Author Note: This is more of a prologue, if you will. The "real" first chapter will be published on April 21st, as promised.


Royal Summons

A man spied the puffs of smoke rising from the chimney of the Adventurer's Guild over the tree line on the mountainside and sighed heavily. Grudgingly trudging toward the structure, he rapped upon the door with his knuckles in the agreed upon pattern and Marlon's voice bid him entry. The guild was warm, though slightly smoky from Marlon's poor timing, when he closed the damper too long to create his smoke signal.

The skinned bear on the floor always made him uncomfortable. He actually liked bears himself, but Marlon always insisted on ridding the area of any potential dangers – just as the monster slayer had done so many years ago with the enormous, venomous snakes that dwelled at the bottom of the local mines. Ironically, Marlon's greatest injury occurred after his resignation.

Immediately falling to one knee in a sign of respect - though with some difficulty with his injured leg - Marlon greeted his guest. "Your Royal Highness, King Gu-"

The visitor stopped him with the silent raise of his hand and sat himself at the round table just beyond the entrance of the guild. "I am no longer royalty in this country, Marlon. You of all people should know that," he scolded. Frowning, he asked the eye-patched man to stand and address him informally with his common name. Shaking his head vigorously, the warrior refused.

"I could not possibly, Your Highness," Marlon insisted fervently, though he did slowly rise to his feet again and joined his invitee at the table. "Even after your abdication of the throne, it would be improper as your Captain of the Guard to address you so casually." Gil did not move from his rocking chair by the hearth as his snoring could be heard over the crackling of the flames.

"You did not have to follow me into retirement, you stubborn goat," the ex-royal growled in annoyance. "I purposefully chose to live where no one would know my identity, Marlon. I want to be left in peace!" Before Marlon could utter an apology, his former king interrupted, his eyes shining in the warm glow of the hearth. "Now what did you want to discuss?"

The adventurer squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "The old rumor that your brother fathered a child before his passing has surfaced again, Your -" the scarred man stopped himself before the previous monarch could correct him. He renewed his efforts to get his point across without bureaucracies. "The gossip only started to really take root in the social circles of the previous aristocracy when a few servants in a well-established House claimed to overhear their employer threatening divorce after he questioned the parentage of his wife's first-born."

Scoffing, the man shook his head. "There have been countless, baseless rumors such as this ever since I announced my abdication. All these people wanted to do was attempt to persuade me to transfer power directly, rather than insist the nation be governed as a republic."

Marlon nodded in agreement. "Yes, that may be true, sir," this time making sure not to address His Majesty in a bothersome way. "But this particular servant was able to produce evidence." The former Captain slid a small, intricately carved wooden box over the tabletop toward his present company.

The man accepted the container and flipped the ornate clasp to open the tiny chest. "Letters?" his low voice uttered questioningly. He took the top sample of correspondence to examine the handwriting. Such neat, elegant strokes matched his brother's style exactly. It had been decades since he last saw Lothaire's handwriting, but it could be no one else who wrote in this style.

Discreetly rubbing his bad leg, Marlon nodded, "Love letters, sir. From your brother to a young lady." His gaze shifted uncomfortably away from his liege and his cheeks flushed from awkwardness. "Some of them are quite… detailed."

"Yes, he did have an irritating habit of referring to his manhood as a 'growing boy.'" The visitor grumbled as his eyes danced back and forth, reading the lines of text. "It is clear from these notes that their relationship had a rather… sexual nature," he conceded in disgust, putting his brother's flirtations lightly. "Though from the more heartfelt sections, it seems Lothaire was quite enamored with this…" he glanced at the signature on the letters addressed to his ex-heir. "Janelle Allard."

"That name rings a bell for some reason, don't you think, sir?"

"Yes, it does sound familiar, even if I can't remember anything important about House Allard." The country's final monarch scowled. "And these letters appear to be genuine…"

Marlon made his case. "All the former nobles will be in attendance for the Montmorency wedding at the end of the year. That may be a good time to investigate the rumors, but I worry someone else might discover the heir's identity if we delay our search so long."

The Captain of the Guard's eyes glanced up at his guest. The dedicated protector looked positively desperate for an official assignment. The man resigned with an audible exhale. "If you insist on still working for me, you may as well look into it," the gentleman acknowledged. "I would hate for those vultures to try and pull my yet-to-be-discovered niece or nephew into their messy games."

Marlon sprang to his feet, knocking his stool into the barrel behind him, and saluted his ex-employer seated before him. "Aye, sir! I will send correspondence to my informants at once!" The grey-haired man quickly hobbled to the backroom to retrieve supplies to write a letter and with Gil still sound asleep in his rocking chair, Marlon's guest took the opportunity to escape back into the night.

"I thought my tainted royal bloodline would end with me," he griped with disappointment. "But maybe there's still hope that this is all another attempt to scam those bird-brained idiots in the capital." Though in his gut, the former king doubted it. Lothaire always had the reputation, though his lover was always kept secret, even from his own brother. Now the ex-monarch had a name: Janelle Allard. The faces of at least half a dozen women flashed in his mind, but he could only match them with other, more easily recalled labels. He cursed, still trying to rack his brain as he arrived home and rested his head on his pillow. Why did a simple name rustle so many dusty cobwebs in the dark corners of his mind?