by J C Maynard
As soon as Whittingale exited the library, the prince stood up and walked over to Raelynn. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Hello.” She looked around apprehensively.
Eston addressed her. “You were in the tavern on Monarch Street, The Little Raven, were you not?”
“I was.” she responded. “Why are you here?” she asked, brushing aside a strand of her blonde hair, uncommon for Ferramoor.
Eston paused. The scholars behind him seemed occupied enough not to notice their conversation. He pulled back a chair and sat down across from her. “My name is Eston Wenderdehl.”
Raelynn tried to shuffle to her feet. “Your Majesty, forgive me, I didn’t know.”
“You don’t need to stand, miss. I was just wondering what you were studying over here.”
She hesitated. “I . . . I’m looking into some of the history of King — um, your grandfather — just for my studies.” Before Raelynn nonchalantly pulled her papers into her lap, Eston was able to read the title of a scroll that read, Government Positions under King Gallegore the Great.
“Pardon my bluntness,” said the Prince, “but I suspect there’s more than you are letting on about who you are and where you’re from. Nevertheless, I promise I won’t get you in trouble.”
“I said I’m from —”
“Nottenberry. I don’t think that’s true. You’re here looking for something, and based on the manner of your dress and hint of accent, I think you’re from far away. Trust me, I have no interest in getting you in trouble. Plus, you could get me in trouble with the Guard and the government if they knew I was sneaking out into the city. Just tell me the truth.”
Raelynn flinched as a thundercrack shook the library windows. “I’m from Cerebria.” she whispered.
“Why are you here?”
Raelynn scanned the surrounding tables and whispered. “My mother used to work here; she vanished shortly after I was born.”
It’s true . . . Thoughts that he felt had to be memories of underground tunnels, the letter, colored flames, two girls who felt like family — one older than him, one younger — circled through his head. The Evertauri is real? Eston felt dizzy.
“Where are you staying here in Aunestauna?” he asked.
Raelynn nervously spoke. “The Westflower Inn.”
Eston nodded. “I’m sorry, miss, I have to be off.” Eston walked away, through the stacks of books and scrolls and past the windows that pattered from rain. Would it be possible to have another body that I live in? He tried to shake the thoughts from his head. I’m going mad.
“You’re late.” called out Whittingale. Rain still poured into the courtyard. He handed Eston a wooden longsword and shield like his own that he held in his hand. Water flattened their hair and poured off their lips as they took stances opposite each other. Eston struck forward, and Whittingale dodged the sword, slashing at Eston, who met the sword with his shield. “Eston, I feel that your mind is not clear.”
“Yes, sorry sir.” said Eston, as he thought about the tunnels. He also couldn’t shake the images of Endlebarr from his head, nor the images of the slums of Aunestauna and a small shack.
Eston forced his mind back to his training. “Can I practice with my sword . . . how can it ever be a Queenslayer if I never use it?”
Whittingale shook his head. “You need to practice with this one . . . and who calls your sword Queenslayer?”
Eston shrunk. “Fillian.”
Whittingale sighed. “Then show me you’re capable of brandishing a simple one like this.” Whittingale lunged forward at Eston, who swept aside the sword.
The two dueled in the courtyard, alternating between Ferramish and Cerebrian styles of fighting. Ferramish hit hard with their swings, with wide arcs, while Cerebrians kept their swords close to their torso. The generals requested that Eston be able to adapt to either style of fighting as necessary. Whittingale had been training Eston in combat since Eston was ten.
Eston slipped on a puddle and quickly attempted to recover. Before Whittingale could land another blow, Fillian ran into the courtyard and called out for Eston. “Hey, Eston!”
Eston looked at Fillian, distracted, as Whittingale clipped his elbow. “Ouch!”
Whittingale shook his head and put down the sword.
Fillian laughed. “Good day, Sir Whittingale. Eston, Father would like to talk to you. He says thank you to Sir Whittingale, but the lesson is done for the day. He’s in his study.”
“What does he want me for?” Eston put down his sword and Fillian stepped into an alcove to avoid the rain.
“He didn’t tell me.”
Eston groaned inwardly. What is it this time?
A Guard opened a giant walnut door, and Eston entered into the King’s Study. The room was tall and cylindrical, with shelves of maps, gadgets, and ornaments. A chandelier hung in the center. King Tronum stood on a balcony above the main sitting area, looking at a chart. His white beard hung only an inch down from his slightly wrinkled skin. A scarlet robe dragged slightly on the floor behind him. He noticed the prince enter and glanced up, removing a monocle from his eye — a rare accessory only for the wealthiest. “Ah, Eston. You were out in the rain I see — your curls are flattened. How was your lesson today?”
“Oh, it was fine, normal.”
“Good.” Tronum set down the scroll on a desk and stepped on a sliding ladder.
“Father you can just take the stairs-”
“I’m fine Eston.” The King’s hands shook slightly as he stepped down the ladder, which rattled against the floor. He reached the bottom and sat in a large, pillowed chair, and requested Eston sit across from him. With slightly twitching fingers, he sipped a mug of coffee, a rare delicacy, shipped all the way from Guavaan. Tronum sighed. “Eston, look at me . . . I’m getting old . . .” He held out his hand which twitched every few seconds. “I know you’ve been wanting to move up in the chain of command and take matters into your own hands.”
Eston looked down and thought to himself. Here it is, he’s handing me some authority. He leaned forward, trying to look calm, but his insides were turning with not only excitement for more responsibility, but also sadness for his father’s condition.
Tronum continued, “And I don’t think you are quite ready for that responsibility.” Eston’s heart sank and the slight smile turned into a disguised frown. “Being King is the hardest responsibility a man can bear, and his advisors share that hardship. I want you on my Council, Eston, but not until you are fully ready . . . I just want what’s best for you; you know that.”
“Yes, of course.” He wouldn’t have changed his mind from a few months ago.
“I won’t be able to do this forever, Eston. My youth is gone, and I’m fading out like an old scroll. You will take my throne one day. I can’t give it to Fillian. My point is, you’ll share that throne with someone. Marriage is not as far away as you think, Eston.”
“Father, we’ve talked about —”
“We have not discussed specifics. Listen, as a diplomat, you have to think strategically about your marriage. You are eighteen, Eston; you should be married by at least twenty one. Look, I’m not going to force you to marry anyone, we aren’t old traditionalists from the west. However, I will require you to open your mind to possibilities. It must be done with care.”
Eston shook his head. “You married mother just because she was born in Parusmare? So you could maintain a good alliance with the Paruseans after they seceded from the Empire?”
“And because I loved her, Eston . . . all I’m saying is that you need to start thinking about it.”
Eston looked up at the chandelier and outside at the stormy afternoon sky. “I assume you have someone in mind then.”
“Qerru-Mai An’Drui. Her mother, Senator An’Drui, has been one of my closest Council members from the time I took the throne. She values the right things and cares deeply for the nation. She has taught her daughter to follow in her footsteps as you are
following in mine. I had a brief conversation with Senator An’Drui and she approved of you spending time with Qerru-Mai.”
“Qerru-Mai?” Eston leaned back and sighed, relieved it was the girl he was most familiar with. “She’s a great girl don’t get me wrong, and so incredibly smart, it’s almost scary . . .”
“She would make a good Queen, Eston.”
“I guess I can consider it; but right now, if you want me to focus on my studies then I’ll mainly focus on that . . . If that’s what will allow me to rise up in “the chain of command.”
“It’s not about your studies, Eston . . .” Tronum sat up and walked to the window. “This is about more than you; it’s about the millions you will affect who need someone strong . . . Give it a try with Qerru-Mai.”
“Yes, father.”
Lightning lit up the cloudy sky outside the rain-pelted window. Tronum put a shaky hand on the glass. “Your Aunt Xandria will stop at nothing to see us fall. It will soon be up to you to defend Ferramoor. We must succeed, Eston. We must.”
A roaring fire filled the dining hall with a warm yellow light, by which the Wenderdehls and high officials ate dinner. Fillian whispered to his brother. “What did father want?”
Eston cut open a squash. “He wants me to go out with Qerru-Mai.”
“Senator An’Drui’s daughter?” He raised an eyebrow at Eston, who nodded. Fillian chuckled. “Sorry brother, but she is way out of your league.”
Eston looked sideways at his brother. “Fillian . . . I’m a prince.”
“And?”
“Oh, hush . . . Father wants me to have a capable wife.”
Fillian placed a fork on his empty plate and stood; beneath his messy brown hair, he glanced at his father at the far end of the enormous table involved in another conversation. “Or maybe father trusts Qerru-Mai to make decisions for you.”
As they walked out of the hall and around a corner, Eston grabbed Fillian’s shoulder and turned him around. “I know he doesn’t trust me and I know he doesn’t want me to take his place.”
Fillian shoved Eston off. “The question isn’t whether he wants to give you the throne. It’s a question of whether you want it.”
“Of course I want it. It’s my responsibility and I plan to do my part in protecting Ferramoor. But he would rather you have it.”
Fillian smiled. “You want to become king? You want to grow power hungry? Do you not see father? Every day he grows weaker and weaker, yet he wants more and more power. That’s what got us into this bloody war in the first place; a war against our aunt, Eston! But now he realizes who he has become. He is not giving you power because you are asking for it, and he thinks that’s dangerous.”
Eston pointed to the city. “You and I aren’t changing anything. We aren’t making a difference in the world. People are dying to defend these walls, and we just ate a feast.”
“I hate it as much as you.”
“Am I supposed to just sit idly by then?”
“Yes.” was Fillian’s simple answer.
Eston turned away and walked across the night courtyard through the downpour. Benja Tiggins ran up and met him in the middle of the courtyard.
“Good evening, Benja.”
“Evening . . . Eston, you look upset.” They crossed into the palace and walked through its halls.
“I will be taking another absence from the Palace tonight, Benja.” Eston wanted to go to The Westflower Inn to find Raelynn to help confirm if the visions he was having were real. “Can you see to it that I go unnoticed?”
“You said it was only that one time.”
“I know I did . . .”
“Promise me you are thinking through your decisions, Eston.”
“. . . I promise.”
“Okay . . . I’ll give you maybe two hours, but that’s all I can guarantee.” They walked to the main entrance to the palace which was lined with hundred foot marble columns. The prince put on a brown cloak and messed up his hair. Benja looked around to make sure nobody was watching. “Eston, I couldn’t help but overhear you and your brother.”
Eston stepped forward into the pouring rain. “I know . . . Fillian is just arrogant. He just doesn’t understand what the real world is like.”
“And you do?” Benja’s pale face stared out into the dark city below. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss what he says. A great king is a great listener . . . Fillian is doing a great deal of listening. I would advise you to do the same . . .”
Eston looked back, his cloak now soaked. He descended down the palace steps, through the giant gate and into Aunestauna, headed toward The Westflower Inn to find Raelynn.
People ran from building to building in the dark, trying to avoid the downpour; puddles of water reflected sparks from candles inside houses. Eston looked up into the sky; rain fell on his lips and ran down his shirt. Faint voices slipped through the rain pelting on the wooden buildings. He trudged through the rain-filled city, down alleyways and through narrow streets headed toward the inn. Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the cobblestone streets. After asking for directions, he crossed a bridge over the main river and into another part of the city.
The rain continued to fall hard and the gutters poured out into the streets. After a crash of thunder faded, he heard a group of men on a covered tavern porch up ahead laughing and singing sailor jingles. As he approached, one of them pointed at him and laughed. “Whatcha doin’ in the rain?”
Another man slammed his wine down in the table. “By golly! It’s a Crat! What’s ‘e doin’ here?”
Eston’s stomach lurched as he realized that under his coat, his expensive clothes showed, along with his watch. Oh no, please don’t make a scene. I need to get out of here right now. He tried to hide the watch, but the man spoke again to him directly. “Mr. Rich Boy, you looking for trouble?” He stood up and stepped into the street in front of him.
In less than a minute, a swarm of a dozen people gathered around him. A big loud “Hey you!” rang out from the crowd. A giant man stepped out from the crowd with a raging face, ready to attack. He jumped on Eston, grabbed him and shoved the crowd aside. The man pulled him aside into an alleyway. A smaller man tried to pull the attacker off Eston, but the attacker knocked him out with a side hook.
The attacker slammed the prince into a wall and grabbed his neck. Eston tried to tear away. The man looked straight in Eston’s eyes. “You bastard Palace Crats! My two sons died fighting in your army! You shut my business down and my wife starved to death!” Eston felt the veins bulging in his neck and his face turning blue. He could barely hear the screams from the crowd. “And I swear to the Great Mother I will slit your high and mighty throat, you son of a bitch!”
The man drew a knife and pulled his arm back, ready to strike. A blur of scarlet passed in front of Eston and the grasp around his neck released. His vision closed, and when blood returned to his head, he saw the man dead on the ground and four soldiers of The Guard standing next to him; adorned on their shoulders were scarlet capes and on their heads, tall, feathered helmets. One of them grabbed Eston. “Your Majesty, are you alright?”
Eston nodded, seeing his attacker’s corpse soaking in the rain.
The Guard sheathed his sword. “We could tell someone was in trouble from all the screaming. We have orders to return you to the Palace immediately if you are seen out in the city. We must go now.”
“On my father’s orders?” said Eston.
The Guard nodded. “Made the request a year ago. We must escort you back to the Palace. I’m sorry my liege, but this is our duty. It’s not safe here. You almost got killed.” The Guard pushed Eston away from the crowd and wound through the streets until they climbed up the steps of the Palace and stood at the front gate in the rainstorm. A messenger was sent to retrieve Tronum and Eradine.
Tronum stood straight in front of him. Silent. Tronum was rarely silent. The king raised a slender, shaking hand, and slapped Eston hard across the face; it stung more in his he
art than on his face.
Eston’s mother thanked the Guard, and the three walked back inside the palace. Eston’s head hung low, and Tronum refused to say a word. As he passed a giant marble column, Eston looked back to see his brother watching him. Behind the next column stood Benja Tiggins who mouthed to Eston, “I’m sorry.”
A Phantom
Chapter Nine
~Before Sunrise, September 3rd
Gallien stood before Tayben in the thick fog; a group of fourteen other cloaked Phantoms encircled them. Dark and hooded, the shadow figures blocked every path of exit into the forest around them. Gallien raised his hands toward Tayben. “There’s no need to worry,” he said, “I too was both afraid and curious when I began to see the shadows.”
“What happened to you?” whispered Tayben.
“Like you,” said Gallien, “I stepped out of my tent one night to go look for the shadows. But before I did, they found me and I was grabbed and knocked out to avoid creating a ruckus in the camp. I awoke to a scenario just like this; where General Lekshane,” Gallien motioned to a figure on his right, “informed me that I had been recruited as a Phantom.”
“But I don’t understand. Who are the Phantoms?” Tayben leaned forward, his eyes glazed in enchanted curiosity.
A forty-something man to Gallien’s right, General Lekshane, stepped forward and pulled back his hood to reveal a face that drew Tayben’s attention. His chin, which was covered in a short but thick, reddish brown beard, was slightly raised. “The Phantoms are Cerebria’s most elite soldiers, for reasons you will soon find out. Our operation is under direction of Xandria herself, and our existence remains a secret to the world . . . even to the army and it’s highest commanding officers. We recently lost two of our soldiers in battle. For purposes of maintaining a consistent structure of sixteen members, one slot has been filled by Mr. Aris here, and one will now be filled by you. As I understand you are friends with Mr. Aris, we wanted you to first speak with him to make the transition from soldier to elite seem more . . . natural.”
