The Crown conspiracy trr-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  "I will announce your trial at once and call all the nobles to court. They will hear of your treachery, your betrayals, and your foul acts. They will learn how education and witchcraft turned you into a power craving killer."

  "You won't dare! If you put me before the nobles I will tell them the truth!"

  "That will be difficult because, for the safety of the nobles, I will have to keep you gagged to prevent you from casting spells upon us. I would have your tongue cut out now except that might look suspicious as I haven't yet called for the trial."

  Braga looked around the bedroom once more and nodded. "I was wrong. I do approve of this choice of room after all. I had other plans for this tower once, but now, I think sealing you in here until the trial will keep you nicely isolated. And with the amount of time you've spent by yourself, practicing your crafts, no one will notice a difference."

  He walked out, taking the dagger with him. As he left, she saw a bearded dwarf with a hammer in hand standing outside the door. When it closed, she heard pounding and knew she had been locked in.

  Chapter 7: Drondil Fields

  The four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an ox cart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

  "Don't stare, Myron," Hadrian told him. "They will think you're up to something."

  "They are even prettier than horses," the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

  Hadrian laughed. "Yes, they are, but I wouldn't tell them that."

  Ahead a hill rose and on top of it, stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle; it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

  "That's Drondil Fields," Alric told them. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead. As they came into view of the castle, he began speaking with a tone of pride and warmth in his voice. "It's the oldest and strongest fortress in Melengar. They built it with thick walls of granite shaped like a five-pointed star making it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.

  "It was once the home of Brodic Essendon, who in the turmoil of the civil wars following the fall of the Empire, subdued these lands to become warlord. His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work his father started. He defeated the forces of Lothomad the Bald and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. That was the last battle of a long war, which carved the kingdom out of the political chaos of the post-imperial era.

  "They fought the battle just down there, in those fields to the left of the hill. They belonged to a farmer named Drondil and afterwards this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.

  "This was also the site where Tolin, his clansmen, and his warlords drew up the Drondil Charter, which divided Melengar into seven provinces. He rewarded his faithful warlords with the titles of counts and gave each of them a parcel of land. Once he was officially crowned king, Tolin felt it wasn't proper to live in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and, before moving there, Tolin entrusted Galilin, the largest and richest of the provinces, to his most loyal general Seadric Pickilerinon. Seadric's son assumed control of the province a short time later, after his father died of a terrible fever. He was the one who shortened his name to Pickering.

  "The Essendons and Pickerings have always been close. We often spend Wintertide and Summersrule here with them. There is no direct blood relation, but it is as if we are kin. I grew up with Count Pickering's sons and they are like my brothers. Of course, the other nobles aren't happy about that, particularly those who actually are blood-relatives. Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though since no one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords."

  "We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia," Hadrian muttered, but it did not stop the prince from continuing.

  "Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek'chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld, the post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the legendary Teshlor Knights. The Teshlor, the greatest warriors ever to have lived, once guarded the Emperor himself. Like everything, they were lost with the Empire. What Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld was just a tiny bit of the Teshlor skill, just one discipline, but that knowledge was faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and the secret give the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.

  "This hill never used to look like it does now," Alric explained, gesturing to the trees growing on the slope all the way up to the walls. "It used to be cut clear to afford no cover to would-be attackers. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn't seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn't see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon," Alric sighed, "now little more than a country estate."

  "Here now, hold on there!" an overweight gate warden ordered as they approached the castle. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. "Where do you think you're all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?"

  Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. "I…I'm sorry, Your Highness," he stumbled, snapping to attention. "I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me." He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. "Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?" Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.

  Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard did little to remind one of a fortress. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep's portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black-and-white dog gnawed a bone at the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.

  Near a blacksmith shed, where a beefy man hammered a glowing rail of metal, two young men sparred with swords in the open yard. Each of them wore helms and carried small heater shields. A third sat with his back to the keep steps. He was using a slate and a bit of chalk to score the fighters' match. "Shield higher, Fanen!" the taller figure shouted.

  "What about my legs?"

  "I won't be going after your legs. I don't want to lower my sword and give you the advantage, but you need to keep the shield high to deflect a down stroke. That's where you're vulnerable. If I hit you hard enough and you aren't ready, I can drive you to your knees. Then what good will your legs be?"

  "I'd listen to him, Fanen," Alric yelled toward the boy. "Mauvin's an ass, but he knows his parries."

  "Alric!" The taller boy threw
off his helm and ran to embrace the prince as he dismounted. At the sound of Alric's name, several of the servants in the courtyard looked up in surprise.

  Mauvin was close to Alric in age but was taller and a good deal broader in the shoulders. He sported a head of wild dark hair and a set of dazzling white teeth, which shone as he grinned at his friend.

  "What are you doing here, and by Mar, what are you dressed up as? You look frightful. Did you ride all night? And your face-did you fall?"

  "I have some bad news. I need to speak to your father immediately."

  "I'm not sure he's awake yet, and he is awfully cranky if you wake him early."

  "This can't wait."

  Mauvin stared at the prince and his grin faded. "This is no casual visit then?"

  "No, I only wish it was."

  Mauvin turned toward his youngest brother and said, "Denek, go wake Father."

  The boy with the slate shook his head. "I'm not going to be the one."

  Mauvin started toward his brother. "Do it now!" he shouted, scaring the young boy into running for the keep.

  "What is it? What's happened?" Fanen asked, dropping his own helm and shield on the grass and walking over to embrace Alric as well.

  "Has any word reached you from Medford in the last several days?"

  "Not that I know of," Mauvin replied, his face showing more concern now.

  "No riders? No dispatches for the count?" Alric asked again.

  "No, Alric, what is it?"

  "My father is dead. He was murdered in the castle by a traitor."

  "What!" Mauvin gasped, taking a step back. It was a reaction rather than a question.

  "That's not possible!" Fanen exclaimed. "King Amrath dead? When did this happen?"

  "To be honest, I'm not sure how long it has been. The days following his murder have been confusing, and I've lost track of the time. If word has yet to reach here, I suspect it hasn't been more than a few days."

  All the workers stopped what they were doing and stood around listening intently. The constant ringing of the blacksmith's hammer ceased and the only sound in the courtyard was the distant mooing of a cow and the quacking of the ducks.

  "What's this all about?" Count Pickering asked as he stepped out of the castle holding up an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the morning's bright sun. "The boy came in panting for air and said there was an emergency out here."

  The count, a slim, middle-aged man with a long, hooked nose and a well-trimmed prematurely gray beard, was dressed in a gold and purple robe pulled over his nightshirt. His wife Belinda came up behind him, pulling on her robe and peering out into the courtyard nervously. Hadrian took advantage of Pickering's sun-blindness to chance a long look. She was just as lovely as rumor held. The countess was several years younger than her husband, with a slender, stunning figure and long golden hair, which spilled across her shoulders in a way she would never normally show in public. Hadrian now understood why the count guarded her jealously.

  "Oh my," Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. "I don't even think of horses when I look at her."

  Hadrian dismounted and helped Myron off the horse. "I share your feelings, my friend, but trust me, that's one woman you really don't want to stare at."

  "Alric?" the count said. "What in the world are you doing here at this hour?"

  "Father, King Amrath has been murdered," Mauvin answered in a shaky voice.

  Shock filled Pickering's face. He slowly lowered his arm and stared directly at the prince. "Is this true?"

  Alric nodded solemnly. "Several days ago. A traitor stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer."

  "Traitor? Who?"

  "My uncle, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor-Percy Braga."

  – 2 -Royce, Hadrian, and Myron followed their noses to the kitchen after Alric had left for a private meeting with Count Pickering. There they met Ella, a white-haired cook who was all too happy to provide them with a hearty breakfast in order to have first chance at any gossip. The food at Drondil Fields was far superior to the meal they ate at The Silver Pitcher Inn. Ella brought wave upon wave of eggs, soft powdered pastries, fresh sweet butter, steaks, bacon, biscuits, peppered potatoes, and gravy along with a jug of apple cider, and an apple pie baked with maple syrup for dessert.

  They ate their fill in the relative quiet of the kitchen. Hadrian repeated little more than what Alric had already revealed in the courtyard however, he did mention that Myron had lived his life in seclusion at the monastery. Ella seemed fascinated by this and questioned the monk mercilessly on the subject. "So, you never saw a woman before today, love?" Ella asked Myron who was finishing the last of his pie. He was eating heartily and there was a ring of apples and crust around his mouth.

  "You're the first one I've ever spoken to," Myron replied as if he were boasting a great achievement.

  "Really," Ella said smiling with a feigned blush. "I am so honored. I haven't been a man's first in years." She laughed but Myron only looked at her puzzled.

  "You have a lovely home," Myron told her. "It looks very…sturdy."

  She laughed again. "It's not mine, ducky, I just work here. It belongs to the nobles, like all the nice places do. Us normal folk, we lives in sheds and shacks and fights over what they throw away. We're sorta like dogs that way, aren't we? 'Course, I ain't complaining. The Pickerings aren't a bad lot. Not as snooty as some of the other nobles who think the sun rises and falls because it pleases them. The count won't even have a chambermaid. He won't let no one help him dress neither. I've even seen him fetch water for himself more than once. He's downright daft that one. His boys take after him too. You can see it in the way they saddle their own horses. That Fanen, why just the other day I seen him swinging a smith's hammer. He was having Vern show him how to mend a blade. Now I asks you, how many nobles you see trying to learn the blacksmith trade? Can I get anyone another cup of cider?"

  They all shook their heads and took turns yawning.

  "Lenare, now she takes after her mother. They're a pair, they are. Both are pretty as a rose and smell just as sweet, but they do has their thorns. The temper those two have is frightful. The daughter is worse than the mother. She used to train with her brothers and was beating the stuffing out of Fanen until she discovered she was a lady and that ladies don't do such things."

  Myron's eyes closed, his head drooped, and suddenly the chair toppled as the monk fell over. He woke with a start and struggled to his knees. "Oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn't mean to-"

  Ella was so busy laughing she couldn't answer and simply waved her hand at him. "You've had a long night, dear," she finally managed to say. "Let me set you up in the back before that chair bucks you off again."

  Myron hung his head and said quietly, "I have the same problem with horses."

  – 3 -Alric told his story to the Pickerings over breakfast. As soon as he finished, the count shooed his sons out and called for his staff to begin arranging for a full-scale mobilization of Galilin. While Pickering dispatched orders, Alric left the great hall and began wandering through the halls of the castle. This was the first time he had been alone since his father's death. So much had happened, he really had not had time to think. He felt as though he was caught up in the current of a river, whisked along by the events unfolding around him. Now it was time to take control of his destiny.

  Alric saw few people in the corridors. Aside from the occasional suit of armor or painting on the wall, there was little to distract his thoughts. Drondil Fields, though smaller than Essendon, felt larger due to its horizontal layout, which sprawled across the better part of the hilltop. Where Castle Essendon had several towers and lofty chambers rising many stories high, Drondil Fields was only four stories at its tallest point. As a fortress, fireproofing was essential so the roof was made of stone rather than wood, requiring thick walls to support their weight. Because the windows were small and deep, they let in little light, which made the interior cavelike.

  He remembered r
unning through these corridors as a child chasing Mauvin and Fanen. They had held mock battles, which the Pickerings always won. He had always trumped them by bringing up that he would be king someday. At the age of twelve, it had been wonderful to be able to taunt a friend who had bested him with, "Sure, but I'll be king. You will have to bow to me and do as I say." The thought that in order to become king his father would have to die had never really occurred to him. Nor had he known what being the king really meant.

  I am king now.

  Being king was always something he had imagined to be far, far in the future. His father had been a strong man, not much older than Pickering. Alric had looked forward to many years as prince of the realm. Only a few months ago, at the Summersrule Festival, he and Mauvin had made plans to go on a year-long trip to the four corners of Apeladorn. They had wanted to visit Delgos, Calis, Trent, and even planned to seek the location of the fabled ruined city of Percepliquis. To discover and explore the ancient capital of the Old Novronian Empire was a childhood dream of theirs. They wanted to find fortune and adventure in the lost city. Mauvin hoped to discover the rest of the lost arts of the Teshlor Knights, and Alric was going to find the ancient crown of Novron. While they had mentioned the trip to their fathers, neither one brought up Percepliquis. They knew they would not be allowed to travel there. Walking the fabled halls of Percepliquis was probably the boyhood dream of every youth in Apeladorn. For Alric though, his adolescence was over.