Kinghood

by Joshua Rutherford

  I have to be the one to tell them. The one to speak the words, to confirm their darkest fears.

  Artus had never detested an idea more.

  They must hear it from me. Before they send one of the Voiceless with a note to make inquiries. So that none of them may take the risk and ascend. No knight, nor servant, nor bishop should tell them.

  It has to be me.

  Knowing what had to be done, Artus summoned the last of his essence. He rose, lifting Gerry to his feet as he came to his own. Sir Everitt offered his cape, that they may cover their faces as they left.

  Outside, Everitt order half of the guards to encircle the two, as the other half stayed to keep watch over the chambers. Mail and scales clanked, companions to the bells that rang, while Artus led Gerry back to his room, then to the privacy of his private study, where they proceeded to descend to Terran.

  The underground lair, as if knowing the grief above, had grown cold and dark. The conical windows, bored into the sandstone to provide sunlight from the abutting cliffside, provided no illumination. The torches and sconces within burned with a dimness not unlike that of a church or monastery.

  Even the flames mourn for their King.

  Artus and Gerry reached the Fourpointe Chamber to discover the other three already there, waiting. Symon paced, for his nature as a warrior prompted him to move in moments of anxiety. Dawkin, seated at his end of the table, reclined, his fingers tapping the map before him. Though subtle, his worry was ever-present, marked by restraint that only Artus and his kin could see through.

  Then there was Ely.

  The most distraught of the brothers. One could not help but wonder if he too had seen his father’s butchered corpse, for his anguish was such that it seemed he had witnessed the horror firsthand. Red rivers populated his eyes so that the whites of them were but a memory, while his cheeks glistened from the tears that wetted them. His hair stood on its end, as though afraid for the news to come. His clothes had already met a similar fate, having been ripped and torn or otherwise disheveled. Lastly, his mouth – on the cusp of a cry or scream – curled unnaturally, ready to emit a plea to Mar himself.

  Ely, upon seeing his brother and grandfather, was the first to address them. First with his forlorn eyes. Then with a query.

  “Is it true?”

  Artus found his lips dry, his throat parched. Though it mattered little. For in truth, at that exact moment he had no words of reply.

  Ely stood. “The bells. They knell. Is it for him? Father? Do they ring true?” He rounded the table, his eyes searching for any hope that his suspicions may prove to be wrong. His gaze found them both, but as he was closer to Gerry, he approached him first.

  “Brother. Answer me.”

  Gerry responded with a deluge of tears.

  “Grandfather...” Ely ventured to ask, his voice cracking before he could finish his thought.

  Artus hung his head, the burden of it all having grown too heavy for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, unable to face his grandson.

  “I... I... no, no.” Ely withdrew from them both. He paced through the chamber, his direction erratic. “No, not Father. Not him.”

  “Ely,” Dawkin said, rising slowly from his chair.

  “No. Not Father.”

  “Take a seat,” Symon urged.

  “I, I can’t... I have to, I must see him. Now. Now.”

  Ely scurried around the table and past his kin into the hall. Symon chased after him, with Dawkin in tow, followed by Gerry and lastly, Artus.

  “My father. Father. No, no.” Ely made a right, as if to make his way toward the castle stairs. After taking only a few steps though, he halted.

  Symon, having nearly run into him, came to his side. “Ely. You mustn’t ascend.”

  “Not now, brother,” Dawkin urged. “Not in your state.”

  “But... I have... to see him.”

  “Not now.”

  “Yes.” Ely swung around, to rush away from the castle stairs. “Now...”

  Ely pushed past Gerry just as he exited the Fourpointe Chamber. “Where is he going?” Gerry asked.

  Symon shrugged. Dawkin, however, considered. A moment passed as he gazed aside, his eyes seemingly staring at the sandstone wall, when in fact he was searching the very recesses of his soul.

  Then, in an instant, it dawned on him. The reason for Ely’s departure. His intention.

  “The Siren’s Cavern...”

  Three words. They left Dawkin’s tongue like any other. Yet they stirred a premonition amongst all of them, a shared foresight.

  Symon bolted down the hall, his arms and legs a blur. Dawkin, shaking off his shock, raced on as well, staying on his heels, with Gerry not far behind.

  Artus, however, remained.

  Why? Artus prayed silently. Why, Mar? Why?! What grievous deeds have I committed? What sins am I now paying for? Were three children not enough? Was their spilled blood not a sufficient sacrifice for the errors of my kinghood? You allowed my last child, my firstborn, to fall. Not one. Twice. Twice he was made to suffer. Now, on the same day I lose one, you mock my grief. You threaten to take another.

  Then it came. That shrill. A scream beyond measure. It screeched toward him, its ear-shattering holler flooding into every doorway, hollow and crevice. The culmination of cries from a hundred-thousand soldiers, dying in the pitch of battle, could not compare. Not for Artus.

  “My boy.”

  Artus found his feet possessed. They hastened beneath him, in the direction of the cavern, the source of the outcry. Another shriek consumed the corridor. The clap of boots and clatter of mail responded. A Voiceless knight streaked past Artus. Then another. A few more passed Artus, reminding the old king that he was hardly the warrior of his prime.

  He pressed onward, the end of the hallway close ahead, the stalactites from the heights above within sight.

  “Aaaaahhhhh! Nooooo!”

  Artus burst forth into the Siren’s Cavern to find Ely near the top of the steps. He reached out, stretching the whole of his body toward the mouth of the cave, preparing to throw himself down into Mar’s vast blue kingdom below.

  Symon, just beneath Ely’s feet, leapt forward. He caught his right leg in his hand, to pull him back. Ely stumbled on top of the last step. In a fury, he twisted around and kicked out with his free foot. His boot heel caught Symon on the right side of his jawbone, snapping his head up and to the left. Still, Symon kept his hold.

  With Symon reeling from his blow, Dawkin swooped up to grab Ely’s free leg with both of his hands. Ely, desperately trying to flail his limbs in a vain attempt to liberate himself, wailed.

  “Let me go!” he demanded. “Let me fall! I want to see him! Please!”

  Gerry made his way up the stairs to wedge himself between his brothers. He clawed at Ely, curling his fingers around his belt to pull him further from the cavern’s edge.

  Together, the three held on as Ely spun around, kicking all the while. He writhed onto his stomach, clamping onto the steps as one by one the Voiceless ascended to assist the three princes.

  “I want to see Father! I want to see Father!”

  His brothers ignored his pleas, along with the knights. Down they pulled, each step rising before Ely as he descended against his will. When they finally came to the base of the stairs, Ely responded with a deep, guttural scream, one that assaulted all of their senses and made each of them – even the most stoic of the Voiceless – scowl and grimace.

  Now Artus stood, his prayers finished but his agony continuing, as he witnessed his grandson trying to end his princehood, his very being, before he even had a chance to truly live.

  “Please... let me see him. Let me see him!”

  At long last, Ely kicked free of his brothers to rise. However, with the lot of them back on even ground, his kinsmen and guards encircled him. Undeterred, Ely charged toward the staircase. Symon extended his arm first to cut off Ely, as his other brothers and the Voiceless responded in kind. Ely, his mania in f
ull force, leapt forward, stretching to the staircase.

  “No!” he cried. “Please... Mar... please!”

  Mar will not answer, your prayers will go unattended, Artus thought, knowing that his musings were blasphemy. Not that it mattered at all to him. Not now.

  “Mar...” Ely repeated.

  It is useless.

  “Please...”

  Your prayers are futile.

  “Please!”

  “Mar will not answer,” Artus blurted.

  No one turned in response to his declaration, for he stood behind all as Ely continued to struggle against those who choked off his ascension.

  “Mar will not answer, my lad!” Artus yelled as he marched forward. This time, the Voiceless closest to him looked over their shoulders. They parted to make way for their former king, whose sights rested firmly on the one who grappled on his brothers, the boy who had not heard his cries.

  “No!” Ely wailed again.

  “Ely!” Artus roared.

  At once, Ely paused. With the arms of his brothers still corralled about him, he turned to face his grandfather.

  “He is gone. The king. Your father. He has passed, my boy.”

  Ely, agape, stared back at Artus, as though the news was striking him anew.

  “I’m sorry, my son. I’m sorry.”

  With that, Ely fell. His brothers reached out for support but it was Artus who caught him in his arms, cushioning his fall and holding onto the one he loved.

  “I’m sorry, my son,” he repeated. “I’m so sorry.”

  Ely cried. He wailed. Only this time, his voice was muffled, his exclamations muted, as his head laid buried in his grandfather’s shoulder.

  Artus wrapped his arms around Ely tightly as he sobbed, his embrace as much a comfort to himself as to Ely.

  A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Another one cupped his other. Then a third found the space on his back beneath his neck.

  Four boys, Artus considered. Here and now. Fatherless. By Mar, at least they have been spared. But for how long?

  Chapter 19

  “You aren’t going to like it above.”

  “When have we truly ever?”

  “I am serious, Symon.”

  “So am I.”

  Symon eyed Dawkin as he stretched out on the couch in the Fourpointe Chamber. His brother had given a detailed account of his two days above Terran, during which he spent his time under heavy guard, making funeral arrangements and bolstering the castle’s security. His chronicle of events had been as troubling as expected. Much of the Marlish Court had left Arcporte Castle to return to their own manors. Many departed of their own accord. However, some were asked to leave, for fear that their thirst for reprisal would endanger the Ibian royal family and their accompanying Court members.

  Though the danger to Kin Saliswater and the other Marlish nobles was real, it proved a secondary concern, for Dawkin had spent much of his stint above assuring King Felix and his kin that they would be safe. It was all for show, to be sure, what with his empty promises and increase in stationed guards. But it had worked at staving off panic. For the moment.

  The danger of an Ibian flight from the capital was further subdued by the weather, which matched the tone of a country in mourning. Tears of Mar, in the form of rain and sleet, pummeled the castle and the city it overshadowed through the night, allowing Dawkin to descend without worry of Kin Garsea disappearing in the darkness.

  Symon had taken in all the details, as did his brothers. Ely, whom they considered still at risk of self-harm, was administered a potion of Truscubium root and Highmoorr lavender. The brew had a calming effect, one that allowed Ely to keep his wits and partake in the truth session. Gerry was also offered the concoction but turned it down, despite Symon’s insistence. All three had stood by while Dawkin went through the most intimate details of his time above.

  Now, rising carefully, Dawkin scanned the Chamber. “Where did Ely and Gerry go?”

  “To their rooms.”

  “So soon?”

  “Your truth session lasted longer than usual.”

  “You know how thorough I can be.”

  “True. That said, it was still stretched out, even for you.”

  “Forgive me. In the fog of my session, I must have felt compelled to stress every point.”

  “I don’t mind. None of us did. The other two were just tired, is all.”

  “Considering all that has happened, it is a wonder that any of us have risen from bed.” Dawkin nodded to Symon, his stare pinpointed on his chin. “Speaking of which, how do you feel?”

  The reference to his wound prompted Symon to clench his teeth, an act that sent a shot of pain through the right side of his head. Two days spent in bed while Dawkin was above - alternating between cold cloths, potions and poultices – had reduced the swelling to the point that it was barely noticeable, even though the agony remained.

  “Better,” Symon admitted.

  “Has Ely...”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, his bout of madness was uncontrollable, without a touch of thought or intention. As always.” Symon promptly marched to the side table, where he poured himself a goblet of wine. In one gulp, he finished it. “In your recollection, you said you sent Sir Everitt to make inquiries. Do you think that was wise?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “How do you think the Court will interpret Prince Jameson sending away his Right Captain?”

  “Interpret?” Dawkin came to his side. “Brother, you of all people should know the importance of action above all else in times such as this. Never mind putting on airs. If any baron should question the reasoning or logic behind me sending away our most trusted guard, so be it. We need answers to what happened. Given the... circumstance of Father’s demise, I felt it best to entrust Everitt with the task of discovery.”

  “Aye,” Symon conceded, though the thought still struck him as unwise.

  “What are your intentions when you ascend?”

  Symon poured himself another drink. He raised the goblet to his lips but took no sip.

  “Symon?” Dawkin asked, leaning in to his brother.

  “Have you seen Father?”

  “No,” Dawkin replied, gravely. “The mage still works to repair the damage he endured, to make him presentable. Our servants report that his body will be ready for viewing at Mar-by-the-Sea Cathedral come the day after tomorrow.”

  “I will then go to visit him.”

  “But before I left we agreed that each of us would ascend one by one for a private viewing at the cathedral.”

  “Dawkin. Twice, under guard, our father was assaulted. Up there, in Arcporte Castle, the epicenter of our island. A place we considered the safest in all the nation. We took his safety... all of our well-being... for granted. I will not assume the same false sense of complacency while his corpse is being readied for his funeral. I will personally triple the sentries you have established around the mage’s chambers. It may not be enough. But at least it will show that Kin Saliswater is strong, that we have some sense in us yet.”

  Symon downed his goblet of wine. He set it on the side table and left.

  Once ascended to the prince’s chambers, he found himself unable to sleep. The hour remained dark for the time he paced his room, then the library, awake. He considered reading one of the many manuscripts that lined the shelves or studying a map from the vast collection. He perused the assortment, finding that none appealed to him though.

  What is the point? he finally asked himself after circling the private library twice over. We have holed ourselves in this study or Father’s grand library to read and study, in the guise of preparing ourselves for some greater challenge of the mind. And where did it get us? Where?

  Symon, the anxiety of the question and so much else grating on his nerves, readied himself. Though resolved to not dress in full armor – that such a show would further unnerve the rest of the castle – h
e also did not want to leave unprotected. He put on a shirt of mail and leggings of thick leather before dressing in a pair of trousers, shirt and doublet. He strapped a sheathed dagger to his right calf before pulling on his long boots and wore a dirk at his right hip and his sword to his right. He felt foolish for taking such care in his own castle, but convinced himself that is was necessary.

  The torches and sconces in the corridors and staircases beyond his chambers continued to burn strongly as he left his chambers. Beside each, as well as at every door and under every arch, a sentry or guard stood at attention. Every one he approached or passed made a move to follow him, so that he may not go on alone. However, for each that made a move forward or took a step, Symon extended his hand, motioning them to stay put.

  He wandered through the galleries and corridors of the curtain walls, eventually making his way up and around the battlements. The brisk sea breeze from the harbor cut through his doublet, shirt and trousers, reminding him that in his haste he had ascended without a coat. Nonetheless, for the discomfort his lack of garb offered, it also reminded him of his vigor, his life. At least I can retreat to the castle and find a fire to warm myself, he told himself. Father can no longer entertain that privilege. His body will never warm again. It will only grow colder.

  Symon slowed his walk to a stroll that he may better partake of the sights of the city below. All except a few taverns and outlying buildings slept on, their windows shuttered and unlit, their doors shut. The storm that Dawkin had spoken of in the Fourpointe Chamber had paused, replaced by a fog that had settled over the city. Tis a light blanket, Symon thought as he breathed in, his nostrils, tongue and lungs considering the smell and taste from the ocean. The rain and sleet will return. I can feel it. Mar has yet to stop mourning for our fallen king.

  The musing sent a shudder through Symon. Brushing past the battlement guards, he hurried down the curtain wall steps and marched across the main bailey toward the central kitchen.

  There, in the hearth, embers from the night’s previous supper preparation burned and offered the only light in the room. A single guard within the doorway nodded to Symon as he entered and made his way to the fireplace with his hands outreached.