“Indeed, you are the artist. Forgive my doubt, but I seldom see such skill in a Tírfaie of your age.”
“You think they’re good?”
The ’faie picked up the horse charm. “This is very nice. You wisely kept the lines simple, suggesting detail rather than cluttering the little body up with it. One can feel the beast’s vitality in the stretch of the neck and the way you’ve positioned the legs, as if it is running. Lesser artisans would leave the legs straight, like a cow’s. Yes, it is a fine little piece. But this one!” He picked up the brooch and cradled it in the hollow of his palm. “This shows more than skill. You were sad when you made this. Homesick, perhaps?”
Tobin nodded, speechless.
Tyral took Tobin’s right hand and examined the fingers and palm the same way he’d looked at the brooch. “You train to be a warrior, but you were born to be an artist, a maker of things. Do they train you for that as well, up there on the hill?”
“No, it’s just something I do. My mother made things, too.”
“She gave you a great gift, then, Prince Tobin. One perhaps you have not been taught to value as you should. The Lightbearer has put skill in these rough young hands of yours.” He sat back and sighed. “Your family is renowned for their prowess in battle, but I will tell you a true thing. With such hands as these, you will always be happier creating than you ever will be destroying. I am not flattering you or currying favor when I say that if you were a common boy rather than a prince, I would invite you to work here with me. I’ve never said that to any Tírfaie, either.”
Tobin looked around at the workbenches, with their rouge stones, crucibles, and racks of scarred mallets, tiny hammers, dies, and files.
Tyral smiled sadly, reading the longing in his eyes. “We do not choose our births, do we? It would not be seemly for a prince of Skala to become a common craftsman. But you will find ways, I think. Come see me whenever you like and I will give you what help I can.”
The jeweler’s words stayed with Tobin for a long time afterward. It was true that he couldn’t sell his work like a common craftsman, but he could keep on as he had, making gifts. He made charms and cloak pins decorated with animal heads and gems for his friends. Nikides commissioned an emerald ring for his grandfather’s birthday and Hylus was so pleased with it he was never seen without it again. Word spread and soon commissions were coming in from other nobles, who brought him gold and gems to work with. Apparently, as Ki observed, Tobin could work for his own kind.
When Porion allowed them the occasional day off, Korin took the younger boys around to his new favorite haunts: taverns where pretty girls in low-cut bodices were quick to sit on the older boys’ laps and to pet and coo over the younger ones. Actress and actors welcomed them backstage at the finest theaters, and merchants in the richer districts always seemed to have some special items held back just for them.
Now and then—usually when Korin had been drinking, as Ki was quick to note—he even brought the younger ones along on his nocturnal rambles. This required giving Master Porion the slip, but that was part of the fun. On frosty moonlit nights they played catch-me through the crooked streets, then headed down to some of the meanest waterfront neighborhoods. Even in the dead of winter these streets stank of shit and dead dogs, and the wine in the filthy taverns was vile. Yet Korin seemed happier here than anywhere else, bawling drunkenly along with raw-throated minstrels or elbowing in beside sailors, dock-hands, and less savory fellows to watch a street fight or a bear baiting.
The older boys were already well-known in such places, and Korin was greeted as “young Lord No-Name” with knowing winks and nods. More than once the older boys left the others waiting on some cold unlit street corner while they had their whores against alley walls. Of all the older boys, only Lynx refused to join in these unsavory revels. Waiting in the cold with Tobin and the others, listening to the yelps and grunts that echoed out, he often looked downright ill. Barieus hovered near him, anxious to offer comfort, but Lynx took no notice.
“I don’t understand it!” Ki exclaimed in disgust as they rode home on their own one night. “Those lowborn sailors and whores would knife their own mothers for one night in a decent house, but these spoiled young blades roll downhill like horse turds into places even my brothers wouldn’t even set a toe in. They wallow in it like pigs and Korin is the worst of ’em. I’m sorry, Tobin, but it’s true and you know it. He’s our leader and he sets the tone. I wish Caliel would talk sense into him.” They both knew that wasn’t likely to happen.
It wasn’t all gutter crawling, though. Invitations arrived daily to parties, bonfires, and hunts. Creamy scrolls written in colored inks piled up like fallen leaves in the Companions’ mess. The Companions had always been much sought-after guests in the king’s absence, and were all the more so now that Korin was nearing marriageable age.
The prince was not one to turn down invitations. Fifteen, and already man-grown with a fine new beard on his chin, Korin drew admiring stares wherever he went. His hair hung in a mane of black ringlets around his shoulders, framing a square, handsome face and flashing dark eyes. He knew how to make women of any age melt with a smile or a kiss on the hand; girls gathered around him like cats to cream while their mothers hovered anxiously, hoping for some sign of favor.
Those with younger daughters began to cast their eyes in Tobin’s direction, as well, much to his friends’ envious amusement and Tobin’s secret dismay. He was rich, after all, and of the best family in Skala. Twelve was not too young to consider a contracted union. The shy glances of the girls and their mothers’ naked appraisal made Tobin cringe. Even if he had been who they imagined him to be, he doubted he’d have welcomed such predatory looks. After the obligatory greetings with their hosts of the evening, he quickly sought out a corner in which to hide.
Ki, on the other hand, took to the life like a duck to water. His good looks and easy, laughing manner attracted attentions he was more than happy to return. He even took to dancing.
The other Companions teased Tobin about his shyness, but it was Arengil who at last found a way to put him more at ease.
In mid-Dostin Caliel’s mother, the Duchess Althia, hosted a ball in honor of her son’s sixteenth birthday at her villa near the Old Palace. It was a grand affair. The hall was lit with hundreds of wax tapers, tables groaned with food of the best sort, and two bands of minstrels played by turns for the bejeweled gathering.
Caliel’s younger sister Mina cajoled Tobin into a dance, and he embarrassed himself as usual, tripping over his feet and hers. As soon as the song ended he excused himself and took cover in a corner. Ki came over to keep him company, but Tobin could tell from the way he followed the dancers with his eyes, tapping his feet and drumming his hands on his knees in time to the music that he’d rather be out dancing.
“Go on, I don’t mind,” Tobin grumbled, as several pretty girls wandered past, making eyes at them.
Ki gave him a guilty grin. “No, that’s all right.”
Chancellor Hylus was speaking with Nikides nearby. Spying Tobin there, they came over.
“I’ve just been having the most interesting conversation with my grandson,” Hylus told Tobin. “It seems you’ve been badly overlooked.”
Tobin looked up in surprise. Hylus was smiling and Nikides looked very pleased with himself. “How do you mean, my lord?”
“Nothing’s been done about your heraldry, my prince! I should have noticed myself, but it was Nikides.” He pointed to the main entrance of the hall, where the banners of all the noble guests were displayed. Korin’s red occupied the highest pole, with Tobin’s blue just below it.
“You’ve every right to display your father’s banner, of course,” Nikides told him, as if Tobin would know what he was talking about. “But as a prince of the blood, you should incorporate your mother’s, as well. In a case such as yours, they could be combined.”