“I have seen her practice in this field every day since last autumn. I will be surprised if she loses… very surprised.”

Gialyn only then realised he had told Meric he spent every day spying on Elspeth. He waited for the sarcasm, or at least a joke.
Who cares if he knows anyway? It isn’t as if he hangs around with Ealian and his crowd.

Gialyn was surprised when Meric said nothing. Yes, he was a good friend.

“I must admit,” Meric said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing her beat Vin, either. Only problem I see is that she’s
already
a show-off. What is she going to be like if she beats all the men folk?”

Gialyn hadn’t thought about that. Not that it mattered; it wasn’t as if he had ever tried to talk to her. “I suppose you
’re right.” He nodded in agreement. “Meric, did you see that giant? Well, not a
giant
, just a really big—”

Someone grabbed Gialyn’s shoulder and half spun him around.

It was Grady, again. “The hill climb is about to start, boy. Why are you still here? You should be over at Rosefall.”

“I
… I really don’t feel like it, Mr. Daleman.”

“Don’t you
Mr. Daleman
me, Gialyn Re’adh. We cannot have those Tanner children winning everything. Now get over there. I’ll come with you.”

Gialyn looked at Meric for support. His friend looked confused. He turned back to Grady and was about to shake his head and say no when
…

“I think it’s a great idea, Gialyn,” Meric said. “You
’re a good foot taller than last year, and I’ve seen you run up and down those fields for your father.” The annoying backstabber nodded his agreement towards Grady. How could he?

“There, you see
, even your friend thinks it a good idea. Now come on. It will be starting in a few minutes.”

It took less than three to get to Rosefall Hill—they were already by the footbridge leading over the stream towards the one and only hill within the Geddy Vale. Gialyn came up on a large group of people. The crowd was much larger than he had expected and all waiting to watch the race, to watch him.
Gods!
He made his way through the crowd and raised his hand when Seth Garriner called on all those who wished to take part.

Ealian was there with his father, Theo. The emissary’s son was the same age as Gialyn. He was Elspeth’s twin, though you’d never know it. The arrogant fool appeared as though already running on the spot. His father was rubbing at his shoulders and speaking into his ear. Ealian would nod and make fists every time Theo shook him. What were they doing?

Gialyn lined up to the left of Ealian. The emissary’s son cast a haughty gaze at him. “I didn’t think you would bother, Re’adh. Not after last year.” Ealian turned his head at the muffled laughter coming from those standing behind him. It was Astin Barrair and four more of Ealian’s “friends.” Gialyn had long believed the four of them only pretended to like Ealian. The spoilt fool always had money to spend.

Seth Garriner—the lanky, bald assistant from the
Lesgar Inn—whistled loudly and began to explain the rules. “No kicking, barging, pulling, or tripping. You start on the last of three whistles. The first to raise the red flag on the hilltop wins. Three silver for the winner, two for second place, and one for third. Any questions?”

Gialyn heard shouts of encouragement from Grady and Meric and a few others he didn’t recognise
.

Whistle
…

He felt nerves biting
at his stomach as he looked down the line. Ealian gave him a contemptuous snigger.