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shook his head slightly. “I asked Jimmy not to tell me what he had in mind.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I just requested he somehow impress upon you that there are serious consequences to not doing what is required of you.”
    Erland nodded. Borric said, “Well, it is not entirely unexpected. You did order us directly home and we did stop to play a bit before coming to the palace.”
    “Play …” Arutha said, his eyes searching his eldest son’s face. “… I’m afraid there will be little time for play in the future.”
    He motioned for the boys to approach and they came to him. He turned back into his study and they followed as he moved past his large writing table. Behind it was a special alcove, hidden by a clever locked stone, which he opened. He withdrew a parchment bearing the royal family crest and handed it to Borric. “Read the third paragraph.”
    Borric read and his eyes widened. “This is sad news, indeed.”
    Erland said, “What is it?”
    “A message from Lyam,” Arutha said.
    Borric handed it to his brother. “The royal chirurgeons and priests are certain the Queen will have no more children. There will not be a Royal Heir in Rillanon.”
    Arutha moved to a door at the back of the royal chambers and said, “Come with me.”
    He opened the door and moved up a flight of stairs. His sons followed quickly after, and soon all three stood on the top of an old tower, near the center of the royal palace, overlooking the city of Krondor. Arutha spoke without looking to see if his sons had followed.
    “When I was about your age, I used to stand upon the parapets of the barbican of my father’s castle. I would look down over the town of Crydee and the harbor beyond. Such a small place, but so large in my memory.”
    He glanced at Borric and Erland. “Your grandfather did much the same when he was a boy, or so our old Swordmaster, Fannon, once told me.” Arutha spent a moment lost in memory. “I was about your age when command of the garrison fell to me, boys.” Both sons had heard tales of the Riftwar and their father’s part in it, but this wasn’t the same sort of old stories they had heard swapped by their father and their uncle, Laurie, or Admiral Trask over dinner.
    Arutha turned and sat in one of the merlons and said, “I never wanted to be Prince of Krondor, Borric.” Erland moved to sit in the merlon next to his father, as he sensed that Arutha’s words were more for his older brother than himself. They had both heard often enough that their father had no wish to rule. “When I was a boy,” Arutha continued, “I had no larger desire than to serve as a soldier, perhaps with the border lords.”
    “It wasn’t until I met the old Baron Highcastle that I realized that boyhood dreams are often with us as adults. They are difficult to be shed of, and yet, to see things as they really are, we must lose that child’s eye view of things.”
    He scanned the horizon. Their father had always been a direct man, given to direct speech and never at a loss for words to express himself. But he was obviously havingdifficulty saying what was on his mind. “Borric, when you were much younger, what did you think your life would be like now?”
    Borric glanced over at Erland, then back at his father. A light breeze sprang up and his thick, ill-cut mane of reddish brown hair blew about his face. “I never gave it much thought, Father.”
    Arutha sighed. “I think I have made a terrible mistake in the manner in which you were raised. When you were both very tiny you were very mischievous and upon one occasion upset me—it was a little thing, a spilled inkwell, but a long parchment was ruined and a scribe’s work for a day was lost. I swatted you upon the bottom, Borric.” The elder brother grinned at the image. Arutha did not return the grin. “Anita made me promise that day that never again would I touch either one of you in anger. By doing so, I think I have coddled you and ill prepared