Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  Guards directed the crowd away from the square, and the marquess dismounted. Removing his riding gloves, he approached Aaslo still deep in thought. Meeting Aaslo’s gaze, the marquess said, “You told me your task was important, but is it truly important enough for the king? An audience is not so easily gained, even for a forester.”

  “We can’t trust him. He’s far too suspicious. He knows something.”

  “Trust is a luxury I cannot afford,” Aaslo muttered, “but that does not negate my need. Perhaps the marquess can assist me, after all?”

  The marquess shook his head. “If I am to request an audience with the king on your behalf, then I will need to know the nature of the request. I will not be made the fool in front of the king’s court.”

  Aaslo nodded. He didn’t trust the marquess, and he had come too far to be waylaid at the palace gates. He had come prepared, though. As he reached inside his shirt, Aaslo said, “You will not be requesting it.” He handed the marquess the letter Magdelay had given him and said, “She is.”

  As the marquess read, Aaslo knew what caused his face to pale. He had read the letter enough times to have it memorized.

  The bearer of this letter is to be delivered directly to the king immediately upon presentation and will not be barred by guard, gate, custom, or courtesy. Whether in the midst of court or private session, the king will see the bearer without delay. The bearer will be received in private audience insomuch as is possible and will be granted the freedom to speak plainly. These demands are hereby rendered and guaranteed by Magdelay Brelle, High Sorceress of the Council of Magi.

  The marquess looked back to Aaslo, seemingly at a loss for words. His gaze passed beyond the fountain to the palace guards, who had not left their post. “Open the gate!”

  Greylan stepped to the marquess’s side. “What is it, my lord? Why such urgency?”

  “Not now, Greylan. We must get to the palace.”

  Aaslo eyed the marquess with suspicion. The marquess must have noticed, because he hastily folded the letter and offered it back to Aaslo. As he moved to take it, the marquess said, “I know not what news you bring, but this letter and the fact that you are its bearer fills me with dread.”

  Aaslo said, “Nothing I have to say will deliver you from it.”

  The marquess’s servant brought his horse forward, and Aaslo took to his own. For once, Dolt was being accommodating, and Aaslo wondered if he hadn’t worn himself out. As Aaslo rode through the front gate at the marquess’s side, he wondered how he might escape if it turned out the king did not respond well to bad news.

  The palace lawn was superbly green and kempt, and Aaslo wondered how it was done until he saw the trees that lined the boulevard. Each was perfectly symmetrical in its every branch and leaf. It was so unnatural to Aaslo’s discerning eye that he thought he might be sick at the sight. These trees were empty shells generated by magic, devoid of spirit and out of balance with the chaos of nature that trees naturally endured. The struggle of adaptation and survival was an integral part of the tree, more so than its color or height or any of the features most people found appealing. In rejecting individuality, the magi had stripped these trees of something vital.

  “You don’t like them?” said the marquess.

  Aaslo had not realized that he had been wearing his horror so openly. “They are an abomination,” he said.

  “I’m surprised to hear that. I thought foresters loved trees.”

  “We do. These are not trees. They are magically generated impostors—like a cadaver with no soul, propped up to decorate the lawn.”

  The marquess grimaced. “That is disturbing. I will have to trust you on that and be grateful that I cannot see it.”

  “Indeed,” said Aaslo, a gloom settling over him.

  His jaw tense, the marquess said, “You will not be coming to Ruriton, will you?”

  Aaslo shrugged. “I’m not certain I’ll leave the meeting with the king alive.”

  “He can be harsh, but he is not one to kill the messenger.”

  “You see, nothing to worry about.”

  “No one has ever delivered this message,” Aaslo said.

  At the end of the boulevard was a circular drive, in the center of which stood a garden of topiaries and exotic plants that should not have been able to survive the central Uyanian climate. Nearly a dozen carriages were parked around the circle and down a side lane, and coachmen were gathered in clusters chatting and smoking pipes. The front of the palace glistened in the sunlight, the façade clear as glass, and Aaslo could see ladies and gentlemen dressed in silks and frills meandering about the front hall with liveried servants scurrying among them.

  With the marquess in the lead, their party was admitted at the door without issue and ushered toward the opposite end of the hall. Aaslo paused to offer his condolences to the poor soul that occupied the center of the hall. A massive lellisa tree had outgrown itself at more than twice its naturally achievable height; and, although out of season, it was in full bloom, filling the hall with its pale, sweet aroma. As Aaslo watched, white leaves and pink petals perpetually showered the floor, and new leaves and blossoms replaced them.

  “It is beautiful, yes? It blooms year-round,” said the marquess. When Aaslo did not reply, he said, “You do not approve of this, either, I take it.”

  “It’s sick,” Aaslo said, “dying, actually.”

  “But the magi—”

  “Have created an illusion of good health and prosperity. It will not last.”

  A thin man with a dour disposition stepped into Aaslo’s view. He wore a smart black overcoat from which white ruffles blossomed up to his chin. He rapped a silver-topped cane on the floor and said, “In the king’s court, it is best to never speak of things you do not understand. Rumors abound. A misspoken word will spread like fire, and those who incite unrest with false claims are dealt with most severely.”

  Aaslo crossed his arms and said, “I assure you, I did not misspeak, nor have I issued false claim. I know my business.”

  The man surveyed Aaslo’s worn and earthy woven jacket, grey wool pants, and soft leather boots. His gaze stalled on the incongruous gold-and-silver-wrapped hilt at Aaslo’s waist. A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face before he finally dismissed Aaslo altogether. Turning his attention to the marquess, he said, “My Lord Marquess, as the king’s seneschal, it is my duty to inform you that a serf is not permitted to carry a weapon, nor may he speak without leave. Yours has not been granted the privilege, and his attempts to alarm the court with unwarranted and unfounded ill portents are cause for reprimand.” The man flicked his fingers toward a couple of guards and said, “He will be taken into custody and dealt with accordingly. If you wish to claim him, you may do so when your business is concluded. As to your request for an audience with the king—”

  “I did not request an audience with the king,” said marquess. With a wave toward Aaslo, he said, “He did.”

  The seneschal looked back to Aaslo with open contempt.

  “Are you going to let him speak to you like that? Weak, Aaslo.”

  Disinterested in receiving further insult, Aaslo proffered Magdelay’s letter and said, “I’ll save you the trouble of another rant.”

  After eyeing the folded letter with suspicion, the seneschal snatched it from Aaslo’s fingers. As the sour-faced man read, the two guards stood prepared to take Aaslo into custody. The seneschal furrowed his brow but otherwise remained unmoved. As he refolded the letter, he said, “What is your name?”

  “Aaslo, Forester of Goldenwood.”

  The seneschal grimaced, appearing slightly embarrassed, and said to the guards, “We shall escort Sir Forester to the throne room.”

  “You managed to shame the king’s seneschal. That’s an accomplishment worthy of our list.”

  “What list?” said Aaslo.

  “What list? Our list of adventures and achievements.”

  The seneschal said, “Have no concern, Sir Forester. You have been
moved to the top of the waiting list.”

  The marquess glanced at Aaslo. “I shall remain here in case you wish to find me when your task is complete.”

  The seneschal turned to the marquess. “On behalf of the king, I must insist that the marquess accompany us to the throne room. The forester arrived in your company, and the king may have questions for you.”

  The marquess tugged at his collar and said, “I barely know the man. I only provided escort from the square. I have not been apprised of his business, and I would prefer not to be held responsible for the news he bears.”

  “You seem to have a rapport, and you certainly know more than the rest of us,” said the seneschal. “You will attend.”

  The seneschal led Aaslo, the marquess, and Greylan to the other side of the giant entry hall and then down a wide corridor toward a set of massive wooden doors that loomed at the other end. Guards standing at attention lined the hallway. Their uniforms of dark blue with gold brocade identified them as king’s guards, and their sharp gazes betrayed their apparent dormancy.

  “I wonder how we’d fare against them.”

  “You’d probably defeat any one of them, perhaps two at once.”

  The marquess chuckled. “I appreciate your confidence, but you are far more accomplished with the sword than am I.”

  “You are capable of wielding the weapon you carry?” said the seneschal. “I was not aware the foresters trained for combat.”

  “We don’t,” said Aaslo. “The sword I carry belonged to a fallen friend, a brother. It was he who wielded it with grace. I am a poor substitute.”

  The marquess said, “If you think your swordsmanship poor, then perhaps I should replace my entire guard.”

  “He got lucky,” said Greylan.

  “Perhaps, but his luck meant victory,” said the marquess. “If he had meant harm, two of our guards would be dead, and he would have escaped.”

  “I was caught,” said Aaslo.

  “I am not blind,” said the marquess, “and I may not be great with the sword, but I am an excellent strategist. You were caught because you were trying to spare their lives. Had they been luckier, they would not have afforded you the same courtesy.”

  The seneschal abruptly stopped in front of the doors and turned to Aaslo. He said, “I will enter first to deliver the high sorceress’s missive to the king. The guards will tell you when to enter. You will remain at the entrance until your arrival is announced. Then, you will walk to the end of the blue carpet and stop. Do not go beyond the blue carpet. You will kneel and bow your head. Do not rise or speak until bidden to do so by the king. If you are given leave to speak, you will refer to the king as Your Majesty. Your business is with the king, so do not address the queen. Be warned—there are archers in the balconies. If you draw your sword in the throne room, you will be struck down without delay.”

  “Why would I have cause to draw my sword?” said Aaslo.

  The seneschal feigned patience and said, “You would not.”

  “Then why the warning, and why do you look so agitated?”

  With a glance toward the marquess, the seneschal said, “I seek only to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. Some visitors are less accepting of offense.”

  The marquess smirked. He leaned in, and in a hushed tone said, “A few years ago, the Baron of Yebury accused Sir Ciruth of sneaking into his daughter’s bedchamber. Sir Ciruth forgot himself and drew his sword in challenge in the middle of the throne room. It was a terrible mess, but Yebury was satisfied with the outcome.”

  The seneschal said, “Sir Ciruth was a knight.”

  “Not a very good one,” said Aaslo.

  With a sigh, the seneschal said, “Regardless, he was trained in court etiquette. You are not. You should also take special care to mind your tongue.”

  “I told you your mouth would get you in trouble one day.”

  The man turned and walked several paces down the corridor before passing through a smaller door that Aaslo presumed led to a back entrance to the throne room.

  Potent breath wafted across Aaslo’s face as Greylan whispered in his ear, “I’ve got six gold pieces riding on you.”

  “For what? You don’t even know my business.”

  “Doesn’t matter your business. Hane says you’re thrown in the dungeon. I bet you don’t make it out of the throne room alive. Don’t let me down.”

  “Hane. Is he the one I pummeled in the field?”

  “Luck,” replied Greylan, and then said nothing more.

  Aaslo was grateful for the momentary silence. The marquess’s restlessness and avoidance of eye contact caused Aaslo to wonder if he was intentionally avoiding conversation.

  “He probably bet against you.”

  “That implies someone bet in my favor,” said Aaslo.

  “Not necessarily. They could all be betting on different methods of death.”

  He glanced over to see the marquess pointedly staring at the throne room doors. He was about to ask when a smaller door, which had not been visible, opened from within the larger one on the right.

  “The Most Honorable the Marquess of Dovermyer may enter now,” said the guardsman nearest the open door.

  The marquess stepped through the doorway, and a list of titles echoed through the chamber beyond. Aaslo made to follow, but Greylan shoved him back with a grunt before following his liege. Aaslo was mildly surprised to hear that Greylan belonged to a noble house, although he held no titles. He knew it was common for nobles who would not inherit to enter into the service of someone in higher standing, although it was hard for him to imagine Greylan serving anyone by choice.

  When Aaslo entered the grand chamber, most of the attention was focused on the marquess, and Aaslo was glad of it.

  “Aaslo, Forester of Goldenwood,” called the herald.

  “So much for not drawing attention.”

  The courtiers ceased their chittering and turned to gawk at Aaslo. He could see the judgment in their gazes, each one deciding if he was worthy of the foresters’ mystique. Most appeared to find him lacking, and for that he was grateful. He surveyed the archers in the balconies. They were difficult to see in the shadows cast by the light streaming through the tall windows lining the wall to his left in the chamber. Above the windows was a narrow walkway, over which towered a row of stained glass, which further obscured the lighting on the upper level. It appeared that there were six archers on each side of the hall, four of whom had their arrows trained on him.

  His gaze roved over the dais as he reached the end of the blue carpet, and he knelt as instructed. He had noted that it was five steps to a second landing and then another five to the top, where the king and queen sat in intricately carved wooden thrones accented in gold and adorned with jewels. Aaslo thought it ironic that the Uyanian royal thrones were made of imported terandian-tree wood.

  “Of course you notice the wood. Did you even see the king and queen?”

  Aaslo winced as he stared at the floor. He thought he had gotten a decent look at the king, but he had barely noticed the queen. After what felt like forever, he began to wonder if he had missed the command to stand. His doubt had nearly overcome his sense when a smooth voice said, “You may rise.”

  Releasing his breath, Aaslo drew himself to his feet and met the king’s gaze. King Rakith appeared younger than he had expected, even though he knew the king to be forty-three years of age. Every year, the king’s birthday was celebrated across the kingdom as a holiday, so it was impossible to forget. From beneath a golden crown, silky brown hair swept in waves to curl just under his ear, and his kempt beard and mustache held a rusty hue. His dark gaze was sharp and demanding, but deep laugh lines defined his mouth and the corners of his eyes. A midnight-blue velvet robe, trimmed with the fur of a spotted hare, was draped over his shoulders and pooled at his feet.

  The king had not yet given him leave to speak, and he held Aaslo’s gaze with an intensity that alluded to a challenge. Aaslo decided to meet the challenge and dare
d not glance away, particularly toward the queen.

  After an eternity, Rakith said, “What brings you to my court, Forester?”

  “I bear a message, one that is meant for your ears alone.”

  “Yes, I read the missive. Your message comes from the sorceress, then?”

  “More or less,” Aaslo replied.

  “What does that mean? Speak plainly, Forester. I have no interest in fae riddles.”

  “I am not fae,” Aaslo grumbled. “I would be glad to explain, except that you have not yet dismissed the court.”

  The king leaned forward and pounded his fist on the arm of his throne. “Regardless of what the high sorceress believes, I decide what happens in my court.”

  “I believe you,” Aaslo said.

  “Careful, brother. You’re cutting a path to the gallows.”

  Aaslo followed with, “I am confident that if you knew the nature of my message, an empty court would be your preference.”

  “You profess to know my mind—the mind of a king?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty. I profess to know my message.”

  A titter and a shuffle passed through the crowd, but Rakith’s ardent gaze did not waver. He raised a finger, and the seneschal hurried to the king’s side. Rakith’s words did not carry beyond the dais, and the seneschal departed through a door to one side a moment later.

  Rakith looked back to Aaslo. “To my knowledge, no forester has ever visited this court. How do we know you are who you say you are?”

  “How do you know any man is who he says he is?”

  “You aren’t supposed to question the king!”

  Aaslo internally cringed but felt it a valid question nonetheless.

  Rakith drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne. He looked toward the marquess. “Lord Sefferiah. How do you know this man?”