Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1063: Under the blanket(3)

An awkward, suffocating silence took root at the table. The only sound was the shrieking of utensils and the distant neighing of a stubborn horse.

"Could you pass the salt?" Alpheo asked, his voice deceptively flat. He turned to Asag, who looked as if he wanted to crawl under the floorboards of the table as he awkwardly pushed the cellar toward the Prince.

A thin, feeble voice rose from the back of the tent. "Cou—"

"I said arms above your head!" Alpheo snapped, not even turning around.

"Eekk!" Basil shrieked, his shoulders jerking upward. "I’ve been like this for half an hour! My arms hurt..."

"And you will keep them there for another hour," the Prince shot back. There wasn’t a flicker of softness in his dark eyes he would usually have held for his son. "And at first light, you shall ride with Sir Rodry and five of my personal guard. You are going home to your mother. Immediately."

"Father!" Basil protested, forgetting his fear for a second as he rose from his kneeling position.

"Father nothing!" Alpheo shouted. He turned a scorching glare toward his captains. "And what is the matter with the rest of you? Minutes ago you were gorging yourselves like kings! Why have you suddenly turned into statues?You shall miss this supper soon enough, so eat now!"

The veteran commanders meekly turned back to their plates, suddenly fascinated by their peas and crusts. It was Shahab who finally cleared his throat, leaning forward with a cautious look. "Perhaps... the boy could join us? He looks half-starved, Alpheo."

Basil turned toward his great-grandfather with a look of desperate hope. It was true, after a day and a half of eating nothing but a rock-hard loaf of bread and half of a stolen sausage, his stomach felt like it was eating itself. The sausage had been tasty, but it certainly wasn’t worth the price he was paying now.

Truly, the meal did not fit the bill....he had learnt something from this at least.

However, Alpheo cut the suggestion down before it could even breathe. "Perhaps not. A lesson learned on an empty stomach is one that stays with a man until he’s gray. He stays where he is."

Basil bit his lip, the sting of tears pricking at his eyes. But he fought them back, squeezing his eyelids shut for a second. He would not cry. Not in front of them

His eyes darted around the room, searching for an ally. He looked to Jarza, who simply shook his head and looked away. He looked to Edric, who gave a helpless shrug as if to say his hands were tied. It was from the person he least expected that support finally came.

"Perhaps Your Grace is being too harsh with your own blood?"Lord Xanthios said, his voice quiet but steady. "The young man surely meant no harm. It was a lapse in judgment, born of a desire to serve."

"Foolishness is not a crime without victims" Alpheo said, turning his cold focus to the Herculian’s nightmare. "He hid in the back of a supply cart like a common rat—"

"A day and a half! And nobody found me until the camp was set!" Basil protested, his pride momentarily outweighing his common sense.

"A day and a half," Alpheo repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low hiss. "The heir apparent to my name and his mother’s throne hid in a grain box like a thief. He was hauled out by common soldiers as if he were a spy or a beggar. What does that say to the men about the dignity of the royal family? What does it say about our blood?"

"It says the young man is willful beyond reason,"Xanthios replied calmly. "I recall the soldiers who found him were laughing. They treated the boy with honor once they realized who he was."

Basil remembered that. One of the legionnaires had even offered him a sip of sour vinegar to wash down the dust. He had hated the taste, but the man’s smile had been kind.

"A royal family is not fit to be laughed at!" Alpheo stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the dirt. "The person these men will one day swear an oath to was found hiding amongst the horse feed like a monkey in a circus cart. Were he not of my blood, I would have him whipped until he couldn’t stand. A bloody back ought to have been his prize.

Our link in blood is the only thing preventing me from a physical punishment, but it will not prevent him from facing the consequences of his idiocy."

Basil lowered his head, his arms trembling from the effort of keeping them raised. "I just wanted to be with you... I wanted to see..."

"To see a war? What place do you have in a slaughter, boy?" Alpheo demanded, stepping toward him until he loomed over the child. "What support can you offer me? What use do you have on a field of blood? Can you swing a mace? Can you read a map properly? You are a distraction I cannot afford while four princes hunt for my head!’’

"Please, Your Grace, don’t be too hard on the lad," Xanthios grunted, his voice like grinding stones. "I recall feeling much the same when I was his age. There wasn’t a stone I wouldn’t have overturned or a shadow I wouldn’t have crawled through if it meant I could follow my father to the field. Too often, a son just wants to understand the man he’s meant to become. And he’s thirteen, isn’t he?"

"Nearly fourteen," Basil chirped up, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of hope.

"Indeed.Two more year and he is legally a man in the eyes of the law," Xanthios continued, his hands kneading his unkempt, woolly beard as he looked at the Prince.The white of the beard seemed to give wiseness to a man who was treated by his peers as little more than a mad dog. "Perhaps it wouldn’t be so impossible to allow the heir apparent to witness the work of his house?"

Basil looked at the Lord of Bracum as if the old wolf had suddenly grown a halo. He turned his gaze back to his father, hope swimming in his bright green eyes, though he kept his arms rigidly above his head as ordered.

"War is no place for a boy. You know this better than most," Alpheo said, his voice cold.

"He will soon not be a boy, Your Grace," Xanthios countered firmly. "I believe there is merit in letting him stay. Real merit."

"The fact that he sneaked into the back of a grain cart tells me he thinks war is a soft thing of glory and bright banners," Alpheo said, looking at his son the way a gardener looks at an apple that has fallen before it’s ripe. "Everything he knows comes from bards and rhymes. The songs never mention how sticky the blood is. They don’t sing about how grown men weep for their mothers when the steel turns their way and their guts are in the dirt.Songs are made to makes poor fool like you peep up as soon as people coming shouting for recruits...."

"And isn’t it time for him to learn that?" Xanthios asked, leaning forward. "It would do him good to know war isn’t a game. Many a time, Your Grace has complained about how the lords of the South think a campaign is just a joust with higher stakes. There is no better way to make sure your son doesn’t grow up with such delusions."

The logic seemed to catch Alpheo off guard, forcing him to a momentary silence.

"Moreover," Xanthios added, sensing the opening, "I am sure the troops will be more than happy to see the young princeling walking among them. They’ll fight harder than they ever have, knowing they’re guarding the future of the line. It’s good for a lad to familiarize himself with men of war... otherwise, he risks becoming as fickle and soft as the men we’re seeking to squash. The young lad is ripe to get acquainted with the smell of steel."

A long, heavy silence followed. It stretched until the popping of the torches sounded like gunshots in the quiet tent. Alpheo didn’t move. He stood like a statue of obsidian, his gaze bored into his son’s soul. Basil didn’t dare blink, his arms shaking violently now, his breath shallow. He felt as though his entire life hung on the next sentence his father uttered.

Finally, Alpheo let out a long, slow breath. He stepped closer to Basil, giving him a long, searching look that seemed to weigh every ounce of the boy’s spirit.

"Lower your arms," Alpheo commanded. Basil let them drop with a gasp of relief, though they hung limp at his sides like dead weight. "You will sit at that desk tonight. You will write a letter to your mother. In it, you will beg for her forgiveness. You will detail your utter lack of wit and your selfishness in making a mother worry for her child’s life while her husband is at war. Do you understand?"

Basil’s eyes peered up, wide and shimmering. "Yes, Father."

"Do not celebrate yet," Alpheo said, his voice stern. "You will stay by my side for this campaign. You will be my shadow. But hear me well: the moment you do anything that earns my displeasure, the moment you step out of line or act the fool, you won’t be sent home with a guard of honor. I will have you tied to the back of a goat cart and sent back to the city in the most shameful manner I can devise. Am I clear?"

A massive, beaming smile broke across Basil’s face, chasing away the exhaustion and the fear. "I promise, Father! There will be no need for the goats. I won’t fail you!"

The prince sighed at that, looking at his son as if wondering what he was to do with him.As one moment he seemed the most mature person in the palace, and another he acted like the kid he should have been.