by Jaxon Reed
Stin returned a moment later.
“Found it! I grabbed a few bags of oats, too. Come along, horse.”
He opened the stall door, grabbed an old bridle hanging on the wall and put it over the horse’s head. Then Stin and Kirt led him over to the wagon.
Stin filled the old wagon with bags of stolen oats which he piled on top of their trunks. They rode out of the stables with Stin wearing a dung shoveler’s cloak, and Kirt wrapped in an old blanket. They rounded the first bend and headed for the city gate just as the stable master returned from his break.
A line formed at the gate, each person and wagon inspected closely by the Ruby Royal Guard. Several walked around carrying the broadsheet with Stin’s likeness on it. Stin guided the old horse to the back of the line, then jumped out. He reached down to a mud puddle and grabbed a handful of muck. Jumping back into the wagon, he added to the filth on the shoveler’s cloak, and patted some mud on his face as well. For good measure, he smeared some on Kirt, too.
The line progressed slowly, as each group of people or wagon was thoroughly searched before allowed to exit.
After several minutes, some large covered wagons pulled in behind them. Stin looked back at the group, then turned and smiled at Kirt.
“This is our lucky day. That merchant’s caravan behind us is our ticket out of here.”
They progressed slowly toward the gate as the people and wagons in front of them were inspected. The closer they came to the front of the line, the worse Stin looked. He slumped in the driver’s seat. He smeared more muck on his face. His expression became more and more pitiful.
At last the wagon in front of them was cleared, and they moved forward to be inspected. Half a dozen guards faced them, all with sour expressions on their faces. No doubt the added pressure of their current assignment contributed to their moods, Stin thought.
He beckoned the captain over, a stout fellow standing a good six and a half paces tall. Mid-thirties, Stin reckoned. Light brown hair cropped close to his skull in a soldier’s cut.
In a crackled, old man’s voice, Stin said, “I don’t mean to be nosy, sirrah, and ’tain’t none my concern nohow, but methinks the merchants behinds us are smugglers!”
“Yeah? And what makes you think that, pappy?”
“I seen them pick up a feller jest before we all gots in line. He handed them some coins and they took him right inside that there covered wagon! Well, it coulda been that wagon. I don’t rightly recollect which wagon the feller hid in.”
“That sounds like the one we’re looking for!”
The captain turned to his men and signaled. They all drew their swords and walked back toward the caravan.
Stin lightly snapped the reins, and the old horse walked forward, taking them through the gate and out of the city.
Half a mile later, Kirt dared to crane his neck and look back behind them. No one came out of the city gate. All traffic leading out seemed to be at a standstill.
“Don’t you think they’ll figure out your trick and come after us?”
“Nah. Ever been inside a merchant’s wagon? They’re full of places to hide. And I counted seven in the caravan. They’ll go through each and every one, probably several times over. There’ll be offers of bribes to make them go away, followed by suspicion that the bribes are helping hide something or someone. Guards hate merchants, and the feeling is mutual. The wagons will be searched again. It might be nightfall before they finally let the merchants go, and only then will somebody think about looking for us, if they even bother to remember we were the ones to stoke their suspicions.
“I told you, that caravan was our ticket to freedom.”
Stin leaned back in the driver’s seat, letting the horse find his own way down the road.
“Wake me up at the first crossroads. We need to go right.”
Endrick tried not to squirm. The artisans who made his throne, carved from a huge chunk of emerald from the deepest and richest mine of the kingdom hundreds of years ago, had no consideration for comfort. The back went straight down, and the seat stuck straight out. The arm rests were too high, as if built for a much larger man.
Endrick shifted the pressure from one buttock to another, and tried to mask the discomfort on his face.
He loved being king. He loved the power the position brought him. He loved being lauded by his subjects. He loved making grand entrances and seeing everyone in the room bow down before him.
But he loathed the day to day administration of the kingdom, the long hours sitting on the throne and passing judgments.
This morning had been particularly wearisome, as he listened to three hours of petitions to his court. They had involved disputes over land, arguments between merchants and farmers, the need for additional funding for roads and bridges, and on and on and on.
He cared little which way most rulings came down. If a particular landowner was suspected of moving a boundary marker, it affected him not the slightest. So he often ruled for his favorite courtiers, those who had proven themselves particularly obsequious or had offered exceptional bribes to the crown over the years.
In his mind, things would go much more expeditiously if the courtiers simply presented themselves to the throne, and he would rule on the spot for his favorites, without having to go through the rigmarole of hearing both sides. But Darkstone would not allow it, insisting traditions be kept and royal appearances maintained. So, many hours out of the mornings of many days were spent listening to petitions and rendering rulings and judgments.
The richly dressed farmer in front of him wrapped up his speech.
“And so you see, Your Majesty, we must have a proportional tax on grain. Since your first year on the throne, the fields have produced less and less while the royal tax has remained the same, measured in a set number of barrels. At first this amounted to a relatively small portion of grain produced throughout the land. But as the years passed, and through droughts, infestations, and poor crops, the barrels of grain we send to the crown has in many cases passed two-thirds of the total yield.
“If we could be allowed to send a proportional amount of our grain to Kathar, then . . .”
Endrick held up his hand, bringing the speech to a stop.
“The Council of Farmers is almost as bad as the Council of Merchants. My answer is the same as it was last year. No. All farmers will continue to send in the same amount of grain. How do you expect to feed my armies and other subjects in the cities if you keep all the grain, the ‘proportion’ you speak of, out in the farms?”
“Your Majesty, if we cannot feed ourselves, we cannot harvest the grain!”
“Enough! My answer is the same this year, and it will be same next year if you approach me with this request again. You may leave.”
The farmer left with his head hung low. Endrick snorted in derision. Farmers and merchants, always trying to tell him how they needed to be taxed less so they could produce more. Such nonsense.
At long last, the final item on the day’s agenda approached. Before the doors to the throne room opened to bring forward the petitioners, a small side door opened and Darkstone walked in. He climbed the dais, and stood respectfully to the right of the throne.
Endrick swallowed down his irritation. The throne was the highest object in the room. When Endrick sat on the throne, he remained above the eye level of everyone else. But when Darkstone stood to his right, his eyes were above the seated Endrick. To look at the wizard, the king had to turn to his right and look up. For everyone else in the room, Endrick’s eyes were now at the second highest level.
There was nothing Endrick could do about it. Darkstone had placed him on the Emerald Throne, and Darkstone could stand to one side whenever he wanted to, subtly demonstrating to all present who was superior.
Endrick sighed in annoyance, but also in relief that the morning’s drudgery neared closure.
“Send in the final one,” he said to the doorman.
The doors opened, and the King’s Guard
brought in a man shackled and chained. He wore leather sandals, and a peasant’s robe of unbleached cotton girded by a leather belt. His hair fell below the shoulders, and his beard fell to his chest. He looked and smelled as if he had not bathed in a couple weeks, and Endrick suspected the prisoner must have spent no small amount of time in the royal dungeon.
The captain of the guard bowed, and his men followed suit. One of them cuffed the prisoner on the chin when he didn’t bend quickly enough.
“Your Majesty, this man claims to be a prophet, and has been making vile accusations against you and your rule.”
Endrick looked down at the bright-eyed, dirty peasant. He stared back up at the king and the wizard, completely unafraid. That was a common attribute among prophets, Endrick knew. They were often unafraid, even at the point of death.
“What’s your name?”
“Jostin, Your Majesty.”
“What stories have you been spreading, Jostin?”
Jostin looked around at the courtroom, at the guards and courtiers and scattered nobles present.
No doubt the fool is more used to speaking around herders’ campfires than throne rooms, Endrick thought.
Finally, the prophet took a deep breath, and began.
“There was a man who owned a vineyard. He and his family loved the vineyard, and took well care of it and the workers. But a relative was jealous of the man, and coveted the land. So his relative murdered the man and his family, and took over the vineyard by force.
“But the Creator saw what the relative had done, and He withheld his blessings from the vineyard, causing the land and all the workers to suffer.”
Anger and irritation stirred within Endrick.
“I know what you’re saying. The vineyard is the Emerald Kingdom. My cousin Tren was the owner, and I am the relative. Many have spread this falsehood, and many have been put to death for repeating it.
“But you, you claim to be a prophet. A true prophet speaks words from the Creator to us. A true prophet does not revel in magic, but accurately foretells the future and speaks the very words of God.
“Come now, Jostin. Tell us the future. Remember, the penalty in the Holy Scriptures for false prophecy is death.”
Jostin stared back at the king, and again Endrick noted he seemed completely unafraid, even with Darkstone standing beside the throne.
“King Endrick and Wizard Darkstone, this is what the Lord Creator says. The Creator’s servant saved the vineyard owner’s son, hiding him, raising him in secret and safety. At the appointed time, the owner’s son will reappear, taking back the vineyard that is rightfully his, bringing justice to the land and regaining the Creator’s favor for all of Emerald!”
Endrick and Darkstone exploded in rage. Darkstone made a quick throwing motion with his hand and a flurry of blades appeared in the air. They flew out toward Jostin, decapitating him in an instant. The prophet’s body slumped to the floor. His head rolled to the base of the dais.
Stunned silence settled over the throne room. The guards looked up at the king in shock. They stood covered in splattered blood.
Endrick found himself standing. He sat back down on the throne, took a deep breath to control himself, and waved his hand in dismissal.
“Get him out of here. Somebody clean up the mess.”
He turned to the court scribe who looked at him and the wizard nervously, sitting at his desk in the corner, quill in hand.
“Record what happened to the false prophet Jostin. Write a decree to be recorded on broadsheets placed throughout the land. ‘False prophets will not be tolerated, and those found giving and listening to false prophecies will meet swift death from the king’s hand.’”
The scribe nodded, made a half bow in his seat, and quickly began scribbling with his quill.
The captain ordered two of his men to carry Jostin’s lifeless body out of the courtroom. Another picked up the prophet’s head by the hair. They left a trail of blood all the way out the door.
The sun dipped low in the sky when Kirt spied the crossroads in the distance. He shook Stin’s shoulder, waking him. Stin stretched and rubbed sleep from his eyes. He pointed toward some campfires in the distance.
“Breakfast was a long time ago. How about we get some supper from one of the camps?”
Kirt nodded enthusiastically. He could not remember having two good meals in one day, and he found the idea attractive.
“Best not to go in unarmed. Let me find that dagger.”
Stin reached back in the wagon and rummaged through his trunk for a moment until he found the ornate blade taken from the Duchess’s library. He tucked it between some folds in his tunic.
“Stop here, I’ve got to find something to trade for our supper.”
Kirt pulled the old horse’s reins and he stopped, dutifully. Like Kirt, the animal had never left the city, and he found the sights and smells of the countryside novel and exciting. He snorted loudly and looked with longing at the green grass on the side of the road.
Stin jumped off the wagon, and paced back and forth on the road until he found a small rock. He climbed in the wagon, spat on the rock and rubbed it dry with his tunic, then dropped it in a pocket.
Kirt gave him a questioning look, but Stin motioned toward the camps.
“Let’s go.”
Kirt shrugged and gently snapped the reins.
Soon they pulled up to the crossroads. A caravan camped on the right side of the road, and a couple of farmers traveling together camped on the left. Looking them over, Stin decided to go with the caravan. The drivers were all burly men who doubled as guards. Five of them sat around a big pot simmering over a fire.
Stin had Kirt pull the brake, and he retrieved one of the bag of oats for the old horse. Once they had taken care of everything, they approached the men.
“God’s best to you!”
The drivers murmured an appropriate reply, looking at them suspiciously.
“I was hoping my son and I might share some of your food.”
One of the men, big and hefty like the others, was first to respond. He had dark brown skin, close-cropped hair in the fashion of soldiers, and a pale scar running down his cheek from some past knife fight.
“What do you have to share?”
The man sitting to his right popped his shoulder.
“Be nice, Stumpy. It’s always good to feed fellow travelers when ye can.”
Kirt looked down, and saw the man had a wooden peg sticking out from his trousers. He made a logical conclusion as to where Stumpy got his name.
“Sure, yer the cook, and it’s yer call if you think we’ve enough fer two more. But it’s also good fer fellow travelers to share what they gots, too.”
The sun dipped very low, its top rays spreading long shadows. Stin moved forward into the firelight, with a confident spring in his step.
“My dear fellows, what I have to offer you this evening is something I am afraid you can but share temporarily until our departure on the morrow. I happen to be very blessed to hold in my possession a magical stone given to me on the chance occasion of meeting with somebody I now believe to have been a faerie princess!
“Yes, this stone that I have been blessed with, that the Creator Himself has seen fit to smile down upon me and arrange fate so that I may come into possession of it, this very stone, my fellow travelers, bears a remarkable magical capability!”
With a flourish, Stin reached into his pocket and pulled out the rock he had picked up off the road moments earlier.
“Here it is, men. This very stone was given to me when I shared a meal with a fair damsel traveling alone on the road to Hightower. It was late at night when I stopped, and I began preparing what little food I had. She stumbled into my firelight, much as I and my son have had the great privilege to stumble into yours tonight. I could tell by looking at her she was fair, and truth be known I doubt I’ve seen her equal in beauty ever since.
“Being a gentleman, I immediately offered her my coat and bade t
he lass sit by the fire to escape the cold. I saw her eyeing my meal, and I offered her that as well. It seemed the least I could do. I was willing to go hungry for a night if only to be allowed to gaze on her wondrous beauty a few moments longer.
“After she ate all my food, she seemed revived, and thanked me generously. Then she pulled out this stone, this very stone you see before you, and offered it me.
“She said, ‘Whatever this is placed in, baked, boiled or grilled, it will make the food taste better.’ I smiled and took the little stone, thinking perhaps she might be daft. But I am a gentleman, and I thanked her. Then she disappeared in the night.
“The following morning I walked a couple hours until I came to an inn. They still had some porridge left for breakfast, and I bought a bowl from the innkeeper. Recalling what the damsel told me the night before, and thinking I had naught to lose, I dropped this little stone into the porridge, and took my first spoonful.
“My dear fellows! Imagine my surprise when I tasted the best porridge of my life! Ever since then, at whatever meal I sit down to, I simple place the stone in the food, and it tastes delightful. I’ve baked it in cakes, and they were the best anyone has had. I’ve baked it in bread, I’ve placed it in chickens on the fire. I’ve placed this stone in countless dishes, and they have all become the absolute, very best portions of food I or anyone partaking has ever imbibed! It even makes a bottle of wine taste better.
“And now, fellow travelers, I offer my magical stone to you. If you will but allow me to place it in the pot of stew your cook is preparing, why it will be the best stew he’s ever made! In return, I merely ask you allow my boy and myself to have a bowl as well.”
When he finished, the men stared at him for a long moment.
Then they burst out in laughter.
One of them said, “A magic stone! Ay Stumpy, you ever hear of a tastin’ stone?”
Stumpy held his stomach while belting out laughs. He wiped tears from his eyes and said, “From a faerie princess!”
The men burst out in laughter again.
