“The king is dead!” Mort shouted from the river. “Murdered!”
The blood drained from Wynston’s face. Was Ian safe, or had he been killed too? His old body stiffened in anticipation of hearing the bitter details.
“The king . . .?” Tyran whispered beside him. “Father went to see him tonight!”
“Hush now! Don’t speak that aloud, and whatever happens, do not stray from my side.”
The young man in the water swam swiftly toward the shore. Wynston waited, like everyone else, eager to hear more. A hand dropped onto his shoulder, giving him a jolt, but it was only Gertrude returning to his side. He glared at her sharply and she returned the harsh stare.
Upon hearing the scout’s dire news, more lanterns flickered to life. Slowly, the large cavern brightened, and Wynston’s heart broke when he saw the extent of the underground city’s growth. When he had first learned of Lower Ryerton, there might have been thirty or forty Gyunwarians living along the underground river bank. Now, the numbers had swollen to more than ten times that. Perhaps even twenty times . . .
In just one year!
Something was amiss in Belyne and now the king was dead. Wynston felt a cold bead of sweat trickled down his back and the small hairs on his neck rose. This devastation upon his kinsmen had occurred while a king with a friendly heart toward Gyunwarians had sat upon the throne.
What would happen when Prince Edmund, a man who openly disregarded even the most basic needs for foreigners, sat upon the throne instead?
The scout dragged himself to shore and was immediately surrounded by the underground residents. Someone offered him a crust of bread and a skin of water and he accepted them gratefully. He crammed his mouth with the scrap and swallowed a few sips of water while everyone waited. Finally, after clearing his throat, and making sure everyone around him was listening . . .
“Lord Ian Weatherall has been named the King’s murderer.”
“That’s a lie!” Tyran shouted. “My father would never kill the king.”
Wynston clamped a hand over Tyran’s mouth, but the boy's words had already escaped his lips and were echoing loudly across the cavern for all to hear. A murmur of discontent grew around them and Wynston pulled Tyran toward one of the boats.
Mort shrugged. “I’m only repeating what was said at the bell tower. Lord Ian was caught and dragged off to the dungeons!”
“Wynston is this true?” William trailed after them. “Is that the real reason you’re down here?”
“He’ll bring ruin to us all!” another voice shouted. “The king’s murderer’s son is here!”
Wynston stepped forward, putting himself between the pressing crowd and Tyran. “People, please calm down. There’s no call to shout.”
“Go!” voices cried out angrily. “And take your troubles with you! We got enough of our own!”
“My father helped you with food, and blankets, and coin . . .” Tyran said sharply. “And this is how you treat us?”
Wynston glanced back at Tyran and shook his head. “You’re not helping the situation,” he said softly. “They’re just afraid, is all.”
“The royal wardens are hunting you, aren’t they?” a deep, baritone called out from the back of the cavern. “And you thought it wise to hide amongst us?” The crowd around Wynston parted and Arthyr Bailey, the unofficial mayor of Lower Ryerton, lumbered forward. He’d been a fat man once, but time spent underground had left him leaner. He crossed his big arms over his wide chest and stared down at Wynston. “You know we’d like to help you, to help Lord Ian, and to repay his past kindness toward the people cast from the light, but we cannot. The death of a king is too great. If the royal wardens seek you hard, and you know they will, they’ll eventually find you . . .” He shook his round head vehemently and his mane of long, stringy hair flopped around his neck. “But they won’t find you down here, you understand? This is all we have left.”
“I understand, Arthyr, I do,” Wynston said. “We won’t trouble you for more than a few hours. Let the boy and the women rest, and then we’ll go.”
“No! Send them away now!” someone nearby shouted. A chorus of agreement echoed that sentiment until Arthyr raised a mighty hand and patted the air.
“You may stay for a few hours,” he said, then leaning in closer he added. “I wish I could offer you more, but there’s only so much I can do.”
“No!” Tyran said firmly.
Both Wynston and Arthyr turned to look at the boy. Tyran was standing in one of the rowboats with his hands planted on his hips. “We’ll go now.”
“Tyran, you need to rest before our long journey to Gyunwar.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tyran said defiantly. “Except back home.”
“It’s not safe for you to stay in Belyne,” Wynston tried to explain.
“Listen to him, young sir,” Arthyr pitched in. “He speaks the truth.”
“I won’t abandon my father,” Tyran said. He looked at Wynston. “Take me back home.”
“Tyran,” Alysea waded out into the river. Somewhere along the way, she had lost her prim hat and she brushed her red bangs back off her forehead. “Think with your head, not with your heart. We must get you to safety.”
“I am thinking with my head,” Tyran shot back. “If I run, it reflects badly on my father. People will assume I think he’s guilty and that I am, as people in this city say, jumping ship.” Tyran shook his head. “I’m not jumping ship and I’m not running away.” He gestured toward the crowd standing on the bank. “And I won’t endanger the lives of these poor people any longer.” He sat down and struggled to place one of the oars in the oarlock. “I’ll go alone if I must, but I won’t leave my father to the so-called mercy of the Yordicians.”
Wynston stood for a long moment and watched with a great sense of pride and sorrow as Tyran stubbornly struggled with the oar. He glanced over at Gertrude and Alysea. “You should stay behind and continue on to Gyunwar.”
“If Master Tyran insists on staying,” Alysea said, “so will I.” She climbed into the boat and grabbed the second oar.
Gertrude snorted and without a word she returned to the boat as well.
Wynston surveyed the maids, the pages and the rest of the household staff. “You are free to do as you wish.”
Most waded out into the river and took a stand next to Tyran’s boat. A few slipped away in the darkness. Wynston did not blame them for leaving. It was the sensible choice. Although he knew in his heart Ian was innocent; there would be no going back to the peaceful life they had led before. Even if the courts found him not-guilty, the Weatherall reputation was ruined.
Wynston sighed. Although his primary duty was to protect Ian, whether Ian liked it or not, his secondary objective was to protect his son. And with such terrible news flying rampant throughout the city, Tyran would not be safe, but if he refused to go, there was little he could do to change his mind. At the end of the day, he served the Weatherall family, not the other way around.
Arthyr Bailey walked over and stood next to Wynston. “I’m sorry, my old friend. I wish we could be more hospitable, but I’m afraid too many of us have lost too much lately and for some, fear overrides reason and manners. I’ll have you know, I’ll always be grateful for what Lord Ian has done for me and mine.”
“I hope you’ll allow those who left us to join with you if they so desire.”
“Of course.” He extended a hand. “Take care, top side, Wynston. Lord Ian was always a fair and decent man. I pray the One will take him into His arms and keep him safe.”
“You speak as if he’s already dead.”
A look of great sadness filled Arthyr Bailey’s eyes. “Isn’t he?” And then without another word, the unofficial mayor turned and walked away.
Wynston’s frown deepened as he climbed stiffly into the boat. “Master Tyran, let me advise you once more . . .”
“We’re returning home, Wynston,” Tyran said quietly. “I will not leave my father to rot in some dungeo
n. He did not kill the king. The truth will come out. Others must believe that too.”
Wynston glanced around at the group of desolate people, all Gyunwarians and former citizens of Belyne, forced underground by the greed and corruption of the city above. He wanted to believe as Tyran did. He wanted to believe that others would believe in Ian’s innocence and that the truth would indeed come out.
But greed and corruption weren’t the only sins in the city above. As much as they all tried to ignore it, hatred did lurk in the shadows, and it had crept into the hearts and wormed into the minds of those who deigned to listen to the foul speeches of zealous, small-minded men. Wynston feared the worse. He could sense it, like a foul stench in the air. Events of a sinister variety were unfolding in the city above and despite his network of spies he’d yet to uncover enough to see the larger picture. So, despite Tyran’s reasoning, he thought it wiser to leave the city while they still had the chance.
“Tyran, we must leave Belyne,” Wynston tried one last time. “Your father-”
“Left me in charge,” Tyran finished. “Will you help me, or do I need to give you an order?”
“Your father would want me to keep you safe.”
“My father did not raise a coward. Do not try to teach me to become one tonight.”
“How about a lesson in self-preservation instead?”
“Sounds complicated. Why don’t we discuss it tomorrow?”
“I just want to make sure you have a tomorrow and another tomorrow after that.”
“I know,” Tyran said. “And I appreciate your concern.” He glanced back at Wynston. “But I need to make sure my father has those too.”
Wynston offered him a smile and quick nod but considering Belyne’s harsh new political reality, he feared Lord Ian’s tomorrows were not entirely safe.
In fact, he feared they were already known and numbered.
chapter 30
Lumist opened his eyes and found he was staring into the face of a ghost.
“Leorna Roth . . .?” he croaked. His throat felt dry and leathery like an old saddle left out too long beneath a hot Gyunwarian sun. He tried to swallow, but his thick tongue held no moisture. Was he dead? He tried to move, and a sharp pain kept him pinned where he was. If this was what death felt like, he was rather disappointed. He had always believed that when the One brought souls to heaven, the physical pain would go away. Suddenly, a dreadful thought occurred to him.
Had he been sent to hell instead, and was the woman staring down at him some malignant spirit?
He blinked. She had no horns, no talons or tail, nor did she smell like brimstone.
Purgatory, perhaps?
Though far from heaven, at least in purgatory he wouldn’t be tortured by eternal hellfire. He’d simply be forced to walk the gray world in between, forever witnessing the muted colors of the real world, and taunted by the brilliance of the heavenly world just beyond the ever-distant horizon. Not a thrilling prospect for eternal life, but better than damnation.
However, he was surprised to find Leorna in Purgatory. If anyone had been on track to reach heaven, he would have thought a devout woman such as herself would reside there. But then, she had worshiped the Yordician pantheon of gods and goddesses and perhaps the One had not forgiven her for her incorrect beliefs. If the One was that harsh in His judgment, then for a moment, Lumist felt better about his afterlife placement.
“Here, drink some water, but just a sip or two.”
Lumist felt his head being tilted forward and a cup placed against his parched lips. The cool water tasted good, clean, and he swallowed greedily.
“Not too much, or you’ll bring it right back up!”
The ghost even sounded like Leorna, but something she said made him pause. If he were indeed dead, why would he vomit?
“Am I . . .” He struggled with the words, feeling tired and weak. Death shouldn’t be so painful! “Am I dead?”
Her musical laughter almost brought a smile to his face. “I should think not.” She leaned over him, peering intently into his eyes. “I spent the better part of a night battling to save you from the Reaper.”
Lumist closed his eyes. It was hard keeping them open. “Where am I then, if not in Purgatory?”
“You are at the Belyne Infirmary and despite what some might say it is a shade better than Purgatory.” She caressed the side of his face and pushed a few loose strands of hair back behind his ear. “I must tell you, Sir Tunney, it is quite an honor to finally speak with you.”
Lumist opened his eyes again and waited for her face to come back into focus. She was smiling warmly, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You’ve known me for years.”
The woman shook her head. “I think you are still confusing me with someone else. I am not this Leorna Roth that you speak of.”
Lumist blinked twice. She had the same pale-blue eyes, the same sweet dimples. Her blonde hair was a touch longer and contained a couple more streaks of gray, but . . .
“You look exactly like her,” Lumist muttered. “Did you have a twin sister?”
“Just a younger brother. I am Theodora Mor’moria, a matron healer here at the Infirmary.” She sat on the side of his bed. “Is this Leorna someone special to you?”
“She was just a friend,” Lumist replied. “And wife to another friend, but she died late last fall.”
“I’m so terribly sorry.” She took his hand in hers. He could feel a strange energy coursing beneath her soft skin. “I suppose I gave you quite a fright just then. Perhaps, I should go.”
“No,” Lumist said quickly, gripping her hand tightly in his. He felt a touch of blush color his cheeks. “I mean, allow me first to thank you for saving my life.”
“It was my pleasure.” Theodora’s face brightened. The similarities were there, Lumist noticed, but the more she spoke, the more he began to see the little differences. Her voice was pitched lower, and her lips were fuller.
“Since you’re not Leorna, how did you know my name?” He was finding it easier to stay awake, and even his head didn’t feel so fuzzy and muddled.
Theodora blushed and looked away. “I feel foolish telling you this.” She glanced down at her hands. “I used to watch you at the king’s tournaments. You were quite the dashing knight in that black armor, and your great helm, with the outstretched dragon wings.”
Lumist chuckled and immediately winced at the stabbing pain in his side.
“Oh. I should not make you laugh!” Theodora exclaimed. She pulled his blanket down and examined his bandages. After a few moments, the worried look on her face faded, and she covered him again. “You will need to stay in bed for a few days . . .”
“A few days!”
“I’ll check on you every morning.”
“Only once a day?”
Theodora raised an eyebrow. “Maybe twice if you’re being good.” She stood. “You need your rest and I need to check on my other patients. The terrible news last night induced a number of fights, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Ian! He was accused of killing the king! The events from the night before rushed back. He was supposed to meet with Kylpin at the Prancing Piper at dawn. He was surely late!
“I need to go.” Lumist tried to rise, but the pain would not allow him to sit all the way up. Theodora gently pushed him back.
“Sir Tunney, this behavior does not fall into the category of being a good patient.”
“But, you don’t understand . . .”
“I understand that I spent nearly five hours fighting with the Reaper to keep you here,” Theodora said. “In return, I am asking you nicely, please, stay in bed while I attend to my other patients.” She leaned in close. “Can you do that for me?”
Lumist turned his head and for the first time noticed that he was in a very long hall with beds lining either side. Every bed was full. With a sigh, he nodded. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
Theodora shot him a coy grin as she stra
ightened. “I’ll let you keep me later.”
Lumist couldn’t help but smile. Even though the wound in his side still ached and he was fraught with worry for Ian, there was something about her light-hearted mood that he found contagious. He watched as she moved to the next bed and began examining a young Seneician boy, no older than Tyran. Three times, he caught her glancing up at him while she checked the boy’s broken arm and leg, and each time, he returned her smile with one of his own until his cheeks began to ache. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d grinned as much. It had to have been more than twenty years ago.
Theodora had just finished examining the boy’s splints when an older Seneician man strode gallantly into the wing. Lumist recognized him immediately. It was Lord Arbassi, the shipbuilder. The dashing, bronze-skinned lord moved quickly toward the healer, though his stride contained a discernable limp. Lumist turned his head away. It had been many years since he’d faced Lord Arbassi on the tournament field, but he had unhorsed the man three straight times, much to the proud lord’s chagrin. After the last fall, Arbassi had spent the following month in splints, and the six months after that walking with a cane. Though he had mostly recovered from his grievous wounds, the Seneician lord had never returned to the jousting arena. Instead, he began marrying and having children and with child number twenty on its way, it was said that if he had ridden his horse half as well as he did his wives, no one would have defeated him.
“How is my boy?” Lord Arbassi asked gruffly.
“He’s doing well, M’lord,” Theodora answered politely. “The broken bones are healing nicely and . . .”
“Can’t you speed the process along? What kind of healers do you employ here?”
“M’lord, we have found that using less magic actually . . .”
“I don’t care about your philosophies,” Lord Arbassi cut her off again. “It has been almost three days. He should be out of bed by now!”
“With all due respect, M’lord,” Theodora’s voice lost its music, “I oversee his healing progress, not you. If you wish to take him elsewhere, I guarantee the bones in his arm and leg will take just as long if not longer to finish knitting together.”
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