Heart of the King

by Bruce Blake

  “We have a boy to save.”

  He started toward the edge of the ruined village, the magician following without comment as if he already knew what needed to be done.

  Chapter Seven

  Therrador paced the room, hands clasped behind his back, boots padding the stone floor. The pain in his hand had diminished after the surgeon’s maggots did their work, but it still throbbed against the fresh bandage. He ignored the discomfort by shifting his thoughts to his son, which in turn transferred the pain from his missing thumb to his chest, squeezing his heart as if the Archon had inserted her hand between his ribs and encircled it with her fingers, threatened to pierce it with her nails.

  “Oh, Graymon,” he muttered to the empty room. “I’m sorry.”

  “He doesn’t blame you.”

  Therrador whirled at the sound of the voice, surprised to find he wasn’t alone. The ghostly woman sat on the divan near the huge stone fireplace, her wild mane of wavy red locks covering the shoulders of her simple white dress and spilling down over her chest. The king stared at her, taking in her face and form. In the dungeon, in the dark and gripped by hunger and despair, he hadn’t really seen her or formed a sense of her. Now, in the open, in the light, with his wits about him, he saw her beauty. He took a step toward her and felt calm emanating from her.

  “You’ve seen him? Is he safe?”

  She nodded. “As safe as he can be given his situation.”

  He sat beside her, not close enough to touch but near enough he saw the translucency of her. He looked into her green eyes flecked with black, and searched them to see if she could possibly be real.

  “You’re a ghost.”

  “I am no longer living in the manner you are.”

  “Why are you here? Are you one of the Archon’s tricks?”

  The expression on her face soured at his mention of the other woman.

  “I have nothing to do with Sheyndust.”

  “Then why?”

  “I have come to tell you that the king-bearer and his companion are on their way to rescue your son.”

  “What? Graymon?”

  She nodded her response. The constriction around Therrador’s heart expanded to include his lungs.

  I’ve given up my son’s best hope to the enemy.

  “I have to do something. I told the Archon of his coming.”

  The woman touched his forearm and it surprised him to feel the pressure of her hand despite her lack of opacity. He looked down at her fingers, at the paleness of her flesh. The tightness in his chest diminished.

  “I know,” she said and smiled. Therrador saw a hint of sadness in the expression and a shiver of guilt threatened to rock his spine. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Things must happen the way they must happen and you are a part of that.”

  “But I--”

  “Arrangements must be made for what’s to come.”

  Therrador looked from the woman to the door, thought about the undead Kanosee soldier standing guard on the other side, then looked back at her. She had taken her hand off his arm and he felt the lack of it.

  “I can’t leave. She has me under guard night and day.”

  The woman regarded him then rose from her seat. He watched her cross the room to the far corner, her feet leaving no impression on the fur of the deer skin rug arrayed on the floor. She stopped when she reached the corner and gestured for him to join her.

  “There,” she said pointing to a square block amongst other square blocks in the wall.

  Therrador pursed his lips, a question forming behind them, but he held it and reached toward the brick instead. His fingers brushed it and he noted it felt no different than any other brick: the same hardness and texture, no feeling of magic or power radiating from it. He looked back at the woman and she nodded, encouraging him. Therrador pushed the brick. At first, nothing happened, so he exerted more pressure until it shifted with the grinding sound of stone against stone. It moved only an inch, but an inch was all it needed to activate a switch concealed behind it.

  The wall to Therrador’s right shifted, opening a crack between lines of stone. The dust of countless years tumbled down the face of the wall in a tiny, inconsequential avalanche. He followed its progress with his eyes, watching it tumble, thin, and disappear, before looking back at the crack. It was slight, but wide enough to get his fingers between. He inserted his fingertips carefully to avoid jostling his wounded hand, and looked back at the woman.

  “Go ahead.”

  He braced himself and pulled, putting all his strength into the effort. The wall moved much more easily than he would have imagined, swinging on some cantilever cleverly hidden in the masonry. The wall swung out and he stared into a stone passageway hung with cobwebs.

  “I didn’t know anything like this existed.”

  “Few do since the Shaman died,” she said. “It hasn’t been used for a very long time. It will give you access to the fortress. If you are careful, you will be able to come and go without them suspecting; the rest is up to you.”

  Therrador nodded and looked down the passage. The light shining in from the room ended at the top of a set of stairs leading down into darkness.

  “I need--” He turned back to the woman but she was gone. He glanced over his shoulder, pivoted in a tight circle; she was nowhere to be seen. “Gods above.”

  He shook his head and crossed the room to the taper sitting on the mantle over the fireplace. Out of habit, he tried to pick up the candle holder with his right hand, cursed himself a fool as he fumbled it, then used his left to light the wick from the hearth. He returned to the secret door, using his injured hand to shelter the flame, and stepped across the threshold.

  Therrador hesitated before proceeding, undecided as to what to do with his unexpected freedom. Graymon was too far away for him to consider going after his son, but not far enough to trust he'd be safe from the Archon's wrath if they discovered the king was gone. The presence of that threat meant he couldn't leave the fortress, yet he needed to do something to save his kingdom. His lips thinned to a hard line, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  Sienhin.

  The general would have to be his eyes and ears, his hands and voice. It was the only way, but would his old friend trust him after all that had come to pass? Therrador wasn't sure he would trust himself were he in Sir Alton's place, but neither of them had any choice.

  “Here we go,” he said aloud and drew a breath of air that smelled of must and disuse.

  Determined to find his way to the general's quarters, Therrador grasped a handle mounted on the back side of the wall and pulled the section closed. He descended the stairs in the flickering light of the taper without knowing where they would lead him or if he should truly put his trust in the ghostly woman. This was the same doubt and distrust his friend would feel when he saw him.

  What choice do we have?

  ***

  Sir Alton Sienhin wiped remnants of ale out of his bushy mustache with the back of his left hand and slammed the pewter flagon in his right back to the table. He stared at the empty chair set across the table and chewed on the stray hairs of his mustache curled over his top lip.

  “Where have you gone, Therrador?”

  He stared straight ahead at the plain stone wall and simple furnishings—not the decor to which he'd become accustomed, but his quarters had been given to some Kanosee general when Therrador invited the enemy in. The regent’s decision to open the fortress gates to the invaders had confused him, angered him, but Sienhin knew his place, and his place was to support his king. Through good and bad. Even through this.

  “I haven’t gone as far as you may think, Sir Alton. Nor as far as you might like.”

  The older knight jumped at the sound of the king’s voice behind him, and stood abruptly, upsetting the flagon. Dark ale spilled across the table, flowing along the wood’s grain to the end where it dribbled onto the floor.

  “Therrador,” Sir Alton breathed, turning.

  T
herrador crossed from the doorway to stand before the other man, but made no move to embrace him or greet him. Sir Alton felt grateful for the king’s choice—after the events of the past few weeks, he didn’t think he could bear it.

  “You heard what happened?”

  “I heard Sir Matte was the latest to give his life for you,” the knight grumbled, his words calculated to prod the king like the tip of a dagger. “And that the Archon took you. Where have you been?”

  “The dungeon, for a while. Now I am Sheyndust's captive.”

  The general crooked a shaggy eyebrow. “Then how are--?

  “How I got here doesn’t matter. Hahn is in league with the enemy.”

  Sienhin puffed his cheeks out and blew a breath through his lips. His hands went to his hips giving him the look of a matron chastising her charges.

  “Is anyone but me left faithful to the kingdom?”

  Therrador ignored his barb. “The man who carries the king’s essence nears the fortress. We must ready for his arrival.”

  “What? The king yet survives? How do you know this?”

  Some of the certainty in Therrador’s expression flagged for a moment.

  “A ghost woman told me.”

  “Ha,” Sir Alton guffawed. “I’m supposed to believe this?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. We have to return to our original plan of alerting the troops. The army must be ready.”

  “But Perdaro knows this plan.”

  “He will think the plan died with my jailing.” Therrador hesitated, then added, “He believes I’m back in league with the Archon.”

  Sir Alton’s eyebrows dipped dangerously close to forming a single bristly hedge above his eyes.

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because I told the Archon the king-carrier was coming, and that I’d tell her when he arrived.”

  “What? Why--?”

  “I had to get out of the dungeon, Alton. I couldn’t save my kingdom while dying in a cell.”

  The knight glowered, unconvinced, but Therrador didn’t look away. Sir Alton had known this man for decades, and yet as they stared at each other, he felt like he gazed upon a stranger.

  “Why should I trust you? The kingdom wouldn’t be in this predicament if not for you.”

  “The Archon would have her way whether through me or someone else. It might have been you.”

  “Never.”

  Sir Alton puffed out his chest but, even as he did, he realized the potential for truth in Therrador’s words. The Archon had manipulated things to turn King Braymon’s most trusted advisor against him, and a loyal servant like Hanh Perdaro into her puppet. How many others? Who else couldn’t be trusted? The thought settled into him like a weight, made his shoulders sag. He slumped back into his chair; Therrador took a step toward him and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I understand your reticence, faithful knight. Were I in your place, I would also have difficulty trusting. But what do we have besides each other? What hope besides the king’s return?”

  Sir Alton’s eyes fell away from his king’s, down to his hands resting in his lap. He looked at the age spots on the back of them, the way his flesh looked looser and sagging.

  How did so much time pass? Wasn’t it only yesterday I was a young man learning the ways of the sword?

  He sighed and looked back up at Therrador. The man’s expression had neither softened with understanding nor become firm with anger. Instead, it showed the steady resolve of a man who’d made up his mind and wouldn’t be swayed. Sir Alton understood his king would make this happen with or without his help. As a knight and the commander of the king’s army, this left Sienhin but one choice. He stood and placed his right fist over his heart.

  “I’m with you, my Liege.”

  His voice didn’t hold the conviction he’d intended but, if Therrador noticed, he took no issue. Instead, he nodded, then embraced his old friend. Sir Alton hesitantly reached his arm around the king’s shoulders and slapped him on the back. After a few seconds, Therrador released him.

  “Come,” he said gesturing for Sir Alton to sit again. “We have much planning to do.”

  Chapter Eight

  The steady cadence of hoof beats kept Iana sleeping through most of the days, which meant she didn’t sleep much when they stopped for the night. The morning of their eighth day of riding, it took Emeline everything she could muster to drag herself from under the sleeping skins after Iana kept her awake through the night yet again while Lehgan slept like the dead. The bounce of the horse lulled her and Emeline fought to keep her head from lolling forward.

  “I need to rest,” she called to her husband riding a few lengths ahead. He didn’t react, so she assumed he hadn’t heard. It had taken three days ride for him to speak to her again, but things were slowly returning to normal between them.

  “Lehgan, I need to rest.”

  This time he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Already? It’s only been an hour since we set out.”

  “Yes. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  Lehgan slowed his pace, dropping back to ride beside his wife. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, turned her head toward him and looked into her eyes.

  “You do look tired. There’s a town an hour ahead where I planned to stop for supplies. Can you last that long?”

  She half-smiled at him and nodded. “I can.”

  “Good.”

  He took his hand from her chin and took hold of her horse’s bridle, then urged his own to increase the pace. Emeline held the reins tight and concentrated on keeping her seat as Iana snored gently against her chest.

  ***

  Emeline dozed in the saddle, an accomplishment she knew experienced horsemen did regularly, but something she’d never imagined herself doing. Not until her mount halted, the lack of movement jarring her awake, did her eyelids flutter open. A shock of panic grabbed her and she glanced down at the bundle held against her chest. Iana looked back up at her and cooed, the small sound settling her mother. Emeline smiled, touched her babe’s face, then raised her head to ask her husband why they’d stopped.

  The question never passed her lips as she saw the column of smoke rising from amidst the group of buildings ahead. It swirled and twisted skyward until its gray-blackness thinned and dispersed high above. The color and thickness of the smoke suggested it wasn’t made by a baker’s oven, a potter’s kiln, or a blacksmith’s forge. The smile Iana had put on Emeline’s lips faded.

  “Lehgan...?”

  Her husband raised his hand to silence her. He sat like that for a moment, arm raised, his other hand holding the reins tight, before whatever had gripped him loosened enough for him to spur his horse forward. Emeline’s steed, tethered to one side of Lehgan’s saddle as the pack mule was tethered to the other, followed.

  They moved slowly, the horses’ hooves scraping the dirt track leading into the town. It looked bigger than their own village of Kandan, but most towns were. They rode past a row of dwellings at the outskirts of the town with thatched roofs and walls sealed with clay, all supported by rough-hewn timbers. This could have been any town in the kingdom.

  It could be our village.

  At first, they saw no one. Emeline stretched her neck to peer through a door open a crack but saw nothing in the dim interior. They guided their horses between the huts and, as they neared the center of town and the source of the smoke, Emeline saw the first sign of violence.

  The hut’s door had been torn free and the beam beside the door splintered as though someone gained entry with an axe. Most of the hut’s contents lay in the doorway or on the ground outside the hut; there was no one inside. Emeline looked away and saw the wall of the house on her left had been charred black.

  “What happened here?” she asked.

  Lehgan didn’t answer. His gaze stayed straight ahead, his shoulders tight and rigid. Emeline spurred her horse to catch up to her husband and saw the grim expression on h
is face.

  “Lehgan?”

  She looked into his eyes, and at the set of his jaw, and realized the expression wasn’t one of intensity. His eyes appeared watery and he didn’t respond except by raising his hand to point farther down the street ahead of them. Emeline looked and saw a man seated in the doorway of a hut leaning noticeably to the right. Lehgan reined his hose up in front of the man.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he began, but his voice cracked. Lehgan cleared his throat and started again. “Excuse me. What happened here?”

  The man sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees; his long, unwashed hair hung across his face. His feet were bare and his breeches frayed at the bottom. He didn’t respond.

  “Sir?”

  A few more seconds passed before he raised his head. His eyes were wide and a little bit wild, like he’d had a fright and they didn’t return to normal; a trail of dried blood began in his hairline and ran the length of his face. Emeline instinctively covered Iana’s face with her hand. The man’s gaze flickered from Lehgan to Emeline and the look of fear in his eyes became wariness—the presence of a woman with the unarmored man must have convinced him they were no danger. He sniffed deep and spat in the dirt at their horses’ feet.

  “Kanosee.”

  The word left his mouth like he’d spit out a rotted chunk of meat.

  “Kanosee?” Lehgan repeated.

  “Aye.” The man nodded toward the center of town where the column of smoke rose skyward. “They did this.”

  Emeline followed his gaze and, for the first time since they entered the village, saw other people. An old woman peeked out of the doorway of a hut with a partially caved-in wall. The woman ducked back inside when she saw Emeline looking at her. Farther down the track, others began to emerge: two naked children streaked with dirt, a man walking with a pronounced limp, a woman who’s plain gray shift was torn and hanging down leaving her left breast exposed—she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  “When did this happen?” she asked.