Simon Blackfyre and the Enemy Within

by A J Callen

  Niclas pulled the down-filled blanket to his chin and closed his dry, leaden eyes. Clever, and with a compassionate soul even more flawless than her beauty, Juliana, above all, deserved to know the unspeakable truth of what he had discovered—though he had no illusions that she would ever believe a single word from his lips again.

  Chapter 7

  An Uncertain Alliance

  Farrhaven’s Great Hall resounded with tumultuous laughter and applause. All in attendance raised their cups to Lord Lionsbury in appreciation for hosting a banquet in honor of the four visiting patriarchs of the competing noble families.

  As the colorfully-attired troubadours played a brisk saltarello, Simon and his friends marveled at the extravagant, acrobatic dancing filled with the high leaps and kicks of the jongleurs. The agile entertainers, standing on one foot, could easily balance a friend standing atop their head—indeed, with just the same ease as they could a hold a still pose with stack of dishes and cups while juggling crystal goblets. It was a spectacle.

  Simon clapped and whistled. “They’re amazing. He didn’t drop a single glass. Do you think they can teach us how to do that?”

  Rachel tilted her head back and balanced a butter knife on the tip of her nose. “Why not? We can all run away and join a traveling carnival when the rites are over.”

  The knife fell toward the floor and was quickly snatched out of the air by Lord Lionsbury as he passed by the Evermere table. “I would hope, Miss Fallbrook, that given our present situation, you will pursue an occupation more befitting your skills and intelligence as a protector of the realm. Although you are free to choose, I have no doubt that our new King will be of the same opinion. What say you Penvro?”

  Lord Penvro Strathwald of Aidondell’s gaunt face strained in a sanguine mask of congeniality. “I dare say you are correct, Ethan.” His dark eyes darted back toward his son, Robert, sitting half asleep at his table. “It is uncertain what the future holds, but I know that should providence smile upon my son and repay him for suffering through such an unholy ordeal, then he will gratefully turn to his trusted protectors for wise counsel and to select his personal guard when he is crowned King.”

  “As would I, my lord.” Marcus offered him a cup of wine. “We are all happy to see Robert take his rightful place at the table. Our father is looking forward to speaking with you when he returns from his tour of Farrhaven with Mister Byrch.”

  “Yes, of course, Marcus, and thank you.” He raised the cup to his son’s rival and his brothers. “Given the unnatural events of late, I am more convinced now of the need for Lord Delcarden’s plan to fortify Avidene’s aging battlements… and to raise more soldiers, of course, though I fear the proposal will die with him.”

  “Then let us speak in confidence.” Lord Lionsbury guided his friend toward the empty floor near the rear wall. “We are all saddened by Lord Delcarden’s misfortune but Niclas is made of stronger stuff than any man I know. He has survived much tragedy since that terrible night and we should not mourn him so quickly. If the worst should come to pass, I will gladly take up his cause and use all the influence at my disposal to convince the Council.”

  Rachel and the Evermere brothers remained captivated by the entertaining feats at the front of the hall, yet Simon had lost interest, absorbed as he was now in the troubling conversation between the two lords. Since the initiation night, his hearing had become sharper with each passing day and he did not have to strain or move closer and risk being caught eavesdropping.

  Lord Aidondell’s head nodded and bobbed gravely.

  “Should it come to that, I will support you in this endeavor though our greatest obstacle remains his Eminence. High Priest Worlaw has already dismissed the creature that attacked Farrhaven as some previously rare, unknown beast disturbed from its slumbers deep in a mountain cave. His explanations are comfortable for our people to accept and not vexing on the mind and soul.”

  “And what of Lord Maydestone?”

  “He is still undecided, though the pressure from Lord Coranthium and his allies weighs heavily against him.”

  “All the more reason why Niclas must survive. We should all worry what will happen if the High Priest replaces him on the Triumvirate.”

  Simon had never seen the High Priest nor knew little of him except that his reputation filled many with a distinct and creeping unease. Whyever should these lords be fearful? The Holy Seer is kind and generous. Is it not the same for all those who serve her?

  Lord Aidondell rubbed his haggard jaw. “There was a particularly bloody incident outside of Bataivah less than a fortnight ago. With every town under threat of slave revolt, we must tread cautiously lest we be accused of inciting unwarranted fear in the populace. As the ruling nobles, we must show our frightened people they can depend on us for protection from our common enemies.”

  Simon shook his head and cursed Robert’s father under his breath. If you think mobs of half-starved, unarmed slaves are your greatest threat, then God help us all if a real enemy attacks.

  Lord Lionsbury cleared his throat. “I will not deny there is a growing threat of insurrection, yet if our new King follows our advice, then all will be freemen—and slavery but a painful scar from the wars of a bygone age.”

  “I would not be so quick to change, my friend.” Lord Dowrick approached the nobles. “I share Lord Aidondell’s caution. Such a monumental undertaking, even if possible, carries enormous risk of inciting the very bloodshed you and Delcarden hope to avoid.”

  “Or perhaps, Aubert,” Lionsbury said as he filled his chalice from a decanter on the table, “They will incite widespread celebrations instead and become the crowning achievement that sets our way of life apart from the rest of this most barbaric world.”

  Simon raised his cup in a silent toast to his Lordship’s wise words.

  Lord Dowrick stretched forward to take a ripe plum from a glazed bowl. “Of course, Ethan, we can all hope for the best outcome, come what may, once our rightful King is crowned. What say you, Penvro?”

  “Without a doubt. That is what makes us superior to the uncivilized hordes.” Lord Aidondell pointed to the old painting of King Sibert Evermere, hanging on the wall over their heads. “We understand and respect the natural order of life in a harsh, unforgiving world. That inspires our willingness to triumph over adversity, no matter what the cost.”

  “You should speak with High Priest Worlaw on your return to Avidene,” said Dowrick, nodding, “For I am certain he can allay your fears and offer sage advice on the most prudent course of action in the challenging times ahead.”

  Lord Lionsbury clenched the pewter cup, his muscles tensing, something Simon sensed whenever his Lordship heard Worlaw’s name being uttered. “As long as that Council is balanced by other opinions so that a man may draw his own conclusions. My advice may not be as comforting but is closer to the truth.”

  Lord Dowrick bit into his plum. “None disputes the strange occurrences of late, Ethan, but just because something is, for the moment, unexplained, does not make it unnatural… or unholy.” He licked his fingers noisily.

  “Indeed, sir… Only to those who refuse to entertain the terrifying possibility of those not being the explanations, my good Lord Dowrick.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” insisted Lord Aidondell, raising his hands. “Let us not cast aspersions on the noble character of our peers.” He scratched his grizzled chin with his thumb. “You have both given me much to dwell upon, my good lords. I only wish the Holy Seer was feeling stronger so that she could have joined us.”

  “The Holy Seer has secluded herself at her own behest, and studies the old texts,” Lord Lionsbury informed him. “She believes there is more buried in those crumpling parchments than dust and mites… and precious little time to unearth it.”

  “Then I pray she uncovers the answers that will help my wife and myself sleep more soundly. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to enjoy the rest of the evening with my son.”

  Lord Dowrick bowed in re
spect. “Of course, Penvro, and again we are overjoyed to see Robert recovered and seated at his rightful table.” His cordial expression strained lines across his temples. He turned to Lord Lionsbury. “I will speak with Mister Kovoth about adding extra men to the night guard.” He strode toward the rear entrance of the Great Hall.

  Lionsbury remained, seeming transfixed by the fading portrait of King Sibert Evermere, the first King of Miradora.

  Simon stepped closer. Each time he looked upon the painting, he was struck by the ghostly pallor of the man’s skin which time alone could not have faded to such a degree. The King’s inexplicable, haunting stare seemed to follow any unlucky soul who gazed upon it for more than a fleeting glance. Simon looked back at the jugglers, wondering; did his Lordship see the same unnatural torment in Simon’s own eyes?

  Marcus joined Lord Lionsbury. “I often wonder what my ancestor would have done in the same situation.”

  Simon’s ears perked up again.

  “The scrolls make no mention of such a difficulty,” his Lordship answered. “Your ancestor’s rule was—well if we are to believe the accounts related to us—a most peaceful and exceedingly uneventful one after the Kingdom was established.”

  “Then why does he look as though he’s staring down into his own grave?”

  “Why, indeed, Marcus. Our puzzling history remains silent on many subjects.”

  A raucous applause filled the hall at the conclusion of the acrobatic and juggling displays. The jongleurs cleared the floor in preparation for dancing. Lord Dowrick was discussing a private matter with Lord Aidondell in the far corner just out of earshot, while Lady Bellemar and Lord Baerston Mor enjoyed each other’s company, exchanging humorous stories over a bottle of fine claret.

  Marcus rejoined his brothers for a game of Nine Men’s Morris. “Come, you two. We need five to play.”

  Simon sat down next to Rachel. Across the hall, he noticed Byrch motioning toward Lord Lionsbury to join him near the minstrels.

  Lord Lionsbury politely jostled his way up to his red-faced friend. “What is the matter, Byrch? Did Lord Baerston Mor not enjoy his tour?”

  “No, your Lordship. That is to say, yes; he enjoyed it very much. He’s speaking with Lady Bellemar at the moment.” He looked around the Great Hall in earnest as though searching for someone. “Did Goran’s father speak with you before he departed?”

  “Yes. Regrettably. He declined to stay, as did Lord Coranthium, though after the incident with Marcus’s father I am not displeased with either decision.”

  “Aye, my lord, and we’re all the better for it. We don’t need the likes of another Tiberion spoiling the song.”

  “Song? Are you that deep into your cups already? You must give us fair warning first, Byrch. I insist.”

  Simon couldn’t help but laugh. Byrch’s befuddled face grew a shade redder. “My lord, Dominique Velizar. She insists her father explained her intentions to you before his departure.”

  “Odd. Neither Lord Tel-Sharduk nor a monk from the Holy Seer discussed any of this with me.”

  “She claims she is fully recovered and insists on taking her rightful place by her brother’s side. She wishes to sing a song in honor of the protectors and the rites.”

  “Does she now?”

  “Is there a problem, my lord? Do you wish me to ask her to join us at another time?”

  Lord Lionsbury chuckled and drank his glass clear of the ever-flowing red. “Of course not. If Dominique should choose to make her appearance this evening, then we are all most eager for her to join us in our celebration.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Mr. Byrch faced the banquet and, raising his massive hands, bellowed. “My ladies and lords, protectors one and all, may I command your attention, please? On this joyful occasion, we are honored to finally have Dominique Velizar join us at her brother’s table. Please join me in welcoming her to the Rites of Succession as a worthy challenger and fellow protector of our mighty realm.”

  All rose to their feet and applauded vigorously, Goran loudest of all.

  Simon nudged Jack. “Is she really his sister?”

  “The last time I saw Dominique, we were both but children playing in our custard-stained tunics. Is it not truly a miracle that time can work such wondrous magic?”

  An enchanting, red-haired woman—her long, shoulder-length tresses flowing in natural waves down the front of her dark purple gown—stood in front of the troubadours. From across the Great Hall, her gaze never left Simon’s and seemed to hold him there with such intensity that he trembled from the tumultuous rush of sensations.

  There was a pause while the troubadours looked to Lord Lionsbury for a signal. His Lordship nodded and the fiddler counted in the song with his bow.

  The band started playing the haunting refrain of a song Simon had not heard since he was a child. Dominique’s clear, plaintive voice resonated off the marble floor in the hushed silence of the Great Hall.

  “Northern wind, how cruel thou blow. My blood ice-cold as rain. My love no more in my arms to hold and never to kiss again.”

  It was a mellow but mournful song from another time, a song for loves long lost and buried in the ground. It seemed to be from another world only existing in the fleeting gossamer strands of Simon’s dream… and in the face of a much younger girl, a child without a name. And for its sweet backdrop, the torches and candles flickered in the night breeze flowing in through the open windows.

  Everywhere, the air was scented with the wistful magic of the stars. Dominique let her last note echo, leaving it hanging there in the space between them so that Simon fancied he might pluck it from the ether for a keepsake.

  Lord Lionsbury turned away and wiped the corner of his eye.

  Dominique bowed to thundering applause and looked to her brother.

  Goran rushed forward and hugged his beaming sister. Together, they faced the banquet and Goran raised Dominique’s hand in a sign of victory for the Velizar family.

  Simon clapped louder. “His Lordship was much taken by her song. She has the voice of a nightingale.”

  Rachel frowned. “It’s pleasant enough, I’ll grant you that. Goran looks surprised, though? Maybe he wasn’t expecting to see her tonight.”

  Callor and Elric careened their way over to the Evermere table. “We saw how you were looking at her, Blackfyre. The voice of an angel, a real angel, am I right?” Callor raised his wine cup toward her with a soused smirk. “That woman, no—goddess—will have every young lord who would be King at her feet after tonight. You had better get in early, young Blackfyre.” Simon looked back toward Dominique, wistfully.

  Dominique kissed her brother on the cheek then turned and darted behind the embroidered tapestry at the back of the troubadours.

  The protectors roared and shouted, “More, more!” The fiddler stepped to the edge of the tapestry, lifted the fabric, and peered behind it. He dropped the corner and shook his head.

  Callor chuckled and slapped Simon roughly on the shoulder. “Seems your songbird has flown away.”

  Rachel tossed a grape at Callor and hit him in the cheek. “She is wise to rest and save her strength. If she can compete as powerfully as she sings, then Dominique and her brother will help us all make short work of your ambitions, my undeserving young lord.”

  Callor gulped his ruby refreshment as if he had no time to spare. “Your unbridled mouth is one of the great appeals of your charm, my dear. The strength of the Velizars must be reckoned with, but I wonder… you aren’t jealous, perchance? I mean, now that you must prove to be a more enticing commoner than a natural beauty of true noble birth…” He leered and leaned in closer so all could smell the reek of drink on his breath. “What say you? Jealous, or merely stupid enough to utter such banal words?”

  Rachel spun on her heel, eyes tight and narrowed toward her adversary, one hand lowered and clenched in a fist. “Callor Tiberion; if you were not the noble son of a lord, I would fairly strike you like the unmuzzled, ill-bred mongrel that yo
u are.”

  For a moment, there was a tense silence. Elric looked uneasily at his young lord.

  Callor jerked his head back and roared with laughter, shoving his obedient vassal in the chest. “Well, what do you think, Marcus?”

  He threw his arms over his rival’s shoulder and slurred into his ear in a drunken, slobberingly-wet whisper. The droplets of recently-imbibed wine spat out upon the rival’s cheek, staining it with a fine spray of red spots. Callor’s rubbery, glistening lips wobbled.

  “The fiery, strong-willed Rachel Fallbrook, the apothecary’s daughter, or Goran Velizar’s pure blooded and bewitching sister?” he asked. “Which would make the most exquisite Queen? I shall have to give my considerable thought… if Dominique can use that pretty mouth for more than tempting me with her siren’s song?”

  Simon tossed the dice. “I’m certain Goran would like to hear your high opinion of his sister. Should I call him over so you can repeat that to his face?”

  Rachel and the Evermere brothers laughed.

  Callor’s inebriated, boyish face hardened. He lowered his lids and raked Simon with a threatening stare. “Enjoy your freedom to mock me while you can, for when you next address your King, you will find a gaping, oozing hole in place of your loose tongue.”

  Marcus shoved him away. “Get back to your table, you drunken bastard.”

  Callor and Elric snickered, exchanging lewd suggestions as they stumbled back to their table. Marcus patted Simon on the back. “Well done.”

  Simon drew a deep and nervous breath; he had criticized a young lord, possibly the future King, without a concern for his ensuing punishment — or worse — that he could receive once the rites were over. Yet, he knew that day was fast approaching as was the decision he had to make. If I plan well and choose my opportunity, I know I can escape across the frontier and never be found again.