“And?”
“I found one. The source of their symptoms. One which they all had been exposed to in some manner or form. I nearly missed testing it, and would have been robbed of the opportunity, had a porter not brought some items from Arcporte. Spoils of war that your father had sent from the continent. Weapons and tools of exquisite craftsmanship. Metals, the likes of which I have not seen since. And poisons.”
“Back in the time of your uncles and aunt, I applied a dab of the pus from their sores to a cloth. Within hours, the patch turned a yellowish-green. I then administered a small dose of a foreign poison to a pork cutlet I had prepared for me, raw and uncooked. The cutlet developed sores, which led to pus that I tested. Again, the cloth turned yellowish green.
“I took the same measures with your father, only this morning. I achieved the same results. By Mar, my worst suspicions were proven true.”
The mage withdrew to a dark corner, a long shadow enveloping the whole of him as he pulled away from the light. Ely gazed into the void, his curiosity growing as he heard the mage’s footfalls grow fainter. He stepped forward.
“My Prince, stay back!” Mage Wystan urged. “I must do this on my own. For no one – not even you – must know where I store the most dreaded potions of our island.”
Ely debated on whether to heed the mage’s command. He liked not his tone, however, considering the context he respected his concern. So he waited.
The sound of stone on stone changed his mind though. He craned his neck toward the darkness as the slow, grating noise of masonry piqued his interest. He inched forward cautiously, not knowing what lay in the shadows.
Then a corked vial appeared before his face. Nearly empty, at the bottom lied a pinch of ruby red dust, the grains of which were faint, save a few.
“Freshly-made, it has been said that the granules sparkle,” Wystan said, as though giving answer to Ely’s inquisitiveness. “In that state, it does work, to be sure. In large doses. As the powder ages, though, its potency grows. Beyond a decade, only dash is needed to be fatal, be it in food or drink.”
“It’s... exquisite. Like a thousand jewels.”
“More like a thousand deaths.”
“Its name?”
“Made from pollen of a rare alpine tulip, its moniker reflects the land from whence it came: Vulpine pulveri.”
“You mean...”
Mage Wystan nodded.
Ely backed away. He breathed as it all came to him.
His mania. The delight of a hundred past frolics. The sadness. As though witnessing a funeral for the first time. The rage. Of being bested by a stronger foe and not being able to win.
All of it flooded his soul. The emotions he could name and countless many he could not. The stone chamber around him swirled. Sounds without source pounded through his head. Consuming him, he stumbled back, nearly falling into the cauldron.
“Prince Jameson!” Wystan exclaimed, coming to his side.
Ely braced himself on the edge of the iron kettle. He held out his other hand to stop the mage in his tracks. All the while, a voice from within grew, reverberating in his mind to shut out all us. Chanting a single phrase, a name, which Ely knew had haunted his family since before his birth.
Kin Foleppi.
Chapter 17
“Prince Jameson?”
“One moment.”
Gerry glanced at the door. From the other side came the shuffling and footfalls of guards with an attendant or two, along with a scattering of voices. How many he could not say for certain. Five? Six? Discernment of soldiers from the sounds they made had never been a strong suit of his.
“Symon is better at this sort of thing,” he said to himself.
He shook his head as his attention harkened back to the papers before him. Dawkin had taken fastidious notes during his ascension, and though his penmanship was beyond critique, the logic behind his annotations left Gerry scratching his temple. On one page, he had a list of the names of Mage Wystan’s apprentices, five in all from manors across Marland. That sheet was easy enough to read, but those beneath were complicated and obscure in meaning. From one name lines sprouted connecting it to others, and from those names other demarcations followed. Gerry recognized the kin of some. Many more were absent of surnames, listing only first names or monikers or titles that provided no real information he could dwell on and investigate further.
Gerry took a handful of the papers from the table, perusing one after another. He read several of the names out loud, at random.
“Kin Auvray. Auveray? Baron Waltin. Aunsellice... no, wait. Aunsellus. Fawkes? Fawk.”
Gerry bumped into a straight edge, provoking a number of small items to fall. He looked up from his papers, frustrated. Beneath him, he found an end table. On top of it, a wooden board checkered by alternating triangles of red and white. Scattered about it were miniature figures, some standing, others fallen.
Divisions.
Gerry studied the pieces as memories of the games he played with his brothers flooded back to him. His bouts with Dawkin always ended in loss, while those with Ely could go either way, depending on how much his brother cheated. Only Symon proved to be a fair and equal match to Gerry on the game board, with Gerry managing to win the majority of their matches as they grew and his expertise at the game improved. Despite the increase in losses, Symon never turned down a match, a fact that often delighted Gerry, particularly when Symon bested him in the underground bailey.
He nudged a few of the pieces at his feet. Closest to him was the siege tower, complete with arrow slits in the middle and crenellations at the top. Then there were the pavisers, with wide eyes peeking over their large shields designed to protect the longbowmen, who met his foot next before he looked to the end table. Among the pieces that had not dropped to the floor, Gerry found the one that had served as his favorite in his youth: the cavalry. A mounted knight in full armor on a destrier, with shield and sword, the game piece was carved from white jade, a rare mineral of priceless value in Marland. Gerry picked up the knight, bringing it close to his face to admire the craftsmanship. Each plate of armor reflected the lines and edges so carefully he expected to see of a real, full-length suit, consisting of carved stone rather than steel. Even the sword, held in the hand of the knight and pointed upward, exhibited quality in design, all the more impressive considering it was smaller than his pinky finger.
A knock came at the door again. Gerry looked up, pocketing the game piece. He riffled through the papers, attempting to assemble them into something representative of order.
“A moment longer!” he replied, an octave higher than before. His voice carried his command to the door and back again.
He placed the papers in his hands on a stack. Upon swatting them down, he heard a metal edge move. He brushed the documents aside to find his dagger, sheathed in a decorated bronze scabbard, laying on the table.
“Right,” he said to himself as he fastened the scabbard to his waist. Because if an assassin cuts through my skilled guards a blade in my hands will stop him. The absurdity of it all prompted Gerry to shake his head. Still, he had promised his Right Captain – and his brothers – that he would wear it. “What I do to humor my kin,” he said to himself as he threw on his coat and made his way to the exit.
He pulled open the door to find four guards at attention as Apprentice Myko recoiled from the entryway.
“Pardon, Your Highness,” Myko blurted.
“Yes?”
“Your father’s taster died.”
“What?”
“Master Isak Talbott, the royal taste tester for your father.”
“I know who he is. When did he die?”
“An hour ago, my Prince. He passed away after a severe fit of seizures.”
Gerry narrowed his eyes. The news came most unwelcome. Master Talbott had tasted his father’s meals for years, as long as Gerry could remember. He had a stomach strong enough to handle the king’s penchant for roasted meats and hard ale, and
had done his duty without complaint. On the night of the treaty talks, he had tasted every single dish presented to Audemar and shown no signs of illness. Apparently though, right as the king had succumbed to the poison, so had he, keeling over in the upper kitchen and retching uncontrollably.
“Prince Jameson?”
Gerry shook himself from his thoughts, turning his attention back to the apprentice. “The news is unfortunate but hardly reason to interrupt a royal in his study.”
“Yes, Your Highness. But there is more. You commanded me to inform you of the mage’s development, where he went and what messages he sent.”
“Could that not have waited?”
“You insisted that I bring the smallest bit of news to you. Even if I interrupted you or you seemed busy.”
Dawkin, Gerry considered. He would give such a command. “I recall something of the sort. Very well, how goes the mage’s progress?”
“He is in the Sovereign Gardens. He is searching for a cure—”
“Still?”
Myko recoiled. “Yes, well, as you know, the poison that affected your father—”
“Vulpine pulveri. I remember. Take me to the mage.”
Myko bowed and pivoted to lead the way. Gerry followed, as did the four guards behind him. The clank of their scales and mail moved in harmony with his own steps, as did the strike of their boots upon the tiled floor. Aside from the occasional accompaniment of his Right Captain, Gerry was not accustomed to such constant protection. The decision for increased security had come following Ely’s last descent and subsequent truth session, during which he recalled how Mage Wystan concluded the king was poisoned. Once Ely had returned to his senses, the four held a meeting at the Fourpointe Table, in which they agreed to increase security all around the castle and for every royal, including their combined personage of Prince Jameson.
Symon had ascended after Ely’s return, so as to oversee the increase in protection. His time above lasted only three days, time he spent awake around the clock to ensure that the Courts of both nations had ample security. Next, Dawkin rose to the castle. He interviewed every baron, bishop and guard in attendance at the War Hall the night Audemar fell. He questioned some of the men two or three times over, to their ire. Even the Ibians did not escape his interrogation, as Dawkin managed to converse with them in a passable version of their language.
That ascent, though, lasted only two days. Dawkin descended after his round of visits with the nobility and attendants of the castle, his energy spent. His truth session summarized a wide array of details they knew and a scattering of information they did not. With his brothers’ duties having been completed, the turn to serve then came upon Gerry.
For all the tireless effort of Symon and Dawkin, Gerry could not help but feel more needed to be done. In their stately tasks, which ranged from land disputes among nobility to treasury meetings to military training exercises, each of his two brothers had spoken to Wystan only once for updates on their father. On the other hand, their grandfather, who had regularly visited his son, provided them with news of Audemar’s condition every few hours.
All the while, Symon and Dawkin had managed to attend to King Felix and his kin, to assure the commitment of Kin Saliswater to the treaty King Audemar had put into motion but had yet to finish. For his part, King Felix expressed his continued support, expressing neither anxiety nor haste concerning the alliance. He ate and checked in with Prince Jameson and the rest of the Marlish Court from time to time, while also keeping a respectable distance to allow the king’s son to attend to pressing matters of state.
Such disconnect – from the mage, as well as from the Ibian monarch - nagged at Gerry, even as his siblings expressed no concern.
To learn that the mage had returned to the gardens for yet another search for the cure vexed Gerry to no end. His march through the castle added to that distress, for he could not remember his home on the hill being so expansive. Every parapet and hall seemed twice as long and wide as they actually were. By the time he came to the Throne Room – the grandest in Arcporte Castle - his patience was spent, even as another half of the castle laid ahead.
He hastened on through the chamber, his footfalls and those of his retinue tap, tap, tapping long and far to the ceiling above.
That sound, Gerry mused. Wait. There is something off. The Throne Room. Wait.
Gerry halted. His guards, ever close behind stopped suddenly as well. They parted as Gerry turned and walked back.
The Throne Room, then as ever, brimmed with nobles and servants, as it did every midday. From manors and hamlets close and far, citizens from all over Marland gathered to present their grievances and allegiance to their king. Audemar’s sudden absence had not thwarted their resolve, as they hoped to garner an audience with his son. This despite that in more than a week, Prince Jameson had held open court just once, when Dawkin first arose. Ely, in his usual self-absorbed folly, had not done his duty. Nor had Symon, though that was due to his continuous work. Only Dawkin had received the subjects, alleviating the flow some. Yet that was two days prior. Even then, he had not addressed the rumors swirling around the country concerning Audemar’s demise. Though news of the poisoning had leaked to spread amongst both nobility and commoners, it was intermixed with rumors of more sinister plots and heinous conspiracies. The royal advisors to the Throne had advised Prince Jameson of but a few. One tale had it that Audemar’s heart had gave out during an argument with the Ibian king. Another purported details of a riot within the War Hall, which led to events that severely injured Audemar. The worst of them – which incensed all the brothers – said that Jameson had applied the fatal dose of the poison himself to take over the throne.
Poison. A wounded heart. Riots. Patricide. Each rumor seemed to have hastened the flow of subjects to Arcporte Castle. Now, as Gerry scanned the immense hall, he found the numbers within had swelled, to the point that it held more people than at any point of time he could recall.
And all of them were quiet.
Gerry took another step, separating himself from Apprentice Myko and the four guards. He swirled around, to take in all in his view. Beggars stood mixed with aristocrats, swineherds with elite. By one man in tatters was a merchant garbed in silk, his beard and hair oiled and combed. Knights in doublets and vests bumped elbows with unwashed beggars. Ladies in ribbon and lace coalesced with common maidens in dresses of stiff wool. For all the juxtaposition in status and class, the lot of them were bonded by one quality: silence.
With eyes wide and alert, they fixed their stares on Gerry. Unblinking they were. As if statues.
Finally, a babe somewhere in the audience cried. The mother, also unseen, shushed the little one gently. Then, the babe quieted, and all returned to nothing.
In any other circumstance, Gerry would have welcomed the calm. He abhorred the melee of voices clamoring over one another, as was the case nearly every day he spent in the Throne Room. Whispers rose to shouts in seconds in the cavernous hall, often bouncing back from the vaulted ceilings to assault Gerry’s ears. Each word, every plea, served to remind Gerry of the responsibilities and troubles he was set to inherit.
Now, Mar had granted Gerry’s lifelong wish. Rather than feeling relieved, he felt burdened by the absence. It weighed on his soul, as did the stares, stares that longed for an end to the awkwardness as much as he did.
Gerry withdrew to his circle of guards, stopping beside Myko. “My Right Captain. He should be here? Where is he?”
“Sir Everitt? Why, by royal decree, you relieved him from your service and assigned him to keep guard over the king and your grandfather.”
Dawkin, again, Gerry knew. “Yes, of course. Still, go to my father’s chambers and see if he can spare a moment. Have him meet me in the Sovereign Gardens. No, in fact, escort him. By the time you arrive, I will be there with the mage.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said the apprentice.
Myko’s faint steps broke the quiet. Those in the audience looked after hi
m as he passed before returning their gazes to Gerry.
What would Symon do? Or Dawkin? Or even that half-wit, Ely?
Gerry sighed. He knew what all of them would do. What he had to do at that moment.
“I see you anxiously await news of our king,” he began. “As do I. He fights on. As is his nature.”
Gerry paused. The silence persisted. As did the stares.
“As I speak, the royal mage waits in the garden, to share news of my father’s condition. I will grant you all an audience of what he tells me – and what I have to say – after meeting with him.”
The quiet persisted. Gerry, not wanting to remain the object of interest any longer, swung around. Moving past his guards, he marched across the Throne Room.
A murmur sprung from the crowd. That single disturbance stirred the a few souls, who agitated their own around them. Soon conversations overlapped one another, drowning out the footsteps of Gerry and his guards.
At least that is over with, Gerry told himself, relieved, as he came to the staircase that led to the Sovereign Gardens below.
Bound by granite railings on all sides, the Gardens consisted of a cliff that jutted out from the base of the castle’s eastern curtain wall, like a peninsula surrounded not by water but by sky. Commanding views of much of the city, the Gardens were started by the Castle’s original builders, Kin Anglisk, in an effort to provide vegetation and land for livestock, a quality most useful in the city’s early days when it was besieged. From there, the Sovereign Gardens went over numerous changes through the years, serving as the site of barracks, stables, an observatory and an open-air theater. Two hundred years prior, under the direction of the Saliswater’s predecessors, Kin Noryxx, the grounds became gardens once again. Trees, flowers, and shrubs, along with vegetables and fruit-bearing plants from across Marland and Greater Afari, thrived in the six acres that comprised the Sovereign Gardens, providing an oasis of color to the otherwise gray tones of the castle’s exterior.
From the top of the steps, Gerry scanned the grounds. Nearest to him, he spotted rows of roses, marigolds and buttercups, flanked by bushes that hosted hydrangeas, lilies of Mar, peonies and many more varieties he could not name. Beyond that, hedgerows and trees prevented him from seeing into the garden further, prompting him to descend and search with his entourage in tow.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 20
