were consulted for never had there been a dual birth in the history of Lalssu. The Law was firm in regard to the order of siblings, the firstborn son of the royal family of Kiel was given the throne of Grand Master; younger sons were made Lords and given regiments of their own and vast holdings of property, but no real power within the Conclave. On this, the Brothers of the Conclave were adamant. Female children were handed over to whomever could afford their bride price then promptly forgotten.
It was decided amongst the Bishops that the second son must be slain. To allow him to come to maturity, to possibly make an attempt to wrest the throne from his brother, the rightful heir, would be unwise. Had that not been the cause of the Great War at Menini? Had not Grand Master Tristan’s own father rose up against his brother and tried to take the throne?
“Treachery runs in the Kiel family,” the Bishops proclaimed. “We can not allow another war.”
Upon hearing the Bishop’s verdict Invernise was beside herself with terror. She flew to her husband’s throne room and there prostrated herself before the great man. With tearful entreaty—her beauty even more pronounced in her grief—she pleaded with him to spare their child, promising Tristan she would see that the boy never vied for the throne.
“You can not make such a promise,” Tristan sneered. “And if not him, then a child of his body could make an attempt to take what is Hagan’s!”
“Send him to a monastery then but let him live!” she begged.
Despite his firm intention, the tearful pleading of his Lady-wife moved Tristan. Her beauty struck such a chord in his black heart, strummed such a delicious melody on his libido, he relented and made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times over.
“Will you be content if I let him live but make sure he will never have a child of his loins to rise up against Hagan?” he asked.
Unsure of her husband’s meaning but relieved to see he might relent she eagerly nodded. “Aye, Milord. I will do whatever you say if you will but let my Dagan live!”
And so it was that Dagan Kiel suffered for his father’s paranoid fears.
And Tristan Kiel suffered for his foolishness for in the thirteenth year of his favorite son’s life, the boy’s fall from his horse ended the Grand Master’s majestic dreams. While the ignored son grew into a strong, vibrant, lethal warrior, the favored son kept to his bed or was paraded about in his rolling chair—an invalid for the world to pity. As Dagan matured into a man the Brothers admired and trusted, Hagan was barely tolerated and even then reluctantly by men who looked to Dagan for leadership.
* * * * *
“For what good it did me, Father,” Dagan said aloud, pulling on his bonds once more.
There was no doubt in Dagan’s mind that his father—frying in the Pit to which his mother had no doubt consigned him—regretted his decision before his painful, lingering death. A month before his demise, he had called his younger son to his bedside and had spent hours on end teaching him the Magic he had learned at the Monastery of Akhkharu, thinking he was passing on ancient secrets to a son whose seven by seven by seven birthright had already instilled in him knowledge far beyond his father’s ken.
Though Tristan Kiel never uttered an apology to his son, his last words had helped to blunt the hatred Dagan bore his father.
“You are the true ruler of the Conclave, Dagan. It is your brawn and sword hand the Brothers will follow. Never forget that,” Tristan whispered then laid still, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his sunken face.
“He sees the fire,” Invernise stated with a secret smile. “Soon he will feel its embrace.”
With that said, Dagan’s mother turned and walked from the room. Within the hour, she would be on her way to the Priory and the life she had left behind twenty years earlier. Never once did she doubt her eldest son would allow her to
It was decided amongst the Bishops that the second son must be slain. To allow him to come to maturity, to possibly make an attempt to wrest the throne from his brother, the rightful heir, would be unwise. Had that not been the cause of the Great War at Menini? Had not Grand Master Tristan’s own father rose up against his brother and tried to take the throne?
“Treachery runs in the Kiel family,” the Bishops proclaimed. “We can not allow another war.”
Upon hearing the Bishop’s verdict Invernise was beside herself with terror. She flew to her husband’s throne room and there prostrated herself before the great man. With tearful entreaty—her beauty even more pronounced in her grief—she pleaded with him to spare their child, promising Tristan she would see that the boy never vied for the throne.
“You can not make such a promise,” Tristan sneered. “And if not him, then a child of his body could make an attempt to take what is Hagan’s!”
“Send him to a monastery then but let him live!” she begged.
Despite his firm intention, the tearful pleading of his Lady-wife moved Tristan. Her beauty struck such a chord in his black heart, strummed such a delicious melody on his libido, he relented and made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times over.
“Will you be content if I let him live but make sure he will never have a child of his loins to rise up against Hagan?” he asked.
Unsure of her husband’s meaning but relieved to see he might relent she eagerly nodded. “Aye, Milord. I will do whatever you say if you will but let my Dagan live!”
And so it was that Dagan Kiel suffered for his father’s paranoid fears.
And Tristan Kiel suffered for his foolishness for in the thirteenth year of his favorite son’s life, the boy’s fall from his horse ended the Grand Master’s majestic dreams. While the ignored son grew into a strong, vibrant, lethal warrior, the favored son kept to his bed or was paraded about in his rolling chair—an invalid for the world to pity. As Dagan matured into a man the Brothers admired and trusted, Hagan was barely tolerated and even then reluctantly by men who looked to Dagan for leadership.
* * * * *
“For what good it did me, Father,” Dagan said aloud, pulling on his bonds once more.
There was no doubt in Dagan’s mind that his father—frying in the Pit to which his mother had no doubt consigned him—regretted his decision before his painful, lingering death. A month before his demise, he had called his younger son to his bedside and had spent hours on end teaching him the Magic he had learned at the Monastery of Akhkharu, thinking he was passing on ancient secrets to a son whose seven by seven by seven birthright had already instilled in him knowledge far beyond his father’s ken.
Though Tristan Kiel never uttered an apology to his son, his last words had helped to blunt the hatred Dagan bore his father.
“You are the true ruler of the Conclave, Dagan. It is your brawn and sword hand the Brothers will follow. Never forget that,” Tristan whispered then laid still, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his sunken face.
“He sees the fire,” Invernise stated with a secret smile. “Soon he will feel its embrace.”
With that said, Dagan’s mother turned and walked from the room. Within the hour, she would be on her way to the Priory and the life she had left behind twenty years earlier. Never once did she doubt her eldest son would allow her to
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