“I should reach Highmoorr in the very early morning. I intend to rile those entitled bastards from their beds. Perhaps a few will still be awake – and inebriated – leading to little resistance. I will demand a session of the Conclave be called. I will make my case for a Saliswater to continue to rule Marland. It will be an impassioned plea, a solid argument. One that is direct, bold and strong, leaving little room for doubt. Then the barons will cast their vote.”
“And if they vote to remove you?” Gerry inquired. “I mean, us?”
Dawkin sighed. “No matter. Even if they vote against us, they will still need to elect a new sovereign. Such a process will take weeks at best, perhaps months. Until the Crown is removed from our heads, we still rule. Still, we must at least pretend to ask for their permission to gather forces, if only to prevent strife and internal conflict further down the line.”
“So you make your case, the lot is cast and the barons share their decision. Then you ride from the castle,” Ely summed.
“Aye.”
“What of you?” Ely asked of Symon, pointing his nearly empty carafe towards him. “What do you think?”
“With Dawkin’s piece done, there will then be the matter of dealing with King Felix or the Lewmarians.”
“Battles and engagements can be long, trivial events,” Ely quipped. “Should we deal with the Ibian monarch first?”
“No. He is a cunning man. An impatient one. Whatever hopes and assurances we feed him he will not accept. We need to prove to him that Marland is no weakling when it comes to our enemies, that we are still the victor that rose from the ashes of the Century War.”
“So? To battle?”
“To battle.”
“That will mean that enough time will had to have passed between when I leave Highmoorr Castle and the start of any hostilities,” Dawkin stated. “You will need to wait to march from Arcporte –”
“No. No waiting.”
“But, Symon, you can’t lead the troops while I’m before the Conclave of Barons.”
“I won’t. Sir Everitt will. He is my – our – Right Captain. Before you leave for Highmoorr, you will decree, in secret, that all of Marland’s forces will fall under the command of his sword. You will write down the words, seal with wax and present the edict to him, to make it all official. Mage Wystan can serve as witness.
“You will then leave for Highmoorr while Everitt readies the soldiers for the march north. He will march long and hard so that our men-at-arms will be in defensive position by the time you leave the Conclave and ride to meet them. Of course, there will be no need for you to actually be there. I will trail after the lot of them, standing aside until enough time has passed to make your ride from one point of Marland to another believable.”
“I should still ride to the defenses to meet you, as you will need to be briefed should my case before the barons goes awry.”
“Very well. You may arrive and report on the Conclave, so long as you are in disguise, wearing one of Ely’s odd little moustaches.” Symon grinned as rubbed the tips of his fingers beside the edge of his mouth.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Ely retorted. “Laugh if you will. But my costumes have served us well.”
“So you fight the battle, or some part of it, after Dawkin does his bit. What of King Felix?” Gerry asked. “Should I deal with him?”
The other three looked to each other. Symon laid his eyes on his brother.
“No...” Gerry whispered.
“It is as Ely said,” Symon confirmed. “One of us must stay below.”
“But why me? Why not Ely? I mean, he nearly threw himself from the Sirens’ Cavern only days ago.”
“I have a certain way of taking care of myself in these delicate matters,” Ely assured his brother, ignoring the slight to his ego.
“What? With your wigs and clothes and all else?”
“For all his... antics... He handles the sword better than you,” Symon confirmed. “I hate to admit it, but we’ll need his skills of aggression above.”
“Aye,” Dawkin added. “He is the better fighter. And his wit, while troublesome at times, is as sharp as any. He can spot a threat from a mile away. You know this. That is how he has managed to weasel his way out of many a brawl and tavern fight all these years.”
“Barkeeps and wenches are one thing, but I speak of dealing with a king. Princess Taresa –”
“– is a princess, nothing more,” Ely said, coming up to Gerry to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Her father rules, and if he has it his way at this point, the Grand Duke will succeed him. Xain is as cunning as any fox we’ve dealt with, he is a royal deserving of another worthy adversary. Perhaps in time, you will be able to match wits with him.”
“Do not patronize me, brother.” Gerry threw his hand from his shoulder. “I am a prince as much as you, with all the same training and trappings.”
“You are one of four, and subject to the vote of this session.” Ely withdrew from Gerry to take his seat at the table. He lifted his feet onto the lip as he leaned back and cocked his head. “All those in favor of Symon, Dawkin and I ascending, to act as Prince Jameson, at separate times, say ‘aye.’”
“Aye,” Dawkin said.
“Aye,” Symon replied, albeit a tad quieter than his brother.
“And aye,” followed Ely. “All those opposed, say ‘nay.’”
Gerry chose not to reply with a word but with his departure.
“Gerry!” Symon yelled after him.
“Let him be,” Ely urged. “He has the gist of it.”
“Ely’s right,” Dawkin admitted. “Give him his peace. Ely, what will your part be in all of this?”
“I will need to stay in the shadows, until I know, or suspect, that you and Symon have been successful in securing the Conclave and protecting northern Marland. Neither of you must dillydally. Dawkin, you speak your speech, and Symon, you make a show of defenses. Neither of you stick around in your respective positions to come out the hero.”
“I will be quick with my words,” Dawkin promised. He shot a questioning look to Symon. “Will you remove yourself from the battlefield, whether we have vanquished the Lewmarians or not?”
Symon paused. Never before had he shirked from a conflict. To do so in the face of a warlord seemed so cowardly and unbecoming of a true sovereign-to-be.
“The Lewmarian threat, especially one led by a warlord, can stall and go on for weeks and months, no matter the strategy at hand,” Ely said.
“That is right,” Dawkin confirmed. “We need only to secure a position and set up troops along the northern part of the island. If Hunold’s forces are there and need to be engaged, deal with them with haste. If not, we cannot afford to wait around for a fight.”
“Set up a presence, fight only if warranted, and leave quickly.”
“It is strategy that matters, Symon. Not the hero’s fight. It is as Father would have done.”
“Yes, just like Father.”
Symon sighed. He knew his brothers had the right of it. “Very well.”
“Good.” Ely sprang from his chair. “Then when you and Dawkin have done your bit in the morning, I will plan on addressing King Felix and his Court. No need for me to wait for you for a briefing of events. I will fill in the gaps, make assurances to the monarch that both the Land and the Crown of Marland are safe—”
“And secure the treaty,” Dawkin reminded him. “Along with Taresa’s hand.”
“My, brother, you sound like our little hound, Gerry.”
“Ely,” Symon warned.
“All right, all right. I was just having a bit of fun, is all. Yes, I will also secure the necessary commitments that our father worked so hard for, may Mar rest his soul. I promise. Are you happy now?”
“Hardly,” Symon replied. “There is too much at stake for us to trust that Felix will remain while he thinks us gone. If Ely approaches him too soon, before we have finished our bit, then our ruse will be exposed.”
“Are you proposing
what I think you are?” Dawkin asked.
“Indeed.”
Dawkin sighed. “I supposed sending away Grandfather was a hasty move on my part. He was none too thrilled of it, to be honest. I suppose we can summon him back. May do him some good. He can reign in Prince Jameson’s absence, while I attend to the Conclave and you deal with the Lewmarians.”
“He will not go unprotected, brother. I assure you. I will keep watch from the shadows, under the guise of a helmed knight. Or a serving wench if it comes to it.”
“You better do your part. We all must. The kingdom depends on it.”
“Very well.” Symon glanced at the door. “Is this session of the Fourpointe Table at an end?”
“Tis ended,” Dawkin confirmed. “I’ll ascend now, to make some preparations for above.”
“If you don’t mind, brothers, I feel the need to return to Arcporte. One can never have too much intelligence in such matters.”
“True,” Symon stated, though he knew his brother sought to quench his thirst for wine and whores.
With that Ely parted from them, hurriedly reapplying his false moustache as he left.
“Good fortune to you on your return above,” Symon wished Dawkin.
“Thank you. I will return shortly. What will you do in the meantime?”
Symon looked to Gerry’s empty chair.
“Remind our brother that the decision made at this forum was not personal,” Dawkin chimed.
“Aye, I’ll remind him.”
Dawkin clapped Symon on the shoulder. Symon did the same, looking on as his brother retreated from the chamber.
Symon headed to Gerry’s room. Upon discovering it empty, he visited the dining hall, then the kitchen and the privy. With no sign of his brother to be found, he turned next to the Siren’s Cavern before entering the underground bailey.
There, at the chamber he would have expected his little brother to visit, he discovered three of the Voiceless picking up an array of overturned weapons, racks and hay bales.
“What in Mar’s name happened here?” he asked, nearly expecting the silent knights to answer him with words.
The three Voiceless looked to each other, unsure of which of them should reply. The one closest to Symon raised his hand. In quick succession, his fingers spoke, telling Symon all he needed to know.
Damn, Symon thought, staring down at the mess. Such anger. And frustration. The poor lad. When trouble arises above – the kind he cannot handle – we vote for him to stay behind. He is always left behind. Tis unfair. Yet for his own good.
“I will have a word with him,” Symon assured the Voiceless. “Thank you for tending to this.”
He pivoted to head back towards the hall that lead past their rooms. Having checked everywhere else, he set his sights on the labyrinth of passages that curved in and around Terran. His hastily made way for the nearest one, hoping that Ely had not chanced upon his brother for fear another jab at his pride may send him into a fury.
The nearest corridor remained empty, as did the next few after. Symon passed knight after knight, whom he queried about his brother. All responded the same: he was nowhere to be seen.
Exhausting every passage he knew, he returned to the center of Terran, to quiz the three Voiceless further.
“Mar...”
The mention of their deity was faint, carried on a breeze that nary existed. Had a crash of the waves beyond the sandstone walls struck at that precise moment, it would have overtaken the whisper, to drown it out. Yet it did nothing of the sort. The name reached Symon’s ears, so that at once he knew from whence it came.
With all the care he exuded in battle, Symon climbed the steps leading to the outlook of the Siren’s Cavern. Every footfall of his approach enlightened him with sounds from Gerry. Most were sniffles and sobs. Peppered among the weeping were the fragments of a prayer, part plea, part condemnation.
“Why make me a Saliswater if I am not princely?” Gerry begged for an answer between whimpers. “Why, Mar, why?”
Symon hurried up the stairs to console his brother.
“I can hardly face my brothers.”
He stopped.
“For they know the cowardice of my soul. The fear I harbor. I wish they would never see me like this. Yet they have. They do. All the time.”
Symon crouched on the steps.
“I nearly pray for you to end our dynasty, so that we may shed our rights as sovereigns to live a normal life. That of a peasant, one in which we may know boredom. Where competition is not the norm, a life where one not need consider his own sense of worth. That is all I pray for, Mar. Not victory. Nor defeat of my enemies. Only for a simple life.”
Symon sat. Out of view of his brother, he listened as the fragments of gales from the sea delivered his pleas to the One Up On High.
“My life, Mar. I pray for a life all my own. My life.”
Symon considered. He silently replied with a devotion of his own.
Mar, consider my brother’s words
And end them.
For he does not belong to himself.
None of us do.
He is a Saliswater.
We are Saliswaters.
As my father proclaimed,
We live to serve.
His life is not his,
It is consecrated,
Like mine or my brothers,
For the greater good.
Chapter 24
He had never been a pious man. In view of the Court, he was considered godly, yes. Deep within, though, he harbored doubt. Questions from unanswered prayers persisted in the recesses of his soul for years, as did musings of the suffering he and his brothers had seen, and endured.
Yet, upon seeing Perceval again, his heart lightened, his skepticism eased.
“High Bishop,” Dawkin said, bowing. “Your Eminence.”
“Your Highness,” Bishop Perceval said in kind. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
The answer to that came after further pleasantries. During that time, Dawkin and Perceval strolled the interior of the cathedral along with its perimeter, as well as the vegetable garden before pausing at the pride and joy of Perceval’s, his stable.
“Your Eminence,” Dawkin began as the High Bishop stroked the nose of his prized mare. “I confess, I have an ulterior motive in my visit.”
“I suspected so.” Perceval patted the mare before moving on down the center hall. Dawkin fell in step to his right. “Few make the trek up that forsaken hill to visit on a day not deemed holy, let alone an unescorted prince. Tell me, what has you so cautious as to come here without a retinue, save your Right Captain that you left to guard the road?”
He sees right through me. Am I so transparent? “Horses,” Dawkin blurted. “I need your finest.”
“Finest how? I have a range of colts, mares, stallions and geldings, all fine in their own right. Some have a sheen not unlike the finest sealskin or sable. Others are trained so well –”
“Racers,” Dawkin interrupted, knowing that if he did not, the High Bishop would go on boasting forever. “Runners. Those that can ridden fast and far.”
The High Bishop paused. He turned slowly, so that the whole of his body faced the Prince.
I should have let him ramble, at least a bit longer. Now I have insulted him.
Dawkin parted his lips to offer an obligatory apology when the High Bishop replied. “How many?”
“As many as you can spare.”
Perceval raised his brow. “And why so many?”
At that, Dawkin balked. Before arriving, he had suspected that the High Bishop would question his motives and need. In preparation, he went over dozens of half-truths and fibs, invented reasons he could feed him to satisfy his curiosity while giving very little away about the plans he and his brothers had drafted. The concocted tales included using the horses for the members of both Courts in a grand hunt to siring a championship mount and presenting it as a gift to the Ibian royals.
Yet in the
face of the High Bishop himself, Dawkin found that such excuses would not hold. There was something about that he could not pinpoint, a trait that left Dawkin to believe that Perceval was beyond accepting masquerades of words and lies of fancy.
The silence of Dawkin’s consideration must have stretched longer than the Prince realized, for before he could utter an answer to the High Bishop, Perceval left his side to peer over the top of one of the stalls.
“My Prince,” Perceval beckoned.
Dawkin joined him to find a colt within, nursing from a mare that stood strong, her gaze meeting that of the two onlookers.
“Hard to believe she nearly died last week,” Perceval said, “from birthing that colt. His legs came out too early while the rest of him stayed wedged within. The mare kicked furiously at first but then allowed my attendants and I to approach and pull him free. Even then, the work was arduous. She lasted it through it though.”
“They are fine creatures.”
“I was seven when your... our beloved Queen Ellenora passed.”
The High Bishop paused. He stared back at Dawkin. Only a select few had ventured to speak of his mother in his presence, and even then, it was a passing reference meant to convey respect and condolences. Even his own father had not discussed her in more than a few short words, and yet here stood a man who was neither father nor brother, one tempted to speak on a subject that others would have considered forbidden.
Dawkin searched his eyes. He waits. He seeks my permission. My approval to continue.
The Prince nodded.
“My father had kind words for your mother,” Perceval continued. “He admired the stories he heard of her grace and beauty. Yet when an appropriate time of national mourning passed, he spoke heresy. He said that in her absence, Kin Saliswater had no claim to the Crown, even though it was she who married into the royal family and not vice versa. He even suggested then that the Conclave of Barons be called to cast votes on the issue.”
Perceval shifted his attention back to the mare and her colt. “I was just beginning to be addressed as master in my father’s manor, and as such, was able to join many of the gatherings and hunts he had with other barons. He voiced such dissent among other nobles. None were so bold as to join in his rants. Yet not one bothered to chastise him either.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 31
