There were no answers forthcoming.
Gagandep’s house was a likely place for them to meet without suspicion, due to many of the men’s friendship with the family through Firth. Most on Mira did not even realize Firth was no longer on Mira, and the men trickled there without alerting anyone.
Shortly before the ship’s scheduled departure in the wee hours of the morning, Arnacin led his men from Gagandep’s house. The troop walked along a road parallel to the one Cornyo and his lady had taken, tracking the pair by sound alone.
It was a strain for Arnacin to listen for an ambush above the soft scuffle of his men’s cloth-muffled feet and the noise of his own pounding heart. Regardless, he somehow heard it—the hurried sound of feet on the adjoining street, the hiss of Cornyo’s blade as it was drawn, and the cry from the former knight’s new betrothed.
Staying behind, however much he hated so doing, Arnacin silently ordered his troop to engage the attackers. Pulling his hood closer about his face, the islander slipped into the shadows next to one house, where he could watch the desperate skirmish ensuing in the street. From where he stood, he could not tell one man from the next and knew only that the lady stood behind defenders.
As shouts of alarm rose from the buildings around them and men dashed out ready to defend their homes if need be, the ambushers quickly broke away, disappearing around corners as swiftly as possible.
The city men dashed off in pursuit and the islander sent a few of his own to help, keeping the rest with him until the ship departed with its passengers.
No bodies lay upon the ground in the aftermath, but Arnacin did not pause for details as he hurried the group down to the harbor. There, sailors had already clambered aboard one ship, and stopping below it, Arnacin pushed Cornyo in the direction of the waiting gangplank. Cornyo did not budge at first. Looking the islander in the face, he whispered, “Thank you, Arnacin. Th—” “Just go, or the ship will leave without you,” Arnacin sighed, secretly fearing another attack should they remain too long. They had their evidence, and it had been too easy for his liking.
Still standing there, the former knight finally asked in a hurry, as if his life depended on it, “Arnacin, will you promise me… us… something?”
“What, Cornyo?” the islander exhaled in concerned frustration.
“If ever Miro offers you the throne—”
“Miro will never—”
“No, listen. You are a terrible general. You are a terrible follower, period. You’re so dogmatic in your view of right. You won’t compromise anything, and while that makes you a lousy underling, it would be the best anyone could ever dream for in a king. Too many rulers are weakened by fear, but you, Arnacin, would always keep righteousness first. If Miro offers, take it. I will never know a truer king.”
“I am promised elsewhere, Cornyo,” Arnacin softly reminded him, as a means of avoiding the real issue. “Now go.”
Sadly taking a step away, the former knight added, “As you wish, Arnacin of Enchantress Island. Mira’s king you may never be—officially—but I will tell you now, in front of witnesses, I never knew a king until you came.”
Taking his lady’s hand, the former knight dashed up the gangplank as a sailor untied the ship. Dawn glowed red on the horizon as the sails disappeared beyond the sea gates, and Arnacin only turned away as those portals were hauled shut against the ocean with him inside.
As he headed back up the street with his remaining men, another approached, gasping, “Arnacin. We caught one of the attackers.”
“Does he say anything?”
“He insists we have no right to capture him. We must be brigands acting against the king’s orders.”
“Indeed,” the islander muttered with a grim smile. “We’ll take him right to Miro then, but we must make sure no one sees us.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“Easy, share your armor with him and hold a knife to his back.” Arnacin’s wicked smile must have been infectious as he saw it mirrored around him, and they followed the guard back to the captive.
Unfortunately, the captive had accepted the order by word of mouth, with only a brief glimpse of the royal seal. The seal, however, seemed to have disappeared, and his defense of his easy belief was that stranger orders had been given.
Once Arnacin was alone with the king, Miro turned to him. “This is the price of not executing everyone guilty of carrying out the last forged orders, Islander. Whoever did it before is bolder to try again. This time the payment must be made, unless you have actually found anything?”
Without moving, Arnacin met the king’s furious gaze. Then, after a long moment, he whispered, “I have reason to believe that it’s Darien, Your Majesty. I don’t have the tangible proof you want—”
Miro’s raised hand halted him. “How sure are you that you have the right man?”
“Fairly certain, Your Majesty.”
“Very well, then. It is time to learn what an act can achieve.”
“Darien,” Miro snapped as all his councilors finished assembling.
“Yes, Sire?” the councilor asked, stepping forward. If he had suddenly realized the true nature of this abrupt trial, he did not reveal it.
Coldly, the king said, “It has come to my attention that you dared invent my orders for your own gain, not once, but twice.” Before the councilor could speak, the king continued, “Do not bother to deny it. Its truth has already been testified to.” He was of course, bluffing, yet the councilors hardly knew that. “Last month, you attempted to rid yourself of Arnacin by convincing Mira of his desertion, while you ordered his death in such way that no one could ever trace the long chain of rumors and orders back to you. Having succeeded in remaining undetected, you grew bolder and attempted it again, for a baser goal.”
He waited, noticing the murderous looks thrown behind him, where he knew Arnacin stood undoubtedly looking as dark as ever.
“Testified, Sire?” Darien finally voiced. “A snake would testify as much to his own innocen—”
“Quiet! Dare you to assume Arnacin did the testifying?”
Panic began to form in Darien’s gaze, which shot to the group of lower councilors. Reading it, the king nodded. “You need not concern yourself. He whom you confided in shall not escape justice either.”
As he had wished, an instantaneous gasp came from the group.
“Sire, I had no part in it!” Erlund cried. “He did all the plotting! I simply listened.”
“Silence, traitor,” Darien snapped before the king could speak. The councilor’s face had turned a deep red in the full realization of the inescapable doom before which he stood. Whether he knew the king had manipulated the whole trial or not did not matter. “You’ve done enough.”
“Indeed he has,” Miro agreed, fixing the condemned councilor with his icy glare. “You are granted one opportunity, Darien, to die like a man. Are you able to do so?”
Tossing his head back, the councilor retorted, “I need not submit to your standards of a man, O King—you who allow a boy to manipulate the whole kingdom to meet his demands. What are you but the largest puppet of the foreigner?”
Despite the growing coldness of the king’s demeanor, he continued, “Had you even eyes, you would see it. Everyone here knows how ‘your islander’ dares insult you publicly, and you bow to his contempt like a puppy begging for his master’s forgiveness after committing an unknown crime. At least I die with the knowledge that I am far more a man than any wretch present.”
“For that, Councilor,” Miro growled, “you will lose your tongue as well before your hanging.”
Guards closed in around the councilor and, at the king’s command, they seized the condemned man by the arms, pinning him. Yanking back his head by the hair, they cut out his tongue. The councilor screamed, a tortured gurgle from his blood-filled throat and, from behind him, Miro heard Queen Rosa whimper herself.
“Take him below and tar him,” the king ordered, “After they are finished, you, D
arien, will stay in the dungeons as you are until tomorrow, when your life shall be ended with the rope.” Nodding to the guards, Miro bid them leave to depart with their captive.
For a second, Miro was silent as the doors closed behind Darien, and then he ordered Erlund forth. That councilor, however, only moaned as his colleagues shoved him before the throne. “Apparently there is little loyalty among you,” Miro commented while the councilor hastily picked himself up and whirled to face the king.
“Sire, please…”
“You may think yourself innocent, Councilor,” the king interjected, “yet you have betrayed Mira all the same by your silence. Had you once taken the responsibility for warning me, I might have considered a lesser judgment. You loved Mira no more than Darien, however cowardly you were in actually acting against it. For that, you will hang with him tomorrow, if not share in the rest of his punishment.”
Erlund, unlike his companion, had no words to say, and he allowed the guards to lead him away in defeated silence.
It was the custom in Mira to alter the type of hanging based on the extent of the crime. When someone reached the point of execution, Valoretta could not imagine how Mira could judge the crime any further. All the same, the law divided crimes into levels of severity, and someone condemned to death might receive the rope via the snapping of their neck or through strangulation. That day, Erlund was granted the simpler snapping. Darien was not.
Watching the latter culprit led beneath the hanging rope after the executioners had removed Erlund’s body, time appeared to disappear. It seemed to her that her mother again stood beside her, whispering, “I’m sorry, Princess Valoretta, but you are not simply a princess. You are the heir to Mira and it will be your responsibility to condemn the lawless. As a queen regnant, you will need to be harsher still.”
The queen might have achieved the silence Sara had not then been able to, yet she had not swayed the princess’ heart. Inside her regal shell, Valoretta hated executions.
As much as Darien fully deserved all he received, she saw the way his sides moved beneath the tar and the ropes his executioners had simply wrapped around him, not wishing to touch the black pitch. She knew how his hands would likely be at his throat already if able, and she felt nauseated. Had she been queen, she might have backed down and simply seen him beheaded, as weak as enemies would deem it.
Sliding her fingers up her sleeve, she touched the wooden item she had hidden there earlier and glanced over at Arnacin, standing for once beside her. His frame was locked, as happened when his bitterness was boiling under the surface. Sighing, the princess slipped her hand into his. “Please don’t watch,” she muttered. “For my sake.”
His shoulders moved in a long silent exhalation, yet he dropped his gaze from the gurgling culprit hanging on his rope. If only for the sake of covering the horrible sound, Valoretta commented, still facing the scene herself, “I didn’t realize until now how much war has hardened you. I remember a boy who was horrified just by the thought of death.”
Arnacin’s only answer was a brief shrug, yet the look she saw him pass her out of the corner of her eye spoke volumes of dark unvoiced thoughts.
Chapter 20
The Prophecy
KING MIRO PAUSED ON THE terrace, watching the guards on duty tromp in time to their own parade beat, their march filling the spring’s night air with the sound of safety. From a window above, Princess Valoretta’s sweet voice could be heard mingling with her harp. Between those sounds, the castle seemed completely at peace, while the bright stars blazed down as if in approval.
A smooth tread sounded behind the king and Miro turned to face his high councilor.
“Sire,” Memphis insisted, his posture remaining straight despite the dip of his chin. “Should you not have retired long ago? It’s five past the hour.”
“Memphis.” Miro exhaled in exasperation. “How can you be tired on a night like this? Doesn’t the sky give you energy at just the sight of it?”
“Oh… yes,” the councilor replied after a second, although his gaze did not flick upward once, but stayed fixed on some sight before him. Before the king could follow that disgruntled gaze, however, Memphis growled, “Thinks he owns the world, that one.”
To the king’s unasked question, the councilor pointed his well-manicured finger toward the ramparts. Only knights patrolled there and, when Miro shook his head, Memphis explained, “On the barn roof.”
The barn in question sat nestled against the outer ramparts. Now the king saw there, sleeping in his cloak on its wooden roof, a black-haired figure. Smiling fondly, Miro noticed that Arnacin used only his arm as his pillow, once again proving his rugged, humble background. Even the shadows of the patrol flickering over him did not appear to disturb him under the light of the stars.
“All he wants is what you have.” Memphis’s growl cut into the king’s thoughts. As Miro cast his councilor a sharp look, Memphis dove into an explanation, as though he thought that if he did not speak then, he never would. “Why else would he be so polite until you give him any type of license, at which point his men no longer obey any higher authority? He’s a dark jackal, you know it, preying on the gullible like he does.”
“Arnacin is just a boy—” Miro started.
As with Sara when she was at the end of her patience, however, Memphis huffed, “Boy, pah. A seventeen-year-old shark. A boy would not have led armies to victory the way he did, nor stand at your side and try to instruct his betters.”
Miro allowed the man to finish, simply to hear his weak arguments, and then snapped. “I’m king. I will not be contradicted, and I expect you to know that.”
Smoothly bowing, the high councilor mumbled, “It is only for your safety that I lose control, Sire. I apologize.”
Snorting, the king turned away with a growled, “I wonder…” After a moment, he pressed, “Moreover, none of the men that I put under him have complained about him ‘taking over,’ as you put it. Cornyo in fact informed us that Arnacin often spent much time learning from their counsel before he would decide anything. I am told that often, although the action was on his command, much of the plan was of his men’s design.”
“Are you sure he is even seventeen,” Memphis asked, falling back on perhaps his last argument—Arnacin’s honesty.
“Does he not look it?” Despite his assurance, Miro looked again toward the figure on the roof. True, by day, he appeared much older—battle hardened, proud, with that gleam of deep wisdom in his eyes that he had possessed from the beginning—but now, in peaceful sleep…
Beside him, Memphis closed his eyes as if the sight revolted him. “He is dangerous,” the councilor insisted.
Scornfully, the king studied his councilor and it felt like he saw him for the first time. Everything about him was oily, smooth and affluent. Where Arnacin’s appearance spoke of simple honesty, this man took every thought to his appearance, and quite an ambitious appearance he upheld. He would not even bow anything more than his head, lest it ruin his regal bearing. It was with these thoughts that Miro finally understood all his high councilor’s attacks on the islander.
“You have always wanted the throne, have you not?” the king whispered, noting the sudden, perfectly blank look he received in reply. “For years, you have made to please me in everything. Whether the council was good or bad, if I liked the sound of it, you insisted on its wisdom in order to remain my favorite. I am sad to say, you succeeded—until recently. Recently, a threat has ripped into your carefully laid plan, and you’ve betrayed yourself in trying to remove him. Let me tell you something now, Memphis.” Barely breathing, Miro admitted, “He will receive your goal before anyone else does, and it will be because he does not try.”
Raising his voice, the king called his ever-present and invisible bodyguards. As they came through the doorway, he ordered with a nod toward the councilor, “Arrest him.”
In the brief struggle that followed, the king shrugged. “I cannot keep people around who will act only for
their own glory. Lock him away until I decide what to do with him.”
As Memphis was dragged away, he shouted, “Mark my words. Someday you will regret having accepted that boy! Someday you’ll see!”
Without a word, the king turned down the opposite corridor.
The first thing Arnacin noticed the next day was how the councilors whispered together in tight corners, cutting off as he neared, and how some completely changed directions when they saw him in order to avoid him. On some of their faces was fear, and on others, loathing.
Then Miro sent for him. The king stood alone in the throne room when the islander entered. “Arnacin,” Miro greeted him. He paused as if contemplating his words, and then said, “I am in need of a new high councilor.”
For a complete minute, Arnacin stood there, but no understanding would come. “What happened to Memphis?”
“I had him arrested for selfish manipulation last night. No one can swear to serve king and country and then only serve oneself.”
“Why are you telling me this? Mira has a school training new councilors. Why are you not there?”
“Arnacin, you are not unintelligent.” There was a low growl in the king’s voice as he stepped closer, lowering his tone. “Stop pretending I could not be asking what I am. With this war where it is, I trust very few. I picked my councilors originally for their large array of viewpoints. I refused to have a biased reign. Unfortunately, they have grown more alike in the time since.
“That is not the issue, however. I worked with those students even before selecting them as my councilors. The most intelligent and wisest of them, I eventually placed as high councilor until such time as I had a son to fill the place. As you know, I never had a son and so he has kept his place for too long.
“Now, I need someone I already know well and trust to fill that place. You, Arnacin, with your overbearing sense of honor, will not use your council for your own gain. Will you accept the position?”
The Savage War Page 36