“Greed,” Dawkin repeated.
“Come now. I will admit to our differences, but for the sake of our kings, let us not abandon the goodwill we initiated.”
“Goodwill? You are asking for the very treasures of Marland that have been heavily guarded for hundreds of years, perhaps as far back as, as before our written history began. The maritime maps of Marland are responsible for the state of our country today. They are why our fisherman return with nets full when other seaside villages on the continent struggle with low catches. They account for the speed of our ships while sailors from Afari complain of dead winds. They even accounted for our victories at sea during the Century War, for those times when our ships were driven back into waters no other nation had charted, but ours.”
“Your treasures are impressive, to say the least. Much as your people have, we intend to treat them with secrecy and respect.”
“You ask for too much.”
“My Prince, there should be no secrets between family.”
“Is that so, Grand Duke? No secrets whatsoever? What of secrets that bring shame? Say, secrets of the night? Last night?”
Dawkin paused. His last quip had stirred the blood within the Grand Duke, sending it rising to every stretch and crease of his face. As close as he was, Dawkin could see the rivers and streams of red beneath the contours of his jaw, cheeks and forehead. The shift in appearance was not lost on others, as Everitt and Lijart edged closer to their prince.
Suddenly, Xain’s rage vanished. The blood from his face drained as his skin turned pale. Looking past Dawkin, he pointed.
Dawkin twisted to find his father bent over the head table, clubbing his chest with his meaty fist. Over and again he beat the area above his heart as Felix wrapped his arm around him for support.
“Mages!” Felix commanded. “Mages!”
Wystan and his two Ibian counterparts brushed past the rest of the audience, who had risen from their tables out of concern. Dawkin, seeing his path around the table blocked on both sides, jumped onto the wooden surface to kneel before Audemar.
“Father! Father! What is it? What is the matter?”
For his part, Audemar could not respond vocally. Though ajar, no words escaped his mouth. Nor cough. Nor gurgle. His eyes, desperate, answered instead. They bulged outward, the whites of the outer spheres invaded by veins of scarlet that sprouted and stretched. The color of his irises faded while his pupils contracted.
He reached for his son as he collapsed onto the table. Dawkin took his hand and knew at once that the strength he had known from his father all his life was slipping.
“Wystan!” he shouted louder than needed, for the mage was at the king’s side. “Do something!”
“My laboratory,” the mage answered. “He needs herbs. Potion. Medicine.”
“Open them!” Dawkin commanded, pointing to the exit. “Open the doors!”
From outside, no response came. Dawkin, though not wanting to part from his father, nonetheless released his hand and pushed his way through the panicked crowd to the doors.
“Open the door!” Dawkin shouted, pounding on them. “I, Prince Jameson, command it!”
From the other side he heard nothing. Aghast, Dawkin stepped away from the oaken giants, his hope for help fading. Will no one help?
A lone voice from within the War Hall, through all the bustling and shouting, answered his unspoken question. “The guards on the other side. They will not open unless told by a king.”
Dawkin tore his gaze from the doors. He looked first to his father, who remained slumped over the table, before turning to Felix. “Your Majesty, give the command.”
The moment could not have lasted more than a second. Hardly enough time for a man to utter a sentence or step away. Long enough, though, for the king to reach up and touch the line of his scar.
He withdrew his hand from his neck. “Open the doors,” he commanded, making no effort to strain his voice. “By order of King Felix, ruler of Ibia. In the name of the Great Audemar of Marland, open the doors to save your king!”
Chapter 14
“Bomp bomp bomp bomp. Bomp bomp. Bompity bomp!”
Ely hummed a tune, not sure of whence it entered his memory. Perhaps it was from a street performer, he mused. Or a tune from a tavern. Or that time I went to the carnival. Oh, how fun that was! I picked up two wenches that day. And had them both. At once.
A grin curled on his lips as he recalled that night. The kisses. The ripping of shirts and skirts, underclothes and all. The flesh. One milky white. The other darker, the tone of a fine, aged ale.
To hell with the tune. To hell with waiting. Better things lie ahead.
Ely made haste for the door, adjusting his wig as he left. With his wig straight, the false moustache on his fulcrum faltered, nearly coming undone from his skin. He cursed under his breath as he secured it above his lip once more.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Ely paused. How do they know I’m leaving? They still ought to be...
“I just need a break,” Gerry replied, his voice echoing through the hall beyond Ely’s room. “Let me rest. My bed...”
“... Will still be there an hour from now,” Symon assured. The hollow reverberation of footsteps permeated from the corridor outside. Ely, tilting his head, listened to his brothers, whom he gathered were a few doors down from his own.
“Symon, can’t this wait?”
“That depends on you. On your abilities with the javelin. Here. I want you to take this and throw.”
“Here?”
“Throw this down the hall. Straight and true. You don’t even need to worry about hitting a target. For now. I just want to see that you can hurl properly.”
“And if I do, we can stop?”
“Until morning.”
“Very well.”
Ely leaned in closer, waiting. Seconds passed without a sound. Then, metal on stone clanked.
“I know, I know,” Gerry conceded. “Back to the bailey.”
“An hour more, tis all.”
“Easier said than done for you.”
Symon forced a laugh. The two strode down the hall, their steps growing fainter, until they were finally replaced by the jostling of weapons and mindless grunts.
“Poor fools,” Ely said to himself as he snuffed out the candle. “Imprisoned by their stubborn adherence to the rules of our father, who has restricted us to this dungeon. All because we wear the same face.” Ely rubbed the right curl of his moustache between his fingertips, his false locks staying in place. “But not me. Not tonight.”
Ely chuckled to himself as he left his room. As he closed the door, he snuck one last look at his bed, under which lied a heap of clothes arranged to look like a body.
They’ll never know.
He stepped lightly down the hall, in the direction opposite of his brothers, his shoes of soft leather striking the tiles with nary a sound. Once the corridor curved and the rooms were out of sight, he resumed his regular gait, his strides brisk and long. Though underground and a good two-minute walk to the surface, he could feel the draft, having descended from above. The night is warm, he told himself. And inviting. Perfect for a jaunt. Absolutely perfect.
Ely rounded the corner to face a Voiceless guard. The sentry, at attention, kept his gaze forward as the prince passed. Not being able to help himself, Ely waved his hand before the guard’s face. As though pearls set in stone, neither of his eyes moved.
“No, thank you,” Ely said, shaking his head in bemusement after he walked away. Such discipline. A lifetime of self-restraint. For what? To stand in a dank passageway, waiting for a moment of adventure. Not for me!
Ely hurried along, the breeze against his skin growing stronger. Short whiffs carried his hair. The salt from the sea wafted to his nostrils. As he passed another Voiceless, he could hear the crashing of the waves beyond.
He stopped before the guard. Like all the others assigned to the tunnels, he was outfitted with a full s
uit of plate, including a helm. And as with the others, he wore a bell on his belt, to be used if Terran was breached. Though that was only to be used if the invaders were few.
He flicked the bell. His fingernail dinged off of the outer shell yet it did not ring.
“Removed the tongue, did you?” Ely asked. “Smart.” In such close confines as the tunnels of Terran, even a bell mistakenly rung could emit an echo far and wide.
The Voiceless, with his visor raised, replied not with speech nor his eyes. He stared straight ahead, as he had been trained to do.
“Another mindless cod in a school of fish,” he quipped. “If the moment ever comes, I hope you defend this castle better than you defend your honor.”
Ely paused. He thought he saw the knight flinch. He leaned in, though on closer inspection he could not tell. He considered using the Language of the Hands, so named for those who were deaf or mute that had no way of composing words with their mouths. Many a manor considered the practice heresy, as it allowed for communication that was neither written nor spoken, and at one point in Afari’s history was thought to summon demons from the abyss. Alas, demons had never surfaced so far as Ely could tell, nonetheless, the silent language was discouraged. A pity for the deaf and mute, Ely knew, but an advantage for their Voiceless knights who had no other way to communicate.
The knight before him neither murmured nor spoke with his hands. He remained obedient, as he was trained to be.
“Very well.” Ely stepped aside to move past the Voiceless. “Keep at it.”
Ely marched up the stone staircase lined by torches. Their light flickered wildly, alluding to the opening ahead. As he reached the top, the last one stood unlit, having been blown out. Beyond that sconce, the way shone not, presenting Ely with full darkness.
“Hmmm.” Ely had hoped for the light of the moon to illuminate at least part of the tunnel, as was most often the case, unless clouds or fog had rolled in. Annoyed yet not dismayed, he descended a few steps to the last lit sconce. In its glow, he drew his flint lighter and a small tin box from the pocket of his doublet. He opened the box to find a single strip of char cloth.
“Damn it! I thought I had more.” Ely squeezed the arms of the lighter again and again, sending sparks onto the stairs. “I suppose I will have to find more in Arcporte.”
The char cloth caught a spark and ignited. Seeing it aflame, Ely took the steps two at a time to the top. Just as the cloth was about to give out, he flicked it at the wall to his right. The flaming cloth bounced off the sandstone before burning out. Though that was enough.
From the spot that the char cloth touched, veins of soft blue light radiated, stretching out towards the darkened corridor ahead. Ely, seeing the way illuminated, grinned.
Clank, clank, clank.
Ely glanced over his shoulder, to find the Voiceless at the base of the stairs pounding the butt of his halberd on the stone floor. With the tip of his blade he pointed to the glowing web above and shook his head, his stare having become a disapproving glare.
“Oh, now you move?!” Ely asked in a sharp tone. “Relax. You needn’t worry. It was just a spark, not nearly close enough to ignite the walls nor cause any serious damage.”
The knight narrowed his eyes. Ely returned the gesture. Though he did not relent in his look, the Voiceless did retreat to his station.
Such dreary fellows, Ely considered as he proceeded onward through the hall. He tapped one of the bright blue veins with his index finger. Putting it before his nose, he sniffed.
Much less pungent. The Voiceless will need to apply a new coat.
Ely studied the glowing web. He wondered just how much fire – by torch or brazier or other means- it would take to set off the defensive measure that lined every passageway in and out of Terran. In small amounts, Dywar’s Tears were harmless, a mage’s trick to help miners find their way through those shafts and caves where air had to be conserved and fire avoided. However, in large quantities, the potion proved unstable. Only when paired with stone did the Tears settle. Even then it remained flammable. The Voiceless, as the ultimate measure against attack, had painted the surface of each exit wall with Tears, with all the veins leading to small cisterns carved into the wall. Each repository held enough potion to explode and collapse the corridors should they be breached.
A torch would do it, Ely assured himself. The web of light would grow much brighter than this, igniting the potion in their cisterns and sending the whole passageway ablaze. Yes, a lit torch. A flaming cloth? No, not enough heat. Never.
Convinced he had not tempted fate, Ely continued to follow the lattice of gleaming blue light until he came to an opening barely wide enough to squeeze through. He held his breath as he inched out. He had nearly cleared the confines when his false moustache caught an edge.
“Damn it to Mar!” he exclaimed, as he watched the piece of his disguise fall into a stony crack.
He stepped away from the mouth of the cave, searching for his moustache when a short howl forced him to raise his head. Suddenly conscious that he was in the open, he scanned his surroundings. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. The cave, one of many grottos and outcroppings in the vicinity, showed no signs of recent disturbance by another. The hill where he stood, which sloped gently toward the sea in the west, endured the absence of any other soul, as had been the case every night that Ely chose to wander it paths.
A yelp pierced the tranquility. Ely, hearing it a second time, knew it could not be wild. Perhaps a sheep dog. Or a stray mutt. Regardless, it may have an owner, Ely considered as he hurried himself along a game trail.
I wonder if the Voiceless ever make it to Arcporte? he mused as he strolled the winding path past short tree and shrubs. In his younger years, he had spent considerable effort prodding the knights on the intricacies of their lives. Where they slept. If they had families. How they chose to enter Terran from the labyrinth of paths. The responses via their language of the hands had always been curt and generic, providing no real insight into their personalities. Dawkin, on the other hand, had been much more successful in his own attempts, for his curiosity was one borne from a desire to understand every aspect of the castle, especially its architecture. Even then, the knowledge they were able to administer proved vague. But Ely was nonetheless able to pry from Dawkin the fact that the Voiceless had their own tunnels and corridors, secret paths to be used in emergencies, ones that could penetrate every area of the castle, from the dungeons to the gardens to the Throne Room itself.
Such knowledge could be so useful, Ely thought. And deadly.
Shortly within rounding the hill, the candlelit windows of Arcporte were in his sights. He quickened his pace, anxious to embrace a full stein and a loose woman all at the same time. So eager he was to indulge that he nearly fell over a lamb as he approached the city wall.
“Mind your feet, lad!” warned the shepherd.
Ely caught his balance and looked up. Leaning against a crook as she sat on a boulder was the toothless old woman he had known since boyhood, whose name he had never bothered to remember.
“You could have warned me if you saw me coming,” Ely retorted.
The miserly lady cackled. “And miss the fun? Not likely.”
“Where’s your louse of a husband? Drunk inside?” he quipped, tilting his head to the hut underneath a gnarled oak tree.
“Do you hear him snoring? Of course he is not here! He went into the city around midday, hasn’t returned. Perhaps passed out in a gutter somewheres.”
Or with a whore, if the man has any sense, thought Ely. “I’ll leave my coin inside then.”
“Fare is the same as always,” said the hag absentmindedly.
Ely ducked into the hut to find it in disarray. Sheepskin blankets laid strewn about. The kettle had yet to be cleaned from the last meal, stinking of mutton and crusted gravy. Black soot caked the fireplace though the ashes and embers had been removed, adding to the general malodor of the residence.
“Uhhh! Such f
ilth!” Ely said to no one at all. He tiptoed his way through the mess, careful to avoid unnecessary contact with anything inside. He made it to the far end of the hut by the pantry, where cockroaches and mice scattered as he approached.
“I need to a better way of sneaking about.” He lifted the sheepskin on the floor besides the shelving, revealing a cellar door. “I should evict these shepherds from their lot. Raze their hovel.” He opened the door and descended. “Build me a cleaner entrance. A grand entrance. One fit for a sovereign.”
The door above shut, enveloping him in darkness. Not that it mattered, for the cellar was but a hole in the ground with only one way to go: north, into the city.
Ely extended his fingers to grope the surrounding earthen walls. The way proved unencumbered, save for the occasional crunch beneath his feet, which he could only guess was a roach or multi-legged critter of some sort. Still, he felt no urge to cry out in disgust. This filth he expected, the dark securing both his ease and boredom through the unlit corridor. So uneventful was his drab stroll that he started to whistle, with the boundaries of his passage providing the echoing ensemble to his tune.
Bars of light eventually broke his melodious trance to beckon him forward. He came to a set of moss-laden steps and another cellar door, this one wider than the first.
Ely ascended the stairs and reached up to the door. He pushed but found it heavier than expected. He took another step upward to brace his back against the door.
Above, a set of weights shifted.
“What the bloody hell?”
In one motion, he heaved himself up and through the door. The burdens on top scurried and squealed as Ely spilled onto the muck that made up the floor.
“Come on now! My favorite doublet!” he cried as he fingered the muddy filth that clung to his garb. He scrambled to his feet, which slipped and slid, as a familiar voice roared.
“Oh my!” the swineherd laughed. “You came at just the right moment.”
Ely stared up at the loft to glare at his host. The man, as rotund as they came with a bulbous nose, sat atop a pile of straw cradling a piglet.
Kinghood Page 16