by Glenda Larke
“Is that for me?” Lord Seaforth asked.
“For the prince, my lord,” the servant replied, and approached Ryce.
Frowning, Ryce took the letter and slit it open. It was a single sheet, and whatever news it contained, it was sufficient to turn his face a sickly colour. He read the contents twice. The room fell silent, everyone staring, rooted to the spot. For Saker, it was an age before Ryce crumpled the paper in his hand and looked up – at him.
“Your wretched friends! They’ve killed my Bealina with their fucking boneheaded incompetence!”
The letter dropped from his shaking hand. He looked around the room. “My queen is dead, killed in a dastardly attack by Valerian Fox’s men. Prince Garred is unharmed and on his way back to Throssel.” His voice had wavered, but he threw back his shoulders as he added, “Today we fight for this land so that never again will it fall into the hands of sorcerers! Today we start the battle by wresting rule from the hands of a mad king who does a sorcerer’s bidding. My father has long been as good as dead, and today we avenge him and release him from the Va-less hell of sorcery. Are you with me?”
This time, the foot-stamping ovation clinked the porcelain on the glass shelves of the display cabinets.
As Prince Ryce’s party left the house a little later, Piper, dressed as a boy, cheerfully told everybody she was a prince and she was going to sit on a throne and have lots of pet dogs. She hugged Saker and waved to him as Barklee carried her away. In his own farewell, Juster threw an arm around Grig Cranald’s shoulders and said something in his ear, which prompted Grig to smile at him with an eloquent look of tenderness.
When they’d all left, the crumpled letter still lay on the floor where Ryce had dropped it. Saker picked it up, recognised Fritillary’s hand and shamelessly skimmed the contents. The account of Bealina’s death was stark. Heartbreaking. But all he felt was relief that Fritillary made it clear that it was Ardhi and Sorrel who had brought Prince Garred to safety.
They were still alive.
“Pickle all princes,” he said to Juster. “If anything happens to Piper—”
“Grig’s there to take care of her. But who will take care of him when I’m not there?” Juster sighed and poured them both a generous glass of the Seaforth brandy. “Drink up,” he said. “We both need something to allay our fears.”
“I thought you preferred to remain heart-whole,” he remarked and sipped the brandy.
Juster sighed. “That was my intention. Never thought someone would come along to upend my profligate life. Dammit, Saker, loving someone is worse than sailing a ship with a hull covered in barnacles. You can’t scrape love off and sail away. It’s a joy, yet it ties you in knots of fear. Poor Ryce.” He drank more of the brandy, then swirled the glass, watching the liquid spin. “And you know what? There is nothing I hate more than sitting around, worrying about other people. The… waiting.”
“I know. It gets you every time.”
“You’ve lost Sorrel, haven’t you?”
“She was never mine to lose.”
“More fool you.”
He shrugged. “There was a moment when we could have gone down a different pathway, but it never happened. Not sure why. Maybe because she once watched me make a fool of myself over the Lady Mathilda?”
“That was exceedingly stupid. Was that what was behind your nullification?”
“It was the excuse. Anyway, Sorrel has become the sister I never had, and I can’t imagine it any other way now.”
Juster drained his glass and reached for the brandy. “Come, have a drink with me.”
I’ll always have the ternion. Always. What he wasn’t sure about was whether he’d always have Piper. “No, thank you. I’ll twin with the eagle to see what’s going on in a minute, and I need to be sober for that.”
“A drunken eagle would certainly be something to behold…”
“And I’d rather you kept sober enough to watch over my body, if you don’t mind.”
Juster sighed again and put down his glass.
Ryce approached the main gate at the head of his men. He attempted to look like a broken man, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. Inside he was churning with a passion he could hardly contain.
This is for you, Bealina. You and Garred.
Bealina. Before she left Gromwell, she’d become so thin, so pale, and yet she’d always been cheerful, so certain they would win. It had broken his heart to see her struggling with the lack of amenities, never complaining, always greeting him with a smile, always loving and passionate, even when she was hungry and tired and frightened, and anxious about Garred.
You did that to her, Father. You did that to your grandson. You could have had the siege lifted any time. Oh, Fritillary could blame Fox, if she liked, but it was Edwayn’s distrust of Shenat that made the kingdom vulnerable in the first place. The king had deliberately sought out a Prime who wanted to rid the nation of Shenat clerics. He’d chosen Fox before he’d even met him.
Ryce glanced behind to see Barklee, dressed in borrowed clothes so as to resemble a nobleman rather than a ship’s surgeon, carrying Piper. She was wearing a velvet suit with lace trimming which delighted her, and she waved at him happily.
There were two men on duty outside the closed gates of the palace, both armed with pikes. They stepped forward and called the group to a halt.
Keeping his shoulders slumped, his gaze indirect and his expression abashed even as he seethed inside, he approached the foremost guard.
“Your Highness,” the man said, at a loss.
“Open the gate, guardsman. I bring my son, Prince Garred, to the king, as requested. Gromwell has fallen.”
The two men exchanged glances. “I’ll speak to the captain of the guard,” one of them said.
“By all means,” Ryce said. “I’ll come with you.”
The guard hesitated.
“Come now, man. You can hardly expect me to wait out in the street like a tradesman!”
The guard banged at the wicket set into the main gate, and it opened from the inside.
“Wait here,” Ryce said to Seaforth, the words only for show, as Seaforth had been instructed to do no such thing. Ryce waved the guard inside and the man, flustered, preceded him. As they had planned, Sir Beargold entered on his heels then halted in the doorway, so that the wicket could not be closed behind him.
The guard dithered, not knowing what to do.
“Well, go on, man,” Ryce said, “get the captain, quickly now. Is that still Captain Rollin?”
The man gave a nod, remembered whom he was addressing, and stuttered, “Yes, Your Highness.” He scurried away across the forecourt between the gateway and the palace buildings, heading towards the main guardhouse. The four guards on duty inside the gatehouse looked from Ryce to one another in consternation as one by one his men began to file in through the wicket.
“Your Highness,” said the one in charge, “we have no instructions from the king—”
“Of course you have! The king has ordered my return and I am here. These men are Prince Garred’s bodyguard. As you know, the heir apparent is entitled to a company of forty men…”
While he was speaking, the men who had entered behind him flung open the main gate, to allow a flood of soldiers inside. Some of them greeted the guards by name and clapped them on the back as old friends. As more and more men entered, they milled around, blocking the view of the guards. Ten of his men stole away, one at a time, their destination the postern gate. If all went well, they would soon be opening that gate to the bulk of his men already gathering in the street outside.
Captain Rollin came running up, still shrugging himself into his coat. Ryce greeted him effusively, spilling the same nonsense about why he was there. He rested a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Rollin, the matter between my father and me will be settled today, without further argument. And right now I will take my son up to see his grandfather. Come, Beargold, let us leave the good captain and Lord Seaforth to sort things
out here.”
With that he simply turned his back on the guards and started walking towards the main building with Beargold, chatting as if they were perfectly at ease. Barklee walked a pace or two behind, beside Grig Cranald. Piper was sulking because Barklee wouldn’t let her walk by herself. Inside, Ryce was a mixture of nervous tension and sheer, blinding rage. How dare his father put him in this position in the first place! With a little luck, Rollin was already confronted by an irreversible situation: forty men inside the palace grounds, without anyone offering any physical resistance to their presence.
As they walked, every nerve was screaming at him either to hurry or to look around to see what was happening behind. He did neither. Just before he stepped into the palace building he looked up. There was an eagle circling above.
Saker, watching over Piper.
The king’s solar was always guarded, but after explaining to the two men on duty that they were there to deliver Prince Garred, they were ushered into the reception room.
While one of the sentries fetched the king’s chamberlain, Conrid Masterton, Ryce murmured in explanation to Grig, “That’s Prelate Masterton. Can’t make up his mind whether he’s a cleric or a king’s man. I wouldn’t mind at all if he wasn’t alive at the end of this day.” He turned to the remaining guard, asking, “Where’s the king?”
“I don’t know, Your Highness.”
Ryce looked at Grig and Barklee. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
He opened the door to the audience room and marched inside. The others followed, with the guard attempting – respectfully – to insist they wait for the chamberlain, but quite unable to decide just how to achieve that when they all ignored him. Ryce almost laughed at the man’s predicament.
The room was empty so he just continued on into the king’s private apartments through the door on the other side. In the king’s sitting room, a footman was winding up the ornate clock on the glassware cabinet. His eyes widened when he recognised the prince.
“Where’s the king?” Ryce rapped out the question in a tone that brooked no evasions.
“Y-your Highness. Ah – dining room?”
Ryce strode on and flung open the dining room door. King Edwayn was seated at the table with a spread of dishes in front of him. He did not appear to have eaten much. He was huddled into his chair, more frail and ill than when Ryce had seen him last. He could almost feel a twinge of pity. Almost.
The guard who had gone looking for Masterton was just inside the door. Masterton was standing at the king’s side, speaking urgently into his ear. He straightened and fixed a smile on his face when he saw Ryce and his party.
Ryce ignored him and turned to the guard. “Out,” he snapped.
The guard did not need telling a second time.
“That includes you, Masterton.”
“Your Highness, the king is not well. He needs—”
“Whatever he needs, it is not you. Now get out, or my man here –” he indicated Grig “– will skewer you for me.”
Masterton looked at the king.
Edwayn glared at his son. “I’ve no secrets from Conrid,” he said in a thin waver. His one good eye dripped liquid down his cheek.
“Then you most certainly should have!”
Masterton intervened, saying smoothly, “And you should have more manners. Anyway, who are these two… persons… with you, that you should want them to be privy to a conversation with your monarch?” He frowned at Barklee, with Piper in his arms, and Grig, who had been following hard on his heels.
“They are my son’s physician and his bodyguard. However, now that you have seen that I have brought Prince Garred to you, perhaps we can dispense with their presence.” He waved a hand to indicate that Barklee and Grig should leave the room. Both moved to comply. “I suppose if you really wish to stay, Masterton, I am not averse. You won’t like what you hear, though.” He laid a hand on his swordhilt in a more bellicose invitation to leave.
Grig indicated the open door they had used to enter the room and raised an eyebrow at Masterton, who took the hint and hurried after Barklee. Piper chose that moment to struggle in the surgeon’s arms, dislodging her hat.
“Down! Me want down!”
Masterton grabbed hold of Barklee, wrenching him to a halt. “This isn’t Prince Garred!” He stared at the child. “What piece of chicanery is this? Who’s this brat that you want to fob on to the kingdom?”
Ryce nodded to Grig, the merest of movements. Grig didn’t need a second invitation. His sword whispered out of its sheath. There was no room to manoeuvre in the doorway, so he sliced the edge of the blade across the side of Masterton’s neck. It wasn’t the best of strokes, but there was enough power behind it to send the man sprawling to the floor, blood spurting in a shower. Traumatised, Piper started screaming. Another thrust from Grig and Prelate Conrid Masterton was dead.
Piper shrilled even louder. Ryce grabbed Barklee and pointed at a door across the dining room. “Servants’ passage,” he said, and Barklee fled towards it with the child, clutching her tight and burying her face into his chest so she couldn’t see the horror behind them. The king, trying to lever himself up from the dining chair, shouted at him as he ran past, but he took no notice.
Grig moved the other way, back into the sitting room.
The two guards leaped at him, drawing their swords as they came. Grig pushed a chair in the way and when the first man stumbled over it, Ryce deftly flipped that man’s sword out of his grip. Confident that Grig would manage the other guard, he was about to turn back to deal with his father when another seven or eight guards burst into the sitting room.
Ryce opened his mouth to call Grig back into the dining room when there was a flash, a retort and a puff of smoke. One of the newcomers had fired a pistol. For a moment Ryce thought the ball had missed, then he saw: a ragged hole in Grig’s shirt, blood blossoming over his chest.
Grig looked down at himself, in disbelief. He fell slowly, his sword dropping first, his body languidly slumping as his knees folded and he bent over at the waist. Ryce knew a dead man when he saw one. He leaped back into the dining room and slammed the door shut behind him. About to grab a chair to shove under the handle, he noticed bolts had been put on the door. He shot them across, top and bottom, guessing they were a result of Juster’s incursion into the palace with Sorrel.
He turned to face his father.
The king cowered back in his seat at the table. His face was ashen.
They stared at each other in silence. His first thought was that there wasn’t much left of the man. His back was humped and his flesh loosely draped over a bony frame; his eyes were faded things without a spark of vitality.
“If that wasn’t your son, why are you here?” Edwayn asked at last.
Sheathing his sword, he crossed to face his father from the other side of the table, knuckling the polished board as he thrust himself forward in confrontation. “Prince Garred was taken by Valerian Fox with his mother. That sorcerous Prime of yours never had any intention of returning my son to you or anyone else. He has foully murdered Bealina! Murdered the mother of my son! What you have done is unforgivable.”
The king’s expression didn’t change, although he seemed to shrink still more. He was just a sick old man, with nothing to offer anyone. “I’m your liege lord,” he said, the words a quavering mockery of what he had once been.
Ryce felt nothing. The father of his childhood was a tarnished memory, and this once-king had brought the land to its knees. Perhaps he’d never had a choice after he’d brought Valerian Fox into his household. Perhaps Fox had coerced him right from the beginning, or perhaps he hadn’t needed to, but none of that mattered now, and Ryce could not bring himself to care.
He pulled the wheel-lock pistol from his belt, where it had been hidden by the fullness of the skirt of his frock coat. It was primed and loaded. All he had to do was cock it and fire.
Edwayn mumbled, “I never thought you had it in you.”
; “You were wrong.”
He shot his father through the heart.
An hour after Edwayn’s death, Saker’s mind tumbled back into his body. He was sweating and his hands were clenched. Far above, he could still feel the eagle, crying its triumph at having rid itself of its human burden.
Not so easy to escape, is it? You poor thing.
He moved his head to the side carefully, as his dizziness and disorientation dissipated.
Juster was sitting beside him. “You’re back?”
He began to nod, changed his mind and sat up. Wordless.
“What happened?” Juster asked.
“It’s over. They won. The king is dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I flew down to the palace grounds after it was all over. Barklee spoke to me. Well, to the bird. Ryce shot Edwayn and killed Masterton. All the courtiers are now polishing Ryce’s boots. Most of the guards are delighted, and those who weren’t are either dead or keeping their noses clean.”
“Yet you’re upset. What went wrong? Is it Piper?” He gripped Saker’s arms as if to shake him.
“She was in the middle of it, but she’s not hurt.”
“Then it’s Grig.”
“Yes.”
It took him several attempts to say it. In the end, he blurted, “Oh, blister it, I’m sorry, Juster. They shot him at close range. Ryce said he was dead before he hit the floor.”
Juster sat motionless, staring at him. Then he shook his head, trying to deny the truth.
Saker opened his mouth to express sorrow, condolence, but Juster held up his hand to halt any further words. “There will never be anything you could say that would help. Don’t try.”
Grig Cranald wasn’t the only death. Several of Prince Ryce’s men who had gone to open the postern gate died in a skirmish there. Taken overall, though, it was a surprisingly bloodless victory. Fox had never ensorcelled the guards; there had been no reason to do so, and Saker assumed it would have sapped too much of his strength. As they were loyal to the king, all Fox had to do was to keep Edwayn under his thumb, and everyone else followed.