by John Marco
“Breck,” he said. “I’m going to change this land.”
Breck smiled. “Yes, my lord, you’ve told me.”
“A dozen times at least,” Akeela admitted. “But I mean it. Things are going to be different.”
“Things are different,” Breck said. He was soft-spoken for a career soldier; had been since their war college days. And he always had a reassuring word for anyone who needed it. “You’ve made peace with Reec, my lord. I’d say that’s a good start, wouldn’t you?”
“A good start,” agreed Akeela. “But not enough.”
Breck looked forward, considering the mass of government buildings in the distance. “It won’t be easy,” he sighed. “Even your father had trouble dealing with the chancellors, and they feared him.”
“And they don’t fear me,” said Akeela. “I know that. But I don’t want to rule out of fear, Breck. I want the ministers to follow me willingly, because they believe in where I’ll take them.” He gave his horse a commanding spur, urging him forward. “Come. I’m eager to get to the castle.”
The column rode for long minutes more, filling the echoing streets with the noise of their homecoming. Windows opened at the sound of the horsemen and the people of Liiria leaned out of their homes, eager for a glimpse of their king. An occasional woman blew Akeela a kiss, which made him blush. Finally, they passed the open-air market and entered Chancellery Square, where the Chancelleries loomed and Lionkeep’s shadow darkened the avenues. The streets were narrow and cramped, jammed full of carriages and civil servants rushing to their jobs. At the Chancellery of Treasure a pair of long-robed ministers stopped in mid-argument to notice the king. They bowed with big, inscrutable smiles. Akeela nodded politely but hurried along, urging his horse toward Lionkeep and the hill holding it aloft. The gray wall of the fortress rose up around him, comforting him. He heard the familiar sounds of castle life from the battlements above. The main gate had been raised for his arrival, its spiked portcullis hanging open like the jaws of a shark. Hanging lanterns lined the way, still glowing orange in the growing light of day.
Akeela looked past the gate to the courtyard. It was practically empty save for a few young pages walking and brushing horses. The castle doves, which were everywhere in Lionkeep and were treated like royalty, hobbled along the yard in search of food, clawing at the green grass. At the top of the hill a contingent of Lionkeep’s Wardens waited, rigid in their uniforms of gold and crimson. Unlike the Royal Chargers, who were under the command of Lukien and who fought Liiria’s wars, the Lionkeep Wardens were autonomous troops from the Chancellery of War. Their sole responsibility was the protection of the castle and its royal inhabitants. As usual, the halberdiers were stiff at attention as Akeela approached. At the front of the guardians stood Graig, a welcoming smile stretched across his face. The Head Warden had obviously received Akeela’s heralds and had arranged the guard to greet him. Graig was an old man but his eyes still twinkled, and he still looked daunting in his crimson uniform.
“Ho, Graig!” Akeela called. The king trotted forward and dismounted. A page appeared instantly to take care of his horse. Akeela ignored Graig’s ceremonial bow, taking his hand instead. It was the usual ritual since Akeela had become king, and it was over in an instant. They shook, then embraced. “Good to see you,” said Akeela.
“Ah, good to have you back,” laughed Graig. He slapped Akeela’s shoulder, then kissed his cheek. “You’ve done well! I’m proud of you!”
“We’re all proud of the king,” said Breck, bringing up his horse. “You should have seen him, Warden. He dealt with Karis like an old hand.”
“I always told your father you’d be a diplomat.” The warden spied the line of Chargers curiously. “Where’s Lukien?”
“I had him stay behind with Trager and some others,” said Akeela. He smiled slyly. “They’re looking after something for me. You’ve heard about my other good news, I suppose?”
The old man guffawed. “Yes, you’re a rascal now I hear. You’ve fallen into the wrong crowd with these Chargers!”
“You’ll love her, Graig. Cassandra’s a real beauty. Isn’t she, Breck?”
“My lord could have done worse,” Breck replied with a smile.
“Well, when do I get to see her?” asked Graig. “Why the wait?”
“Because I have a wedding to plan, you romantic old fool,” said Akeela. “There’s a lot to do, and I want to get this place ready for her.” He rubbed his hands together. “But first, I’m starving. Did you consider my need for breakfast, by any chance?”
“I’ve got the kitchens on it already,” smiled Graig. Then he shrugged, adding, “I’m still your houseboy, as usual. Come . . .” He turned and headed toward the gate, then shouted at the pages to attend the soldiers and their horses. Akeela followed him, but Breck remained behind, seeing to his men and mounts. The courtyard was quickly coming to life at the king’s arrival, and the warming sun felt good upon Akeela’s face.
“So?” he asked as they moved through the courtyard. “What news since I left? Nothing too bad, I hope.”
“Bad?” scoffed Graig. “I’ve had this place running like a timepiece. Not even a leaky roof to worry about.”
“And the chancellors? What of them?”
“Behaving themselves. Baron Glass has been making some noise, but nothing unusual.”
“That’s good news,” said Akeela. They passed under an archway and into a hall heading toward the kitchens. The smell of frying bacon made Akeela’s stomach rumble. “You did a fine job looking after things, Graig. Thank you.”
“I wish it could all be good news,” said Graig.
“Isn’t it?”
“No, I’m afraid. Beith had her baby.”
Akeela stopped walking. “Stillborn?”
“Gods no, nothing like that,” said Graig. “Just, well, deformed. Bad hand and foot, like this . . .” The warden made a crumpled ball of his fist. “Clubbed, I guess you’d call it. And Beith’s all upset that it might be more.”
“More?”
“You know,” said Graig. He tapped his skull. “Its mind. The child might be simple.”
All the levity went out of Akeela’s face. Beith had already lost her husband, and Akeela knew how much she was looking forward to her baby. Like the midwife Gwena had said, it was going to fill her “empty spaces.” “I should go to her,” said Akeela. He glanced around, unsure what to do. “Is she up yet?”
Graig grinned. “I don’t make a habit of calling on her, my lord.”
“We’ll talk later, Graig,” said Akeela, then dashed off in the direction opposite to the kitchens. Breakfast could wait; he needed to see Beith.
He hurried through the halls then up a staircase, dodging servants and taking the steps two at a time. Beith had a chamber on the third floor of the main keep. She had shared it with her husband, Gilwyn, and together they had planned for their infant’s arrival, gathering blankets and baby clothes from the women in Lionkeep and decorating a corner of their tiny apartment with toys. Gilwyn had been Lukien’s friend, mostly, but on the few occasions that Akeela visited the apartment he had always found it cheery. He supposed it would be appallingly cold now. Reaching the third floor, he braced himself as he entered the hall. Most of the doors were closed. Beith’s room was at the far end. Akeela went to it and listened, but didn’t hear anything. Unsure if he should interrupt, he went ahead and knocked.
“Beith?” he called softly. “Are you awake?”
There was a stirring behind the door. Akeela fixed a smile on his face.
“Who is it?” called a voice. It was hoarse from lack of sleep, but Akeela recognized it.
“Beith, it’s Akeela.”
After a hesitation, the startled voice returned. “The king?” There was more fumbling behind the door. Akeela imagined Beith smoothing out her night clothes. “My lord Akeela, a moment, please . . .”
Akeela waited patiently until finally the door opened, revealing Beith in a disheveled robe and
unkempt hair, her red eyes rimmed with sunken bags. She forced a sunny smile, stepping away from the door so he could enter. Quickly she dipped into a curtsey.
“My lord, this is a surprise. Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting you. My appearance—”
“Is perfectly fine, Beith, don’t worry.” Akeela stepped into the room. As expected, the apartment’s cheerfulness had fled. “I apologize for bothering you, but I’ve only just arrived home. I’d heard . . . well, that you’ve had your child.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the woman. She wrapped her robe about herself, obviously embarrassed. Since he’d become king, Akeela had noticed the way ordinary people squirmed around him.
“Please,” he implored. “Be at ease. I just wanted to see you, and your little one.”
Beith brightened. “You’ve come to see Gilwyn?”
“Gilwyn?” laughed Akeela. “Is that his name? I didn’t even know you’d had a boy! I know you wanted one.” He looked around the room and spotted the crib beneath the room’s only window. Sunlight poured onto its whitewashed wood; a cottony blanket fell over its rim. “Ah, that must be him.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Beith. Pride crept into her tone. “He’s sleeping, I think.”
Akeela tiptoed toward the crib. “May I see him?”
“Certainly,” answered Beith. “But he’s . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I know about his problems, Beith. Warden Graig told me. I’m sorry.”
Beith said quickly, “Oh, but he’s a beautiful baby, my lord. He’s got his father’s eyes. And he’s smart! He can already tell when I say his name.” Beith moved toward the crib. “Here, let me show him to you.”
“If he’s sleeping . . .”
“No,” said Beith anxiously. “I want you to see him.”
Akeela followed her to the crib, watching in fascination as she lifted the little bundle out of the blankets. Baby Gilwyn squirmed in protest at being awakened. Beith’s expression lightened as she held out the baby for Akeela to inspect.
“Ah,” said Akeela, enchanted. He stuck his face closer to the child, amazed by his smallness. Little Gilwyn fixed his bleary eyes on the king and gave a tiny cry.
“No, don’t cry,” said Beith, bouncing the baby in her arms. “That’s the king!”
Akeela put out a finger, touching the baby’s stomach. Gilwyn reacted by wrinkling his nose, which made the king laugh.
“He’s beautiful,” said Akeela. He noticed the clubbed hand but pretended to ignore it. “Congratulations, Beith. If your husband were here, he’d be very proud.”
“Yes,” said Beith sadly. “I wish he could see him. But Meri says he’s here in spirit, watching.”
“And perhaps he is,” said Akeela, not believing a word of it. Like some in the castle, Meri believed that the dead lived on as spirits, walking among the living. It was just one of the varied religions represented by Lionkeep’s staff. “Like I said, Gilwyn would have been proud of this little soldier.”
Beith blanched. She hugged the baby a little tighter.
“Oh, blast,” said Akeela. “I’m sorry, Beith. That was stupid of me to say.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Beith. “But I don’t think he’s going to be the little soldier. He won’t ever be a Charger like his father.”
“No,” Akeela agreed. With the baby’s infirmities, being a soldier was impossible.
“But he’s smart, my lord,” Beith insisted. “He’s not slow or simple. Gwena says he might be, but I just know he’s not.”
Akeela nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“He’ll be able to do things, my lord. He won’t be a burden to anyone.” Beith was looking at Akeela fretfully. “I swear, I’ll teach him to take care of himself. He’ll be a good member of this castle. I mean, if you’ll allow it.”
Suddenly Akeela understood her fears. Her eyes reflected her dashed dreams, and her motherly concern for a son that might grow up a beggar.
“Let me hold the baby,” said Akeela. Carefully Beith handed the infant over. Akeela, who had seldom held children before, cradled the child in the crook of his arm. Little Gilwyn squirmed but was silent, looking up at him. For Akeela, it was like holding a miracle, just like Gwena had always described. The warm little body curled in his embrace, enjoying the safety of the king’s protection.
“He likes you,” said Beith. She glanced up at Akeela hopefully. “See? He already knows what a good king you are.”
“Beith, stop. There’s no need.” Akeela kept his gaze on Gilwyn. “I would never abandon this child to the streets. I don’t care if he’s simple or a genius. Lionkeep is his home. As long as I am king, it always will be.”
“Really?” asked Beith. “Will you promise me that, my lord?”
“I promise,” said Akeela. He leaned down and laid a gentle kiss on the infant’s forehead. “And not just to you, but to this little fellow here. He will always have a place in Lionkeep.”
Beith could barely find her voice. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
Akeela took the baby over to a nearby chair. He sat down and rocked the child, loving the paternal feeling. Gilwyn’s little mouth turned upward. Akeela took the gesture for a smile. He cooed to the baby, speaking softly.
“Little Gilwyn, Liiria is going to be a great nation. I’m going to make it special, the way the founders intended. There will always be a place for you here, and for all the other children, too. And you’re going to grow up strong and smart, and whatever you can dream, you can be.”
Beith spent the rest of the day feeling lighter than air. The good news Akeela had given her put a smile back on her face, and she bragged to Meri and her other friends about the king’s promise, and how her son would grow up in Lionkeep just as she and her dead husband had always planned. For Beith, who hadn’t known real joy since her husband’s death, the lightness in her heart felt wonderful. Now, with her baby safe, she could begin mourning her beloved properly, without fretting over the fate of her newborn.
That night, Beith slept sound and deeply. She had retired early, putting Gilwyn to bed in his crib and taking a cup of tea before drifting off to sleep. For the first time in weeks, her dreams were unpolluted.
Then she awoke for no apparent reason. Her eyes fluttered open to catch moonbeams slanting through her window. The mist of sleep was on her, and for a moment she couldn’t place the time. It was very late; dawn was still many hours away. Realizing this, she listened for Gilwyn. He was a good baby and surprisingly cooperative about sleeping, but she knew it was time to check on him. Desperate for the pillow, she nevertheless rose from the bed and started toward the door, shambling through the darkness in a groggy haze. Then she saw the figure in the threshold.
Beith stumbled backward, about to scream, before an amazing calm overtook her. Unable to move, she merely stared at the figure, enchanted by a strange light emanating from its chest.
“Don’t be afraid.” The figure took a tiny step forward. Everything about it was tiny, in fact. Beith had never seen anyone like her, not outside a carnival. She realized that the stranger was a woman, and that the woman was a midget.
“Who are you?” Beith asked. “What are you doing here?”
The woman smiled. Beith could see her impish face in the red glow of her necklace. “Fair questions, Beith,” she said. “But first, your child is safe. Do not be afraid for him.”
To her surprise, Beith wasn’t afraid. She knew—somehow—that no harm had come to Gilwyn. She squinted at the little woman and saw her multicolored coat swirling as if it were alive.
“Are you magical?” she asked.
The question delighted the intruder. “Why, yes I am.”
“I’m not afraid. But I should be. Am I under a bewitchment?”
The woman floated closer, until she and Beith were standing face to face. Only they weren’t really, because Beith towered over the stranger. The woman looked up at Beith. She seemed to be studying her.
“Let us talk.” She gestur
ed toward the bed. “Sit.”
Beith heard the warnings in her mind, telling her to run and to rescue Gilwyn, yet the voices were very faint, pushed way back in her brain. So instead of running, Beith obeyed the stranger, sitting down at the edge of the bed. She noticed the amulet around the woman’s neck, glowing ruby red. The remarkable coat she wore no longer swam with life, yet Beith knew she was in the power of a magician.
“Why are you here?” she asked again.
The woman replied, “For the sake of your child, Beith. I can help him.”
“Gilwyn? Gilwyn needs no help.”
“Does he not?” asked the woman. “I have heard about him. He is deformed, quite probably crippled. He is not well, dear Beith. But I have a safe place for him.”
“No,” said Beith. “Lionkeep is a safe place for him.”
A sympathetic expression lingered on the stranger’s face. “If only that were so,” she sighed. “Your child is not like others. He may not be safe here in the castle, or anywhere in Liiria. But I know a place where all like him are safe. I can take him there.”
“What is this place?” Beith asked. Vaguely her memory returned, recalling a story she had heard as a little girl.
“It is a secret place, far from here, far across a desert. There are people like me there, and people like your child.”
“Magical people?”
The woman’s smile dimmed. “Yes, all right. Magical people.”
Suddenly a memory bloomed in Beith’s mind. She gasped, “You’re the Witch of Grimhold.”
“No,” said the woman. “I am no witch.”
“You are,” Beith insisted. “My mother told me the story, when I was very young.”
“Your mother was mistaken,” said the woman. She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to be concentrating. The awesome calm within Beith increased. As quickly as she had recalled the old legend, she forgot it.
“Now, tell me,” the woman continued. “Will you let me take your child? I will look after him for you. I will take him to a place where no one will harm or ridicule him.”