Uh oh. This wasn’t good.
Almost certainly, he had gone down. If he were trying to escape the castle, that would be the path he’d take. But what if he’d gone up? She craned her head, trying to see around the spiraling stone steps ascending into flickering torchlight.
If he went up, she’d have time to find him later. If he went down, he could conceivably escape the castle and she’d never catch him. Best to assume he’d gone down.
She had taken only a single step onto the descending steps when she heard footsteps coming up. She recognized the sounds: guardsmen on sentry duty.
Suddenly, she heard very soft but quick footsteps coming up toward her. The King had almost run into the sentries and was backtracking!
She withdrew back into the corridor from the stairwell. She looked quickly to the left and right, and decided the corridor bent closer to the right, so she ran that way and around the corner.
She listened for the King’s footsteps, but couldn’t hear them. She did, however, hear the sentries as they continued climbing the stairs past her floor.
The most logical thing for the King to do would have been to hide in the corridor (as she had), wait for the guards to pass, and then go downstairs after they were gone. She used her knife as a mirror and peeked into the corridor; it was empty.
The most sensible thing to do would have been to go back down. The least sensible thing would have been for the King to follow the sentries up the stairs. For some reason, Willow was certain he had gone up.
She mounted the stairs again and ascended, listening for the King’s tread. However, she had only climbed perhaps a dozen steps when she turned and caught a glimpse of the King above her. He ascended the stairs on his tiptoes, holding his boots in his left hand. Willow eased back a step. She counted to ten in silence and then followed. He continued upward through the North-East Tower with Willow following just out of sight.
The Reliquary was just off the stairwell, five flights up. Could that be where he was heading? If so, why?
The Reliquary contained the King’s Relics: the Scepter, the Scroll, and the Crown. Each would have been worth a fortune save for one small problem: they were so recognizable as to be impossible to sell. Willow supposed they could be disassembled, and the gold melted, but that would be a lot of work which, when added to all the risk involved, would seem not to be worth it.
On the other hand, it would be interesting to see what happened if he tried.
As she neared the floor that contained the Reliquary, she was surprised to hear Fyrelord’s voice coming from the hall leading there.
“Beautiful, aren’t they, Your Majesty?” he said.
Willow arched an eyebrow. That was unexpected. Had the King arranged a meeting with the Royal Mage? When the King had first awakened back in his chambers, he and the mage had seemed to be enemies. Could it have been an act?
“Ah! Fyrelord!” came the King’s response.
Willow risked a look around the corner with her knife again. She saw Fyrelord standing behind the King, who was looking through the thick iron crossbars into the Reliquary. By the doors to the Reliquary stood two Elite, who would permit only the King to enter. They might have been statues for the little they moved. Two more stood at strategic positions along that wall.
“Your Majesty,” said Fyrelord. He then leaned towards the King’s ear and whispered something that Willow couldn’t hear.
“Careful, Fyrelord,” said the King. “Your insubordination borders on treason. If you aren’t careful, you may find yourself a guest in your own dungeons.”
That didn’t sound good. Willow sheathed her knife and slowly eased her rapier from its scabbard, being careful not to make a sound. Mages were deadly; she’d need to hit Fyrelord low and fast, not giving him the seconds he’d need to direct his magic. She risked looking around the corner so that if this turned nasty, she would already know his location.
Fyrelord had clenched his fists. Even from here, Willow heard his breath as it puffed in and out of his nostrils. Then his breathing eased, and when he spoke again, his tone was courteous.
“As Your Majesty commands.” He approached the bars of the Reliquary. The eyes of the two Elite nearest the Reliquary followed him, but only their eyes, and none of the others moved as much as a finger. Good men. She had trained them well.
“Perhaps I might be able to do His Majesty a service,” Fyrelord said. “Either through an action, or perhaps by refraining from an action. Would His Majesty be interested in such a service, do you think?”
Now that was intriguing. Fyrelord had used the same language earlier when he had tried to bribe her with his elixir. At the time, she thought that he intended to bribe her into permitting an assassination attempt. Now it seemed that the mage was trying to blackmail the King.
Curious. If his words had been a bit more overt, that alone would have been grounds for her or any of the Elite to arrest or kill him. However, couched just so …
“You know that we have always valued your loyalty, Fyrelord,” the King said. “As my Royal Mage, your services to the kingdom and to the Royal Family are encouraged; but likewise, I wish to assist you, too, in your endeavors. Tell me, Fyrelord, is there anything you need to lighten your burden?”
Was the King now negotiating with his own Royal Mage? Willow glanced at the naked rapier she held, and considered re-sheathing it. She decided against it. She couldn’t possibly predict how this would turn out. Better to play it cautiously.
“The Scepter!” Fyrelord exclaimed, astonishing Willow with the ferocity of his tone. “I need the scepter!”
The King laughed, but held up a single finger.
“Wait,” he said. He then approached the Elite standing by the door and told him, “I wish entrance.”
“Only you may enter, Your Majesty,” the Elite replied.
The two Elite began the ritual of opening the Reliquary. Each withdrew a ring of keys. Almost as one, they found the key for the Reliquary (the others were blanks, merely for show) and inserted them into the two recessed slots in the stone wall. The Elite turned the keys simultaneously, permitting the counter-balanced stone bars hidden in the doors to recede. Willow felt the movement of the bars through the bottoms of her socks.
As the other two Elite approached and began to shoulder the door, Willow tried to decide what to do. Was the King about to give one of the Relics to Fyrelord? Why in the Seven Hells would he do that? And should she try to stop him?
She considered her orders. The Chancellor had instructed her to guard the King, which she was doing, and to observe him. Fine. She was guarding and observing him. The Chancellor had said nothing about preventing His Majesty from robbing the Reliquary and giving the second-most valuable relic to the Royal Mage.
The Elite finished opening the doors and remained pressing on it. If they were to stumble or fall, the doors would slam shut, pulverizing anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way.
The King entered the Reliquary. Willow took a deep breath. She had been ordered to protect him, and he was doing something very dangerous. However, if she interceded, who knows what might happen? Best to trust the Elite to do their jobs.
Fyrelord watched through the bars of the Reliquary, his hands grasping as though the Scepter were within reach.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” hissed Fyrelord.
From within, the King grunted. Presumably, he was lifting the Scepter, which was made of solid gold. In fact, he may not have been able to so much as lift it from its stand. A corner of her mouth turned up into a grim smile. Gold was heavier than most people expected.
“Is this what you require, Fyrelord?” said the King, his voice straining with what must have been considerable effort.
“Yes, Your Majesty, please! Give it to me!”
For a moment, there was silence in the hall. Then the King spoke. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can’t have it. You didn’t honestly think I would give you the Scepter, did you?”
Fyrelord’s sho
ulders sagged and his head bowed. He stood motionless for a long time. At last, he raised his head and said, “Your Majesty plays dangerous games.”
“Yes. Just remember that His Majesty is also the better player.”
“Do not be so certain.”
With that, Fyrelord turned and headed down the corridor and away from Willow. She heard the King chuckling to himself as he exited the Reliquary. The two Elite who had been straining to keep the doors open now eased back and let them grind to a close.
Willow ducked back around the corner. The King continued to chuckle to himself and now, she was seriously doubting his sanity. To taunt the Royal Mage like that … not a wise move.
“Wow,” the King said, presumably to the Elite. “That was a little bit of excitement, I dare say!”
He continued talking as he walked back towards where Willow was hidden. She slipped back into the stairwell, and prepared to descend.
“I’ve never seen the Royal Mage look so angry!” the King said. He laughed. “I’m just glad you were here to guard me, Captain Willow.”
Willow froze on the stairwell. What did he just say?
The King yawned loudly, almost theatrically. “All in a good night’s work, I say. Now, would you be kind enough to escort me back to my chambers?”
She stood on the stairwell, furious that he had discovered her. Or had he? Could he be bluffing? But why would he?
Seconds passed, and an expectant silence grew. Willow ground her teeth, not sure at whom she should direct her fury: perhaps herself?
At last, she relented. She sheathed her rapier and stepped into the hallway to find the King waiting for her with a broad grin on his face.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. She supposed she had finally lost her first duel.
“Thank you, Willow,” he said, as he approached her. “You know, you really should stop grinding your teeth like that. You have such a lovely smile—or would, I suppose, if you ever smiled. It would be such a tragedy if you ruined those teeth.”
She started to grind her teeth again, and then stopped.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Chapter 40
She had just drifted off to sleep in her office when a loud banging on the door startled her. She awoke to find her rapier naked in her hand as if by magic.
The banging continued. The door bulged. She heard a growl outside. Ah, yes, now she recognized that sound.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
The Chancellor brushed past her into her office.
“He’s been seen negotiating with Fyrelord,” he said without any preamble. “That cunning snake, forming alliances to betray me!”
Willow sheathed her rapier and fought back a yawn.
“Who plans to betray you, sir?” she said, though she knew full well of whom he spoke.
“D’Ar—” he started, but quickly caught himself. His eyes narrowed, as though he suspected her of trying to trick him. “The man who’s impersonating His Majesty!”
Willow nearly smiled. He had made that almost too easy.
“What are your orders, sir?”
“I want you to—!” Again, he cut himself off.
“Never mind,” he grumbled. He paced around the office. He had to stoop to fit under the beams of the small room.
“We need to get him out of the castle,” he continued. “As long as he spends all his time rolling in bed with the Queen, why would he leave? Willow, you’ve served the kings of Bryanae for a very long time; what makes them leave the Castle?”
The “real” King Eric had had a penchant for sleeping with the round-cheeked daughters of the local farmers. That certainly had gotten him out of the Castle. However, she couldn’t suggest to the Chancellor of Bryanae that they scour the countryside for milkmaids for His Majesty to deflower.
Besides, if he were this D’Arbignal character—which he almost certainly was—his tastes might completely run counter to the real King’s. Unintentionally, she recalled the simple touch of his hand on her shoulder and she shuddered with a dim, aching longing.
They also say he’s got an eye for the ladies.
No, she refused to be a conquest for some king-impersonating lothario! Was he even now manipulating her? The thought made her furious.
“Perhaps a party?” she suggested mildly. Her malice surprised her. That was new.
“Yes!” the Chancellor said, snapping his fingers. “A party. A perfect opportunity to get him away from the castle and its guards. Splendid!”
Willow blinked, but said nothing. She didn’t think the Chancellor realized what he had just said. Not “away from the Queen” but “away from the guards.”
And people called her cold-blooded.
“Yes,” the Chancellor said, suddenly self-conscious. “If we get him away from his guards, he’ll have more of a chance to slip up and reveal himself as an impostor. The presence of guards gives him people to hide behind and a veneer of authenticity.”
Sure, thought Willow. That’s what you meant all along.
So far, the Chancellor hadn’t asked her to harm the King or permit him to be harmed. So far, there was no conflict in her duties. But if that order came …?
If that order came, she’d deal with it then.
“I believe there’s a large party in three weeks,” she said.
“What par—?” he started, and then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Yes, there is. How did you hear of it?”
“I have a large network of spies, both at home and in foreign lands.” This was technically the truth, though of course, it had been the King himself who had told her about Four Fingers’s party.
Four Fingers: the youthful prodigy who already had a piece of most of Bryanae’s criminal activity. An evil little dwarf who hid his slimy interests behind a façade of charm and urbane wit.
The Chancellor wanted the King dead. The Royal Mage wanted the King dead. Her job was to protect the King, and she had just volunteered to bring him to a crime lord’s masquerade ball.
And if somehow she managed to protect him the entire evening, the Queen would surely murder them both upon their return.
Terrific.
Chapter 41
“Oh, Eric!” The Queen’s joyous cries escaped the confines of the bedchamber and into the antechamber where Willow waited. Her Majesty knew Willow was out here; Willow had been sitting there when she had arrived. Willow was convinced that the Queen was being extra loud for her benefit.
Willow shrugged. The Queen could make all the noise in the world for all Willow cared. She was here because the Chancellor had ordered her to be. So long as K’Low assassins didn’t magically appear in the middle of the room, nothing that happened here was of much concern to Willow.
“You’re so masterful, Eric! Yes! That’s the spot! Oh, Eric!”
Charming.
Sometime around the time that Her Majesty was having (faking?) her fifth climax, Marcus entered the antechamber carrying a package wrapped in blue velvet so dark that it seemed more like an iridescent black. It was large enough to hold three medium-sized shields, but from the way Marcus carried it, it didn’t seem particularly heavy. He had a look of dull cunning and suppressed excitement on his face.
Willow closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. This was going to be just a ton of fun.
“Is Her Majesty all right?” Marcus asked, precisely as Willow had predicted. Marcus wore his naïveté like a sign around his neck.
As if on cue, the Queen squealed in (feigned?) delight. Willow rolled her eyes.
“Her Majesty is doing very well,” Willow said, “apparently.”
“Then why is she—?” He started, gesturing toward the bedchamber door.
“Is that a package you are carrying, Private?” she said.
He looked down at it, confused. He thought hard for a moment.
“Um, yes,” he said. He pointed to the door again, but Willow forestalled him.
“For whom did you bring t
his package?”
By now, the Queen had entered her cooing, laughing phase. Thus sated, she’d be leaving the King’s bedchambers very shortly. Willow thought it would be a lot less awkward if Marcus were not here when that happened.
“Um,” Marcus said. “For His Majesty.”
She stood up and extended her arms. “Give it to me, and I’ll hand it to His Majesty when he’s … available.”
Marcus pondered that for a moment, and then timidly shook his head.
“His Majesty told me not to let anybody else touch it. I had to guard it the entire journey!”
“What journey would that be?” she said, an eyebrow arched.
Marcus flinched. He looked ashamed. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about—”
The doors to the bedchamber opened, and the Queen sashayed out like an elemental force of sex. She was naked, in the process of pulling on her robe.
“Willow,” she said, “would you be so kind as to—oh!”
The Queen spotted Marcus, and quickly tied her gown closed. Her cheeks reddened.
“Oh, well,” she said with a seductress’s smile. “He had to learn sometime, the poor dear.”
Marcus gaped at the Queen in astonishment, his jaw hung slack. He said nothing, only stared, blinking only occasionally.
The Queen laughed and her eyes sparkled. She leaned forward to pinch Marcus’s cheek, displaying her pendulous breasts through the gap in her robe.
Marcus suddenly became aware of some activity in the vicinity of his groin. He quickly tossed the package he bore to Willow and covered his groin with both hands.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” he said in a rush, and then fled the room.
The Queen tossed her head back and laughed in delight. She clapped her hands.
“Oh, men are such simple creatures, aren’t they, Willow?”
“As you say, Your Majesty,” Willow said.
The Queen eyed Willow with a wry smile. “Yes, well, I guess you wouldn’t understand, would you?”
Willow ground her teeth. Why the Queen felt compelled to torment her was beyond her. Even if she had somehow learned or guessed about the two times Willow had lain with her husband all those years ago, why would she persecute Willow? Willow hadn’t initiated the copulation; His Majesty had!
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