Simon Blackfyre and the Enemy Within

by A J Callen

  His determination had been awakened during his harrowing initiation into Soru Kentay and made resolute after surviving his encounter with Anthor Koldrin in the Corridor of Shadows. The freedom experienced since arriving at Farrhaven was something he refused to surrender. He would never be a slave again.

  The merry fiddler counted in the next song, a lilting waltz, a dance Simon always imagined was only heard behind gilded curtains in the Royal Hall of Gwendomir Palace. The young freemen from each table asked for the next dance from the woman seated in their company, waiting politely for her decision. Others, if bold enough, ventured to ask a young lady from another table, much to the disapproval of those opposing protectors.

  The serving staff also had permission to join in the dance but those like himself had to content themselves with playing dice and being mere onlookers, watching the others making merry upon the vast floor. Simon stood and stretched his legs.

  “I did not figure you for a man who found dice more interesting than dancing. Was I mistaken?” he heard in his ear; it was a familiar female voice.

  He turned with something of a start. Rachel stood a few inches from his face. “If I can tear you away from our gambling friends, then perhaps you might be inclined to ask a young lady to dance?” Rachel glanced back at the troubadours. “Or, are you waiting your chance to ask someone else? Am I not good enough?”

  “Well, I… I have never danced like that. It was never allowed.”

  “Well, then, consider it a part of your training. Do as they do and follow me.” Rachel stepped to the middle of the floor and raised her arms.

  Simon took a gentle hold of her slender waist and brought her body closer to his.

  “See? That wasn’t so difficult. Now, and-a-one and-a-two and-a …”

  Off they went in a flourish of graceful turns and swirling steps. Simon followed Rachel’s lead as though practicing a new two-person maneuver out in the field. He was astounded at his own unquestionable agility, as though his body had done this many times before. It was perplexing; his mind had no memory of being permitted such enjoyment.

  Rachel’s cheek’s flushed. “And you say you have never done this before? I do believe that to be an untruth,” she said, sweetly, looking up into his eyes. Her own shone with delight. “Look; see how the young lords are jealous! Now, are you telling me the truth, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, or do you toy with my intelligence? I have rarely had the pleasure of such impeccable steps with a gentleman.”

  He smiled, a slight redness flushing at his face, beginning at his chin and rising to the cheekbones. He was sure he must be all aglow; it was awkward to hear such kind compliments from a lady. He raised Rachel’s hand gently and they stepped in time together to the next sweet-sounding waltz. With every graceful turn around the marble floor, he would sneak a glance in the direction of the front door before returning to Rachel’s inviting face.

  “Ah, so you were waiting to ask another?” she asked. “I thought so.”

  “No. Not at all. Don’t be foolish. I’m enjoying this very much.”

  “But… Dominique may yet return. She seems to—”

  Simon cut down her words in midair. “Then let her rest. We’ll greet her tomorrow.” Simon appeared slightly irked to be questioned in this way. “Let us enjoy the dancing.”

  “Then why on earth do you keep looking back to the front door hoping she’ll walk through at any moment?” Rachel’s body moved slightly away, just a small touch, but enough to remove her bodily warmth from his own.

  Simon wanted to say something more but hesitated. For some unsettling reason he also could not explain, the sudden arrival of the beautiful and red-haired Dominique Velizar had rendered trite the unspoken words on his lips; then, conscious of his silence, he hurried to change the subject as the waltz concluded.

  “What do you think his Lordship will have us do tomorrow?” he whispered, leaning closer. But it was already too late. The stars in Rachel’s eyes had withdrawn to join the night, and the distance between their bodies seemed to expand with each gliding step until the last note sounded and she returned to the Evermere table. Then, the only remaining sound was the beating of his selfish, fool-born heart in his own ears.

  Well, damn those women for their impudent, yet ever-accurate perceptions!

  Chapter 8

  Savvy and Shrewd

  On the last day of summer, the vivid bloom of the rosebushes accented the bright pinks and yellows of the sienna marble columns of Maydestone, the Caerhope family’s immense stone mansion overlooking the glistening Rhobinian Sea.

  Juliana Caerhope fanned herself and sipped on an invigorating herbal tea on the main balcony overlooking the lush, colorful gardens leading toward the shore. She had scarcely slept but a few hours since her father received Trumak’s wonderful message late last evening. She refused to imagine the worst, though if the bloody fool had listened to her, he would never have tempted such fate in the first place—of that much, she felt sure.

  She gazed across the shining water brimming with fishing boats, observing as a trio of masted shipping vessels skimmed effortlessly across the gentle waves under a cloudless sky.

  To have left her like that without a word or a letter explaining his Council business on Kardi; no, she could not forgive him for that. She was only grateful he had spared her from weeping over his very grave.

  The heat had not lifted from the uncommonly humid night and Juliana was glad to have her hair pinned up in a small coiffure of intricate twists suiting her dollish curls.

  I will ask Master Ploegil how to prepare his superb healing broth in the infirmary kitchen, then arrange a visit once Niclas is feeling better… though I cannot seem too earnest for his recovery to any present.

  A few loose, long tendrils of hair brushed against the soft, blushing rose of her cheek.

  She covered her mouth with a silk napkin and stifled a yawn, feigning disinterest in the tiresome men arguing about the Rites of Succession and who should rightfully be crowned the next King. There was some talk about unconfirmed reports of a strange creature attacking and being killed at Farrhaven, but that depressing frontier garrison was too many leagues away to be of any consequence to life in Avidene.

  She wrapped a tendril of her bright auburn hair around her finger and stepped near the railing, closer to the conversation. Juliana was interested in one subject, as her father had instructed and kept a sharp ear open for the chance of overhearing any comment or important piece of information that could help their family’s shipping trade. She was eager to hear chattering opinions concerning Niclas’s fortification plans for the city battlements.

  Her father, Lord Algar Caerhope of Maydestone, resplendent in his best brocaded red coat and gold tunic, stepped beside her, pressing his prominent girth up tight against the metal railing. His paunch threatened to burst right through between the stanchions of fine ironwork; she imagined his fat stomach imbued with a pattern of deep, red stripes that the pressure would leave behind upon his belly fat.

  “Father, do not lean forward so. You shall end up looking like a grilled pig. And besides, see how the railings shift. You may fall to the ground and also squeal like a hog.”

  He laughed heartily, clutching onto his sides as if it hurt. “Oh, my word,” he laughed. “Oh, my word.” He eased his tremendous frame backward an inch, tapping his pipe on the top of the barrier and emptying out the fragrant-smelling Coltsfoot ashes. The railings still shook as if wondering whether to give way, but it was his mirth rattling them this time.

  “I apologize, my dear. Well, anyway, I’ll have your horse and carriage brought to the front. I know you don’t wish to be late for your rounds when so many of the less fortunate look forward to your visits—but I do so enjoy your company.”

  He reached into his brown leather pouch for a fresh pinch of crushed and fragrant leaves. “Every social call these days soon becomes an unofficial Council meeting filled with the same bickering and cursing that I dearly wish to leave behind… if
only until the next day. There is no rest from it all. No rest for even a moment.” Lord Caerhope exhaled heavily, like a deep sigh of exasperation.

  “I do understand, Father, but why does everyone sound so divided on what should be done, in any case? We should all be thinking of what is best for the Kingdom and its people, not who stands to profit the most from uncertain times.”

  The lines in the corners of Caerhope’s eyes crinkled; he had spawned a most shrewd and insightful daughter, of that he was surer than anything.

  “Well, bless your mother’s wonderful spirit. That’s why you have such a strong, sensible head resting there upon your dainty shoulders. Arwen always gave me the best counsel before I advised our dearly-departed King, may God rest his soul. You have my dear Arwen’s mighty brain, and that is a true blessing to us both. Aye, a true blessing.”

  He glanced back toward the dining hall, casting an eye over the haughty gentlemen still deep in argument; a fresh distaste was adding new creases to his demeanor as his bushy brows found their way closer together, as if magnetized.

  “You know, my dear,” he went on. “She—that is, my dear Arwen, your mother—would be so proud to know how you continue her charitable and beneficent works at the Temple Hospital. When an esteemed temple physician such as Master Abergus Ploegil commends you on your healing skills, my dear, you should be more than confident that you will, in time, make a fine practitioner if you so choose. There shall be none so fine.”

  The air was silent, his daughter looking uneasy at his lofty and unexpected words. But it did not quieten him; he was caught up in a deluge of words of praise, failing to look at his daughter’s expression.

  “High Priest Worlaw is also aware of your skills, you know? And he speaks of them often. And he says that soon you will be considering marriage proposals.”

  “Shh, Father, please. Do not always embarrass me so.”

  Juliana’s voice was stuttering, gasping almost, just as if she felt starved of oxygen. She made a single, deft sweeping motion with her slim and pretty hand, laughing nervously under her breath as she sought to shoo him away.

  “I have yet much to learn, Father, and Master Ploegil is a wonderful teacher, yet I am not sure how advantageous that will prove… if or when I should make my decision. I do not enjoy receiving such…trifles. These compliments, Father; they do not become me,” she said, awkwardly. She laughed lightly yet looked decidedly uncomfortable, even if it was her own father who had released the fluttering compliments into the air like little birds. He picked up on her malaise, his face taking on a trembling aura of sadness. So, he had done it again.

  “If your mother were here, I know you would trust her own wise counsel,” he said. “So, why not mine equally?” He looked a little downcast and lit a thin wooden taper of fruitwood from an oil lamp, unsure what to say or do next. It had not been intended to cause any discomfort—in fact, rather the opposite. “I always knew the right thing to say and do, then, you know? I mean, when Arwen was alive. She would do the talking for me, and you were always pleased then. Well, I hope so.”

  He puffed on his pipe until the leaves glowed like speckled fire in the pipe, underneath the dark circles of his eyes. He was quiet now, reflective and subdued.

  “I apologize if I am ungainly in my words. I try, dear daughter,” he ventured, eventually. “I say them simply because I find them to be true and cannot believe my own good fortune in having you as my daughter.”

  “Father, I know this, truly,” she said, edging toward him and administering a swift but close embrace. “Please, for me, do not take it so to heart. Anyway… You should bid the gentleman take their leave. I didn’t sleep either after you told me the news,” she said, quietly and now a little troubled herself.

  “Regardless of what has happened between our families, I am glad Niclas has survived his ordeal… though I am uncertain if that makes mine any easier to surmount,” Caerhope said.

  “But you are the very voice of calm and reason on the Council, Father. All the nobles do think so. They respect your sage advice,” she proffered, evidently finding her voice again after the embarrassing disquiet of the too-strong praise.

  “Is that so, young lady? Well, thank you.” he puffed again, the embers in the pipe taking on a glowing orange hue and sending up a plume of fresh smoke.

  Caerhope drank in its fine aroma as if intoxicated on its heady wisps. He looked down at his daughter again, admiring. His eyes twinkled.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to rectify her harsh words and bolster her father’s own confidence. “Everyone respects your opinions, Father; you know it is so. And the sooner you speak with them all, the sooner they can be gone.”

  Juliana kissed her father on his saggy cheek and walked with him from the balcony.

  * * *

  “With all due respect, my good sir. I most heartily disagree.” Long-stalked and puffed-up, Sir Ulrich Holdermann slammed down a tall pewter tankard hard on the marble table in front of the much shorter—and more somber of late—Sir Broga Gambryun, Juliana’s friend since childhood. Holdermann gestured toward the intricate tapestry hanging on the wall, depicting Avidene and its surrounding regions.

  “The city’s walls and battlements are as strong and secure as they were in the days of the five patriarchs, I tell you. Although I am as pleased as the next noble that his Lordship has survived, that doesn’t change the fact that his plan is a colossal waste of gold and slaves. Well, except for his own, of course, because he has none—after making them all freemen!”

  Sir Gambryun nodded in impassioned agreement. “I must agree with Sir Holdermann on that point. This dangerous practice of setting slaves free is leading to the absolute ruination of hard-earned wealth and power for many noble families. And what of its effect on the local trading houses? Old Weezgout complains bitterly that he will soon be bankrupt if business does not improve. I ask your Lordship; how can we honestly trust a man who would commit such a grievous offense against the time-honored traditions of our Kingdom?”

  Lord Maydestone frowned. “Plotmir Weezgout will not be begging for scraps anytime soon. The slave trade is not at all what it once was but will continue to be a lucrative profession for many years to come.”

  Sir Holdermann look a long drink from his tankard. “Agreed, your Lordship, and that is another reason why we need to expand our Kingdom’s ambition and reach once our new King is crowned. Now, for example…” He tapped at the plum-shaped land on the eastern frontier with a long finger, his fingernails making little arch-shaped dents in the fabric.

  “Salak, a corrupt kingdom of bickering barons, just ripe for the picking.”

  Sir Gambryun squinted and peered at the tapestry in front of him. It blew and rippled against the wall as if summoning him to make decisions over its land.

  “I have never liked these people…” He stabbed at the cloth. “Or, in truth, their savage neighbors to the west,” he observed. “So, how can we possibly venture to trust a people without an obedient slave class?” He looked disappointed; nothing of the coarse and woven fabric lands seemed to meet with his approval.

  The strident Sir Holdermann stepped forward a touch, coming to run his own long and pallid finger over the kettle-shaped kingdom.

  “On that matter, we and many of our fellow knights agreed. And what about Jasalus? There’s another one… Nothing but more of the same warring Darguza clans too busy spilling each other’s blood to bother growing crops. Lazy in agriculture, vicious and relentless in war. Their fertile valleys are just waiting to be tilled and planted with our seeds, if only they could cease their arguing and brawling like the savages they are. Lord Coranthium says we will never know famine again if they were to spoil the land the same as they spoil their good features with war wounds…” He paused, thinking and eyeing up the next areas.

  “Or here…” He found a new region on the tapestry map and circled the reddish, stain-shaped land in the south beyond the Mountains of Haramir.

  “Yes, here. As good
as any place.”

  Lord Maydestone squinted at it and grunted his disapproval. “Nadruth? Nay. Not even the brigands travel those desolate lands—lest they end up on a slaver’s chain and bound for Weezgout’s market.”

  “That is true, Lord,” Holdermann said. “But the old books say the mountains are brim full of gold, silver, and some say, the fabled lost armory of the Asmadu Vohra.”

  He held out his tankard, silently, his eyes saying it all. It waved in the air.

  Edric, the serving boy with a ragged scar for one ear, bowed and dashed forward, filling it with the knight’s favorite dark ale before retreating into the blackness of an unlit corner where he hid away and observed for the next time he was required.

  “I do not believe the campfire stories of peasants and slaves,” Maydestone answered, puffing slowly on his pipe again. “Yet it is still a dangerous and quite fruitless endeavor to send men and horses into the ancient lands of the Darguza for any reason… let alone questing for mythical treasures. One might even say it was the action of an enthused imbecile.”

  Maydestone made a show of addressing his astute comment to Juliana, intrigued by what she might say as one of the few women whose words could apparently assail and conquer those of any man in Avidene society. His daughter was both canny and discreet, keeping her thoughts and responses well inside until sure they were the right ones for the given moment. This merely earned her greater respect.

  Juliana rose to the occasion. “It has been a generation or longer since the King’s Guard last sent a battalion to explore that godforsaken place,” she said. “And for good reason, this being that none has ever returned. Nay. Not a single one. Now, that is what I would call a colossal and scandalous waste, do you not agree, Sir Holdermann?”