by B Lynch
“I agree,” Hanne said, as she stood up, and looked right into Caliandra’s eyes. “Let’s pray very hard, indeed.”
Caliandra had a different prayer in mind, involving certain ladies and falls from great heights. And food poisoning. All the same, she forced a smile. “Of course,” Caliandra said. “Yom bless him.”
“She was so awful,” Mae whispered later, as they left the dining room. “Why didn’t your sister say anything?”
“Why do you think?” Caliandra groaned. “Eliya’d rather have a friendship than a sister.” At that, Mae wrinkled her nose, and a lightly disgusted look spread across her freckled face.
“What kind of friend would say what she did?” Mae asked. “That was so rude. So rude!”
It warmed Caliandra’s heart to hear that. “She’s right, though,” Caliandra said, sadly. “That’s the worst of it. If he fails…”
“Don’t think of that,” Mae said, shaking her head. “He’s taken up too much of your mind today. He’ll be back on the morrow, Callie. Have faith in that.” She took Caliandra’s arm, and pulled her away from the dining hall, towards the south corridor. “Come, let’s go find Janni. Singing a few rounds always cheers you up.”
Caliandra didn’t want to be cheered up, though; she only wanted her brother back.
CHAPTER NINE
The Seer could not sleep, or find any semblance of a settled mind. He’d also run out of wine, and woja besides; empty bottles of comfort lay scattered on his floor. He’d regretted not buying more in the village, the last time he’d been in. But a stray thought reminded him of the King’s store of wine in the buttery. Few would notice bottles going missing, with the King in the condition he was. He decided to take a walk; either way, if Valric lived or died, what would theft matter?
No, he told himself. The old me would’ve taken what he wanted. But I am not Zstraki anymore; I am soft, on purpose.
He walked the corridors at an even pace, and acknowledged the stern guards as he passed; he felt a certain nervousness in their presence, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d first come to Castle Claine, and their eyes had tracked him with eminent distrust wherever he went - the Amaniren, the dark-skinned man who came from Yom-knew-where and claimed he could see the future, was suspicious indeed. After countless correct predictions, their wariness eased. They weren’t looking at him with such caution now, at all; his was a feeling born of guilty nerves, still wondering if he’d be caught. Royth found the buttery, easily enough; a few silver smoothed the palm of the guard on duty, and minutes later, Royth emerged from the cellar with a bottle of Silenian red. He hardly cared for vintage or origin; he only wanted inebriation. He uncorked the bottle, and began to drink as he walked back to his room.
As he strolled near the north corridor, he found commotion in the hallway. Fenwyn, the King’s Minister of the Interior, was arguing with the king’s physician - a lean and dowdy man who’d never made any strong impression on Royth otherwise. Fenwyn’s hands were at his hips, and long red hair spilled over the shoulders of his green embroidered doublet. His delicate, thin features and emerald eyes, however, were twisted in displeasure. The physician’s arms were crossed, and he barred the way to the King’s chambers like a slender stone wall.
“Let me in,” Fenwyn protested. “We need to discuss urgent matters of state.”
The healer cut him off. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Come back in the morning, Sir Fenwyn. He’s tired, as am I, and the hour is late.”
“Listen,” Fenwyn said, jabbing a finger at the healer. “You leech-peddling peasant, you’ve barely let me conduct my business during the day as it is. I can’t see him at night, I can’t see him in the day, I can’t see him in the morning - shall I visit him in his dreams, then? Hmm?”
“His condition is getting worse,” the healer said, leveling his gaze, “If you’d like him to die faster, than by all means, pass through the doors.”
Fenwyn hesitated, then sighed. “Fine,” he said. “What if I were to leave letters with you? Would you read them to him?”
“Goodnight, Sir Fenwyn,” the healer said, walking away from the King’s room. Fenwyn moved to knock, but restrained himself, and muttered curses under his breath.
“Don’t ask me for help, friend,” Royth said, from down the hall - startling Fenwyn. “I wouldn’t know when would be best, either.”
“Yom be kind,” Fenwyn said as he turned around, startled, a hand over his heart. “You gave me a fright, Royth.” He took a breath, and recovered his composure; he noticed the bottle in Royth’s hand. “It’s been a taxing week for you too, I imagine,” Fenwyn said, as he gestured at the bottle.
“Yes,” Royth said. He held the bottle where it was, at his side; there wasn’t any sense in hiding it now. “It’s Valric’s latest adventure,” he said, his eyes lingering on the bottle for a second, before returning to Fenwyn. “I’m afraid I don’t know how it ends.”
“Ah,” Fenwyn said, with a shake of his head. “That’s especially worrisome. But I’m afraid we have problems that are even worse, and the King hasn’t the health to address any of them. I’ve brought them before the rest of the Ministers, and I’ve only found frustration.”
Royth paused. “Such as?” he asked, as Fenwyn walked over to meet him. The torchlight flickered across his face; Fenwyn gestured towards the far end of the hall, where no guards stood. They walked together, the dark-skinned foreigner and the red-haired minister, odd fellows in the middle of the night, until they’d found the quiet corner. Only there did Fenwyn begin to speak, in a whisper. Even with his mind dulled from lack of sleep and plenty of drink, Royth was intrigued.
“The treasury’s in a fragile state,” he began. “Most of the Ministers fall in line with Marrol, and believe we’ll soon be threatened by outside forces, so they’ve increased our spending on soldiers and bowmen as such… while our peasants starve, our crops falter, and our profits from trade has suffered, with the new taxes the Silenians levied on merchants this past year. We won’t be copperless, but we are weakened. Which, naturally, fits Marrol’s suspicions.” Fenwyn shook his head. “Marrol carries enough weight with the Ministry to increase our spending on farming, and new implements that’d grow our yields – and to re-direct the ore we’ve been mining for weapons to trade.”
“Marrol won’t like that at all,” Royth said, cautious. “He’ll think you’re trying to destroy the kingdom, won’t he?”
“Josske thinks he’s not wrong, though…” Fenwyn said. He glanced around, and spoke lower still. “His mercenary friends have heard rumors of the Silenians preparing for something… and war machines that breathe fire, and cut horses in half.”
Royth scoffed. “He’s delusional,” Royth replied, firm in tone and truth. “Your husband’s as mad as Marrol.” Royth replied, firm in tone and truth. “Queen Sophine is Silenian nobility. Her brothers are Dukes. Her children share Silenian blood, and our kingdom’s in good standing with the Empire. We’ve done nothing to provoke them, and if we had, why would they attack their kin?”
“I agree,” Fenwyn said, nodding; however, he held up a cautionary finger. “But all the same, I still respect what Marrol thinks when it comes to matters of war. I only wish he felt the same way towards me, on matters of the kingdom… but I fear when King Rionn dies, our dear Marrol will only tighten his grip on Barra, until he chokes the very life from us. Short of the Kersikki, the Silenians, or…” Fenwyn gestured to Royth, with a bleak smirk, “Your unbeatable countrymen, the Amanire, coming to our rescue - it’d take a miracle.”
“Or a new King,” Royth said. The words weighed on him, and Fenwyn sadly nodded at hearing them; Royth wasn’t fully ready to see a world without Rionn, but it was approaching fast. “If things become too bleak, perhaps Josske still has friends in Kersik,” Royth said. “They’re stable, after all.”
Fenwyn’s eyes flashed with insult. “I don’t give up so easily,” Fenwyn replied, fiery – animated and passionate, a side of him that Roy
th hadn’t seen in some time. “Not for Barra’s sake. They’d have to force me out with spears at my neck, if they wanted me gone. I may not be a soldier, Royth, but this is my homeland. I bleed for these green hills, these mountains, these streams - this proud castle. I know I’ve not much blood to give, but this is my land. And yours, too,” Fenwyn said. “You’ve lived here twenty years. You’ve just as much right to it as I. Would you run?”
“Not a chance, friend,” Royth said, shaking his head as he clapped a hand Fenwyn’s shoulder. “Not ever.” He paused. “A toast?” he said, raising the bottle in his other hand.
“No,” Fenwyn said, as he waved the bottle away. “I’ll be needing to go home. My dear husband won’t be happy that dinner’s gotten cold.”
Royth smirked. “I’d never thought a mercenary would be happier with pots and pans than swords and spears,” he said.
“You don’t believe me? Come by for dinner tomorrow,” Fenwyn said, friendly. “You’re looking too thin as it is.”
Royth nodded. “Yes,” he said. “See you then.” Fenwyn smiled, and walked away - leaving him alone in the halls.
I could always leave, he thought. Zstraki would.
But he’d gotten soft.
His fingers traced the stones in the walls as he walked back to his room; he wondered how long they’d stood strong, protecting the precious things within. The people who’d helped to keep them safe. How the stones would stand, long after he’d died, and after his body rotted away. One day, they might even fall.
But Royth wouldn’t be the reason why. He knew that much.
The Seer found his room, and thought of what to do in the coming days. Valric will be coming back - in one form or another, he thought. He glanced at the bottle from the King’s cellar in his hand, and opened it. The bitter wine flowed down his throat, and some time later, lulled him to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
It was afternoon on the third day, when the trumpets sounded. Caliandra’s heart skipped a beat. He’s returned, she thought. She ran out of her bedroom, with wings on her feet.
She darted through half a dozen rooms on her way to the courtyard, rushing past maids and servants and guards and local dignitaries, dressed like brightly colored flowers. Caliandra felt the cool breeze on her face, and called to the approaching party of horses, waving excitedly – regretting everything she said to him before she left. In the back of her mind, she thought maybe – maybe, he’d succeeded. Maybe, their father would live. Maybe, Hanne would be completely wrong.
But as the horses approached, and she saw Kells’ solemn expression, her heart sank – her breath caught in her chest – and all her hopes were replaced with a single thought:
Oh, no.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It seemed like her whole world had fallen away in a moment.
Caliandra had hoped it was a cruel joke; that was quickly proven not to be the case. Kells bore fresh scars in solemnity, and offered her a guilty sadness as she approached. “I’m sorry, Princess,” he said. “We did all that we could.” Aside him, four injured soldiers and their horses - the only other survivors.
“I know you did,” Caliandra said, her eyes still fixed on Valric’s lifeless body. She walked closer, to confront it - tears in her eyes. She brushed the cold flesh with her fingers, and wished that it was warm with life again. She wished he’d lived up to his promise. Instead, he’d failed. Kells took her by the hand, and tried to lead her away, but she was pulled back to Valric’s body - until, finally, he ordered the soldiers to take it away.
“I should’ve not let you see it,” he said, “He was hardly in a condition for a lady to see.”
“What happened to him?” Caliandra asked. He paused.
“We were ambushed,” Kells said. “Surrounded, and captured. They thought we were stealing from them. Your brother and I fought two of their champions for our freedom; we slew them, but he died in the attempt.” Kells stopped again, and swallowed. “They let us keep his body, but took his dagger as trophy.” Caliandra’s hand flew to her mouth. It was a death Valric would’ve wanted - something grand and noble, on the field of battle. The death he would’ve wished for their father, stuck in his bed. A death to sing songs about. And yet Caliandra would’ve given anything for that damn fool to be alive. Anything.
“He died well, then,” Caliandra said. “His death was noble.”
“He fought very well, Princess,” Kells said. “And he fought for a good cause. Take comfort in that. You come from good stock.”
She was too overwhelmed to notice the oddness of his comforting words about her brother’s cause, but thanked Kells anyway, and ran to tell her family the news. They’d already heard - and gathered in her Father’s room. The surviving Feors all but drowned in their sadness, together. And as they cried, she thought of how stupid, how foolish it was that Valric’d gone - and what had sent him there. Who, rather: Royth. Valric had died following Royth’s instructions. His sacrifice was a noble end for an ignoble man, but what could be said of the man who put him in that place? When he’d saved Valric’s life before, what would make him send Valric to a place like that without caution?
And when her weakened, weary father asked aloud, “Why would he do such a foolish thing?” Caliandra had the answer.
“For you,” she said. “Royth told him to.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kells arrived in the King’s chambers quietly, but not on purpose; he felt withdrawn, distant from everything. Still caught up in his lie, and the aftermath. And though King Rionn was still infirm, confined to his bed, Kells felt his presence; a sad, impotent anger, that filled the empty room. “Tell me,” Rionn said, “Why my son died in some Erimeni hovel, with a sword in his gut… when he could have easily sent you alone to do the same.” Kells bristled, but did not object.
“May I speak freely?” Kells asked. He knew the answer would be an uncomfortable yes; he asked the question all the same.
“Please,” the King said, coolly.
Kells swallowed. “Pride, Your Highness,” he said. “Valric wanted to be the one to save your life. I objected to his involvement, but he would have it no other way.”
“I see.” The King breathed heavy in his bed, and looked away for a second – then, turned back to Kells. “Caliandra told me you were captured, and forced to fight for your freedom.”
Kells nodded, and spoke. “Yes,” he said. “The men will speak to that. Your son and I fought a pair of their strongest warriors to the death; he died on his feet, blade in his hand.” That much is true.
A light smile came to the King’s weary face. “And this flower he sought, this Naeb’s Coil…?”
“It’s useless,” Kells said. “They crushed it up, and boiled it in water before battle for luck. Royth had told him it would cure you, but it brought only death.” The king nodded, saddened again by Kells’ words. Seeing his face fall made Kells realize how truly sick he was; the illness had stripped away the life from his face, and he was a gaunt shell of his former self. He’d be a skeleton, soon – living, or dead.
“So his sacrifice was for naught,” the King said, heavy-hearted.
“Yes,” Kells replied. The king took another deep breath, and sighed. Kells waited while he collected his thoughts. Finally, the King spoke again.
“Callie says Royth was the last to see him alive, aside from you and your men,” the King replied. “But I can’t – I don’t understand why he would do this. Twenty years, he’s been loyal to us...”
“I agree,” Kells said. “That is why we should not accuse him lightly.”
“Then find out,” the King said, glaring at him. “Marrol’s already sent your men to take him to the dungeon.”
Kells was surprised. “What?” he said. “Your Majesty, that’s my domain. You shouldn’t involve the Minister of War.”
“My son is dead,” the King replied, “and the only man who knows why will be yours to interrogate, under Marrol’s direction. We must know if he acted alone, or in
concert.”
“And what if he’s innocent?” Kells asked.
The king made no reply at first. “If he’s innocent,” the King said, with gritted teeth, “Then we have a far greater problem on our hands.”
Kells bowed. “Of course,” he said. As he walked, he thought of what might be worse for Barra – Royth’s guilt, or his innocence.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When the guards came for him, Royth did not fight. He knew why. And although part of him found a twisted solace in Valric’s death, knowing that perhaps the way ahead was cleared for Caliandra, his face only showed the sadness and guilt. Royth had anticipated the heavy cost that would weigh on him, but no imagined heartache could equal the torment in his soul.
As they shackled him, he felt the cold iron ring his wrists – and he saw the icy stares as he was walked down the hallways. He knew what good would come of his deed, but he was no hero to these maids, servants, and guards. They met his eyes with cold disappointment. He had betrayed the Royal family, and forsaken the oaths of his station. He would not be sainted, in this life or the next; his hands were stained with blood. Twenty years of service, marred by arch betrayal. His trip to the dungeon was scored by venomous curses and clattering chains. When he arrived, the guards shoved him down the short stone stairs, causing him to fall and gash his head on the wall. He did not strike back to avenge it.
The two guards picked him up and dragged him to the wall, where they chained him next to a familiar skeleton. The man’s clothes were distinct – the faded once-bright colors of a juggler’s outfit, which concealed bladesman’s intent. A man that, by virtue of Royth’s visions, had been captured before he’d taken young Prince Valric’s life. It was deliberate irony.