Plague of Shadows

by Michael Wisehart

  Commander Tolin leaned forward, scrunching his hat even further. “What does growing wheat have to do with making sure the White Tower is held under strict control? Your Majesty, whether or not you reinstate the High Guard is your choice—for my part, I hope you do. But regardless, my chief concern is that in opening our coffers to the Tower, you may inadvertently be creating a different kind of beast. One that may very well turn on us all.”

  Valtor gritted his teeth, forcing himself to smile. The commander had certainly come out swinging. He hadn’t expected such a direct assault. Then again, Tolin was a military man, and he had to know his time was drawing to a close. At least, Valtor hoped this was the case. He turned and looked at Dakaran, who was looking rather pensive in his chair, rubbing the bottom edge of his goblet.

  Why wasn’t Dakaran saying anything? Valtor could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Was he standing too close to the fire? He took another couple of steps closer to the king.

  Dakaran tapped the side of his goblet with his finger. “I appreciate your concern, Commander, but I disagree.”

  Valtor exhaled.

  “I believe after what we saw with Cylmar and the rebellion they incited, Elondria is going to need a strong ally—”

  “But, Your Majesty,” Tolin interjected, “you make it sound as though we are in conflict with the other kingdoms. Cylmar was an unfortunate circumstance, I grant you. Overlord Saryn was a fool and his desires reckless. But those same sentiments are not shared by our neighbors. Keldor, Sidara, and Briston have ever been our allies. If there was ever a time to come together, it would be now. I would suggest a convening of the Provincial Authority.”

  “The Provincial Authority?” Valtor scoffed. “Your Majesty, the only way to ensure Elondria’s safety is to wield a weapon powerful enough to keep any potential adversaries from attacking. The White Tower is that weapon. And in your hands, it can be used to keep the peace.”

  “In the king’s hand?” Tolin pointed at Valtor. “Are you planning on stepping down as Archchancellor, then, and turning over power to the Crown?”

  Valtor’s eye twitched. Tolin was becoming more of a nuisance by the moment. “Of course not. Someone needs to be there to oversee the day-to-day activities. Unless, of course, the king wishes to take up residency in the Tower as its new head?”

  “Hardly,” Dakaran said. “My place is in Aramoor.” He looked up at Valtor. “I’m more than happy to allow the Archchancellor to continue his role . . . with my supervision, of course,” he said with a grating smile.

  Valtor bit down on his tongue. As if Dakaran has a choice in the matter.

  Dakaran took another sip of his wine and relaxed in his seat, staring at Tolin a moment longer. “As it stands, Commander, I don’t believe our desires are in alignment. And I’m sure the reason for this meeting hasn’t come as a complete surprise.”

  Tolin took a deep breath and leaned back against seat. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “You served my father well, but frankly, I need a commander I can trust to carry out my orders.”

  “Your Majesty, a wise king surrounds himself with those who aren’t afraid to challenge his decisions.”

  Dakaran didn’t respond, something Valtor found unnerving.

  “If I have lost your confidence, I am truly sorry, Your Majesty. I would ask, though, that you don’t take my failure out on my men. They are good soldiers of Elondria.”

  Dakaran appeared to mull over Tolin’s request. “I will take it under advisement, Commander,” he said, then stood.

  Tolin quickly followed him up.

  “I thank you for your service, Commander Tolin.”

  Tolin bowed, definite concern in his eyes. “By your leave, Your Majesty.” The man sounded deflated. Valtor maintained his smile when Tolin glanced his way.

  Dakaran dismissed Tolin with a nod, and Valtor watched as the former commander left the room with a little less kick in his step than when he had entered.

  “Well done, Your Majesty,” Valtor said, offering Dakaran a congratulatory smile. “For a moment there, I was beginning to worry you had changed your mind.”

  Dakaran didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked back over to his father’s desk and sat down, digging through a small stack of papers. Valtor waited a moment longer to see if he was going to respond. When he didn’t, he finally left.

  Chapter 18 | Dakaran

  AFTER HIS MEETING with Tolin, Dakaran spent the rest of the morning celebrating with a fresh bottle of wine before making his way to the throne room. He had surprised even himself with his handling of the former commander. Even Valtor had left with his version of a smile on his face. Why had his advisor been so worried? Valtor’s constant patronizing was beginning to grate on Dakaran’s nerves. As a result, he took great pleasure in finding ways to make his advisor squirm—payback for the man’s incessant whining about protocol and appearance and how Dakaran needed to curb his drinking. What was Valtor so worked up about? Being king wasn’t all that difficult.

  Dakaran squirmed, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on the gilded monstrosity that was the High King’s throne. Finally, he grabbed a pillow from one of the servants and stuffed it under his backside. “Ah, much better. Hand me the other one.”

  The servant timidly offered another velvet cushion, and Dakaran wedged it into the corner and leaned back. “There, you see. That’s how I want this arranged every time.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the man said, and bowed, keeping his eyes to the floor.

  Once a week, the king was to open the throne room to his people, a ritual his father had stupidly established decades before. His father claimed it gave the people reassurance, knowing the king was personally aware of their needs. Dakaran didn’t see the point. Wasn’t that what the Elondrian Senate was for?

  This was the first session he had held since taking the crown.

  Dakaran’s head was already aching, and the proceedings hadn’t even started. He had hoped the wine would help, but it had only dulled it slightly. He had been dreading this session all morning. If he hadn’t been afraid of losing the people’s support, Dakaran would have abolished the practice immediately. But even Valtor had advised against it.

  Where was his advisor, anyway? Dakaran looked out across the army of attendants lining both sides of the hall—all dressed in their formal uniforms, the colors indicating their type of service within the palace.

  But no Valtor.

  The throne room appeared even grander from where he sat at the top of the platform than it had the times his father had dragged him to watch when he was younger. The room was three stories tall, both sides sweeping upward to a point, giving the impression that the room was a long archway. Marble pillars as green as the Sandrethin Forest in spring lined either side of the walkway from the entrance all the way to the throne itself. The floor tiles were cut from the same stone, the marble’s white veins especially bright where the afternoon sun streamed in through long windows at the sides.

  Dakaran could remember playing in the throne room as a child when his father had been away on business. He would climb up on the throne and pretend to order people around.

  He allowed himself a grin. It was no longer just pretend.

  “You,” he said, pointing at one of the butlers in his royal-blue-and-white uniform. “What’s your name . . . Never mind. Fetch me some more wine.” His goblet was nearly empty, and the only way he was going to make it through this was if he had some way to dull the pain.

  The servant bowed, grabbed a decanter from the table behind him, and rushed up the stairs. He bowed again at the top, quickly refilling Dakaran’s glass, and after bowing once more, rushed back down to retake his spot in line.

  A door on Dakaran’s right opened, and Valtor entered, his mitre resting comfortably atop his head like a royal coronal, the tip of his staff clicking as he made his way up to the throne.

  “Where have you been?” Dakaran groused. “If I’ve got to sit through this, t
hen you will too. Keeping up this charade was your idea, after all.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Valtor stopped on the second tier to bow before approaching the final set of steps to the throne.

  Dakaran held out his hand, the royal signet facing up. The Archchancellor paused to consider. Dakaran didn’t relent. He stretched his arm even farther. “Appearances, my dear Archchancellor. We must keep up appearances.”

  Valtor pressed his lips together in a thin line. Dakaran knew his advisor hated kissing the ring. He hated to look like he was humbling himself, but Dakaran didn’t care. After all, Valtor wasn’t the High King. He was. The man had to be reminded who was in charge on occasion, and this was one of the more satisfying ways to get back at Valtor for his incessant pestering.

  Valtor finally bent at the waist and brushed his lips across the royal crest before taking his place behind Dakaran’s right shoulder.

  “Is this really necessary?” Dakaran asked, already thinking of other, more enjoyable things he could be doing with his time—like sleeping, or bathing, or sneaking into town for a night of hard drinking. Really, anything else right now would have been preferable. He started to rub his temple but realized his headache had dissipated. Had the wine kicked in already? His thoughts seemed clearer.

  “You are the leader of Elondria, sire. You must appear to lead. One way to do that is by allowing your subjects to believe that you are interested in what they have to say. They need to feel like you care about them.”

  Dakaran groaned. He hated getting lectured by his advisor, especially when he knew Valtor was right.

  “Think of your subjects as sheep.”

  Dakaran turned. “Sheep?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Sheep need a shepherd. Someone to gently herd them in the right direction.”

  “I hate sheep. They’re dirty, loud, smelly creatures.”

  “They can also be vicious, aggressive, and deadly. There’s a reason a wolf doesn’t attack the flock as a whole. One on one, he’s the more powerful, but if he bunches the herd into a corner and gets them frightened enough, they will trample him to death.”

  Dakaran shivered as he imagined a flock of sheep with bloody hooves racing toward him.

  Valtor leaned against his cane, his fingers gently stroking the top of the wolf’s head. “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with by simply allowing the people to believe their problems are being heard.”

  Valtor had a point, and it wasn’t like this session would be physically tedious. He just had to sit there and pretend to care. “Fine. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be finished.”

  Valtor signaled the chamberlain, who in turn gestured for the guards to open the gold-leaf doors at the other end of the hall. Outside, a throng lined the hallway, waiting for their chance to speak with the new king.

  Dakaran whimpered as the chamberlain’s attendants in their crimson-and-gold uniforms organized the crowd, letting in clusters of people at a time and then sorting them by petition.

  The morning seemed to drag on for days as one citizen after another was ushered before the throne to make their appeal, grievance, or accusation known.

  One farmer demanded his cattle be allowed to drink from a stream that ran across his neighbor’s property. Apparently, he believed he had more right to it since he had the larger herd.

  A couple of bakers, outraged at a miller for raising the price of his wheat, demanded the king force a lower fee.

  One man brought his daughter with him to let the king know she had been taken advantage of by some of the new white guards, and that he wanted justice.

  One look at her and Dakaran couldn’t help but feel jealous of the guards. She was quite the beauty.

  One by one, they continued to pour into the throne room, each with their own set of grievances, each with their own demands. How had his father put up with it for so long? One merchant upset with another, guilds upset with higher taxes, farmers upset with drought, travelers upset with the growing number of highwaymen. There were even a disturbing number of people claiming there wasn’t enough food.

  Dakaran continued to hold his smile, although it was slipping. Each request was met with the same reply: “I will make sure to look into this matter immediately,” he said, with a flourish. “Next.”

  More groups came and went, and pretty soon Dakaran’s eyes were glossing over as what little patience he had started with ran dry. Valtor was right. They really were nothing more than dirty, annoying sheep, bleating about one grievance after another.

  He considered just having the entire assembly step inside, all at once, so he could address them as a whole and explain to them how foolish they sounded and that the king had more important things to do with his time than to listen to their incessant whining. However, before he got the chance, the Queen Mother and her head lady-in-waiting, Amarysia, stepped through the gold-leaf doors.

  The guards and servants all bowed as the two ladies made their way down the long chamber toward the dais. His mother looked well, her head high, but he could see the redness in her eyes. She’d been crying again.

  Their gowns flowed behind them as the crowd parted. His mother’s was a deep lavender with black trim. She had been leaning more toward the darker hues since his father’s passing. Amarysia, who kept a step behind the queen, wore soft azure with gold trim, which accented her long blonde curls very well. She was one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen.

  They made their way up the platform, stopping just before the final rise to bow in turn. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” his mother offered before climbing the remaining steps to take her seat in the queen’s throne to his left. Amarysia, like his own advisor, stood just off his mother’s shoulder.

  Dakaran forced himself to look away so as not to appear too forward. A touch on his hand brought his attention back around.

  “How did you sleep, dear?” his mother asked. “I’ve been worried about you. It’s been a heavy burden, having all this pressed upon you so suddenly.”

  He patted her hand. “I’m doing well, Mother. It is indeed a great burden, but the people . . .” he said, turning to gesture at the crowd waiting below. “They are in such need. We must find a way to help them through this, to shepherd them as best we can.”

  Behind him, he heard Valtor cough. Dakaran nearly laughed but caught himself in time to keep the appropriate expression of a concerned monarch on his face. “It’s my duty,” he continued. “And I’m willing to fulfill it for the good of the kingdom.”

  His mother beamed at his words. “It’s good to hear you say so, Dakaran. Your father would be proud.”

  Dakaran tensed, a sudden pressure building in his chest as an unwanted memory flashed to the forefront of his mind—his father looking up at him, begging him for mercy. His mother squeezed his hand, and the memory vanished.

  Behind his mother, Amarysia held a polite smile, but Dakaran could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  He twisted in his seat. “Valtor, cancel my engagements and set up another meeting here in the next day or two. I want to make sure everyone has had a chance to voice their concerns. Our people’s needs should come first.”

  Valtor bowed his head and smiled. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The astonished, if not pleased, look on his counselor’s face was almost worth the added hassle.

  Chapter 19 | Barthol

  THE COLD EVENING WIND whipped through the side streets of Aramoor, cutting Barthol to the bone. He stopped long enough to pull his tattered cloak tight around his large frame. His hood was raised, shielding his face from those passing as he carefully scanned the nearly empty street ahead.

  For those unaccustomed to the vast expanse that was the capital city of Elondria, it was a perpetual maze, an endless supply of directional choices. But for someone born and raised in this labyrinth of back alleyways and side thoroughfares, it was home. The early-winter air kept the normal hustle and bustle down to a minimum. Even the street vendors had closed their booths
early as shoppers rushed to get home while there was still light.

  Satisfied that no one was coming, Barthol headed left down Beech Row. Already, he had heard three different versions of his untimely demise, each one more ridiculous than the last. Who in their right mind would believe he’d had both his arms eaten off and still managed to keep fighting? The only thing the stories had in common was that in each he had been portrayed as a hero, giving his life for king and country in the heat of glorious battle.

  Of course, it was all a lie. There had been no honor in what had taken place. He’d lost everyone. His entire unit. His captain. His king. He had fought side by side with Ayrion since they were barely old enough to shave. He had considered Ayrion his closest friend. And now Ayrion, his men, the king—they were gone.

  Most men, having walked off a battlefield in such a way, would have kept walking and never looked back. But Barthol had a family. More importantly, he had a very dangerous secret to share.

  Having witnessed the prince’s treachery, he knew he couldn’t just go waltzing back into town. If Dakaran were to find out he’d survived, he’d be as good as dead, along with his entire family.

  The thought of home spurred his feet. Having spent the better part of two months either on the road to battle, in the middle of battle, or on the road back from battle, Barthol was anxious to sleep in his own bed. His house wasn’t exactly what you would deem stately, but it wasn’t located in Cheapside, either. He had managed to work his way up within the High Guard’s ranks, which afforded him, his wife, and their young daughter a comfortable living on the eastern side of King’s Square.

  It was nothing compared to those ghastly mansions on the west side, but for the son of a poor bosun who had grown up on the rougher side of town, it was quite the accomplishment, something that his family had been extremely proud of.

  He stopped at the next corner and glanced across the street toward his house. Three stories. The main floor held the family rooms for both dining and entertaining, while the second floor housed the living quarters. He had renovated the top floor to allow a small living space for his father after Barthol’s mother had passed from cholera a few years back.