by Sever Bronny
Augum turned the other way to a still Bridget, leaned into her ear, and whispered the same thing. She settled her gaze on him, mouth slightly agape. He gave her the same slow nod he had given Leera.
The trio sat in silence, the sting of the humiliation having mostly passed for Augum, eclipsed by the stark realization that a Von Edgeworth had been nearby this whole time. And that realization brought into sharp relief what really mattered to him: the girls, his friends, the castle and its denizens. He had to fight for that castle, and he had to win. A Von Edgeworth wanted revenge for what his great-grandmother had done to the family name. A cunning, manipulative Von Edgeworth hiding her true self like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Then she really is doing it strategically,” Bridget blurted. “Taking him away from me.”
Augum nodded. Yes, indeed she was.
Bridget’s hazel eyes narrowed. “She won’t get away with it.”
Events went on around them while they barely touched their meals, despite it being the grandest food the kingdom had to offer. Pastries filled with beef marrow. Plum-roasted duck. Singed and spiced pigeon. Freshwater fish with sprigs of rosemary and squeezes of fresh lemon. Leek broth with bacon. Honeyed strawberries sitting in a bowl of melted spiced chocolate. Solian pine tea. And the entertainment never ceased. Singers sang, dancers danced, jesters jested. Augum floated through it all, lost in tactical thought, eating little and tasting nothing. Even Leera, famous for her sweet tooth, did not surrender a smile upon seeing the many pastries, creams and sugared delectables of the dessert course.
When it came to the presentation of the royal sword, as was customary before the grand course—for tradition demanded that a king be well equipped for the final feast—a fight erupted between the nobles as to who would present the ancient blade. One old codger bared his fangs at his rival, declaring he would kill the man on the spot with that very sword if he did not back down. King Rupert found this all quite amusing, meaning everyone else found it absolutely hilarious. Everyone, that was, except for the trio. They sat rock still, unable to leave until after the final feast had been eaten and the king had given the traditional dismissal with the ceremonial throwing of the kingdom’s sword into the center of the room, indicating he had vanquished the meal.
“What, titles now mean nothing to you lot?” the king boomed as he watched a pair of nobles go at a loaf of bread like hyenas, a loaf one of them was supposed to present to the king. He nonetheless raised his golden chalice. “I very much so do appreciate the fervor, gentle men of roaring hearts!”
“Hear, hear!” a throng of drunken men shouted, raising their chalices, goblets and tankards.
“We serve at your behest!” one called.
“And make amends for our gluttony—”
“And our frivolity—”
“Make amends!” old Rupert said. “Make amends. I do believe many of you do indeed need to make amends, do you not?”
The chalices, goblets and tankards wavered in the air as people glanced around uncertainly, for a dark tone had entered the king’s voice. Eyes inevitably drifted to Augum, whose back stiffened and hands clenched under the table. He knew what Rupert meant. It was time for the Forgiving Ceremony. And it was his last chance to make amends in the old way. But where was Jez?
One by one, men and women navigated around the tables to stand before the king, declaring they had done a wrong they wished to be pardoned for. It went all the way from adultery to petty theft to cursing the king’s lineage while drunk. The entire affair was meant to symbolize that every noble who had done him or the kingdom wrong intended to turn a new page. It was a show of bending their social knee.
And still Jez and the others had not returned.
“I better, uh, line in the, um, line up,” Augum murmured to the girls. He was having a hard time forming coherent sentences because he was trying to compose what he would say to the king. But he had no idea of the formalities involved in repairing a Black Slight.
Just as he got up, Leera grabbed his arm and nodded at a distant entrance. “Look.”
Augum glanced over to see a huffing Jez stride into the hall, followed by a determined Mr. Haroun, Mr. Okeke, and Mr. Goss. Mr. Haroun held two old books under his arm. Augum waited for them, though time was running out as the line steadily moved along.
Upon arriving, Mr. Haroun launched into what they had discovered.
“We found two precedents,” he began, face red from exertion. It was obvious they had run over from the library. “The first details how a Black Slight was righted by an immediate tenfold repayment of the worth of the slight, which amounted to approximately twenty thousand gold.”
“We … we don’t have anywhere near that kind of money,” Augum whispered.
Haroun raised a hand. “The second calls for a duel of honor to the death against anyone of the king’s choosing.”
Augum stared at him. Of course that was the second one. A duel of honor. How predictable.
“Then the choice is clear,” he said.
“Wait.” Mr. Haroun flipped through the pages of a book as the others huddled in close, helping him navigate what appeared to be a dense law journal.
“There,” Jez said, intervening with her finger on a page.
“No, that’s not it,” Mr. Goss said. “Keep going.”
“Next chapter,” Mr. Okeke added. “There!”
“Yes, here,” Mr. Haroun said, turning the book around. “The wording. You must speak it precisely as written for the king to acknowledge it.” He tapped at a small dense paragraph. But there was no way Augum was going to be able to read that from memory.
“Perfect, this will do,” he said, ripping the page right out of the book. “I’ll repair it,” he quickly added after seeing Mr. Haroun’s face. Ah, the wonders of arcanery …
“You better hurry,” Jez said.
Augum folded the page so only the paragraph was visible and then held it up to them triumphantly. “Thank you all,” he said and rushed to the center of the tables. Only one person remained by that point.
“… I so do accept thy amends,” the king boomed, raising his chalice. The person then left. The other nobles stirred and whispered as Augum took the noble’s place before the king.
“His Highness Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian and Hero of the Resistance,” a harker declared. Necks craned as the clatter of silverware ceased.
King Rupert smiled slyly. “Great Vassal, you wish to make amends for a Black Slight.”
Augum consulted his torn note. “I do, Your Royal Highness. With accordance and respect to the clauses and precedents set in the codices of the royal court, and in the tradition of royal decrees regarding the Black Slight, I beseech thee to give this humble servant a chance at making amends against his royal personage by requesting …” Augum paused as the nape of his neck went ice cold. He could not believe he was asking for this. “By requesting a duel of honor against a warlock of equal bearing, as chosen by His Highness—” Augum had to concentrate to remember the correct title wording, for it was crucial. “His Highness King Rupert Edron Scovinius Southguard, the First of His Name, Defender of the Realm.” A miracle he got it right, all things considered.
He unsheathed Burden’s Edge and placed it before him once more. “I await the verdict of His Royal Highness.”
King Rupert stood. Chairs scuffed against the old planks as everyone else joined him in standing.
“Let us forestall such a calamity. You bear the title Hero of the Resistance, a weighty title in the eyes of the common folk. But that title does not, it seems, give you power over your women.”
The throng chuckled, though only the men laughed along. Augum’s insides buzzed with nerves. Where was the old boar going with this?
The answer came as the king turned toward where Augum had been sitting. “Princess Bridget.”
Bridget curtsied. “Your Highness.”
“I find myself in a forgiving mood, Princess Bridget. The power to a
bsolve the Black Slight shall rest in your hands, dependent on your answer to a question dear to my heart.” He set his shoulders as Bridget stiffened and Augum felt a cold wave wash over his soul. “Hero of the Resistance, Distinguished Princess of the Realm … will you honor this king on his coronation day and accept my only son and heir’s hand in marriage?”
The old Arcaner Hall went so quiet all Augum could hear was the rapid thwomp of his heart.
“Nay, Your Highness,” Bridget replied boldly but in a voice that wavered slightly with fear.
The hall gurgled with scandalized whispers.
“Then I decree thus.” Rupert turned back to Augum. “Although they may keep their informal Hero of the Resistance titles, I hereby rescind the trio’s royal titles, as well as any purses that come with said titles.”
The hall erupted with gasps and murmurs of assent. “Hear, hear!” said many, and some even raised their cups in a toast. Bridget and Leera grabbed each other’s shoulders as if to steady each other, while Augum went numb.
The king held up two fingers, silencing the hall. “They may keep their lands and belongings and freedoms … for now.”
More murmurs and stirrings from the crowd.
“As to the Black Slight,” King Rupert went on, chin rising. “I will see you, Augum Stone, attempt to reclaim your honor … by dueling to the death a warlock of my choosing in the historic Black Arena.”
Gasps abounded.
“King Uncle Rupert—!” a clear voice called out. “I beg of thee to allow me to be the challenger!”
Augum did not have to turn his head to know who had spoken.
Cold Starlight
Sometime later, Augum and the rest of his group appeared with a thwomp at the rear of Castle Arinthian. The snow fell heavily around them in a quiet night without the faintest wisp of wind. The village twinkled with torchlight, and silhouettes of people could be seen walking in the distance.
Augum’s head spun from what had happened. After a quiet discussion with the high council, the king had approved Katrina’s entreaty to stand in his honor against Augum, and the duel would take place in two days’ time, on the morning of the first school day of the coming quint. The king had then given Augum a look that said, You can have your honor back, but if you value your castle and those you love, you will lose this challenge to my niece. And by losing the challenge, Augum would be forfeiting his life.
Augum had drifted through the proceedings that had followed like a ghost. The chatter from the nobles and high council upon the king’s acceptance of the duel. The gleeful looks thrown his way. His friends’ quiet but worried support. Bridget repairing the page he had torn out of the law book with shaking hands. Leera staring off at nothing in particular, brow creased with anxiety. The king throwing his sword into the center clearing, making a great clatter and generating deafening applause. A speech about how the way of The Path was the true path of Solia.
Throughout it all, Augum had been particularly aware of one thing: Katrina’s burning eyes. She had removed her spectacles and had not broken eye contact with him. Augum had defiantly stared back. He vividly remembered the corner of her mouth twisting upward, telling him, I will avenge my father, Augum. I will take everything from you. The Von Edgeworth name will be avenged.
It was him or Katrina. One of them would die facing the other. And if Augum prevailed, it would make him the killer of the king’s niece. Worse, Augum had no compulsion to defeat her. He did not feel the animosity he was supposed to feel against an enemy. Instead, he understood her motive—simple revenge of honor. He did not like her for it, but he did not loathe her either. And he so wanted to loathe her for these things, he truly did, but he just could not muster the potent hatred required for a mortal enemy. He did, however, have the strength of character to recognize he might have to form that hatred to beat her. If there was one thing he had learned in the war, it was to never underestimate a driven opponent. And Katrina Southguard Von Edgeworth was as driven as they came.
Emotionally and physically exhausted from the day, Augum faced the growing crowd outside the front of Castle Arinthian as a shadow of his former self, barely able to give coherent responses to the angry commoners Disciple Gritchards had whipped into a frenzy. It got so bad Jez had to step in and tell them to disperse, that the existence of the scions was a lie, and that Augum needed to get some sleep.
He wasn’t any more together during the memorial ceremony for Lieutenant Cobb either, though luckily, he had little to say. The entire village gathered to watch the blue flames of the memorial fire. Disciple Gritchards gave a passionate and throaty prayer on behalf of the Unnameables. And then a bagpipe chant shepherded the soul of Lieutenant Cobb to the Great Beyond. Augum once more placed his blade before the grieving Mrs. Cobb—this time in public—and felt her hand touch his scalp in forgiveness. He witnessed Samuel standing alone by the flames, eyes unfocused, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stood beside them as the ancient ceremony took place and allowed the sorrow to wash over him like a balm. He saw the man within the arcane flames and gave a final goodbye after thanking him for his service to the village, his friends, the castle, and the Arinthian line.
After the ceremony, attention returned to him. Even there, amongst his most ardent supporters, Augum felt uneasy. He watched as word spread about the scions, about the Black Slight, and about the loss of their titles. Loyal supporters and believers refused to see the trio as anything but heroes. As to the scions, Mr. Haroun did a good job of patiently repeating that, much like in the war when the heralds had routinely mischaracterized the trio, it was a false accusation.
Nonetheless, doubt crawled through Augum’s brain like a feasting maggot. Had he done all he could at the coronation? Could he have been more careful, more cognizant of what was going on? The whole thing felt like a swarm of intrigues which, like the old proverb said, followed kings like flies followed lions. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so sleep deprived, or had he had more time to think things through …
It all felt like his fault. All of it. From Cobb’s death, to the assassins, to the castle being under threat, to the loss of face the trio had suffered, to the trouble between Brandon and Bridget, to the piece in the heralds about the scions, to the revoking of their royal titles. The weight of it dug into his shoulders like a mountain of thorns, and he felt profoundly ill-equipped to deal with it. He thought it funny that he could face a duel to the death or defend himself and his friends against a horde of undead, yet his stomach churned over how he had no reply to these intrigues and accusations, to things that felt solvable in some sense, but solvable in the same way as when a word was on the tip of his tongue, just beyond the grasp of his mind.
After the memorial ceremony, the trio and their closest advisors returned to the castle and urgently strategized on what to do about the scion rumors, Gritchards, their loss of incomes from the revocation of their royal titles, and the duel.
But Augum’s thoughts had long turned against him, evolving into a torrent of vicious self-doubt that made him queasy. He could process nothing and eat nothing—the very idea of food almost made him throw up—and he had to excuse himself from the meeting.
It all culminated on his way to his room when the realization that he could lose everything without putting up any kind of a real fight climaxed into a fevered pitch of self-recrimination, guilt and exhaustion, and he blacked out there and then on the steps.
* * *
Bridget stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth stretched grotesquely in a soundless scream as a faceless shadow dragged her into oblivion. A voiceless Augum scrambled to find Leera, but she had already been taken.
He was left in eternal darkness.
In blistering cold.
In silence.
Alone.
* * *
Augum startled awake in the dead of night, panting shallow breaths, forehead beaded with sweat, conscious of the realness of everything.
Gods, it had only been a nightmare. A cold, drea
dful terror of a nightmare. He was in his bed, warm and safe. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there and was embarrassed to realize he must have passed out. Someone had dressed him in his night shirt too. How awkward.
He willed his breathing to slow and his thoughts to settle. Only then did he become aware of a quiet snoozing beside him and a hand draped across his chest.
“Shyneo,” he whispered, and his hand flared with lightning which he kept dim, the crackle quiet like a low hearth fire. The light pulsed subtly with the beat of his heart.
Lying beside him was Leera, nuzzled close and snoozing peacefully. She was dressed in her nightgown and had obviously snuck in, something she had never done before.
Moonlight streamed in through a crack between the curtains. He glimpsed fat flakes of snow falling in silent streams.
A pair of gleaming eyes peered up from the foot of his bed. Sir Pawsalot yawned, stretched and resettled.
Augum glanced back at his sleeping girl. They would get in quite a bit of trouble with Jez if she slept through to the morn. And if any of the servants found out, it would be quite the scandal, the last thing they needed. A prince and princess cavorting at night well prior to marriage. No, former prince and princess, furthering their disgrace …
Yet he allowed himself a moment to appreciate her moonlight beauty. The smattering of freckles on her puffy cheeks. Her tussled raven hair. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
Augum then drew back the covers, slipped one arm around Leera’s back and the other underneath the crook of her knees, and gently picked her up. Her arms sleepily slid around his neck as her head nuzzled into his chest. Sir Pawsalot lazily stood, stretched his back legs one at a time, and hopped off the bed, rubbing between Augum’s ankles and purring gently.
Augum maneuvered around the tabby and telekinetically opened the door. Padding quietly down the hall, he opened Leera’s door the same way. Luckily, there were only four rooms on the prince and princess floor, occupied by him, the girls, and Jez.
He allowed Sir Pawsalot to slip inside before closing the door behind him. Then he carried Leera to her bed, telekinetically pulled back the covers, placed her on the feathered mattress, and drew the covers up to her chin. Starlight framed her sleeping face. He brushed her raven hair aside and curled it around her ear.