by D Mickleson
Opening his eyes in spite of the pain, he saw a blur of brightly-dressed townsfolk bustling between laden street carts. Tall stone houses towered overhead. Some of the finer dwellings were joined at the upper level by bridges which spanned the street.
The clatter of their litters on the cobblestones was deafening, drowning out all the noise of Leviathan. But the fish stench nothing could drive away, it only strengthened with each passing minute.
At last the gray facades ceased, a great arch yawned overhead, and they passed under a gull-strewn sky. Its endless, azure dome was pierced by a high tower gleaming white and sparkling with minute flecks of gold.
The cobbled streets of town gave way to expansive flagstones, white like the tower and nearly blinding in the glare of the westering sun. Triston watched the high gray wall of Leviathan recede behind him while the tower above grew ever more dominant.
His bruised muscles tensed. In mere minutes he might be speaking to the lord of that tower, the king of all Corellia. Depending on forces outside Triston’s control, the king would either receive him gladly, or, far more likely, order that their heads be mounted on the battlements as a warning to fools. The mayhem in Luskoll, the Seer’s demise, and, perhaps far worse, the unfortunate matter of the princess’ afternoon bath, loomed ever larger while they passed under the shadow of the tower.
At length the horses drew together, cantering along a narrow passage lined on either side by an elegant colonnade of white marble. The columns boasted capitals carved like crashing waves. The entablature linking the columns was engraved with images of fish, ships, and bare-chested men and women. Most prominent, always embossed in gold, were figures of a sea serpent rearing its coils above fomenting waters.
Triston became aware that the colonnaded passage was a bridge, that they’d actually left the mainland and were now out over a harbor. Slowly, and to Triston, upside-down, a castle came into view. Its walls, like the tower above and the bridge below, were white marble dusted with gold. Silver banners fluttered in the sea-breeze above a ring of turrets surrounding the high, central tower. Far below the turrets, yet still hundreds of feet above the bridge, tiny figures paced to and fro on crenellated walls.
Without slowing, the company passed over a wooden drawbridge and through an open gate. Upon its vast, brazen doors two figures stood out in relief. On the right, a sailing ship above heaving billows, beautiful in form and rich in detail. On the left, the sea serpent’s gaping maw, nearly life-size and fearfully lifelike.
At last they reached the inner courtyard. This was a fair place where the marble was softened with many trees, fountains, and tended lawns lined with flowerbeds. They halted before a long stairway leading up to the oaken Great Doors of Whitecastle. The men dismounted with much clanging of armor, but before Mugwort could sound his bugle to announce their arrival, a voice spoke from a balcony above the doors.
“There you are, Mugwort. And I see you bring Her Majesty back with you, safe and sound. Very good, very good. All well then, Your Highness?”
From his prostrate position, Triston could just make out an elderly man, gray-haired and, despite the heat, robed neck-to-toe in glossy black. His garments were well-tailored and lined down the middle with gold buttons and silver embroideries. Behind Triston and out of sight, the princess called her reply, “As well as ever, Alfrich. And you?”
“Fine. Just fine, my dear,” said the man with a wrinkled smile. To Triston’s careful eye there was a trace of sadness in the way he looked at her. “Now then,” he went on more briskly, “everyone stay right where you are. His Majesty would see you at once. I’ll just inform him of your arrival.” He turned on his heels and disappeared from view.
They waited, Triston’s nerves tensing to the breaking point. Alden lay motionless, staring up at the sky with blank eyes. All around them the Captain’s men chatted in languid voices.
Mugwort, meanwhile, was attempting without success to make conversation with a very sulky Abigail. “. . . for your own good, sweetsakins, as you must concede. His Majesty, and myself for that matter, we are endlessly devoted to your wellbeing. Five times you’ve left us desperately worried, and especially since the lamentable events of last summer—”
“Six.”
“Er, excuse me?”
“Six times I’ve left you desperately worried—Daddy!”
A clanking clamor rang out as Mugwort and his men hastened to kneel, for a second figure had stepped into view on the balcony above. King Stentor XII was a tall man, handsome, except perhaps for an overlarge nose. He was beardless, with wild, jet-black locks of near-shoulder length, untidy but not unbecoming. His garb was refined but simple, a blue velvet tunic girdled by a silver belt. This surprised Triston, though he couldn’t say why—he’d never before seen a king—but somehow a vision of a puffed-out peacock had been implanted in his head, as if monarchs everywhere always went about in seven layers of exotic furs spangled with half the jewels in the kingdom.
The king surveyed the company in silence, the brilliant afternoon light reflected darkly in his deep-set eyes. Triston stared up at him. He wished he’d at least been allowed to kneel with the others instead of appearing bound like a common criminal, too lowly to deserve even a passing glance from his sovereign. “You pain me, daughter,” Stentor said at last, his stern gaze fixing on Abigail. He motioned for the men to stand without taking his eyes off the princess. “Why must you insist on behaving like a child when the time for such things is long passed?”
When she spoke, though he couldn’t see her, Triston knew her eyes must be raw and red. “Like a child! And so you treat me. Or rather, like a prisoner, a common criminal.” She must have pointed, for at her words the king’s eyes darted to Triston. For a moment a frown creased his brow, but quickly he returned his attention to his daughter. “But I won’t be jailed, Daddy, even if you send the whole world after me.”
“I won’t be sending anyone after you ever again Abigail!” he roared suddenly, puffing out his chest while his face reddened. “This is the last time,” he went on after taking a calming breath. “You will obey me in this if I have to keep you under guard night and day. If your mother was here now—”
“Don’t! Don’t even! She never would have let you confine me like a bird in a cage.” There was a rustle behind him, then the princess stormed past Triston. She took the stairs two at a time before disappearing under the shadow of the Great Door, which opened to receive her.
The king continued to stare at the place she stood, then sighed and looked at Mugwort. “I thank you, Captain. And where did you find our pampered popinjay this time?”
Mugwort cleared his throat importantly. “Ahem. Yes, Sire. My pleasure to serve. We found Her Highness, er, by the river, Sire. She was . . . bathing, Sire. She seems to have discovered another hot spring, and—”
The king’s face darkened until Triston was reminded of a ripe tomato. “The river! But that’s miles away!”
“Yes, Sire.”
Stentor lifted his gaze over the harbor to Leviathan and the lands beyond, contemplating his Captain’s news for a few moments. “Very well,” he said, sounding weary. “Is that all, Captain?”
“Nearly, Your Majesty. We found these accosting her person. I would have dispatched them on the spot, but Her Highness ordered otherwise. A woman’s mercy cannot be despised, Sire,” he chuckling indulgently, his voice growing unctuous, “but I won’t trouble you with them further. If His Majesty would leave them to me—”
“Please Sire!” shouted Triston suddenly. “We come from Wyrmskull with news of a Farthian attack! We seek justice and beg for a hearing.”
Stentor frowned down at him, for the first time giving him his full attention. The wrath in his charcoal eyes was terrible to behold. “Have them stand before me,” he said, menace lacing his tone. Mugwort snapped an order. In seconds Triston and Alden were blinking up at the king on wobbly legs while Owain, newly awakened and crouching on his hands and knees, vomited over the gleaming marbl
e.
The king addressed Triston, his voice a low growl. “You threatened my daughter, messenger?”
The sock finally removed, Alden broke in before Triston could answer. “By no means, Sire! We happened across her as we traveled, but only by chance, Your Majesty. We deemed it unchivalrous to pass by a maiden in obvious distress without offering our assistance. But then the good captain turned up and, nothing against his intelligence, Sire, but you might not be surprised to learn that he completely misread the situation.”
Mugwort bristled with indignation. “‘Completely misread?’ Your Majesty, I have reason to believe that two at least of these men are none other than the criminals who incited the mayhem in Luskoll we heard report of five days ago, including the destruction of His Eminence the Duke’s new statue. The grief your cousin the Duke had to bear—”
But Stentor held up a hand, and Mugwort subsided at once. “Is this true?” said the king, emphasizing each word while his crimson face darkened to royal plum. Beside him, the elderly man in black leaned forward over the balcony to stare at the three of them, a keen interest shining in his face.
Alden spluttered something about having been the king’s jousting champion, then fell silent. He gave Triston an anxious look. “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s true,” said Triston. His stomach had dropped to his feet when he heard the captain’s words, but his resolve to be heard only hardened. “And you may judge us for this without complaint, if only you will hear our case first. We beg you.”
Stentor stared, his thick black eyebrows rising slowly and his lips pursing. Finally he leaned over and spoke in the old man’s ear. Then, turning without another word, he left the balcony. When the king had gone, the old man addressed Mugwort. “Well Captain, I’m afraid this news of Luskoll changes matters considerably. You’ll have to place the prisoners under my care for the time being—”
“Come now, Alfrich! Surely you jest!” said Mugwort, gesticulating fiercely while his men grumbled behind him. “As Captain of the Guard I believe I am entitled to see to my prisoners as I deem—”
“And as Lord Chamberlain to the king,” spoke Alfrich, taking on a commanding tone for the first time, “I believe I am entitled to follow His Majesty’s directives as I deem necessary. You will bring these three to my audience chamber and leave them in my care, and you will do so at once. That will be all, Captain.” The chamberlain swept out of view, leaving a dumbfounded Mugwort staring up at the empty balcony, his mouth open and his gauntleted fists clenched at his sides.
“I like him,” said Alden cheerfully. “A real dignified old chap. Nice to see the king isn’t completely surrounded by fools—”
Mugwort turned and slapped Alden hard across the face, his armored hand leaving an angry welt on his right cheek.
“You’ll die for that,” said Alden in a matter-of-fact voice.
The captain’s lips twisted into a sneer. He looked ready to strike again, but seemed to think better of it. “See to the orders,” he growled to the nearest of his men, then turned and marched further into the courtyard, entering the castle by a side passage through a shadowed alcove.
A three-guard escort led them up the steps and into the cavernous entrance hall of Whitecastle. Triston had expected more white marble, but the interior was alive with bright tapestries, colored tiles, and warm accents of wood. Many of the windows sparkled with colored glass. Fresh-cut flowers blossomed in every vase. Up another flight of stairs and down an echoing hall they were led, wrist-bound and very sore. Finally, the guards showed them into a parlor, pushed them roughly onto a bench and commanded them to wait. Their captors turned at once and left, shutting the door behind them.
Triston breathed a sigh of relief. “Still alive,” he said, grinning at Owain, who still looked likely to vomit. He tried to smile, only managing a painful grimace, but Triston wasn’t paying attention. He had turned with shock to Alden, who had made for a corner desk the moment they were alone and begun searching through its drawers. “Ald! Are you determined to get us killed?” he hissed.
“Aha!” said Alden triumphantly, emerging with a delicate-looking utensil Triston believed was a small knife. “A letter opener! Truly a man of dignity, as I said.” He cut their bonds over Triston and Owain’s objections. All three stared around the room.
Two walls were lined entirely with ancient-looking calfskin volumes, while a third was dominated by a huge window through which the westbound sun poured in golden rays. Along the fourth, about a tiled-hearth of gray and pink stone, were arranged many strange objects. The most magnificent was a peculiar suit of armor which seemed to have been made for a rather stocky child. The metal shone like silver, but the pieces were bolted together along the seams by assorted jewels which reflected the evening light like an earthbound rainbow. “Truly a man of taste and dignity,” repeated Alden.
At length three pages entered and explained they were to be washed and dressed before their audience with the Lord Chamberlain. Triston had never had a bubble bath and found the experience altogether enjoyable, except for the silent valet who insisted on remaining, towel in hand and look of refined disapproval firmly in place. A fresh tunic was provided, woven not of wool or leather, but of a wonderfully-comfortable material Triston didn’t recognize, along with undergarments of the same make and tan woolen breeches.
Dressed and refreshed, Triston followed his page back to the chamberlain’s parlor, where Alden and Owain were waiting outside the door. Alden seemed highly-pleased by their turn of events. Owain kept shifting uncomfortably in his new garb, looking disbelieving as if he expected their return to be demanded at any time. The page stepped up to knock on the door, but before he did so, it opened. The chamberlain stepped out, looking weary and, to Triston, as if he was resigned to something unpleasant.
“Ah, the guests. Of course. Thank you,” he addressed the page, who bowed and left at once. “Now then,” said the chamberlain, looking at each one in turn, his eyes lingering on Triston’s scarred face. “Well, our friend Captain Mugwort who, I must say, is a fine commander of men—but he has much to learn of life at court—seems to have committed a tactical error of the gravest magnitude in mentioning the subject of the king’s cousin, and now, as a result, you three must follow me at once.”
He stepped between them, heading down the hall, while Triston and Owain looked nervously at each other behind his back. Alden, however, leapt to the chamberlain’s side. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, pacing with him. “This captain. You speak of him as a novice in some ways. Has he not been long in the king’s service?”
The chamberlain looked hard at Alden, as if deciding whether or not to rebuke him for his impertinence. Finally he answered, seeming to choose his words deliberately. “Not long in his current role, no. He was . . . recently promoted.”
“Ah. Then perhaps His Majesty would not be too sorry to see him dispatched?”
“Alden!” Triston shouted behind them. “What’s the matter with you?”
Alden looked at him, completely unabashed. “The man insulted me and I plan to challenge him to a duel,” he explained, as if nothing could be more obvious.
The chamberlain stopped at the top of the staircase leading down to the entrance hall. “I assure you, young man,” he said coolly, “that His Majesty would be most put out with anyone who, er, dispatched Captain Mugwort.” He turned and headed down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Not that you stand a chance of doing so. The captain is the most capable swordsman I have ever seen.”
“Ald can take anybody,” said Owain confidently. “Mugwort will be dead in a week.”
Alden slapped him on the back appreciatively. Triston watched the color rise in the chamberlain’s cheeks with growing annoyance at his friends’ behavior. On the far side of the entrance hall, the chamberlain stopped before a set of heavy, brass-bound doors and turned to face them.
“From now on,” he said, looking fixedly at Alden, “I would wait to be spoken to and—” He pushed through the door and led th
em into a grand banquet hall. Fifty or so well-dressed courtiers were seated at a long, candlelit table laden with more food than Triston had ever seen or imagined. “And I would choose my words most carefully.”
The chamberlain advanced past the suddenly silent assembly straight to the center of the table, where King Stentor and his daughter sat opposite three empty seats. Stentor gestured grandly. “Please, my guests, be seated. Don’t be shy now.”
Alden took his seat at once, beaming at the king, then at Abigail. She gaped at them, clearly taken aback by their change in appearance. At his courteous smile, however, she made a “humph” sound and looked away, an exchange the king did not miss. He laughed jovially, beckoning at Triston and Owain, who still were too shocked to move. “Come now! You must sit before the banquet grows cold. There you are. Now then, there’s much to speak of and only a little time.”
He gestured at a minstrel nearby, who began a soft tune on a fife, and then to his right, where the chamberlain had taken his seat. “You know Alfie already, the Lord Chamberlain to you, and I daresay you’ve seen quite enough of young Mugwort here,” he added, gesturing to the left of the princess. Triston gave a start. He hadn’t recognized Mugwort without his armor. The captain nodded briskly. Then, when the king looked away, he favored Alden with a stony stare. “And this is my lovely daughter Abigail, who you’ve already seen as well.”
At this, both Abigail and Owain turned bright red, but thankfully the king was oblivious. He was looking avidly at Triston. “Now then,” he said, and every eye in the room followed his gaze to where Triston sat feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “You will tell me everything—every last, most insignificant detail!—of your time in Luskoll. I want to hear it all.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “And they say when the statue fell that fat fool actually got down on his knees and wailed like a woman!”