by L. S. King
thinned. “And if you have aught to say against him, then you can be on your way.”
Zaqain saw fear lurking behind the anger snapping in her eyes and dropped his head. “I meant no harm. I haven’t been in these parts in a while. I just remember things...differently.”
The woman sniffed and left the barn. Zaqain settled into the fresh, grain-scented straw. He could not let himself be distracted by concern for these people. He must focus on gaining access to the audience chamber and the holy tallis kept there. He prayed until he fell asleep.
= = =
Zaqain left the farm the next morning and settled by the road, hoping to interest one of the wagons in hiring him or letting him ride.
“We don’t need no help, old man.”
“Thankee, but I ain’t got room for anyone.”
“You think you can get a free eyeful of castle living, don’t you? Be off!”
The sun near setting, Zaqain approached another wagon with a weary sigh, ignoring the biting hunger pangs in his stomach and the taste of dust in his mouth. He pulled his hat off. “Do you need help unloading your wares once you get into the castle?”
A woman pulled back on the reins and squinted down at him, brushing hair out of her face with roughened hands. “What do you want?”
“I’ll trade work for food.”
“Try the town.” She lifted the reins.
Zaqain stepped closer. “I did. No one wants to hire an old man.”
“Then why should I? Go sit by the gates and beg.” She snapped the lines, and the horse started forward.
He grabbed the bridle and held up his other hand. “I want to work. I had pride once. I’d like a little back.”
Sitting up straighter, the woman stared at him through narrowed eyes. “And what work can an old man do?”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
“You’re rake-thin.”
“I’ve been ill.” He patted the horse’s nose, and it nuzzled his armpit. He had not been around horses since...since before he fell. He slapped the beast’s neck affectionately then looked up.
The woman pursed her lips. “Get on. But you better be able to lift these sacks and supplies.”
Zaqain began to climb up next to the woman, but she shook her head. “Get in the back.”
He sighed, walked to the rear, and crawled up amid the supplies. The sacks of whatever she carried were not soft. His already sore bones ached from the jouncing. He held on as the wagon shifted, going uphill toward the gate, thumping and rocking across the ruts. They slowed then stopped. He lowered his head, hoping the guards wouldn’t look under the broad brim. They might not remember the old man they sent on his way yesterday, but just in case...
“On you go,” a voice said.
The wagon began to move again. Zaqain bumped and jostled as they went through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge. How times had changed. He had passed over countless times through the years amid hails and shouts of welcome, and now he must hide his face.
They rattled across the courtyard, and men in brown and green livery pointed to an area where sacks had been piled high. The king might not tend to the town or roads, but he spared no expense for the festival. Or rather, Trevor did.
Zaqain jumped down and began unloading goods from the wagon. As he lifted sacks and crates, he spied the torch-lit courtyard. He recognized a few men, but none deigned to cast a glance at an old man in tatters unloading wares.
Much later, back and arms trembling with weakness, he stared at the empty wagon.
“Thank you,” came a woman’s voice from behind him.
He spun to face the woman. She smiled. “I really didn’t think you could, or would, help. If you don’t have anywhere else to go, I could use a strong back since my man and boy died.”
“I...I’ll think about it.”
When she turned away, Zaqain faded into the shadows. He went from one dark corner to another until he found himself inside the keep, in a servants’ hallway. Now, he needed to get to the audience chamber.
Fear gripped his insides—those who approached the tallis with any darkness in their hearts did not live. But even if his heart harbored bitterness against his son, he would still find justice. Trevor would oppose him and die as well. His evil control would be shattered. Zaqain shuddered, closing his eyes at the risk, and shook his head. He must concentrate on the present. What should he do now?
He stroked his beard. If only he could clean up first. He grinned as he realized he could.
Several maids gave him wide berth with a look of disgust as he hurried along the passage. Better that they recoil than recognize.
A courtier held out a hand as they neared each other. “What are you doing here?”
Zaqain hesitated, lowering his eyes as a servant would. “I was sent with a message from the head groomsman to Sir Stuart. I was told to use the back way up to his room.”
His nose wrinkled, the man hesitated then nodded. “Best hurry. They will be dining soon, if not already.”
Zaqain bowed, glad he had recognized the knight’s crest on a horse in the courtyard. His hand slid against the cool stone as he walked through the passageways and up flights of stairs toward the royal bedchambers. Which of the ministers had his height and size? Had old Grisham been eliminated during the sweeping changes? Zaqain would soon find out.
Nearing Grisham’s room, he held his breath and glanced up and down the corridor. He opened the door, wincing as it creaked, and stepped into the room. Empty. The air still held the fragrance of scented bathwater. The bed curtains were pulled askew by discarded clothing strewn across the blue satin bedspread. The plumped feather mattress called him invitingly.
He closed the door, stepped across the polished wood floor to a tray by the bed, and wolfed down the half-eaten meat pastry. He snagged the wine bottle and gulped its contents. As he set the vessel down, he chuckled to himself. What manners—once he would have berated someone for such behavior. But then, he had never known true hunger.
The servants would be in soon to empty the tub that had been set by the fireplace, but likely not before eating themselves. Their master would not return for hours, and they knew they had time.
Though murky, the water beckoned Zaqain. He tossed off his filthy clothes and climbed in. He washed quickly but hesitated before shaving. No more masquerades. He might not live long after being seen now, but he would take that chance.
After shaving, he ran his fingers over his jaw and chin as he stared at his reflection in the water. His cheeks were sunken. The eyes staring at him belonged to a sad stranger.
He got out of the tub and dried, then took stock of the clothing in the wardrobe. Definitely Grisham’s. He hesitated, but the old lord would understand why Zaqain borrowed his clothes. The soft materials felt good against his skin although his thinness again became apparent. He had to pull the strings tight on the trews. The boots pinched his toes a bit, but at least he didn’t limp. Several swords hung on pegs. Zaqain grabbed one and belted on the weapon.
Now, how would he get to the audience chamber without being seen and stopped? Again he slipped along back hallways the servants used and made his way down toward that mystic hall. He only passed one maid, and she dutifully lowered her eyes upon seeing his noble raiment, seeming not to recognize him. Luck or providence, Zaqain could not say, but he hurried on.
He stepped into the spacious hall across from his destination and stared at the wide, gilded doors. The guards set their spears toward him then the one’s eyes widened. The other guard peered at Zaqain with a gasp. Both men knelt, heads bowed, murmuring, “Your Grace!”
Zaqain drew his sword. “I seek the tallis. If you oppose me, you will die.”
The guards rose, faces white. The man to the left opened his door. Zaqain glared at the other, and he scrambled to comply as well.
Zaqain strode inside and whirled to face the guards. “Go. Tell the king I am here.”
They bowed.
Zaqain stood still un
til the doors thudded shut. He turned to face the dreaded holy relic, his heart hammering—whoever touched the tallis without a pure heart would die. The mysterious artifact lay nestled within golden leaves atop the low pedestal at the center of the large, circular room. His slow footsteps echoed as he approached the barely glowing orb. He had lied and deceived people to achieve this goal. Gall at his son’s betrayal had blackened his heart. How could he dare think he would succeed?
Soon King Davin would arrive, his ministers with him. And Trevor. He must face him without any hatred or bitterness. No desire for vengeance. He stared at the tallis, battling against these evil feelings he had fought to throw off and sending up a prayer of forgiveness for his dishonesty. He had no time left. The tallis would judge him and find him lacking. Indeed, could any man claim a pure heart?
Zaqain shivered.
= = =
The doors burst open and guards rushed into the chamber, followed by King Davin and his ministers. Zaqain held a hand above the tallis, and the guards halted, fear on their faces. Relief flooded him that the king seemed well and unharmed, although he now walked hunched over, with the aid of a cane. His troubled face indicated all was not well.
But Zaqain did not anticipate his own reaction as he faced the tall, handsome high priest that walked with his liege lord. He remembered his love for his son, and his heart softened, but then he thought of the cliff and his calling, and set his jaw.
Trevor’s face turned red and contorted with rage. “This is some
