Prince of Fire

Chapter 9

By the time Laurent made it to the study room, Madame Denver stood beside a table piled with books, her frail arms crossed and her heeled feet impatiently tapping at the ground.

"Yes," Laurent drawled, closing the door behind him. "I am late. I know."

The study room, situated in the south wing near the royal library, was a library in itself. Thousands of leather bound books stood on ebony shelves along the walls, the darkness of it blending with the black walls. Tapestries hung here and there, some depicting scenes of battle, others the gods and angels. One showed the goddess Melione, her hair and eyes black as the pits of her domain, with the Angel of Death by her side, his black feathered wings outstretched. As if in mockery, the tapestry beside it showed Inanna in her golden glory, the angel Michael guarding her side.

Light and darkness, side by side.

"And why, do tell, are you late?" the woman was definitely irritated, her usually pleasant voice strained.

Laurent took her in: the rod straight back, the defiant glare of her hazel eyes, the perfectly made knot of graying auburn hair at the top of her head. He contemplated the answer- tell the truth and give her the satisfaction of his defeat, or test her patience with lies. "I may have wandered off in the wrong direction, got lost a couple of times," he said. "All by accident, of course."

"Lost?" she asked, incredulous, as she took the seat across from him, her dark blue skirts rustling. She pulled ancient looking books to the space between them. "In the place you have lived for nearly eighteen years?"

Laurent shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "A talent of mine, I suppose."

"Do not slouch," she demanded, regarding his composure with distaste. "Sit up. Back straight, chin held high. That is how a king ought to sit."

Hands behind his head, he did exactly the opposite and drawled, "It is good I am not a king, then."

"You will one day be," she snapped. Laurent always thought of brown eyes as kind and soft, turning to molten honey or gold when the sunlight struck them. That is until he met his tutor. There was nothing kind and soft in her hazel eyes and when the sun hit her eyes, they gleaned bronze like the blade of a dagger. "It will do you good to realize the day may come sooner rather than later."

"You do not sound thrilled about my coronation, Madame Denver. I do wonder..." He made a show of stroking an invisible beard at his chin. "Will you be there to see the crown placed on my head or do you hate me enough to not attend?"

"Your father is a good king," she said, her hands fumbling with the pages of a book. "Unfortunately, I cannot see his qualities in you."

The comment struck something deep in his chest. He recalled the way his father handled the news of the Conqueror, the immediacy with which he made his choices and finalized his decisions,the authority he held commanding the lords. What would have Laurent done in his place? Would he ever learn to rule like his father did? Yes, his father was a good king, but the same could not be said about him as a father. The crack of a whip, the screams of people, the cruelty...

"I will be a poor king," he muttered. "Is that what you are saying?"

At his tone, Madame Denver glanced up from the book. Whatever she found on his face softened her sharp feature, brought a gleam of pity to her cold eyes. "There is still time to learn." She returned to the book, her thin fingers flipping page after page. "Ah, here we are," she exclaimed, stopping at what appeared to be the genealogy of Valhara.

Laurent recognised his father's name, William Vallah, amongst the names of Kings and Queens before him. "Why are we looking at this?" he inquired, confusion taking over his mind.