Okays, here it goes. Critique if you don't mind. This is more like a tiny exerpt from the begining.






Chapter I


A mix of masculine voices rose to the small cubbyhole above the fake ceiling in the council chamber. A slight, dark-haired young man crouched on a beam, obviously listening to the conversing old men below him. Five men sat at a table, all of them aged, though the man that sat at the head seemed oldest of all.


White hair flowing over a gleaming circlet of fleur de lis along with gray eyes that seemed to penetrate anything and everything, this man emitted and an air of command while also spreading a sense of oldness about him.


They sat at a mahogany table, burnished to a dull shine, in the center of the room. On the floor around them sprawled an expensive, Turkish carpet depicting a scene from the Divine Comedy running up to walls of stained Keyaki, imported from Japan. A bright chandelier lit the room, falling brilliantly on the four other men.


One of them spoke, his voice quietly urging the others, “Regardless, the wars, however inconvenient, have given rise to more than one faction seeking to take control; the gangs alone have control of the Spanish boarder.”


“We have made our suggestions, Eloki,” spite filled the name spoken by the one to the right of the king, “the south is gone, you have no power!”


“Whereas the north does nothing but gain from this incident! You are a traitor, Hilaire!” Eloki spat, his voice rising from its once cool tone.


“Ahh, yet as one finds fault in another, they must also—“


“I have had enough of your incessant preaching,” The man next to Eloki spoke now, his voice dismissive, “Comse.”


“I see no help from pagans,” the word was ice, spat by Comse “and no help from you, Lector.”


“Well then, we must call the Pope if our little—“


“Enough,” the came from the old man in little more than a whisper, though it cut through the arguments like a hot knife through butter, “I…have chosen…who is to go.” He paused, out of breath, “My…daughter.”


Every eye in the room widened in shock, including the young man’s. “But…isn’t that dangerous?” This seemed to echo around the room as the men began to recompose themselves.


“I…do not…have that much…time.” The word seemed to be precious to the man, “He must…learn…about…the country…he is to inherit.” Eyes, now with mouths, opened again. For the king to speak of this was a thing unheard of.


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Dart quietly slid the hidden panel shut and tiptoed away. It would do him no good to be caught lurking around the council chambers, especially since a meeting was being held. After the matter of the south was settled the meeting turned to different matters of state, including the return of the ship Corbin from India. Dart found all of these things extremely boring so he decided to skip the rest.


Somewhere deeper into the castle a bell rang out the hour, tolling five times before stopping. “Three hours, then” he said. Three hours until his scheduled appearance for the Spring Festival. “Dear God, this will be fun,” sarcasm seemed to be the order of the day.


“Dart! Dar—D’artagnian!” A large woman followed the shouts, in her late thirties, she carried a large wooden spatula, used in making Italian cakes, and her apron was stained. “D’artagnian, where have you been,” the woman seemed overly exasperated, “you need to eat, that you do.”


“No I don’t, Geatane,” replied Dart, “and don’t call me D’artagnian. I despise that name in the most inconceivable manner.”


Geatane snorted, her eyebrows rising on her forehead, “So now our little prince is going to finally act his part. Hah!”


Despite himself, Dart felt his cheeks turning red. Quickly, find a way to distract her. “What are we having for desert tonight?” He desperately snatched at a train of thought. If possible, the cook’s eyebrows rose even higher on her forehead.


“Now, now, our little princeling wouldn’t have anything to do with trying to change the subject, would he?” She sighed while she caught hold of Dart’s ear, “Of course not, he shouldn’t have grown up so fast, even if he did just have his seventeenth birthday.


“Ah, the truth is, little prince, is that you seem to be growing up far to fast… far too fast for my liking. I remember your father, now he was a slow one to mature, I’ll tell you that, always dragging me along with him into random dangerous things. I remember the time when he stole a pie from the kitchen window, only to be caught by my mistress when she made her rounds. He did get scars from that beating.” The cook let out a little chuckle, continuing to walk down corridor after corridor, “But from the time he seemed to start maturing, even if he was only twelve, but he was no fun. Always secretive, he was, learning from his God forsaken mother. Even if he is the first king of the House Bourbon, he shouldn’t have learned from that pagan wretch from Navarre—”


“But grandmother really isn’t that bad,”


The cook continued speaking, not seeming to notice what he said, “She would beat him, she did, until he passed out. It was such a pitiful sight, him laying there, bruises surfacing and the like. Oh well, it’s his own fault for not sending her off or executing her or something of the like. But, ah, what’s done is done I would guess. Here we are,” she remarked as they entered the kitchens, “sit, sit, I’ll get you some bread and stew.”


Giving a sigh of resignation Dart sat down on the rickety wooden chair, enveloping him in a cloud of flour. Everything seemed to be covered with flour in the kitchens. From the red tiled floor, not that one would be able to tell the color, buried as it was, to the whitewash walls to even the cooks who scrambled to and fro, checking pots of boiling things and the ovens who, too, were splotched with flour. Geatane marched off into the orderly chaos, waving her heavy wooden spatula like a knight would a club. More than one lazy person received a smack that could easily break bones from that spatula.


“Hurry, you lazy asses, get the prince some bread and stew! Don’t you spill that sauce, Sacha!” The shout was followed by a loud smack, accompanied by winces and hurried scrambling from the cooks in the immediate vicinity. Amazingly, the cook who was smacked held onto the overly large pot held by his leather gloved hands.


A scullery maid scrambled forward with an earthenware bowl along with a plate of bread, and set them both down on the table in front of him, sending up another mushroom cloud of flour. Waving her hand to clear the air, she set a tin spoon beside the bowl.


A rumble from his stomach reminded Dart how hungry he really was, and the heavenly smells rising from the bowl in front of him only made him hungrier. Taking up the spoon, he scooped the rich stew into his mouth.


*Thwack*


The dreaded spatula slapped at his hand, sending the spoon flying and his wrist into an odd angle. Gasping at his broken wrist, he managed to sputter, “What was that!”


“That my friend, was a lesson in pain,” A cloaked man stood behind him, dripping wet, and holding the spatula. “Now, next lesson, heal it.” Through the kitchens, seeming like a storm, picking up scullery maids and cooks alike and moving them out of the way, Geatane moved to position herself between the prince and the strange man while reaching for her spatula. “Haven’t I told you that there is to be no more of the likes of you in the kitchens!?” She was almost shouting, her face flushed with rage.


“Ah, but tonight I am in charge of the prince’s safety,” the man spoke softly, handing the spatula to her, “To put it simply, I will have to teach him everything I know if he is to become the next ruler of our country.”


“No magic, besides that of the royal family, that’s what I think, as you very well know.” Her attention was now on Dart’s wrist prodding it gentle that was surprising for a finger of that size. Dart gave a small gasp as she touched him, still staring at his hand bent backwards.


“Did you hear me, boy. Heal it.” The stranger insisted leaning forward to inspect the injury. “Just concentrate and calm down.”


Taking a deep breath, Dart placed his hand in front of him while digging in his pocket to bring out a small figurine of a dove.
Concentrate. First, find the location of the fracture. Closing his eyes, he Felt for his wrist. There! Near the end of the Ulna. Second, invoke the Spirit. Dart’s brow creased as he felt for the Spirit that was always a small way off. Got it! “Heal!” he commanded as the small dove came to life, taking on color, to flutter over the broken wrist.


*Crack*


The sounds of bone cracking were accompanied by a dim light coming from the bird. Slowly, the light faded along with the color from the bird. It dropped, sending up a cloud of flour. When it cleared the figurine laid still once more, this time the dove was soaring.


“Very good, but you still have much to learn, my young prince.” Remarked the stranger, his eyebrows raised a fraction.


“Hmph. I still don’t like it,” countered the cook, “now finish eating.”