So this is power? Gerry mused as the masses quieted. How wondrous! All the focus of a nation, their approval, their intensity and influence, coalesced and packaged and presented into my hands for me to do as I wish. I have them now. Any edict I give, command that I issue, they will follow. This must be how Symon feels after battle. Or Dawkin after winning a debate. Or Ely after he has had his fill of women. Yes, yes, this will be the defining moment of my princehood. Yes, my time has come.
Gerry straightened, no longer self-conscious of the lifts in his boots. Standing tall, he raised his hand. “Oh, great Marland! From this day forth, my father’s moment of weakness will be remembered as the time that we rose up as a nation. Not as a collection of manors, but as one island, undeterred in our quest for greatness. Every edict given by the Throne, by Kin Saliswater, will be with the intention of further uniting us as a people.
“Though my father sleeps, and as such, still retains the title as King, in his stead I do have certain authority. Most particularly, as it concerns this epicenter of ours, Arcporte Castle. For centuries, we have fortified this castle, and the troops within, for the protection of our nation. In the interest of academia, monarchs from ages long ago til now have housed the great manuscripts in the King’s Library. Defense and knowledge. Those have been the twin pillars of Arcporte Castle. But no longer. For we can do more. We can always do more!”
Curious, the audience watched on, listening. Remembering Dawkin’s many lectures on public speaking, Gerry knew their attention was fleeting, that he had to make his point then and now or risk losing the moment altogether.
“Therefore, I order that an institution will be built, an institution added to this grand fortress. It will be the Royal Academy of Alchemy. Nay! The Marlish Academy of Alchemy.
“No longer will manors have to bear the brunt of housing, feeding and training the very mages that serve the whole of this nation. The healers you know, the wizards of alchemy and astronomy, will now be the responsibility of Kin Saliswater. We will churn them out by the dozens, in an effort to serve every manor, hamlet and hovel, both near and wide, on our great island.
“With us on the eve of aligning with Ibia, the need for experts in the magic arts has never been greater. They will serve on the ships of cedar our men will build. They will tend to the sailors your wives and children will see off, so that they may return safely and in good health. With the wealth we will inherit through Ibian trade, they will oversee the building of majestic structures, all in the name of our glory.
“So fret not, Marlish citizens! Your King will rise. I will stand by his side once more. And together, with him – and all of you – we will build a greater, grander Marland!”
Gerry clenched his fists together and beat them in the air. An uncharacteristic move for him. But one he knew that any of his brothers would feel compelled to make at that point. A stroke of power. One to inspire the crowd.
A wave of support, in the form of cheers and applause, assaulted his ears anew. This one overwhelmed him even more. And he loved it. He threw his fists upward again, and in return, the roar from the audience grew. He left his arms raised, basking in the prestige, as a chant sprouted, multiplying among the masses with each passing second.
“Saliswater! Saliswater! Saliswater! Saliswater!”
Yes, Saliswater, Gerry considered as Everitt came to his right side to escort him from the throne. Saliswater. His family name, that of his kin, had never sounded so satisfying to his ears, so sweet. Saliswater. From his own lips, it would have fallen flat. But here, from the multitudes, it rang. As though from a chorus of angels. Saliswater.
The guards created a way for the prince once more, only this time, they had to push against the throng, who shouted in joy as they extended hands to their beloved. Some of their fingers brushed against the sleeves and cuffs of his doublet. In any other circumstance, he would have pulled away or flinched. But not here. Not now.
The faces all seemed so eager to gaze upon him, having believed in what he said. Have I promised too much? Perhaps, he thought. Then again, how many times has Father vowed that a course of action would be done, only to be stymied by this event or that baron? More than I can recollect. Still, he reigns, with myself currently in his stead. This is an act representative of his will. Yes, yes, that is it. This is what he would have done.
Everitt extended his arm, helping to part the crowd. His steps and gestures were determined and without apology. That is until he had led Gerry to the back of the Throne Room.
There, after a baron and baroness stood aside, he paused and bowed. “Your Grace.”
Gerry, turning from his right, found Taresa and her siblings beside her.
“Your Highness,” she said, bowing with her mother and sisters.
“Princess Taresa,” Gerry replied, his heart aflutter once more.
“I very much enjoyed your speech,” she stated, her hazel eyes staring straight into his. “You certainly know how to inspire a crowd.”
Say something, you fool. “Yes. Thank you.”
“My father and mother apologize for their absence. My mother felt flushed and advised that she needed to rest. My father is at her side, tending to her.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“That is kind of you to offer, but...”
“Mage Wystan!”
Beyond the Princess and her ladies stood Wystan. Silently, he stared back at Gerry. My news must have perturbed him, Gerry thought, as he moved forward toward the mage. Otherwise, he would have come to me, rather than I having to go to him. It was a slight Gerry was willing to forgive, so long as the mage complied with his next request.
“Mage,” Gerry repeated as he halted before him.
“Your Highness,” Wystan replied flatly.
“Our dear guest is in need of your services. Would you be so kind as to pay Queen Belitta a visit?”
Gerry searched his face. He could not gather a sense of duty nor enthusiasm from the old man. Thankfully, though, there was neither malice nor malcontent. Only a blank expression, one of indifference.
Wystan, looking past Gerry to Taresa, nodded to the princess. “It would be an honor to serve the royal family of Kin Garsea,” he said to her.
“I am in your debt, Mage,” she responded, curtsying with her sisters.
At least she is happy. “Very well, Mage Wystan,” Gerry said, patting him on the shoulder. “Carry on.”
Gerry moved on through the remnants of the crowd as Everitt led the way from the Throne Room. In the hall beyond, outside the throng, his Right Captain leaned in to whisper. “You had them, Your Highness. Everyone was moved by your message. Even those hard-nosed barons.”
Everitt smirked. Gerry had heard of the Right Captain offering accolades and small talk in private, away from the eyes of Court. Often it was Symon who was the recipient of such conversation, even a jest here and there, as though Everitt was some longtime brother. Dawkin enjoyed such banter at times, while Ely experienced it even less. In the guise of Prince Jameson, Gerry did not enjoy such luxuries, unless they were lingering notions from Symon or the others.
This smirk, though – nay, this moment - is all mine, Gerry told himself. Finally.
“Yes, I think it was all well-received,” Gerry conceded.
“Where to now, Your Highness?” Everitt asked.
Though he knew his father to be still asleep, Gerry could not help but brim with eagerness at telling him of his achievement. “To my father’s chambers.”
Save for a few servants doing their daily chores, the remainder of the castle stood empty, as the visiting barons and common folk still remained in the Throne Room. Not that it mattered in this part, Gerry thought. For the King’s Chambers had always been restricted. Even in my youth, after the Century War had concluded and peace was declared.
This notion stayed on his mind through the climb up the stairs until Everitt halted, extending his arm out to prompt Gerry to do the same.
“Sir Everitt?” Gerry as
ked.
“I stationed two men here, not more than four hours ago, just before I left to meet you in the Sovereign Gardens.”
“Perhaps another officer came to relieve...”
“No, these were good men. The kind who could go eight hours or more without moving from position, which is why I chose them for duty before your father’s quarters.”
A clank up the rest of the stairs and down the hall captured their interest. Everitt drew his sword.
“Stand aside, Prince...”
Everitt’s words trailed, his thought unfinished, as Gerry raced on past his reach.
With his dagger drawn, Gerry took the stairs two at a time until he came to the top. The staircase opened to an arched double doorway, where the two doors were wide open, the next set of guards also suspiciously absent. Not more than fifty feet separated the staircase doors from those of his father’s room. Yet his anxiety slowed the pace of his steps to a crawl, though he somehow managed to stay out of Everitt’s grasp, who chased after him, begging him to stop.
Stop he did. At the door to the King’s Chambers, which he promptly threw open.
Inside, the curtains were pulled tightly shut, so that only a sliver of light seeped inside. Yet that was enough. For the door scarcely swung halfway agape before Gerry spotted the blood pooled before the entrance. He felt Everitt’s fingers clutch his arm, pulling him away, until the Right Captain too glimpsed the abomination.
“In the Name of Mar...” he whispered.
Gerry pulled away from his grip to step over the blood. He pushed against the door, trying to open it further, but found it would not. He peeked behind it to find the body of Sir Lijart sprawled on the floor, his throat slit.
“Everitt!” Gerry exclaimed, his voice somewhere between a shrill and a scream.
The Right Captain, himself reeling from shock, came to Gerry’s side to find the king’s personal guard having bled out, his body pale from the loss. At that, Everitt put his hand on Gerry’s chest and pushed him back. Gerry stepped away, turning his gaze from the floor to the rest of the chambers.
His eyes adjusting, Gerry spotted the retinue of guards he had left behind. All in various areas of the floor. All unmoving.
Everitt jumped over the pooled blood to the open doorway, to pull his hunter’s horn and blow a distress call.
The blast bellowed through the hall, echoing. “To arms! To the King’s Chambers!”
A gurgle and gasp answered Everitt’s horn blow. Gerry jumped back as Lijart opened his mouth and lifted his hand to his sliced throat.
“Sir Lijart!” Everitt sprang back to the knight, to kneel by his side.
“The... King...” Lijart managed, each word causing blood to gurgle through the fleshy gap in his throat.
“Lijart! Listen to me. Who did this? Who attacked the King’s Chambers?!”
Lijart, his eyes glassy, yet somehow respondent, shifted to Gerry. He released his hand from his throat, allowing a stream of rouge to cascade down his neck. He pointed to Gerry.
“You... kill... King...” he said, his eyes ablaze for a moment with hate, before they burned out. Lijart, the last of his strength spent, closed his eyes.
“Lijart? Lijart!” Everitt yelled, patting the old knight on his cheek.
Gerry shrank away, dropping his dagger, as if Mar himself had condemned him. “Everitt.”
“He has departed.”
“He said...”
“He was wounded, mad from the blood loss. I was with you since we had left.”
You were. I did not wield the blade that cut his throat. But this happened during my ascension. During my watch. Not on Symon’s, or Dawkin’s or Ely’s. Mine.
“Prince Jameson, we must...”
Gerry looked toward the bed. “He said, ‘King.’ My father...”
The figure that was his father laid just as they had left it, beneath the thick quilts of the four-post canopy. Though surrounded by the dead, the length of him seemed undisturbed, as though at peace. At least, that was what Gerry and Everitt could gather from their vantage point.
Everitt, looking over his shoulder to the king’s resting place, turned back to Gerry. “Prince Jameson, I wouldn’t...”
“Look around you!” Gerry said, motioning to Lijart and the other guards. He moved to his father’s bed. “I have to know!”
Tears had never stung with such torment. Nor had his steps ever been so heavy. Nor his heart struggled so with each beat, every spasm an effort, as it did in the seconds that he approached his father’s bed.
He stopped before the canopied bed, with the tented linen above and to the sides blocking what little light cracked through the slit of the curtains. The cloth, though usually translucent, enveloped the monarch in a blanket of darkness.
Gerry closed his eyes, a vain effort to dam his tears. “Open them.”
Everitt need not ask what he wanted open.
With a sense of dread that has no equal, Everitt made his way to the curtains. From the hall beyond, the faint patter of footfalls from the castle guards entered the room, growing louder with each moment. Not that it mattered at all to Gerry. In fact, nothing did, save what lied in front of him.
“James...” Everitt asked and pleaded at once, as though begging could undo the tragedy they both knew they were about to see.
“Go on,” Gerry commanded, softly.
Everitt drew the curtain back, spilling light into the whole of the chamber.
The footfalls from the hall hastened up until they entered the room. Then, like all else, they stopped.
“Mar...” Gerry whispered. “No...”
Chapter 18
Mar. At birth, I was thrust into war. My entire reign consumed by it. Yet I trusted you. I prayed. I served.
Then you allowed the foxes to take three of my children, leaving but one. I nearly forsake you. In my grief, I cursed your name. That grief ended. My last heir lived on to have sons of his own, a gift of four, to replace the children you took from me.
Finally, you took the last from me. My son. Four children I have lost over the years. And four grandsons I have gained. Even has been the count. Until now.
In this moment, Mar, forgive my transgressions. Pardon my sins. Do what you will to me. Just spare my grandson, this lad before me.
Artus finished his prayer as the screams shook every one of his bones. Each cry to the heavens rattled his frame, which had never felt more brittle. His muscles, drained of vigor, felt assaulted, as though pummeled in battle.
Artus could hardly bear it. Though as horrible as it was, he could not help but stare at the one who suffered more, who shrieked as he reached upward, toward the opening above.
“Father!” Ely screamed. “Why?! My father! My father! Nooooooooooo!”
Only an hour before had the bells of the castle jolted him from his sleep. He awoke to find that he had sweated through his night shirt. His eyes burned, as if assaulted by smoke, and his mouth had gone dry. His ears throbbed with every ring as he went on to dress, struggling through the trembling of his hands.
So wrong. Artus could not put the thought out of his mind. Something is wrong. So terribly wrong.
The decades spent training in the yard, to mold himself into a warrior-king, were for naught. His survival instincts had abandoned him. The admirable qualities his father and kinsmen had labored so hard to instill in him – tenacity, focus, courage – were but feathers in a storm, to be disappear in a gust while Artus remained helpless.
The whole of him quivered as he trudged down the gallery, then the stairs to the colonnade that connected to the King’s Chambers. Attendant and guards passed him without a second glance, impervious to the frail elder that had once ruled over their land.
They do not even see me. That can only mean the worst.
And it did. Artus arrived at his son’s quarters to find a circlet of guards pushing the castle servants and guests back from the room. He wedged through each worried soul and past the distraught until he came to the
front of the crowd. The guards, recognizing their former king, parted enough to let him pass.
He stumbled through the breach, his limbs pained, though the walk from his chambers had been short. He passed through the doorway, stepping into a viscous pool of blood. Following its trail, he found the butchered corpse of Sir Lijart.
“Oh, Mar!” he gasped as he sank to his knees. He extended his hands, which quavered worse than ever, to close the knight’s eyes. The skin of his lids had already grown cold, a sign of what was to come for the rest of him.
“My King...”
Everitt stood by his side, offering his hand. Artus took it, knowing full well he had not the strength to rise on his own.
Then, struggling to his feet, he faced the canopied bed.
The veiled curtains that once hung from the frame had been torn off and placed over the length of his son, who laid motionless exactly as Artus had left him. Patches of a dark cardinal red had soaked through in some spots, to mark the areas beneath that had been pierced or stabbed. Upon taking in the departed figure, Artus reached out, parting from Everitt’s assistance. That is until he saw Gerry.
Never had one hurt so. For Artus had seen the casualties of battle, the dead and dying. Somehow, this was far worse. The man before him had shrank, regressing in years to resemble a boy, broken and scared. Yet, at the same time, the whole of his body had the appearance of an ancient in his dying days. He slouched against the baseboard of the bed, devoid of life. His eyes could have been carved from frosted glass were it not for the steady creeks that sprung from them, silently.
Artus could not recall how he ended up by the lad’s side. Had his own feet taken him? Or had Sir Everitt helped him along the way? He could not say. Nonetheless, he collapsed before Gerry, his arms unfolded to embrace and comfort his blood, his kin. The one who still breathed.
Time would have been inconsequential from that moment until eternity, had it not been for the castle bells. The urge to command that they be stopped had crossed Artus’ mind. He relented, though. For the effort would have been a waste. The bells had been rung. All in Arcporte had heard them, their clangs and their cries for their fallen, the King. Including the three below.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 22
