Under the High King
© 10.03.08 by Elisa Williams

When a Locor dies, his student takes charge. I have seen children of nine wrap the burial cloth around their mentor’s head and turn, dry eyed, to command their troops. I would stand watching; hating and admiring as warriors followed the command of a child as if he were already their king and not still the Frediach, their king in waiting.

A Frediach is chosen at seven. For the next fifteen years he is under the training of his Locor, his upbringing a strange melding of cruelty and lavish attention, his life always protected, first by his teacher.

A Locor always rides a pace ahead and to the left of his student, ready to protect him from danger. A Frediach is never without his Locor–his Locor, both infinitely important and entirely insignificant. He has the responsibility of training a king but his life is considered of no moment when his Frediach is threatened.



It was a blinding-bright day late in the Autumn, the stag moon having already waxed and waned and a new moon beginning to turn. The ground had frozen during the night and a heavy frost coated the naked trees and tall field grass. The horses hooves sounded hollowly in the ground and white clouds of vapor blew past the frosted hairs on their muzzles.

The little sorrel mare I rode had a habit of tossing her head high at the least tightening of the reins. Spoiled, I thought, by an incompetent Frediach. She had been in a string of horses we’d picked in Palmerloft, passed over because of her many irritating habits. Of course, she had fallen to me.

“Bloody stupid horse,” I murmured soothingly, keeping all malic from my tone, laying a quieting hand on her neck. She flung her head, bridle bit ringing. I stayed still, waiting for her to settle, letting her pick up the pace to catch the other horses, head bobbing, blowing through her nose.

We were passing through marshy ground, cattails spiked with heavy frost not yet melted, their heads bursting like fat cushions of feather down. As always I rode behind the Locor and his student, slightly to the side, staying out of the way. I could watch everything they did and hear any conversation. The Frediach’s guards flanked their charge, far enough away to leave the Locor and his student in privacy, close enough to intercept any attack. The rest of the entourage strung out behind us in relaxed lines.

I left the silly little mare to find her own way over the hard ground, glad for the warmth of the sun finally burning though my clothes. To our left a flock of pheasants started from the sheltering grass with thrumming wing beats. There was the crisp smell of autumn: dried grass, cold soil, decaying leaves.

“…another twenty miles. Here, you show me.” The Locor was speaking to his Frediach. I didn’t have to look up to see that they were studying the maps again. I could picture in my mind the look of concentration on Lynd’s face as he traced our rout and gauged distance, studying the terrain shown in pin pricks of ink and wavering lines. I knew exactly the cool tone of the Locor’s voice, thawing like frost under a summer sun when Lynd finally got something right. Lynd would look up, triumphant in his puny accomplishment and Gerandal would nod approval. Approval that should have been mine.

I looked up, scanning the hills and their naked trees, squinting against the bright glare. It was a scene so familiar I could feel and taste it. I had spent almost my entire life riding with a Locor and his Frediach. I had followed Gerandal for nine years; had been with him on the day he met Lynd, his Frediach. The future king of Sarmanach.

I had been seven years of age, doing my best to look calm and mature, my stomach knotted with uncertainly and my legs sore from hours of hard riding, when I first met Gerandal. The man hired to take me to catch the Locor and his party had hailed them in a loud bellow, waving his arm toward me to bespeak his mission in coming. Gerandal had wheeled his horse and come back along the road to meet us, followed by two others–guards going to serve the new Frediach.

My guide was in a hurry to get away. “This is Killian, Locorat.” Locor in training.

Gerandal looked at me, his eyes intent; examining me, for what I knew not. “Hello Killian. You have chosen a hard path; but a noble one as well.” He smiled, a ghost of a smile and nodded to me. I stared, my good manners forgotten. Chosen? I had chosen nothing. Does a child of five know what path his feet have been set to?

But before I could reply Gerandal had turned and headed back up the road, plumes of dust shimmering in the setting sun. My guide prodded me into motion and I urged my horse to follow the retreating Locor, choking on a polite reply. “Die well,” the guide called to us, which is to say, have good fortune. I caught up with the group, hurrying on their way to join with the new Frediach. I did not try to speak. I knew I would not be answered. The few words Gerandal gave me in greeting was all I would ever get from him.

My horse stumbled, buck-jumping her way through the thawing mud, breaking the thin sheen of iced over puddles, shaking me from my daydream. The bitter memories left me staring at Lynd’s broad back, well clothed in crimson wool. He was rolling the vellum map in his lean hands, sliding it back into the hard skin case. Lynd, who was to be the next king of Sarmanach, to rule under the High King. And me, who would be given a Frediach to train and devote my life to. We could have traded places so easily.

I turned the mare with a firm hand and steady leg. She bobbed her head, not liking to go but she was learning that I was a masterful rider. I nudged her into a canter away from the other riders, moving parallel as I worked my way toward higher ground. No one called for me to stay close, as I knew they wouldn’t. It was a lesson I’d learned young after nearly being left behind when I’d stopped to relieve myself and become confused trying to catch up with the group. A Locorat learned quickly to take care of himself.

I stopped the mare in a grove of trees, listening to the sounds of the autumn forest. In the ragged shade the ground was still covered in frost, dead leaves like curled fists. I heard the sound of the Frediach’s entourage passing, the sound of horses and distant words. Sun glinted off metal. I pointed the mare up the hill and she obeyed, easier to handle now she was away from her fellows. The crest of the hill offered a fine view over the rolling ground. The belt of trees along the ridge obscured my sight of the caravan, passing below me, but I could still hear the sounds distantly. I wished I could not.

TO BE CONTINUED