Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  “Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!” Ely exclaimed as he opened the door. He went down the steps and through the corridor. The bell ringing from above faded as he strode deeper into the underground passage, until he reached a point where he could hear them no longer. In their absence, with silence his partner, his anxiety mounted. Keenly aware of every patch of ground and each turn, he nonetheless continued on clumsily, as though he was lost.

  Then, he caught the sound of them again. Bells, ringing, through and through. Faint at first, their clangs and knells grew stronger as Ely hurried, his steps regaining their strength and purpose.

  The door leading out of the shepherd’s cellar stood wide open. Ely took the steps up two at a time, intent on keeping up his pace past the outside of Arcporte and back to the seaside hill from which he came.

  “You there!”

  Ely gave a fleeting look at the man in the corner. Wrapped in a sheepskin blanket and cradling a growler of ale sat the husband to the hag outside.

  “Coin,” the man said, flatly. “Pay up.”

  “I paid your wife the fare already,” Ely said without stopping.

  The man reached out to grab Ely’s trouser leg. “Pay.”

  “I paid,” Ely insisted, pulling his leg away.

  “I see no coin.”

  Ely’s eyes widened upon realizing his folly. “I will pay you double next time,” Ely offered as he resumed his way towards the door.

  “No.” The drunkard rose to his feet, extending his hand. “Coin.”

  Ely brushed past him into the chill of the night. Outside, the wife leaned on her crooked staff, urging her sheep closer to the hovel.

  “Did this man pay you?” asked her husband.

  “He certainly did not,” she confirmed. “Said he would leave the coin inside. Yes, that is what he said when he came.”

  The man trotted up behind Ely. “Coin!”

  “I haven’t the time for this!” Ely replied. “Double next time, as I said. I must return home.”

  “You pay!” shouted the wife.

  Her husband caught up to Ely to seize him by the shoulders and turn him around. “Pay!” he shouted, his breathe stinking of pickled herring and sour ale. “Pay! Or I’ll...”

  Ely scarcely comprehended his own moves until several moments had passed. By then, he was atop the drunkard, his hands fully clasped around his neck. Blood raced down the crack of his nose to his mouth, where several teeth laid in a state of disarray, having been broken from their place. Ely’s hands throbbed, covered in their own layer of blood. Although whether his or the shepherd’s Ely could not say.

  “Off of him, you maggot!” cried his wife. The crook of her staff glanced off the side of Ely’s head. Ely sprang up to catch her second strike midair. He pulled the staff from her hands, breaking it over his knee, as the haggard woman sank beside her spouse.

  The man gurgled something incoherent. His wife leaned in close, but upon finding that she could not understand, she turned back to Ely. “You nearly killed him!” she exclaimed, pointing.

  Ely heaved, with an end of her staff in each of his hands. “If he lives, it’s because I had mercy.” He threw the broken parts of the staff aside.

  “I’ll call on the constable, I will. He—”

  “Will do nothing to help you!” Ely shoved the old woman to the ground alongside her husband, who continued to spit up blood. “Who do you think the law of this land serves? Rubes like you? Or men like me? Like my father...”

  Ely paused, the wake of his purpose out of the city dawning on him once more.

  Clang. Rang a bell. Clang. Rang another.

  His moment of anguish was shattered by the sobs of the hag, who leaned on her side to wrap her arm around her husband.

  “Oh, Mar!” she wept. “Oh, Mar! Oh, Mar!”

  Ely swung around to traipse through the grass as the shepherd prayed aloud. Her pleas followed him long after he had left her sight, to be carried on the wind and heard by trees and stones, sheepdogs and peasants alike.

  “Oh, Mar!” Ely made out the hag’s cries as he traversed the hill, her prayers accompanied by the bells of Arcporte Castle. “Why? Why him? Why now? Why?!”

  Chapter 15

  “He fights. As is his nature.”

  Dawkin slumped in his chair before the chevron engraved on the Fourpointe Table. With one hand, he traced the s carved into the table. With the thumb and middle finger of his other, he rubbed his temples, his eyes half-closed.

  “And?” prodded Symon.

  “And what?” Dawkin replied.

  “The mage. What did he say about the cause?”

  “He continues to stay by Father’s side, treating his symptoms. The mage had some suspicions. Mudwater fever. Spoiled pork.”

  “Assassins,” Gerry added.

  “Gerry,” Dawkin said, rubbing his temples. “Not now.”

  “We’re all thinking it.”

  “He’s right,” Symon offered.

  “Is it truly a coincidence that Father should fall ill when we have guests?” Gerry stood from his seat to lean over his own chevron engraved in the table, which pointed east. “Royal guests. From the continent. Those who were once our enemies.”

  “Enough, already!” Dawkin yelled, straightening in his chair. “Of course they are suspects. Every one of them. As is every Marlish baron, bishop and knight with a hint of ambition. Not to mention the royals in Afari, from kingdoms near and far.” Dawkin pushed away from his chevron with his goblet in hand. He made his way to the buffet table, which laid strewn with hard cheeses, day-old bread and pitchers of wine. He reached for the pitcher closest to him. Finding it empty, he seized another. “Is every pitcher in this underground prison dry?!” he asked, raising one in the air.

  “Ely...” Symon confirmed.

  “That lousy drunkard! It’s a wonder he hasn’t drowned in his vice, what with all he consumes. Very well. Let him drink. Let him stay in his room!” Dawkin raised his voice, hoping it would carry past the chamber door.

  Symon shifted his weight to his knuckles as he leaned over the Fourpointe Table. “It is his turn.”

  “Was his turn,” Dawkin corrected.

  “Tis still. We all agreed, at this very table. Each of us would forego the regular rotation for a daily one, that we may see Father during his time of need. When Father was taken to his bedchamber, Gerry went first. Then I. Lastly, you. Now, it’s Ely’s turn.”

  “And he’s wasting it!” Dawkin cast the pitcher aside, which shattered into a hundred pieces. Dawkin, with the glazed clay crunching under his boots, searched the remainder of the pitchers for one not hollow. “I grow sick and tired of our brother’s antics.”

  “Dawkin, please,” begged Gerry.

  “Do not ‘Dawkin, please,’ me,” he retorted. “The both of you should be as inflamed as I am. We follow the rules of Terran to the letter, that our secret may be protected, our bloodline secured. Meanwhile, what does our dear, dear sibling do? He sneaks off into the night, in all manner of disguises, to partake of every tavern and whorehouse like some gadabout. By Mar! There are rules. If this was the Conclave of Barons, he would have had his title stripped and his person expelled.”

  “But this isn’t the Conclave of Barons,” Symon replied. “This is Terran. This is the Fourpointe Chamber, with our Table, one not with a chair for every baron. But four.” Symon held out as many fingers. “What happens to one of us happens to all of us. Us three have ascended to pay our respects to our sickened father. Ely – whatever his predicament – has the right to do the same.”

  “Aye,” Gerry agreed.

  The two looked to their brother. Cognizant of being outnumbered, Dawkin set his goblet on the buffet table. “Seems that if we put this to a vote, I would lose. Very well.” Dawkin rounded the table to pass Symon on his way out of the Chamber. “You go and rouse him out of bed.”

  Dawkin stormed from the quarters, slamming the door behind him as he left. Gerry shuddered as Symon looked on after him. As Dawkin�
��s footfalls in the hall outside echoed through the Chamber, Gerry retrieved a platter of hard cheese and bread from the buffet table.

  “Ely will need to eat, if he has any chance of sobering before ascension,” Gerry said.

  He made a move to leave. Symon stopped him.

  “I’ll ready Ely,” Symon assured him. “You check on Dawkin. I have a feeling he has no desire to see me any time soon.”

  Gerry nodded, handing the tray off to Symon before exiting. Symon stared down at the platter, sighing.

  “Better get this over with,” he told himself.

  Upon entering his room Symon gagged. The stench of an unwashed hermit – one who had perhaps vomited as of late – collided with his nostrils and eyes, sending him wheeling backwards. He raised his free hand to cover his mouth. He set down the platter on the floor to fan the air before him.

  “Light,” muttered Ely from the shadows. “Close the door. Tis too bright.”

  Symon scanned the room to find the candles and braziers unlit, the conical windows leading in all covered by their respective drapes. He rounded the chamber to pull each one back, thus allowing in shafts of light. With each flash, Ely stirred from under a pile of blankets in the corner of his room.

  “I said it’s too bright!” he shouted, his voice stifled by layers of sheepskin and furs.

  Symon towed the last drape across its rod, letting in another ray of sunlight. “You need to wake.”

  “Let me be.”

  “Dawkin just returned. You missed his truth session.”

  “What of it?”

  “I will fill you in on the details.”

  “Say what you will.”

  Symon marched to the corner to pull the whole of the blankets off in one stroke. Ely, taken by surprise, writhed on the floor.

  “Symon! What the hell?!”

  “We’ve all ascended. The three of us. Now it’s your turn.”

  Symon leaned over and dug his fingers into Ely’s garb. He lifted him up by the collar.

  “Unhand me!”

  “Dawkin descended clean of face. You haven’t shaved in days.”

  Symon shoved his brother down into a chair. Ely made a move to stand but Symon’s hard paw of a hand forced him back down.

  “You really want to play this game with me?” Symon asked.

  Ely glared at Symon yet said nothing. Symon fetched the platter from the floor.

  “You reek of spoiled wine and bad ale.”

  “I’ve had my share of both, thank you.”

  “Eat and turn sober. I’ll ready the lather for your shave.”

  “Very well, my majesty on high,” Ely responded mockingly.

  As Symon poured water into a bowl and gathered a dollop of lather from a bar of soap, Ely gnawed at the bread before him.

  “Tis stale,” he said between bites.

  “So are you,” Symon quipped.

  “Har har.” Ely bit off another piece. “So what did Dawkin have to say?”

  Symon paused. He glanced at the back of Ely’s head, which jerked as he tore off another end of bread with his teeth. I must select my words with caution, he knew. The madness of the past few days seems to have subsided. He tires, his craze having been spent. Still, he remains fragile. One wrong word, and his mania will return.

  “Symon! Has that shaving soap clogged you ears? Did you not hear me?”

  “Yes, about Father. Of course. He, well, he fights. As is his nature.”

  “And?”

  “Dawkin came away hopeful,” he lied.

  Ely looked over his shoulder to eye his brother. “What of the cause?”

  “The mage examined him again while Dawkin was there. He has yet to identify the root of Father’s pain.”

  “Puh, the mage. A fool is more like it.”

  “Ely, mind your tongue.”

  “Any man with a shred of sense knows this was the work of the Ibians.”

  “That is a suspicion. Not a fact. The mage—”

  “The mage! The mage! What does he know? What do any of them know?!” Ely flipped the platter over, sending the bread and cheese to the floor. Then the chair he sat on met his fury, followed by the table before him.

  Symon considered restraining Ely, though he decided against it. Best he acts this way here and now than above and later, he thought.

  With his possessions fallen and strewn, Ely swung around. “If that mage had any sense, he would have poisoned the lot of that visiting Court.”

  “You speak of war.”

  “Why should I not? They started it. We invite those foreign bastards to our capital. They drink our wine, eat our food, have our women and poison our father. Yet here you and our brothers hide, cowards under rocks, waiting for the end of our kin, our king.”

  Symon breathed. He does not mean it. The madness is returning.

  “Meanwhile, our enemy laughs. I bet you it was that Duke. Yes, Xain. I remember how he embarrassed Gerry. Then Dawkin got the best of him, isn’t that right? Yes, the Grand Duke. I never fancied him. Not from the start. I’m sure our barons feel the same.”

  “Ely...”

  “When I ascend, I will rally the most loyal of them. We will thwart the efforts of our enemies.”

  “Ely.”

  “All in the name of Kin Saliswater.”

  “Ely!”

  Symon gripped him by the collar to slam him against the wall. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  “Why...”

  “Because you are not Prince Jameson. Only by majority decision at the Fourpointe Table can you take such action. And since you were not there earlier to press such an issue, no vote was made, hence you will not dare to strike our enemies, whoever they may be.”

  “You really doubt that it was Kin Garsea, don’t you?”

  “Father worked too hard for this alliance to see us bicker and squabble over it. Before the treaty talks, before the Conclave and even before the Armada came into view from our shores, he and King Felix had an understanding. You know how Father is. Pigheaded as any swineherd. He would never entrust the future of our country – nor Kin Saliswater – to any man, whether he be a serf or sovereign, unless he had the utmost conviction in him. Whether we want to believe it or not, King Felix was that man.”

  “Symon, how pensive of you. And here I thought Dawkin was the smart one.”

  Symon eased his hold on Ely. “Don’t you start.” He gave his cheek a gentle slap. “Are you sober enough to ascend?”

  “I suppose. I was far more drunk last time I climbed the stairs.”

  “And our agreed-upon course of action?”

  “Yes, yes. No rallying the troops. No razing buildings or imprisoning Ibians.”

  “Good. Now, off you go.”

  Symon stepped away as Ely straightened the length of his shirt and doublet. Satisfied, he proceeded through the door.

  In his absence, Symon turned to the mess left behind. Bits of bread and cheese littered the floor, where the upturned platter, chair and table remained. As Symon knelt to clean, Gerry came before the doorway.

  “What happened?”

  “Ely. Ely happened.”

  “Is he well?”

  Symon paused. Is he ever well? he asked himself. By Mar, this one time, I pray he is.

  Chapter 16

  Creased. Folded. Wrinkled and aged. Such hands laid atop ones pale and faint, life barely coursing through their veins.

  Artus sat beside his son, whose chest heaved slowly. Rose and sank it did. Every so often, Audemar coughed or muttered, prompting Artus to dab his head with a wet cloth or to pat his hands.

  Ely watched all of this from within the doorway. He had barely stepped inside when he caught sight of his grandfather, tending to his father as though he were a babe. No mages stood by to offer their sage counsel or direction. Nor did any maidens come to refresh the basin of water or to present fresh cloths.

  There was only Artus.

  His grandfather glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of Ely
. He knew at once which of the grandsons he was, despite the drapes being pulled closed and the light of the chamber dimmed. He offered no nod of the head, nor invitation to his side. Instead, he turned his back to continue tending to his son.

  Ely took a step, to hear his footfall echo through the cavernous chamber. He stopped himself, recoiling back to where he was. There he lingered.

  Mania did not overtake him. Nor sadness. Nor any emotion he could fathom. Devoid of feeling, he watched his father and grandfather, together.

  A knock pounded from the other side. Ely knew not how much time had passed. Only that the interruption was welcome.

  “Enter,” he commanded.

  A maiden entered, a simple girl of twenty years with a face Ely did not recognize, carrying a tray of food and wine. “I beg your pardon, your Majesty.”

  “I am no king,” Ely corrected her. “My father still breathes.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the girl, lowering her head even further. “I am so sorry.”

  “Well?”

  “Your grandfather has not eaten today. The mage advised me to bring him a meal.”

  Ely scanned the contents of the tray, noticing that all save the wine were either brown or gray in tone. “This is hardly food fit for your consumption, let alone my grandfather, who need I remind you was a sovereign before my father.”

  The girl’s lip quivered. “Yes, your, my Lord.”

  “I am not a Lord, either.”

  “Allow her to pass. I should eat.”

  Ely turned to his grandfather. “But the food...”

  “Is fine, I am sure.”

  “At least let me have the royal taster come.”

  With that, Artus looked over his shoulder again. “They – whoever they may be – cannot hurt me directly. I pain only when my kin has fallen.”

  The girl bowed her head as she passed by Ely. She brought the tray to the end table by Artus, curtsied, then made her way back to the door.

  “Girl,” Ely began. “Will you bring me...”

  “He is fine,” Artus insisted.

  The girl, her stare darting between them, finally settled her look on Ely. He waved her off.

  “Ely, come,” Artus said after the door had closed. “Share this meal with me.”