Allies & Assassins

by Justin Somper

The Village Chapel

  FATHER SIMEON COULDN’T SHAKE THE FEELING that he had failed to serve the key members of his flock properly during the five days of crisis that had been visited upon the Princedom. If he had been another kind of man, he might have taken comfort simply from the fact that his door, both literal and metaphoric, had been open to them, whatever the hour. And, if he had been another kind of man still, he might have drawn further comfort from the fact that many people had come to him seeking answers to their shock and grief. But these people were those who had made the pilgrimage from one of the settlements. Of course, it was a legitimate part of his role to provide comfort to the common man—and woman. Still, it frustrated him that his fellow members of the Council of Twelve and the royal family itself had not consulted him in any meaningful way. But perhaps tonight would mark a significant change. With the arrival in Archenfield of Silva’s family, tensions would doubtless reach a new high.

  Shutting the lych-gate was no inconsiderable feat with a storm blowing in from the north. Accomplishing this task, the Priest surveyed the road ahead. The Priest’s Chapel was at the lowest point of the village, bordered by the fjord to the north and connected to the nearest settlements by the paths snaking out to the east and west. The Chapel was the very last of the dwellings of the Twelve and Father Simeon was exposed to the raw brutality of the seasons first among the villagers. He had always drawn a certain stoic comfort from this fact. Bracing himself against the weather, he set off along the steep road that would take him through the heart of the village and up to the palace at the top of the hill. As he did so, he heard the chiming of the Edling’s Bell—the final peal of the bells of each day. These bells represented the future. Usually, they filled him with a sense of hope. But not tonight.

  It was a routine walk, which made it all too easy for him to absorb little of his surroundings and instead find himself sinking into an all-too familiar morass of thought. What was the fundamental point of the Priest if he could not offer succor to his community in a time of unprecedented grief and confusion? True, he had an equal chair at the Prince’s table and his title had been carved into the ancient table of state, and made permanent with boiling metal, just like all the others. Father Simeon knew he had no rational basis to feel that he was becoming less important, less relevant, than had the Beekeeper or the Bodyguard or any of the others. But, rational or not, the feeling persisted as he continued on his way.

  Prince Jared had been the most obvious candidate for his help; a sixteen-year-old boy forced to contend with the horror of his brother’s murder and its corollary of propelling him into a position of unprecedented power and responsibility. Here was a young person, by certain definitions a child, whose world had literally been turned upside down. Yet, when Simeon had tried, on more than one occasion, to talk to the new Prince, he had been turned away—first by Queen Elin and later by Logan Wilde. They had both told him that the Prince had too much to contend with of a practical nature to devote time and focus to spiritual matters. Simeon had known better—given the people to whom he was speaking--than to argue the case that “such matters” were the true stuff of human life, and not speeches or meetings of the Twelve or murder investigations.

  As he passed the Chief Groom’s lodgings, Simeon’s thoughts turned to the next likely candidate in need of his help—Silva, the grieving widow. Had there ever been a more fragrant and delicate creature to grace the corridors of the court? Yet they hadn’t let him speak to her either—saying she was too frail and that her overarching need was simply to rest. He should have asserted himself but, yet again, he had allowed the more forceful members of the court to push him around. Now Silva was dead and it seemed more than likely to him that the poor girl had taken her own life. If only he had been stronger, more persistent, he might have been able to help her. Now it seemed unlikely that he would even lead the prayers at her funeral. That honor would surely fall to the High Priestess of Woodlark.

  Continuing up the hill, Simeon’s thoughts turned to Michael Reeves, the steward turned fugitive. Simeon had visited him in the Dungeons. And, to give credit where it was due, he had received a warm welcome there—from Morgan Booth. It seemed that the young Executioner was a religious man. The two members of the Twelve had had a very engaging talk, over several glasses of aquavit. But when Simeon had approached the convict’s cell and offered to help him settle his mortal soul, he had been told to go away in no uncertain terms, in language he did not care now to think of.

  Such thoughts left him in a dark mood as he set foot on the green at the heart of the village. It was bordered by a cluster of buildings belonging to others of his fellows, from the high tower belonging to the Falconer to the Physician’s dwelling on the opposite side. From there, he could also see the Captain of the Guard’s mansion and the Poet’s dwelling, with its unrivaled and inspiring views out onto the fjord.

  Father Simeon couldn’t help but feel a little envious of those who lived there at the heart of the village, when he thought of his splendid isolation down below where the waters crashed and the summer sun and winter winds were most harsh. He shook his head and decided to cross over the green itself, as opposed to walking around the border. It would buy him a valuable few minutes.

  He had almost reached the far side of the green when the strangest event of his life occurred. As he moved over the soft grass, a figure fell down from the sky, landing right in front of him. It took him a moment to realize that, in fact, the figure had fallen from the top of the adjacent tower and another moment to confirm that the fallen woman was the Falconer, Nova Chastain.

  She had dropped from her perch utterly soundlessly, no cry emanating from her deep red lips. As he dropped to his knees beside her, he thought distractedly how he had heard tell around the court that the Falconer enhanced the natural hue of her lips with a dye made from crushed berries, foraged in the woods but, on taking a second look, he realized with an unprecedented coldness, that what he had at first taken for dye was in fact blood. A trail of it ran from the corner of her mouth across her cheek to her exposed neck. It was as vivid as it was horrible.

  Father Simeon reached out his hand to her neck, checking for a pulse. There didn’t seem to be one but he could not be sure as his own fingers were trembling so much that it made it hard to assess the state of his companion. He glanced up at the tower that loomed vertiginously overhead. There was no way she could have endured such a fall with her life intact.

  As Simeon glanced up, he saw a dark shape moving at the top of the tower. His first thought, heart hammering beneath his overcoat, was that an unknown assailant was up there. But then the shape began to shift and descend toward him. Nova’s cast of falcons were following in their mistress’s wake.

  “What happened here?”

  At first, Simeon thought the bird nearest to him was asking the question, but then he saw, reflected in its glassy eye, the figure of a girl. The Physician’s niece. He twisted up to his feet again until he was standing before her. He saw her eyes, as quick as the falcons’, home in on his blood-stained fingers.

  Father Simeon opened his mouth to describe to her the sequence of events. This would have been the natural, rational thing to do. The direction from which he had entered the green. Where he had been when Nova had fallen. The fact that she had made no sound. The way her body had bounced, like a ragdoll, on the long grasses at the foot of the tower. But, instead of telling Asta all these things, all he could do was emit a low moan. He realized he was shaking, out of control.

  The girl looked shaken too, as well she might, but she pushed past him. Seemingly fearless of the birds, she reached out to Nova’s neck as he had done before. He watched her go through the same thought processes he had been through until at last, despondent, she withdrew her hand, her own fingertips were now stained with blood. A sense of fellow-feeling gave him the bravery to speak.

  “I couldn’t find a pulse before, but my own hand was shaking so. It was all such a terrible shock. To see her fall.” He real
ized he was in danger of rambling. “What about you? Could you discern a pulse?”

  Asta stared at him. “I’m not sure.” Then she drew herself up to her full height. “Did you see anyone else in this vicinity? Either just before or just after she fell?”

  “No,” he said. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  Asta nodded slowly. “Because I’m trying to decide if she was pushed or if she jumped of her own volition.”

  He nodded weakly. “Surely, she must have been pushed. Why would the Falconer take her own life?” He thought of Silva, then Anders, then Nova again. What kind of maelstrom were they all caught up in?

  Asta’s eyes were as merciless as those of the birds gathered around them. “She had good reasons,” she said.

  Of course, he wanted to ask what she meant by that, to argue that there was never a good reason for such terrible action—but, before he could speak, she was already striding past him. Gone to seek the help of other, more practical men, he thought. Father Simeon slumped back onto the damp earth, staring in wonder and horror at the traces of dirt and blood on his fingers.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Grand Hall, the Palace

  “THE DELEGATION FROM WOODLARK HAS arrived,” hal harness announced to the party of royals assembled in the Grand Hall.

  “Within the hour, our alliance will be in shreds,” Lord Viggo announced darkly.

  Jared’s blood ran to ice at his uncle’s ominous words and all they portended.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Elin said, squeezing Jared’s hand as she spoke. Her touch was cold but firm. “But, even if it is so, we will forge new alliances. We have a new Prince now and, in his hands, a new world of opportunities.”

  What did she mean by that? Was she already hatching a plan to marry him off? Jared turned toward his mother, but he didn’t dare to ask the question. His mind was racing, and so too was his heart.

  “Just stick to the script,” she said calmly. “It’s the best chance we have to preserve the alliance. I know you’ll do your utmost, Jared. All our hopes are with you.”

  Jared nodded but hated what he was about to collude in.

  The main palace door opened and Queen Francesca and Prince Willem swept into the room. Their usually tanned faces were ashen at the news of Silva. They were followed by Princess Ines—Silva’s older sister and heir to Francesca’s crown—and other members of the royal delegation.

  Prince Jared strode across the room to meet them. He bowed low before Francesca. “Welcome back to Archenfield,” he said. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  He knew that protocol dictated that Queen Francesca return his bow with a curtsey, signaling the equality of their rank. The fact that she did not was no great surprise, but he was unsure if her breaking of protocol was simply down to grief or also indicative of anger.

  Queen Francesca stared at him dispassionately.

  “On behalf of my family and my people, I express my condolences at the death of Prince Anders,” she said. “He was beginning to deliver on his promise.”

  “Thank you,” Jared said, turning toward Prince Willem, who did bow before him. “Prince Willem, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please pass on our sympathies to Teresa and Javier. And to Rodrigo, of course.” He saw the warmth and the grief in Willem’s eyes and added, “Silva had become a dear sister to me this past year. We will all miss her greatly.”

  Queen Francesca snorted at this. “Not so much as her family will miss her. Where is she? We want to see her.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jared said with a nod. “We will bring her to a viewing chamber for you.”

  Queen Francesca frowned. “Why has this matter not already been attended to? You knew we were coming. Surely, you can imagine how great is our desire to see our dear daughter?”

  “I know,” Jared said. “I’m sorry…” He realized he was at a loss for words and in danger of losing his grip. He was inordinately grateful when his mother came to his aid.

  “Dear Francesca, of course we wanted to have Silva ready for you on your arrival. But you have made even better time than we anticipated. And, in addition, we wanted to talk to you about an idea.”

  “What idea?” Francesca’s fiery eyes locked onto Elin’s.

  Elin, however, deferred to her son the Prince.

  “As you know,” he said, “tomorrow is the state funeral for Prince Anders. We thought, if you were in agreement, it might be fitting for this to be a joint funeral for Anders and Silva.” He paused, knowing he was going to hate himself for what he said next, but also knowing it was vital for the sake of the alliance. “Although Silva took her own life, there is no reason she should not be given a full state funeral.”

  He saw Prince Willem’s kindly blond head begin to nod.

  Francesca shook her head sharply. “Absolutely not!” she said. “For twenty-one years, Woodlark was Silva’s home. She is greatly loved there and it is there she will be buried, and mourned by her people.”

  Prince Jared nodded. “As you wish,” he said, somehow relieved. “Your wishes take precedence here. But though Silva lived in Archenfield only one year, I want to assure you how much she is loved here and how deeply she will be mourned.”

  Prince Willem nodded graciously once more but Queen Francesca seemed unimpressed. “I cannot help thinking,” she said, “that it’s a shame you did not take as much care of her in life as you appear to be doing in death.”

  “Grief calls to the surface raw feelings,” Elin spoke again now. “We understand why your choice of words may be harsh, Francesca. But please remember that we are mourning Anders as well as Silva. This is a very dark time for us all. Perhaps our two families, our two nations, may help to comfort one another?”

  Francesca shook her head. “That is hardly possible,” she said, “when I hold your family responsible for my daughter’s death.” Her velvety-brown eyes blazed with fury.

  “I do not see how,” Elin responded. “Her death was her own decision. What could we possibly have done?” She had gone further than Jared could or would have.

  “Her grief at her husband’s murder was too much for her to bear,” Francesca snapped. “And I hold you accountable for that. The assassination of a ruler in cold blood is unprecedented within the territories.”

  Axel now broke away from his family group to respond to this. “Queen Francesca, as Queen Elin says, we understand your grief and anger. But please be assured that extraordinary security measures are in place here. We are facing a plot from one of our rivals to strike terror at the heart of our court and threaten the alliance with Woodlark. An assassination could just as easily have happened on your soil.”

  Francesca shook her head. “No, it could not have.” She glanced across at Princess Ines. “My Captain of the Guard would never have been so lax.”

  Ines, every inch her mother’s daughter, gazed defiantly at Axel. It was clear that she felt the same.

  “We must agree to disagree, perhaps,” Elin observed.

  Francesca returned her focus to her. “Archenfield is weak,” she said now. “It has ever been a troubled patriarchy.”

  “That is not correct,” Elin shot back. “Like all the territories, our history is marked by intermittent bloodshed. But my husband and my oldest son ruled over Archenfield in peace. The same will be true when Prince Jared takes the crown in a week’s time.”

  Francesca shook her head dismissively. “A sixteen-year-old boy.” She glanced dubiously at Jared, then directed her attention back to Elin. “What hope is there for Archenfield with him upon the throne?”

  “There is every hope,” Elin said, her voice more impassioned than Jared had ever heard it before. “Jared was Anders’s Edling these past two years. He will make a consummate ruler.”

  Francesca laughed lightly. “I just don’t understand it,” she said. “It’s clear to me, indeed to all of us in Woodlark, that Archenfield would have been far stronger under your rule as a matriarchy like ours. You took the title of Queen but, in truth, a
ll you have ever been is The Prince’s Consort of The Prince’s Mother. No one would have made a finer, more potent ruler than you, Elin. Yet you have wasted your time and energy putting ill-equipped boys on the throne.”

  In spite of the element of flattery, Elin shook her head. “A woman or man may rule in Archenfield. Woodlark and Archenfield have different ways of governance. Please respect ours as we respect yours.”

  “I’m afraid that is no longer possible,” Francesca said coldly. “Any respect we may once have had for you dwindled when we learned of our precious daughter’s death.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Elin said, standing her ground. “It does not leave our alliance in good stead, does it?”

  Queen Francesca laughed once more—a deep, bitter laugh. “There is no longer any alliance between our two states.” She turned to Princess Ines once more. Her Captain of the Guard, passed a scroll of parchment to her mother.

  Francesca took it and walked over to the nearest candelabra. She dipped one end of the scroll into the flame of a candle. It quickly caught light. Everyone watched as the alliance between Archenfield and Woodlark burned away before their eyes. It took less than a minute before Francesca was brushing hot ash from between her fingers. The remnants of the carefully negotiated union now lay as ashes on the hall floor.

  “We will not be staying for Prince Anders’s funeral,” Francesca announced. “I’m sure you will understand that we have a state funeral of our own to plan. And now, without further delay, please make Silva ready for us.”

  “Of course,” Elin said.

  “I’ll handle this,” Prince Jared said, desperate to get away. “Hal, come with me!”

  “Ines will go with you,” Francesca decreed.

  “No,” Jared said, meeting Francesca’s gaze. “She will not. You hold no sway in this court, Queen Francesca. And now that our alliance is no more, you hold less influence than you did a minute ago. You have made your feelings very clear to us, so now let me make ours clear to you. We are deeply grieved by the death of Silva. She was a member of our family as well as yours. It would be nothing more than a courtesy to expect some forbearance from you that we have lost a brother and a son and a Prince ourselves.” He paused. “We are your hosts and we have prepared quarters for you and your delegation in the palace.”