It had been a difficult few months. She had spent the early parts of it cleaning up and repairing Deliem, in an attempt to get back to her former life. When she was finished, however, she realized it wasn’t her former life she ended up with. It was something very different. She inherited the County when Sarah left, but still didn’t feel right about sitting at Michael’s desk in Michael’s study.
Repair efforts were still under way, and according to the master mason, it would take another three years at least to bring the Castle Hartstone back to its former splendor. In the meantime, Vye had plenty of administrative tasks to keep her mind busy. But she also had other things to occupy her mind.
At one point, one of the bricklayers asked if he could clear out that cluttered room in the basement. Gabriel’s workshop.
Vye hadn’t been down there since his death, but when she entered, it was exactly as she had remembered. She had stepped back in time. She imagined, for a moment, that Gabriel would grumble from his chair, disparaging her for bothering him.
She cried for almost a full hour in there that day. Her father hadn’t been much of a father. Neither had Gabriel, really, but that’s sort of what he ended up being, despite himself.
And, of course, she thought of Halmir. Not from any particular artifact or place, but just in general, while walking the catwalks, or patrolling the gardens with her new and young staff.
But at night, when she was alone in the dark, it wasn’t Gabriel or Halmir that she thought of. It was Argos. Of course, she didn’t have any romantic, filial, or patriotic emotions related to him, but she felt the darkness. There had been that moment when she had reached into the magical void and asked her powers to eliminate her enemy. There had been that moment when she had taken life with a thought.
This disturbed her, almost more than anything else that had happened. Vye had killed dozens of men in fair combat. And if anyone deserved death, Argos would be high on that list. But something had happened to her, that night, in the quiet of the Lunapera, that she wasn’t comfortable with.
Dark magic? Gabriel had warned her. Nothing powerful comes without a price. Was that the price? Was she to become her enemy? Was she to become indistinguishable from the tyrants of the north?
It was then that her thoughts would turn back to Halmir. He had been good. She believed that, fully in her mind. He had been led astray, but when he was forced to think about it, he chose for good. If he could die a good man, then maybe she had a choice after all. She could choose to fight for good. And she could be more responsible with her ability to dole out death.
But Hartstone had become a lonely place for her. It wasn’t the same without the people she had known. And there was nobody left with whom she could share her thoughts. Even when she visited Anuen, Landos was always too distracted to be of any comfort.
“Excuse me,” Emily Brimford said, approaching Vye, “Have you seen Jareld?”
“He went inside a bit earlier,” Vye said.
“Yes, I saw. But he’s been in for a while.”
“Well, here’s Landos,” Vye said, waving aside the High Lieutenant. “Landos, have you seen Jareld?”
“Oh, yes, I did see him,” Landos said, “He received a letter, from Seneca, I believe. He called me in to say goodbye, and that he had to leave immediately. I saw to it that he had a carriage and some fast horses.”
“He left?” Emily said. “Just like that? What happened?”
“I’m sure it was some sort of emergency,” Landos said, “But he would not say. He was just in a terrible rush. I’m sorry.”
Landos bowed out, then went to speak to Sarah, who was just emerging from the Castle again. Emily stepped closer to Vye.
“That’s odd,” Emily said, “I never would have imagined Jareld leaving without saying goodbye.”
“Yeah,” Vye said. “Weird. But, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Vye said. “Landos saw him out.”
“I don’t think he did,” Emily said. “He was manipulating us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was telling us a story. He used the same tone of voice when he convinced me to flee the battle, even though that wasn’t the right thing to do. He was lying.”
“Well, now, hold on, I’ve known Landos for a long time,” Vye said.
“And he’s never lied during that time?” Emily said.
Vye thought about a promise that Landos had made to her, long ago, about love letters and prudence. She also thought about the fact that Landos almost died wearing his bedclothes.
“Well, no, but—” Vye began to answer.
“I’m telling you, something’s not right.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vye said. “I’m sure Jareld will write you a post from the first tavern he stops at. It’ll all be explained in a couple of days.”
---
But it wasn’t. The days passed slowly for Emily Brimford as she waited to hear from Jareld. When the days turned to weeks, she sent out letters to every corner of the Kingdom in which she thought he might be. She waited in Anuen for a month, but there was no answer. Finally, she returned home to find his room just as he had left it. Nobody had seen or heard from him.
She pressed Landos for a further explanation, but Landos insisted that Jareld had left in a carriage from the Unity Treaty and that was all he knew. She continued to send Landos letters of inquiry every week, until two months after his disappearance, Landos returned a letter with a signet ring in it. The letter explained that a group of bandits had been captured recently, and amongst their cache of equipment was Jareld’s Signet Ring from the Towers of Seneca. After interrogation, Landos explained, the bandits revealed that they had ambushed the carriage on the day of the Unity Treaty, heading north. Landos said he was sorry for Emily’s loss.
But the death of the famous historian was overshadowed by another, even less probable event: The disappearance of the Saintskeep. Countess Vye had been keeping it in a safe place in the depths of Castle Hartstone, and to her knowledge, she was the only one who could have opened the vault in which it was kept. But apparently, she wasn’t.
A search was organized, from ground zero, to find the famous sword. Vye gave the knights as much information as she could about the theft itself so they would know what to look for. The only piece of information she left out was the fact that the final lock of the vault was opened using only an assortment of bootlaces. When she had seen that, she knew she should keep her mouth shut.
But no sign of the sword or the thieves could be found. The hunt was entering its third week without any leads...
Chapter 92: The Toll at the Docks
On the coast of a small city in Arwall, a dock attendant ran down his checklist for the day. Only one more boat needed clearing before he could head home.
“Excuse me,” Carl, the rotund dock attendant, called into the boat, “Customs here. Permission to come aboard?”
“Aye,” Corthos called over the hull of the Leaking Tub, “Permission granted.”
“Well, then,” Carl said, stepping up the plank, “I’m going to need to collect your fee for your clearance papers.”
“Aye, matey, what be the charge?”
“Well, I’m going to need to ask you a few questions first,” Carl said, looking down at the paper before him.
Carl had been the bridge attendant the previous year for the passage coming in from Eastmore. But that bridge had been burned down during the war, and Lord Kelliwick had reassigned Carl to the docks. Many of the dockworkers had died during the conflict, and Carl had become an excellent tax collector ever since he had learned to read the collection papers.
Carl asked Corthos a series of questions, each of which brought them closer to the sum of the clearance fee. Finally, they came to a last question.
“Are you carrying any exotic items, or anything with special political, military, or economic significance?”
Corthos thought about this one for a moment. He looked over at Flopson, who was adjusting the backsta
ys in anticipation of their departure.
“Well,” Corthos said, “We ‘ave some historical documents.”
Corthos pointed to a crate that was waiting to go into storage. Carl had never seen a crate look so old and decrepit.
“I’m sure that’s pretty harmless. What about the sword?”
“That ol’ thing?” Corthos said, referring to the sheathed blade that rested beside it. “I would naught worry about it. Just a family heirloom.”
“In that case,” Carl said, “Fourteen ducats and eight farthings.”
Corthos paid, adding a small tip for Carl himself. Carl left the boat, closed his ledger and left for home.
Corthos removed the plank, then signaled to Flopson to set sails.
“That was close, eh matey?” Corthos said.
“Nah,” Flopson said. “He wasn’t going to get it.”
“Well,” Corthos said, drawing the Saintskeep from its scabbard, “Let’s find us a place to bury this here thing.”
Corthos sheathed the sword, pulled a small knot, and unfurled the banner for the ship. It was no longer the flag of Deliem, but was, in fact, a brand new, ironed, lint-brushed, and shining nylon flag of a jolly roger.
“Where are you thinking of burying it?” Flopson said.
“A long way from here, matey. A long way from here.”
---
The End
---
Epilogue: The Tower at Goldmere
There is a small tower outside the city of Goldmere, about fifteen kilometers inland from the southern shore of Avonshire.
It is a boring, gray tower. Rough-hewn stone makes it clear it was built for utility, not glamour. The citizens of Goldmere usually dismiss it as a way-station for guards. It wouldn’t really provide meaningful defense against a dedicated attack, and it can’t house enough soldiers to count as a real reserve.
One night, four months after the signing of the Unity Treaty (as it had come to be called across the Kingdom) a carriage rolled up to this tower. It was the dead of night, and there were no prying eyes about. When the guard came out to retrieve the sole passenger of the carriage, he couldn’t help but notice that she was pregnant. About seven months pregnant.
The guard escorted her silently to the dungeon. It was the only reason the Queen would come to this desolate place. To see the dungeon.
The Tower of Goldmere was a prison. A very special prison. There were times, while running a country, when you couldn’t kill someone and you couldn’t let them roam free either. At times like these, you needed to be able to make people disappear. There were only five prisoners at the Tower. Five prisoners that the King had, at some point, decided he needed to lock up without causing a fuss. The guards were sworn to secrecy. They served food with wax in their ears, so they couldn’t share words with the condemned.
Queen Sarah walked down the longest stretch of the dungeon, to the most remote corner, to the last cell.
Jareld stood as soon as he saw her arrive. Despite all that he was feeling, he couldn’t help but try to straighten his matted hair, or comb out his scraggly beard. This would be the first person he had seen in four months who knew his name.
For a moment, they stared at one another.
“Aren’t you going to bow?” Sarah asked.
Jareld shook his head.
“You should bow,” Sarah said, “I am still a Queen.”
“You committed treason,” Jareld said. “According to the King James Standard, you would be relieved of your title and executed.”
“Only after a trial. Until that day, I am the Queen.”
“You’re right. Let’s have a trial.”
“Jareld, we didn’t plan it this way. It just happened. Please, please, won’t you forgive us?”
“You don’t need my forgiveness.”
“I can’t get Michael’s forgiveness, so I’m asking for yours.”
“I cannot absolve you of your crimes.”
“Then don’t absolve me. But please, come out of the cage.”
“You can let me out any time you want.”
“But not until you agree to stay quiet.”
Jareld pressed his face against the bars.
“I can’t!” Jareld said, louder now. In the quiet of night, it sounded thunderous. “I have dedicated my life to finding out the truth. I will not perpetuate a lie.”
“But we didn’t want this to happen. This wasn’t done out of malice or greed. This was a mistake. I wanted to have kids, with Michael. I wanted to have a life with him. I loved him too, Jareld. But this happened instead, and now we have to make the best of it.”
“Then I’m afraid you came down here for nothing.”
Sarah sat on a stool in the corridor of the dungeon. Her ankles always appreciated a rest. She pressed her hand to her belly, feeling the baby kick. A child she would have to raise. In a world that she had helped construct.
“Jareld,” she said, her voice cracking, “Please. I can’t sleep at nights with you down here. It’s nobody’s fault. Please. Please go home. Emily has been asking about you. She still believes you’re alive.”
“Tell her I’m dead,” Jareld said. “I don’t want her waiting for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know when you’re going to let me out.”
Sarah grunted as she stood, supporting her hips with both hands.
“I’m sorry, Jareld. We just can’t. We can’t risk it.”
Sarah put her hand on Jareld’s scraggly face. She leaned in and kissed him on his scraggly cheek.
Then, she turned to leave.
“The King will come back one day,” Jareld said. “We had a false King for a century, but Michael emerged from the ashes. It’ll happen again. The King will come back for us.”
Sarah stopped in her tracks and considered these words. She wondered if her own reckoning wasn’t in them somewhere. She sighed and looked over her shoulder.
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
And then she left.
---
And that’s the end of the story, for now. The adventure continues in “A Dagger of the Mind”, available… as soon as I finish writing it. For now, thanks for reading. Tell your friends. Write a review. Write a blog. Stand atop a mountain with a bullhorn and announce that this is the best book you’ve ever read. I mean, only if you really feel that way.
Until next time,
Daniel Antoniazzi
Defenestration (noun) – the act of throwing a person out of a window
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Or achieving peace and quiet on a Sunday afternoon during yodeling season.
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Red dirt was the sort of sand you found at the edge of the water at the beach, except in Arwall, where you could find it just about anywhere.
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Slurve was that kind of mud that stuck to your boots, but that fell off as a light brown powder when it dried.
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Worm-glue was the kind of mud that made a kissing sound every time you picked up your foot.
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“Misspell” is one of the most misspelled words in the English language. Alanis Morisette once wrote a song about irony that didn’t include any irony. You know what I’m saying?
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Turcle: It’s another kind of mud. Do you really care?
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I know, I know. I started you off with an assassination and then went straight for the scholars. Well, they’re important to the story. And before the tale is finished, we’ll be dealing with life, death, love, magic, swords, kings, jesters, and dragons. If you’re from the MTV generation and have the attention span of a flea, then hopefully these footnotes will keep you happy until people start dying. Otherwise, may I recommend a Michael Bay movie instead of this book?
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Yes, yes, we’ll be using the metric system, you uncultured Americans (of which I am on
e.) Live with it. If you need a point of reference, 53 kilometers is about how far you’d travel in an hour if you were going 53 KPH.
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Though Vye had other four-letter words she preferred to use for him.
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And, therefore, Vye.
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And they lost those fights. Vye wouldn’t have been so angry with them if they had won.
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There’s a reason he spent his youth pitching tents (*ahem*) alongside armies of young men.
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cap-a-pie - from head to foot
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Her limit when she began training. A pedestrian number, as Tallatos commented.
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The best of any of Tallatos’ students. Ever.
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When asked who your favorite King is, your answer is supposed to be the one you’re talking to.
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Chosen as a symbol of wisdom. Get it? I suppose if you got it, you would have gotten it. And if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t have.
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Mostly.
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For the uninitiated, “Wyrm” here is archaic for Dragon. So, you know, don’t picture a really big earthworm. We’re not going fishing here. It’s a fucking Dragon.
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