Fire and Thorn

by Mary Vee

It was a constant annoying blend of irritating relentless sounds echoing off the wall.

  Chit.Chit.

  His head echoed the sound even more. “Anyone there?”

  Hiss. Hiss.

  He dragged himself to a sitting position by pulling on the rail. Air squeezed into his lungs. It had a pungent stench. He rubbed his ankle then his arm. Pain burned through his toes on up to his head.

  He’d rot in this dark space before someone heard him. The trainer had told the squires about a day that would come when no one would be there to rescue them. They’d have to rely fully on their training, their mind, and the use of their skills.

  He scooted toward the wall, biting through the pain. His ankle and leg throbbed, pulsing with each heartbeat. He swiped his hand along the surface to the left then the right but found no signs of a door. Great. The next time the bright idea to explore came, he vowed to take a torch, healing herbs, food, water, horse, map, crutches, servants, and weapons.

  He scooted back towards the stairs, and through the great agony, he slithered down one step at a time on his backside. The chattering noises resonated louder. At one point he took a break. That was when he identified the sound. Creatures of some sort scurried about farther down. Most likely rats.

  He hated rats. Nasty, smelly, disgusting creatures.

  He pulled himself to a stand. Searing fire shot up his leg. He squeezed the rail and found his balance. Those vermin would end up squished before he’d let one scamper up his back. The idea alone brought a chilling shudder.

  Step by step. Inch by inch. He maneuvered down, unsure how many more steps there were. After descending ten, he massaged his arm and ankle. If only people-sounds seeped through the other side of the wall he’d bang out a distress call.

  He hobbled down the next step and the next, convinced specks of light would have to bleed through the edges of a door at some point. Pressing weight on his ankle hurt terribly, still, he limped forward and pressed his hands against a large, flat surface. Sweat poured down his forehead as he swiped the wall to the left and right, searching for a door release. Stifling air hurt when he took a breath.

  The walls seemed to close in on him. Restlessness and panic strangled him like a caged animal. He must find the way of escape.

  He balled one fist and banged on the wall with his good arm. Silence. He turned back to the stairs unsure what to do. When the squires struggled with a task, the trainer always said, “Be strong. You may not win, but you must always try.”

  He reached for the handrail and followed it around, disappointed to find more stairs. It seemed this stairway would go on forever, leading to a very hot place deep in the earth.

  Step by step.

  Inch by inch he limped. Moving forward. Searching for the way to escape.

  The next landing felt different on the bottom of his shoes. He slid his foot across soft dirt and lumps. Squishy lumps. Still, lifeless vermin splattered under every step.

  Using the wall to feel his way, he wobbled three steps forward on uneven surface. Small creatures crawled over his feet, screeching and squawking, clawing at his shoes. In great agony, he kicked his right leg, hurling some away. He shook his left leg, tossing more pests away.

  He searched the wall for a release.

  Rats returned, piling onto his shoes, climbing over each other higher up his legs. Gilbert shook his foot again and kicked them, but they kept coming back. A few clung to his clothes. He reached down and batted at them.

  His pleas for someone to open a door brought no response.

  He frantically pressed his hands against the wall and sensed a slight difference in texture. A metallic circular surface. Rats tumbled over his shoes, screeching louder. They towered up his legs climbing to his knees. He slammed his hand against the metal button.

  A wall panel shifted to the right. The vermin scurried down his legs, off his shoes, and out the door. He stared in disbelief. In front of him was a corridor, not the outside.

  Gilbert clapped his hand over his nose to ease the musty stench sweeping in the stairway. He stepped out of the torture tower into the corridor. A rank odor, stinking far worse than the stables, forced him to hold his breath. Distant voices and clanging revealed he’d entered the catacombs under the castle. He stepped forward on the earthen floor.

  Gilbert looked back at the secret passage as the door slid shut on its own and wondered who had knowingly sneaked into the castle through this staircase, and did they have anything to do with his father’s death.

  Chapter Seven

  Gilbert had never been to the lowest levels of the castle. His protectors wouldn’t allow it. Supplies and servants like laundry workers possibly came and went through exterior entries down here, although he wasn’t sure. He limped along the corridor searching for an exit and pressed his ear against the first door.

  Two male voices came from inside. “The kingdom will fall apart as planned.”

  He backed away and hobbled to the next door. There was no sound. He pushed the handle an inch and peered inside before entering then quietly pushed the door closed.

  Spears, crossbows, all the best weapons lined the walls and shelves. So, this was the weapon store.

  In an unlocked room.

  Where any enemy could sneak in and take them. This was not his father’s weapon room. He’d been there. With all that had happened recently, he couldn’t help but think spies had infiltrated the kingdom. This could be the reason behind his father’s death.

  To the right, a narrow door led to an inner room. He walked inside. Shelves from floor to ceiling had enough salted meats, flour, and oil for a small army. A traitor’s army. One his father didn’t know about.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. He pressed his ear against the door.

  A man laughed. “Can you imagine that no-good brat as king?”

  Gilbert couldn’t tell who was speaking other than it was a male’s voice. “He doesn’t know the first thing about what to do.”

  “Yeah. Joining the northern army to unite Aerlis and Malum was a good idea on our part. We’ll have power and enough weapons to take over kingdoms to the east and west. With our people in place, we can…”

  The voices faded down the corridor. Gilbert opened the door. The men had turned the corner. Spies, just as he thought. They wouldn’t get away with this. An investigation would be arranged after his coronation. The one he was late for. He hobbled faster, enduring the burning pain in his ankle.

  A lit torch hung in the corridor a few steps away. He slid his hand over the stucco wall and found a similar round disc blending in with the texture. He pressed the button, and just like the hidden stairs, a portion of the wall slid with amazing silence to the left and into the outer wall.

  Sun rays burst into his eyes. Outside, a twenty-foot mound of dirt covered with dead rosebushes blocked the view. Wedged between the mound and the wall was a narrow path, wide enough for an adult to squeeze through. He followed it a few steps before smelling a fresh stench of horse manure from the stables. How appropriate for a spy. A soft whirring sounded behind him. He turned as the hidden wall panel slid closed. Solving the mystery of who used this entrance would be one of his first acts as king.

  He attempted to walk normally despite the throbbing in his ankle but couldn’t. He pressed his hand against the wall for support and hobbled around the back corner of the palace.

  Squire Ben looked up from his work. “Prince Gilbert, why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the coronation?”

  “I went for a walk,” Gilbert mumbled.

  “A walk? Now? You wanted to miss out on the attendants pampering you with all kinds of exotic foods, the finest clothing, dedicated servitude, and promises of mountains of paperwork for the rest of your life?” He grinned.

  Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Speaking of dedicated servitude, help me walk faster. I twisted my ankle.”

  “Yes, sire.” Squire Ben grabbed Gilbert's right arm and swung it over his shoulder. “Just like a sa
ck race. Ready?”

  Trumpets blew from the southern balcony, summoning everyone in the kingdom to the coronation. “Hurry, Ben.” Gilbert bit his lip to squelch the pain each step inflicted.

  They barged through the grand entrance just as Lord Chancellor Matthias ran up the marble stairs from the lower level. “Has anyone found Prince Gilbert?”

  “I’m here.”

  Matthias whirled around so fast he nearly lost his balance. He grabbed onto the rail. “You—I was—” He took a deep breath and returned to his noble stance. “I don’t suppose you plan to wear those clothes for the coronation, my lord?”

  “If the courtiers and dignitaries wouldn’t mind, I most certainly do.”

  Ben laughed. “Good one, sire.” He helped Gilbert up the stairs.

  Matthias ignored the comment. “You’re limping. What happened?”

  Gilbert sighed. “I twisted my ankle. I’m fine, really.”

  Trumpets sounded again.

  Even with Ben’s help, Gilbert’s pace slackened down the corridor and into his chamber. He plopped onto the chair and rubbed his throbbing ankle.

  Ben yanked on one of his shoes. “Have these shrunk three sizes?” He looked at Gilbert’s ankle. “It’s swelling like a watermelon.”

  Two attendants appeared at the door. “Prince Gilbert. If you’d step this way, we have everything ready for you.”

  Matthias pressed his hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re well? Your face is pale. I called for Bartholomew the healer. He will be here momentarily. Let me make excuses for you, and we’ll have the coronation in a few days when your health has improved.”

  As much as he disliked becoming king, crowning him right away benefited Aerlis. He’d have the power to find the traitors and restore the kingdom. He squirmed from under the elderly chancellor’s hand and stood. “I’m fine. The ceremony will start on time.”

  Matthias stepped back. “Very well.”

  Gilbert wouldn’t tell him what he heard yet. Not until he was sure.

  An attendant helped him into the dressing room. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Matthias. I know you’re trying to help.”

  Matthias turned toward the corridor. “Ah, here is Bartholomew the healer.”

  “If I may, sire?” Bartholomew knelt and looked at both ankles. He didn’t have to ask which one caused the problem. “I can give you support for walking and herbs for the pain, but there will still be some discomfort.”

  Gilbert nodded his approval.

  Bartholomew the healer wrapped the injured ankle with herbs and cloth. He then examined Gilbert’s back. “There is some bruising here that will heal with time.” He rubbed in a salve that eased the pain. He stood and took a few steps back. “Try standing.”

  Gilbert stood and tested the wrap on his ankle. “This will do. Thank you.”

  Once the door closed, the attendants removed his soiled tunic and dressed him in a satin shirt with hunter green hose and layered a robe on top. “Sit here, my lord, while we arrange your hair.”

  As he settled into the comfortable chair and elevated his foot, someone knocked. “Water and food for the prince.” It was a female voice. Hopefully, Katia’s.

  A guard opened the door but blocked his view of the servant.

  Gilbert shifted to the right and caught a glimpse of her long auburn hair. She waited for permission to enter.

  “Enter.”

  “May the prince feel well soon.” She bowed then left.

  Matthias stood before the tray. “We need to be careful, especially now that you will be crowned king, my lord. Even trusted servants could attempt to harm you.” He nodded to the royal taster standing in the corridor.

  The man entered slowly. He hesitated before picking up a grape from the tray.

  Chapter Eight

  Gilbert had worked up quite a thirst after being trapped in the secret stairway. “Can the taste tester hurry?”

  “My lord, we must not rush the process.”

  When the signal came, the taste tester seemed fine. At least he didn’t faint or fall over dead.

  Matthias gave his approval for the food to be served. Gilbert raised a glass to his mouth and guzzled the drink. The attendants, Bennet and Nigel, tugged and smoothed his clothing while he ate grapes then spat out the seeds.

  Bennet clipped a pin with the family crest to the outer royal robe still hanging near the door. Nigel slid an emerald ring on Gilbert's little finger and looped golden chains around his neck. “Here is your signet ring, Prince. The goldsmith worked last night fashioning it to your size.” Nigel pushed the royal ring onto Gilbert's index finger.

  “It fits much better.”

  The attendants helped him hobble towards the door. They draped the royal robe over his shoulders and turned to the chancellor. “He is ready.”

  The clothes weighed heavy. He’d only worn his tunic before the tragic death of his father. He rolled his shoulders back.

  Matthias stood and faced the prince, his fingers threaded together in a customary dignified manner. “Are you ready, my lord?”

  “As much as possible, Lord Chancellor Matthias.”

  “If you reflect on the directions I gave you earlier, you’ll do fine.”

  Had he listened, he could reflect. Now he wished he had.

  Unprepared and his ankle still hurting, Gilbert hobbled along in the procession that sandwiched Matthias and him between two groups of guards. They marched through the corridor, and all the way he endured a terrible sensation creeping throughout his body. It started with his stomach then moved to his head. They descended to the second floor, turned right at the main corridor then stopped before the commoners’ receiving hall, which led to the southern balcony.

  Matthias turned to him. “Are you well, my lord? You appear to be in severe pain.”

  “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” He couldn’t afford to stop now. Without the power of the crown, the traitors wouldn’t be stopped. He closed his eyes briefly. The heavy royal robe pressed down harder on his shoulders. He twisted to adjust the fabric. As he did, fire soared up his spine.

  The swelling in his ankle throbbed. His stomach trembled.

  A dark cloud, black as night, crept up from the floor, darkening his vision.

  Then—everything disappeared.

  Matthias glanced at the prince in time to see him sway left, right, then left again. His legs wobbled. “Stop,” he shouted at the guards. He grabbed the prince’s arm to steady him. Gilbert's eyes rolled back. His legs went limp. “Guard!”

  Before Matthias finished his word, a guard jumped forward and caught the prince. “Thank you. Carry him back to his room.”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor.”

  Matthias turned to another guard. “Call for the royal healer and tell Katia to assist. The queen would have wanted her to help at such a time as this.”

  Five knights left the day of the tragic picnic charged with orders to search for the missing queen. If only they had found her. The prince needed her tender care right now. “The crowning will be delayed until the prince is well. I’ll make an announcement to the crowds.”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor.” The two remaining guards stayed by his side.

  Matthias looked at the prince lying limp in the arms of the guard, unsure he would be well by tomorrow. The kingdom needed his youthful spirit to regain hope. Matthias sighed and walked to the hall where dignitaries gathered.

  He entered the grand room, pausing before representatives from other countries. Musicians raised their instruments and played the traditional coronation march. Groups of dignitaries hushed their voices and formed two lines, creating an aisle to the balcony. They each bowed as he walked past. He paused to greet representatives from King Roland and King Ivan’s realms.

  The red uniform worn by King Roland’s ambassador had several medals. A white sash draped from his epaulet diagonally to his belt. The female ambassador’s yellow satin gown had finely-stitched roses throughout the material refle
cting her grace and beauty. “Thank you for coming. I trust King Roland is well?”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor.” They smiled and bowed.

  King Ivan’s ambassador wore a black uniform with twice as many medals. A gold chain hung from an epaulet and a crimson satin sash draped to his belt. The female ambassador’s gown also flashed a regal pride. Golden strands wove through scarlet and black silk threads. The neckline, hem, and sleeves were bordered with costly furs. Matthias nodded. “Thank you for coming all the way from Malum. I trust King Ivan is well?”

  The ambassador raised his left eyebrow and smiled smugly as they bowed. “Yes, Lord Chancellor.”

  He continued his regal gait to the southern balcony, eyeing the Malum ambassadors with suspicion. Two guards drew the curtains, exposing the masses in the lower courts. He stepped to the right of the throne, which had been brought to the balcony for the coronation. Upon his entry, the trumpets played a fanfare.

  The musicians lowered their instruments when they finished. In the distance, the sun sparkled on the ocean. Matthias raised his hand to silence the last bit of chatter. “What a peaceful day. How unfortunate we can’t hold the coronation due to unforeseen circumstances. You will be notified when new arrangements are made.”

  “Lord Chancellor,” a voice cried from the crowd.

  He looked for the voice in the masses. “Yes?”

  “Lord Chancellor, does Prince Gilbert want to be our king? He isn’t here.”

  “My dear man, Prince Gilbert has suffered a sudden illness on the way here. Bartholomew, the royal healer, is with him as we speak. As my witness affirms, he attempted to be here.”

  “Lord Chancellor,” a woman spoke. “Does Prince Gilbert know about the dragon attacks and the plague of thistles killing our crops?”

  Matthias paused to formulate an answer. “He is rather overwhelmed with the news of his parents, but he has taken a strong interest in the affairs of state. Prince Gilbert will need time to gather the information and resources needed to heal the kingdom. I ask your patience. The coronation will take place tomorrow.” With these words, Matthias turned away ignoring more questions. He hurried through the line of dignitaries and out of the Great Room before they could question him further.