Gerry headed toward the middle of the garden first, where a fountain of imported marble dominated the scenery. Mar, a glorious specimen of a man, with triton and net in hand, stood front and center. He was flanked by sea maidens and creatures of the sea, which spouted streams into the surrounding pools. The totality of the likenesses prevented Gerry from seeing the other side, forcing him to round the fountain and pass its onlookers, which included more nobility from both the Marlish and Ibian Courts. Upon seeing the prince, the barons and their retinues quieted, not unlike those in the Throne Room. By the time Gerry had returned to the point from whence he started, he had encountered ten groupings, all of whom had met him with polite bows and pervasive silence.
“Damn it, where is he?” Gerry said under his breath. Frustrated yet still determined, he started for the north side.
Wait, he said to himself, pausing. That is where she is. I cannot go there now. Not in this state. Not as I am.
He swung around to head in the opposite direction, making his way toward the perimeter of the Gardens.
Coming to the granite balustrades, Gerry peeked over the railings. A gully below separated the cliff base from the rest of the city, which simply wrapped around the cliff, oblivious to the giant that lingered above. The roofs of hundreds of homes, taverns and storehouses met him, as did their soot-stained chimneys and clothes-lined terraces. At any other moment, seeing the city below would have comforted Gerry, reminding him of how any single problem of his seemed insignificant when compared to the grandeur of his family’s kingdom.
Instead, Gerry seethed. For this was not one of those moments.
I need to find that mage, he told himself as he turned from the view below.
Gerry hastened around the perimeter of the garden, passing rows of vegetation and path after path. Seeing him well-guarded, the few aristocrats he encountered made way for him. He glanced at their faces and their garb, knowing at once none were who he hoped to find.
As Gerry rounded another set of hedgerows, he considered giving up his quest. What am I doing? he thought. Running around the castle grounds like a handmaiden? I have servants and guards to do this work. Yet here I walk, searching for a man who should come to me!
He nearly turned in irritation before making out a tuft of white hair past the last hedgerow. He rose on his toes, catching sight of liver spots on a circle of dry skin. A breeze swept in, stroking the hair as the man hosting the bald patch raised his head.
“Mage!” Gerry cried.
Wystan looked in Gerry’s direction, nodding at the sight of him. He then tilted his head down again, as if to attend to more pressing activities.
“Mage Wystan!” Gerry fumed. “A word!” He lengthened his strides, almost into a trot, as he cleared around the last hedgerow between the mage and him.
“Your Highness,” Wystan replied, sullenly.
“I see you have left your workshop.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“Your Highness?”
“What of the progress you have made on a cure for my father?!”
Wystan sighed. His stare, not necessarily cold, yet direct, met Gerry’s.
“Well?” Gerry persisted.
“Prince Jameson, I have been laboring day and night since we last spoke in my workshop of my discovery. Five days ago. I have eaten little and slept less. I have emerged from my chambers only to brief you at your request and to retrieve specimens for study.”
“Specimens? You still gather?”
“Yes, my Prince.”
“Then that means you have not found a cure. You are no closer to an antidote than when we first convened on the matter five days ago.”
“Your Highness...”
“And your apprentices? Like that one, Mysto, Mymo...”
“Myko.”
“Yes, have any of them approached anything representative of a cure?”
“No, they have not, Prince Jameson. They are apprentices. They help me with gathering herbs and roots, they crush with pestle and mortar, boil water and do other chores as needed. None possess the training nor skill necessary to graduate to the status of a mage.”
“What about other mages? From other manors?”
At that, Wystan’s face turned, a blend of bafflement and anger. His eyes remained still, wounded from insult, as his nostrils flared with rage.
“Your... Prince Jameson, those mages who preceded me in years and possessed more knowledge and skills are no longer with us. Those who did not perish in battle or captivity during the Century War have passed due to old age. Their replacements... how should I say...?”
“Just say it.”
“Training a mage is difficult. It requires extensive training, and apprenticeships, in a variety of fields. From studying metals to medicinal healing to more general alchemy. All these studies take years to master. Only the wealthiest manors on the island can afford to sponsor such tutelage.”
“Such as Danverrs. Or Saliswater.”
“Aye. Your Highness.”
“Prince Jameson!”
Gerry glanced over his shoulder to find Sir Everitt approaching in haste.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“No. Nothing is the matter,” Gerry replied. “I was conversing with the royal mage. That is all.”
“Then why summon me here? Why...”
Everitt’s voice trailed off, though he wanted to say more. Gerry turned around to find him nodding and looking to his waist, to the spot where his coat overlapped his dagger. Gerry stared down to find that his hand had made its way to the area, so that it rested on the hilt underneath.
“No, no.” Gerry assured. He withdrew his hand from his coat. “Nothing of that sort.”
“Very well,” Everitt said, removing his gauntleted hand from the cruciform hilt of his sword.
Gerry returned his attention to Wystan. The unmistakable reference to weapons, both visible and concealed, did little to unnerve the mage. He stared back at Gerry, still hurt and insulted by his recent inquiries.
“Mage Wystan. You have been in my family’s service since before my birth. I trust you will continue to remain loyal for many more years.”
“I intend to serve until my death.”
“Good. I will take all that you have said into account.” Gerry looked to Everitt. “I need to see my father.”
The guards stood aside as Everitt fell to Gerry’s right side to escort him back to the castle.
“What was that all about?” Everitt asked once they reached the steps.
“An old man set in his ways. And they call me Prince Fool!”
Everitt bristled at the mention of the moniker. “Hardly, sire,” he lied.
Gerry and his retinue reached the King’s Chambers to find several attendants before the doorway.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Everitt demanded, drawing his sword.
The door parted and Artus emerged with a fresh scratch on his right temple.
“Grandfather!” Gerry exclaimed as he hurried toward him. “What happened? Who...”
“I’m fine,” Artus confirmed. “And before you start worrying, the wound is my fault and my fault alone.”
“He fell,” Sir Lijart added, emerging from the throng of attendants. “Fell asleep in his chair, he did.”
“Aye,” Artus admitted, a tad embarrassed.
“Grandfather, you need to rest. You’ve hardly ate and slept since Father fell ill.”
“But, Audemar...”
“Is asleep. As you should be. I am here now. I will remain until I address the Court.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Sir Lijart said. “You should rest. I will stay and keep watch.”
“And I will leave my own personal guards in my wake, to assist Sir Lijart. I swear to it. Now, please, nourish yourself and retire for the night.”
Artus, too tired to protest, nodded. He turned to leave as attendants swarmed in around him. Several extended their arms to support or brace him. Annoye
d, Artus waved them from his sides, so they fell into line behind him, following at a respectable distance.
Gerry watched after him until he rounded the corner to disappear from his sight. Only then did he enter his father’s chambers.
His father’s quarters had never been a warm place. More cavern than room, Gerry had never considered it inviting, despite the treasures it housed. Even on a mild night such as this, Gerry considered, his quarters contain a chill. This despite the fire that roared at the center of his room. For the warmth it generated, heat and cold still battled, with the crisp air winning at the present moment.
Long sleeves, tied at the wrists, covered his arms, so that Gerry could not see the sores that Ely or Wystan had referred to earlier. His face had been freshly dabbed so that no sweat dotted his skin. Had it not been for his pale complexion, Gerry would have thought the king – his father – at peace, asleep.
Gerry spotted the chair where his grandfather had kept vigil all these nights. He took a seat in it, finding it still heated. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, drawing closer to his father than at any other point in his life.
Servants came and went, as they had for the past few days. They did little more than add wood to the fire and pass along messages to Everitt, for the Right Captain would not allow them to disturb the Prince during his time with the King.
Only when the sun began to fade in strength and the breeze shifted to hail the coming night did Everitt approach, clearing his throat first to announce his presence.
“My Prince,” he began. “The Court awaits below. Shall I have them dismissed for the day? Or would you care to address them?”
Would I care? Gerry asked himself. Will I ever? He had hardly mustered a thought in his time at his father’s side. Hours could have passed. Or days. Or weeks. It hardly mattered. His father had not stirred nor twitched nor made any movement to indicate that he would ever rise again. He began to question whether he ever would.
Dear Mar, he prayed, am I just to sit here and wait? I am the heir to the throne. A son of Kin Saliswater. For all my family’s power, is there nothing I can do?
What would Symon do? Or Dawkin? Or even Ely?
Gerry felt a hand on his shoulder. “Your Highness, may I be of service?” Everitt inquired. “Do you need anything?”
Gerry blinked. Do something, he urged himself. He blinked again. Anything.
I have it.
“Sir Everitt,” Gerry said, standing. “Have the royal herald make the following announcement: I will address the Court in ten minutes. And have a separate messenger sent to King Felix’s chambers, to ensure that he and his Court are present.”
Everitt sent messengers ahead as Gerry went to his father’s table to pour himself some wine. He sipped a glass as he paced the room, collecting his ideas and thoughts. As he strode, every so often he would dip his hand into his pocket, to cradle the game piece, the knight within.
Be strong, he told himself as his thumb ran over the edge of the white jade sword. You can do this.
Sir Lijart, watching Gerry from the other side of his father’s bed, rounded to approach him.
“Are you well, Prince Jameson?” he asked.
“Only concerned for my father. Just asking myself what he would do.”
“You’re a good lad. Whatever your course, he would see you and be proud.”
Lijart patted Gerry on the shoulder as he returned to his position beside Audemar’s bedpost. Though the words were far from profound, Gerry took comfort in them, somehow believing the old man and setting his anxiety aside for a moment.
Gerry finished his wine. He motioned for Everitt to open the door.
“My guards are to remain here with Sir Lijart until I return.”
“Blow your horn if the Prince needs his personal soldiers back,” Lijart instructed Everitt, nodding to the hunter’s horn that hung from his belt.
“Of course,” Everitt replied politely, as though he needed the lesson.
“Lead the way to the Throne Room,” Gerry commanded.
“At once, Your Highness.” Everitt’s voice lost all sense of amicability, as it always did when state affairs were to be had. He fell in beside Gerry as he had in the Sovereign Gardens. Yet now his steps were forceful and purposeful, the clank of his footfalls loud enough to announce their approach. Ahead, every door opened, every crowd parted. Those in a position of servitude bowed and made sure to hurry about their duties, lest the Prince believe they were loitering. Others of rank and status fell in behind their sovereign-in-standing, so as to hear his announcement and be seen doing so.
“Make way for the son of our great monarch, King Audemar of Marland!” announced the royal herald from the east pulpit as Gerry and Everitt stepped into the Throne Room. “Make way for his Highness, Prince Jameson of Kin Saliswater!”
Though the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, somehow the castle guards managed to separate the attendees enough to open a path before Gerry and Everitt. Upon coming to the throne stairway, their route widened. The two continued on to the throne, a chair carved from a single piece of ancient mahogany, upholstered with crushed velvet and adorned with pearls, abalone shells and a variety of water gems. As they climbed the steps to the seat of power, and the guards at the base of the stairs formed a barrier between them and the audience, the royal herald quieted the crowd.
“Silence, subjects of Marland! Be still, our foreign guests! Our blessed Prince Jameson will now address the Court.”
A stillness fell over the audience as row after row of eyes focused on the Prince as he took his place before the throne.
Gerry scanned the audience. So many faces. He recognized but a few. Marlish crowded the front. Ibians, with their bronze skin and dark hair, stood interspersed from the middle to the back of the room. There, in the distance, Gerry spotted members of the Ibian Court. Among them, the jewels of the three princesses caught his eye. As did the curled hair and inviting face of Taresa. Still, Gerry could not help but feel a tinge of disappointment upon noting King Felix’s absence. Where is he?
Be strong, he reminded himself as he set his right hand on his thigh. Beneath, he felt the game piece in his pocket. The knight.
Gerry cleared his throat. He lifted his right hand to motion to the audience.
“I thank you for your patience, for your sympathy and understanding, during this trying time for our kingdom. Marland has had her share of battles and tragedies. The illness of my father, our great King Audemar, stands among those hardships.
“I, along with my most loyal nobles, guards and kinsmen, have labored day and night since my father’s fall. In his condition, I have had to attend to the most pressing matters of the state, which has left me little time to address the beloved of two nations, who have recently come together in a show of peace and friendship.
“I realize that your concern is not without anxiety. The whispers and chatter in Marlish, and Ibian, have reached my ears. I have come here to you today to put a rest to your suspicions, once and for all.
“First, I will confirm the most serious matter: our great monarch, King Audemar, was poisoned.”
An uproar, one of shock – whether feigned or sincere – rose to the heights of the Throne Room. Some of the attendees reacted with exasperation painted across their faces. Others remained as stone. More turned to their neighbors and leaned in to speak to one another. Gerry saw a few of the ladies of the Court faint. All that he expected from his countrymen and women. Concern. Grief. Surprise.
The Ibians were a tad more difficult for him to read. A handful gasped, but that was the peak of their outward reaction. Many looked to each other with curious stares and bemused faces. Several spoke to one another, but at a volume that every Marlish managed to eclipse. The only response of note that Gerry could ascertain came from Taresa, who put her fingers over her mouth as her sisters and mother went on conversing among themselves.
The banter went on for a little while longer before the herald pulled a gavel fr
om his pulpit and, while pounding it repeatedly, called for a restoration to order.
“In the Name of the Crown of Marland, order! Order!”
One section after another quieted until only whispers and shuffles remained. Seeing his opportunity to speak again, Gerry continued.
“I understand your shock and concern. For how could this happen? So many years after we established peace, coming out of the Century War as victors? Believe me, no one took the news worse than I. The power...”
The words caught in Gerry’s throat. He could feel it dry. His eyes began to water as he recalled Dawkin’s truth session, during which he heard of his father gasping for air before he fell to enter his current state of slumber.
No, he chastised himself. Not now. Do not weep for him just yet. He still lives. He would urge you to stay strong. Stay strong!
The clank of articulated plates, steel shifting on steel, pulled him back into the moment. Gerry glanced at his side, finding Everitt shifting, ready to draw closer and escort the prince from the throne if need be.
Stay strong!
“Yet the power of Marland, in such moments of pain and grief, has shown itself,” he continued. “For look at us! We have come together, to be as one. Now is not the time to mourn. For our king still fights. And so should we. Now is the time for us to marshal our strength. To stay strong!”
Gerry nearly roared out the last word, for his benefit as much as the audience’s. Whether it came out as coherent he could not say. But the sentiment was there.
Applause and shouts erupted from the assembly, from the onlookers of both nations. Men and women smiled. They cheered. They waved. Gerry had never seen such a scene, even in all the days he could remember of his father speaking. The hands before him rioted. One striking one, multiplied by a thousand. From each clap came a burst not unlike thunder, only within the hall, where it echoed against the columns, the vaulted ceilings, and the carved reliefs, which somehow managed not to shake in the current state of audible disturbance. Glorious and jarring, the acclamation went on, until eventually the herald’s cries for order cut through the enthusiasm.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 21
