The son of the current speaker of the Ikarus council seemed to be the most disturbed at the king’s presence. “Hey!” the chubby boy yelled. Standing shorter than Rayne didn’t intimidate him. He had crooked teeth and a belly that flopped over his belt buckle. “What makes you come out into the streets, freak? I think this might be the second or third time I’ve ever seen you outside the castle in my life.”
Children chuckled freely and swarmed to the engagement.
Rayne knew his name. It was Fervan Mongs, the new council’s speaker’s son. The king immediately sensed Fervan’s ill feelings towards him. But Rayne kept himself outwardly calm. He didn’t know what to say.
At the king’s refusal to respond, Fervan became angry.
There was not one adult in sight other than the bakers and blacksmiths, who weren’t paying any attention to the juvenile horseplay. They had no idea that the king was involved in the commotion. They were cleaning up and closing down for the night.
“I’m talking to you!” Fervan shouted.
Rayne turned and tried to run away. But the rest of the children stopped what they were doing, surrounded them, and watched with fearful excitement.
Fervan kept on, “Don’t you know that everyone thinks you’re a curse? My mother told me all about you. She said that you’re the cancer that grew within the queen. You killed her! Then you stole the sun. It was you who should have died instead!” he said, poking Rayne’s chest. He walked around, proud of what he’d said, then kicked the ball across the street.
Rayne felt a flood of anger. The accusation that he was responsible for his mother’s death infuriated him, but he did not counter the verbal attack.
Obviously agitated that he didn’t get a reaction out of Rayne, Fervan continued with insults. “Where’s your Mernish sister? That slut isn’t around to take you to bed? Maybe she’s sleeping with your, I mean, her stepbrother?”
A few children gasped, shocked at Fervan’s bold, disrespectful comment.
It was then that Rayne, for the first time, felt a fury so powerful it overcame his ability to control his anger, pushing the otherwise calm king into a fit of rage. Rayne grabbed the boy’s fat arm as hard as he could.
The king’s eyes rolled over and turned black. His gray skin lit with a mild, green glow. Rayne’s emotions were burning into Fervan as he held his skin.
Fervan yelped, twisting and turning, trying to break free of Rayne’s firm grip, from the extreme heat burning his skin. Steam evaporated from the top of Rayne’s hand. And before he released the speaker’s son’s arm, a bone cracked.
Pulling away, the boy fell to the ground. He was in tears. His arm looked broken, hanging unnaturally, and now wore a burn mark in the shape of Rayne’s hand.
The wall of children surrounding the king and Fervan parted as adults began to inspect what the ruckus was all about. When Rayne looked through the collage of angry faces for Anna and Indrid, he remembered that they had kept on walking when he ventured down the street. Rayne felt alone, and helpless.
Above him, he noticed birds flying around in circles, as if they were waiting to scavenge his dead body. They were probably vultures, he thought; vultures that already knew he could be sentenced to death for what he’d just done.
Then suddenly there was a sound of hope.
“Rayne!” Anna’s voice sounded heavenly. She was with Indrid who appeared confused and hesitant. But they were blocked by onlookers.
Fervan got up and ran away through the crowd, crying.
When Rayne saw the fear in Anna’s face, it broke his heart to see his stepsister look at him in this way. But no matter what his siblings thought—whether they would defend him or abandon him out of fear—Rayne knew that the event would confirm the witnesses’ tenet that he was a curse; the uncontrollable urge to hurt Fervan after his comment made Rayne question the same. Am I a curse? he wondered.
Surrounded, the king felt like the cats in the arena; everyone stared at him as if he were a beast. They were all terrified of what had just happened. But still no one attempted to take the king into custody.
Rayne just fell to his knees and started to cry, even harder than Fervan.
“Excuse me! Move, please!” Montague shouted, excusing himself through the crowd. Once he got close enough, he kneeled and held out his hand to Rayne, who couldn’t reach fast enough to grab it.
“Come,” Montague said in the gentlest voice.
Just by the way Montague looked at him, Rayne knew that his fate was now out of his caretaker’s hands; it would be determined by the council. Even Montague, the only father-figure he ever had, couldn’t possibly cover up this serious mistake.
Montague La-Rose paced back and forth between the library and the castle halls; he couldn’t sleep. He spent the night pondering what each current member of the council would think and say about the incident with Rayne, being that Montague hadn’t been a part of any diplomatic decisions since the queen had passed. However, before Olivia died, she signed a contract stating that Montague La-Rose would always have a vote on the council whether he was an acting member or retired.
Throughout the night, he pondered the scenarios: what may or may not happen, could or could not, should or should not. But he didn’t have a clue. Under Nekrum influence, there was no expectation that Alexandal would defend his own son. It was obvious that Demitri had a strong hold over him. Montague would be surprised if Alexandal even showed up at the hearing. He’d avoided the boy since his birth. I don’t think he even knows a single thing about Rayne, Montague thought, other than the fact that he’s different. Montague was scared; terrified of what will come of Rayne, the boy he had grown to love like a son. How could he logically explain the burn marks to the council without calling the phenomenon supernatural?
A painful anxiety prevented Montague from sleeping. With a tired mind it was harder to plan his defense strategy. When he closed his already heavy eyes, Montague was suddenly enchanted by a song he heard a bird singing on a branch near the open window. The melody engrossed him and the sound began to translate within his mind as a still small voice. It was Burton Lang’s voice, and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
After all this time, Montague finally heard from his mentor. Burton was somewhere deep and dark, that much Montague could decipher through the high-pitched chirping. The message sounded muddled. Very few words could be deciphered. But Montague did hear Burton’s warning about some kind of plot to kill the king. And that was enough to amplify Montague’s fears. “Take the boy’s blood,” Burton’s voice said.
Montague sat at his desk and interpreted as much as he could. He considered the message then wrote a response on a parchment to be delivered by the bird back to his old friend, wherever he was. There were so many emotions he was feeling and so many things he wanted to say, but the king’s hearing would begin in minutes. The bird seemed to have little patience, dancing around on the windowsill. There was little time to relay what was most important.
“Monte,” Indrid said, breaking the silence.
Montague almost fell out of his chair. It was already time for the hearing. He turned and quickly folded the letter before the bird grabbed it then fluttered away.
“Burton?” asked Indrid.
He must have caught the top of the letter, noticing the infamous name.
Anna stepped out from behind Indrid, “Burton Lang?” she asked.
Montague began to stutter, “I…This is a very old letter. I was just organizing information,” he replied to relieve their curiosity.
The nervous king stood in their shadows with his castle guards beside him. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you,” said Montague.
“My lord,” the guards said, bowing before excusing themselves.
“It is time,” Montague said to Rayne. “Anna and Indrid, I’m afraid you cannot attend the hearing.”
“I understand,” said Anna. Her smile sank into sorrow. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”
“You should have told me,” Montag
ue said sternly.
Indrid bowed and took Anna’s hand, “Good luck.”
“We will be right here when you’re done,” Anna said to Rayne. Heightened concern made her voice shudder. Her eyes were red and moist. She hugged him before leaving the room.
The boy king was voiceless as he and Montague walked to the council room. Besides the light of Montague’s lantern the hallway was dark with only a few dim candles fixed to the stone walls.
“Please, sit,” Montague said. There was a bench across from the door. He kneeled down in front of Rayne. Frightened at the thought of what might happen to the boy for what he swore was an accident, he held the king’s arm, looking deep into his soul. “Do you believe that I would ever hurt you, in any way, shape or form?”
“No,” said Rayne.
“Hold out your hand, lad,” Montague said, searching his pocket.
Rayne offered without hesitation. Montague took out a sewing pin from his right shirt pocket and a parchment. “A little prick will sting for just a second.” He dabbed the king’s fingertip, spilling only one perfect drop of blood only to smear it into the parchment. “Now, look at me,” he said. “I’ll be right next to you.”
Montague opened the door and stepped into the firelight of the council. He felt nervous and numb. The glares at the boy were damning. And the looks at Montague, defender of the accused, were not much nicer.
Gretchen sat alone near the witness benches, clutching her handkerchief. She loved Rayne just as much as he did.
The new speaker, Elmer Mongs, began loudly. His left eye was white, completely cataract. “This recent event has shattered the faith of our steward, Lord Alexandal, in hopes that his son would continue our creator’s bloodline with honor. What has happened is unexplainable and defies all logic.” He squinted. “A skill or power used in such a devious way is dangerous to our community and such claims suggest this act was a vulgar display of witchcraft. The blood of our forefather is tainted with darkness.”
That was the last thing Montague wanted to hear.
Other than the speaker, who was bitter from the start, being that the victim of the assault was his son, the other council members sat with their heads down, unwilling to share their voice in the debate. Montague knew that they were ashamed of the facts and too embarrassed to make their thoughts known in front of Montague, a well-respected elder among Ikarus who had strong paternal feelings for the boy.
Lord Alexandal Duncan sat upon his seat, stoic and voiceless, staring into the vacant space within the room, as if any fatherly instinct or love for his child had vanished. He made no eye contact with his son, the king, Rayne Volpi that stood before him, scared and confused. The boy was a stranger to him.
But something seemed strange with Alexandal. He would glare at Montague then look away, squinting as if he was in pain. Montague could swear that Alexandal wanted to tell him something, but someone else was stopping him.
The speaker continued. “We have decided banishment from Ikarus. After ten years when the boy is of age to claim the throne, we will re-evaluate his moral and mental stability,” he finished, spraying spit from his lips.
The council members became chaotic. It seemed as though the decision was not unanimous. They wrestled with what the speaker had just said. Some spoke loudly, claiming that the decision was too impulsive and harsh. Others defended the ruling. Banishment had been the penalty for murder back in the days of Illyrium.
“Burdlap,” Montague said, stealing everyone’s attention. “It was a powder from the burdlap leaf. The plant secretes a pollen-like substance to fertilize the female seeds. This particular secretion has highly acidic properties. The king must have been in contact with it on his way back from The Ponds. It simply coated his dry skin and after the conflict occurred…” he retraced his words. “…after Fervan had personally insulted the king in reference to Rayne’s mother’s passing—”
“He is not the king!” Alexandal suddenly snapped to life with anger, standing on his toes, “Not Acting king. Not yet.”
Montague felt compelled to continue. “When Rayne grabbed Fervan’s sweaty arm the powder reacted with moisture, intensifying the acidity, causing the burn. My lord would never hurt someone intentionally. Please. He is a good boy.”
“Yes. He is a good boy,” Alexandal said grimly. There was disgust in his tone. “But how did Fervan’s arm break?”
“A boy that size could easily break his arm after trying to stop himself from falling. From what I gather, Fervan and others were frolicking quite aggressively in the street. I’m sure they’d fallen many times. Besides, I examined him myself. His arm is not broken, but the radius bone has a mild fracture.” Montague paused. “Please, don’t send Rayne away; the last Volpi in existence, the descendent of our creator. You can’t send him away,” Montague pleaded.
“Oh but we can if it is proved that supernatural forces were responsible. Then, if our creator’s blood has been spoiled, even royalty can be banished. It has before. That is the law. And you see, unfortunately, your knowledge of burdlap plants is limited. They are dormant this time of year and their leaves curl up into hibernation. They prefer the humid air,” the speaker said.
Montague swallowed hard. That was the only explanation he could come up with and the speaker saw right through it. It was an impressive amount of knowledge the speaker knew about a plant that is considered essential in the ‘craft’, Montague thought. But Montague knew all too well that the ‘craft’ had become a common practice by priests in The Temple. And the speaker was a high priest, a conductor of religious ceremonies. The Temple swore allegiance to the Nekrums and was responsible for the outbreak of mages now led by Demitri Von Cobb.
The speaker and a few other members leaned in close to Alexandal for a private discussion.
“Let us say this, we will agree to lower the boy’s sentence to high seclusion in the castle, if and only if, you agree to change the law so Alexandal can rule Ikarus until his death, and not hand it over to Rayne Volpi when he becomes of age,” the speaker proposed. He looked at Rayne. “And no more visiting that beast of yours.”
Montague looked to Alexandal, hoping to see a spark of the man he once knew. But the steward was lost, still immune to emotion. The crushed custard shells he’d been secretly adding to Alexandal’s soup and ale supply apparently had no beneficial effect. It had been just another failure.
“The boy isn’t going anywhere,” Montague said. “I guess you will have it your way. The throne until you pass.” His voice shook with repulsion.
Before the hearing came to a conclusion, a guard interrupted, “My lords and ladies, Graleons are approaching.”
Montague didn’t bother to wait for a formal dismissal. He took Rayne by the hand and just walked out after the announcement; guards followed.
OUTSIDE THE council room, lines of soldiers marched in uniform toward the castle with brilliant silver and glossy bronze armor. They hailed from the colony of Grale, proudly holding their blood-red flags high with a gold Graleon shield sewn on the front.
Indrid Cole was sitting on a bench in the courtyard with Anna, waiting for Montague and Rayne to exit the hearing, when his heart started pounding at the sight of the warriors approaching. Rows of knights lined the castle court. The army acknowledged their future leader, saluting him. They knew exactly who Indrid was. Grale was the colony he belonged to; the island where he was born and raised; the place where he’d made memories with his real family who is now long gone.
Alexandal burst out from the council room doors with a contorted expression and walked out to the balcony edge, gripping the railing. “What an interesting surprise. Whom shall I address?” he asked, looking at the shadowed faces within black helmets.
A knight stepped forward with armor as black as coal, “I, my lord. I am Simon Atikan.”
“Ah, another steward,” Alexandal huffed.
Indrid recognized the dark knight. Simon was the Graleon keeper and protector of the throne; one of the most resp
ected knights in the entire land. “The knights of Grale have come to claim our blood-born ruler, Indrid Cole, son of Arland Cole. Many letters on the subject of his turnover have come and gone without a response.”
“You’ve stopped sending funds to Ikarus. May I ask why?” Alexandal asked, avoiding the subject.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but when our concerns went unanswered for too long, we decided that there was no other way to get your attention. It seems as though you still fail to acknowledge our request to have our count back.”
“You speak to me as though Ikarus is a charity case. Let me inform you that the monies that you were sending to us were rightfully ours. Ikarus is in no debt to anyone. And if I needed coin, I wouldn’t hesitate to come and take it,” Alexandal said.
The knight lifted his brow. “Indrid Cole is now eighteen. He is the count of Grale. We’ve come to claim him,” Sir Simon said.
Just to hear a Graleon authority figure say his name made Indrid feel special.
Alexandal looked agitated. There was no doubt he didn’t like Simon Atikan. “You will be leaving here empty handed,” he said, “Our people are threatened almost daily in some way or another; stealing crops or burning fields, and not to mention what happened to Queen Olivia, who was so dear to me. Indrid is now Ikarus’s active general and we are at a time of war. Until the issues are resolved, he must remain here.”
Ikarus general? Indrid wondered. He’d been only a mere soldier. Rage began to swell within Indrid, knowing that Alexandal was promoting him just to prevent him from leaving. The young adult couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How dare Alexandal deny my right to return to Grale? He thought.
“At war? Do you think that our people don’t suffer? We deal with the same threat as you. That excuse is not relevant…my lord,” the dark knight said with a careful bow.
“Watch your tone, young warrior,” Alexandal growled, “Why don’t we ask the boy?” He turned to Indrid, “Well, do you, General Cole, wish to abandon us during a time of war? Indrid?”
Under a Veil of Gods Page 14
