“Prince Jameson, listen to me.”
Ely cast his stare aside from the letter. Before him, Taresa stood back several paces, her stature not as it was just moments before.
“Forgive me, Princess. I had no intention of scaring you.”
“You’re not the reason I’m afraid.”
“I’m not? Then –”
“You need to listen,” Taresa insisted. She lost all sense of royal pretense as she gripped Ely’s shoulders to garner his full attention. “My father, his relationship with his kin is... complicated. In Ibian tradition, no woman may inherit the throne in her own right. If a king is without sons, then the crown passes to the next male kin, unless one of his daughters marries before he departs, in which case...”
Taresa held her breath. As she did so, she looked about them. Ely did the same. Years of secrecy and a lifetime of deceit had honed his instincts. All the time spent fine-tuning his disguises, playing the part of a baron or oaf, sneaking off from Terran – all of it had provided him with the intuition to know when he was being watched. Such skill was further amplified by the fact that he knew every inch of the castle better than any sentry or guard. As Taresa continued to search, Ely had already concluded that they were not being listened to or watched. He set his hands upon her forearms to ease her grip.
“You needn’t worry so,” he assured her.
“You don’t understand. Xain wants my father’s crown for himself. Not when my father has aged beyond service. He wants it now. He has done everything he can to position himself next in line. He has curried favor from every Ibian baron and bishop. He constantly inflates my father’s ego, to the point that he is blind to my cousin’s ambition. He even – I mean, it has been said he, he –”
“He is far from the first man who has posed a threat to me, my Princess.”
Taresa stared up into Ely’s eyes. Ely grinned.
She suddenly pulled away. Her desperation disappeared. As if suddenly remembering her place, her stately demeanor returned.
“You mustn’t be drawn in by his lies,” she warned. “My cousin can be a charming man. He has certainly won over my father. For his part, my father has survived, no doubt because he continues to serve a purpose to Xain. If he manages to deceive you, however, you will not be so fortunate.”
“I appreciate your concern and advice. I will bear both in mind during tonight’s supper.”
Taresa curtsied. “Your Highness,” she said flatly, and with a twirl of her dress, she left.
Ely watched after her for a moment before turning his attention to the idol of his mother. As he looked upon the face he had studied a thousand times before, his thoughts cleared of Taresa’s warning, of his affection for her and of his quest to gather information from his grandfather. Rather, they honed in on a consideration, and the questions it posed.
Taresa had stared into my eyes in desperation. Then she saw something in me. Something that prompted her to pull away. What was it? What turned her so cold? What did she see in me?
Chapter 22
“You royal bastard! You wicked fox!”
“Don’t you call me a fox!”
“I’ll call you whatever I bloody want to!”
Gerry shuddered. He could not recall the last time he had seen Dawkin so angry.
Dawkin clutched a crumbled note in his hand. He threw it to the Fourpointe Table, where it fell with nary a thud. Ely smirked.
“Oh, well I’m happy to see you’re amused,” Dawkin said, throwing his hands into the air.
“Brother, sit down,” Ely urged.
“You should do well to keep your mouth shut,” Symon replied. He glanced at Dawkin with concern.
“Me? I came here in good faith for my truth session. It’s the three of you who should shut up and listen.”
At that, Gerry’s anger surged. “You had no right!”
Ely perked. “Oh, I see the runt of the litter speaks.”
“Ely!” Symon roared as he rounded the table. He stabbed his finger into Ely’s chest. “Take a seat. We need to have a serious discussion of your actions above. Now!”
Under the weight of Symon’s finger and his menacing stare, Ely sat. Symon withdrew to his corner of the table as Dawkin and Gerry did the same.
“So no truth session?” Ely asked as he reclined in his chair, seemingly at ease.
“Truth sessions are a recitation of events, an uttering of your experiences while you remain in a dream-like state,” Dawkin said. “They do not allow for interaction. Nor questions. And we need you conscious to respond to our inquiries. To answer for what you did.”
“What exactly did that note from the Voiceless tell you?” Ely nodded to the crumbled paper before Dawkin.
“Enough,” Symon answered. “And it wasn’t from the hand of the Voiceless. It came from Grandfather.”
“Should have known. We never bothered to teach those brutes how to write anyways, and there is only so much one can gather from their ridiculous language of hands. What with their gestures and signs.” Ely waved his hands above his head, wiggling his fingers and twisting his wrists with no hint of purpose nor reason.
“Your disrespect for our guardians aside,” Dawkin resumed. “You need to explain your actions above.”
“Which ones? I did much while in the castle.”
“Don’t play coy. You know of what I speak. I talk of the treaty you proposed to King Felix.”
Gerry leaned forward, his elbows on the table, to focus on Ely. Ely slouched in his chair even further and yawned. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “That.”
“You had no right.”
“It was my ascension. I had every right.”
“A treaty is a serious commitment. One that requires lengthy discussion and a vote at this here table. You gave us no time for either.”
“An opportunity presented itself. I took initiative. Why just days ago you all were lamenting over whether I would kill myself. You thought of me as little more than dead. My brothers, I am alive. So above, I lived.”
“You erred, Ely. Can’t you see that?”
“No, I cannot.” Ely sprang to his feet. He sauntered to one of the end tables to help himself to a goblet of wine. “Father invited the vast cedar forest that is the Ibian Court to our shores. He willed that we enter into an alliance with them. With his death, that pact was in jeopardy.”
“For good reason,” Symon interjected. “The Ibians are not beyond our suspicions, no matter how well they play nice.”
“Point taken, Symon,” Ely replied. “Though a little heavy-handed in your prose.”
“Ely!” Dawkin spewed. “No petty insults at the table.”
“Yes, the Ibians remain suspects,” Ely continued, ignoring Dawkin. “And they will remain suspects until we know more. But brothers, how would such revelations be possible if I had not acted?
“My supper last night with the King could have been his last night in Marland. That Duke, what’s his name... Xain! Yes, that Duke Xain was chomping at his uncle’s heels, trying to have him leave our castle as soon as the seas allowed. I knew that was not what Father would have wanted. So I negotiated. I secured us regular shipments of Ibian cedar for the foreseeable future, making our country the only Afarian power outside of Ibia with access to their lumber. For Father’s sake – and Marland’s – I struck a deal.”
“You struck a poor deal!” Dawkin rushed around the table as Ely drank. No sooner had Ely lowered the goblet from his lips when Dawkin knocked it from his hand. “We have no idea how much cedar they will send. Nor how often. King Felix guaranteed neither quantity nor a schedule of delivery. And somehow in return, you gave him everything!”
“I would hardly say everything–”
“A hundred ships! You promised the Ibian King a hundred ships, built here in Marland.”
“Dawkin is right,” Symon concurred. “The Ibian’s Armada is already the largest in Afari. Two combined powers from the mainland could overtake them though. Adding a hundred ships to their fleet will only assu
re them dominance over the seas.”
“Brothers, you worry too much. And you forget all those boring lectures and updates before the Conclave. We know that much of the Armada’s current fleet dates back to the Century War. While Ibian cedar cannot burn it is still wood, and it can age. Our beloved King Felix is simply interested in updating his navy. Tis all.”
“Oh, so now he is beloved?” Dawkin threw his hands up in the air. He retreated to the Fourpointe Table. “You deal with him,” he said to Symon as he returned to his seat. “I tire of his sly talk.”
“Ely,” Symon began as he approached his brother. “Please, return to the table.”
Ely sighed. He glanced at his discarded goblet and the spilled wine on the ground. “Very well. But let us make quick work of this meeting. I have an inkling to make a run to a tavern.”
Dawkin jumped to his feet. “You see! This is how he treats his princehood. With carelessness and contempt.”
“Dawkin,” Gerry finally interceded. “Calm yourself.”
“Yes, brother,” Ely chimed. “Calm –”
“Don’t!” Dawkin raised his finger at Ely.
“Whatever you take issue with, I will resolve. I will make amends. I can even ascend before my time if you so wish.”
“No. You will do no such thing. Your days of ascending as Prince Jameson are at an end.” Dawkin, seemingly exhausted, plopped back down into his chair. “I will put it to a vote if I have to.”
“You would not dare.”
“I will. Right now.” Dawkin glanced at Symon then Gerry. “All those in favor of restricting Ely to Terran until further notice say, ‘Aye.’”
“Aye,” Symon replied as he looked at Ely.
The three then turned to Gerry. Gerry looked to the three of them, each as serious as the next.
“Well?” Dawkin asked.
“Yes, big brother Gerry,” Ely snarled. “How do you vote?”
Gerry quivered. Why me? Why do they all look that way at me?
“Go on, Geremias,” Symon urged. “Say your piece.”
“Aye,” Gerry squeaked.
“Then it is settled,” Dawkin confirmed. “Ely will be confined to Terran.”
“So that is it?” Ely sneered. “The three of you, as soon as you decide I have done something disagreeable, decide my fate. By what right?”
“As sovereigns,” Dawkin replied.
“I too am a sovereign.”
“Then you should have acted like one.”
“Enlighten me, brother. How does a sovereign act?”
Dawkin, looking upon his brother, said nothing.
“Well? Have you no answer?”
Dawkin flashed a look at Symon and Gerry.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Ely insisted.
“A sovereign does not rush to judgment or action. As I demonstrated just now. A sovereign rules not out of his own pride or vanity. He governs with a balanced degree of restraint, patience, counsel and experience. At all times he considers the well-being of his people over his own needs, seeing himself not as demigod above all, but as a divinely-appointed man tasked to serve his people.
“A sovereign enters an alliance with a foreign power after much deliberation. He does so not to curry favor with other royals but to benefit his country. He ponders the most difficult of questions such as ‘How much will this cost my nation?’ or ‘What will my subjects gain?’ He analyzes an opportunity – or dilemma – from all angles. He is not afraid to change course, to consider alternatives to his own opinion, if doing so will result in a much better outcome.
“Father may not have been perfect, but he aspired to be such a ruler. So did Grandfather in his time. As do I. We all should work to be the best monarchs we can be. That is why what you have done is so egregious. You promised too much. You were bold and arrogant. Don’t you see, Ely? You created a bloody mess. Prince Fool reared his ugly head once again. And again, the dilemma you created is not limited to you. When you have a problem, we all have to suffer for it.”
Silence fell upon them. That was a bit much. Gerry knew that Dawkin’s words had cut his brother. By how much he could not say. Symon realized it too, judging from the stoic yet somehow pained look on his face. Ely, who only moments ago was set to go off on Dawkin, stood stone-faced in the wake of his comments.
Then, without any provocation, Ely strode out of the chamber.
Gerry rose to go after his brother.
“Leave him be,” Dawkin said with a raised hand.
“You could have minced your words,” Symon advised.
“To what end? In what scenario could this conversation have ended without Ely in anger?”
“Still.”
“Oh, I’m tired of winnowing my words. We’ve done so our entire lives. He is no better for it.”
“And here I believed he was the stubborn one.”
“Don’t you start.”
“I’ll have extra Voiceless posted at the Siren’s Cavern, just in case.” Symon made for the exit.
“While you’re at it, tell them that Ely is not to leave Terran. He is to remain here. If he stirs within the confines too much, we’ll simply bring a harlot down for his pleasure and give her a fading potion afterwards.” Dawkin caught Gerry staring at him. “What? Have you an issue with my command?”
Gerry, agape, kept silent.
“Never you mind. And forget Ely’s truth session. We know enough. You can ascend without his rants and ravings.” With the haste of a few quick steps Dawkin was gone, leaving Gerry in the Fourpointe Chamber.
Alone at last, Gerry sighed as he leaned over the table, exhausted. The weight of his brothers’ argument had almost been too much for him to bear. He had considered walking out of the meeting altogether, if he thought that his brothers would have let him. Alas, the rules they had agreed upon years before governed that all available siblings be in attendance for conferences concerning affairs of the state. No matter the issue or dilemma, however heated the discussion became, voided not Gerry’s responsibility as a prince.
Wanting to forget his sorrows, Gerry went over to the side table to pour himself a drink. He managed a few sips before setting his goblet down. “Uhhh.” The oldest of their vintage left a sour taste in his mouth. Such sturdy drink did little to make Gerry disregard his worries.
I’ll need to pass by Dawkin’s room to return to mine. And Ely’s.
Gerry shuddered. He had no desire to see or hear either at that moment. Even Symon would be unbearable, perhaps insisting that they spar together to work through the tension they had endured.
Why do they have to get so angry? Haven’t we been through enough?
Gerry leaned his rear against the edge of the table. He kicked at his chair. With a thud it fell. He kicked at it again, sending it scraping against the stone tile.
In a flurry, he rounded the table to overturn the other three chairs. They teetered and crashed. The last was Dawkin’s, which Gerry actually lifted and flung to the far wall. It slammed against the sandstone and dropped, its clack echoing through the chamber.
The tapestries came next. Gerry striped them from the walls. He tore those that resisted. He threw mirrors from where they hung. Glass cracked and broke into hundreds of pieces. Then he directed his rage to the end tables. Carafes shattered. Goblets clanged against stone. Wine and water splashed all manner of surfaces. When Gerry finally relented, every item in the Chamber laid broken or in disarray save the table, which was too burdensome for him to overturn.
Heaving, Gerry bent over, his hands on his knees.
Those damn Ibians. Perhaps we should do the same to them. Throw them. Break them. It would be bloody. Yet at least it would all be over.
“Yet Father would still be gone,” Gerry said to himself. “The Kin and Har-Kin would still need to be ruled. Our princehood would be no easier.”
Gerry straightened. As he stepped back, a broken mirror crackled beneath his boots. He looked around him to note the mess.
He step
ped from mirror on the floor to bend and pick it up. A web split his reflections into a palette of geometric portraits. He eyed them, almost half-expecting each to present a different version of himself.
None did. All showed the same hair. The same eyes. The same scar.
The scar.
Gerry focused on the thin horizontal line on his left cheek. He raised his fingertips to it. Though smooth to the touch, Gerry found himself wincing in remembrance of the cut that had left its mark.
Whereas fear may have overtaken him at any other moment in consideration of his scar, instead he found the words of his grandfather flooding his mind.
Whatever happens, you are connected...
* * *
The dungeon guards dared not to question their prince when he ordered them to withdraw from their posts. They did, however, share a look. The same kind that Gerry and his brothers gave each other upon learning that Ely had done something stupid.
This is my time, I suppose. My chance as Prince Fool.
With the guards absent, Gerry strode down the corridor. His footfalls echoed, each a clap against the stone walls, as though the dungeon were applauding his approach to Konradt’s cell.
The ovation had no counterpart. No steps matched his. No water dripped from the stones into collected pools, as was common. Nor did mice nor rats squeak or scurry. No prisoners beckoned Gerry forth to taunt him or beg for mercy.
The reticence continued as the stone wall to his right gave way to the thick iron bars of a cell. Moonlight shone from the single window overhead, one too small for any person save the smallest child to fit through. The illumination from on high streamed down in a single shaft, casting its glow upon the cell’s lone inhabitant: Konradt.
He stood. He stared straight ahead, having not to turn his head nor shift his eyes as Gerry came into his view, as if he anticipated his visit. In the soft, white glow from above, Konradt’s orbs resonated a shade of blue deeper and brighter than Gerry had ever seen, appearing like sapphires lit from behind. For all their brilliance, the warlord’s look was as ice, sending a chill through Gerry as he approached.
“Gruue,” Gerry hollered, louder than he intended. The greeting did nothing to stir a response from the Volkmar.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 28
