The room fell silent. Cassie’s gaze moved from one man to another. All remained silent.
“So, that’s it?” Cassie blurted, her voice rising in pitch. “You say you want to help my mother, but you won’t do it?”
Firellus sighed. “Cassie...”
“No!” She slapped the table so hard it stung her hand, but she didn’t care. “I’ll not listen to your excuses. If you won’t find a way to help my mother, I will.”
Cassie turned, ripped the door open, and slammed it behind her. Her stomping footsteps echoed down the hall as she headed toward the stairwell. The door behind her opened and Delvin’s voice called out from behind her.
“Don’t even consider leaving the Ward, Cassie. If you try it, we’ll hunt you down and lock you up. If you were captured by the enemy, it would create an even greater danger, not just to Kantaria, but to the whole of Issalia.”
She darted up the stairwell, his words ringing in her head with the sound of truth – a truth she would rather deny. Still, she would not sit idle and lose her mother. She had already lost too much.
Delvin had a point. There was only one solution. Her mind was set, and she was determined to be more convincing during her next conversation.
I’ll make him listen, and I’ll send him off tonight, when everyone is asleep.
8
Awakenings
Ashland opened her eyes, only to close them again. It was bright. Too bright. Her head hurt and her throat was dry from thirst. She heard a voice nearby…Wharton’s voice, too muffled for her to make out the words. With effort, she was able to turn her head toward the sound and away from the light.
Through blurry eyes, she saw Wharton talking to Master Beldon, the citadel temple minister. The short, pudgy man appeared small beside the captain of the guard. Wharton had his back facing her, his arms motioning as he spoke with the minister. Beldon shook his head and glanced toward Ashland, his eyes widening and his mouth gaping open.
“She’s awake!” the minister exclaimed as he pushed past Wharton and rushed toward Ashland. When Beldon reached the room, he fumbled for a pitcher on the nightstand and filled a small cup with a spout. He knelt beside her bed and held the spout to her lips.
“Drink, my Queen.”
Ashland opened her mouth, and glorious water filled it. She swallowed and coughed when some slid down the wrong pipe. Even the cough required effort. When it receded, she opened her mouth, and he gave her another drink. She swallowed and saw Wharton standing in the doorway, staring at her with a look she could not ignore.
“What happened?” she croaked. “Where am I?”
Beldon’s gaze shifted to Wharton. The captain of the guard appeared fierce as usual, with wavy dark hair that grazed the shoulders of his leather uniform – black and trimmed with gold and red. The sight of Wharton’s weathered face – framed by a dark goatee – usually brought Ashland comfort and a sense of safety. Instead, something about his expression gave her pause. With a grim nod, Wharton indicated that Beldon should continue. Ashland’s unease grew worse.
When the master minister turned toward her, his eyes refused to meet hers. Beldon ran his free hand over his balding head, smoothing the wisps of gray hair he had combed across it.
“There was an incident, Your Highness. An explosion. The injury to your head was severe, and you came very close to death. I was able to heal you, but it left your life force badly weakened.”
An explosion, Ashland repeated in her head. She vaguely recalled Broland’s friend in the royal apartment before he fled over the railing. What happened next, she was unsure. A sense of panic lingered in the memory.
She blinked and cleared her throat. “How long have I been asleep?”
The minister brought a wet cloth to her face and wiped her brow. “Ten days.”
Ten days. So long. Without food. “I need to eat…and more water.” She tried to sit up, but her muscles failed and her head hardly came off the pillow. “Can you help me sit?”
“There is more,” Beldon’s apologetic tone stirred fear inside her. He held the cloth in both hands, his fingers working it as he bit his lip. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He turned away and tried again, this time successful.
“The King – your husband – did not survive. Nor did the Prince.”
A gasp caught in Ashland’s throat, her heart skipping a beat as she drew a ragged breath. She shook her head, the effort requiring far more energy than the result might convey.
“No. No. It cannot be true,” Ashland’s plea was barely audible, even to herself.
Brock and Broland, both gone? Shock. Pain. Sorrow. Her world was crashing down, the fortifications on which she had built her life, now crumbling. A lonely tear tracked down her cheek – all that her parched body could muster.
Wharton leaned forward and put his hand on Beldon’s shoulder. “She requested food, Beldon. Your focus must remain on her health” Although Wharton’s tone was subdued, it still carried the weight of a command. “Go find something suitable while I console our Queen.”
Beldon nodded and climbed to his feet with a groan. When the minister’s purple cloak faded from view, Wharton closed the door and turned toward Ashland.
“I am sorry you had to experience that, Your Highness.” Wharton knelt beside the bed, his voice dropping to whisper. “I must share a secret and spare you further pain. Your husband forbade me from telling anyone but you.” He leaned even closer, his whisper filled with excitement. “King Brock lives, as does Prince Broland.”
Ashland blinked in confusion and stared into Wharton’s eyes, searching for the truth. “I don’t understand.”
Wharton glanced back at the closed door before responding. “There was an assassination attempt. It was Kony…” He grimaced. “If that is even his real name. A search was conducted after the explosion, but to no avail. We found the rope he used to climb the western wall and escape the citadel, but we were unable to track him down.
“Brock feared another attempt would follow if our enemies knew of his survival. While under a disguise, he and Broland departed the city the day after the attack.”
Lingering effects of her extended sleep still clouded Ashland’s mind. Through the murk, she sorted through Wharton’s words and the conflicting emotions inside her.
She stared into his eyes, searching for answers. “It’s true?” Please, let it be true. “They are truly alive?”
“Yes.” Wharton gripped her hand. “I swear it, my Queen.”
The pain in her heart eased, and another tear tracked down her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in a deep sigh of relief. The pit of sorrow that had briefly formed now filled with joy. When she opened them, she saw Wharton staring at her in concern. Be strong, Ashland. You are still queen of Kantaria.
“How were you able to convince Beldon and the others that…?” she couldn’t say it aloud.
“That Brock and Broland were dead?” When Ashland gave the slightest nod, his eyes lowered. “Others did die during the attack: General Budakis, Burke, and Lorna.”
“Gunther?” With their friendship lasting more than two decades, Ashland had always been fond of the general. His loss left a hollowness in the joy of her husband’s and son’s survival.
Wharton paused and turned away to collect himself. Ashland knew how much Wharton had respected Budakis. He took a deep breath and continued.
“Their bodies were badly burned, which made them difficult to recognize. We dressed up the two guards to appear as the king and prince before we set them ablaze in a public funeral, along with General Budakis. We were sure to spread the word that the king and prince were dead and you were deathly ill from your injuries. That bought us time without fear of another attack. Now that you have awakened, you must get well soon. Once word is out that you live, your life is in jeopardy.”
Ashland considered his words and knew them as fact. With the crown came responsibility. In that responsibility, she sought resolve. She would eat, drink, and gather he
r strength. A quick recovery was required, for Kantaria needed her.
“There is one last thing you should know before Beldon returns.” Wharton’s face darkened. “With you in a coma, the king and prince both thought dead, and Cassie and Brandt out of the country, someone had to take control and manage the kingdom.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“The person who assumed the role did so based on his own court ruling. As we speak, Magistrate Filbert sits on the throne. I don’t have to tell you that the situation is bound to be…complicated.”
Hearing a knock, Wharton stood, turned toward the door, and opened it to reveal Master Beldon and his apprentice, Terissa.
“We have porridge, dried beef, and fruit for you, my Queen.” Beldon rushed in with a thick pillow under one arm, a bed tray under the other. “While it’s not a lavish meal, it will give you strength.” Beldon looked across the bed, toward Wharton. “Captain, will you please help her sit, so I can slide this pillow behind her?”
Wharton did as requested, scooping his hand beneath Ashland’s pillow and lifting so Beldon could prop her up with the second pillow. Once the bed table was placed across Ashland’s lap, Terissa scurried in to place a steaming bowl of porridge, a bowl of chopped fruit, and two strips of dried beef on it. Beldon appeared with a glass of water.
“Will you need anything else, Your Highness?” The minister kneaded his hands nervously.
“No. Thank you, Master Beldon.”
“Very well,” Beldon shuffled to the door. “Ring the bell on your nightstand when you need me.”
When the minister and his assistant departed, Wharton turned toward her. “I need to check on a few things. I’ll be back later this afternoon to see how you fare.”
“Thank you, Wharton.”
With a salute, Wharton turned and marched out the door. The room fell silent.
Ashland stared down at the food and found herself reaching for her resolve just to eat. While she wasn’t fond of porridge, she knew that regaining her health was more important than taste. Her thoughts shifted to her husband, and she reached out to him…fearful that he might not respond.
Brock. Silence. Please answer. I cannot bear losing you.
After a beat, she received his response.
Ashland? Is it really you?
A fresh wave of relief washed over her, creating tears of joy joined by soft laughter. Yes, my heart. I’m awake and well, and I miss you dearly.
Thank Issal. I had begun to dread attempting to contact you. With each day that passed without you responding, my fears grew stronger. Ashland sensed his pain through their bond. Leaving you behind was the hardest decision I have ever made. You are my light, and my world is darkness without you.
As is mine without you. Please tell me that you and Broland are safe.
Broland is with me…for now. We are both safe and are in Nor Torin.
Ashland held tight to her joy until Brock interrupted.
You must take over and rule Kantaria as if I am gone. I intend to keep my survival a secret until I am in position to respond to the Empire. It will take a few weeks, maybe longer, before I am ready.
What do you intend to do, Brock?
I am aware of the ideals The Hand intends to spread. I know Varius and Kardan and how they think. Archon Varius believes she had to kill me because she sees me as a threat to her, to the Empire, and to the beliefs The Hand would have others follow. Although I have done nothing to provoke an attack, she sent an assassin to kill me and the people I love. Since she believes I am too dangerous to live, Ashland sensed the heat of Brock’s anger through their bond, I intend to prove her correct.
9
Rangers
A rumble shook beneath Chuli’s feet. The weapons hanging on the wall shook, threatening to fall to the floor. Squeaks coming from above forced her to look up in concern. Shadows of crossbeams stretched across the slanted logs that formed the ceiling – shadows cast by the lone glowlamp in the room.
“Why did they build this place out of wood?” Chuli muttered.
“They likely believed that the garrison was temporary,” Jonah guessed. “Wood makes for easy construction. It takes many hours and a lot of sweat to cut bricks, haul them, stack them, and mortar them together.”
“It still seems…unnatural.”
Jonah snorted. “This is coming from someone who grew up in a city carved from stone – a city hidden in a secret cave above a box canyon, nonetheless.”
Chuli glared at him. “Hush. We do not speak of Mondomi where Outlanders might hear us.” Still glaring, she leaned closer. “Don’t make me have to kill you, Jonah Selbin.”
With alarm in his eyes, Jonah turned to Thiron, who shrugged. Torney chuckled.
Jonah blinked and turned toward Chuli. “You do know we’re the only people in here, right?”
“Others may be listening.” Her eyes shifted from side to side as she leaned close and whispered. “We have spies. The Empire might as well.”
“She does have a point, Jonah.” Thiron said in his deep voice.
The door opened and Captain Marcella entered, wearing an even heavier scowl than normal. Her scribe, Samantha, followed Marcella in and closed the door.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” Jonah asked. “Did something go wrong with the tunnel?”
While Marcella had red hair and green eyes like Jonah, the similarities between the two ended there. Tall for a woman, Marcella appeared forever stern, as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Perhaps a small portion of it did.
“Another week has passed without the garrison receiving reinforcements.”
Thiron sat back with his hands behind his head. “How many soldiers do you have now? Five hundred?”
“Five hundred and twenty.”
“You were expecting more?”
“Chadwick was to secretly drain his city of the nine hundred soldiers stationed in Wayport. They were to arrive here in small groups, leaving Wayport with eighty guards to hold it should an attack come from the sea.”
“How many has he sent?”
“None.”
“The others were all sent by King Brock?”
“Yes. I first arrived twelve weeks ago, accompanied by two hundred soldiers, a dozen miners, and a handful of carpenters. We spent the next eight weeks rebuilding the compound, including three new bunkhouses. Brock then began sending additional troops, twenty soldiers at a time to make it difficult for the Empire to keep track. Chadwick was to do the same.”
Thiron’s brow furrowed. “You haven’t been notified of any trouble in Wayport?”
“No” Marcella grimaced at Samantha, the young scribe writing at a fierce pace. “Do you have to record everything?”
The timid blond, just a few years older than Chuli, shrunk from the captain while hugging her journal. “But, these are the details that define history.”
Marcella rolled her eyes. “You and your history.”
Samantha straightened her back, seemingly recovering her pride as she said, “Remember, he who does not learn from mistakes of the past…”
“Is doomed to repeat them.” Marcella glowered at the girl, who, again, wilted under the stern woman’s gaze. “You’ve said it often enough that I have it memorized.”
A knock drew everyone’s attention.
“Come in,” Marcella bellowed.
A man stepped inside and thumped his fist against his chest plate. “I have news from the miners, Captain. The tunnel is complete. They are cleaning away the debris now.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Gather a few soldiers, and help get it cleared so we can get these people out tonight.”
The soldier nodded and stepped outside.
Marcella turned toward Thiron. “You heard the man. The tunnel is ready, so you two can be on your way. I hope you slept well last night because tonight might be a long one.”
Chuli’s gaze flicked toward Thiron before addressing Marcella. “You are positive we cannot take the road, even at nig
ht?”
“It won’t work. The Empire barricaded the road ten miles southeast of here. They post scouts to watch us. We captured a few and killed a few others. Since then, they have been more careful, but I am sure they exist. Our position is critical to anything they might try, and they won’t be caught unaware, even if the troops arrive in small groups in the middle of the night.” Marcella shook her head. “I am sure of it. Through the tunnel is the only way.”
Thiron’s bird-like gaze shifted to Chuli, and she nodded, indicating she was ready. After three weeks in the garrison, her real mission would finally begin.
The pale blue glow from the stone in Thiron’s hand was Chuli’s guide in the darkness. Just wide enough for two men to walk astride and with a ceiling that sometimes required Chuli to crouch, the tunnel was unlike those she grew up roaming in Mondomi. Her childhood home was all rock – hard, often smooth, and rarely dirty. Here, rocks occupied sections while other tunnel sections were nothing but clay. The less stable areas were reinforced with wooden frames, like doorways without a door. The floor was all dirt and debris, interrupted by the occasional boulder that was easier to tunnel around than through.
Ahead, the light shone upon swirls of dust lingering in the air. Thiron stopped and pulled out the swatch of cloth Sergeant Rios had given him, and Chuli did the same. The miners had said that dust stirred from tonight’s blast might take hours to settle. Until then, the dry particles would fill the back half of the tunnel. With the cloth covering their nose and mouth, they again advanced. Chuli tried to imagine where they were in relation to the surface above them.
The garrison had been built against a steep canyon wall, too steep to scale. It provided a natural defense from the north, while forcing any approaching army to funnel between the garrison and the cliff that dropped to the sea at the south. That narrow strip of land created the perfect location for a military outpost. Chuli was bewildered as to why a more formidable structure had not replaced it many years ago.
An Imperial Gambit (Wardens of Issalia Book 3) Page 8