A small bed draped in a rich burgundy canopy took up the center of one wall. A dresser with a washbasin stood beside it. The only other piece of furniture was a simple wooden chair. A modest tapestry of hounds hunting deer covered much of the opposite wall. Everything was neat but sterile. There were no boots near the door, no jacket thrown across the chair, and the bed covers showed no wrinkles. The room was unused.
Hadrian remained silent near the window as Royce moved across the room to the door. He watched as the thief's feet tested the surface of the floor before committing his weight. Royce mentioned once how he had been in an attic on a job when he hit a weak board and fell through the bedroom ceiling. This floor was stone, but even stones had loose mortar or contained ingenious hidden traps or alarms. Royce made it to the door where he crouched and paused to listen. He motioned a sign for walking with his hand and then began counting on his fingers for Hadrian to see. There was a pause, and then he repeated the signal again. Hadrian crossed the room to join his friend and the two sat waiting for several minutes in silence.
Eventually Royce lifted the door latch with gloved hands but did not open it. Outside they could hear the heavy footfalls of hard boots on stone, first one set, and then a second. As the steps faded, Royce opened the door slightly and peered out. The hall was empty.
Before them lay a narrow hallway lit by widely spaced torches, whose flames cast flickering shadows, which created an illusion of movement on the walls. They entered the hall, quietly closed the door behind them, and quickly moved approximately fifty feet to another door. Ornate and elaborately carved, it had gilded hinges and a metal lock. Royce tried the door and then shook his head. He knelt and pulled a small kit of tools from his belt pouch while Hadrian moved to the far side of the hall. From where he stood, he could see the length of the corridor in both directions as well as a portion of the stairs that entered from the right. He stood ready for any trouble, which came sooner than he expected.
A sound echoed in the corridor to his right, and Hadrian could hear the faint noise of hard heels on stone coming in their direction. Still on his knees, Royce worked the lock as the steps grew closer. Hadrian moved his hand to the hilt of his sword when at last the thief quickly opened the door. Trusting to luck that the room was empty, the two slipped inside. Royce softly closed the door behind them, and the footsteps passed without pause.
They were in the royal chapel. Banks of candles burned on either side of the large room. Supporting a glorious vaulted ceiling, elaborate marble columns rose near the chamber's center. Four rows of wooden pews lined either side of the main aisle. Cinquefoil-shaped adornments and blind-tracery moldings common to the Nyphron Church decorated the walls. Alabaster statues of Maribor and Novron stood behind the altar. Novron, depicted as a strong handsome man in the prime of his youth, was kneeling, sword in hand. The god Maribor, sculpted as a powerful, larger-than-life figure with a long beard and flowing robes, loomed over Novron, placing a crown upon the young man's head. The altar itself consisted of an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a rose-colored marble top. Upon it, two more candles burned and a large gilded tome lay open.
DeWitt had told Hadrian he left the sword behind the altar, and they headed toward it. As they approached the first set of pews, both men froze in mid step. Lying there, face down in a pool of freshly spilled blood, was the body of a man. The rounded handle of the nondescript dagger protruded from his back. While Royce made a quick survey for Pickering's sword, Hadrian checked the man for signs of life. The man was dead, and the sword was nowhere to be found. Royce tapped Hadrian on the shoulder and pointed at the gold crown that had rolled to the far side of a pillar. The full weight of the situation registered with both of them-it was time to leave.
They headed for the door. Royce paused only momentarily to listen to ensure the hall was clear. They slipped out of the chapel, closed the door, and moved down the hall toward the bedroom.
"Murderers!"
The shout was so close and so terrifying that they both spun with weapons drawn. Hadrian had his bastard sword in one hand, his short sword in the other. Royce held a brilliant white-bladed dagger.
Standing before the open chapel door was a bearded dwarf.
"Murderers!" The dwarf cried again, but it was not necessary. The sounds of footfalls could already be heard, and an instant later, soldiers, with weapons drawn, poured into the hallway from both sides.
"Murderers!" the dwarf continued pointing at them. "They've killed the king!"
Royce lifted the latch to the bedroom door and pushed, but the door failed to give way. He pulled, and then pushed again, but the door would not budge.
"Drop your weapons, or we'll butcher you where you stand!" a soldier ordered. He was a tall man with a bushy moustache that bristled as he gritted his teeth fiercely.
"How many do you think there are?" whispered Hadrian. The walls echoed with the sounds of more soldiers about to arrive.
"Too many," Royce replied.
"Be a lot less in a minute," Hadrian assured him.
"We won't make it. I can't get the door opened; we have no exit. I think someone spiked it from the inside. We can't fight the entire castle guard."
"Put them down now!" The soldier in charge shouted and took a step closer while raising the level of his sword.
"Damn." Hadrian let his blades drop. Royce followed suit.
"Take them," the soldier barked.
– 2 -Alric Essendon awoke, startled by the commotion. He was not in his room. The bed he was lying in was a fraction of the size and lacked the familiar velvet canopy. The walls were bare stone, and only a small dresser and wash table decorated the space. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and soon realized where he was. He had accidentally fallen asleep, apparently several hours ago.
He looked over at Tillie, her bare back and shoulder exposed above the quilt. Alric wondered how she could sleep with all the shouting going on. He rolled out of bed and felt around for his nightshirt. Determining his clothing from hers was easy to do even in the dark. Hers was linen; his was silk.
Awakened by his movement, Tillie groggily asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, go back to sleep," Alric replied.
She could sleep through a hurricane, but his leaving always woke her. That he had fallen asleep was not her fault, but he blamed her just the same. Alric hated waking up here. He hated Tillie even more, and was conscious of the paradox. Throughout the day, her need for him attracted Alric, but in the morning, it repulsed him. Of all the castle servants, however, she was by far the prettiest. Alric did not care for the noble ladies his father invited to court. They were haughty, formal, and considered their virginity more valuable than the crown. He found them dull and irritating. His father thought differently. Alric was only nineteen, but already his father was pressuring him to pick a bride.
"You'll be king someday," Amrath told him. "Your first duty to the kingdom is to sire an heir." His father spoke of marriage as if it was a profession, and that was how Alric saw it as well. For him, this, or any form of work, was best avoided-or at least postponed as long as possible.
"I wish you could spend the whole night with me, my lord," Tillie babbled at him as he pulled his nightshirt over his head.
"Then you should be grateful I dozed as long as I did." With his toes he felt along the floor for his slippers and, finding them, he slid his feet into the warm fleece lining.
"I am, my lord."
"Good night, Tillie," Alric said as he reached the door and stepped outside.
"Good-" Alric closed the door before she finished.
Tillie usually slept with the other maids, in a dorm near the kitchens. Alric brought her to the little vacant bedroom on the third floor of the castle for privacy. He did not like taking girls to his room-his father's bedroom was right next door. The vacant room was on the north side of the castle, and because it received less sunlight, it was always cooler than the royal chambers. He pulled his nightshirt tight and
shuffled down the corridor toward the stairs.
"I've checked all the upper floors, Captain, he's not there," Alric heard someone say from just up the steps. By his curt tone, he guessed the speaker to be a sentry. He spoke to them rarely, but when he did, they were always abrupt as if words were a commodity in short supply.
"Continue the search, down to the prisons if necessary. I want every room examined, each pantry, cabinet, and wardrobe. Do you understand?"
Alric knew that voice well, it was Wylin, the master-at-arms.
"Yes, sir, right away!"
Alric heard the sentry trotting down the steps, and he saw the soldier stop abruptly the moment he met Alric's gaze. "I found him, sir!" he shouted with a hint of relief.
"What's going on, Captain?" Alric called out even as Wylin and three other castle guards rushed down the steps.
"Your Royal Highness!" the captain knelt briefly, bowing his head, and then rose abruptly. "Benton!" he snapped at the solider. "I want five more men here protecting the prince right now. Move!"
"Yes, sir!" the soldier snapped a salute and ran back up the stairs.
"Protecting me?" Alric said. "What's going on?"
"Your father's been murdered."
"My father? What?"
"His Majesty, the king…we found him in the royal chapel stabbed in the back. Two intruders are in custody. The dwarf Magnus confirmed it. He saw them murder your father, but he was powerless to stop them."
Alric heard Wylin's voice, but he could not understand the words. They did not make sense. My father is dead? He had just spoken with him before he went to Tillie's room not more than a few hours ago. How could he be dead?
I must insist that you remain here, Your Highness, under heavy guard until I finish sweeping the castle. They may not be alone. I am presently conducting a-"
"Insist what you like, Wylin, but get out of my way. I want to see my father!" Alric demanded, pushing past him.
"King Amrath's body has been taken to his bedroom, Your Highness."
His body!
Alric did not want to hear any more. He ran up the steps, his slippers flying off his feet.
"Stay with the prince!" Wylin shouted after him.
Alric reached the royal wing. There was a crowd in the corridor that moved aside at his approach. As he reached the chapel, its door lay open with several of the chief ministers gathered inside.
"My prince!" he heard his Uncle Percy call to him from inside, but he did not stop. He was determined to reach his father.
He couldn't be dead!
He rounded the corner, passed his own room, and rushed into the royal suite. Here the double doors were open as well. Several ladies in nightgowns and robes stood just outside weeping loudly. Inside, a pair of older women busied themselves wringing out pink-stained linens in a washbasin.
To the side of the bed stood his sister Arista, dressed in a burgundy and gold gown. Her arms wrapped around the bedpost, which she gripped so tightly that her fingers were white. She stared at the figure on the mattress with eyes that were dry but wide with horror.
On the pale white sheets of the royal bed lay King Amrath Essendon. He still wore the same clothes Alric had seen him in before he retired for the night. His face was pale, his eyes were closed, and near the corner of his lips, there was a tiny tear of dried blood.
"My prince-I mean, Your Royal Majesty," his uncle corrected himself as he followed him into the bedchamber. His Uncle Percy always looked older than his father did-his hair was very gray, his face wrinkled and drooping; however, he possessed the trim elegant build of a swordsman. He was still in the process of tying up his robe as he entered. "Thank Maribor you are safe. We thought you might have met a similar fate."
Alric was at a loss for words. He just stood staring at the still body of his father.
"Your Majesty, do not worry. I will take care of everything. I know how hard this must be. You're still a young man and-"
"What are you talking about?" Alric looked at him. "Take care of what? What are you taking care of?"
"A number of things, Your Majesty. There is the securing of the castle, the investigation as to how this happened, the apprehension of those responsible, arrangements for the funeral, and of course, the eventual coronation."
"Coronation?"
"You are king now, sire. We will need to arrange your crowning ceremony, but that, of course, will wait until we have everything else settled."
"But I thought…Wylin told me the murderers have been captured."
"He captured two of them. I'm just making certain there aren't anymore."
"What will happen to them?" He looked back at the still form of his father. "The killers, what will happen to them?"
"That is up to you, Your Royal Majesty. Their fate is yours to decide, unless you would prefer I handle the matter for you, since it can be quite unpleasant."
Alric turned to his uncle. "I want them to die, Uncle Percy. I want them to suffer horribly and then die."
"Of course, Your Majesty, of course. I assure you they will."
– 3 -The dungeons of Essendon Castle lay buried two stories beneath the earth. Ground water seeped through cracks in the walls and wet the face of the stone. Fungus grew in the mortar between stone blocks, and mold coated the wood of doors, stools, and buckets. The foul, musty smell mixed with the stench of decay, and the corridors echoed with the mournful cries of doomed men. Despite the rumors told in Medford's taverns, the castle dungeons had a limited capacity. Needless to say, the prison staff found room for the king-killers. They moved prisoners to provide Royce and Hadrian with their own private cell.
News of the king's death did not take long to spread, and for the first time in years, the prisoners had something exciting to talk about.
"Who'da thought I'd outlast old Amrath," a graveled voice muttered. He laughed, but the laughter quickly broke into a series of coughs and sputters.
"Any chance the prince might review our sentences on account of all this?" A weaker, younger voice asked. "I mean it's possible, isn't it?"
This question was met with a lengthy silence, more coughing, and a sneeze.
"The guard said they stabbed the bastard in the back right in his own chapel. What does that say about his piety?" A new bitter voice questioned. "Seems to me he was asking for a bit too much from the man upstairs."
"The ones that done it 'ere in our old cell. They moved me and Danny out to make room. I saw 'em when they shifted us, two of 'em, one big, the other little."
"Anyone know 'em? Maybe they was trying to break us out and got sidetracked, eh?"
"Gotta have some pretty big brass ones to kill a king in his own castle. They won't get a trial, not even a fake one. I'm surprised they've lived this long."
"Gonna want a public torture before the execution. Things been quiet a long time. Haven't had a good torture in years."
"So why ya think they did it?"
"Why don't you ask 'em?"
"Hey, over there? You conscious in that cell of yours? Or did they beat you stupid?"
"Maybe they're dead."
They were not dead, but neither were they talking. Royce and Hadrian stood chained to the far wall of their cell, their ankles locked in stocks, and their mouths gagged with leather muzzles. They had only been there for the better part of an hour, but already the strain on Hadrian's muscles was painful. The soldiers had removed their gear, cloaks, boots, and tunics, leaving them with nothing but their britches to fight the damp chill of the dungeon.
They hung listening to the rambling conversations of the other inmates. The conversation halted at the sound of heavy approaching footfalls. The door to the cellblock opened and banged against the interior wall.
"Right this way, Your Royal Highness-I mean, Your Royal Majesty," the voice of the dungeon warden said rapidly.
A metal key twisted in the lock, and the door to their cell creaked open. Four royal bodyguards led the prince and his uncle, Percy Braga inside. Hadrian recognized
Braga, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor of Melengar, but he had never seen Alric before. The prince was young, perhaps no more than twenty. He was short, thin, and delicate in appearance with light brown hair that reached to his shoulders, and only the ghost of a beard. His stature and features must have come from his mother because the former king had been a bear of a man. He wore only a silk nightshirt with a massive sword strapped comically to his side by an oversized leather belt.
"These are the ones?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Braga replied.
"Torch," Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. "Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces." Alric peered at them. "No marks? They haven't been whipped?"
"No, Your Majesty," Braga said. "They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can't be certain these two acted alone in this."
"No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?"
"I don't know, Your Majesty."
"Do you wish their gags removed?" Percy inquired.
"No, Uncle Percy-oh, I can't call you that anymore, can I?"
"You're the king now, Your Majesty. You can call me whatever you wish."
"But it isn't dignified, not for a ruler, but archduke is so formal-I will call you, Percy, is that all right?"
"It is not my place to approve of your decisions any longer, sire."
"Percy it is then, and no, leave their gags on. I have no desire to hear their lies. What will they say except that they didn't do it? Captured killers always deny their crimes. What choice do they have? Unless they wish to take their last few moments of life to spit in the face of their king. I won't give them the satisfaction of that."
"They could tell us if they were working alone or for someone else. They could even tell us who that person or persons might be."
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