The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 6: The Hunt

SIX: The Hunt

Diplomacy is the child of War. Society is his grandson. When the hearts of men turn Red, War eats all of his Kin.

—Caraazor 4:1 The Alchemy of War

Cal lay in is his bed. He was tired, but his mind would not let him sleep. A pale blue beam of light encroached upon the darkness of his room. The light refracted in the thick morning fluid that coated his eyeballs, producing a distorted, broken-glass vision of his room. His brain still churned with the same thoughts that had kept him up the entire night:

She likes me.

She wants me!

Father will see it and let us marry.

Henrick will realize she was meant for me.

Cal uselessly looked around the room, his eyes grinding from side to side against post-binge sludge.

You cannot wait for fate to give her to you.

The scraping against his lids seemed to clear his eyes a bit. Soon, he could make out a jumble of lines: which, after stirring around a few times, resolved into the fuzzy form of his signet ring sitting on his bed table. He stared at the strange characters of the code cypher hidden in the ring's design. Suddenly, his vision cleared, and the ring sprang into three-dimensional focus instead of a blurred mass of colors. He reached out for the distant ring with a feeble grope, then jammed it onto his finger.

A messenger knocked and entered the room. He wore the crisp, red on gray livery of Dannik. He stood at the end of the bed, towering over Cal in his impeccably embroidered tunic. On the other hand, Cal sat in the middle of his twisted sheets: his back slumped in a half-conscious slouch.

The messenger announced, “M’lord. Your mother wishes to speak with you. She will receive you in her chambers within the hour.”

Mornings are just wonderful.

                                                           *   *   *

Cal met his mother in the anteroom of her bedchamber. He shifted on his feet as she dismissed her handmaids. Once they were alone in the room, he rhetorically asked, “Did you wish to speak with me, Mother?”

“Sit down, Calidon,” she began in a neutral tone, smoothing her mint green satin skirts. He remembered one long ago day, when he had been a toddler, and he had spent all afternoon playing at her feet (as had been typical in his early childhood). It was her spinning day and he'd become fascinated with the large spindles of wool. She had been so absorbed with her work, she did not notice her son until he had tangled himself in a veritable cocoon of woolen threads. Fearing her wrath, Cal had remained deathly quiet as he tried to work himself free. When she discovered his plight, she had issued a gentle laugh and cut him free with her scissors.

“Are you enjoying the fair?”

Cal’s answer was careful. “Yes, quite a bit.” Ever since he had become a page, his days were so filled by his duties and training that he barely spoke to her outside the formality of meals.

She obviously wants to have a “talk” with me about something. But, he had become such a stranger to her that she now had to struggle to reach him.

“When I was a girl I loved fairs. I was amused to watch the feats young men performed to get my attention.”

Why can’t she ever say anything directly?