The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Both battles can be lost, even in the end,” Alfonzo said. “I hope ours does not go that way tonight.”

  “We will see soon enough,” William Stuart answered, “For the ships are up to us now.”

  While they had been conversing, the gap between The King’s Arm and the six frigates had closed, and now the enemy fleet split, three on one side and three on the other, to let them pass. As they did, the fleet came to a stop, not risking a maneuver in the crowded harbor. As The King’s Arm passed them, the captain of the leading ship called out through the night:

  “Ahoy there! Is it not late to weigh anchor?” It was Montague’s voice.

  “Our orders were late in being fulfilled, but our schedule allows no time for idle stops. Just as well to sleep aboard while sailing, than to sleep aboard while anchored,” the Admiral called back.

  “There may not be much sleeping beyond the harbor this night, for the sea grows rough.”

  “Yes, I can taste it in the air. It will be a long storm, though, and I would rather take the pressure until we reach the calms of the stretch, than be stranded here while it blows itself out.”

  “A wise decision. Have you sailed these regions before, for your voice is familiar?”

  “It is an accent shared by everyone from my home port.”

  “Ah, well, bonvoyage .”

  TheKing’s Arm sailed forward, going slowly in the crowded harbor. It seemed an eternity to those aboard before the last part of The King’s Arm had gone past the fleet. But at last it did and they were out of danger. They sat in different areas of the deck in small groups, reuniting with those they had left behind before the battle. The first of these groups was Blaine and Barnes Griffith, who sat on two barrels that overlooked the ship’s stern. The water was still and placid, the full moon reflecting in its face, and its shadowy residents drifting aimlessly.

  “Well?” Blaine said, “How long has it been, fifteen years? You left a boy and return a man.”

  “A man in form, perhaps,” Barnes returned, “Yet I have much to learn. Before, I felt as if I knew the world, but now I have seen that I am nothing.”

  “I, on the other hand, have been given the wisdom of age, and know it dries up the energy of youth,” Blaine said. “Neither is better or worse.”

  Silence fell upon them. Each tried to sneak a look at his brother, but when their looks met, they turned away as if some distant object required their immediate attention.

  “They tell me you’ve become an expert fisherman,” Blaine said after a moment, as if they had been apart for only a few weeks, “A real terror with the hook.”

  “My early lessons have made me great,” Barnes laughed. “The forest has its fishing holes, I surrender that. But there is nothing like trolling for deep sea fish with a mackerel on the hook. You have got to twitch it just right,” and he stood and pretended to jerk a rope in a complex pattern. “If the movements are right, the big ones go for it. Then you hold on tight and hope it gets tired before you do. How have the old forest rivers been?”

  “As good as ever. Osbert made a flat-bottomed raft, and we take it out to the sand banks on the old Gloten. I hear some of the best trout are down there, but it takes patience.”

  Their conversation continued in this manner, passing over the missing years to those before them, when one was a child and the other a young man. It was not that they confused the two times, but that it was easiest for their hearts to speak the native tongue of their youth.

  Meanwhile, Ivona and Oren Lorenzo had gone to the center of the boat. They stood alone, near the side. Ivona was beautiful in the moonlight: her fair skin glowed like the dawning sky, and her eyes like the owl’s. Her head hung low, as if in shame, and her demeanor was powerless – a sharp contrast to her stint as the Queen of Saxony. She was broken-hearted, without the strength or the will to pretend innocence. And yet she had done nothing that would seem wrong to another person – only her own conscience condemned her.

  “Do not hang your head in shame, child,” Lorenzo said as he stroked her hair with his rough hand. “The forgiveness of our God is great, and greater still his mercy.”

  “Yes, father, but how can it be given to one such as I? How can it be given to one who knew what was right yet did not do it? Ignorance cannot shield my guilt, nor even passive understanding.”

  Oren’s fiery mustache erupted in passion as he answered. “You are young, child, and your wisdom is insufficient to guide your life.”

  “Yes, but is not that of any man – or woman – the same? Do you know wisdom?” and she turned her head from him in muted emotion. Her flesh attacked her spirit.

  He reached out and drew her back to him. “God uses authority to guide us, but those who wield it are cursed to guide themselves. Your father is your authority and he has pledged you to Willard. Who would not marry a handsome king?”

  “I do not see you chasing after him,” she laughed.

  Lorenzo shook his head, flopping his mustache about. “You feel no love for Willard?”

  “Yes, but the love I feel for him is the love of self, rather than of others. Therefore, it is but a bland imitation of love. True love is to give, but the love I feel for Willard is to receive – to receive his affections and perfections, and thereby to satisfy my own desires for companionship. But it is my spirit that seeks such love and not my body. Therefore, it cannot be fulfilled with a physical love.”

  “But he has as much spirit as you, and it is the spirits of a man and a woman that become one.”

  “I am consecrated to God through salvation; Willard’s spirit is not holy. Men are changing, yet I need an anchor to build my love upon. Men are selfish, yet I strive to forget myself. My need is for God, and so I will desire none else: I have tasted the water of life and am no longer thirsty.”

  “You may be a spiritual being, Ivona, but still you are physically based. The loves of the flesh can bring companionship – the joys of marriage and of motherhood.”

  “Joys, yes, but only so far as they are a reflection of the relationship between man and God. Does not God give birth to his creation, and nurse it to maturity? So he gives us motherhood as a symbol. Is God not intimate with his followers? So he gives us marriage as a symbol. He gives us these things as placards to the heavenly. But I can have the spiritual: why would I abandon it for a pale comparison?”

  “Yet, since the physical reveals the spiritual, it can be used to guide our souls. It is good or God would not have made it.”

  “God desires my whole heart, leaving no room for any man or child to be loved of their own accord. I cannot love a man romantically without putting him above my God. I can only love him through God; as a creation rather than a creature. If I do not hate my father, I cannot be of God, and if I do not hate Willard, I cannot follow his commands. For if I give love to a man for his own sake, I would be tempted to love him more than God.”

  “My dear child,” Lorenzo said, “Why do you sell yourself?”

  “Do you not see? The kingdom of heaven is like a great treasure hidden in a field. When a man finds it, he sells all that he owns and buys that field – that he may own the treasure.”

  Lorenzo began to speak, but before he could a shout came from the stern.

  “Admiral!” it cried. “Admiral, come quick!”

  “What is the matter?” answered the Admiral from the front of the ship.

  “The fleet, sir,” Barnes yelled, “It has come about and is sailing toward us.”

  The Admiral took a look behind them. “Raise the sails, men, and put her into the wind. We’ve been discovered!”

  Chapter 45

  “I will have you yet, William!” Gylain roared, and his voice echoed through the lofty Great Hall.

  His men were scattered about the room, fleeing the chandeliers that had broken through the floor into the storage closets below. The windows overlooking the gate were broken, and the rebels gone.

  “Leggett, come to me,” he scowled. When the chief guard was
at his side, Gylain turned to Montague, who was also by him. “Put him in irons and throw him into the dungeon. I will decide his fate later.”

  “Yes, my lord,” and it was done.

  Gylain gathered his troops and made for the exit. The queen of Saxony and her men still stood in front of it.

  “What is your hurry?” she asked.

  “Vengeance.”

  “I am glad to have witnessed your strength myself, before making an alliance with you.”

  “The rebels will not leave this city alive. This was a symbolic blow, but it does not diminish my power. Indeed, if the rebels had a chance against my full strength, they would have taken it.”

  “Perhaps they are stronger than you think. Their leader was a cunning old fellow.”

  Gylain raised his eyebrows. “Do you not know who he is?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “He is the man who abandoned your mother in her distress. Do not put your faith in him, lest he do the same to you.”

  “Who, then, am I to trust? God?”

  “No, not him: he is fading. Trust in me.”

  She sighed and looked about the room, lost within the maze of her own mind.

  “Very well,” she said, “I will trust in you.”

  “Excellent,” and Gylain placed his arms upon her, pulling her forward. He kissed her like a wave makes love to the shore, and she did not pull back.

  “Let us go,” he said after a moment, “We will catch them, and the master of all will prevail.”

  “Gylain, the master of all,” she said solemnly. She raised her face to the sky and laughed with derision. “Yes – Gylain, the master of all.”

  They hurried down the stairs with Montague and a hundred men behind them. Their strides were long and their faces drawn, as were their swords. Gylain threw open the doors to the outside and dashed down the stairs. There, in the courtyard, the stable hands had prepared their horses for riding. They feared Gylain’s strength as much as they respected it, and did not want to displease him.

  “Ride to the rear of the lines,” he said to the queen, “And command the tail as you think best. Montague, do likewise with the center.” It was done as he ordered.

  A group of men was battering a ram against the drawbridge, trying to break it down before their lord saw them and grew angry.

  “What? Did they lock us within our own castle?” Gylain roared.

  “Yes, my lord,” answered one of the men.

  Gylain dismounted his horse and ran to the battering ram.

  “Do not ram the drawbridge,” he cried in anger, “Or it will break and leave us within!”

  He swung his powerful arm and knocked several men to the ground.

  “Come to me, three of you on each end,” he said, standing in the center of the ram. When they came, the seven of them picked it up and held it above them. “Rotate,” and they did, holding it parallel to the drawbridge. “Throw!” It flew through the air and crashed into the drawbridge, hitting with its broadside. The impact knocked the drawbridge open, crashing to the ground on the other side. Before it hit, Gylain had remounted his horse and was leading the troop forward.

  Then, without warning, he came to a halt.

  “You, there,” he cried to the captain on the ground. “Do you see that hairy man by the catapults?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “His name is de Garcia, once the finest fighter on the earth. He is a very arduous man: even his imprisonment has not subdued him. Take him, with Leggitt, to the galleys. There we will consume their zeal.”

  The captain went to fulfill his orders and Gylain crossed the drawbridge. An old man was passing by, herding a group of barrels down the river.

  “Is it not late for herding barrels?” he asked sternly.

  “I am too poor to take the liberty of an early evening.”

  “Very well,” he answered. Then, in a louder voice, he cried, “Is that them?” While everyone turned their heads, he threw the old man several gold pieces. “Onward!” he cried, and galloped to the circle of houses that stood adjacent to the drawbridge. As they reached it, Gylain turned to the troop and gave them their orders.

  “Search for the rebels. When you are done, kill those within and burn the houses.”

  He was the first to enter the houses, going into the first – from which the rebels had escaped only moments before. The first room through the outside door was a study. A man sat in front of the fireplace, deeply possessed by the book he held. It was a tattered manuscript, evidently as ancient as the forests. Its cover was of a strange, synthetic material, and the words “Temporal Anomaly Box: Number 12. Location: Central Savanna,” were written neatly on its front.

  Gylain recognized the book as an Atiltian classic. “A good choice; does not Jehu fascinate you, with the paradox between him and the future? The fate of all is tied to him, yet even he cannot control what happens.”

  The man looked up from the book. “Can any man control his fate?”

  “No,” and Gylain took a spiked club from one of his soldiers. “No man can control his fate or his actions – we are all but a White Eagle, and the future our only adversary. Can I stop myself?” He paused. “Do not lie to me, for I will not spare you if you do. Where have they gone?”

  “My lord, I would never tell.”

  “I will kill you if you do not.”

  The man’s face remained steady. “I am willing.”

  Gylain held the club before him. “Tell and I will let you live,” he said.

  “Nothing can pain me more than my conscience.”

  Gylain said nothing, but struck the man cross his knees. The knee caps were shattered under its force and the man cried out in pain. Gylain struck him again on his left and right arms, shattering them as well. They could not be moved.

  “Fate,” Gylain whispered, “See what it does through us?”

  He threw the man onto the floor, his feet hanging into the fire. The flames would slowly creep up his body, until he was consumed. But the man’s face remained set and he did not curse Gylain. To those who will not burn after death, to burn in life is nothing.

  Gylain left the room, only stopping on the threshold. Without turning, he said, “You are strong, but foolish, and your death in vain. Your eyes have betrayed your friends, even as they flee in the barrels.” The man on the floor wailed. Gylain seemed callous to his suffering.

  “Place the manuscript into my private library,” Gylain said to a soldier as he left. “It should be preserved, for future civilizations.” With that, he left the house.

  Montague and Cybele were waiting for him on the road.

  “There is no sign of them,” Montague said.

  “They were hidden in the barrels,” Gylain returned. “Did you burn the houses?”

  “Yes, my lord, except the one you were in.”

  “Excellent,” and Gylain drove his heels into his horse, galloping desperately to the Floatings.

  They said nothing as they rode, for the sound of the horses against the stone road was as thunder in the air. Fear went before them, hate behind. The two miles between the castle and the Floatings were passed in six minutes, and within eight they had reached the end of a pier. The harbor fleet arrived just as they did.

  “Gylain, my lord,” called Jonathan Montague from the helm. “I have found nothing to the north, but have left a squadron behind to keep watch.”

  “We were deceived,” Gylain answered.

  “By the queen?”

  “By the rebels. Have any ships passed you?”

  “That bloody fox!” Jonathan Montague cursed. “So that is where I knew his voice – William Stuart!”

  “He will be bloody soon enough!”

  Gylain dismounted directly into the ship, and the others followed as swiftly as they could. Nicholas Montague and the Queen of Saxony joined him in the flag ship with twenty-five men; the others distributed themselves among the rest of the fleet. The fleet spun about and pulled the sails to their fu
ll height, heading toward the ocean.

  “They are mine, now. I will follow them unto death,” Gylain said as he strode forward to the bow. He stood there – ten feet from the others – and raised his face to the heavens. The moon came down and cast a physical shadow over his face, though it was already shrouded by a spiritual shadow.

  “Do not tempt me any further, oh God of the heavens,” he whispered, “For I am already given to evil, and I will do as I will do.” He clenched his fist and his teeth pierced his lips as he scowled at the moon.

  Then a voice came into his mind. “Let no man say he is tempted by God; for God cannotbe tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no man. But each man is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust. His lust conceives sin, and his sin matures into death.”

  Gylain features became placid, his eyes grew quiet. He was as a child who does not understand.

  “But, my God,” he said, “Death is all that I desire.”

  Chapter 46

  “They fly through the waters as if Neptune himself propels them!” Barnes Griffith cried to those in the bow. “They ride the sails of their mizzenmast as if the wind were calm, but their mizzenmast does not fail them!”

  “Take the reef from the mainsails,” the Admiral cried, “And tighten the flying jib. But I dare risk no more, for the seas are turbulent.”

  As he spoke, The King’s Arm passed from the harbor into the ocean. On one side, the land protected the surface from being ravaged. On the other, the seas rolled about with watery fire.

  “All through the day the sea has been heaving,” the first mate said to the Admiral. “And now it has stirred itself to violence.”

  “Yes,” he answered, “But we cannot turn back. If we must choose between the wrath of the seas and the wrath of Gylain, I would gladly choose the former.” He stood rigidly as he spoke, his eyes scanning the ship and the sea. He calculated the strength of the wind, the roll of the sea, and the size of the waves against the endurance of the sails and the masts. “What a sea!” he said to himself, “It will be a miracle if we survive this night.” Then, raising his voice, he said, “Celestine, go below deck.”