King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  “You’re the King because the Chancellor said you’re the King.”

  “Ah, but only because the Queen insisted.”

  Willow shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s my commander. If he says you’re the King, you’re the King.”

  “Ah, so he’s the puppeteer!”

  An image of Puppet Willow flashed in her mind: her yellow yarn-hair swinging as she killed both friend and foe. She grimaced.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “And if he should change his mind about me?”

  She thought about that. “The most recent instance of anybody impersonating royalty was eighty-five years ago, when Erd Blackwell impersonated Prince Zander. Blackwell was tried, convicted, tortured, and disemboweled. Then, while he was still alive, burning pitch was troweled onto his chest, and he was drawn and quartered.”

  “Yeesh!” said the King. “He must have been mentally deficient to try something that unwise and dangerous.”

  She scrutinized his face, trying to make sense of the man standing in front of her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “He must have been.”

  Chapter 32

  When he had finished playing the fool, the King left his chambers and set off as though with a purpose down one of the stone hallways. The two Guardsmen Willow had posted outside snapped to attention as he passed. As they saw the rejuvenated king, their eyes opened wide and the private on the left’s jaw dropped. They recovered quickly, however, so Willow decided no reprimand would be necessary.

  The King reached an intersection, spun to get his bearings, and then headed down the branch that led to a stairwell. He began his descent, Willow in tow.

  “Does His Majesty have a particular destination in mind?” she asked.

  He tapped the side of his nose. “Wait and see, Willow.”

  “In order to keep His Majesty safe, I do need to know what his plans are.”

  “Plans! Ha!” He continued down the stairwell. “Plans are for those who lack sufficient wit to improvise.”

  A pair of maidservants in their teens ascended below them.

  “Make way for the King,” Willow snarled.

  Their eyes widened and they froze for a moment like deer before dropping to their knees.

  “Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison.

  The King glanced back at Willow, grinning. He laughed with delight, looking like a naughty child whose prank was going exceedingly well. He continued down the hall, chuckling.

  “I really do need to know where His Majesty is headed,” Willow said. “It’s my duty to protect you, sir.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure there’s little to fear within my own castle.”

  Not unless you counted the Chancellor, the Royal Mage, and who-knew-whom-else who wished him harm.

  The King selected one of the passages spiraling out from the next landing. Willow smiled grimly. He had no idea where he was going.

  She knew she should keep quiet. Her job required her to guard him and guard him she would. Nevertheless, there was something about this man that rubbed her wrong.

  “We’re very serious about our royal family, sir,” she said. “Any threat against a royal personage is greeted with overwhelming force and zeal.”

  He didn’t seem to be paying attention. Willow cleared her throat, trying to drive her point hone. He looked up.

  “As I mentioned earlier, those who so much as attempt to impersonate royalty are executed,” she said, watching the position of his head to see if he would give himself away.

  Instead, he nodded with firm enthusiasm.

  “Quite right, too! People should know their places. How would this monarchy work if just anybody could claim to be a descendent of royal blood?‍”

  “Sir?” she said.

  “Rhetorical question,” he said.

  The trap he had set for himself was about to close. The corridor wound left and right for a few minutes and then took one last turn. The King came to a sudden halt.

  The end of the corridor was sealed with stone and mortar. This man hadn’t known that.

  Willow said, “King Corvus had that wall constructed over fifty years ago to enhance security. His intent was to make the Castle impossible to navigate for those unfamiliar with its interior. An invasion force would find itself split, redirected, and cornered.

  The “King” stood there, staring at the wall, his back still to Willow.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice soft. The tone was indecipherable to her.

  He silently waved her to stay back and walked to the wall at the end of the corridor. He glanced back at Willow, and his eyes shone with tears.

  “Yes,” he said again. “I remember.”

  He dropped to his knees as Willow slowly approached, his eyes on the wall that had revealed his deceit. No matter; the Chancellor said he was the King, so to her, he was the King.

  “I remember,” he said, his hand tracing along the surface of the wall. “I was just a child then. I watched the masons work. If you look carefully …”

  Here, he traced along the wall, as though searching for something.

  “Ah, here!” he said. He pointed at the stone, which protruded from the wall a bit more than the others. “Here it is!”

  He turned and faced Willow, a gentle smile on his face and a far-off look in his eyes.

  “Here’s the stone the masons let me lay. It’s still here, Willow, so many years later.” A tear rolled down his face. “This is permanence, Willow. When time will have turned me to dust, this stone will remain as a testimony to my existence!”

  He sniffed, then stood and collected himself.

  “But what would you know of such concerns?” he said, his voice now sharp. “You’re an elf; you’ll live forever. You’ll be here long after this castle has fallen into rubble.”

  She was about to correct him, explain that while they lived long lives, elves were not, in fact, immortal. However, there was something in the intensity of the King’s eyes that made her reconsider.

  The King’s eyes? Dammit, she still had no idea if this man was really who he claimed to be.

  She said nothing. The King sighed and caressed the stone like it were an infant heir.

  Chapter 33

  Somewhere along the way, they picked up Marcus, who acted like a stray dog that had scented food. He followed ten feet or so behind them. When Willow glanced back, he beamed at her, his expression excited and intrigued.

  “Sir, would you please give me a moment?” Willow asked the King, and walked over to Marcus, who cast his eyes downward.

  “You never found me!” Marcus said. Then his eyes widened with wonder. “I say, is that really the King?”

  “Marcus,” Willow said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice, “what are you doing back in the Castle?”

  “Visiting my Aunt Drusilla,” he said. “She’s been feeling rather poorly. Mother sent me a message, said it would be ever so good if I dropped by, so I did.”

  Willow closed her eyes and sighed. She kept forgetting that Marcus was descended from minor nobility. She made a mental note to look into his family and connections. Whoever could wield enough power to influence the Chancellor was a formidable person indeed.

  She noted that he wore a brooch designed in the shape of a heraldic escutcheon. The design within the shield was of a stag rearing on its hind legs. Willow studied the design, committing it to memory.

  “I say,” Marcus said, “are you feeling all right, Captain?”

  Willow was about to reply with something cutting when the King stepped up alongside her.

  “So who’s your friend, Willow?” he said.

  “Nobo—” she started, but then Marcus dropped to his knees.

  “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

  Willow rolled her eyes and kicked Marcus with the side of her boot. When he didn’t respond, she kicked him again, harder. He glanced up, confused.

  Get up, she mouthed.

 
; What? he mouthed back.

  “Marcus,” she said, fighting back the anger. “Guardsmen do not kneel before the King except in the Throne Room; elsewhere, they come to attention and salute.”

  Marcus stared at her blankly. She sighed.

  “Marcus, get up, come to attention, and salute.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Why didn’t you just —”

  “Marcus,” she growled, “don’t finish that sentence. Just … don’t.”

  At last, Private Marcus saluted the King properly, and the King returned the salute.

  “I say,” Marcus said, “it’s really you!”

  “So it would seem!” said the King, his eyes glinting with humor.

  Marcus grabbed the King’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’m ever so glad to meet you, Your Majesty!”

  “Marcus!” Willow cried. She half-drew her rapier, but froze, not sure what to do.

  “It’s a great pleasure meeting you … Marcus, is it?”

  Marcus’s face lit up as though he were undergoing a religious experience.

  “Yes, sir!” he said, his eyes bright. “Marcus!”

  Willow took a hesitant step forward. “Sir, perhaps we should get mov—”

  “Explain yourself, private!” a voice down the hall squawked.

  Oh, this was not fair. Did this have to happen now?

  She had ordered the guards to deny Jand access to the Castle, but like her, they seemed to have difficulty denying the wounded veteran the safety of his delusional life.

  “I’d better explain, sir,” she said to the King, but she was forestalled by the arrival of ‘Captain’ Jand.

  The former soldier staggered down the hall toward them as though he were drunk. Ever since his injury, his motor skills came and went, and some days, he could barely stand or feed himself.

  “Why do I always have to ask you twice, private?” Jand demanded. “I asked you to explain yourself!”

  Willow looked helplessly at the King and Marcus, both of whom looked more confused than concerned. But the King’s eyes shone with humor, so she made her decision.

  She came to attention.

  “Captain Jand, my apologies, sir!” she shouted. “I was … uh … guarding the hallway, sir.”

  Jand stepped up to her and put his face in front of hers. “You don’t sound very sure of yourself, private.”

  Willow cleared her throat. She fought from looking at the King. She said, “Sir, I was guarding the hallway as instructed by my commanding officer!”

  Jand relaxed some, and a paternal smile bloomed on his face. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, soldier?”

  “Sir, no, sir!”

  “So, who’s —?” Marcus started to say, but Willow kicked his foot. He looked at her with puzzlement.

  “What is your name, private?” Jand asked Marcus.

  “Uh …” he looked hesitantly at Willow.

  “I asked you your name, soldier!”

  “Um?” Marcus said. “Marcus?”

  “Marcus?” Jand sneered. “What kind of name is Marcus?”

  “Well, it’s —”

  “Excuse me,” said the King. “Excuse me, are you Captain Jand of the King’s Guard?”

  Jand turned to regard the King, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I am.”

  “Excuse me, but the Captain Jand?” The King looked to Willow on his left and Marcus at his right, as if for confirmation.

  “Well, I …” Jand stammered. “I suppose I am.”

  “You don’t know me, sir, but I would very much like to shake your hand.” The King looked uncertain. “Would that be all right?”

  “Well, I …” Jand didn’t finish the sentence, and he found himself shaking the King’s hand.

  “I can’t tell you what a great honor this is, sir. My name is Miles, sir. Aaron Miles. You don’t know me, but you knew my father. Private Jym Miles?”

  His Majesty seemed unusually good at fabricating lies on the spot. Willow didn’t recall King Eric being so adroit.

  “I don’t —”

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t remember him, sir, but he remembered you. He told me about that day when you saved his life. The enemy soldier had him dead to rights; my father was a goner. But then you came out of nowhere and tackled the soldier and then you beat him unconscious with his own helmet.”

  The King laughed. “My father loved telling that bit. ‘And there was Captain Jand, large as life, bashing the little shi—excuse me, enemy with his own damn helmet!’ My father would laugh every time he told me that story. You were his hero, sir.”

  “I … I seem to remember a Private Miles. Dark-haired fellow, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir!” the King said beaming. “That’s him!”

  “Your father was a good soldier, lad,” Jand said, his eyes moist. “An excellent soldier, really.”

  The King threw his arms around the nonplussed Jand.

  “My father never forgot you, sir,” the King said. “Not ‘til the day he died. He told me that if I ever were to run into you, I was to treat you right. So if you ever feel like sharing a drink or a meal, sir, your money’ll be no good. I’d consider it a great honor.”

  Jand nodded and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  “I’d … I’d like that very much, Mr. Miles.”

  Jand looked at Willow and Marcus, his face pink with embarrassment.

  “You two,” he said, “just carry on with what you were doing.”

  Willow and Marcus saluted and Jand hobbled off back down the hall. His stature was more erect than Willow had seen of him in recent months, and he walked with a quiet dignity.

  Willow stared at the King. She couldn’t figure this man out. The old King had not been a kind man, not by any measure. But this man … But the people at the circus! But then, the Queen had identified him. But the Chancellor had called him—!

  It was too big for her. When in doubt, stick to orders. Be disciplined.

  “What are your orders, sir?” she said.

  The King smiled benignly. “I was thinking we might take a little trip.”

  “Wizard!” Marcus exclaimed. “Where were we off to?”

  Willow shot him a look, but the King just grinned.

  “I’m so glad you asked!” he said.

  Chapter 34

  “I thought we’d visit some of Bryanae’s more scenic attractions,” the King said. The sun was shining brightly onto the courtyard as he walked through the vast entry hall toward the castle gates. “Long have I heard of this ‘Jeweler’s District’ as a center of culture and commerce in Bryanae. Yet never until today had I considered paying it a visit!”

  “I must not have heard that right,” Willow said, her head cocked to one side. “For a moment, I thought you said you intend to visit the Jeweler’s District, which would be an idio … um … impractical thing to do.”

  Her mind raced. What could he possibly want in the Jeweler’s District? Despite its name, it was one of the least luxurious places in the entire city. It was filled with thieves, and gambling, and partially honest businesses struggling to break out of poverty. Certainly, nothing that would, or at least should, interest a royal personage.

  As the King exited the Castle onto the Square, townsfolk spotted him in dribs and drabs. Some dropped silently to one knee. Others ran off—likely to tell their friends and family. Willow sighed; this was going to get unpleasant. She had told him that he needed an escort contingent, but he had refused to listen.

  “Impractical!” the King said, scoffing. “That’s a lovely word for you. On the surface, it sounds so negative: it’s impractical to try to teach a pig to eat with a knife and fork; it’s impractical to seduce three sisters in the same evening; it’s impractical to try to fly with wings made of branches and glued-on feathers.”

  “Though granted,” he added, “that last one turned out to be a bit of a mistake.”

  Now Willow spotted groups of people entering the square, looking for the King. A
s soon as they saw him, they altered course and headed his way. Willow loosened her rapier in its sheath while the King prattled on, oblivious to his danger.

  “My point is,” he was saying, “impractical is just another word for adventure. All the great deeds of gods and men are impractical.” He prodded Marcus. “Aren’t they—um, what was your name again?”

  “Private Marcus, sir,” Marcus said, his eyes wide, his body still.

  “Right, Marcus. Wouldn’t you agree that all greatness comes out of impracticality?”

  “I thought great men came from their mothers,” Marcus said, looking confused. “And their fathers.”

  The King laughed and patted Marcus on the back.

  “You’re a poet at heart, Marcus,” he said. “Just like me.”

  The first group neared the King. Willow drew her rapier and interposed herself between them.

  “Stand aside,” she said to them. “Out of the King’s way!”

  “Your Majesty,” called one of them, a crone waving a piece of parchment. “Please… my son languishes in the dungeons for a crime he did not commit. I beg of you to review his case.”

  “What?” the King said, taken aback.

  The woman tried to hand the parchment to the King, but Willow cut it from her hand and it fell to the ground in two pieces.

  “Willow!” The King’s voice was filled with outrage. “How dare you—!”

  “Be careful, Your Majesty,” she said, and shoved him behind her as another group lunged forward. More parchments were shoved at him.

  “Your Majesty, —”

  “Your Majesty, please —”

  “— please, my son has —”

  “—my husband—”

  “—been contracted to marry a—”

  “—needs work. We’re—”

  The King staggered back, overwhelmed. His expression was pained, as though he truly wanted to help this riff-raff.

  “Please,” he said, “one at a time!”

  Willow brandished her rapier at the groups, keeping them at bay. She had known this was going to happen, but alas, orders were orders. Perhaps in the future, His Majesty might think twice before trying something this stupid again.