"Which court, Lord Gramus?" Rona snarled. "I thought this is the court. Was I mistaken when I chose the men who were supposed to endorse my rule?"
"You know better than anyone else how I have always endorsed you. . . Your Grace," said Gramus.
"As I expect you to endorse me," she insisted, "and your king."
"I didn't swear fealty to any king."
"Not yet. But you will." Rona leaned forward. "And let me be clear about it; this matter is not for discussion. This war will never stop until all regions submit to the King and the Queen of Bermania." She pointed a firm finger at his face. "Kalhom is no exception."
Payton gripped the hilt of his sword, Masolon noticed. She has just named me king. Should I say something to relieve the tension?
All eyes turned to Foubert who pushed to his feet and stood before Masolon. The scrape of his blade against the scabbard silenced everybody as he slowly unsheathed his sword. "My sword for the King of Bermania." Foubert knelt, laying his sword on the floor. "My soldiers will always be your men in the East."
Now it became a matter of fact; Masolon the King of Bermania. Lords and commanders should fall to their knees before him. Deal with it, King Masolon.
Masolon rose up from his seat, holding Foubert's shoulder. "You may rise, Lord Foubert." Masolon looked him in the eye. From the steady look on his square face, Masolon could tell that Foubert meant every word he had just said. Or that was what it seemed.
"This is what we expect from Lord Foubert." Rona gave the veteran lord a faint smile before she turned to Gramus. "I believe the lord of Kalhom will do the same to show his loyalty."
Masolon studied Gramus's face, wondering if Rona's words had drawn the former general's attention to what he was supposed to do now as a lord. As a loyal lord to me; the King of Bermania. Pressing his lips together, Gramus stepped toward Masolon and pulled the massive war axe strapped to his back with one hand. "My blade for the King of Bermania." The towering fellow bent his knee, putting his weapon on the floor next to Foubert's. Just hollow words. Masolon did not sense any conviction in Gramus's impassive voice, yet his display reflected his understanding of the new situation. A victorious smile slipped over Rona's face.
"You may rise, Lord Gramus," said Masolon curtly. Perhaps he should say more hollow words to his loyal vassal on such an occasion, but they were too heavy on his tongue.
"Very well, milords." Rona grinned. "I will send for Lord Jonson to join us when we all swear our oaths before the wedding feast."
The wedding feast! That sounded even more unbelievable than 'King Masolon,' and yet, Rona mentioned it so simply, as if it had happened already.
"Will our soldiers attend that feast?" Foubert asked, looking at both Rona and Masolon.
"A humble reward for the perils they braved for this kingdom." Rona nodded. "Only one thousand soldiers shall stay afterward with the King in Paril, unless His Grace demands more men. The rest have our permission to return home once the feast is over."
"Darov and his cannon stay here," Masolon declared, just in case any of those lords had plans that might involve the Rusakian chemist. The thundermaker should never fall into the wrong hands.
Rona agreed. "Now we have another important matter," she said. "Wilander and Di Galio."
Masolon was sure of what Rona wanted to do with the two men she loathed the most. Why would she seek her council's advice about their fates?
"They shall be executed while blood is still dripping from the blades of our soldiers," Gramus suggested. "Justice must be swift."
"Soldiers fight for us because they have to obey their masters' orders, not because they are interested in the sight of decapitated kings' heads on spikes," Masolon pointed out. "It is the Queen who seeks justice."
"So?" Rona arched an eyebrow. "Does the Queen not deserve swift justice?"
"It is your right, my queen," said Masolon. "But mercy only comes from the mighty."
"When Wilander had the chance, he spared none of my family." Rona chewed her lips. "I have granted him my mercy already when I kept his wife and his elder son alive."
"Which is a big risk, I must say," Gramus put in. "Today Wilander's son is just a boy, but tomorrow he will be a man who claims his father's throne."
Masolon had not abandoned his homeland to become a children's murderer in Gorania. "And what does killing that boy make us?" Masolon asked both Rona and Gramus. "Barbarians?"
"The boy lives then, but my mercy is not endless." Rona exhaled, her hands clasped together. "The sun of tomorrow will shine over the heads of my father's murderer and his wicked dog."
The silence in this room was surprising. Not a lord nodded in approval even. Blast! Are they all in doubt about Wilander’s involvement? Even if they were quite certain of his innocence; when it came to Queen Rona’s revenge, no one would dare to argue with the Queen.
Masolon felt sick of this meeting. "Is there any urgent matter we need to discuss with our loyal lords? They need to rest their bodies and their minds."
"If it pleases you, Your Grace." Rona nodded toward her vassals.
"Long live the King and the Queen." Foubert bowed to Masolon and Rona before he took his leave. Yavier did the same, his voice lower though. As for Gramus, well, he did not utter a word, but before he left the hall he made a slight bow, to say the least.
Rona rose from the throne seat and approached Masolon after her lords had left. "An impressive first meeting, Your Grace." She grinned at him, holding his hand.
"You should have asked me before you make such an announcement." Masolon tilted his head.
"I would have told you what I was going to do, but you were having a sweet nap, Your Grace." Her smile was so alluring that he found himself unable to rebuke her.
"Making a lord of Gramus was a clever move to quench his fury." Masolon leaned toward her. "Still I see him a source of pain in the future."
"Gramus is the least one you should worry about." She tightened her grip on his hand. "He doesn't hide more than what you see from him."
"I have seen enough today."
"I know Gramus better than you do. He wouldn't kneel before you if he didn't want to."
"You have put him in the North, near his Skandivian allies."
"The Skandivians are our allies now." Rona brought her face closer to his, making him sink in her emerald eyes. "Now tell me, what do you want to wear on the wedding day?"
She was distracting him, and he knew it. "It does not matter." He managed a smile. "What matters is what you are going to wear."
"Not that purple dress, I'm afraid." She shook her head, biting her lower lip. He wanted to bite those lips himself, but at the last second he remembered they were still in the throne hall. Guards were still there. Payton was still there.
Masolon lifted her hands up to his lips. "Your Grace." He gave her one last grin before he walked away.
"I will see you in the morning. We have a busy day tomorrow."
Masolon stopped and turned to face her, doubting she would like what she was about to hear. "I am not attending the execution."
She did not expect that; he could tell from her wide eyes. After a moment, she asked, "Why?"
There was no diplomatic answer to explain himself. "I just do not feel like taking part in this." He shrugged.
Putting her hands on her waist, she heaved a deep breath. "How many men did you kill, Masolon?"
"Hundreds, thousands; I can't tell. But I am a warrior, not an assassin. I never killed a man after he surrendered to me."
"What would you do to the ones who killed your family if they surrendered to you?"
Oh, please, Rona. Do not revive that cursed moment. Memories of his last argument with his father flashed across his mind. "I had to be sure it was him in the first place."
"Very well, then," she nervously said. "You don't want to stain your hands with an innocent's blood. Is that it? Fine. Do as you wish. As for me, I have no problem at all in immersing my hands in innocents' blood, especially w
hen these innocent are the likes of Wilander and Di Galio."
Discussing the matter with her was useless. "You think killing them will make you feel better, but mark my words: it will never do." He gave her one last faint smile as he exited the hall.
Masolon gestured to his guards not to follow him. Actually, he was going nowhere. All he wanted was getting away from that damnable hall. A few minutes later, he realized that his legs were taking him toward the dungeon.
The wooden door creaked as the dungeon guards pushed the door open to him. Masolon descended the stone steps until he reached the cells. "Di Galio." The name he uttered was his order to the soldiers downstairs to take him to Wilander's Fox. "Let me in," he demanded, standing by the cell barred door.
"But, milord," a soldier looked hesitant, "we have strict orders—"
"I was the one who gave those strict orders," Masolon put in. "Now open the cursed door."
The guard reluctantly unlocked the squeaky door, and Masolon entered. Sitting on the floor was the most brilliant military commander in Bermania, his back against the floor. He knew when to attack, when to hold, and when to retreat. Even when we thought we cornered him, he turned Paril into an impregnable fortress.
"You are not here to entertain your eyes with my sight, are you?" Di Galio scowled.
"I am here to reassure you that your family is safe. That is all," Masolon said flatly.
"Safe?" Di Galio echoed doubtfully. "In a better cell than mine?"
"They will live." Masolon watched Di Galio's eyes widen. Now the lord in chains knew his fate for certain.
"So. . . this is it." Di Galio let out a deep breath. "This is how it ends."
"The end could have been worse, but Rona chose not to do what you and your master did to her family." Masolon peered at Di Galio. "An eye for an eye."
"If she thinks she has done my family any favor by sparing their lives, then tell her she is demented," Di Galio pouted. "I had nothing to do with her family's tragedy."
"What about Wilander?" Masolon looked him in the eye.
Di Galio stared at Masolon for a moment before he said, "This is what you came for, right? Tell me, what difference does it make now? She is going to execute us anyway."
"You know who killed Charlwood and his family, do you not?"
"Even if I do," Di Galio shook his head, "she will only believe the lie she wants to believe. This is what the war she waged was all about; a lie."
"And you never lied before, I guess," Masolon said scornfully.
"All men lie, but I never lied to myself." Di Galio leaned forward. "What about you, Masolon? Will you lie to yourself after my execution, pretending that justice has been served?"
Talking with Di Galio would only worsen Masolon's muddle. Disappointed, the soon-to-be-king went out of the cell, leaving the fallen lord to his inevitable destiny. "You know it is not right, Masolon," said Di Galio from behind him. "Will you stand helpless, letting the wrong man be killed?"
Masolon found himself chuckling as he stood by the doorstep of the dungeon. "I failed people more worthy than you." Frankil, Antram, and Doly to name a few. "You think I would care?"
17. ANTRAM
The scent of broiled meat made Antram's mouth water the moment he stepped into the tavern. The cook here knew his craft well, he reflected, recalling the platter of salted beef and tomatoes and peas he devoured last week. It tasted better than any meals he had had on the road with his brothers; that was for sure. But such a tasty meal was costly. Yes, his pockets were not short of coin, but they would be if he did not find a way to replenish them.
The tavern was the biggest in Lapond, yet most of the tables were unoccupied. Everywhere in Bermania is touched by the curse of war. War meant unsafe roads. Unsafe roads meant fewer merchants and travelers in the taverns. And owners of less crowded taverns would squeeze your pockets to make the best of your glorious visit to their miserable place in these dark times.
The wooden floor creaked below Antram's feet as he advanced to the counter. "Any news?" he asked the thickset tavern owner.
"So, you are not here today to eat?"
"I will have the same meal I had last week." Not that Antram did not wish to try something new. He just doubted the availability of anything different here.
"We are out of peas. Would you mind if I replace it with onions?"
"They would taste much better."
"Good." The tavern owner motioned him to have a seat. "Be patient until we prepare your lunch."
While he was walking away, Antram called out to him. "What about the earl you told me about? Isn't he still looking for guards?"
"Seems he has already found what he was looking for. His castellan was here a few days ago and he didn't say a word about it." The cook disappeared into his kitchen.
How funny the games of destiny were! Becoming a guard was not something he was dying for. He never wanted it in the first place. It was just the least worst option available, if it was available in the first place.
Was his decision to desert Frankil and the brothers a bit rushed? Perhaps it was. But he was tired of that endless wandering, tired of the roofless nights, tired of Masolon and the trouble he always dragged them in. A good fellow, yet too reckless, too stubborn. Life had been much simpler before Antram met him in the Contest of Inabol two years ago. Now because of the raging war tearing the kingdom apart, Antram could not return to his previous life as a Contest fighter any time soon. With the rumors of the troops the southern lords were amassing, it did not seem likely for a Contest to be held in any Bermanian city.
Perhaps I should become a fisherman in Skandivia or a blacksmith in Byzonta. The idea was not as queer as it seemed to him at first glance. Murase and Mankola were on the brink of another war against each other. Rusakia's freezing weather, especially now, was too harsh for him to endure. The girls there are less harsh though. . .
More visitors were coming to the tavern today; Antram heard the clamor of horses and their riders outside. Shortly, a short man with a familiar face stepped into the place, hair black and heavy.
"Kuslov?" Antram exclaimed.
"What can I say?" The Rusakian tracker gave him a crooked smile. "Gorania is but a small village."
Antram would agree with anybody about that, but not with the best tracker in Gorania. "You never find anybody by coincidence, do you?"
Antram's hand reached for the hilt of his sword when that scar-faced bald fellow came in, shoulders broad, eyes silver. "That is Anvil, a friend of mine." Kuslov turned to his silver-eyed friend. "Anvil, meet Antram."
The brief introduction did not soothe Antram's tension though. "What on earth is going on, Kuslov?" He tightened his grip on his sword. "What is that Anvil doing with you?"
"He is a friend, I said." Kuslov gestured with both hands as he slowly approached him. "Calm down now and let's have a drink together." He called out to a serving girl. "Three flagons of black wine." He turned to Antram. "It is the best anything you can have here."
Not a coincidence for sure, Antram thought. "So, you have come here before."
"Looking for you, yes." Kuslov smirked. "That's what I do for a living, young man."
"You were looking for me," Antram glanced at Kuslov's scar-faced friend, "for him?"
Anvil's face was impassive as Kuslov said, "He has a better deal than the one you want for yourself."
"You don't know what I want."
"But you do, right?"
Antram tried to figure out an answer while the serving girl was placing three full flagons on the table.
"That is what I thought," Kuslov went on as he took a sip of his drink. "But you know what? You did the right thing when you started to look for your own path. Why would you follow while you could lead?"
Antram could not infer what Kuslov was hinting at. "You say he has a better deal for me, and yet I hear nothing but gibberish."
Kuslov exchanged a look with Anvil before the latter said curtly, "My king insists that he discusses the matt
er with you in person."
His king? Why would Wilander be interested to talk to a nobody like Antram in the first place? Something was not right. It is a trap, but why? Who would benefit from trapping me?
"Listen, both of you." Antram glowered at Kuslov and his friend. "I have been traveling for weeks from Kalensi to Lapond then Herlog and back to Lapond again. So, I suggest you make more sense to persuade me to make another long journey to Paril in the West. Is that clear?"
"What about a journey to the South?" Kuslov smiled crookedly.
"The South?" Antram echoed, confused. "But your friend said..."
"His king? Seems you are not aware of what is going on in your country, young man." Kuslov sneered. "The Bermanian lion has two heads now."
18. MASOLON
Through the open window of Masolon's chamber, a ray of sunlight fell on the map he spread on the oak table. Paril needed more protection, he reflected. The nearest two castles to the great Bermanian city were Subrel at the east and Taloda at the southeast. The walls of the first one were almost razed to the ground, and the second fort lay in Augarin, which was ruled by Daval. Even if Masolon repaired the walls of Subrel or captured Taloda, both forts were still too far to defend the Jewel of Bermania.
"Masolon? What are you doing here?" Ziyad entered the chamber. Masolon had sent a page to fetch him. "Queen Rona and all her men must have reached the city plaza."
"What I am doing now is more important than watching severed heads."
"I must strongly disagree with you," said Ziyad. "You are allowing your rivals to outrun you. You are sitting here, while Foubert, Gramus, and Payton are accompanying Rona, filling her head with their gibberish."
"So?" Masolon shrugged carelessly.
"You are in a nest of serpents, brother." Ziyad leaned forward. "Those men may have fought on the same side before, but starting from now, everyone will seize every single chance to stab the others in the back. And you will be no exception."
"Let them do their best, then." Masolon had not told his friend about his big news yet.
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