"No, Your Grace, you shouldn't be doing that yourself." Foubert waved with both hands.
"You are in my place, good man. Let me entertain you."
"Seriously no need, Your Grace," Foubert insisted.
"As you wish." Masolon left the chalices on the table and sat opposite to Foubert. "After dinner maybe."
"That's so generous of you, Your Grace." Foubert pressed his lips together.
Masolon studied his vassal's face. "What is it?"
Foubert sighed. "I was told we were going to start our march to Augarin when the cannons arrive from Paril."
"That is right."
"May I ask why we are not starting with what is closer to us?" Foubert was referring to Lapond, where his son was still imprisoned, Masolon knew.
"Lapond will kneel to us when we crush Daval's stronghold in the South."
"We need all our men to win this war. Hundreds of our finest warriors are still in the dungeons of Lapond."
"Seven thousand men and ten cannons are enough to raze Augarin to the ground."
"Why would we even do that? Augarin has always been our shield in the South against the Byzonts attacks."
The veteran lord had a point. Masolon had not put those Byzonts into consideration when he had promised to burn Augarin into ashes. "It is a painful decision, I know. But they left me no choice. Were you not told how they responded to my peace offering?"
"I didn't read the message you wrote to them, Your Grace, but I believe you offended them with your offering. You left Daval no choice when you asked him to choose between living in a dungeon and dying in battle."
"I should not have given him a damnable choice in the first place." Masolon bared his teeth. "That bastard does not even deserve to live in a rotten dungeon. I swear he will pay for answering my generosity with an insult."
"I'm afraid others will pay as well."
"We are past discussing this subject, Lord Foubert. All southerners shall pay for swearing fealty to a usurper."
Foubert looked down for a moment. "What about my son?"
I knew it. All this gibberish is not for the cursed southerners. He is here for his son. "Yavier and all his men will be freed, no question about that. But first, their captors must learn to obey their king. They must see the consequences of not accepting their king's terms."
Foubert was not content with what he was listening to, Masolon could tell.
"Would you do the same if it was your son behind the bars, not mine?" Foubert frowned.
They were all losing their minds when it came to their sons, even if they were not born yet as in Antram's tragedy. How far would Foubert go?
"I would do what my king commands me to do, as long as he assures me that my son is going to be safe." Masolon looked Foubert in the eye.
"Of course," Foubert impassively said. "This is exactly what I did as a loyal servant of my King. I didn't take my men to storm Lapond because my King commanded me to join his awaiting forces in Ramos."
He does not mean what he says. The notion annoyed Masolon. Was he losing his most capable vassal at the moment? And even if that was true, the King would not take his orders back.
When Ben announced that the dining hall was ready, Masolon walked Foubert to join his table with the other awaiting lords and commanders. They all greeted their king with wide smiles that Masolon knew were false. They smiled to him only because they had to, and he dined with them because it was part of being a king. The golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling was no match for the sight of the clear, dark-blue Murasen sky lit by moonlight. The jests he heard in this hall made him laugh, but never touched his heart. He preferred those told by Ziyad, Antram mocking him, Frankil curling his lip in disdain. Things could have been different if his two stubborn fellows had accepted to join him. Frankil could have been his general instead of Edmond, and Antram could have taken Gramus's seat in Kalhom. But that was part of the games of destiny; you could not get everything you wanted. Masolon should be thankful for the price he had paid to have Rona. . . and a throne.
Foubert had barely spoken to anybody since the start of this gathering. Jonson, who sat next to him, asked about the news of Lapond, but the Duke of the East replied with brief statements, and sometimes with a nod. Your son would not be in prison if he was not given what was not his in the first place, Masolon wanted to tell Foubert, his firm grip almost breaking the wooden arm of his seat. I should have sacked him from the lordship of Lapond and given the lord's seat to Antram, son of Aurel, the rightful ruler of these lands. After a second thought, Masolon chose to ignore the frowning lord to avoid any probable argument with him. One provoking reply from Foubert might end up with Masolon sacking the Duke of the East himself. At this very table sat a dozen lordlings who could only dream of ruling Foubert's fiefs.
"May I speak, Your Grace?" Gramus raised his hand. Only now, Masolon realized he had not heard his voice in a while, as the Lord of Kalhom never took part in pointless prattle. Despite the lack of affection between the two of them, Masolon bore a bit of respect to the warrior side of Gramus. He was like him, born to wield a sword and take lives, not to rule. Both of them would never be in their seats if it were not for Rona.
"Please, Lord Gramus." Masolon gave him an inviting gesture.
"Our soldiers are idle here, waiting for the cannons to come from Paril, while our enemy in Augarin is regrouping and receiving help from every southern town and village," Gramus said. "I say we march south and raid these towns and villages, forcing Daval to choose between waiting for us in his fortress—and hence isolating himself from the rest of the South—and sallying forth to face us in the open."
Not bad. Masolon grinned, resisting his habit of teasing Gramus every time he spoke. At least he was the only one in this hall to propose something useful.
Silence reigned over the place, all eyes staring at Masolon who leaned back in his seat. On their faces, he could see the anticipation of the next usual argument between their king and Gramus. But no, not today. "What do you think, Lord Jonson?" Masolon rested his elbow on the left arm of his seat.
Jonson leaned forward. "It could be a good idea, Your Grace, but this means splitting our forces to spare a few hundred men at least to guard the cannons. What if Daval decides to face us in the open before their arrival."
"I believe it is General Edmond who should answer this." Masolon looked at his general. "Can we still defeat Daval if we take five hundred men away to guard the cannons?"
"We can, Your Grace," Edmond confidently said. "We still have four cannons with us."
"Good. You lead our army tomorrow in the march to the South." Masolon pointed at Edmond. "Lord Jonson and I will stay here with five hundred soldiers until the arrival of the new cannons."
Jonson looked a bit surprised. He leaned toward Masolon, lowering his voice as he said, "We're not accustomed to seeing you away from the battlefield, Your Grace."
"I have some unfinished business here." No one would understand why a king would be so concerned about training his squire.
Taking Ben with him, Masolon was the first to exit the dining hall, leaving his men to resume their gabble. "Sleep well tonight. Tomorrow we will be sparring the whole day," he told Ben as they strode through the corridor.
"Is that what you are staying in Ramos for? Sparring with me?" Ben asked, his voice betraying his disapproval.
"This could be my only chance to teach you everything."
"I'm done with this war, Masolon. I will not fight with an army that raids villages and kills innocent peasants." The lad's eyes glowed in fury.
"They were innocent peasants until they joined the southern usurper and became his soldiers."
Ben stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. "I still cannot believe you are the same man who taught me to stand for the helpless."
"I did the right thing in Herlog as a warrior. Now I do the right thing as a king."
"The right thing never changes, Masolon." Ben gnashed his teeth. "You're just fool
ing yourself with frail justifications."
His apprentice's words hurt him like a whiplash on his back. I would say the same if I were you.
"Listen, Ben." Masolon let out a deep breath of air. "There is no turning back from the path I am on now. I have a wife and a babe to protect. And to protect them, I must protect this cursed throne. Have you not heard about what the victors do to the losers and their families? Have you not heard about the tragic ends of great houses like the Charlwoods and the Antrams? This will never happen to my family, Ben. Not to my sons, not to my sons' sons, not to any generation of my descendants."
"Alright then." Ben shrugged. "You do what is right for your family, and I do what is right me. Tomorrow I will be leaving to Herlog."
"If I let you leave to Herlog, my soldiers will arrest you for deserting the army. You deserve a much better fate than that."
"Like what? Dying as a martyr in the battlefield, defending the Bermanian soil?" Ben gave him a scornful smile.
"No. I want you to adopt the path I deviated from. When I am done readying you, you will leave the cursed Bermanian lands to find Frankil. Find him and resurrect the Warriors' Gang with him."
Ben was stunned for a while. "I never even thought of leaving the village I was born in. Why don't I resurrect that Gang here?"
Why, Ben? Why do you not just say yes? Masolon wondered. That lad could be his only hope to rest his troubled soul. He was not ready for any more of Frankil and Ziyad's visits in his sleep.
"If staying here is what you want, then you have no option." Masolon wagged a firm finger. "You will fight this war with me until its end."
Putting his hands on his waist, Ben thought for a moment. "No, that's not true. I do have an option. Return me to the city garrison. While you fight your bloody war in the South, I'll be guarding the walls and streets of Ramos."
A smile slipped over Masolon's face. "It is the Ramosi girl who you want to guard, is it not?"
"I didn't think about that," Ben denied. "But why not?"
Masolon stopped as he reached his chamber. "Do not stay awake thinking of her, I am warning you. You will need all your strength tomorrow."
He closed the door, leaving Ben outside. The crown was the first thing he got rid of. The chalices, still empty, reminded him of his conversation with his disgruntled vassal. Would you do the same if it was your son? In fact, Masolon would have done worse, but he had said what he should have said. I did the right thing as a King.
Tonight he could sleep well. A feeling of satisfaction overwhelmed him, and Ben was the reason. Though there was still a long way ahead to make a real warrior of this lad, starting the path itself was a source of long-lost peace. And whether Ben joined Frankil or stayed in his village, it did not matter, Masolon realized. All that mattered was the innocent souls Ben would save in the near future. Those souls would be Masolon's salvation.
His eyelids got heavy as he laid his head on the pillow. Too much work with Ben was waiting for him in the coming days. His swordplay, his foot movement, his stamina, fighting with two swords, fighting with a sword and a shield; all these are things he needs to improve or learn. Maybe I should. . .
The door knocks interrupted his thoughts. "An urgent message from Paril, Your Grace," announced Ben from outside.
Rona! Alarmed, Masolon's eyes were open. He found himself on his feet, hurrying to the door to take the message from his squire. His nervous fingers almost ripped the envelope when he broke the seal. Rona's seal. What had happened to his, the one he had given Ziyad the authority to use on royal letters? It seemed that his stubborn wife was not able to rest her mind and body as they had both agreed. He knew she would not abide by his rules.
"Blast!" Masolon snarled.
"Bad news?" Ben looked curious.
"The worst." Masolon gave the letter one more look, hoping he had not read it right in the first time, but unfortunately, the news was true. "The cannons workshop is destroyed." He shook his head. "With Darov and his apprentices inside."
48. RONA
Payton was waiting for her at the courtyard next to her carriage. "I beg you, Your Grace." He stood in her way, leaning forward. "There is no need for your presence. Your advisors will be speaking on your behalf."
"The people of Paril must know that their queen is not hiding behind the walls of her royal palace," Rona firmly said.
"Isn't burning those culprits alive in the Big Plaza in front of everybody enough to warn anyone who might think of breaking the order?"
"Do you have a problem about protecting your queen, Captain Payton?" Usually, she did not use his title to address him, but she believed he needed to be reminded of his duty.
"No." He sighed. "But I won't overlook any chance of making you safer."
"Hiding me behind the walls won't make me safer." She gnashed her teeth. "Those cursed walls didn't stop them from breaking into my palace."
"I told you we shouldn't have taken guards from the palace, Your Grace. We know our mistake, and it will never happen again."
"It will never happen when every Bermanian watches and hears about the consequences. Now move, Captain." She glared at him.
Making way for his queen to ride her carriage, Payton hurried to his horse.
The royal convoy moved. Through the side window of her wagon, Rona watched the forbidden streets of her city. The royal palace had been her prison since she last saw Masolon ahorse waving to her before he rode with his troops. Everyone in the palace warned her from going past the gates for any reason—most probably they were afraid of disobeying their king's firm instructions—and indeed she was a bit worried about it, but not anymore. Not after a bunch of wretches had dared to break into the royal residence and make all that mess in it. Her fingers did not stop tapping on the edge of her side window as she remembered that night when she woke up terrified upon hearing a huge explosion, everybody in the palace hurrying to the blasted workshop with water buckets, but it was too late. The monstrous fire had devoured everybody and everything trapped inside the building. The Rusakian cannon maker and his students were history now.
Payton's men had caught two intruders and thrown them in the dungeons until they were done burying the charred corpses the next morning. One of the corpses did not belong to Darov's apprentices though. Infuriated by the incident, Rona had insisted on interrogating the two prisoners in person, and that was when she had learned why they had been here. For some damned reason, they had believed that gold was required to build the thundermakers, not to buy provisions or pay for workers, but as one of the cannon components, and hence, a decent amount of gold must be kept there in the cannons workshop—decent enough to feed the intruders and their children. Everyone commits a crime and blames his children for it. She had hoped the man who had stolen from the tailors' shop would be the last, but that was the beginning, it seemed. Ziyad was right. She was inviting her people to steal because their merciful queen would never harm them or their children. But she had never imagined they might steal from her palace.
The two surviving intruders swore they had come only to steal, not to destroy. Yes, one of them had been trapped inside the charred building, and most probably, he had caused that explosion somehow. "When they saw us, we hurried to the door and he was behind us," one of the intruders had told her, "all we remember is the horrifying sound of thunder, the heat burning our backs."
Two columns of knights shielded each side of her carriage as the convoy reached the Big Plaza. "Make way for the Queen!" Payton, riding at the front, bellowed at the crowd standing in the way of the royal convoy. Too much crowd for those two wretches, she thought to herself. Had all those people come to watch, or to protest?
Ziyad was in her reception when she came out of the carriage. Surrounded by her guards, he walked her to the dais set for her as she had requested.
"This might be harder than I thought." The Murasen gazed at the clamoring crowd. "Your audience looks not so friendly."
She kept her eyes fixed on the dais ahead, b
ut she could hear their angry murmur. Who were they angry at? Her? Or the two culprits? Maybe both. "That was your idea, right?" she reminded him.
"Right." Ziyad took a deep breath. "But now I realize that your people see you only when you execute somebody. They have never seen your good side."
"They've never given me a chance to show them this good side."
"Maybe. But today you have one."
Rona tried to guess what chance he meant. "No way. I will never give those rascals a royal pardon."
"Who said anything about the rascals? You see these people with mournful eyes.” He gazed at the crowd. “Apprentices' families; you can never undo their tragedy, but you can try to alleviate their pain."
"Alleviate their pain," she echoed, weighing his suggestion. Maybe Masolon's friend was not a bad advisor after all.
Idgard hurried to her as she ascended the dais. "My queen." He bowed. "You make this solemn procedure a real pleasure by joining us."
Is that the best you can do? "I wonder how you find any sort of pleasure in attending an execution, Lord Idgard," she impassively said, the mocking smile on Ziyad's face did not pass unnoticed. "Now if you don't mind, I need to speak to my people."
Idgard looked back at the crowd thronging the plaza before he turned to her. "I strongly recommend we don't provoke them, my queen. Especially today."
"And what's special about today?"
"They. . . I mean. . ." His voice was low when he stammered. "We are so much outnumbered."
"Then, you have my permission to return to the palace if you feel afraid." She was serious about it. There would be no good of his presence if he kept dampening her determination.
"No, my queen. I won't leave you on such an occasion." He must be protecting his pride.
"In this case, you must know that I may provoke them today." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Idgard did not dare to open his mouth once more, and hopefully, until the end of the day. Appointing him as an advisor had been a mistake, she had to admit. Her expectations about the wisdom of someone twice Ziyad's age had been way higher than that.
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