Within the Hollow Crown

by Antoniazzi, Daniel

  But kids, being the cruel things that they are, insisted that he had named himself that on purpose. So, David Noble got angry. Very angry. He decided that if he was going to have a name like Noble, he was going to have to become a nobleman.

  There was only one path to nobility for the commoner. He was going to have to be knighted by the King. Counts and Dukes could knight people who were of the proper lineage, but only a King could confer it upon commoners.

  So, David figured he was going to have to do something extraordinary. Or as many extraordinary things as it took to get the King’s attention. He single-handedly hunted down the Wild Boar of Dirga. He saved a village from bandits. He fought off the Pirates of Piccirillo using only a rowboat and a slingshot. Finally, he had enough advocates to get an audience with the King. He was a shoo-in for Knighthood.

  But Vincent didn’t see it the same way, “Well, that’s very impressive, no doubt, but in order to be knighted, you would have to do something extraordinary.”

  “Your Majesty, I implore you. Those things weren’t easy to do. They were, by the measure of all others, extraordinary accomplishments.”

  At that moment, a servant entered the King’s chamber and approached the throne.

  “Yes?” the King said.

  “Your Majesty, Sir Elliot says his toe still hurts.”

  Sir Elliot had been, at the time, the King’s Champion at the Jousts. It was coming up on the final joust of the season, and to date, Elliot had won only once, and that was because his opponent had faulted on the final run.

  In a great night of partying that had followed, Sir Elliot had imbibed a considerable amount of ale, and since he had never had anything to drink before, it had a profound effect on him. While stumbling back to his tent, he stubbed his toe on a pebble. Since that date, he had failed to practice any jousting, and had complained, daily, about his inability to appear in the season-closing joust.

  “Well, tell him,” King Vincent had said, “That if he can’t joust tomorrow, I will have to find a replacement. And if I find a replacement, it will be permanent.”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” the servant said, “But Sir Elliot anticipated your response, and said that he had decided to quit jousting anyway, and was going to further explore the art of drinking ale.”

  “Very well,” the King said, waving his hand, “You’re dismissed.”

  The servant scurried out while the King rose from his throne and paced to and fro on his pedestal.

  “Damn! Where am I going to find a new Jousting Champion at this late hour?”

  “Your Majesty?” David Noble said, timidly holding up his hand.

  “Oh, you’re still here. What do you want?”

  “Your Majesty, I could be your new Jousting Champion.”

  “But you’re not even a knight.”

  And so it went. David Noble became Sir David Noble, and won the season closer by the splinter of a lance, as the saying went. He had trained vigorously during the off-season, and was gearing up for the big opener. King Vincent was giddy with excitement.

  So when he heard about the wedding, he could think of only one solution.

  “Bring in Nathaniel,” Vincent said. “And bring me my scribe.”

  Prince Nathaniel was the King’s oldest son. Nathaniel had failed to develop an interest in jousting, and was much more interested in fencing. He wouldn’t mind missing the tournament.

  The King also had a personal scribe, Eric. Eric was a very timid little man who had started working for the King about five years ago. He had a nervous quality, and often mumbled, but his calligraphy was perfect, and so he had earned a place in the King’s vast ranks of servants.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Eric said, shuffling into the throne room.

  “Eric, brilliant. Take this message, ‘Michael, congratulations. Will be sending Prince Nathaniel to oversee the union between you and Lady Sarah. I do hope to see you at future jousts. Yours, King Vincent Rone.’”

  “Got it,” Eric said. “Would you like me to read it back to you?”

  “No, I can never hear you when you speak, anyway. Dismissed.”

  Eric scurried away. He needed to find an empty room. He needed to send a message. But not in the traditional sense, as a Royal Scribe might. Because Eric was secretly a Turin. With the right makeup and enough practice on the accent, he had infiltrated the King’s staff five years ago. But he was once a member of the Turin-Sen, and he had to get a message to his true Master, Argos.

  Chapter 10: Alumnus

  Landos found Michael in the Dining Hall, going over wedding preparations with the stewards. The Castle had been a nonstop bustle of activity since Michael had announced the upcoming nuptials. Sure, they had just gotten through the Rutherford wedding, but this was a Count, and the Crown Prince was coming. Things had to look awesome.

  “Excuse me,” Landos called to Michael, “There’s someone here to see you. A young man named Jareld.”

  “Well, I’m sure you can handle whatever it is they want.”

  “He said he would only speak to you.” Landos said.

  “Are you sure he’s not an assassin or something?”

  “He said to show you this, and you’d know what it’s about.”

  Landos tossed Michael a Jareld’s Signet Ring. Michael recognized it at once. He sent one of the Stewards to bring the visitors to the Great Hall, where he and Landos would await them. They walked for a few paces before Landos broke the not-so-comfortable-silence.

  “So, what’s the deal with this guy?” Landos asked.

  “He’s a student of the Towers of Seneca,” Michael said. “So I’m obligated to try to help him. This will be my first opportunity in more than ten years to fulfill my Oath of the Towers.”

  “How’re plans with the wedding coming along?” Landos asked. He tried to be all casual and friendly. Like they used to be. Before her. But he knew he stepped in it as soon as he said it. Michael thought long before responding.

  “Landos, I’ve been hearing some things as I go about the castle.”

  “What sorts of things?” Landos asked, while swallowing.

  “I don’t think I need to repeat them between us,” Michael said. “But it would disturb me greatly if they were true.”

  “Michael, I would never--”

  “I certainly hope not. Just, please, don’t embarrass me, or our court. You’re young. You have a way with people. You can easily find another girl. Leave this one alone.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “I just wanted to make sure we understood one another.”

  “As always, your faithful servant.”

  “You don’t have to bullshit me, Landos. Just tell me we understand one another.”

  “We do.”

  “Good.”

  They had arrived at the Main Hall. Michael took his seat at the Audience Platform, and Landos stood below him. They had only just gotten settled when Jareld and Thor entered.

  “Your Grace,” Jareld bowed. “I am Jareld and this is my associate Thor.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both,” Michael said, tossing the Ring back to Jareld. “You’ve come a long way from Seneca.”

  “Longer than you think. We’ve since been to Anuen, Arwall, and across most of Ralsean.”

  “And at the Spicy Kangaroo,” Thor added, for good measure.

  “How’s Gallar?” Michael asked. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “He’s well,” Jareld said. “If he had known we were coming this way, I’m sure he would have sent his regards.”

  “What can I help you with, gentlemen?” Michael asked.

  “We’ve come across a little bit of a problem,” Jareld said. “We have gathered clues pertaining to the whereabouts of the Saintskeep, and--”

  “Pardon me,” Landos said. “Did you say the Saintskeep?”

  “Yes,” Jareld said. “We think we know where it is.”

  “So do we,” Michael said. “It’s buried with King James in
the Caves of Drentar.”

  “We have reason to believe it isn’t,” Jareld said. “And I was hoping to do some research.”

  “The library? Is that all you need?” Landos asked.

  “I need an outhouse,” Thor said, simply because it was true at the moment.

  “Well,” Jareld said, “There’s also a small matter of funds. We were only supposed to be on the road for a month. It’s been three, and we’re not done yet.”

  “We can certainly furnish you both with a little traveling money. But, in the meantime, I insist that you stay as guests in our castle. Landos will show you to some rooms, you can clean up, refresh yourselves, and you’ll have full access to the library.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Jareld said.

  “And good luck finding the Sword of Kings,” Landos remarked as he headed for the door, “I’m sure you’re just the man for the job.”

  Chapter 11: Love Letters

  Vye stood in the middle of her room naked. She had to choose what to wear.

  Many women, across continents and eras, had to make such a choice. But perhaps very few had to make the same kind of choice as Vye. She wasn’t choosing between different frilly outfits. She wasn’t deciding what shoes to match with what blouse. She was deciding who she was going to be that day.

  On her dresser, the girl had laid out Vye’s usual courtly regalia. A powder blue gown with matching corset. Optional arm-scarf. Egg-white slippers. She looked good in the corset, though she wished it didn’t push her boobs up to her neck.

  But on the old wood trunk, Vye had left her other clothes. Tan trousers, stained-white tunic, chainmail, black boots, and her scabbard. Nothing matched. But they were clothes befitting a Military Advisor.

  And this was the choice Vye faced every morning. Who was she going to be that day? Was she going to be Lady Vye, a demure woman in Michael’s Court? Or was she going to be Lady Vye, Michael’s Military Advisor? She would wear the chain of office either way, she would do the same things during the day, but it did affect the way she thought of herself. And the way others thought of her.

  She took a deep breath, deciding--

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Vye jumped at the booming at the door.

  “Who’s there?” Vye called, scrambling for her bed robe.

  “It’s me,” came Landos’ voice through the door. Vye got herself covered and unlocked the chamber door.

  “Well, Landos,” Vye said, “It is certainly early for you to come calling.”

  Landos came in and immediately started pacing a circle in the middle of Vye’s room.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Vye said, hugging herself against the chilly morning.

  “Look, I...” Landos began. “No.”

  “Then why are you in my chambers?”

  “Did I come at a bad time?”

  “No, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Umm…” Landos began. “I think I have a problem.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “It’s about Sarah,” Landos said.

  “You mean Lady Sarah, don’t you? The Count’s fiancée?”

  “Yes, I mean that one. I think I’m in love with her.”

  Vye glared at Landos. Her face was unreadable, but she instinctively started massaging her shoulder.

  “And,” Landos continued, “I think she’s in love with me. You should have heard what she said--”

  “Landos!” Vye interrupted, “You have to stop, right now. You have to put her out of your mind.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “But she’s so--”

  “Engaged! She’s so engaged, Landos. There’s no room for you in this equation. Even if she were not engaged, she would still be a noblewoman. I would stand a better chance of marrying her than you.”

  “She sent me a letter,” Landos said, pulling a letter out of his pocket. “Let me just tell you what she--”

  Vye grabbed the letter from him.

  “Are you insane?” Vye said. “You have a love letter from the Count’s fiancée? Do you know what this is?”

  “Beautiful?”

  “It’s treason.”

  Vye shredded the letter in her hands, tossing the offending parchment into the fireplace.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Landos objected.

  “I’m guessing you have it memorized anyway.”

  “I do. And it said--”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Just please tell me you didn’t send a letter back to her.” Landos paused just long enough to answer Vye’s accusation with silence. “I don’t believe it. Landos, what’s gotten into you? What are you doing exchanging correspondence with Sarah Ralsean?”

  “I’m sorry,” Landos said. “I just… don’t know what to do.”

  Vye let out a sigh, flexing her shoulder and pacing the room. The poor boy was shaking. He needed a friend, and Vye was pretty much his only option.

  “Alright. Okay. We can fix this. No damage done. Yet. Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “Who else could I tell?”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Okay, so, the only people who know about that letter are Sarah, you, and myself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And the letter you sent her…?”

  “I sent it addressed to her personal servant.”

  “Well, at least you’re being the smart kind of dumb. Now, listen to me carefully: That’s it. No more letters. Say it.”

  “No more letters.”

  “Good. And, this is also important: Once Sarah is here, and living with us, you have to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “You will not be in a room alone with her under any circumstances.”

  Landos brushed his hand through his hair and looked over to the window. He wanted to be an honorable man. But more than that, he wanted to be known as an honorable man. He had secretly hoped, in his darkest dreams, that he would end up alone with Sarah when she was living at Hartstone. He had hoped they would often be alone together, and that their love would grow stronger. And that maybe, one day, they would run off together.

  But he knew Vye was right. He had come to her for guidance because he knew she wouldn’t abide any secret dreams. If he was serious about being an honorable man, he would have to avoid Sarah.

  “Right,” Landos said. “I will not be alone with her for any reason.”

  “Good,” Vye said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of having to live up to that promise.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vye said. “I know you. You keep promises.”

  Chapter 12: Bad Poetry

  “Look at this,” Thor said, handing a book to Jareld. He and Thor had spent almost every waking hour for the past three days in the library of Hartstone.

  “What is it?” Jareld said, looking over the volume Thor had just handed him. “Look at how they write the, ‘R.’ Looks like an ‘F.’” Thor commented.

  Jareld was only mildly amused by this revelation. Calligraphy had changed drastically in the centuries of written text. Certainly, the evolution of the current, “R” was not very exciting. The journal that Thor had been leafing through was the account of a minor noble in Avonshire, the largest Duchy in the Kingdom. On this particular page, he described the events of King James II’s wedding.

  For his wedding, King James II commissioned his flagship, the Saint Alexander to sail at dusk. When they were the requisite distance, the Captain of the ship performed the ceremony, and everyone rejoiced. Then, the boat sailed to the Island of Milos. Everyone disembarked and danced on the beach.

  When the night really wore on, there was the giving of gifts. The King had a special gift for his new wife. It was an embroidered poem, the poem that he had read when they first met, that had made them fall in love. It was their favorite poem, written in Atinlay, and--


  “Quick,” Jareld called to Thor, “Let me see the inscription!”

  “It’s all the way in Arwall,” Thor replied, stunned at the incongruous request.

  “I mean,” Jareld said, narrowing his eyes at Thor, “Our transcription of it.”

  Thor shuffled through his bag until he produced the small book in which Jareld had copied Dorn’s inscription. Jareld was amazed to find, in the journal of the minor noble, a detailed reproduction of the embroidered poem. Jareld matched the poem in the journal with the inscription from Sir Dorn.

  “Look at this,” Jareld said, “It’s the same poem.”

  “It’s not that rare a poem,” Thor said.

  “But look at the spelling of the word, ‘terrases.’”

  Indeed, as it was written, it seemed that James II had misspelled the word in much the same way that Dorn miswrote it.

  "You think Sir Dorn hoped we, or someone, would find this clue?” Thor asked. Jareld decided, at that moment, to keep track of the times that Thor had a good point. One.

  “Well,” Jareld said. “Wait a minute. This is an embroidering. It says here the Queen left it on the Island of Milos, and everybody knew about it. She hung it on a tree, and insisted that the King would bring her to it on each of their anniversaries. This is only an obscure clue to us, a hundred years later. If someone had found Sir Dorn’s inscription sooner after the death of King James, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “It still sounds like a long shot,” Thor said. “That Sir Dorn left a trail of breadcrumbs so fragile.”

  “Well, I know one way to find out,” Jareld said, not realizing what he had just gotten them both into.

  ---

  The four Turin-Sen met Argos at the Lunapera once more.

  “My pupils,” Argos intoned, “It is joyous to see you again. You three...” he indicated Gerard, Sandora, and Selikk, the three senior members of the Turin-Sen, “...will continue with the plan as we discussed.”