by J Glen Percy
Mykel thought of his brother. How would Gabryel work his way out of this? Probably say that he was Mykel. It was true the queen had known him since birth. It was also true that the Starling twins were as similar as two raindrops.
“Is something the matter? You look ill.” The queen took a step forward, pressing him backwards into the closet. Another step, one hand reaching up the draped cuff of the other. Back against the shelves, Mykel looked to her face for the first time. Emotionless. Resolute. Regal. “Has this Starling seen a hawk, or a cat perhaps?” Another step.
“There you are, my lord,” came a familiar voice from just beyond the queen. She turned, and joining the two in the corridor was the Starling family’s ghostly liegeman. Relief flooded through the boy. “Your Highness,” Wyn quickly followed, offering a respectful bow. “I had heard Your Grace’s presence was softening the iron halls. Thank you for locating the boy. I have been looking everywhere.”
“I am sure you have, Fellsword,” Queen Willa replied, her voice perfectly level.
“Let’s get you to your room, young master. Your mother has us leaving first thing in the morning. If we may, Your Grace?”
Mykel’s relief was short lived.
“Leaving in the morning, you say?” the queen said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Lady Starling wouldn’t mind the queen’s escort on her travels home. It only adds a few days to my travels and my son should be arriving in Shorefeld any day, if he hasn’t already.”
Mykel never risked a glance to confirm, but could feel the queen’s stare boring through him as she spoke. He had caught her sneaking, exactly the type of thing Wyn had advised against. There was a cooling body next door and she carried the corpse’s child. Worse, she knew that Mykel knew. Sneaking was the only option he had if he wished to avoid her sting. If she was to join them home, even that might not work.
“I’m sure, Your Grace,” Wyn replied. “I will inform the Lady Starling that Your Highness will be accompanying us to the western capital.”
Mykel cautiously brushed passed the queen with a muttered “Highness,” favoring his tender stomach as he followed Wyn down the hall.
CHAPTER 20
“What is the saying you westerners have? Making mountains of a pinch pile? This pinch pile has grown to rival Stallion Spine. Soon, even World’s Wall will be in its shadow.”
A scrubby layer of gray-brown moss had grown over King Erick’s usual clean-cut jawline and his eyelids drooped as if bricks were fastened there. His voice sagged similarly, the burdens of quandary and conflict manifesting themselves in the ruler prior to the subjects he ruled. Ryecard Starling did not fret; one way or another, the ruled would have their day.
Contrary to the king’s wilted manner, the nest in which he sat projected unwavering firmness. Countless spines longer than a man’s arm protruded from thick, chair-forming stalks at every angle, threatening to skewer anyone who took up the Throne of Thorns irreverently. Or who approached it that way. Volcanic black in color and only slightly elevated, the highest seat in united Cairanthem did not reflect the gaudy, turbulent power of a thunderstorm, but the awe-inspiring steadfastness of a mountain range. An undeniable presence that dominated the surrounding landscape. Ryecard stood at the base of that mountain, addressing his worn friend on the matter of his son once more.
“A mountainous pile of pinch to be certain,” Ryecard agreed, spinning the bracer on his forearm.
Ryecard had stood before the king since dusk some countless hours prior; no new territory covered, no new decisions made. The steam from their exchange two days prior had cooled, though that did not prevent the last nobles occupying the throne room from finding somewhere else to be when Ryecard had entered. A few candles still held wax enough to burn, yet like a mental patient, the room’s personality had faded from inviting to ominous, the impressive chair from steadfast to menacing. Resignation, not anger, held the men’s moods tonight – or was it the earliest hours of morning now?
The throne provided Ryecard perspective. Crafted with the priesthood it was said, the mighty seat had been around long before the Romerians adopted the floral motif as their own, and would endure long after the two men turned to dust. Likely after their family’s names turned to dust. Like the stars, it had Ryecard feeling small and insignificant, and yet, this was his son’s life. His family’s life. What could be more significant? He would stand until the stars went out and they themselves turned to dust if that’s what it took to receive an answer.
The king interrupted his thoughts. “Before my father united the land, so concerned were the surrounding four nations that no one dared touch a citizen of Rosemount for fear of retaliation. We protect our own, Rye. Always have. Preeminence Law is merely the legal extension of that.”
“Our own should extend beyond the capital in a united realm,” Ryecard replied.
“We paid for their freedom with our blood. We saved their lives at the expense of our own. Classmates, friends, brothers. Fathers,” Erick added softly, looking pointedly at Ryecard. “We destroyed the Ferals while they watched.”
“We did,” Ryecard replied distantly. His father’s end was not a memory he enjoyed reliving. But if he could forgive the other kingdoms for their reluctance to join the war, so could every other Rosemarked. Every other Rosemarked did not have monger children, he reminded himself. “And the world is a better place for it. It can be better still, Erick.”
The king thought for a moment. “At the least, it seems sealing the creatures in their tunnels was not final. Some have clearly found a way to live without coming up to feed. Even so, addressing the few that have survived will be simpler than the betterment you speak of.”
“The provincial-born are ready to fight for you. Against the Grays and against whatever lives beneath our feet. They will prove their worth to Cairanthem, earn their Rosemark.”
The king snorted his dismissal of the statement. “The provinces are carrying your son’s name like a banner. They’ll prove the end of Cairanthem before their devotion to it.” He paused. “The Rosemarked in Riverton, including the mayor, were expelled from the township. The rose was taken down, burned, and your stallion now flies in its place. It’s not solely your son’s name, Rye. You sit firmly atop this little rebellion.”
“A rebellion I do not want,” Ryecard said resolutely. He had heard the news as well. Word of the assassination attempt was fanning the flames. The crown’s attempt to silence an inconvenience, as the people saw it. Unrest simmered in every corner of the kingdom, and in the capital as well. “Just as we did the realm a favor with the Ferals, so too did my son the day he rid it of those lowlifes. Rosemarked or not, perhaps you are too far removed to recall the sliminess of the world.”
Erick smirked once again. “Lords and ladies, officers and barons; I am reminded daily.”
“Then you have considered my side.”
“Every minute of every day since. How could a father not? Terrible as my son is, I would go to war if something happened to him. For my girls as well, though I’d have to put my thumb on the oldest first.” Ryecard had seen the three younger Romerian girls around the Rose Citadel; Cinsey, Cauril, and Chiara, but Cecily, whom the king referred to, had been mysteriously absent. “I would expect this kind of truancy from your daughter, not mine. Another wrinkle in this tired face. Our children will be the ruin of us all,” he sighed.
“Laws for some and immunity for others will be our ruin,” Ryecard answered.
“Aye, brother’s torn and kingdom’s fractured at the blood of two drunkards. Blown glass isn’t so fragile.”
The king sat in silent contemplation for several minutes and Ryecard stiffened his legs against the dragging night. Nearly a week on, the world in the balance, he held little hope that the king would rule in his favor. To his friend’s mind, the provinces could be brought to heel. Rosemount, if stirred, could not. Ryecard simply needed the words, the closing decision, that would send his family into hiding.
He was considering whether he truthf
ully could stand here until the king made a decision – food, water, and bodily relief were all necessary – when King Erick softly cleared his throat.
“Your son can live.”
The words tried to topple him. Ryecard blinked the weariness from his eyes, not entirely certain the king had spoken what he had heard. “Preeminence is over then?”
“I did not say that.” Erick straightened his back, the first since the nobles had left. “I have given your son his life and damned myself in the process. Is that not enough?” His hardness made the stone thorns seem stuffed with straw.
“It is more than I could ever hope, Your Grace,” Ryecard said, genuine appreciation warming his words. Before the matching smile fully curled his lips, and taking care of the very real, very solid thorns protruding from the throne, Ryecard was on the dais wrapping his arms around his longtime friend.
Erick hesitated, then embraced Ryecard in return. “Let’s keep this between you and I,” he whispered. “If this goes beyond my small council, rose will be the color of the streets. This pointed chair as well.”
* * *
Ryecard rushed to his quarters, his relief palpable. As exhausted as he was, there would be no sleep tonight. His pounding heart would see to that if his restless mind did not. Lore would carry him home as soon as she was made ready. Rest could wait until then.
Striking a lantern within the invisible room, he was immediately aware of another’s presence. A straight throwing dagger found its way to his hand, awaiting further instruction as he twirled. Instead of releasing the blade, he frowned.
“I was beginning to think I would leave the capital without hearing your creaking jaw,” Ryecard said, replacing the knife behind his belt.
Tobiah Jago sat motionlessly in the corner, his beaked nose clearly raised despite the shadows that concealed his countless wrinkles. King Erick trusted the man, or at least confided in him, as did Erick’s father. He was too devious for Ryecard’s taste, schemes running through the ancient man’s head like women ran through most men’s. Ryecard had to look no further than the small council and Ozias Fellsword to know he wasn’t alone in his sentiments. Then again, having estranged himself from his family, Ozias was not overly fond of anyone.
Tobiah ignored the comment, producing a frown of his own. He followed in characteristic style with a rhythmic meter.
“Howl ‘hind a horse and receive the hoof,
Dance on the gables, fall off of the roof.
Play with a flame and you’ll soon be burned,
Consequence lived was consequence spurned.”
The man said nothing more, but it was clear; he knew every word spoken in the throne room. How? The king’s volume wouldn’t have carried halfway through the expansive hall. And if Tobiah was somehow lurking within earshot, how had he beat Ryecard to this room? Like the oldest oak in the forest, Tobiah Jago appeared withered and feeble. His roots went deep though, and his long arms cast shadows across a wide area. “The king grabs the sword by its blade and expects not to be cut,” the old advisor finished.
Ryecard eyed the old man cautiously. It was said that Furmen songstresses could ensnare the weak-minded with their voices. Ryecard believed Tobiah had similar powers.
“He understands the... possible consequences,” he replied. “The king is a decent man.”
“Decent sculptors do not craft masterpieces,” Tobiah spoke plainly. “I suspect your appraisal of the king’s decency would be quite different had the wind blown the other direction.”
“What do you want, Jago?” Ryecard asked sharply. He was weary, ready for the road, and in no mood to dance around the advisor’s flowery language.
“To call the consequences possible is akin to calling a Feral bite potentially fatal. Adolescent at the finest, brazen denial at worst. Rosemount will riot. Instead of one man with a crown coming for your son, you will have tens of thousands with roses on their wrists.” Then he added, as if an afterthought, “Unless we act.”
Nothing was an afterthought with this man. “Act how?”
The design of Breccyn’s falsified execution unfolded in all the detail of an architectural drawing. Who would play which role and the order of their action to create the final structure. No doubt the old man had been planning this since the beginning, an itemized provision plan should the king’s course abruptly change. It was a sound plan, with firm grounding for its necessity. The capital would be satisfied in the lad’s death, and Breccyn would be free, though with a different identity.
Ryecard recalled the Furmen songstresses. “You have never spoken in my favor before,” he spoke skeptically. “You wanted my son dead. Truthfully dead.”
“I will admit my disagreement with the king’s decision, but it is the king’s decision. Besides, the last time we spoke you were after his blood in a room filled with nobles. Not exactly a discrete location for the discussion of discrete matters.”
Ryecard believed Erick when the king said he had no involvement in the attempt on Breccyn’s life. Ceres remained a suspect, as did the shriveled schemer speaking with him now. If Tobiah was planning for Breccyn to live in secrecy, though, that meant.... “You did not send the assassin?”
“My boy, if I had ordered your son’s death, the job would be done.” Tobiah was speaking of the weather for all his emotion. “It remains an option, simply not a savory one.”
Suspicion tightened Ryecard’s expression. “Whose side are you on?”
The antique stork pushed himself out of the chair, snickering faintly as he stepped into the lantern’s glow. “There are no sides to a web, only threads, the strength of each contributing to the strength of the whole. First King Cairan Romerian spun the web of Unity; I wish to see it thrive. If that means cutting a thread or two and spinning anew in their place, so be it.” Ryecard held his ground as Tobiah drew near, but only just. Each line in the old man’s face was another plot, a thread in the spinning. “Spiders and kings, kingdoms and webs. You and your Romerian brother worry about the younger generation. I worry about this one.”
Ryecard heard the old man but his suspicion was too deep for the words to have their intended effect. The timing of the Grayskin movements, Ceres’ knife in the hands of a Grayskin, even the mutinous events in Riverton and towns like it, seemingly coordinated in their efficiency; it was all too much. Too deliberate. Someone in the castle was manipulating the precarious situation, but not in favor of Unity, as Tobiah claimed. Somebody close to the king. Spiders and kings, kingdoms and webs. Ryecard would not be caught in the old advisor’s web.
“It’s you, isn’t it. The invasion, the gray assassin; pulling and cutting strings, not for the First King’s vision, but for your own.” It was Ryecard who stepped forward this time, the old man’s air taking on a mixture of innocence and insult as he cowered.
“I am a humble advisor, Your Lordship, not a priest or so-called shadesayer. I cannot force the minds of men nor tell of future events.”
“There’s no need to tell of future events when you can manipulate them to your liking.” Ryecard took another step forward. “I was correct in counseling the king to guard his communications. Pity his father’s most trusted ally was the threat all along.”
“First the king, now me. Is this how justice is served in the West?” Tobiah sneered. “The stallion steward walks from house to house, accusing people of shifting the wind and coloring the sky? You need proof. Proof you do not have. Cannot have,” he ended firmly.
“The king will decide the proof.” Ryecard pressed forward until Tobiah’s back was against the wall. He would take the man to a member of the King’s Guard until morning when Erick could be informed. “Until then-”
A flicker caught Ryecard’s eye. His hands shot forward, catching Tobiah’s thrusting arm at the wrist. A deer antler handle was enclosed within the man’s knobby fingers, a short blade protruding towards Ryecard’s gut. That’s as far as it got.
“I will not let you destroy everything I have worked for,” Tobiah hissed
. Ryecard effortlessly torqued the man’s wrist and the knife rattled to the floor. Soon after, a blade was in Ryecard’s hand, pressed against Tobiah Jago’s throat. A thin line of blood trickled down the old man’s neck from the blade-formed crease.
“Before acting as rashly as your eldest son, know that his life is very much in danger,” Tobiah spat defiantly.
“His life is in danger?” Ryecard fumed, applying further pressure to the edge. “I am finished listening to your forked-tongue, Tobiah. As is the king.” He pressed harder.
“Cecily,” the old man gasped. Ryecard hesitated at mention of the princess, then backed off slightly. The king had been looking for her for days. “She was nabbed on the road to Shorefeld with the intention of pinning it on the Starlings, your son in particular, I believe.”
“How do you know this?” The question was more accusation than inquiry.
“You know me better than to think the pair on my head are my only ears. There is more, if you will listen. Ceres is arriving in Shorefeld. He is very fond of his sister.” Tobiah did not need to continue for Ryecard to see the danger. “If the king hears of his daughter’s disappearance at your family’s hands, there will be war. If the prince learns while there, your family’s innards will fertilize the soil, and then there will be war.”
Ryecard redoubled the pressure on the blade. “This does nothing to change you and I. Truthfully, this feeds the notion that you are working to destroy Cairanthem.”
Tobiah chuckled as much as the pressing knife would allow. “You can’t kill me.”
“Why not?” Confusion took rage’s place, and Tobiah laughed further.
“You really don’t know me. I would never confront Cecily’s captor without leaving a record of my suspicions, or my life’s own fear in doing so. A few details, including the very room I expect to meet my demise, this room, provide the last touch of credibility for the king to consider. If my blood doesn’t confirm your guilt, my final written testimony will.”