Fatal Heir

by L. C. Ireland

  I stood on tip-toe and squinted, searching the platform for sight of my pa, but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to worry. Had they killed him already? Had I missed my chance to save him?

  I noticed that Lord Brenden was also missing from the gathered throng. I remembered the way he spoke up for me, even as I was being shoved into his cellar and sentenced to death. I was glad he wasn’t present. I took his absence as a message. He would not have allowed this.

  I would not allow it either.

  Who was I to have that authority? Well, apparently, I was Izayik Delaren. Whether I was really Izayik Delaren or this was all a huge misunderstanding, I wasn’t going to hide. I had made up my mind last night that I would not stand idle while my pa was murdered for me. If giving myself up would save him, then so be it.

  I had been awake all night planning, and getting myself killed was the best I could come up with.

  General Canron clasped his hands behind his back, puffed his chest out, and addressed us in a loud voice. “A fugitive hides among you,” he declared. “This is a man notorious for turning the hearts of the people against their king, for theft, and for murder. He was in my custody yesterday, but someone—” the general glared at us all. I turned my face away so he wouldn’t catch my gaze and recognize me. “Someone helped him escape. As long as he is among you, this entire kingdom is in grave danger.”

  Well, that was awfully melodramatic. What had the Imposter done to so completely ruin my reputation? Or rather, Izayik’s reputation.

  “Since no one will turn him in, and he has yet to deliver himself to us, I will take a substitute in his stead.”

  At a waved cue from the general, a knot of armed guards emerged from the old shoemaker’s shop that they must have commandeered for the occasion. Walking in the midst of them was Pa. My heart swelled with pride when I saw that he walked calmly, his head held high. This was my pa, who I had always mocked for being so frightened and weak, walking into death without so much as a tremor. It had never occurred to me until now that my pa might be brave. Between my pa and me, maybe I was the real coward. Perhaps true courage was not a lack of fear, but grace in the face of it.

  Pa was led to the platform and forced to mount the steps. He never complained. He stood next to the black box and turned to face us all. There was a fierceness in his eyes that made me smile. My brave, brave pa. Would I have the strength to be so brave, to save him?

  “Leonard!” The euphoria that had just buoyed my confidence deflated at the sound of my mother’s voice. She stood several paces away me, fighting to get away from Mel and my two eldest sisters. Tears streamed down her blotchy red face. She looked as if she had been crying all night.

  Whispers broke out among the gathered observers.

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” the general commanded.

  My mother would not. “My husband is innocent!” She hollered, thrusting her fist at the sky. “This is murder!”

  The crowd murmured in apprehension. Hearing a voice of reason had shaken them from their stunned trance. The general sensed this and quickly attempted to regain the crowd’s complacency.

  “Observe,” he announced to us all, indicating my mother with a sweep of his hand. “Observe your own folly. Your attempt to harbor a criminal among you has brought you to this state. This could all be avoided if you would just hand him over!”

  More murmuring among the people.

  Then, from the back of the crowd, Old Mosby shouted. “The only criminals here bear the Safford seal!”

  The soldiers on the stage shifted uncomfortably. The general’s face went red with anger.

  “That remark is treasonous!” he shouted. To the soldier at his side, he commanded, “Arrest him!”

  The soldier descended into the audience. There were cries of alarm as people stepped aside to let him through. Old Mosby cackled and ran.

  “Stop, Mosby!” someone hollered.

  Startled, Old Mosby froze and turned slowly around. A guard on the platform had docked his bow and aimed his arrow at him.

  “By all means, keep running,” the general teased. “There’s more fun in a moving target.”

  Old Mosby anxiously wrapped his skinny arms around himself.

  The general, content that Mosby would be no more trouble, addressed us again. “You are subjects of Aldrin, you treacherous lot, and you will show your authorities the proper respect. The next person to move against us will be shot.” He nodded at another of his guards, who also drew his bow and pointed it into the crowd.

  My heart was racing so fast I could hear it in my ears.

  “Kneel,” the general commanded of my pa.

  Pa knelt, staring stonily into the distance.

  “Izayik Delaren,” Canron called out to the crowd, to me. “I will kill this man if you do not show yourself. And I will kill a man every day you remain hidden from me.”

  My tongue was heavy.

  “Is this the legacy you will leave? One of cowardice?” Canron was shouting now. He grabbed Pa by his hair and forced him to bend forward over the executioner’s box. “Do it,” he said.

  As the general stepped back and the executioner stepped forward, my life flashed before my eyes. In the space of a moment, I recalled every kind thing my pa had ever done for me. Every time he had made me laugh. Every time he had ruffled my hair, told me a story, and berated me with that stern, solid love I did not deserve.

  The executioner raised his weapon.

  “Where is your prince now?” Canron asked.

  In sudden stark clarity, the choice was laid out before me. Accept my identity as Izayik Delaren, or deny it and disappear into obscurity while those I loved perished in the name of a fairy tale.

  I made my choice.

  “He’s right here!” I shouted.

  Clutching the pitchfork with one hand, I threw back my hood with the other. The people of Hazeldown gasped and murmured. The general smiled.

  “Come and join us, then,” he said.

  I watched myself ascend the platform as if I were a passive observer. It was like I lifted up into the air and looked down on myself, my poor, miserable, terrified self.

  I could at least be comforted by the fact that I looked fantastic as a rebel prince. My hood was thrown back, my jaw set in defiance. My eyes blazed with righteous anger. I watched me walk up onto the platform and felt truly proud of myself for the first time in my life.

  The stairs creaked with every step, as if some spirit within the wood was calling out a warning to me. Go back. Run away. It all ends here.

  At the top of the stairs, I climbed back inside my body and turned to face the crowd. My people. And the whole world stopped. I clutched the pitchfork as if letting it go would mean certain death. I remember feeling the light mist of rain on my face, wishing I could be so light that I would just float away in the chill breeze. I remember the astonished expressions on my neighbor’s faces.

  What, the Baines kid?

  No way. It can’t be him.

  Is this a joke?

  Don is no prince.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at Pa as they unchained his hands and let him stand. I felt ashamed. In the same moment that I was saving him, I was also disowning him. I kept my gaze fixed on the crowd, feeding on their unease, as a soldier wrenched the pitchfork from my hands. And then my eyes found Commander Shyronn’s. He looked so incredibly calm, standing at the back of the square with his arms folded across his chest. Our gazes met, and he nodded. His confidence at once calmed me and angered me and inspired me to speak.

  It took me a couple tries to get actual words out of my mouth. Even then, the words were so quiet no one could hear them. A soldier grabbed each of my arms and dragged me toward the box at which Pa had just been kneeling.

  “Let him speak!” someone yelled. It might have been Old Mosby.

  The general waved his hand with dismissive irritation. But others started to holler.

  “Let him speak!” someone else cried.

&nbs
p; And soon the crowd had picked up the desperate chant. A plea for just a few more minutes, for just a bit of understanding. Their cries beat in my ears like drums.

  “Alright!” the general screamed above the crowd. He shoved one of the soldiers out of the way and dragged me to the front of the stage. He shook me, clutching my arm so hard it hurt. “Address them,” he told me, his voice taunting and laced with anger. “Tell them why you are here.”

  I don’t know why I’m here, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I swallowed hard and opened my mouth, and words boomed out.

  “I am Izayik Delaren,” I heard myself declare. Though my knees were weak, my voice was strong and clear. The crowd was silent, listening, waiting. I continued. “I will not deny my name. That is the name I was given,” I would not look at Mum or Pa, “by my mother, Queen Aerona, and my father, Consort Willian of Aldrin.”

  I looked at Commander Shyronn again, hoping to see in his eyes the words I should say. There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell the general that I had never hurt a soul. I wanted to beg for my life. I wanted this crowd of people — my neighbors, my friends — to be on my side. If I was going to save myself, I had only my words.

  So I said, “And I will not stand idly by while you murder my people.”

  I felt a thrill of accomplishment as the crowd cheered.

  I saw fear in the eyes of the general. That fear turned to rage as he shouted for the crowd to quiet down. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me to him. His breath stank of alcohol.

  “I told you I would kill you!” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke. “I will kill you like the common vagrant you are.”

  “If you think I’m so common,” I said, “then why did you call me ‘prince?’”

  The general made an animal sound of outrage and shoved me into the arms of the soldier behind me. To the executioner, he said, “Kill him! Kill him now!”

  I was wrestled to the floor and forced to kneel with my head resting on the black box. The skinny executioner took his place beside me, rolling his shoulders and lifting his axe.

  I closed my eyes. But my eyelids could not block out Mum’s heartbroken sobs or the anxious whispers of the crowd. I focused on the rough grain of the wood beneath my cheek, the smell of sweat and rain, the grunt of the executioner as he raised his axe above my head.

  And I waited for the end.

  The blade never came. Instead, I heard a collective gasp of alarm. I opened my eyes.

  Rath had appeared beside me. He caught the handle of the axe with his bare hand before it could sever my head from my body. With his other hand, he splashed the contents of a glass bottle on the executioner’s face.

  The executioner shrieked in pain and released the axe. The poor man stumbled backward, clawing at his eyes and trying to rip the mask off his face.

  From the other side of the stage, a soldier fired an arrow at me. I heard it whiz toward me, and in the same moment, Rath was gone. He reappeared between me and the arrow and caught it before it could pierce me. I could hear him panting as he snapped the arrow in half and brandished the axe at the soldier.

  “Stand down,” he commanded, and the soldier obeyed.

  I tried hard to ignore the anguished moans of the executioner who writhed beside me. He gave off the unmistakable stench of burned flesh.

  I stood, shaking. And then something strange happened. Amongst the protests of the outraged general, the soldier who had taken my pitchfork returned it to me. I understood that this was quite significant. This rebellious soldier had handed me a weapon.

  For a moment, everyone was completely still. All eyes were on me, waiting to see what I would do. I raised the pitchfork above my head like a beacon, and someone in the crowd yelled.

  “The Heir has risen!”

  The events that followed were a blur of chaos. The man who hollered “The Heir has risen” was shot by a soldier. His death spurred instant outrage, and a riot broke out. The villagers turned on the soldiers, sporting their shovels and hoes. Women screamed, babies wailed, men shouted. I was grabbed by a couple of soldiers and wrestled from the platform.

  “Highness, stay down,” one soldier grunted. They had backed me into the cavity beneath the wooden platform.

  “So you can kill me? Not a chance!” I started throwing punches. In the cramped space, the soldiers struggled to unsheathe their weapons. I kicked their hands away. A most undignified fight, but I certainly wasn’t going to die here, not like this.

  There was a popping, crackling sound, and then everything went quiet. I wiggled away from my captors and crawled to the front of the stage, peeking through the wooden slats.

  Commander Shyronn stood in the midst of the chaos, holding his sword in the air. It was glowing with a beautiful gold light, shooting a beam into the air like a mystical beacon. Everyone was staring at him, both soldier and villager.

  “Enough,” he said. Everyone listened. “There will be no more bloodshed here.” He sheathed his sword with a jarring scrape of metal against metal. “My name is Commander Shyronn Belvarde. I am a member of the King’s Order and a sworn protector of the prince. I declare this village of Hazeldown under the domain of Prince Izayik Delaren.”

  What?

  There were protests of surprise from a couple villagers and soldiers alike. But mostly, there was stunned silence.

  Shyronn pointed at general Canron. “Apprehend the general,” he commanded. Without hesitation, two soldiers mounted the platform. I heard the sounds of struggle above me.

  “You can’t do this!” General Canron screeched. “This is treason!”

  “Reynold Safford is not my king,” Commander Shyronn declared, and I heard gasps. “My loyalty lies with the true heir. And in the name of Izayik Delaren, you may consider yourself a hostage.” Shyronn’s cape flipped dramatically as he turned to face the gathered throng. “Return to your homes and see to your wounded,” he instructed the stunned townspeople. “Get the funeral pyres lit. We do not want deadmen wandering our streets.”

  At the sound of the word “deadmen,” everyone jumped into action. I tried to see my family through the gaps in the wood, but I couldn’t spot them.

  “Congratulations, Highness,” one of the soldiers said, patting me on the shoulder, “You just conquered your first territory.”

  “I did what?”

  The soldiers crawled out from beneath the platform. I tried to follow, but one of the soldiers held up his hand to stop me. “Stay here,” he told me. “It isn’t safe for you to be seen. Not all of the soldiers here are members of the Order.”

  What in the world was the Order?

  “Well, well, there you are.” Rath lowered himself to the ground beside me. He was cut up and bruised from the brief conflict. His jacket was torn and his chin was bleeding. He had never looked happier.

  The soldiers nodded to him, bowed to me, and then left us to help clean up the square.

  Rath leaned against a pillar supporting the platform. “I haven’t had this much excitement since before you were born.” He stretched his one good leg.

  “What is the King’s Order?” I asked.

  Rath frowned thoughtfully. “Well, originally, it was a small group organized by the king — your mother’s father — to protect his people from haunts. Your mother and father and Shyronn and I were all members. It was a small group; there were only seven of us. Apparently, Willian’s supporters borrowed the name.”

  I drummed the handle of my pitchfork with anxious fingers. “Well, what happens now?”

  “Now you leave,” Shyronn Belvarde said, joining us where we stood behind the platform. Unlike Rath, he looked completely unscathed by the riot. No one was willing to pick a fight with the man dressed in full armor and equipped with a glowing sword.

  “Leave?” I asked. “I can’t just abandon my family.”

  “That is exactly what you need to do.” Shyronn crouched beside me. “Hazeldown has just declared itself independent of Safford’s rule.”

  “Yo
u did that,” I reminded him.

  “So long as the king believes you are here, he will march on us and raze this village to the ground.”

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  “I never wanted any of this to happen,” I groaned.

  Shyronn nodded. “I know, Izayik. This is beyond you or me. Like it or not, the events that will rule your life were set in motion long before you discovered who you are.”

  “That was like a day ago,” I grumbled. “And I’m already conquering territories and taking prisoners and getting people killed.”

  “People are dying every day, Izayik,” Shyronn said. He was clearly not very good at comforting people. “You can either sit back and let it happen or you can get involved and hope you make a difference. Right now, just by being alive, you are giving your people a hope worth dying for.”

  I already missed my life working Lord Brenden’s fields. But those fields would soon be destroyed if I remained.

  “What does Lord Brenden think about all of this?” I asked. Certainly, he had an opinion about his village declaring independence.

  Shyronn exchanged a glance with Rath. He cleared his throat and looked at me. “Brenden was arrested, Izayik, after your escape. He was sent to the capital to be tried for treason.”

  The blood drained out of my face. “But he had nothing to do with my escape.”

  Was Lord Brenden going to be yet another person added to the list of the dead in my honor?

  Rath asked, “How far ahead of us is he?”

  “He was taken by ferry to the mainland yesterday evening.”

  Rath grinned. “So if we leave now, we may be able to reach the capital before his sentencing. Crashing a Lord’s trial should be a suitable enough distraction to keep attention off of Hazeldown for a while.”