“I’m from Capri,” Hilda said, “but I only knew one Hefington there. He was my brother Benya. He served in the garrison at Green Meadow, and we heard he was killed there. Do you remember this Hefington’s name?” she asked Mary.
“His name was Walley,” Mary said. “He said his father was a boatman, and he lived with his aunt. He was supposed to come to Waterfront with her, but he stayed on in Capri. Oh, he was such a comfort to me.”
Hilda grew quite pale. “Was this Walley a grown man?” she asked.
“Oh, no!” Mary replied. “He was only about ten years old, though he acted much older. Did you know him?”
Hilda began to tremble. She shook her head vigorously as if to ward off some terrible specter. “No!” she gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Katherine asked, suddenly concerned.
“My brother worked on the river,” Hilda said, “and he had a son named Wallace that I used to care for!”
Mary was ecstatic. “Then you are Walley’s aunt!”
“She was Wallace’s aunt,” the old woman interrupted.
“Was?”
“Wallace died nine years ago—before his first birthday,” the old woman growled.
“Have I gone insane?” Mary asked, gripping Katherine’s arm as they walked down the narrow street.
Katherine didn’t answer. It was all too fantastic! The bright sunlight made the whole experience seem like a strange dream. She wanted to pinch herself to be sure she was still in the real world, yet Mary’s grasp on her arm assured her that she was.
“Lady Katherine!” A shrill voice called and brought the girls to a halt. A lad ran down the street, and Katherine felt her heart skip a beat. It was the same lad who had carried a message from Philip before.
“Yes!” Katherine called. “Do you have a message for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, struggling to free a note from the leather pouch at his side.
“Does all go well with Master Philip?” Katherine asked, studying the lad’s features.
“Very well, ma’am,” he said, waving a second note in the air. “This needs to go to Master Rhoop.”
“Thank you,” Katherine called as the boy raced away.
Mary watched as Katherine opened and devoured her note in silence. “Is it good news?” she asked tentatively.
Katherine looked up and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. She handed the note to Mary. With trembling fingers, Mary opened the letter and read:
Dearest Katherine,
Every day the Lord brings us one step closer to victory. Highland is ours! Outside Zaraphath the forests and fields lie in ashes. I ache for those who will find their homes destroyed.
Early this morning we routed a large company and nearly captured Master Devia. Had the Lord given him into our hands, this whole affair might have ended today. But the tide is turning. We face less opposition daily. Zaraphath and Deep Delving are the last two strongholds between us and Green Meadow.
As victory seems more certain, I ask that you would pray for wisdom. Every day we fight with men from Amity. I do not know how we will restore peace once this terrible affair is over. Amity will never be the same. Much has been lost, but even if all else is lost, I pray you will remember me with affection. Your love is a treasure I could not bear to lose.
I have found little time to write, but my heart has been with you since the day we parted. May the Holy One watch over you and keep you safe until we meet again.
Yours truly, Philip
“He does care!” Katherine cried. Tears splashed unheeded over her cheeks. Though she tried to control her emotions, she found it useless.
Mary hugged her friend. “Did you ever doubt it?” she asked.
“He never wrote,” Katherine complained. “I know he was occupied, but he never wrote!”
Mary stared at her friend. “Katherine, Philip is carrying the entire burden of Amity on his shoulders.”
“I know,” Katherine sobbed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to sound demanding. It’s just so hard not to know.”
Mary thought of all the times she had wished for a letter from Bill. Putting her arms around Katherine, the two women held each other tight.
CHAPTER 56
The Tide Turns
“Keep moving!” a voice demanded in the darkness. “There’s no shirking on this trip!” Mercinor Gammel felt sure it was the same voice that had ordered him around on the docks of Sebring. I wish I could see the owner of that voice, he thought. But Devia and his minions have to do everything at night. I am so sick of this!
While Master Devia rode in a covered litter carried by six unfortunate men, Gammel sat astride a pony, watching the group struggle over the rough terrain. Seeing others stumble and sweat for Devia’s comfort somehow made him feel better; however, when his own pony tripped, nearly pitching him off, the pleasure of seeing his companions suffer disappeared. Swearing softly, he wished he could have had at least one beer to cool his thirst, but no, the great Master Devia who had promised so much was nothing more than a petty tyrant. The very liquor that had won him such a following was now banned from all those nearest the throne. Mercinor silently cursed the day he had been introduced to Master Devia, yet he plodded on through the night, escorting Devia’s wagon filled with the royal comforts of tent, throne, carpets, and tapestries.
Days passed, and what was left of Devia’s army suffered one loss after another to Philip Stafford. Almost daily the “royal court” was forced to move to safer territory, and the conditions were not improving. Mercinor had been forced to give up his pony, and now he labored among a large group of men either pushing or pulling Devia’s royal wagon up the winding path toward Green Meadow. The entire party trudged through a wasteland of ash and soot. Why all this senseless destruction? Mercinor wondered.
Pausing at the top of a ridge, Mercinor reeled when he saw Devia’s stronghold for the first time. Dark granite towers pierced the horizon like menacing fangs. Green Meadow had once been a lovely place. Now it seemed cold and barren.
A whip cracked overhead. “Get moving!” the foreman shouted.
Obediently, Mercinor and those with him put their shoulders to the task and bounced the wagon over a deep rut in the road. By late afternoon, Mercinor and his companions had brought Master Devia’s wagon into the stronghold.
“Get the gear inside,” someone shouted, and Mercinor shouldered the lightest-looking bundle. His feet hurt, and he was exhausted. He wanted a drink and a long hot bath, but those pleasantries were reserved for Master Devia alone.
Inside the fortress walls, there was constant activity. Women and children carried heavy loads of mortar and stone. Just like ants, Mercinor thought. Not really people at all.
“What are you looking at?” a guard shouted, striking Mercinor with the butt of his spear.
Mercinor glared at the guard but said nothing. “We have to get this wagon unloaded,” the guard said, “and it goes faster if everyone works.”
Mercinor thought of a good many things he might say, but he chose to refrain. Hefting his load, he fell in line with his comrades marching into the huge warehouses beneath the bastille.
Though the halls and rooms were dark, Mercinor could still see mountains of wheat, wool, and dried fruits piled everywhere. He passed rooms containing silks and cottons. Other rooms were filled with wine, beer, and rum in such quantities that it made Mercinor’s head swim. If I could sell but one room of all this, I would be wealthy for the rest of my life, he dreamed.
He was ushered into an empty storage room. “Royal bedroll,” he muttered as he dropped his burden at a clerk’s feet. Back in the hallway, Mercinor marveled at the tapestries hanging in storage. Even in the darkness, their rich colors and graceful shapes filled Mercinor with awe.
Following the others back into the light of day, Mercinor sa
w that the wagon was empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Now maybe he could get a drink and find a place to rest.
“Smith! Dixon! Gammel! Reed! Perry and Waterman! Report to the king at once!” The courier’s voice shattered Mercinor’s hopes.
Mercinor found the others, and together they followed the courier into Devia’s palace. Stepping beneath graceful stone arches, he entered the palace’s outer courtyard. Scattered about the lawn were statues of incredible beauty, but guarding the entrance of the palace was the most fearful sculpture he’d ever seen. A single dragon lay upon the southern steps. Its great mouth was open, revealing a forked tongue and dreadful teeth. Its massive body stretched the entire ascent of the stairway, and its huge tail formed the arch under which visitors had to pass to enter the hallway. The long expanse of its ragged tail formed the railing upon the north side of the staircase.
Mercinor shuddered. What kind of man would require his guests to pass beneath such a monster?
“What’s the problem?” A guard punched Mercinor. “Afraid of the dragon?” He laughed. “You don’t need to worry. He only eats those who have offended the king.”
Mercinor did not laugh. He knew the dragon was made of stone, but the menace it placed on his heart was very real indeed.
Once inside, Mercinor marveled. Everything spoke of luxury. Tapestries lined the hallways, and each corner was graced with a beautiful piece of art. Some of the art depicted celestial creatures, lovely and noble, while other art depicted the underworld, terrifyingly fierce. It troubled Mercinor to see the frequent mixing of the best and worst of both worlds. What kind of man is this? he wondered.
A guard stood on either side of the arch leading into the lord’s chamber. The bust of a goddess graced one side of the hall, her sightless ivory eyes surveying the room. Standing opposite her was a jade-eyed replica of Apollyon, the most feared demon of the underworld.
“Remove your weapons,” the chamberlain demanded. “You will have no need of them.”
Mercinor unbuckled his belt. It felt good to be rid of the heavy sword that hung around his waist, but he also felt somewhat naked without it. Mercinor was not, however, completely defenseless. Concealed beneath his shirt, he kept a short dagger. Though it was seldom used and few knew of its existence, it would go with him today. His fingers carefully avoided the familiar hilt. He did not want to alert anyone to its presence.
As the doors swung open, Mercinor glanced at his companions. They don’t seem nervous, he thought. Why am I? Maybe this is customary for those close to the master, but I have never done this before.
“Enter!” a herald called from the inner court. Mercinor stepped through the doors with deepening dread. Master Devia sat upon a golden throne, his sour face peering from beneath a scraggly white beard. Mercinor glanced nervously at those beside him. Their faces shone expectantly, clear of doubt or worry, as if they were about to receive new orders from their master.
“Read the charges!” Devia said.
Charges? Mercinor felt the color drain from his face. What charges? Silently he faced the throne. Devia’s eyes seemed devoid of life. Is there any warmth in this man at all? Mercinor wondered.
A voice began to read, “Perry: two counts murder and one count rebellion.” It was not Perry’s charges that caught Mercinor’s attention. It was the voice reading the charges. Again he thought he should know the owner of that voice. Who was that man?
“Forgiven.” The cold word slipped from between the thin lips of Master Devia.
“Waterman: three counts kidnapping and two counts murder,” said the voice.
Mercinor looked around. A clean-shaven man dressed in priestly robes read Waterman’s charges from a small black pamphlet. Mercinor searched his brain. I’ve see that man before, but where? he thought.
“Forgiven!” said Devia.
The accuser did not look up but continued to read. Mercinor began to wonder if the man had worked on the river. He seemed so familiar.
Mercinor relaxed a little. It seemed that murder and kidnapping to further Devia’s kingdom were forgivable offenses. Mercinor thought of the things he’d done for Devia. At first it had bothered him to do such things, but since Devia was such a religious man, he would never ask a man to do something really wrong, would he? After all, Devia talked with God! If Devia told you to do something, then it must be God’s will, right? Also, if Devia forgave you, you were certainly forgiven. Mercinor thought about how good forgiveness was going to feel.
“… insubordination!”
“Forgiven!” Devia said.
I missed it! Gammel thought. I don’t even know who was just forgiven.
“Gammel!” the accuser read.
Mercinor breathed deeply, wondering what “crimes” they would say he’d committed. Was it larceny, theft, burglary, or drunkenness? He tried to relax as he waited for the verdict. The others had been forgiven, surely he would be too.
“One count treason!”
Treason? Treason against whom? Mercinor felt his heart hammering in his chest.
“Failure to secure Sebring and Waterfront for the king!” the accuser read.
Mercinor tried to find his voice. “Treason?” he croaked. “Failure, maybe, but I have always been loyal in your service.”
“The gallows!” Devia hissed, turning his dark eyes upon Mercinor. “Because of your bungling, I have been driven away from that which I desired most.” Master Devia pointed a bony finger in Mercinor’s face, and his eyes shone with malice. “You will not fail me again!” he said.
Mercinor could not believe his ears. He looked upon Master Devia’s face, and the eyes he saw reminded him of the statue of Apollyon or the great dragon outside the palace.
Strong hands grabbed Mercinor, but he was not a man to give up easily. His mind suddenly grew sharp. He had been wondering where he had met the accuser before, and now he knew. It was the same voice that had been giving him orders on the docks of Sebring for the last several months. It was the same voice that had threatened him every time one of Devia’s plans failed. It was the voice that had goaded him into trying to kidnap his own cousin Katherine.
Anger cleared his mind. He would shut that voice up once and for all. He now knew who the accuser was: Mr. Milk Toast himself, Jiles McCormick. That simpering pansy didn’t have the gumption to stand up to a mouse. How dare he accuse Mercinor of treason?
All the questions in his mind had been answered in the blink of an eye, and now he had only one plan of action. He’d make them pay, starting with Jiles McCormick. He moved with the strength of ten men. Grabbing the knife beneath his shirt, he yanked it into view.
There were shouts of dismay all around the room, and dozens of hands sought to subdue him, but Mercinor leaped forward. He was going to silence that hateful voice, but Devia’s throne stood between him and the accuser. Devia could die too, Mercinor thought, but he was going to finish Jiles McCormick.
Mercinor shook free of multiple hands and charged toward Devia’s throne. Plunging his dagger deep into Devia’s body, he yanked it out and prepared to leap upon McCormick. Rough hands dragged him back onto Devia’s lap.
The old man’s eyes were wide with shock and surprise, but Mercinor’s dagger was still free to move. Slashing wildly, he plunged the blade into Devia again and again.
“Stop him!” someone yelled, but the guards caught in the press of humanity near Devia had no room to pull their weapons. Finally a soldier from the back of the room approached, lowered his spear over the mob, and drove its point deep into Mercinor’s side.
Mercinor was suddenly dizzy. He pulled his dagger from Devia’s body and wobbled for a moment. The last face he saw before his eyes lost focus was that of Jiles McCormick. McCormick was laughing at him. Mercinor opened his mouth to curse the man, but no sound passed his lips.
As Mercinor Gammel sank lifeless to the floor, Jiles McCormick turned a
nd slipped quietly from the room. Outside in the courtyard, people were certain they saw a tiny puff of smoke escape the guardian dragon’s mouth.
CHAPTER 57
Darkness Covers Green Meadow
Jiles McCormick slipped quickly through a side door and glanced over his shoulder. “Good riddance to them both,” he muttered. Closing the door softly, he hurried down the hallway. Guards would soon seal the room, and everyone would be questioned longer than was expedient.
“Halt!” a guard shouted, blocking McCormick’s escape.
“Summon the guards!” McCormick shouted. “There’s a rebellion!”
“What?” the guard grunted. “Where?”
“In the throne room,” McCormick gasped, pointing in the direction from which he had come. “That Gammel fellow has gone crazy!”
In the dim light, McCormick saw the guard’s face turn as red as the crimson jacket he wore. The sentry raced up the hallway, calling for reinforcements as he ran.
Jiles sighed. “At least I know which way not to go,” he muttered. Stepping to the intersection of several hallways, he turned and fled in the opposite direction.
Jiles McCormick found the cellars to his liking. They were dark, quiet, and entirely without people. Here, in complete darkness, he carefully laid his plans. When all sounds of movement had ceased in the rooms above him, McCormick stirred. The room was as black as ink and silent as death. His hour had come, and he would make his move.
Moving stealthily, McCormick climbed the steps to the main floor and slipped into the hallway, passing unnoticed through Devia’s palace. He carefully avoided every guard station on his way to the Tower of the Stars.
In his mind, Jiles McCormick reviewed his plan and thanked Mercinor Gammel again. This could not have happened so soon if Gammel hadn’t killed Devia. The fool had saved McCormick from having to kill the old man himself. Now, all he had to do was climb to the top of the tower and draw strength from the night sky. In the morning light, he would sound the trumpet and descend to take the throne.
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