“Our Hall of Illumination,” Tyrus told his young charge. he spoke more loudly, to be heard above the sound of the falling water. “It is the meeting place of the king’s guard. Here, the torches here are never allowed to die, even during the day.”
As he listened, Joseph took in the sights of the hall in silence. Many large rooms opened into the great hall; in each stood tables covered in scrolls, maps, charts and sometimes a dagger weighing down a pile of papers. Dozens of men in gray cloaks grouped around various tables; each seemed deep in discussion over a map or a sea chart, or a scroll covered in writing. Joseph was surprised to see a few monks in among those discussing the maps and parchments, as if equal with the soldiers.
Above the open door of each room--embedded in the wall of the main hall--hung a different shield. Joseph recognized one such insignia as the symbol of his own province. Ten provinces were in the kingdom he knew. Joseph counted ten rooms. Poor with larger numbers he guessed there to be about sixty of the gray-cloaked soldiers both in the rooms and in the main hall. Some sat on the edge of the pool; some walked quickly in and out of the rooms with parchments; others stood by the fireplaces with mugs of ale, talking to one another.
Joseph stood near the fire, warming himself. Through all the noise and activity the pleasant aroma of roasting meat came stealing to the boy. Tearing his eyes from the wondrous hall Joseph looked into the fireplace. A large, savory fish turned on a spit over the flames.
“Is the little man hungry?” asked a cheerful voice.
Turning, Joseph beheld a monk; his eyes held an amused look. With a smile he walked towards the fireplace, a small wooden bowl in his hand. Leaning down by the spit the monk pushed up his sleeves, sprinkled a small amount of salt judiciously onto the fish and turned the spit once. Looking sideways at the boy, the monk smiled again.
“Smells good?” he asked. Joseph nodded, ready to tackle the entire fish himself. The monk chuckled.
“I hear you have great courage for one so small,” said he. “But do you have the skill to catch your own lunch?” He pointed toward the marvelous pool.
“We each must bring our own meat to the king’s table. Here...” The monk handed Joseph what appeared to be light spear, with a length of rope attached to the end of its handle. “You’ll need this.”
Joseph looked down at the spear in his hand and then over at Tyrus. His guide sat down at a nearby table and grinned at him.
“Go on, Joseph Asher,” he said, nodding. “Bring back a good, fat fish and you shall eat.”
With hesitant steps Joseph walked over to the pool, spear in hand. As he neared water he took in a quick breath. The rippling surface shone clear and beautiful over blue stone tiles--cut into perfectly-fitted squares--lining the bottom and sides of the pool.
The water did not seemed very deep around the perimeter of the pool, however--in the middle--Joseph could not see its bottom. Teeming with fish of all colors the water, itself, seemed alive. The fish appeared to be well fed and swam with power around the blue-tiled depths. On the surface of the water--scattered like white flower petals--bobbed water lilies, glowing in the light from the shaft above.
A little turtle swam up close. Joseph made a face at it; he did not want to eat turtle. A plump, silver-scaled fish swam temptingly near to Joseph’s reach. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he held the spear above his head and aimed for the retreating silver form. Throwing the spear took more strength than Joseph thought. Cool water splashed up as the shaft hit the pool’s surface. The fish swam away, unharmed. A few of the gray-cloaked men--sitting nearby on the pool’s wall--nudged each other, smiling.
Joseph saw the purpose of the rope. He pulled the spear back up, quickly wiping water droplets from his face with his sleeve. Gripping the top of the wall with one hand, Joseph readied the spear again. He threw it with all his force at another fish. The ensuing splash was larger but again, no fish. Joseph’s ears burned as he hauled the spear up once more. A wave of laughter went up from anyone standing or sitting nearby. Joseph set his jaw and looked for the next target with narrowed eyes.
“Here, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus’ voice came from behind him. “Let me show you how it is done.” Joseph stepped willingly aside, watching as the tall Shamar threw one side of his cloak over his shoulder. Lowering his own spear into the water a little ways, Tyrus looked down into the water He did not draw back the spear, but held quite still. Joseph saw the fat, silver fish come nearby again, yet Tyrus did not move. The fish swam closer, then flitted away and then came swimming again right near the spearhead. With a quick lunge Tyrus thrust the spear through the fish, pinning it to the bottom of the pool. Amid a small cheer form his fellow Tyrus held up the still wriggling fish and bowed slightly. Joseph managed a smile, himself, seeing it was a sport of some kind to the kingsmen. Handing the spear back to Joseph Tyrus nodded towards the pool.
“I have caught my lunch, Master Asher,” he said. He paused, as if expecting a reply. Determination flooding back into his being, Joseph went to the pool wall once more. He lowered the spear as Tyrus had done. After two false lunges a large, glimmering red fish swam unexpectedly near. Closing his eyes as he pushed down, Joseph nearly fell in with the force he exerted on the spear. Opening one eye he saw the red fish was not swimming away, but struggled under his spear.
“Hey! He caught one!” a nearby soldier called out. “Push down harder boy, or it will get away!” Laughter and cheers rang from the others as Joseph hauled up the fish. Unwilling to handle the slippery, wriggling thing he proudly carried it--still on the spear--back to the fireplace. The monk smiled and took the spear and fish from the grinning boy.
He found Tyrus--seated at a table near the fire--next to a hooded Shamar.
“Well done, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus said, pointing to an empty chair. “Come sit while your food cooks.” Quietly, Joseph sat across from the cloaked stranger and scooted his chair in, still shaking water from his hands.
The newcomer sat as tall as Tyrus. He appeared to be watching Joseph from the depths of his hood. Joseph watched the fire, glancing at the man now and then. A close-cropped beard covered the man’s chin, but his face was shaded and Joseph couldn’t tell what he looked like, nor how old he was.
“So, this is the boy who ran into the ivy square?” the stranger said.
As he spoke he leaned forward and pushed back his hood. Joseph nodded, studying the man’s face. The stranger’s brown eyes held a look of amusement. His noble face seemed unmarred save for a single scar, running from his cheekbone to his chin; more scars could be seen on the back of his hand, resting on the table. Glancing over at Tyrus’ hand Joseph noticed he, too, had scars; some went up the forearm, disappearing into the sleeve of his cloak. Joseph wondered where these men had fought and how they had been wounded. His father had often told him that scars were visual reminders to soldiers--who had survived battles--that all men must die one day.
“What is your name?” the stranger asked, bringing Joseph out of his thoughts.
“Joseph Asher, sir.”
“I am Christopher,” the man told him. “I hear you have acted bravely this day, to get a message to us. You are... Lieutenant John Asher’s boy?”
Joseph nodded in reply, wondering how this man knew of his father. The stranger looked into the fire.
“Your father was loyal to the king... a good man. His death is an unfortunate loss to us.” He glanced back at Joseph. “Tyrus informs me you have a message for the King. I will take you to him, after you eat.” Christopher nodded at someone approaching the table. “Here is your food now.”
Turning, Joseph saw the monk drawing near again, bearing a plate in each hand. One he set in front of Tyrus; the other he placed by Joseph. Roasted fish steamed up a wonderful scent; piled next to the met were crisp potatoes and a thick slice of bread, with butter on it. His eyes bright Joseph picked up his fork to begin eating. The men opposite chuckled a little at his eagerness.
“We must pray,” said Christopher, sober
ing. “We must thank God for this food, blessed be His name.”
“Blessed be His name,” repeated Tyrus.
Not accustomed to prayer at meals, Joseph laid the fork back down.
“I have never prayed at meals, sir,” he admitted. “I don’t know how.” Christopher’s eyes held an amused look as he looked at the boy. He leaned forward and bent his head down slightly.
“Say this with me,” he said quietly. “God of life, and giver of Grace through your son, the Christ. We give thanks...”
Joseph repeated in his little voice, but noticed how the room began to quiet down; the activity stopped and the whole hall was still, save for the waterfall. “We give you thanks for this food”, continued Christopher, “That you have provided. For the mercies that you bestow to us we are truly grateful. Bless our King and may he bow his heart to you always, and we as his servants.” All those in the hall--with one voice--said: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Awed by the unity of voices, Joseph looked around the room as the men returned to their labors.
Christopher raised a mug to his lips, studying Joseph’s alert face.
“Eat, Joseph,” he said, kindly. “You still have much to tell us.” Looking across the table, Joseph saw Tyrus already eating. Taking up the bread, the boy ate with such enjoyment that only the hungry know.
After a few moments the friendly monk brought a mug of warm ale for Joseph. Staring at the cup, Joseph swallowed his mouthful and looked up at the man.
“I am not of age to be drinking ale, sir,” he told him. The monk chuckled.
“It is not exactly ale, my young friend,” he said. “It is mostly honey and water.” The monk walked away, saying over his shoulder, “but take care you don’t drink it by itself; it is good tasting but bitter to the stomach.”
Pushing away his empty plate, Tyrus began a low conversation with Christopher. Joseph listened as he ate, catching a word here and there. Waiting until Tyrus had paused in his conversation, Joseph spoke up.
“Who are the Shamar?” he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The two men looked at him across the table.
“He asks a question of interest,” Tyrus stated, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “We are the King’s servants... those who enforce his interests and gather information for the protection of the King and his people.”
Joseph contemplated his answer for a moment.
“My father never spoke of them before,” he returned. Tyrus cleared his throat.
“Secrecy is our greatest defense,” he replied. “The Shamar are mingled in the armies, in trades all around the Kingdom and even among the priests and Senate. We are known only by the ring we carry; it bears the seal of the King.”
“My father told me that the man who gave him the message commanded him to bring it here,” Joseph said, gravely. “It was as if he outranked him.” Nodding, Tyrus sat forward.
“The seal we carry has the authority of the King,” he explained. “Only the King , himself, or the High Marshals can overrule its command. Now finish eating.”
A few minutes later Christopher and Tyrus rose up and moved to leave. Joseph swallowed his last bite and followed, nodding his thanks to the monk by the fireplace. On the far side of the hall--past the great pool and the other province rooms--stood two bronze doors, each standing taller than Joseph’s house in Rishown. As Tyrus and Christopher approached, two Shamar slowly pulled one of the heavy doors open. A long, winding staircase rose before them. Christopher led the small party upwards. They climbed for what seemed an eternity to Joseph.
Finally the staircase straightened out. A window, high up on the wall came into view; the natural, bright light made Joseph squint until his eyes adjusted. As they came to the end of the stairs, the light increased. A long, white corridor of polished stone greeted them, with windows along the wall about four feet off the floor. Looking out the windows Joseph could see grass growing and realized that the windows were nearly at ground level, maybe a foot above it. A lush, beautiful garden could be seen outside, full of blossoms. Lawns and trees met the eye as far as the window’s edge permitted one to see. The corridor ended at another set of bronze doors guarded by more gray-cloaked men, standing with swords drawn. Without a word they opened up a door and let the trio through.
The room beyond was not as large as the Hall of Illumination, but it seemed almost as striking. The ceiling domed upwards, made entirely of small windows held in place with an intricate pattern of wrought iron Sunlight flooded into the space. Large, arched windows stood in the wall on all sides of the room, set near to the ground. A curious, green light emanated from these. A solid mass of trees and shrubbery, flowers and vines grew outside, hiding the windows. The only way to see directly into this room was from above, and only birds flew that high. Two fireplaces on opposite sides of the room warmed the giant space; a large, golden-haired dog slept peacefully in front of the nearest of these. All manner of weaponry lined the walls: spears, swords, shields and curiously shaped daggers hung on brackets, as if meant to be available for use at a moment’s notice. Brightly colored banners hung down from the massive rafters along the walls. Shined black and white marble tiles made up the floor beneath Joseph’s feet.
As his eyes adjusted to the light Joseph saw a throne against one wall, an arched window on either side. No gold overlay or gemstones could he see on the throne, only carved wood--burnished to a shine--and fine velvet cushions.
“Joseph.”
Tyrus called to him as he stood by the nearest fireplace, indicating for his young charge to draw near. After the cold of the cavern and tunnels, Joseph felt glad to warm his hands by the crackling flames; he saw the wisdom of the long, woolen cloaks. Thoughts of home came stealing into his mind, of sitting near the small hearth of his home at his father’s knee, listening to stories of battles long ago. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear his father’s voice.
Voices did echo in the room. Joseph heard Christopher, speaking to someone behind them near the throne. Turning to look, Joseph’s eyes grew wide. Christopher handed his gray cloak to a servant and then sat down... on the king’s throne. As Joseph stared another servant stepped up with a pillow bearing a small, glistening crown. Gold wrought in an intricate design, no jewels. Taking the crown, Christopher put it squarely on his head. He looked at Joseph and beckoned for him to approach.
Hesitantly, the young boy stepped forward. He felt Tyrus nudge his shoulder just a little, encouraging him to move closer.
“Now,” said the king. “Tell me what brought you here, and everything that was told to you to do.” Stuttering a little, Joseph fixed his eyes on the King’s crown and told of his father’s coming to them wounded, the doctor’s and captain’s words and of his passing. The King--leaning on one elbow--listened intently.
“Wait,” he interrupted. “Tell of where your father was warning you. Of what was he speaking?”
Joseph searched his mind for the exact words. His father’s face came up before him and the urgency of the whispered words flooded the boy’s mind. Tears filled his eyes as he heard his voice echo in his ears.
“He said the... readers of the rhunes killed his men,” Joseph said, remembering clearly now. “Then he said they would invade us.”
At these words the King sat up straight. Tyrus drew in a sharp breath, his brow gathered.
“Show me the message, and the ring,” the King instructed; his tone sounded far more serious than Joseph had yet heard it. A servant came over at once; he took the items from Joseph’s hand and gave them to the King. Taking out a small knife the King slit the blood-spattered oilskin and unfolded the parchments inside. He spent some moments reading to himself, breaking now and then to look at the ring of the dead Shamar. At last he stood, walked over to Tyrus and handed him the message.
“Inform the men,” he said, simply. Tyrus bowed and walked quickly out the way they came. The King and Joseph were left alone.
All tension in the room seemed to leave with the message. The
King drew in a long breath and walked over to the fireplace. Joseph followed. Together, they stared into the flames a few moments in silence.
“In all my years,” the king said, after a minute, “I have never seen someone--as young as you--act so bravely.” He glanced down at Joseph. The boy’s serious brown eyes returned his scrutiny without fear. “It was by merest chance that you made it up those stairs at all.”
Joseph swallowed hard as the king spoke. He did not know exactly how to reply. The king did not seem to need one. “Was your father sending you to academy when you turn thirteen?” he asked.
“No, sire,” Joseph answered. “My father has me apprenticed to a blacksmith.” An amused look entered the King’s eyes. He turned his gaze back to the flames.
“Then a blacksmith you shall be,” he said. “But first, the feeding of the mind. I will send you to a different school and when you are ready, you will attend Palmadore Academy. It is a school for soldiers not far from here; there they teach military tactics and weaponry.” The king glanced at Joseph as he spoke. “Become skilled in the trade of a smith--as your father wished--but in addition you will be trained as a knightly swordsman. It is my wish that you join the military, but not as an officer. A common soldier is of more use to me. Even the bravest man must earn his honor.”
The king paused in his speech a moment. “You will not return home, but, do not fear... your mother will be sent for on the morrow, as well as your things. Is she skilled in a craft?”
“A.... dressmaker, sire,” Joseph answered, a little awed by his sudden good fortune. In his mind, he pictured himself as a yeoman swordsman in some great battle.
“Good... the monks will find her a position in the village, near the school.” The King seemed satisfied with his plans. “One of my carriages will take you there now. Your living quarters will be arranged for you upon your arrival.”
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 4