“Indeed. Any idea who might have done this?” She tried to put just the right tone of I know it was you into her voice to goad him if he were guilty, but stayed clear of outright accusation.
“Hmmm.” Fyrelord crossed his arms as he considered the question. “I can think of only one sorcerer in the area.”
“And who might that be?” she said.
Fyrelord turned slowly, as though trying to get his bearing. Then he pointed north.
“In that direction resides a sorcerer most devious and cruel. He has the wings of a demon, and he has blackened his teeth to appeal to the dark gods who are his patrons.”
As the Royal Mage gestured, Willow spotted something. The corners of her mouth turned up in a grim smile.
“And does this ‘devious and cruel’ sorcerer have a name?”
“He does, Lady Captain. His name is Suel.”
She did not answer. She stared at the mage, trying to will him into a confession. Fyrelord stared back at her without expression. He smiled mirthlessly.
“You do not believe me.” He said it as a statement of fact.
“I did not say that,” she said.
But he was right. When he had gestured north, his robes had billowed. Willow had spied two tiny holes in them.
Two holes each roughly the size of a rapier entry-wound.
Alas, she had no proof and an unsubstantiated accusation would not end well for her.
Fyrelord rubbed his chin and his brows furrowed in thought.
“Captain,” he said. He gestured to the door. “Might I have a word with you … in private?”
She arched an eyebrow, but curiosity drove her. She nodded curtly and allowed him to lead her from the bedchamber.
“Captain,” Fyrelord said, his voice dry, “please pardon my intrusion, but I couldn’t help but notice what look to be rather nasty acid burns on your back.”
That caught her off guard. She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of what to say.
“If I may be so bold,” he continued, “I happen to have on me—where is it?”—he searched the various folds of his robes, before producing a large brass vial— “Ah, here it is! I happen to have one of my healing elixirs. I’m sure you know of them.”
Indeed, she did. She had long been aware that Fyrelord was capable of brewing this odd elixir. It was reputed to have a foul taste and have some odd aftereffects, but often capable of nearly miraculous healing.
Odd that he should be offering her one. She suspected they were costly endeavors—she didn’t know much about magic, but she did know that it didn’t come without a price. The vial in Fyrelord’s hand was quite literally the product of his sweat and blood.
She extended her hand, but he pulled the vial away.
“Of course,” he said, glancing sidelong into the bedchamber, “there may come a time where I might need you to perform certain actions or, perhaps, refrain from certain actions. If such a time were to—”
She had heard enough. She lunged forward and snatched the vial from his hand before he could react.
“Thank you for the potion, Fyrelord,” she said. “On behalf of the Chancellor, I thank you for your contribution to the Guard.”
Willow spun on her heels and returned to the bedchamber before Fyrelord was able to respond. She heard his enraged sputtering behind her, and found it surprisingly gratifying. Trying to bribe the Captain of the Guard …!
As she returned to the unconscious man’s side, she heard rapid footfalls echoing in the large hall outside the King’s chambers.
“Where is he?” an aristocratic woman’s voice said, her words rushed and tinged with anxiety. “I want to see him!”
“Out of my way, you fool!” she snapped at some poor functionary caught in her path. “I’ll have you beheaded if you don’t get out of my way immediately.”
Into the room stormed Queen Tiranda the Fair.
Chapter 23
Queen Tiranda the Fair was descended from a now out-of-favor line of royals from nearby Kyrn. King Eric had married her when he was thirty-eight and she was just thirteen. When the novelty of the marriage ebbed, his interests turned to other women: hers turned to power.
While Bryanae and Kyrn continued their perpetual dance between friendship and war, the fiery redhead had been steadily eroding the lines separating her authority from the King’s. While he was off seducing some farmer’s daughter, she always remained faithful: both to the marriage bed and to her desire to rule.
The King’s disappearance had put that in jeopardy. Technically, she had no authority; whatever power she had she derived from King Eric, and she knew it. If he had died, she would have lost all authority, but his return was nearly as bad for the Queen. The work of years of conniving and cajoling were at risk.
The Queen pushed past the Guardsmen crowding the entrance to the chamber, elbowing Willow out of the way.
She stared at the unconscious man lying in her husband’s bed. Her face was inscrutable.
“He’s so young,” she half-whispered, one hand clutched to her chest. She shuddered, an enigmatic smile on her face. “And so handsome.”
Willow arched an eyebrow. That had been unexpected. She had felt for sure that the Queen would have denounced the man as an impostor, or at least shown some doubt. Not even Willow was convinced, and she arguably had spent more time with this man than any of the others.
“Your Majesty,” Fyrelord said, “we’re not entirely sure this man is your husband. He may be an imposter.”
The Queen glanced briefly at the mage before returning to study the man on the bed.
Someone tapped on Willow’s shoulder. It was the soldier sent to fetch her uniform. He handed it to her, as well as the items found in the presumptive King’s room at the inn: a rapier, a silver-headed cane, an empty canvas sack, a set of wet clothing, and the much-discussed plumed hat.
She surreptitiously slipped from the bedchamber to the King’s retiring room, where she began to change her uniform. Though no one was there to observe her, she nevertheless kept her face impassive as the coarse fabric grated against the acid burns on her back. A few dots of perspiration on her forehead were the only indication of the agony the act had entailed.
The shirt was ruined, suitable as a rag and nothing else. A blackened tattered fringe surrounded the plate-sized hole.
She examined the vial that Fyrelord had given her, sloshing its contents about. It moved slowly within; the fluid was thick as stew.
It could be poison, of course, but the healers had seen Fyrelord take her aside. If it turned out to be toxic, there would be little doubt as to who had poisoned her. On the other hand, she didn’t have the luxury of waiting for her burns to heal on their own—assuming they ever would. She needed to be at her sharpest, and quickly.
She wrenched the metal cap, putting her body weight behind it, and at last, the cap pulled free along with the attached cork stopper. She gagged as a smell like frying pus assailed her nostrils.
She wrinkled her nose and was about to peer into the vial to examine its contents further, but thought better of it. In order to do her duty, she needed to be healed. She needed to drink this elixir to be healed. And judging by the nauseous odor, she suspected that if she so much as glanced at the contents, not even her prized discipline could make her drink it.
Before she could second-guess herself, she upended the vial and gulped down its contents.
Instantly, her stomach revolted, trying to empty its contents of that hideous fluid. Willow clamped her mouth shut with her palm. She squeezed her eyes tightly against the sickening queasiness. Her abdomen convulsed repeatedly, but she held fast. She staggered to the water basin on the marble counter across from her, and as soon as the next round of convulsions passed, she scooped up handfuls of water and forced herself to swallow them.
An agonizing cramp in her abdomen doubled her over; she barely kept herself from cracking her skull against the basin’s marble surface. She breathed heavily through her nost
rils and wondered when the ill effects of the potion would pass. It wouldn’t do for someone to barge in and find her in this weakened state.
Then the sickness passed.
A wave of sleepiness hit her, but she was even more skilled at resisting that than she was at enduring pain. Countless night duties had taught her that particular skill.
Her back itched furiously, but now she was in familiar territory; all wounds itched as they healed. More interesting was the rippling sensation she felt beneath her shirt, as though the skin on her back had turned into a body of water into which pebbles were being thrown.
Then the waves subsided, too, and with them, the sleepiness receded. She hesitated before reaching behind and under her shirt. To her surprise, the skin felt smooth and unburned, and there was no pain whatsoever.
“Hmm,” Willow said, impressed with the efficacy of the potion. It had been almost worth enduring that dreadful nausea.
She tucked her shirt back in and adjusted her jacket.
Now healed and properly attired, she examined the items the soldier had brought her from the man’s room in the inn.
The rapier seemed of excellent quality. Its guard was an ornate and elaborate swirl of metal. She drew the blade from the sheath and was surprised to find that the steel had been imbued with an unusual orange hue.
She made a few cuts in the air with it and was disappointed. The rapier seemed to be somehow off. She wondered why anybody would waste his time with such a flawed weapon unless it was purely for ornamental purposes. If that were the case, she had no respect for the man.
She sheathed the blade and examined the cane. The exterior of the cane was stiff black leather and it had the silver head of a lion. It was heavy, and at first, Willow thought it might have a weapon concealed in it. She tried pressing on the wolf’s nose, and then each of his eyes. Neither budged. She dared not risk damaging the device with more extensive efforts, so she put it aside for now.
She examined the sack next. An ordinary burlap sack. In fact, it looked less than ordinary; a rent had been hastily repaired with a greenish-yellow thread. She opened the sack it and peered inside …
She blinked, unable to believe her eyes at first. From the outside, the sack appeared large enough to hold, say, a half-dozen rocks. The area inside the sack, however, seemed endless. She put her hand into the sack, but felt nothing. She reached further until her entire arm was in the bag up to its shoulder. She still felt nothing.
She quickly withdrew her arm and shuddered. First, she'd endured a sorcerous attack, then had found what looked to be the spitting image of King Eric except decades younger and in prime physical condition, and now this magical artifact. Magic appeared to permeate every aspect of this situation, and Willow didn’t like it.
It was often said that elves were especially adept at magic. If so, she was the exception. She neither knew much about it, nor cared to.
She examined the clothing, finding it to be garish and impractical, with showy embroidery and exotic bone clasps. The workmanship, however, was extraordinary, and on a whim, Willow looked for, and found, a maker’s label. It read:
Shara—Cerendahl
Lastly, she examined the famous hat. It was constructed out of black suede, wide-brimmed, and had an enormous white feather plume stuck at a rakish angle. From what bird that feather could have come from, Willow couldn’t even begin to speculate. As it was, the hat was outlandish; something a clown might wear for a quick laugh, but hardly something one would expect to find crowning the head of a royal personage.
She bundled the items together and headed back toward the bedchamber. On the way, one of her Guardsmen, Corporal Plantet, caught her eye and gestured for her to hurry.
As she passed, he whispered, “He’s beginning to stir, Captain.” He added, “And watch out for the Chancellor; he’s in a foul mood.”
She nodded to him absent-mindedly.
Another foul mood. Lovely.
Well, she had to face him eventually, so it might as well be now.
She strode into the King’s bedchamber to find that not only had the Chancellor arrived, but so had Private Marcus. Her astonishment at seeing Marcus here quickly turned to fury: not only did he have no business here, no one should have let him enter. Yet, there he was.
When Marcus saw her, he waved, seemingly delighted to see her. The Chancellor followed Marcus’s gaze, and it was clear from his expression that the Chancellor was most decidedly not glad to see her.
Too bad. She kept her face impassive. If this mission had failed, it was because the Chancellor had withheld crucial information. Furthermore, saddling her with Marcus had all but assured that the mission would end in disaster.
That she'd recovered "young King Eric," under the circumstances, was nearly miraculous.
“Chancellor,” she said formally, with an appropriate bow.
He turned back to the bed, ignoring her. She suppressed a snort. She had been a soldier before the Chancellor had been born, and she would be a soldier long after his skeleton had turned to dust. If he thought he could hurt her feelings with his pettiness, he would be sorely disappointed.
“Your Majesty,” said Anstis to the Queen, “I think he’s waking.”
Almost as one, everyone in the room moved closer to the bed, crowding to get a good look at the man: the presumptive King of Bryanae.
He opened his eyes. He blinked for a few moments, then looked around the room at the assembled personages. He blinked a few more times, as though having difficulty telling whether this was a dream or reality. At first, his eyes widened in what appeared to be alarm, but his demeanor relaxed quickly and he glanced around the chamber. He closed his eyes, and he tilted his head to the left and then the right, and then back to the left.
He opened his eyes and smiled.
“A surprise party?” he asked. “If so, will there be cake?”
Chapter 24
No one spoke. One of the healers coughed involuntarily, then blushed and fell silent.
During the silence, the man in the bed sat up and took in his surroundings. While his expression was one of bemused confusion, his eyes shone with intelligence and cunning. As his gaze moved around the room, he seemed to size up each person in turn.
He clearly liked what he saw in the Queen. He studied her face and his eyes roamed her body with no attempt to disguise his delighted smile. Moreover, instead of taking offense, the Queen surprised Willow by blushing and looking demure! Willow had served this queen ever since her wedding day, and save for the wedding itself, Willow had never seen her blush. Weakling. To be controlled so easily.
Then the man saw Fyrelord. His smile faded and his eyes narrowed before looking down for a moment, as though trying to remember something. The man looked up at the mage once more, and this time, his eyes hardened. His jaw jutted and the corners of his lips turned up slightly.
He moved on to Marcus, at whom he smiled, and then to Willow. Their gazes met, and Willow kept her face expressionless. If he were trying to read her, he would come away with nothing.
The presumptive King smiled slightly, and shifted his gaze.
Upon seeing the Chancellor, his expression went through a rapidly changing series of emotions. At first, he seemed delighted, then alarmed. Following fast upon the alarm, his mouth turned up in a knowing smile and his eyes sparkled. His eye twitched, and Willow thought it might have been a wink to the Chancellor. If it was, the Chancellor showed no indication of having seen it.
When he had completed his survey of the room, he returned his attention to the Queen. His expression softened as he held out a shaking hand to her.
“My darling,” he half-whispered, “is it really you? After all this time, is it you at last?”
The Queen inhaled sharply. She took his hand in hers, holding it tightly. She bent to lavish that hand with kisses, but the Chancellor forestalled the uncharacteristic display of emotion.
“Your Majesty,” he said to the Queen, his voice remaining almost a m
onotone, “this man is obviously an impostor. Even if we overlook the age difference, he sounds nothing at all like His Majesty, the King.”
The Queen was mesmerized by this man, her intelligence sapped by whatever erotic power he held over her. She nodded as though only half-hearing the words.
“Yes, Chancellor,” she said, speaking in a reverential tone, such as might be used at a religious ceremony. “He’s not at all like he was. He’s changed, revitalized. A man again!”
“My darling,” the man said. He placed his other hand over hers. “My love.”
She fell to her knees before him. She clutched his hands to her breast as though she feared he would vanish with the first light of dawn.
“Yes, Chancellor,” the presumptive King said, looking at him pointedly. “Revitalized. My mission…” He turned to the Queen, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My mission … My dearest, I’ve succeeded!”
“Madam, this is a farce!” the Chancellor said, his face reddening. “This is not the King.”
Marcus flinched at the Chancellor’s uncharacteristic burst of his emotion. Willow, alas, was very used to it by now.
She wasn’t sure why he was insisting the man she had saved wasn’t the King. After all, he was the one who had sent her to retrieve him, and by all accounts, this was the correct man. She suspected that the change in the Chancellor’s tune was because this man was now in the presence of the Queen instead of the “secret and secure location” to which the Chancellor had ordered him to be brought. Which begged the question, of course: what would the Chancellor have done with this man at said secret and secure location?
“No, Chancellor, you are wrong,” the Queen said, her gaze fixed on the King. “Look at him: the hair, the eyes, the nose, the chin … absolutely identical. No, Chancellor, he is the King of Bryanae. Revitalized.”
Then the old Queen returned. She fixed the Chancellor with a venomous glare.
“And I’ll thank you to withhold your opinions until I ask for them,” she said. “Which will be never!”
King of Bryanae (Bryanae Series Book 3) Page 8
