by Sever Bronny
Cry surrendered a nod.
“I plan on following the Arcaner Code of Chivalry, wherever it leads me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll play inquisitor or marshal and sniff at every single committed wrong. Still … I know it’s a risk.”
“You think?” Cry snapped sarcastically. “One of the reasons Arcaners died out is because of that part of their code. The nobles didn’t exactly appreciate it.” He shook his head. “You’re a complete fool.” He then made to walk off.
“Wait—”
Cry stopped, a tedious look on his face.
Augum opened his hand only to close it. “You were right. I, uh … I should have said something to Brandon about the pranks and stuff earlier. He would have listened to me.”
Cry’s brows rose. He studied Augum, looked away, and slinked off as if unsure how to process what Augum had just said.
“That was big of you,” Leera noted when Augum had returned to the girls. “Though he’s probably in cahoots with that Von Edgeworth anyway. Might even be prodding those assassins toward us.”
“He’s not a fiend, Lee,” Bridget said, watching Cry hover past Brandon, who stood talking with Katrina. When Brandon glanced over, Bridget quickly averted her gaze.
“But good idea to have Cry sniff around on our behalf,” Leera said. “Not that he’ll actually do it, but still.”
“Thought I’d give it a try,” Augum replied and turned to watch Bridget. She was biting her nail and staring at a nearby torch, seemingly mesmerized by the flame. “Okay, what’s the deal here?” he whispered so only Bridget and Leera could hear. “What are we missing?”
Bridget did not stop staring at the faint arcane fire. “Hmm?”
“With Brandon. What are we missing here?”
Bridget looked over at him, at Leera, and then back at him. “I can’t talk about it.”
“What? Why?” Leera asked. “We’ve been to hell and back together. We know way too much about each other as is. What’s the difference?”
Bridget gave her an imploring look. “I can’t. It’s … personal.”
Leera’s face changed. “Ooh. Man and woman stuff.”
Bridget’s cheeks flamed as she gave a reluctant nod.
Leera placed a hand on Augum’s chest and pushed him away. “All right, mister, buzz off. Lady chit-chat time.”
“I figured,” he muttered and walked over to Steward Haroun, Jez, Mr. Goss and Mr. Okeke to further discuss the most recent assassin attack, all while casually keeping an eye on Cry, as well as the girls. He only had a vague idea what Leera had meant by women and man stuff. But then, according to her, he was “comically naive” in such matters. Well, it wasn’t his fault he had grown up a gutterborn orphan with no tutelage in that regard. Still, sometimes he wondered if his naivety annoyed Leera. She said nothing, but he sensed she wanted more. He did too, but he just didn’t know what it was he wanted. Maybe it was marriage …
“Prince Augum?”
“Sorry?”
Steward Haroun was looking at him. “I said we need to have a private word.” He stepped away from the group and Augum followed.
“What about, Mr. Haroun?” Augum whispered.
“I have some bad news. The Black Bank denied the loan.”
“It … it did? Why?” Without the loan, they couldn’t pay the coming winter taxes, most of their tuition, and even castle wages.
“I was told it is too risky. I suspect it has something to do with the piece in the morning’s heralds.”
“I knew it,” Augum muttered, running a hand through his hair. Panic wormed its way through his chest, compounding his anxieties.
“We need to raise funds,” Haroun went on. “I implore you to raise taxes immediately.”
Augum fixed his gaze on Mr. Haroun. They were almost equal in height, for Augum had grown since they had met. “Steward Haroun, I would like you to organize a meeting between yourself, Mr. Goss, Mr. Okeke, Bailiff Roper, and Jez, and see if you can come up with a means of income without raising taxes on the villagers.”
Mr. Haroun expelled a patient breath. “As you wish, Your Highness.” Then he brought his hands together. “I am afraid that is not all the bad news. This morning’s piece in the heralds has resulted in commoners showing up at the castle. Most have ailments or know someone who is ill. They request that you three use the power of the scions to heal them. Some even … some even demand you give them eternal life. Others have been … less than kind with their words. It is affecting the village as well, slowing commerce. Thieves have arrived and—”
But he mercifully stopped, for Augum was pinching the bridge of his nose. This was spiraling out of control.
“Please double the watch, Mr. Haroun—”
“You have already done that, Your Highness.”
“Conscript new guards from the village under an emergency decree.”
“I gave the command to do just that prior to our departure. But they are mere farmers and laborers highly unsuited to the task.”
“Is the castle safe with the senior council here?”
“Ms. Terse says it should be fine. She layered some enchantments, but they will need renewing now and then. But even that is not your greatest concern. Disciple Gritchards has—”
“Gods, give me patience, not him again,” Augum muttered, but then realized he had rudely interrupted Mr. Haroun. “I’m sorry. Please, do go on, Mr. Haroun.”
“That phrase is one your esteemed great-grandmother used to use,” Mr. Haroun said in sentimental tones.
“I guess it is, isn’t it?” The thought brought back a happy memory of Mrs. Stone impatiently pursing her lips at him.
“I do believe she would be proud to see you taking such enormous responsibilities on your shoulders … and handling them with grace and dignity.”
Augum felt a hot flush of disagreement as he vividly recalled getting whipped within sight of her statue. She would likely be profoundly disappointed in him, especially since he was well on his way to losing the ancestral castle he had sworn to take care of until his dying day.
“Sorry, what were we talking about again, Mr. Haroun?”
“As I was saying, Disciple Gritchards has renewed his entreaties for The Path, proclaiming it the sacred duty of all citizens to kneel before the gods and accept their will, though it seems to me more Disciple Gritchards’s will than the will of the gods, but I digress. He spreads this word to new arrivals, of which there are more every hour. I fear the castle could easily turn into a site of … unwelcome pilgrimage.”
Augum slowly nodded his understanding. “I’ll deal with him as soon as I return, Mr. Haroun.” And he suspected it wouldn’t be as cordial an encounter as the last time. “Maybe Jengo can do something for the needy in the meantime.”
“That is wise. Show them arcanery is not the devil’s work by healing them. Very wise indeed.” He gave Augum a curt bow. “I shall keep you informed, Your Highness,” and returned to the others.
Augum joined a somber Bridget and Leera. They both stood silently in thought, as if what they had discussed was most grave indeed. But he did not ask about it, instead choosing to fill them in on what was happening back at the castle, feeling bad that he was adding to their worries.
Before long, Jez declared they should leave, and the entire party headed outside so Jez could teleport them to the Black Castle. They all kept careful watch over their shoulders on the trio’s behalf.
A Proposal
“Lord High Steward,” Augum said. “What brings me the honor of your presence?” He tried to say it honestly and without sarcasm, but only managed a flat tone. Even though he had seen the man only yesterday morning, it felt like a tenday ago what with everything that had been going on. The man had been waiting at the entrance to the Royal Hall and had descended upon Augum at his arrival.
The old weasel’s lips widened as he brought his fingertips together. “His Esteemed Worship Lord Southguard wishes to see you, Your Highness.”
“Would the gods n
ot consider it bad luck for me to see His Lordship before his coronation?” Augum jested.
“Surely His Highness Prince Augum, Hero of the Resistance and Vanquisher of the Lord of the Legion, is above such trivial superstitions …”
“He was obviously jesting,” Leera said and immediately received withering looks from Bridget and Jez, the latter throwing in a sharp elbow. “Err, Lord High Steward, sir.”
The Lord High Steward’s yellowing beady eyes measured Leera in a single practiced and dismissive movement. “Indeed, Princess Leera.”
Leera swallowed at the mocking tone, as if the man frightened her.
“Go on,” Bridget said to Augum, face tight. “We’ll meet you at the front.”
Augum squeezed Leera’s hand and followed the Lord High Steward. He had a bad feeling about seeing the bloated old Southguard, for the man came across as always having some machination in play. And what could be so important that he needed to talk right before his coronation?
Heads turned to stare as Augum passed, many glancing him up and down disapprovingly. He could see a certain ugly word hidden behind their painted lips. He felt like he had never stuck out more than in that moment, in his silly outdated hose, stiff tunic and crudely embroidered crest. Prince? Pshah! More like a pauper in a prince’s clothes.
He followed the Lord High Steward into an antechamber and then to a pair of ornate doors flanked by two guards. Both were dressed in the gold-fringed crimson robes of the King’s Royal Warlock Guard, otherwise known as the Black Eagles, so named after their famous crest that depicted a fierce black eagle with wings spread, claws ready to tear apart the enemy. Serving on the Black Eagles was incredibly prestigious, as some of the best warlocks in Solian history were counted among its exclusive ranks. The faction had been disbanded in the war and only reconvened recently.
The two Black Eagles—one man and one woman, both gray-haired—stared at Augum dispassionately. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like serving among them, in such a historic guard.
The Lord High Steward gave the ground between the guards a meaningful look. Taking the somewhat rude hint, Augum placed himself there. The man then opened one door and stepped through.
“Presenting His Highness Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian and Hero of the Resistance,” he declared in a voice tinged with amusement.
Augum strode into a room smelling of powders, perfume and flowers. It was filled with painted vases, gilded chairs, ornate tapestries, and what must have been fifty servants, ladies-in-waiting, and footmen attending to Lord Rupert Southguard and his perpetually scowling wife, Lady Ethel Southguard. Eric stood beside his cousin, Katrina, and both were having final touch-ups applied to their powdered faces. Katrina’s lips were a bright crimson that matched her gown. Eric was dressed in gold-fringed royal blue garb.
Others, who Augum assumed were close relations of Rupert as they had the same boar-like features, glanced over coldly. The entire assemblage of servants stole peeks at Augum. But a measure of respect remained in their glances, for Augum’s reputation as a battlefield warlock warrior and Vanquisher of the Lord of the Legion preceded him everywhere he went. Unfortunately, this was an altogether different battlefield, one of subtle gestures, propriety, articulation, and hidden meaning.
Augum inclined his head. “Lord Southguard. Lady Southguard. Eric. Katrina. And fair company of the soon-to-be king.” He cringed at the last part. He had obviously bungled the wording as amused looks were exchanged. Their refined etiquette made him feel like a barbarian in their presence.
Ethel Southguard’s purple-painted lips pressed together in distaste.
Uh-oh, had he made a further breach of protocol? He couldn’t recall if he was supposed to have bowed when presented.
Lady Southguard was wafer thin, with heavily powdered skin, and looked like she might disappear into her enormous and ornate milk-white gown. She had to be at least sixty years old, and her small beak nose and falsely colored apricot hair gave her the appearance of a preening cockatoo. Augum had heard a rumor that she knew a little arcanery but had hit her ceiling at the 1st degree. Apparently, any servant who dared mention it was whipped for spreading lies.
Lord Rupert Southguard, on the other hand, was quietly proud of his 6th degree. Like his son, he was an ice element warlock, though he rarely used his arcanery in public, except for when he went hunting. He was fond of freezing deer with well-timed ice blasts before piercing their necks with a crossbow bolt. He looked like a fat wild boar, for he had small cunning eyes, a long snout of a nose, and a double chin that sported a precisely groomed beard that, like his wispy comb-over, was dyed black.
“Prince Augum,” Lord Rupert began in his glacial voice, flicking two fingers at the attendant fussing over his hair. The attendant obeyed with the stiffest of bows, followed by a precise two-step retreat, ivory comb raised before him like a sword.
“Prince Augum,” old Rupert repeated in the kind of tone a commander used when dealing with a feisty soldier’s chronic recalcitrance. His beady eyes twitched to his son, and Eric stiffened. “I have heard a detailed report about how you soundly humiliated my son in this afternoon’s mock battle.”
“It was a worthy melee, my lord.”
“A defeat is a defeat.” The words were a quiet but deadly hiss. “And the report says it was only by sheer luck that my son lasted as long as he did.”
Augum did not know how to reply. Old Southguard seemed bent on humiliating his son. Something told him Eric had gotten an angry earful for daring to besmirch the day’s glory with something as base as a defeat on the field of battle. As much as Augum found Eric to be a cold and heartless soul, he did not want to contribute to such games and thus held his tongue.
Eric stood stiff as a board, eyes staring at a point above Augum’s head.
Rupert took his time taking in Augum’s hastily sewn garments, his unimpressive crest, off-season hose, and cheap turnshoes.
“A pity …” the soon-to-be king said.
“My lord?”
“You could have been sitting here instead. Though I dare say the kingdom would have been worse off for it.”
Augum stayed silent, wise enough to not take the bait.
“I have a few things to discuss with you, Lord Stone. The first is this morning’s piece in the heralds.”
Lady Southguard’s loose-skinned wattle neck trembled in a scandalized fashion.
“It seems that you, Princess Bridget and Princess Leera are in fact in possession of the scions.”
“That is the allegation, Lord Southguard.”
A distinct, chilly quiet passed. It was remarkable to Augum that everyone in the room was under old Southguard’s thumb, for they did not move so much as a finger or dare utter a sound out of turn.
“And you deny this allegation.”
“Vehemently, Lord Southguard.”
“Vehemently, is it?” Rupert said with a venomous chuckle. “Vehemently. My, my, what a clumsily cultured, albeit vulgar choice of diction.”
It took all of Augum’s self-control not to respond. The words Don’t you dare make things worse, you fool echoed through his brain.
Rupert half turned his head to his son, though his eyes never left Augum. “Ah, but you see, Eric, there is indeed a certain …” He wiggled a fat finger as he searched for the right word. “A certain measure of self-control. I sincerely hope you are taking notes, dear boy. Perhaps it would be in your best interest to ask Prince Augum how he so soundly thrashed you on the field of battle.”
When Eric did not immediately respond, Rupert turned his head to stare expectantly at his son.
Eric’s breathing increased as he continued staring at a spot above Augum. “Prince Augum,” he blurted in forced tones that struggled mightily to control a cringe-inducing waver. “Might I inquire how you so soundly beat me on the field of mock battle today.”
Augum caught the note of defiance in the word mock, telling Augum it was entirely possible Er
ic loathed his father. It was something he had not expected.
But before Augum could utter a word, Rupert barreled on in his quiet voice that somehow filled the room. “I have it in good mind to have my niece command my armies. She is made of steel, whereas you are as soft as soap, my boy.”
Katrina, looking remarkably poised, did not even bat a curled eyelash.
Rupert slowly drew a circle with his finger on the arm of the gilded chair. “Prince Augum. Please share a note of wisdom with my rather inept disappointment of a son. What could he have done better on that field, a field on which his own father has proven himself to be a most exemplary commander?”
Augum frowned. “I’m … I’m not sure I could say.”
“Come, come, do not demure. He is a big boy and can handle the truth.”
Eric’s cheeks had colored, but the rest of him was as pale as a sheet, and his shoulders were iron straight.
Augum barely felt his fingers digging into his palms. He had little love for Eric, but this kind of humiliation went against every single fiber of his being. And it went against the Arcaner code.
“Eric was a worthy adversary, my lord,” Augum said. “Perhaps … perhaps if his lordship saw fit to generously impart the knowledge he learned in the field of battle, Eric’s chances of beating me in a future match would drastically increase.” Augum had said it gently and kindly, intending it to ally father and son, but it was evident in the reactions that he had overstepped his bounds.
Eric gave him a look he could not comprehend. It was either sadness, pity, surprise, or a combination thereof. But Rupert, instead of showing offense, spread his stubby legs in a relaxed fashion, appearing to enjoy prolonging the sharp silence.
“So, you deny the allegation,” Rupert said, deftly going back to their previous discussion.
Augum took a moment to choose his words as he recovered from the sudden pivot. “The scions were destroyed in the vanquishing of the Lord of the Legion, Lord Southguard. I swear it true on my ancestry, on my mother, and on those I love.”