Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “See? Nothing in my hand, nothing up my sleeve...and then...presto!” A fancy-looking gesture later, and suddenly the lace-lined hands cradled a white dove, squawking into the light.

  Nathan squealed with delight. “More!”

  “As if you wish, Your Grace.” The stove-top hat spun in the magician’s hand to thud on the small three-legged stool he’d wheeled out before the throne. Again his lace-gloved hands made circles and patterns upon the air, followed now by some nonsense words designed only to heighten the drama. Down went the right hand into the stove-top hat, deeper than a hat should, and up came a white rabbit.

  “Can you teach me how to do that?”

  “Why, of course, My Grace. That is, if the Queen has no objections.”

  “Auntie Chris has no objections,” Nathan answered immediately. “Right?”

  Christina gritted her teeth. Albert Grins – called the Grinning Fool in certain circles – did have the necessary pedigree. Oh, the family’s origins were rooted in peasantry, but the Grins had always been loyal to the crown, even in times where others had abandoned it. No, Christina’s discomfort came from the man instead of his blood. Grins hid behind a mask of smugness, smooth of any denial or tragedy. The world needed his permission to exist.

  Bartholomew Arrin was several inches shorter than his predecessor, twice as old and twice as fat. His tunic was darker than the others to hide the sweat stains under the arms...a tactic that might have worked if his face wasn’t a plump tomato. “It’s a very interesting story how I acquired this item. Quite the adventure, in fact.”

  Quite the adventure, Christina admitted silently. It would have been more impressive if the nobleman had actually experienced it. Arrin would have been dead within minutes after cinching his saddle. Christina caught the eye of the workers that had rolled the Harp into the chamber. Tall, strong and broad of chest and shoulder. They would have survived the journey.

  “That is only half the story,” Arrin promised. With a snap of the fingers several cages donned with bright yellow silk were pulled into the chamber. Shayna did her best to remain calm, but Nathan was squirming in his seat, bright eyes eager for any flutter of the silk, for any scrap of what lay beneath. “Through my travels, I have seen many things. In the dark reaches of the Outer Continents, I have experienced things that scholars have only dreamed of. You will be the first eyes to lie upon them in a thousand years. Behold!”

  The golden shroud was ripped away from the first cage. A family of moles blinked from behind iron bars, scurrying back from the light that blinded them. With infinite care Arrin gently opened the cages, retrieved a mole and gently lay within Nathan’s chubby hands. “It’s so yellow and pretty.”

  “Gold,” Arrin corrected. There was a boldness to the nobleman’s words, lilted with the scorn of a superior pride. “The Golden Mole, whose home is the terrible Land of Darkheart.”

  “He’s so soft. Look, Auntie Chris. See how soft he is.”

  Christina took the mole into her hands, but only to scratch deep furrows into the mole. Nathan quailed and Arrin cursed, until the gold paint flaked off the original-brown fur. “What’s going on?” Nathan asked.

  “He’s a criminal,” Christina answered softly. “This isn’t a rare creature. He just painted them gold to trick you.”

  “Your Grace, I can explain. This is treachery. Someone in my employ must have sabotaged my cages.” No good. His illusion crumpled under Nathan’s white-hot glare, leaving just a man suddenly sweating a waterfall.

  “Guards.” From the quiet command, a pair of guards appeared from behind the marble pillars, each with eyes of flint and faces of stone. Easily they picked up the blubbering fool of Bartholomew Arrin and dragged him from the room.

  Christina had bigger problems; namely the confusion brewing on the Prince’s face. “Nathan? Are you all right honey?”

  “He hurt those moles. That’s not right.”

  “Some people tell lies because they think they can get away with it.”

  “But Justice always prevails. That’s what my teachers say. Why did he try to lie when he knew he was to be caught?”

  Christina found herself at a loss. How to explain the grays of a person’s life when the student had yet to emerge from the world of blacks and whites? “I don’t know, honey. I just trust that there are people dedicated to see Justice done.”

  “People like me?”

  “Yes.”

  Nathan pondered that for a moment. “Do you think I will be a good King?”

  Christina smiled. “I think you will be a great King.” The smile that Nathan radiated made sunshine pale in comparison. “Do you want to retire for today? We can always see the other suitors tomorrow.”

  “No. Let’s see them now. A great King never abandons his duty.”

  The next suitor was Padrig Ruhtra. Lean, with dark leather and creamy lace, the Heir of Falcons – as he would have everyone believe – stood with the confident poise of the upper class. A broad falconer’s gauntlet wrapped around his right forearm, simple and lacking insignia. The contradiction set the faux-Queen off a mite, and thus tightened her focus on the man, vowing not to make the same mistake twice.

  “Your Majesty, Your Grace, it is an honor to introduce my companion.” He let out a short, sharp whistle, and the cry back heralded a broad-winged hawk soaring through an open slot high on the far wall. It twisted downward in a spiral, beating its wings to slow down and float to its master’s waiting glove. “This is Werth, my falcon.”

  Christina’s eyes narrowed slightly. The bird was an impressive specimen. It bore the broad, sharp-feathered wings of a baekje as well as the owl-shaped head of a white Gyr. In fact, the entire bird was a mesh of multiple falcons: eyes, wing color, talons, size, shape, everything. The Ruhtra family must have started breeding in the first days of its reign to complete a perfect blend such as this. It would have taken a grand fortune to support the breeding. Houses of greater renown had lost their legacies for things decidedly pettier.

  In the end, it didn’t really matter. Just if the little trick served its purpose. And it did. Nathan practically oozed with excitement. “Can I touch it?”

  “No,” Christina said at the same time Ruhtra said, “Yes.” The prince looked back and forth in confusion.

  “It’s quite safe, I assure you. I’ve trained Werth since I was six.”

  I don’t care if you birthed him yourself. “Falconry is dangerous for the uninitiated. I would not see the Prince harmed.”

  “I won’t be harmed.” Christina sighed quietly. She knew that tone. Better to demand the sun to set in the east than rousing Nathan’s stubbornness. The boy was one or two steps away from recognizing his superiority. Wakened here would be a difficulty; in later matters, his interference would be disastrous. So, Christina watched as Nathan warily stroked the hawk’s fur.

  The hawk did not like to be touched. With a strangled roar, the bird turned its head and plunged its hooked beak into Nathan’s eye. Blood sprayed the air, slapped their faces in a gross mosaic of carnage. The child’s screams doubled when again the hawk ripped the eye free and swallowed it whole.

  “Auntie Chris! Auntie Chris! I did it! Did you see?”

  Christina blinked the vision away. “Huh? What?”

  “I did it! Auntie Chris! Did you see?”

  “Of course I did. That was very good, Nathan.” She didn’t like the way the falcon looked at the boy. Something in those amber eyes hinted at intelligence, and a malevolent one at that. “But I think that is enough for the day.”

  “But Auntie Chris –”

  “I said that is enough for the day.” She bit her lip on the waves of confusion and sullenness ripple across
his soft face. Father never wavered so. Then again, he never had to juggle ruler and parent at one and the same time. Fortunately, Nathan knew nothing of ruling, and thus allowed himself to be shuffled back to his chambers by an errant servant. That left only the suitor to deal with, his apologies and reassurances a tired refrain to Christina’s ears. The faux-Queen gave just enough hints to appease his fawning and returned to her quarters. Perhaps rest was the remedy.

  It was not. Within minutes Christina was pacing the chamber. Anger had swept all challenges away, and now it galvanized her more than she believed. She needed a distraction. The reports on her desk. Tradition had snuck onto a blind side; that was the reason she’d been lured into her opponents’ trap. No more, she decided. No more would she be ignorant of the comings and goings of her own kingdom. No more would she be dependent on anyone else. No more.

  Surprise caught her once again. When she called upon the scholars for their records, Christina imagined two or three scrolls, not the tower of parchments the fools had brought back, the edges slipping from side to side, ready to explode at the slightest whisper of wind. It had been highly tempting to scourge the fools, but it was more her fault than theirs, so they left with all faculties present. A lesson of humility, her old mentors would have said. Uncanny how right there were in their tombs as well in life.

  “Your Grace? There is a man wanting to speak with you.”

  Christina looked up at this little slip of a girl, barely grown yet her body already well on its way towards womanhood. “A man? Who is it?”

  “Um, well, Your Grace, I do not know.”

  Christina looked again at the girl’s fawn-like eyes and repressed a sigh. “He did not give his name?”

  “Not exactly, Your Grace.”

  Christina forced herself to remember her father was a man of note. “You let a man within the chambers without knowing his name? Did you even bother to ask?”

  “I...uh...” Suddenly her eyes were pinned to the floor, fingers twitching nervously at the laces of her dress. “It did not occur to me, my Lady.”

  The shackles, the faux-Queen decided, wouldn’t be enough to destroy this girl’s meekness. And destroyed her meekness would be, by the time Christina was done with her. Another time. “Detain him,” she said, and when the girl’s face flooded scarlet she added, “Call the guards on him.” Perhaps the vices would suit the punishment better. Perhaps more, the faux-queen thought at a knock on the door interrupted her reverie. Probably the fool wench remembered a detail but was unsure how it would save her skin. Skin. Now that was an idea.

  “Hasei Nuvai Ha.”

  Goose-flesh raised on Christina’s flesh. That had been the code of generations beyond time. Only twice in the history of the Throne had it been uttered, and both events were times of great bloodshed and chaos. “Enter.”

  The man that emerged was caked with snow, dripping water on the expensive rugs at his feet. Christina burned as he took up a velvet-pillowed chair without much as a word of greeting. Then the man pulled back his white-crusted hood, and Christina gaped despite herself. Robert Jekai stood before her, his eyes flat and mouth tight. “You are Queen of Amden?”

  Christina reminded herself than the man commanded legions of soldiers. “I am.” Closing the reports the faux-queen tried to shed the frustration from the words. “I was told you are dead.”

  “I was. Now I am better.”

  Christina let answer hang in the air. How much did the man truly know? Too little, and the loyalty of the Solvicar would be gossamer to the wind. Too much, and he would descend upon his own son. “Your son has taken over the Solvicars in your place.”

  “So I have heard.” Anger coiled his words, requiring only a tinder to burst into flame. “I need your help.”

  Christina kept her face blank. “Soldiers.”

  “Thousands.”

  She sniffed. The least Jekai could do was show a little humility. As it was his face was as hard as hers. Perhaps more. With a mental sigh, she banished the voice of her pride and tensed despite herself. “What’s in it for me?”

  “I will swear the loyalty of House Jekai to the Throne, and swear my life to your service, if that is what you require.”

  “I do.” Already possibilities were forming in her mind. With Jekai on her council the Throne would finally gain a foothold in Church matters. And I will be at the head of this foothold. Giddiness didn’t even begin to explain the situation.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. If you will excuse me I must be to the barracks.”

  “Lord Jekai. You can be at the front of battle should you decide to confront the enemy yourself.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Christina waited for the door to shut to frown. Permit the man to be at the frontline? Jekai’s servitude would be a thing of doubt and debate given the House’s independence. Keeping Jekai at her side, allowing him the publicity of their bargain would do well to quell those doubts, not to mention laying the foundations of the other Houses when they decided their own allegiances to the Throne. The last thing she needed was to have the old man gallivanting from battlefield to battlefield in search of his offspring. It was, in fact, the most destructive thing to her plans.

  So why did I just allow it? The fops new to the intrigues of the royal court would be too focused on their petty ambitions to realize anything else, but the veterans would see an opportunity as golden as the sun. All they would have to done is waiting for failure and then descend like the vultures they were for their prize. Then I should have some loyalty in the ranks.

  She did not run to the barracks. A Queen did not run; she had others come to her, the weaker coming to the stronger. It was a rule as old as intrigue itself, superseded only by the loose whispers of gossip found anywhere and everywhere in the castle walls. Thus, she chose a crooked path to the barracks, floating through hidden doorways and passages so secret not even the maids or servants knew. Thankfully Robert Jekai was far and away on the steps of the army’s quarters; too far to be noticed by any passing soldier and not so far away that his vision was impaired to the soldiers’ training. “Your Grace.”

  It was an effort to school her face to stone. Oh, a handful this one will be. “You do not sound surprised.”

  “I leave the games to those who play them.” His eagle eye took in the dust on the hem of her dress and smiled. “What do you want of me?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  “Yes. I suppose we do.” He jerked a nod to the three men at the barracks’ farthest corner. “Those three are the Martel brothers. Donald, Duncan and David. Their father is the Duke of Y’rubsilas, a peasant who was raised to knighthood by the former King for his bravery at the Iamud Incident six years prior. They would do anything that you would ask without question.”

  “And those that would ask questions?”

  Jekai’s response was to draw a spyglass from his cloak and handing it over to his Queen’s hands. “Them. The ones beating the shit out of each other. See there?” Jekai did not mince his words. The three men were enjoying the carnage to the point that they wished their swords were steel instead of the practice wood. “Blunt instruments.”

  “They would rather ride me than do my bidding.”

  “Your bidding would be the price of their obedience.”

  Christina wilted despite herself. Even common knowledge had its uses when shrouded in secrecy. She would have to be doubly cautious with this one. “And the rest?”

  “Under my command. Which is to say, under yours?”

  A legion of men with six loyal to her rather than the crown. The rest were under Jekai’s eye, but even then, it would be foolish not to separate the lines of command between her and the
Solvicar. “Do you have any plans?”

  “There is a surge of activity at the city of Irismil. I will go there first. It will take a week at most.”

  “Then you’d best hurry before events spiral out of control.”

  She left Jekai with more doubts than coming in. Six men. Six loyal men. Six! If the throne was securely in her grasp this jockeying for position would be moot. Only less irritating was the fact that the old Solvicar had pulled the strings in this affair like a master. And yet this was the best bargain Christina could hope for. He’s too important now. Later, after this business was done...he would meet his due like all the others. Soon.

  Finally, the silence penetrated her thoughts. Again she took a different path through the castle to avoid suspicion. And yet there was no sign of peasantry at all. Baskets of clothing were left pitched over. Shards of vases in the hearts of ever-spreading pools of water. Dents in the wall where the doors were slammed against them. Christina began to run.

  The hub of the matter lay in the avenues of the royalborns’ quarters. The corridor was clogged with wailing women clinging to their men, burying faces into shoulders and shuddering in the all too familiar shiver of grief. Children looked on with bright eyes, hinged halfway between confusion and ignorance. When the crowd thinned, she buckled to her knees. No. No please. No!

  Nathan Etnad, Protector of the Faith, Lord Marshal of Amden and Its Colonies, King of the Amber Throne, lay sprawled amidst a pool of his own blood, his glassy eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. No one knew how the prince got to the quarters. No one knew who attacked him so silently or if the murderer was still in hiding. The only thing known was the crater at the back of his skull, as though the flesh and bone were gripped and yanked away. Already the rumors began to circle. No mortal man could have the strength for such a monstrous deed. Perhaps it wasn’t a man. Maybe it was a monster.

  Or a monster in the skin of a man. No one noticed the Queen leaving, either.