by A J Callen
Her father blew a plume of smoke up close against the tapestry and smiled; curious to see if Holdermann could conjure up a response befitting the brains and wit of his own progeny. Lofty Sir Holdermann bowed to her, appearing himself somewhat taken aback.
“My word, fine lady; I swear I have been humbled before my peers. I beg your forgiveness for my rash display of enthusiasm. I am, perhaps, more anxious than many to see our new King crowned.” He glanced at her beaming father and at Sir Gambryun, a bloom of embarrassment coloring the gaunt, white flesh around the edges of his own harsh grin.
Juliana’s father stepped toward the balcony, gingerly. “We must all await the Holy Seer’s decision. Lord Ronas Tiberion of Coranthium has one confirmation vote, as do we all. A single noble cannot hold sway over the entire King’s Council.”
Sir Gambryun looked to be contemplating, guzzling on a fine and succulent turkey leg. Fatty juices ran down his forearm with each lift to his mouth. He blotted off the fat on his white sleeve. “I agree with Lord Maydestone, and Lady Juliana is, as usual, most perceptive. There is much merit in bolstering our physical defenses, even though we can sleep well at night knowing they will never be tested again quite the as they were in the Age of Heroes.”
He swallowed and tossed the bird’s ravaged bone onto a silver plate proffered by Hetty, a lithe serving girl with sullen and downcast eyes.
“We need to protect our Kingdom from all threats no matter how remote. That is the only way to build for a safe, secure future, don’t you agree, Lady Juliana?”
Overly cautious, Sir Gambryun, Lady Juliana’s little Broga, ran his finger along the tip of his freshly-waxed mustache. He seemed entrenched in his own thoughts; Juliana found there was something rather unsettling in his demeanor of late yet she could not say for certain what it could possibly be. In all aspects, he appeared the same, save for a distant, slightly glazed look in his eyes that put in its untimely appearance whenever he remained silent for too long. He sipped a cup of robust red wine and waited politely for her answer.
Juliana smiled at her two urbane and earnest suitors dressed in their most colorful cotton long coats and silk breeches; she found they were like two peacocks battling it out over a prized mate.
“It is a great honor and far greater burden to choose who sits upon the throne,” she said, eventually. “I know my father and his supporters on the Council will make the right decision when the vote is taken on Lord Delcarden’s proposal. And then we shall know the best path forward to protect our people. Is that not so, good sirs?” she asked, more as an observation than a question.
Sir Gambryun flashed a quick, triumphant grin at his taller, more debonair rival.
Sir Holdermann coughed roughly and cleared his throat of phlegm. “As you say, my lady. The King’s Council will make the right decision in due course, High Priest Worlaw assures us of that.” He brushed the sleeve of his light blue coat with his hand. “And with all due respect to you and your father, my lady, I would advise against any noble allying themselves to Lord Delcarden’s interests. His family’s past should be enough to give pause to even his most… loyal admirers.” A bright mockery invaded his stare.
A moment's shame pulsed through Juliana. After a long pause, she looked directly into his accusative eyes without blinking. “Verily, now, I am as pleased as any present that his Lordship has survived, Sir Holdermann. Yet, apart from the safety and welfare of our people, his interests are not my own. I have heard, though, that many Avidene ladies await his full recovery for they insist he still cuts a dashing figure! They find him so irresistibly rakish they confess finding it exceedingly difficult to even glance at other gentlemen when Lord Delcarden is in the same room. Surely, after all the years of attending the same social affairs, you must have suffered through that most unfortunate experience?”
Sir Holdermann coughed, bringing up a spittle of ale to sit at the corner of his mouth. “My lady, I find you are too forthright for words, yet in a most refreshing manner. But I can assure you that has never happened to me when in the presence of his Lordship. I have never yet—alas—found myself overcome by a gaggle of the fairer sex.”
Juliana turned away, briefly hiding the flush building in her cheeks. “How fortunate then, for both you good sirs, that I no longer count myself among his Lordship’s admirers.” It was cruel, she knew, for she had no intention of considering their forthcoming offers but—oh, how she loved to tease all those haughty and grasping men like Ulrich Holdermann who, only a few scant years older, regarded themselves her superior and rudely boasted of their exploits like every so-called man of the world. She hoped to have put them in their place.
“We are greatly relieved to hear that, my lady,” Sir Gambryun gasped as he cleared his throat. “Sir Holdermann and I may disagree on certain matters concerning the public good but when it comes to the subject of Lord Delcarden, you will find us in complete agreement.”
Hetty poured Juliana a cup of fresh spring water, aware of how her parrying with the men must cause her a terrible thirst. Juliana nodded in recognition but strained her neck to see around the servant girl. In truth, Juliana disliked how Sir Gambryun, her once respectful friend, had insisted on talking down to her lately while acquiescing so easily to the opinions of others. She sipped her cool water without looking at either gentleman. “You speak as if his Lordship committed some grievous offense against his country.”
“Forgive me, Lady Juliana,” Sir Gambryun answered. “That was not my intention. I only urge caution where Lord Delcarden’s interests are concerned, given his unfortunate family history.” He bowed respectfully. “In his defense, however, I will say that his service on the King’s Council Triumvirate since the unexpected passing of our beloved King Christoforus and cherished Queen Oriana is deserving of our respect and gratitude—as, indeed, is yours, good Lord Maydestone.”
An ingratiating smile spread across his overbearing mouth.
“I am glad that you and the younger knights hold our work on the Council in such obvious high regard, Sir Gambryun.” Juliana’s father lumbered across the stone floor toward the balcony doors. “I only wish all the nobles were of the self-same mind.”
He cast a bilious glance at Sir Holdermann. “What could be more important than our people’s prosperity and future?”
Sir Holdermann straightened his posture and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, a blue flame of defiance in his eyes. “I will gladly die for our Kingdom, your Lordship, if you and the rest of the King’s Council so decree, yet I see no invader on the horizon against whom to even draw my sword.”
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as though surveying a battlefield before him. “Show me my enemy’s face and I will strike him dead before your eyes.” His chest seemed to puff out like a pigeon’s with every word. “But until then, I see only the faces of our people in need of their new King and newfound glory for their country.”
Sir Gambryun stepped next to Juliana.
“You speak valiant and true for all of us, Sir Holdermann,” he observed. “And believe me when I say the Council will follow Lord Maydestone’s guidance and strike the right balance between all our equal interests. The middle path of least resistance is the best choice for all of us, to keep our cowardly foes at bay beyond our borders.”
Juliana’s father squinted as he examined the barrel of his pipe. “Perhaps then, my good sirs, we are all looking too far away. The most dangerous enemy is often the one who greets you with a smile in the morning but a sharpened blade at your throat as you sleep.”
Sir Gambryun chuckled and shook his head. “Forgive me, Lord Maydestone, but surely you do not lend credence to the outrageous stories from Farrhaven and the borderlands? Ancient parchments, myths, and stories told to children to frighten them when they’ve misbehaved?”
“Since reading Lord Rabek’s report, I have not had a sound night’s rest,” Maydestone said. “There is much that cannot be so easily explained away though High Priest Worlaw might have us
believe otherwise.”
Sir Holdermann laughed and dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin. “My dear mother, bless her soul, told me the very same tales.” He downed the last of his ale and waved Edric away when he tried to refill his cup. “That is something your boy, Edric here, would believe. Isn’t that right, boy? The demons are hiding in every shadow you see, ready to drag you into the abyss… aren’t they?”
Edric remained silent and cast a furtive, embarrassed glance at Juliana. Sir Holdermann patted the frightened youth on his back. “See that, my lord? Now the demons control this lad’s tongue. God only knows what foolish superstitions these slaves cling to.” He banged the tankard on the silver serving tray. “But not lords and knights of the realm.”
“Well said, my friend.” Sir Gambryun nodded his respect. “His Eminence will be impressed by your judgment and bravery.”
Sir Holdermann bowed to Juliana and her father. “Thank you again for your generosity, Lord Maydestone. I, and the other knights on the King’s Council, look forward to working with the Triumvirate until the Rites of Succession are concluded and our new King is crowned.” He turned brusquely on the heel of his boot and brushed past Edric who stood patiently waiting to show him to the front door.
Lord Maydestone peered into his small leather pouch, turning it upside down and sprinkling a few flakes of crushed leaves on the floor. “I have a bag of fresh coltsfoot in my study. Walk with me, Sir Gambryun; we shall retrieve it.”
“But your Lordship—” Gambryun’s chubby face creased up with a bewildered grin. “I would very much like to discuss an important matter with Juliana if your Lordship will permit.”
“I will, Gambryun, but not now. The view is superb from my study. Let us enjoy a glass of fine brandy and toast the dying light of summer, for the days ahead will be shorter than the last.” He smiled fondly at Juliana. “For which my ever-patient daughter has suffered our tiresome company long enough.”
“As you wish, my lord” Sir Gambryun bowed.
Juliana pressed her lips together stifling her smile and padded through the open balcony door. She leaned on the balustrade, breathing in the fresh sea breeze and glad to finally be free of the earnest, tiring men. On the far side of the manor wall, across the main thoroughfare, the dockyards bustled in the early evening, still busy with the loading and unloading of cargo ships and fishing boats.
Whenever she looked upon the fishermen hoisting their pulleys, lifting net after net overflowing with squirming silvery anchovy, haddock, and sea bass, she was drawn back to the pleasant days of her childhood before Mother fell ill. Though she was Lady Arwen Caerhope of Maydestone, her proud, raven-haired mother would bring her young daughter to the fish market early for the best choice of fresh scallop, eel, and crab.
The other noble women thought it strange that Mother did not just send a servant but there were many things she preferred to do without a well-meaning servant’s help.
“Dear, it is not as though we do not have the time to attend to the small tasks that we enjoy,” she often said, “For it is, sometimes, the smallest things we do that brings the greatest joy for others.”
“Is that why you want Father to make Grigol and the others freemen?”
“Yes. I would like that very much. Would you?”
“I think so. I like getting dressed by myself. Is that why you go to the hospital too?”
Mother answered with a smile then she was off bartering for the best price on sea trout and flounder while Juliana enjoyed petting the workhorses. Patient and obedient, they stood without complaint, hitched to their flatbed carts waiting to haul away their heavy loads.
Juliana gave them apples and carrot treats while diligently swatting the greedy, blood-biting flies away from their tired and mournful eyes. How could anyone not feel sorry for such kind-hearted animals?
With the crack of a driver’s whip below, Juliana drew a sharp breath and turned back from her bittersweet remembrance.
A lovely, yellowish-green twilight filled the vista over the sea, yet it could not dispel the creeping uneasiness clawing at the bottom of her heart. Her father’s disturbing words concerning Farrhaven and the rumors of dark and peculiar events near the frontier had all of Avidene in a strange, uncertain state of affairs.
She wanted to believe that once Niclas was fully recovered, he would make certain the Council quieted the citizens’ unrest and dispelled all this foolish gossip and whispering of sorcery and unholy intrigues. It didn’t matter now what happened between them; Niclas had a sworn obligation he must fulfill. He had no choice in the matter this time… and neither did she.
Chapter 9
No Safe Place
Next morning, Simon and Rachel watched the Evermeres bidding their emotional farewells at the front gate. Each son embraced their father. Niall, the youngest, sniffed back his tears as their father, Lord Baerston Mor, spoke privately with Marcus.
Simon didn’t wish to hear their conversation and, out of respect for the tenderness of their words, stepped away out of earshot.
The field was loud and boisterous with protectors taunting and sparring against each other. Simon searched the familiar faces but could not seem to find Dominique among them. He was about to ask, then thought better of it when he caught sight of Rachel’s pinched face, her eyes still darkened with the emotion of the previous night.
He knew he had disappointed her, and that she must think him nothing more than a full-gorged dog or worse. Simon swore not to make the same mistake with Marcus.
Rachel’s expression had a sobering effect on his ardent fantasies; Dominique was just their competitor, whose sole purpose was to help crown her brother, Goran, their new King.
The gate opened and Lord Baerston Mor rode out, the last of the four great lords to depart, accompanied by two council guards with provisions. Baerston Mor waved a last time to his sons, then set off down the road toward their family estate, almost one hundred leagues to the west. Jack kicked at the dirt as he watched them go.
“Part of me wishes I was riding with him,” he said, subdued.
Niall threw a stone against the wall. “Me too. I really do miss Mother.”
“You’ll both be home soon.” Simon rubbed his bare forearms. “And your brother our great King before the first snow has barely settled upon the ground.”
Marcus strode toward Mr. Joren and the two guards stationed outside the armory doors, his hand resting on the hilt of the Evermere sword. Simon saw the frustration in his friend’s face and knew the reason why; the contenders were allowed to carry their weapons only until the last patriarch had departed, then they were to be returned to the armory until further instructions.
Jack massaged his own reddened hands. “You speak with such confidence, but how is it to be decided? It’s still as much a mystery as when we first arrived.” He blew his breath onto his fingers. “All that I know for certain is that we should have such powerful swords too. How else does the Council expect us to protect Marcus from his enemies?”
Niall picked up another stone. “You mean inside or outside Farrhaven?” He threw it against the wall like a missile from a catapult.
“Careful there, lad. That’s quite an arm you’ve got now. You’ll take out a man’s eye or crack his skull clean open.” Byrch walked up to them. “There’s still hot lemon custard and cake left before they clear the tables if you’re—”
“Mister Byrch! Hurry!” Quinn Spargo, the smallest Strathwald protector, stood at the door leading through to the men’s quarters. “Please. It’s the Tiberions. Something’s wrong!”
And then Simon heard another speak, the voice sending shudders up and down his spine. He gagged, nausea making bile rise into his mouth.
“You know my name. Now see the price you pay to speak it without reverence.”
It was that same chilling, venomous voice from the Corridor of Shadows. Simon stumbled back against Jack, arms and hands flailing as he grabbed at the air to find some place of relative safety.
“Simon? What’s the matter with you?”
“Can’t you hear it? It’s the same voice from that night in the Council chamber.”
Byrch was at the door leading to the men’s quarters. “Hurry up you three. Everyone inside.”
“Listen! There it is again.” Simon grabbed frantically at Jack’s arm. “Surely to God, you can hear that?”
“What was once freely given will now be taken… from all.”
Niall stared at Simon. “I didn’t hear anything except Mister Byrch.” He backed away, then turned and ran toward the open door.
Mr. Byrch commanded them with a sweep of his big hand and roared. “What are you two doing? Get in here now!”
Bewildered, Jack pulled at Simon’s cuff. “Niall is right. I don’t know what you’re hearing, but we have to get inside. Come on.”
As quickly as the voice had invaded Simon’s thoughts, it was gone, leaving him in the grip of a familiar, gnawing fear as he raced across the field with Jack. A small voice inside his skull told him not to listen to the disembodied talk; it was quite ridiculous being a grown man frightened of such a thing. It couldn’t possibly harm him. No, it couldn’t possibly.
Simon and Jack bounded up the stairs after the grunting Mr. Byrch. Guards and protectors were clustered on the second floor staring up at the dark, vaulted ceiling.
“Look.” Quinn pointed up.
“Stand aside,” Byrch said as he parted the group. He looked up and his jaw gaped. “In the name of everything holy…”
There was something, a shadowy outline of a naked man, his skin mottled with encrusted blotches and his face turned away; the outline was slowly creeping across the ceiling tiles like a giant, crusty insect.
Byrch pulled his dagger from his belt. “Who or what is it?”
The man—if that’s what it could be called—paused. A moment later, his head corkscrewed around to face them. All present gasped in shock, staring with a grim and shuddering fascination at the creeping monstrosity above.