FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “Pour me some more aquafière,” I say, making my voice imperious. I hold the empty snifter aloft in the air and shake it about.

  “No; you’ve had quite enough, I should think,” Sir Lewin scolds, shaking his head.

  I hold him in my gaze, frowning. He relents.

  “Well, all right. A tiny bit more, just so I can finish these final stitches.” He reaches for the crystal bottle and removes the stopper.

  “Aha,” I say, and wink, “it works!”

  “Hardly,” he chuckles. He pours in the tiniest of splashes. Then he returns his attentions to my cut, working a needle and thread through my skin. It is silent for several seconds.

  “Am I…” I begin to ask, then falter. It is a question that has been at the fore of my mind ever since the Lion King announced the evacuation of the Golden Champions’ Hall. “Am I under some sort of house arrest?” I finally muster.

  Sir Lewin’s eyes flicker over my face. He looks down again at his work. “That likely depends,” he says.

  “On?”

  “On whether or not you and Mr. Fletcher are conspiring against the King.”

  “We’re not.”

  Sir Lewin says nothing. He only continues on, doctoring my wound.

  “Mr. Fletcher is suspicious of the King, that much is true,” I venture, “but he is no more suspicious of your king than any of the others, and only wants what’s best for the safety of the entire land.”

  “Well,” says Sir Lewin, “he’s not wrong to think one of the Four Kings would have a motive to conspire with a villain to harvest human blood. But given tonight’s terrible turn of events — Lord Hyland’s poisoning, I mean — I think we all know who’s to blame in the larger picture for recent events,” Sir Lewin says. He leans over my cut, carefully making the final stitches with intense concentration.

  “What do you mean — ‘we all know who’s to blame’?” I ask.

  “Well,” Sir Lewin says, “Lord Hyland was formerly a member of the Snake King’s court. Hyland and Snake had a terrible falling out, and he made a rather public fuss of things when he left Snake’s court and came to officially join the Court of the Lion King.”

  “Oh,” I say, absorbing this information. I suppress a tiny shiver of pain as Sir Lewin pierces my skin with the needle for the final time and begins to draw the wound shut.

  “Naturally, our King welcomed him in,” Sir Lewin replies. “He figured Lord Hyland had come to him as a refugee, and our good King does not turn refugees away at his door. He has sworn an oath to protect those weaker than himself.”

  “But why would Lord Hyland be considered a refugee? And why does everybody seem to cringe when they mention the Snake King’s name? What is it about the Snake King that makes him the least favored in the land?”

  Lewin tugs at the final stitch, ensuring it is tightly secured, knots it, and clips the thread close to the flesh. He blinks at me, slightly bewildered by the question. He shrugs.

  “He is… the Snake King…”Sir Lewin replies. “He is strange in his ways. There is an air of darkness that surrounds him; there always has been.”

  “And this makes him guilty?”

  “I take it you have not been to his kingdom yet,” Sir Lewin says.

  “No.”

  “To my knowledge,” Lewin says, “he doesn’t live in a palace so much as a haunted ramshackle of a mansion, full of dark demons.”

  I think about this. Mr. Fletcher said he wanted me to pay a visit to all Four Kingdoms. I can’t help but think I’d rather skip a visit to the Snake King.

  “There was some discussion earlier,” I say, changing the subject. “About you having been born a…” I try to think of a word that will not offend Sir Lewin.

  “A commoner? Yes,” says Sir Lewin, in a very matter-of-fact voice. “I was born quite literally in the stables. My father was blacksmith to the King’s many Arabian stallions.”

  “And the Lion King elevated you, by knighting you?” I ask.

  “He did,” Lewin answers, giving me a leery look. “He didn’t care that I was low-born, uneducated, that I couldn’t even read.”

  “You can’t… read?”

  Sir Lewin looks uncomfortable. “The blight of the low-born,” he answers. “They are barred from formal education. I’m trying to learn now, but… it is slow going. It may be too late for me.”

  “It’s never too late,” I say. “And I’d say it’s worth it. Reading saved me — on more than one occasion — when my life was… difficult.” I think wistfully of the books my father gave me, of my treasured book of Flemish fairytales.

  But Sir Lewin looks even more uncomfortable. He clears his throat.

  “However, knighting me… that’s not why I speak so loyally about the Lion King. I speak of him in exactly the manner he deserves. I follow him because I believe in him, because I believe there is wisdom and honor in his character, and that’s the truth.”

  “I suppose I will have to take your word for it,” I say. “As you yourself mentioned, his behavior tonight does little to recommend him to me.”

  I seem to have struck another nerve. Lewin stiffens, and he begins to gather up his medical supplies with an air of irritation.

  “I’m not sure why I’m trifling with the opinions of a human girl in the first place; two minutes in our land, and you’re following Mr. Fletcher around as though he is kin to you. You forget: You hardly know the creature! If you wish to debate the honorability of various creatures’ characters, Fenric Fletcher hasn’t exactly got the best reputation, you should know. Foxes are crafty; you can’t trust them.”

  “You keep saying that,” I say, “but I think it only reveals unfair prejudice. And… personally, he has been very kind to me,” I say. “I have my own troubles, you know, back home in the human world, and Mr. Fletcher has been quite gentle and understanding. I feel he has been looking out for me, and that his motive for doing so is unselfish, that he merely wants my well-being.”

  “And exactly where is Mr. Fletcher now?” Sir Lewin challenges me.

  Unfortunately, he has a point: I have to admit that Mr. Fletcher has managed to vanish at a highly suspicious time, and he has left me to fend for myself a bit. I shake my head.

  “I’m sure he’s here, somewhere in the palace.”

  “I think he is guilty and left you here alone, Anaïs — while he returns to his master, the Snake King.”

  “You don’t even know for certain the Snake King is our villain! And anyway, Mr. Fletcher doesn’t serve the Snake King,” I say, suddenly feeling quite frustrated and cross. “I’m telling you: You’re jumping to conclusions, and what’s more, you’re plain wrong. The Lion King is wrong.”

  “Careful, girl: You’re on the cusp of treason.”

  I can tell Sir Lewin is feeling more or less the same aggravation towards me in return. Gone is his joking demeanor and air of roguish confidence; I have managed to quash it entirely with my talk about his king.

  “You’ll be quite comfortable here tonight,” he says in a brusque voice. With the discarded dirty bandages and bowl of hot water in hand, he rises to take his leave.

  “You aren’t staying?” I ask, surprised. He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and smugness to see my dismay. Immediately, I feel a small flush of heat rise up to my cheeks. “You assured the Lion King you would stand guard over me,” I say, trying to explain away my reaction.

  He shakes his head. “I can stand guard just fine outside the door.”

  I watch him stride away, feeling a strange sense of disappointment. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if our conversation devolved into argument. When he reaches the door, he hesitates, turns, and looks back to where I am still sitting in the chair by the fire. I think, for a moment, he is going to speak, that he is going to confess something — though what, I haven’t the faintest clue. But then his expression fades, and he clears his throat.

  “Goodnight,” is all he finally says
, “Get some sleep.”

  The door trembles shut behind him, and I hear a key turn in the lock.

  So, I am under house arrest after all. I stand up, and walk in a slow circle around the room, taking in my surroundings. The ceiling is domed and gold-leafed like a Moorish castle, the rugs are made of the softest cashmere, the low bed of cushions swathed in the plushest velvet. I suppose if I am in prison than I ought to be grateful to find myself — quite literally — in a gilded cell. It is very grandiose, very lavish… but I am too irritated to enjoy it.

  As I did at Raven’s castle, I climb into the bed — or fall into it is more accurate. Within seconds, I have nestled myself between the many silk cushions, but this time, sleep is a little longer in coming. Perhaps this is due to the fact I know the entire palace is on high alert, that there may well be a murderer stalking about. I can’t quite get the sound of Lord Hyland’s choking out of my mind, or the terrible sight of his body tumbling down from the spectator stands. Or perhaps my insomnia is due to the agitation I feel towards Sir Lewin; I can’t stop thinking about him, and how disagreeable he is.

  Eventually, however, I manage to close my eyes, still my breathing, and slip into a comfortable state of dark, inky, dreamless sleep. I suppose I should not be at all surprised when, upon waking and opening my eyes, all evidence of the Gold Room around me has vanished, and I find myself yet again back in the dormitory of the asylum. There is a woman in the room, bustling around near my bed, and I recognize Nurse Kitching’s silhouette right away. I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet I cannot help but gasp and sigh, a soggy sensation of disappointment creeping into my bones as I find myself returned to dreary reality.

  CHAPTER 21.

  “Good morning, Anaïs,” Nurse Kitching says in a cold, prim voice, leaning over me, unbuckling one set of straps, then another. I am reminded of the manner in which I woke up previously… with the straps mysteriously already unbuckled. Didn’t that happen? How did I get back to the asylum, and how did I come to be strapped back down to my bed?

  “First thing — right after we’ve gotten some breakfast into you — Dr. Waters would like to see you for a quick check-up. After that, he’s ordered that I take you for some fresh air,” Nurse Kitching says. I nod and try to give her a look of thanks but she is busy bustling about, putting the hospital room in order, and doesn’t bother to cast a single glance in my direction. She must still be cross.

  “And then the young Assistant District Attorney will be here,” she continues in a coldly cheerful voice. “Along with a reporter to ask you some questions about your stepfather. Do you think you can answer a few more questions?”

  “Yes,” I say. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  The morning passes quickly. After I am fed a bowl of watery oatmeal, off we go — just as Nurse Kitching said we would — to see Dr. Waters, who now, in addition to requiring the restraints at night while I sleep, insists on constantly checking all my vital signs, my reflexes, and the health of my short-term memory.

  “Just a quick turn around the grounds, eh nurse?” he says, once our session is done. “She’s to meet with Mr. Duval very soon. Afterwards, Anaïs and I will work some more on unblocking her latent memories.”

  Outside, Nurse Kitching pushes me along a path I don’t recognize. We have exited the asylum, and are strolling around the perimeter of the property, near the tree line. The air is thick and heavy, and smells a bit of sulfur and that peculiar damp odor of decay that is so characteristic of swampland. Strange… I think. I stare at the woods, trying to determine the types of trees present. I see mostly oaks and swamp cypresses; I see no sign of the evergreens I could’ve sworn I’d glimpsed the other night. For the second time that day, I find myself wondering if I didn’t dream the whole business up — Mr. Fletcher and the Land of the Four Kings, all of it. So elaborate… I wonder if it isn’t entirely reasonable that my sanity should be in question after all.

  “Dr. Waters is very considerate. Must be nice to have some fresh air,” Nurse Kitching says.

  I nod, but truth be told, the air is a bit more swampy than fresh. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I am simply grateful to escape the suffocating walls of the asylum, for however brief a time it may be.

  And soon enough, our walk is ended. Nurse Kitching pushes me back towards the looming shape of the hospital, with its stone exterior, wire cages over the windows, and steeply pitched, gabled roof. I look at the asylum with a sense of vague dread.

  We reenter the hospital, with Nurse Kitching escorting me once again through the winding maze of many corridors. Eventually she brings me back to the courtyard where I encountered Colette — which, despite my breakdown at the time, is actually a reasonably pleasant courtyard. Nurse Kitching rolls me over next to the fountain and parks my wheelchair again, just as she did on the last occasion, and I realize I am to receive my visitor here. I wonder how the visit will go, and experience a small tremor of nervousness.

  “Are you ready to chat with Mr. Duval and his friend?” she asks, semi-rhetorically. “I believe they ought to arrive any minute now.”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “You stay put and enjoy the sunshine out here; I’ll go see if they’ve checked in at the front desk yet,” Nurse Kitching says. She gives me an eerie, surreal plastic smile. “Now, according to Dr. Waters, you ought to be rested and calm, what with the gentle morning you’ve had. We’re expecting no episodes this afternoon, Anaïs. Is that understood?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she hurries off, once again leaving me sitting to wait in the courtyard, parked in my wheelchair so that my back is to the only entrance. I attempt to wait patiently. Nurse Kitching instructed me to “enjoy the sunshine,” but there isn’t any sunshine in the courtyard — while the sky overhead is blue and clear, the walls of the four hospital wings surrounding us are far too tall to let much direct sunlight in, save for a short hour around noon, when the sun is directly overhead. We are just past that time now, and instead the courtyard glows with an eerie indirect light reflected from all four walls. It isn’t exactly cheerful, but it is pretty.

  Several minutes go by. I rest and wait, listening to the dribble of the fountain, a lame stream of water weakly coating Cupid’s body posed in arabesque, the water ultimately pattering dully into a stone basin. Finally, I turn and see Nurse Kitching leading the dark-haired lawyer with glasses towards me. Over his shoulder is a sandy-haired middle-aged man, who remains by the door.

  “Here we are!” she announces. “Anaïs — you remember Mr. Duval from the other day, don’t you?”

  Nurse Kitching drags a pair of wrought-iron chairs across the bricks, ignoring the terrible chalkboard scraping they make, and positioning them directly opposite my wheelchair.

  “All right, Mr. Duval,” she says. “Anaïs says she’s ready for your questions, and she’s promised to behave. I’ll be back to check on you both.”

  I watch Nurse Kitching go. She pauses to say something to the two orderlies posted at the door, whispering in their ears. They look over her shoulder at me. I’m fairly certain she has just advised them to keep an eye on me, warning them that I’m the girl who suffered a violent outburst during my last visit that took place in this courtyard. With their eyes on me, they nod, and Nurse Kitching hustles away, disappearing back into the darkness of the hospital.

  “Hello again, Anaïs,” Mr. Duval says. He seems a little nervous; it is clear someone told him about the episode I had following our last meeting.

  “Hello.”

  “Have you remembered anything more about the night of the hurricane?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Anything about the stagehands?”

  “No. But I have a question,” I say. “Why were the police suspicious of the stagehands in the first place?”

  Mr. Duval deliberates for a moment, his mouth twisting off to one side as he thinks. I can tell he’s not supposed to tell me, but he is wonder
ing if it might help me remember.

  “The gun,” he finally says. “Your stepfather used to keep it in his office at the nightclub. Only a handful of people knew where he kept it, or how to get it.”

  “So that narrowed down your pool of suspects,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Duval replies. “And eventually Julius Martin’s fingerprints were found on the gun.”

  I frown, thinking about this. Again, something feels… off. “Did you take Colette’s fingerprints, too?” I ask abruptly on impulse.

  Mr. Duval smiles a patronizing smile. “Don’t care for your future stepmother, eh?” he says. Then, he clears his throat. “We only found one set of fingerprints, Anaïs, and it was a match to Jules.”

  He clears his throat.

  “Let’s change tacks here,” he says. “Instead of the men who worked for your stepfather, let’s talk about your stepfather himself a little more. In order for the jury to understand the true horror of this crime, they need to understand a little more about the kind of man the victim — your stepfather — is. One thing that stands in our favor is your stepfather’s social service in the community, and his heroic history of involvement with the French Resistance during the war.”

  He turns, snaps his fingers in the air, and waves the sandy-haired man over to join us. The sandy-haired man obliges.

  “Anaïs, this is my friend, Mr. Paul Kendrick.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, taking no pains to disguise the rote nature of the greeting. Mr. Kendrick tips his hat to me. He, too, wears glasses.

  “Hello, Anaïs,” Mr. Kendrick says. “Mr. Duval here thought you might like to talk to me.” He reaches into his inside jacket pocket for a notepad, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gives me a look. “Lots of folks want to know more about your stepfather, Anaïs. And in some ways, Mr. Duval agrees that would prove extremely beneficial for the trial, especially given the fact that your stepfather isn’t present to speak for himself.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking things through slowly. “What… uh… what can I tell you that would be helpful?”