Knight & Squire: Preface

     “Oh, Fyora.” Rowan’s arms popped as he stretched them above his head. He let out a huge yawn, not caring that he looked like a horrified Quiggle. He slumped on the wooden bench he was sitting on.

     “Getting blasted and cursed is no joke. But hey, at least you slept well,” Sir Percival joked. He smiled as he nudged Rowan’s right arm.

     “Yeah, I guess,” Rowan conceded. “Thanks for taking me here, by the way.” He yawned again, “I couldn’t stand being in that stuffy room anymore.” Rowan closed his eyes, focusing on the clang of metal and whizzing of arrows. “Never liked training but it feels like home.”

     Sir Percival nodded, “I get it,” he replied. “I come from a knightly family, too.”

     “You do?” Rowan scratched behind his left ear.

     “Yes,” Sir Percival affirmed. “My father was a knight, my grandfather, too. We’re not nobles, but it’s become something of a tradition.” Lord Jeran told me about your family, House Albion. I’m sure make them proud.”

     Rowan groused. More of this knight garbage again. He was about to give Sir Percival a grumpy tongue lashing when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. He gulped when he saw the disapproving expression on Jeran’s face.

      The azure-furred Lupe leaned into his left hip, arms crossed. This felt familiar. “Sir Percival, what is Rowan doing out of bed? He’s recovering from a terrible curse.”

     Sir Percival half-smiled at his commander, “I know I crossed the line, but fresh air will help him heal. I promise to personally watch him to make sure he doesn’t take part in any physical activity.”

     “I’m right here, Sir Percival,” Rowan complained.

     “Just Sir Percy, please,” he asked.

     Rowan smirked at Jeran before returning his attention to Sir Percival, “Of course, Sir Percy. Thanks again for taking me outside.”

     “Anytime, Rowan,” the white Ixi replied with a smile. He glanced again at the frowning Jeran before glancing at Rowan. “I need to go train, but I’ll be back soon.”

     Jeran put a hand over his face and sighed. So, Rowan could be nice and polite to Sir Percival but not him? “Well, since you’re up,” Jeran began. “Perhaps you can continue with your family’s story. I’ll fetch Lisha and Kayla.”

     Rowan scowled at his superior. Dang it. Mr. Perfect got the upper hand again. “Fine, fine. But why What’s-Her-Face?”

     “Kayla. Her name is Kayla, and she deserves to know because she helped save your life. If not for her potion, you’d be dead. Not to mention you’ll need more doses of her counter-potion to completely purge the wasting curse from your body.” Jeran smirked, “She also has a knack for ‘accidentally’ turning people who irritate her into Mortogs, so I wouldn’t get on her bad side.”

     Rowan went silent for a few moments. “Okay, I get it,” he said finally. “It looks like I owe her, too. Will you tell her I said thanks?”

     Jeran smiled at his squire, “Why don’t you tell her yourself? I’ll be back shortly.”

     About 15 minutes later

     “I didn’t think you’d be up and about so soon,” Kayla remarked as she approached the Green Ogrin. She held out her right hand, “Let me reintroduce myself. I’m Kayla Morrgin. It’s nice to meet you under better circumstances.”

     Rowan shook her hand, giving her a small smile, “Rowan. And, uh, thanks for saving my life.”

     Kayla smiled in return, “It’s my job. By the way, Lisha updated me on your story. And I think Jeran is right: knowing it will help us keep you safe.”

     “Right…,” Rowan didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having a third Neopet knowing the nitty-gritty details. Not to mention he felt like a child with three overprotective parents. Or would New Girl be considered an aunt? Wait, how much older were they than him anyway? He huffed. I gotta think of a better nickname for her. New Girl doesn’t work, he thought.

     His grouchy thoughts were interrupted when he felt a weight on his lap. Rowan looked down to find a small platter of cheese and grapes with a slice of baked rye loaf. He frowned, “What’s this?”

     “A Mortog,” Jeran answered dryly. “I swiped it from the castle kitchen as I was returning to the training grounds with Lisha and Kayla.”

     Lisha giggled, unused to hearing this level of sarcasm from her older brother. “Give him a break, Jeran,” Lisha intervened. “Rowan is still recovering from his previous injuries and a wasting curse.”

     “Speaking of,” Kayla interjected. “You need to take your dose of counter potion.” Thump. The voluminous bag she had been wearing over her right shoulder fell to the ground. “Oops! I need to be more careful,” she said to herself. “Don’t want to cause an explosion.”

     Rowan’s left eyebrow shot up. Was she always this clumsy? “Look, Fizzy,” he began. “I heard something about explosions and don’t want to get hurt again.”

     Lisha and Jeran smiled at Kayla’s quizzical look, “Fizzy?” she asked.

     “He has a habit of giving nicknames to Neopets he likes,” Jeran answered.

     “No,” Rowan protested. “I don’t like anybody.”

     “Here’s the potion,” Kayla thrust a small vial of bubbling pink liquid into Rowan’s hands. “Drink up.”

     Rowan stared in disgust at the vial, “It’s moving.”

     Kayla crossed her arms, “It tastes better than it looks. Now, drink.”

     Rowan exhaled and drained it in one gulp. His eyes widened, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Fizzy: you’re right.”

     Kayla was about to rebut the perceived insult to her craft when Jeran interrupted, “That’s enough, both of you.” He sighed. Why did he suddenly feel like a babysitter? “Rowan, let’s hear more of your family’s story. You can eat while you tell it.”

     Rowan nodded. He was relieved at Jeran’s save, but he’d never admit it. He took a deep breath, “Right… Things changed between Tristan and me after I tried to read that spell from the Meridella Arcana.” He screwed his eyes shut, “He became…meaner. The brother I knew began disappearing.”

     Lisha smiled sympathetically, “We’re here for you, Rowan.

     Rowan gave the yellow-gold Aisha a half smile, “Thanks.” He swallowed before continuing, “I think… I think he didn’t feel like part of our family sometimes, but that’s just a guess. I don’t know why he would think that.” He shook his head. Anyway, I heard him and Father arguing one day.” His gaze fell to his lap as he clasped his hands. “That’s when things got worse.”

     9-year old Rowan pressed his left ear against the double oak doors of his father’s office. They were shouting. Father and Tristan never shouted. But they were now.

     “This isn’t fair!” Tristan screamed, his voice reaching fever pitch.

     “Life isn’t fair, Tristan,” Sir Hugo shouted back as he tried to talk over his eldest son. “We must maintain order in House Albion. That includes our traditions. It is our anchor during the storms of life.”

     “HOGWASH!” came the angry rebuttal. “Most of Meridell’s houses use primogeniture. What aboutthattraditon?! You might as well disown me!”

     Sir Hugo shook his head; his son’s words cut deep, “Tristan, you are my flesh and blood. You always will be.”

     “No, I’m not,” Tristan grit his teeth in pain and disgust. “I’ve always done right by House Albion because I was the heir. Without that, I am nothing. NOTHING!” His amber eyes became enflamed with angry tears. “You hear me, old man?”

     Sir Hugo glowered at him, “Mind your mouth, Tristan.” His countenance softened again as he stepped toward the younger Blumaroo and placed his hand on his left shoulder, “Heir or not, you’re still my son. That’s what matters most.”

     Tristan recoiled from his father as if he’d been burned, “I don’t believe you. Not. One. Bit.” He bared his teeth and barely restrained himself from spitting on the ground. “You’ve always loved Rowan more than me because he looks like Mother.”

     Sir Hugo’s gaze fell to his feet. There was some truth in his words. He placed his right hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, Tristan. This was a mistake. Please… Come back to me. I can’t stand to lose another family member.” He lifted his eyes towards Tristan’s wrathful face.

     Tristan’s face contorted even more. “I’m not your son,” he spat. The younger Red Blumaroo stomped towards the doors and threw them open.

     Jeran, Lisha, and Kayla were left speechless as Rowan began crying. He wiped his eyes and sniffled. “Fyora, I’d forgotten… I’d forgotten!” The Green Ogrin buried his face in his hands; his shoulders heaved with sobs.

     “Rowan?” Kayla was the first to break the silence. Her face wrinkled in concern as she cautiously walked over, sat down and began rubbing his back.

     Lisha smiled at her friend’s compassionate gesture. She walked over and sat on his other side. “Rowan, we can stop for today. It’s okay.”

     “Yes,” Jeran agreed. “Let’s stop for today.”

     “No!” Rowan’s head shot up. His tear-stained face and red eyes were filled with agony and determination. “I’m no weakling; I’m going to tell the rest. I just remembered. Fyora, I just remembered!”

     Kayla’s hand went from Rowan’s back to squeeze his left hand, “We know you’re not a weakling, Rowan. You’re talking about extremely painful things. Are you sure you want to continue?”

     “Stop asking me, Fizzy,” he lashed out. His face softened, “I’m sorry.” He exhaled harshly, “I’m sorry. This is just…” His words trailed off. Rowan looked Lisha, “You two are sorceresses, so I think you should know about this next part.”

     Rowan physically jumped as he saw his older brother in the doorway. The little Ogrin began to tremble as he saw hatred on his face. “T-Tristan? Brother?”

     “I am not your brother,” Tristan spat.

     “Wh-what?” Rowan stuttered. “Yes, you are. You’re my brother, and I love you,” he stated.

     “NO!” Tristan raised his hand, commanding the magic within forward.

     “Argh!” Rowan sank to his knees and clutched his head. His temples were pounding. His face felt like it was on fire.

     “TRISTAN HUBERT DE ALBION!” Sir Hugo bellowed.

     Tristan ignored his father as he grinned maliciously at his younger brother, “Don’t worry, little brother. You won’t remember any of this. It’ll be just like waking up from a nightmare.” The Red Blumaroo felt two hands grip his shoulders. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

     Sir Hugo flew backwards, landing hard on the floor. He gasped for breath as he stared up at his eldest son, “You are…no son…of mine,” he squeezed out.

     “I was never your son,” Tristan responded. He stalked over to his room, slamming and locking the door.

     Lisha’s mouth hung open in shock. She stared at Kayla, who had stopped rubbing Rowan’s back. “Rowan…,” the yellow-gold Aisha struggled to find the words. “There’s only one kind of magic that does those things.”

     “Elder magic,” Kayla added. “But some rightfully call it dark magic.”

     “I don’t know what that is,” Rowan said. He sniffed as more tears fell. “Tell me about it later. I’m not done.”

     Kayla’s hand squeezed his left hand again.

     “Thanks, Fizzy,” he added. He inhaled deeply. “I don’t physically remember this next part. Father told me.”

     Sir Hugo inhaled deeply as he rose. His eldest son had become powerful. Too powerful. He cried silently as he gathered the unconscious Rowan in his arms. “He is no son of mine,” he mumbled to himself. He screwed his eyes shut. If that were true, why does it hurt so much?

     You know why, his conscience supplied. You already said why while you were arguing with him.

     Sir Hugo nodded and hung his head. His tears fell faster. Tristan, my son. My son! His crying turned to sobbing as he carried Rowan to his room and placed him gently in bed.

     The older Blumaroo stared at Tristan’s closed door through blurry eyes, “Tristan?”

     No answer.

     “Tristan? Son?”

     Still no answer.

     Sir Hugo felt a knot in his stomach. Something was wrong.

     “Tristan, I’m coming in! Stand back!” He kicked open the door. To his horror, Tristan wasn’t in his room. The bedroom window was ajar. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. Sir Hugo stuck his head out, only to see a crudely made rope of bed sheets leading to the ground.

     His blood ran cold. He grabbed the lockbox from the top of Tristan’s bookshelf. The books were gone. Tristan was gone.

     “Rowan…,” Lisha began. “I can’t even imagine…” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t have any words.”

     Jeran sighed, “Neither do I. Any words would be trite; they would bring little comfort.”

     Rowan hung his head, “Yeah… Thanks, Jeran. Thanks, Lisha.” The little Green Ogrin raised his head to look at Kayla, who was still holding his hand, “Thanks Kayla.”

     The Red Zafara nodded, her deep-blue wizard’s hat swaying, “Of course.”

     Rowan yawned, “I’m tired…”

     Jeran placed a hand on his squire’s right shoulder, “I’ll get Sir Percival. He’ll escort you back to the guest room.”

     Rowan only nodded.

To be continued…