Chapter 6: homecoming

The dark sky outside was just turning to dawn when Soren woke the next morning in his father’s house. When he’d first seen his old room the evening before, it was exactly the same as when he’d left it over a decade before, although judging from the lack of dust, he assumed the maids came in to clean it occasionally. 

He dressed and went downstairs. Verly, their head butler, was already up and nearly finished setting the table for breakfast. He bowed when Soren entered the dining room. 

“My apologies, Lord Soren, but the cook is just starting on breakfast. Your father usually eats after the seventh bell. The sixth just tolled not too long ago. Would you like to eat now?” 

“No, thank you, Verly. I’ll eat with him, although I’d like a pitcher of water if you have it.” Soren paused, and the shadow of a rueful smile passed over his face. He’d spent so long as Captain Kierson that being addressed by his birthright title somehow felt wrong. He briefly considered asking Verly to call him captain, but discarded the idea almost immediately. As proud as he was of his earned rank, he was no longer sailing the seas around Vintreal, and he might as well embrace the return to his old life sooner rather than later.

“Of course. Do you require it immediately?” Verly asked, placing a stack of unfolded napkins on the table.

“No need. If you’ll just bring some to the training room when you get a chance, I’d appreciate it.” 

Verly bowed, and Soren walked through the dining room to the great room beyond. As he stood in the stately space, he breathed deeply and took in the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, the coffered ceiling with its ornate moulding, and the dark lacquered wood of the floors. Once upon a time it had been a ballroom, but for as long as Soren could remember it was used as a weapons arsenal and training room, and he’d spent many hours there learning how to fight. 

He surveyed the wooden racks against the wall, which were filled with almost every weapon imaginable. Soren’s trusty sword hung in its scabbard at his hip, but it had been a long time since he’d had access to such a wide range of weapons, and the variety was nearly intoxicating. On a whim, he picked up a battle axe and, finding it well balanced and with a nice heft, started his old practice forms. He was rusty, but the rust was soon shaken off, and within a handful of minutes he was flowing through the movements like a leaf on a river. 

Just as he finished, a slow clap sounded from the edge of the room. He turned to see a grizzled man standing in the doorway, a tray with several cups on a table at his side. 

Soren re-racked the axe, then joined his father. He nodded at the older man as he gulped down the glass of water. Much could change in a decade away—but Rengard Kierson still looked every inch the hardened High General of Dovea.

He was of average height, with a heavily muscled frame that made him nearly as wide as he was tall. Several scars were visible on his arm, and one scar on his left jaw twisted over his cheek and wound its way almost up to his ear. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short, as was his beard, and steely blue eyes peered at Soren from under bushy eyebrows. There were a few new wrinkles around his mouth and his forehead, as if he spent a lot of time concentrating fiercely, but he still wore the same plain clothes he favored when not at court, and his only adornment was the golden wedding ring he’d never taken off in the twenty-six years since his wife’s passing.

In contrast to his father, Soren had inherited his mother’s height and build, although there was nothing weak in his wiry frame. Years spent working the ropes of a sailing ship, as well as loading and unloading boxes and casks of merchant vessels, had packed on muscle and kept the fat off. In fact, it had been a point of pride for his crew that despite his relative thinness he was as quick as a diving osprey and strong enough to beat men twice his size in arm wrestling competitions at whatever tavern they stayed in between sea journeys. 

He’d also inherited his reddish-brown hair, the color of fallen oak leaves, and his dark brown eyes from his mother, and sometimes he wondered if his father didn’t wish that his only son looked a little more like his sire. 

“It warms my heart to know that all the coin I spent on lessons wasn’t a waste,” High General Kierson said, as if it hadn’t been ten years since he’d last seen his son. 

“Probably best not to assume. Perhaps I’ve forgotten everything except the use of a battleaxe,” Soren replied. 

His father raised an eyebrow at his teasing tone, and Soren took the chance to take the measure of the man whose footsteps he’d spent his entire life trying to fill. 

“Well, I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t test what you’ve learned while you were gone. Do you still remember what you’re supposed to do with that stick at your side?” his father asked as he took a two-handed greatsword from the rack.  

“You point the pointy end at your enemy and try to stab him with it, right?” Soren replied. He pulled his sword free from its scabbard and followed the older man, settling into a well-practiced stance when they reached the center of the room. 

They met in a flurry of blows. His father used his strength and the heavy greatsword to his advantage, but Soren had plenty of experience sparring with larger men and held his own. After several minutes of dodges, parries, and thrusts, the high general discarded the great sword and grabbed a lighter blade, switching hands. “I’m glad to see that you’ve kept up with your training,” he grunted as they closed quarters again. 

Soren only smiled in response and changed his sword hand to mirror his father’s. High General Kierson was miserly with praise and quick with criticism, so any compliments were well-deserved and meant ten times as much as the actual words. As time ticked on, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he was holding his own against the man who was lauded as one of the most accomplished swordsmen in the entire kingdom. 

After several more minutes, and as they both stood dripping sweat, the seventh bell tolled and his father stepped back and held up a hand. “Very impressive. Much better than I was expecting, actually. I was afraid your time at sea would teach you bad habits, but if you were to enter a tourney tomorrow you wouldn’t disgrace this house.” 

Soren bowed. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your kind words.” 

“Yes, well, I’m sure that Varley has ensured breakfast is ready. We will eat, then get ready for court.” Lord Kierson frowned. “I assume you are comfortable being reintroduced to court today?” 

“I would like nothing more.” Soren fought to hide his smile as he followed his father out of the training room. For the first time in years, he would get to see Annalise. 

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, meat, potatoes, and various types of bread, over which they discussed Soren’s adventures, the two men dressed in their finest clothes and entered their carriage. As they drove to the castle, Soren mulled over his conversation with his father during breakfast. Still, between what his father left unsaid and the port gossip he gleaned between sea journeys and the information from the tavern the night before, it sounded like a lot had changed since he’d last set foot in Dovea.  

“How has Princess Annalise fared while I’ve been away? I heard about her curse,” Soren said as the carriage bumped over the cobblestone main road that led to the castle. 

“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances, I imagine.”  

“Some merchants at the tavern said that it started the same night that Queen Elvira passed.” 

His father, who had been looking out the window, turned and stared at Soren with a grave expression. “Yes, that is true, although the topic is ill-favored by the king and no one talks about it. Be sure that you don’t bring it up at court unless you wish to weather his displeasure.” 

Soren nodded, and his father turned back to the window, obviously done with any other conversation attempts from his son. 

He knew he was biased, but Soren always thought that the Dovean royal castle was the most beautiful building he’d ever set eyes on. It was made of a mixture of light and dark gray stone, and had three towers and a plethora of windows. The day was clear and sunny with barely a cloud in the late autumn sky, and blue and silver banners decorated the castle’s outer walls with Dovea’s emblem of two wolves guarding a lamb on a golden field.

As they stepped from the carriage and entered the castle, Soren’s eyebrows raised at the coats of arms, the great paintings and tapestries, and the abundance of silver decorations and sculptures in the hallway. “Dovea seems quite prosperous. Has it always been so? I fear I was too young to appreciate the wealth on display when I was here last,” he murmured to his father.

The high general glanced at Soren from the corner of his eye. “You are not wrong to wonder; King Evert wishes to build a legacy and in recent years has wanted his castle to reflect the wealth of his nation so that visiting diplomats may be awed by the abundance the Goddess has blessed us with.”

Despite the lavish displays, when he entered the throne room, Soren had eyes only for the Dovean princess on the other end. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Annalise sitting in the chair reserved for the crown heir, hands folded in her long-sleeved gown and her face hidden behind a carved white mask. Her blonde hair was braided and held back by a thin silver band. Her gown was light blue and silver, the fabric reminding him of a sunny day on a winter sea. 

Taken as a whole, her outfit made her look like the Moon Goddess herself, the chief deity of Dovea and the neighboring kingdoms. The princess’s mask only added to effect, as if she was too beautiful for the gaze of mere mortals. Her bright blue eyes were the only part of her visible, which not even the shadows of her mask could dim. 

The Moon Goddess, known as just the Goddess colloquially, was the patron deity of wisdom, truth, and healing. Her faithful husband, the Sun God, god of light, growth, and loyalty, was also worshipped, although somewhat less frequently, and if the legends were to be believed, he was completely fine with playing second fiddle to his wife.

The priests told stories of the Goddess descending from the heavens to walk among the mortals, spreading her wisdom and healing knowledge and granting boons to any who asked. Standing in the throne room, looking at Annalise, Soren wondered if perhaps the Goddess hadn’t taken form once more.

When the footman announced his name, Annalise straightened just slightly in her ornately carved wooden chair and lifted her head towards him as if in recognition. A small part of Soren had worried she’d forgotten him in the time he’d spent away—he’d written to her frequently, but with his sailing schedule receiving letters was nearly impossible and he’d neither expected nor received any in return—but now, buoyed by the smallest sign of her interest, his confidence returned and his breath caught in his throat. He walked down the length of the royal hall before dropping to one knee. Ostensibly, he knelt to his king, but in his heart of hearts he was kneeling only to her. 

“High General Kierson, is this your son?” King Evert asked.  

“He is, Your Majesty. He has recently returned abroad, where he earned the title of captain,” Soren’s father said from his position in the front row.  

King Evert nodded and leaned forward, hands on his knees. His coat was of a dark navy edged with gold, and his golden crown perched on his dark hair. “This court has not seen your face in many years, Lord Soren. Rise and tell us where you have been.”