Prince of Time

Chapter Forty-Six - Grand Finales

King Borad stood up sharply as The Master of Warriors entered his tent.

“Any sign?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray too much emotion.

“None,” the Master said, gently. “I’m afraid Tobiah has vanished.

Borad sat back with a groan. “Why would he run away? Why?”

“I suspect he didn’t look on it as running away,” the Master explained. “He left with others, you know. I expect he has gone in search of Etheron.”

Borad sat bolt upright. “He wouldn’t!”

“He would,” the Master smiled faintly. “He was trained like us, remember? He would think like a warrior about this.”

“Impulsive, reckless, stupid, needy, selfish…” Borad broke off, shaking his head. “My idiot son.”

“Brave, though,” the Master considered. “And honourable, in a way we don’t quite understand. Troubled, perhaps. But you have much to be proud of in him.”

“If he was a warrior, perhaps,” Borad agreed. “Or a dragon rider. But not as a prince.”

“As your son,” the Master said, severely.

Borad sighed. “You’re right, of course. And I do love him. I’ve just lost my daughter…I can’t lose my son as well.”

The Master rested his hand on Borad’s shoulder.

“You may not lose him,” he reassured the king. “Tobiah is stronger than you ever had cause to know. He rescued Lym, even if he was too late. Perhaps he can save the world.”

“Old friend, you offer slight comfort,” Borad nearly smiled. “Not quite failing to save a girl and succeeding at saving the world…they’re different things.”

“Have faith.”

Borad rubbed his eyes. “I’m so tired. You said he travelled with others. Who? Who betrayed my orders?”

The Master’s expression brightened considerably. His eyes looked almost misty.

“The cadets who travelled with him before,” he said, proudly. “I believe they feel quite strongly about protecting your son.”

“Cadets?” Borad stared. “What has got into Tobiah, running off on foolhardy missions with unproven cadets?”

“Proven, now,” the Master sighed. “They proved themselves searching for your daughter. Borad, let it go. You have bigger problems than the psychology of your son.”

A soldier burst through the entrance of the tent, breathing hard, clutching a stitch in his side.

“The army…” he panted. “Is moving.”

The Master raised an eyebrow at the king.

“And I think,” he said, “that this is one of them.”

King Borad gazed across the armies. His chestnut warhorse shifted beneath him, hooves stamping on the beaten grass. His sword hung heavy at his waist, a weight he loathed to lift.

 In his youth, Borad had been a warrior. He had fought wars and dreamed of daring tactics and glorious victories. But most wars were fought with words in this day and age and time and old bones had taken the battle-lust from him.

  He glanced to his right, to his oldest friend – Master of Warriors, and shut his eyes briefly.

“Tell me,” he begged, “that I don’t have to give a rousing speech.”