Merek's Ascendance by Andrew Lashway

it.
                  And that was just the outside.
                  As they passed under the archway that was huge enough on its own, Merek was in awe of what was inside the castle. An open courtyard greeted them, the people in it literally, as they passed by. There was a tree directly in the middle, a fully grown tree that’s leaves were turning in the autumn. Off to both the left and right were waterways, cycling water through the castle.
                  It was amazing.
                  “You look like you’ve never seen anything so amazing before.”
                  Merek realized Thorald was watching him, and he had forgotten to drop his customary blank look into place.
                  Then he realized he didn’t want to.
                  “I haven’t,” he replied.
                  “Welcome to Castle Wentana.”
                  The cart pulled to a stop, and the pair disembarked. Word of their approach must have spread, because there was practically an entire host of people waiting for Thorald. Merek hung back with the driver, absently petting the horse.
                  Without a word of greeting, Thorald held up his hand, palm open. Almost immediately, a bag flew to meet it. The two met with a resounding clap, and Merek could hear the jingle of coins.
                  “Thank you, Father,” Thorald said, bowing his head. Merek followed his gaze back to the thrower, and his jaw dropped. The man was draped in rich, purple and white robes with graying hair and a goatee that matched his sons. He also wore a crown on his head that was made of gold, simply a band that wrapped around his head.
                  Even Merek had heard stories of this person.
                  It was Wentana’s High King, King Tyrigg. Which, unless Merek was terribly wrong, made Thorald the prince.
                  Merek slid his mask of blankness on in order to buy himself time to think. If Thorald was the prince, what would happen to him? He had hardly expressed good manners. He hadn’t acted as a barbarian, but wasn’t he supposed to bow? Say ‘sir’ all the time? Never speak out of turn? The self-professed king of Merek’s old life certainly seemed to think so…
                  “And who is your friend?” the deep voice of the king said, strong enough yet quiet enough to break into Merek’s thoughts without even trying.
                  “This father,” Thorald replied, “is Merek. He rescued me from the Eastern Plains. And… I’m sorry to report no one else survived. A bridge gave out and we fell… Grevin died to spare me, Father.”
                  “They will be given a proper funeral,” the King replied immediately. “Where are their bodies?”
                  “In a ravine in the plains… it will be quite the task to get home.”
                  “A task we shall rise to,” King Tyrigg replied, placing a hand on his son’s arm. “I am just glad you have returned my son, though I too wish it were under better circumstances. But you have found someone to help ease the burden. Come forth, Merek.”
                  Merek did as he was told, hoping his nervousness wasn’t blankly obvious.
                  “So, you saved my son’s life.”
                  “Yes, sir,” was all Merek could reply.
                  “And for that, I thank you. What would you name as reward?”
                  Merek took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of his nerve. “Just a hot meal, sir. And perhaps a bed to rest the night.”
                  There was laughter from the onlookers, but the King new very well that Merek wasn’t joking. A half smile crept up his face, a smile of approval.
                  “He’s not