by Sever Bronny
“Cold one out there,” Cobb said, holding up a horsehair brush. “May I?”
Bridget held out her hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but we can do that ourselves.”
“Oh no, Your Highnesses must never attend to such petty needs. It is beneath your titles as royalty and beneath your heroic status. I am sorry, Princess Bridget, but I must insist.” He set to gingerly sweeping the snow off her robe.
“Then where’s Charles?” Augum asked.
“The first footman is attending to supper.”
“Is this your way of insisting we hire more servants, Lieutenant?” Leera asked as he swept her shoulders. She grimaced like a cat having an unwanted bath.
“I do feel it quite necessary, Your Highnesses. It is undignified, especially when guests arrive. But please forgive my griping. I do hope Your Highnesses have built up an appetite.”
“We’re famished, Lieutenant,” Augum said, hating himself for faking cheerfulness. “Any news?”
“The steward would like to discuss financial matters at your earliest convenience.”
Of course he would, Augum thought morosely.
“And there is a … village concern, Your Highness.”
When isn’t there, Augum wanted to say. “Another land dispute?” he said instead.
“I’m afraid not, Your Highness. It has to do with Disciple Gritchards.”
“The Path Disciple,” Augum said, exchanging a look with the girls.
“Yes, quite right.” Cobb placed the brush on a nearby ledge. “It seems he has taken it upon himself to mete out punishments all of a sudden. Said something about The Path becoming the root faith of Solia, which, of course, is ridiculous. No way would the high council allow such a monstrosity. Our humble commoner way of quietly worshipping the Unnameables replaced by a loud and downright superstitious—” He swallowed and bowed. “Gods be good, forgive me, Your Highnesses, it is not my place to say such things. I am but a humble soldier in your service who has not learned his place.”
“It’s quite all right, Lieutenant,” Bridget said in compassionate tones. “Can you tell us what exactly Disciple Gritchards has done?”
The warrior wrung his hands as if he were a snitching schoolchild. “Disciple Gritchards already had an unfortunate young girl publicly whipped for daring to call on a boy unattended.”
Augum simultaneously felt a flash of anger and a flush of shame. The disciple was out of line. It was the job of the parents to oversee such things. How dare he! The shame, on the other hand, came from his failings, for he himself would be whipped on the morrow.
“That’s not the worst of it, I fear, Your Highnesses. He has churned up a bit of a fervor in town among the commoners he has converted. He means to hang a woman for practicing arcanery, which he equates to worshipping the devil.”
The trio had the same reaction. “What?”
“Yes, I am afraid he needs to be dealt with immediately. He means to hang her tonight.”
“You’re the Lieutenant of the Watch!” Augum said. “Could you not put a stop to it?”
“Like I said, Your Highness, he’s built up a bit of a fervor with all the newer laborer arrivals that came to us after the war. They’re scaring the rest of the villagers with their talk of demon-worshipping this and demon-worshipping that and going on about how your former father was the lord of demons himself.”
“Well, at least they’re right about that,” Augum muttered.
“They’re mostly ignorant lowborn Ordinaries from the fields and small villages.”
Augum had grown up in one such village and knew exactly what the man was talking about. Yet another thing he had been turning a blind eye to. Gods, he should have known better than to let things fester like this. Gritchards had been making trouble for months, but he had never gone this far.
“Besides, Your Highness, there are only a few of us guards. It would strain my authority. He’s … he’s a Path Disciple, after all. He has influence. And people would think it bad luck for us all if we did anything they considered … untoward.”
Augum nodded. “So news has spread then, has it?”
“You mean about Canterra, Your Highness? I’m afraid it has.”
Augum looked up. It was time he took responsibility for his failings. “Ring the village bell and call an immediate assembly,” he said. “I’ll address it at once.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Cobb hurriedly dressed in his winter coat and ran out the door.
“What are you going to do?” Leera asked.
“Stop him, that’s what.”
* * *
Augum, wearing a thick wolfskin overcoat, looked out at the gathered villagers. He stood alone on the village square stage, determined to tackle this problem himself as Castellan of Castle Arinthian, without his bailiff or steward beside him and without resorting to having guards standing behind him as intimidation. He was not his former father and never would be. He would not rule with an iron fist. Bridget and Leera stood among the crowd, their trust that he could handle this bolstering his resolve.
Tall wrought iron torches flanked the stage, the flames flickering wildly in the frosty winter wind. A thick layer of snow perched on the steeply inclined roofs that lined the square. Rickety shop signs swung on chains: Hubert’s Hay, Feed & Flour, Panjita the Scribe, The Good Medicine Shop, The Swinging Lantern Inn & Tavern, and others. And beyond were the frozen farmlands. In summer, teams of oxen plowed fields of wheat, corn and barley. Farmers grew vegetables and minded cattle and horses and pigs. It was amazing how much the village had grown in the short time since the end of the war.
Augum tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. The last time he had stood on this stage alone had been during his manhood ceremony.
“Good people of Arinthia!” he called out, mustering his courage.
“Your Highness,” the crowd mumbled in return, along with a smattering of “m’lord.”
“Thank you for gathering together on such short notice. I know you are cold and eager to attend supper, so I shall be quick. I have only one thing to say, but it’s something very important.” Augum glanced across the crowd and gave a slight nod to Bridget and Leera. “There will be no whippings. There will be no hangings. And there will be no discrimination against warlocks or women or ‘undesirables’ or anyone. Not in this village.”
A rustle swept through the crowd.
“We have a constabulary run by the watch. That is where you shall continue to take your grievances. And if the matter is serious, then, as always, the constabulary will consult with me. Arcanery is not your enemy. We warlocks are your defenders, nothing more. That is why those of you who live here have come to this village, is it not? Because we could defend you after the chaos of the war?”
“Because you done pay better!” someone shouted and the crowd chuckled.
“Right bribery, it is,” someone else said.
…
Augum raised his palms and quelled the crowd. “Do not fear us. We are not demon worshippers any more than scribes are. There was a time in history when the ability to read and write was deemed dark magic. Do not let your superstitions overcome your good sense.” Nods of assent. “Thank you and good evening to you all—”
“And what about holy justice, m’lord?” a clear voice called out from the crowd. “What about the will of the gods?”
People muttered aloud.
Augum squinted, but in the faint torchlight, he could only make out a burly silhouette lurking at the back. He had expected something like this.
“Disciple Gritchards,” Augum said. “Is it the will of the gods … or is it yours?”
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
“Warlocks are necromancers!” Gritchards shouted. “Wolves in sheep’s clothing!” Nodding silhouettes bobbed around the man. “You’re the reason half the kingdom’s been wiped out, you is. The lot of you. And you worship the devil and use his power!”
Augum opened his hands to the audience and kept his
voice even. “Necromancy is forbidden in the warlock craft. Arcanery itself is nothing more than a tool, Disciple Gritchards. It is no more to blame than your shovel would be should you murder someone with it. Evil is a hazard in every profession. Do not use a handful of bad apples to damn the entire craft.”
“ ‘The craft,’ ” Gritchards mocked. “Witchcraft, more like. The lot of you will be swinging by a rope when the Canterrans make this kingdom right with the Unnameables.”
His words sent an uproar through the village. A fight broke out between a few men in the back. The word “traitor” was thrown around. The guards looked to Cobb for direction, who in turn looked to Augum.
Augum, tired and hungry, didn’t feel like escalating the situation. He raised a hand and waited for the crowd to settle. “Disciple Gritchards. Such talk is unwelcome here. If you continue, you will force me to cast you out. Arcanery will continue to be welcome here.”
The majority of the crowd nodded along in agreement. Only those in the back shook their heads. As for Gritchards, he said nothing.
“You will not lay a hand on anyone,” Augum said. “You will be peaceful and mindful citizens. And again, may I remind everyone that the constabulary is here to serve you. Now I bid you all a good night.”
“Good night, m’lord,” the crowd said and dispersed.
Augum stepped off the stage, suspecting he hadn’t heard the last from Gritchards. But before Bridget or Leera could speak to him, he snapped, “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
Back Inside the Castle
“Well handled, Your Highness,” Cobb said, taking Augum’s overcoat. He had walked the trio back to the vestibule to man his post. “You have given the watchmen a dose of badly needed courage.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. And please have the watch look into the matter of the woman Gritchards intended to hang.”
“The matter is already being taken care of. And we’ll most certainly be keeping an eye on Disciple Gritchards.” Cobb cleared his throat gently as he took the girls’ coats. “Regretfully, there are only half a dozen of us, and the village has grown quite a bit over the last year.”
“Hiring new guards is long overdue, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Augum would simply have to find a way to raise more money.
“It is, Your Highness, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Well, well, look at you,” Bridget said as they made their way into the foyer.
It took Augum a moment to notice both girls were beaming at him. “What?”
Bridget gave a slight shake of her head. “Nothing.”
Augum stopped. “No, really, what?”
“It’s just … it’s good to see you finding your place, that’s all.”
“You’ve been avoiding making decisions,” Leera said.
“No, I haven’t—” But he did not finish. He knew they were right.
Something brushed up against his leg. Augum looked down to see the castle cat, Sir Pawsalot, winding his way through their legs and underneath their robes. He was a fat tabby who was mostly Leera’s cat, for he usually slept on her bed, sometimes curled around her head. He was, of course, fond of all three of them, but he also cuddled up to anyone he thought he could snag a little treat from and particularly enjoyed nibbles of fresh trout or chicken.
“Someone else is hungry, I see,” Leera said, scooping him up. “Did you have a good day chasing mousies?”
Sir Pawsalot meowed.
“That sounds better than my awful day.” She nuzzled him close. “You just keep well clear of them rats, you hear?’
“Awful is right,” Augum muttered. “What will everyone think once they hear I was whipped?”
“They’ll support you no matter what,” Bridget said. Though he could see that worry had returned to her brow, creasing it. She absently reached over to scratch Sir Pawsalot’s chin, which he tilted up happily, as he purred up a storm. Augum thought it too bad that Brandon lived in the city and didn’t have a teleportation ring that would have allowed him to visit her.
The trio made their way across the checkered marble floor and up the grand central staircase to the central landing, above which hung paintings of friends who had perished in the war. Written on a nearby commemorative plaque was the epitaph, The brave sacrifice of the many for the few.
Shields, lances and swords hung on the gray stone walls, weapons left over from the war. Woven tapestries kept the drafts down.
“Is everything all right, Your Highnesses?” nineteen-year-old Charles Poorman, First Footman, quietly asked as they entered the Royal Dining Hall and sat at the empty table. He was stubby with a boxy chin and close-set eyes. He wore plain black-and-white servant garb that was always well maintained, as was his center-parted hair.
“Could be better,” Augum replied as Charles placed a basin of water before him. He took his time washing his hands, enjoying the warm water.
Charles looked on silently. The young man acted much older than his age and always seemed to know when something was wrong, for he had the kind of instinct that came from a lifetime of servitude. He could read the subtlest expression with ease and possessed the tact to not always comment on it.
When Augum finished, Charles dried his hands for him, as was customary. It was one of many customs Augum had to tolerate to avoid looking barbaric before nobles. Sometimes, when there were no guests, he resisted such things, but today he was too numb to decline, for the confrontation with Gritchards had finished him.
“Your Highnesses,” said a mousy voice beside them. Annelise Clayborne, a fifteen-year-old pink-eyed and white-haired albino, carried another washbasin for the girls, both of whom sat with tired faces. She dotingly washed their hands, careful not to disturb Sir Pawsalot, curled up in Leera’s lap. When they weren’t looking, she snuck admiring peeks at them.
The trio sat in their usual places—beside the queen’s chair which, in their minds, would always belong to Mrs. Stone. It was finely carved with ivy and the trees of the Ravenwood. From that chair, she had doled out wisdom and duties and, once in a red moon, perhaps even a smile.
Far on the opposite side of the long table stood the king’s chair, almost always empty. Augum did not like sitting in it, for it signified kinghood and that was the last thing he wanted. Only when powerful nobles arrived did he accede to sit in it, as sitting elsewhere would place him in a weak and disadvantageous position.
“Is Mr. Haroun dining with his family tonight?” Augum asked, noticing there were only four places set.
“The steward is indeed dining with his family tonight, Your Highness,” Charles replied. “But he promised to come after supper to discuss business.” He quietly stirred the fire in one of the two giant marble fireplaces, the corners of which were carved with majestic lions. The lion was the sigil of the Arinthian house and was depicted all over the castle alongside an ornate letter A. They were carved into the table, the trim along the black oak doors, and the chairs, and they were even hidden in the arched stained glass windows behind them, which depicted a grand scene of Atrius Arinthian surrounded by light and an army of peasants, about to enter a battle against a dark force of undead led by the necromancer Occulus.
The trio most oft dined with Jez, though friends and other guests joined them now and then. Some of the friends they had made during the war who weren’t academy students lived in the village. A few held titles placing them at the service of the castle and were overseen by the steward and the bailiff, both of whom technically served Augum, though he was trying to minimize his role of late, trusting Steward Haroun to run things.
Augum, lost in anxious thought about the morrow, allowed his eyes to wander to the crest on his fine china plate, a crest the trio had designed together. It was a shield of burgundy, gold and blue and depicted a pair of lions flanking a sheaf of wheat, the projected cash crop of the castle, for profits weren’t expected until next year. Below were three pine trees representing Augum, Bridget and Leera’s friendship; servitude to the kingdom; and the Ravenwood,
for the pine was the traditional Solian emblem. Underneath, in scrolling writing, were the words, “Adversi alua probata.” Against all odds in the old tongue.
“Jez is late,” Augum remarked.
“Nine lashes,” Leera blurted, idly petting Sir Pawsalot as he purred away in her lap. She was staring at one of the roaring hearths.
Augum winced at the reminder. He glanced over at Charles and Annelise, who stood by the door, but they stared straight ahead as trained, waiting to be called upon.
Leera turned to him, her dark eyes full of concern and anxiety. “I still can’t believe they’d do that to you.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ve taken worse.” The scars on his back prickled as the echo of the many whippings he had endured in his youth bounced around in his mind. He could almost smell the putrid wine on the drunkard’s breath.
“It’s punishment for not backing a family,” Leera muttered. “Those conniving maggots have it in for you.”
Augum, to distract himself, gestured at the bread basket. It levitated off the table a finger’s width. He wondered if he should mention that he could apparently warp the space around him when he flexed his telekinetic strength. But then it’d only make him feel like he was gloating, and he certainly did not feel worthy of praise.
“I’m going to be whipped tomorrow morning, Charles,” he said offhandedly. They might as well hear it from him instead of the heralds.
Annelise brought a hand to her mouth while Charles’s brows rose up his rectangular forehead. He seemed to search for the right words.
“Your Highness, that is—”
“—unconscionable, is what it is!” Bridget snapped, slapping the table with an open palm and startling Sir Pawsalot. “I cannot believe it is even allowed. Mrs. Stone would never have permitted such a thing to occur at the academy. Ever.”
Charles dropped his eyes in thought. When he raised them, they were full of resolve. “No whipping will erase what His Highness has done for this kingdom.”