“All safe,” yelled one of the guards within.
“Your Highness, quickly,” Everitt beckoned.
Though his pride was still wounded from Everitt’s affront, he complied. He ducked into the passage, which was usually reserved as a staging area for the castle’s banquets and feasts. Ladles, cauldrons and a varying degree of pots scattered the length of the stone floor. Straight ahead, a staircase curved up out of view. Three of the guards were already ascending when Everitt urged him forward once more.
“Please, Your Highness.”
“Mind your tongue, knight!” Gerry shouted back. He paused as Everitt stepped away, yet not so far as to be out of his reach.
“My apologies for any past offenses,” his Right Captain said, offering a short bow. “But I must insist.”
Everitt stepped up to Gerry. Though the same height as the Right Captain, Gerry somehow felt instantly shorter, with the lifts in his boots failing to comfort him. Not wanting to provoke a knight before the men he commanded, Gerry responded with a curt nod before heading up the stairs.
The climb ended up being a short one, taking the prince and his detail to the gallery that overlooked the Throne Room below. By then, the hall had quieted, with only remnants of the Ibian mob left to stagger to the hallways beyond. As his guards led him around the perimeter, Gerry spied the tail end of King Felix’s retinue beneath them as they craned their necks and tried to see past the gathering in the overflowing corridors.
Gerry heard the commotion that had emptied his Throne Room before he was able to see it. It came to him as a crackling at first, as though from some common hearth he could find in any room in the castle. That impression soon faded, for as he drew nearer to the dormer windows, the pops and snaps became hard cracks and booms. A waft from the Arcporte Harbor filled the gallery with a touch of heat, one that gave Gerry a sense of what was to come.
If the warmth can reach me here, how great the fire must be!
And great it was. Like matchsticks protruding into the water, the docks roared with flames. Yellow and orange specters frolicked and danced on the Wharf, some so close as to taunt the few dreaded individuals who ran from them, burning. Many kicked and brushed the sides of the Ibian ships and flyboats moored at the landing piers. The vessels, unburnt, swayed as the force of the swelter pushed them away. A few managed to escape, with the thick ropes that bound them having combusted all the way through. Many more of their wares on deck and below caught fire, including the few raised sails that remained after the Armada’s afternoon practice runs in the harbor. Those stretches of canvas flayed with the breezes that glanced off the harbor, to send embers into the heights of the night and thus endanger the remaining ships that surrounded them.
Gerry, his eyes glazed by the glow he watched, leaned out the window. He fought the impulse to scream, to curse Mar and all that He had made, to demand that his father and mother be returned to him and that the clock of his life be wound back to simpler moments, such as the summers of his youths or the holidays of year past.
Defeated, he reclined from the window, allowing his guards their chance to view the carnage.
“Prince Jameson.” Everitt was nearby as he spoke yet he sounded distant and hollow. He might as well have been down a shaft, a mile away. “How do we answer this assault? What is your command?”
My command? Go away. All of you. I am done with this charade. I want not to care. I am done.
Ignoring his Right Captain’s inquiries, Gerry inched to the other side of the gallery, which afforded a view of the Throne Room below. The scattering of Ibians had left, replaced by emptiness, save in one corner, where a ring of guards stood. Not his, mind you, but of a different sovereign.
King Felix.
The monarch stood in the center of his own defensive circle, staring up at the gallery as if expecting Gerry to appear. His look was nothing short of long, with no malice nor spite nor amusement to accompany it. Just an empty gaze, a sense of focus without emotion.
Gerry laid his hands on the ledge of the window. His own apprehension, along with his desire to abandon his duties, faded, replaced by a burning all his own, a passion that welled up from his core.
Rage.
Contained it was, in order to keep up his appearances as a prince. Yet it was there.
King Felix, his eyes never leaving Gerry, raised his hand to the scar on his neck.
Gerry, lifted his own hand in response. Instinctively, it found his own scar, the one beneath his eye on his left cheek.
What have you done?
Chapter 23
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re back sooner than we expected.”
“Are you complaining?” Ely asked as he removed a false mustache from his fulcrum.
“No,” Dawkin replied.
“Good.”
By Mar, how I hate the banter between them, Symon thought. “To the Fourpointe Table,” he insisted.
“Yes, yes,” Ely said as he wiped the adhesive from his face with a handkerchief.
“You dyed your hair,” Gerry noted, referring to the strands that peeked out from under Ely’s roundlet.
“Thoughtful of you to notice,” he replied as he swept the hat from his head and tossed it to a nearby end stand. He tipped a carafe of wine to his lips, not bothering with a goblet. “I took extra care with my appearance while in the city, seeing as how none of you trust me just yet to resume the role of Jameson.”
“And how goes it in Arcporte?” Dawkin asked.
Ely paused. He gave his brother a wry look. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Then let us have our chamber session,” Symon insisted. “If we are to have bad news, let us make it official.”
The four took their seats at each corner of the table. Symon eyed the swath of crimson that still stained the wood, a remnant of their past argument.
“Brothers,” Dawkin began. “Princes. I call this session to order.” He glanced at Ely. “If you please.”
“I did my rounds while out and about. In expeditious fashion I might add. I had nary time for a pint, let alone a woman.”
“On with it,” Symon interrupted.
“Right. So anyway, judging from the small talk and rumors I overheard - along with the news I paid for outright - our position is not good, my brothers.”
“How not good?”
“The Lewmarian presence in the north has the entire island on edge. Prices on all goods have increased exponentially. Barons are hoarding their stocks, leaving the common folk to fend for themselves. Mariners are readying their ships should they need make a hasty exit for the south, or for Afari altogether. Then there is the Conclave...”
Ely paused. It was unlike him to hesitate, Symon knew, whether he was in high or low spirits.
“What of the barons?” Gerry inquired.
“I heard different things. Mostly how they are not happy with us.”
“Us?”
“Prince Jameson. Kin Saliswater. Basically, the whole of our family.” Ely shot a look at Dawkin. “That move you pulled, sending Grandfather to the manor, that didn’t sit too well with the nobles either.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” Dawkin asked, referring to his ascension only the day before. “The Courts of both nations are ready to annihilate one another. King Felix and the Grand Duke are as untrustworthy as they come. Once their ships have been repaired, which can be any day now, they will probably leave at once, to return home and declare war on us. Then there are the Lewmarians, who will not bother with any one particular manor but threaten to march on the city itself. Grandfather needed to be secured. It was the only option.”
“You sound a tad melodramatic,” Ely suggested.
“No,” Dawkin warned. “Don’t you start!”
“Brothers, please!” Symon barked. His tone quieted them. “We need unity at a time like this. Ely, continue.”
“As I was saying, the rumors are a flurry regarding the Conclave’s next move. The mo
st prominent theory circulating the taverns and markets is that the barons intend to hold a gathering soon at Highmoorr Castle.”
“Highmoorr?” Dawkin stated, shocked and dismayed. “There was no mention of that to me when I was above.”
“Me neither,” Gerry added.
“Then we know the rumor to be true,” Ely quipped. “A meeting so clandestine at a time such as this can only mean one thing.”
The four quieted. Symon knew what the other three were thinking, for he pondered the same.
“Well?” Ely prompted. “Must I say aloud what is on all our minds?”
“No,” Dawkin replied. “You needn’t. Father never trusted the Conclave outright. No monarch should. They support whomever is working towards their best interests. Sure, we may enact justice in the Name of the Crown. There have even been times when we have had to punish a noble or their son or two. The Conclave has always kept their distance and watched on, careful not to usurp a sovereign unless absolutely necessary.”
“Do they believe it is absolutely necessary?” Gerry pondered.
“They must.”
“But it’s been –”
“I know. Two hundred years since a sovereign was named by the Conclave.”
“A sovereign from our kin, when we overtook the claim to the Crown from Kin Noryxx,” Symon added, solemnly.
“Aye,” Dawkin said. “Now it may be our turn to be replaced.”
“Well then? What shall we do?” Gerry begged.
“One of us will have to ride to Highmorr Castle, to address the Conclave. That is the first matter with which to be dealt.”
“Are you mad?” Symon asked. “The Lewmarians are fiercer than any pompous Marlish noble. We need to amass an army and meet them in the north, before they wreak further havoc and destruction.”
“Raising an army is an act that requires the Conclave’s support. To do so, we must meet with them and make the argument for a thorough operation, one to which all the barons can agree and contribute.”
“Brothers.” Gerry’s look shifted from pleading to demanding. “King Felix! He must be addressed and coerced to stay. He’s nearly ready to leave, to take along his entire Court, including his daughter, Taresa.”
“Would you stop thinking with your member for one minute?!” Dawkin barked.
“Watch your tone!” Symon shot back.
A hundred shards, pounding the tiled floor in rapid succession, stunned the three. Near the door, they found the shattered remains of a wine carafe strewn over the blotchy puddle of the ambrosia that was once within.
“You see what you made me do?” Ely accused them, gesturing to the floor. “That was damn fine wine. Now it lies ruined. Because of the bickering between you three. Ugh, you disgust me.”
Without pausing for a response, Ely whisked away to another end table, where yet a second carafe had been laid. In typical fashion, he removed the stopper and chugged the contents, inhaling nearly half of the wine within.
“Something on your mind, brother?” Dawkin inquired with some apprehension.
“Why, so kind of you to ask, brother.” Ely sauntered over to the Fourpointe Table, which he casually hopped on, so as to take a seat cross-legged on the map laid out before him. “I’ve come to an important revelation: you all are mad.”
The three looked to each other, with none quite believing the accusation.
“Excuse me?” Gerry squeaked.
“And partially deaf, I also fear.”
“Ely, enough with your trickery of words. Out with your thoughts.”
“Fine, fine. Although when I’m done I hope you heed my advice, which will be plentiful but ultimately boils done to one fine point.”
“Which is...”
“The answer is right in front of you.”
Symon, perplexed, looked to his other two brothers to see if they had the faintest notion of what Ely had meant. Dawkin glanced at Symon, his eyes conveying an already tired sense of speculation. No, he doesn’t know. Symon then shifted his attention to Gerry, about to ask him for his own opinion, when he noticed his little brother shuddering. But why?
Their continued perturbation escaped Ely as he stood. The Fourpointe Table, of considerable width and density, held under his weight with ease as he took one careful footfall after another to trace the length of the map of Marland. “You see, each of you proposes a specific course, acting as though only one option at a time is open to us. Somehow – and this is the part that I find particularly astounding – you have avoided talking about a solution to our problems that is more comprehensive in its nature, one that utilizes the peculiar advantage that has been granted to us since birth.”
“No,” Dawkin replied as the unspoken suggestion by Ely dawned on him.
“What?” Gerry asked.
“He wants all of us to ascend,” Dawkin answered Gerry, though he continued to look upon Ely.
Hmmm, Symon considered. A bold proposition.
“Well, not all of us,” Ely said as he stared at the map, tapping it with his foot. “One should stay below, so as to preserve the bloodline should our plan go awry.”
“That’s madness.”
“Is it?” Symon asked. “Ely has the right of it. We look the same. We all know the same land, manors and barons. We have threats on multiple sides. Why shouldn’t we – as Prince Jameson - address all these issues in different spots?”
“Because we will be found out!” Dawkin insisted, his eyes bulging at the truth he felt only he could see. “There will be witnesses in every location, every castle and field of battle. Even if we manage to succeed in each theatre – which in and of itself is a cold chance in Hell – we will still need to account for our multiple sightings in various parts of the island. Barons and their servants will talk of our deeds. Many will come to know of the impossibility. Suspicions will grow. At worst, our secret - of four brothers acting as one prince – will be revealed. At best, there will be talk of imposters, which alone will spur an inquisition by both the Conclave and the Church that would lead to our doom.”
“Dawkin is right to be so cautious,” Gerry added, his face turning solemn. “None of you were above when... it happened. Our enemy, or enemies, are more conniving than you think. Father was struck. Twice. Who is to say what those vipers would do once they got wind of all of us.”
“Listen,” Ely began once more, hopping from the Fourpointe Table. “Please do not misunderstand me. I agree that we cannot all go above and act as Prince Jameson in different places at the exact same time simply because of needs for him in multiple locales. I also know we cannot climb out from Terran together and tell the entire kingdom of our twenty-year secret. Neither will gain us the outcome we so desperately desire.”
“Then what is it you propose, exactly?” Symon prompted.
“I say three of us go above. One acts in one place, waits for an agreed-upon time before the other acts, while the third waits still longer before doing his duty. That way, it appears to the Court and the whole nation that Jameson was not in many locales at once, but was simply being expeditious.”
Dawkin rubbed his chin. “It could work.”
“Couldn’t it?”
“But everything will need to be well-timed. Everything must be staged.”
“And that is why we are here, brothers. To plan.”
Symon leaned over the table. His eyes drifted to the map of the north. He studied the various grooves and indentations the craftsman had carved and painted, to symbolize the rolling hills, vast woodlands and rivers that intersected the land. So beautiful was the topography that in his youth, he had studied it for hours. Now, all the hindrances and boundaries presented a different sort of appreciation, one for the scarce time they would have to protect the upper part of the island and somehow return to Arcporte under the guise of a Mar—driven horse with no sense of fatigue.
“Even if we managed to pause in our efforts to account for our travels,” Gerry said, putting in part Symon’s concerns into words. �
�No one peasant let alone a baron will believe we rode from Highmorr to northern Marland to Arcporte to deal with all these matters.”
“We could stage the country’s best horses at different intervals along the routes,” Ely suggested.
“And we could be seen riding them,” Dawkin added, his interest in Ely’s plan growing stronger with every moment. “Yes, we will need to been seen riding to sell this idea. Not to mention, we should make haste from our positions anyways, so as to gallop in – in disguise, of course – to offer assistance to whomever is Prince Jameson at the moment.”
“But where would we get such horses?” Symon asked. “We will need every spare mount lent to our cavalry and to Kin Saliswater if we are to march north. Then if another rides to Highmorr...”
“I know where we can secure good mounts. Stallions. Mares. All great for hard riding.”
“Brothers, I am enthused by the flood of details,” Ely reported, a cat’s grin curling on his face. “Shall we make them all official?”
“Very well,” Dawkin replied, straightening. “Brothers... princes. What is decided henceforth will be official, bound by our word and carried out under the guise of Prince Jameson, not only for our safety as heirs to the Crown but for the continued preservation of Kin Saliswater and for the glory that is Greater Marland. What we plan here, and later carry out, we do as defenders of the realm. Do all agree?”
“Aye,” the three answered in unison.
“Then may Mar guide us to make the best decisions possible.”
“May Mar guide us,” the brothers repeated, striking their closed fists over their hearts.
“Brother,” Ely nodded to Dawkin. “Tell of your part in this plan.”
“As discussed, the Conclave of the Barons must be dealt with swiftly. We cannot allow them to sow dissent among their ranks or with the other barons. Therefore, I propose to ride to Highmoorr Castle –”
“At what hour?” Symon asked.
“At night. The fewer that see me the better.”
“Alone?”
Dawkin nodded.
“Very well,” Symon replied, albeit with hesitation crowning his voice. “Continue.”
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 30