The hump crested. Then it sank below the surface. Symon needn’t ask his men if they saw it. Their faint whispers and pause among them provided confirmation.
He smirked, knowing he shouldn’t relish in their fear. But he couldn’t help it. Judging by its size, the leviathan could not be much older than a hatchling. Yet even he had to admit that in the dark such a sight was unsettling, as the sleek, black body bobbed in and out of the water, slowly encircling their skiff, waiting.
Clack!
The wait ended. A lightning bolt struck the surface a stone’s throw from their stern.
The men scrambled from the rear of the skiff. The leviathan slapped its tail above as it dove to swim under their boat. All while Symon chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” Everitt insisted, hand on the pommel of his sword.
“It’s a baby,” Symon insisted. “Perhaps, what, three, four feet in length. Now the mother, phew, she probably grew to be a good thirty or forty feet. Not as large as a giant sperm whale or colossal squid, mind you, but a good size I would imagine. I wonder if she is near here . . .”
“Must we speak of all the creatures in these waters that can kill us?”
Symon quieted, holding out his palm to signal him relenting, even as his smirk remained. The idea of his Right Captain cowering should have alarmed him. However, it put him at ease. For since youth Everitt had hated lightning, believing in the superstitions surrounding the phenomenon which his nana had ingrained in him through lore and sayings. As a man, Everitt showed no hint of the boy who believed such nonsense, proving himself time and time again in battle or duty. That is until now when the combined threat – however imaginary – of lightning and open water shook the knees of his most trusted guard.
Symon, ever smitten, took a seat on the bench of the skiff. As in answer to his moment of rest, the first drops of a shower started.
“Lovely,” Everitt said, withdrawing his hand from his pommel to raise his hood.
“You should be relieved,” Symon insisted.
“Relieved? It’s raining!”
“Hardly. On our island, this is a sprinkle. Nay, a drizzle.”
“Well, then, the lightning . . .”
Symon raised a brow. “You forget your lessons?”
“Of?”
“Of Ibian weather. The mage gave us a briefing, in case we encountered the temperamental nature of our hosts. Lightning and rain never mix in this part of the world, for whatever reason Mar cooked up. Storms pause – perhaps so the angels can ready their bolts – sparks ensue. Then the rain – usually a mild one – follows.”
“And that’s it?”
“No. The pattern repeats itself. Rainfall, lightning, rainfall, til the storm passes.”
Everitt scowled. “Mar, I hate this country. Such idiocy, madness, even with their weather. I can’t wait to be rid of this place.”
Symon cocked his head, agreeing – and grinning.
Suddenly, the scared boy Symon had mocked vanished.
“Your Majesty,” Everitt growled, the soldier within rising. “Duck down. Lower your head. Just in case.”
Symon obliged, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Onshore, not more than a few hundred feet from their position waited a line of longbowmen. While none had drawn bowstrings, their quivers lay empty. The fletching of upright arrows – their heads buried in the sand before the archers – caught the brilliance from the nearby braziers which had just been lit. Ominous, none of the longbowmen moved, even as their shadows flurried from the breeze-fanned flames of the beach fires.
“Your command?” Everitt asked Symon.
“We land at the beach, as intended. But to be safe, offer the cross of your sword.”
Everitt frowned yet did as directed. He stepped to the bow of the vessel. Undoing his belt, he raised his sheathed sword before him, its tip pointed down.
If the archers took notice, they certainly made no motion to confirm.
“Row faster,” Symon commanded.
“James, you serious?”
“I am.”
Everitt extended a hand to the railing of the boat as the rowers quickened their pace.
“Quicker.”
The sailors hastened. By then, the waves approaching the beach began to crest, pushing the skiff ever forward.
The first line of waves crashed into their stern with a mighty thud, sending the bow down.
“Row hard. We have to stay ahead of the next break.”
“James, our men know how to land on a beachhead.”
“This one’s different.”
As the next wave rose behind them, abruptly, they stopped.
“Row, row, row!” Symon yelled.
The sailors obliged, instilling their fury into their oars. The wave, uncaring of their fear, arched its long head above.
“Hang on!”
The, whatever had held them in place relented, allowing their boat to float just ahead of the crashing whitewater. The foam splashed the men who, while relieved, did nothing to slow their pace. A few minor wave breaks later, the skiff slid onto the sand.
Symon jettisoned onto the beach, as Everitt hastened to his side. He marched toward the line, which remained in position.
“Very well,” Symon called, “Which one of you bastards issued the command?”
Silence met his question. A moment later, the last figure of the line – just out of the light of the braziers – stepped back and answered him.
“Pray tell, what command?”
Symon perked, snapping his head in the direction of the shadowed speaker.
“The command not to warn us of the dangers landing on this beach.”
“But you knew the dangers.”
“Barely. From the tales my father told, which I recalled at the last minute.”
“Then the fault is yours.”
“You’re our host. You have a responsibility to see after our safety.”
“We care for guests, not for adversaries. I haven’t decided which one you are.”
The speaker, having circled behind the bowmen, flicked his fingers. As if able to see his gesture, the archers swooped down, nocking their arrows as they drew their bows.
Symon grit his teeth. “I would expect better from even you, Xain.”
“Xain? Why, he’s not here.”
“Then which Garsea are you?”
Symon kept in stride with the small man, whose gait turned out to be remarkably quick for one with such short legs. Then again, everything about the Badger of Arinn seemed out of sorts.
His less-than-gracious host had presented him with two options on the beach: Return to his galleon or come with him. As Symon had no intention of rowing back with a line of archers to their rear, he elected the latter option, albeit with a sharp glare from Everitt in protest.
The Badger skipped ahead a beat as they came upon a crossroads. He peered around the corner to his right before glancing to his left, observant as any vanguard, even though his men had scouted the passage before them.
“I thought you owned these streets?” Symon prodded, recalling the various tales of the Duke’s maliciousness.
“Oh, I do,” Duke Vicentius replied, “in the same way a butcher owns a mutt. Sure, a few scraps of meat buy the beast’s favor, perhaps its loyalty. Yet never assume you control the dog, which will bite you lest it forgets the hand which feeds it. And believe, Your Majesty, animals do forget.”
The Duke eyed a beggar, asleep at a stoop close by, as he finished. He tilted his head toward the man. One of his henchmen – who had fanned out in a circlet upon their departure from the beach, to provide a ring of guards as they strode – approached the man with blade drawn. Symon paused.
“A tad unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“It will serve as a warning to those who dare to follow us.”
“I must insist.” Symon moved his hand to the pommel of his sword. The Badger’s men – be they Realeza in disguise or hired hands, Symon could not tell – unsheathed their swords. Everitt and the Marlish under his command, following behind Symon, did likewise.
Vicentius rolled his eyes, less out of threat than annoyance. “Fine, Your Illustriousness. Far be it from me to try to keep a royal meeting a secret.” He flicked a finger towards his man, who nodded and halted his approach to the beggar, though he kept his blade out.
The pair moved on up the path, which wound through the lesser parts of Arinn bordering its harbor. In the distance, voices from taverns and brothels echoed, while in their immediate vicinity, a dead quiet met them. The shuttered windows, the unlit buildings, the streets absent of even feral creatures – Symon knew the void of the living to be the work of His Grace.
“Are the streets always so peaceful?” Symon asked hesitantly, dreading the answer. I must ask something if only to size up this one.
“The King issued a curfew. He urged his subjects to practice restraint in their nightly endeavors. I, for one, agree with his edict. I would go so far as to say it’s long overdue.”
“Oh? Has Arinn suffered from crime as of late?”
“If it’s lawlessness of which you speak, then, no. In honesty, Arinn is one of the safest cities on the continent. Sure, we have a few misdemeanors here and there. Even the occasional stabbing or murder. Yet when one considers the expanse of our city and all the inhabitants within, the perpetrators of such violations account for nothing more than a sliver of our peoples.”
Symon nodded, the thick accent from the Duke ringing in his ears like a song which had just ended. Though in the latter case, Symon had never wished for his ears to be cut from his head.
“So why, you may muse, have I longed for a curfew?” the Duke went on, oblivious – or not caring – of Symon’s disinterest. “I could give you a thousand and one reasons. All with merit, I assure you. However, tonight I offer one. The Church of Mar.”
Symon paused. “The Church?”
“So, you were listening.”
“What does our religion have to do with the safety of Arinn? With the threats against the King?”
The Badger – with his crooked nose, small chin, and greasy skin – bared his teeth. Never had Symon seen a set so white, so immaculate, without a stain. His mouth settled into a smile, accompanied by a stare so unnerving Symon struggled not to look away.
“My dear king,” Vicentius began, “our faith has everything to do with, well, everything. It propels our people to toil through their miserable lives, to be dutiful to a Throne that barely acknowledges their existence, all in the belief their humble, meaningless efforts will lead to eternal salvation. It unites our many barons who, without a deeper cause, would continuously battle one another.
“More importantly . . . It gives us a chance to exalt ourselves. For if we have faith and our enemies do not, who is always in the right?”
Symon breathed. He had half a mind to stab the Duke – or even himself – just to stop the talk from assaulting his ears.
“No words, Your Majesty?” the Badger asked.
“What does any of what you said have to do with the curfew?”
“A man who requires a more direct line of logic, I see. I like that. My uncle was once such a man, though that was such a long time ago, when he was in swaddling clothes . . . Oh, look at me going on and on without providing you with closure. Forgive me, Your Majesty. It has been far too long since I’ve spoken to a foreign dignitary, much less a sovereign as illustrious as yourself. Yes, the curfew. Well, setting boundaries instills a sense of discipline on a kingdom’s subjects, as my uncle has so often concluded. And what better measure of discipline – or really, of allegiance, loyalty, and the like – than a curfew? Those who obey respect the rule of Kin Garsea. The others found roaming the street, drunk or otherwise, in clear violation of a most basic edict, do not. Such an easy way to distinguish your foes from your allies when it comes to analyzing a kingdom’s subjects, wouldn’t you say?”
Before Symon had a chance to consider any part of the Duke’s rants, the Badger perked. “Look at that; we’re here. Pardon, Your Majesty. I insist on checking with that guard up ahead, the one disguised as a sawyer, to ensure we are clear to proceed. One moment.”
As Vicentius slipped away to have a word with the man, Everitt sauntered up to Symon’s right. His eyes never left the Ibians around them, who remained in a ring around Symon and his Marlish detail.
“I swear, James,” Everitt whispered, “if this continues, I’ll defy my duty and kill the man if only to shut him up.”
“You’d start a war with my wife’s kin for a moment’s peace?”
“Dear Mar, yes.”
“Good man,” Symon smirked. “Still, if you could find it within yourself to hold off, I’d be obliged.”
“You nearly ask too much.”
“Aye. But the worst of this mission is far from over. Something tells me we’ll be tried further before the night is done.”
“I hate this place, James.” Everitt scanned the outlines of the buildings which stood sentry to their wait, seemingly hollow figures casting shadows both real and imagined. “So much . . .”
“I know.”
The Duke whistled, jolting the two from their conversation. He waved them forward. Symon and Everitt strode up the cobblestone path leading up to the Badger.
“He’s waiting.” Vicentius nodded to the building looming over them.
“A sawmill?” Everitt sniffed.
“I suppose you were expecting a grand hall for our secret meeting?”
The Badger chuckled, as did some of his men. He moved from Symon and his Right Captain, not waiting for the Marlishmen to enter.
“Like I said –”
“Your duty, Sir Everitt.”
Everitt set his jaw, fighting to say more, then nodded.
Inside, the mill teemed with life. Workers carried planks and rounds of freshly-cut wood from roller conveyors. Alongside them, woodworkers labored at benches and tables with crosscut log saws and panel saws in hand, sawdust rising from their every pull and push of their blades. Most worked in pairs save for one laborer in the back, who took to his piece of lumber with the ease of a master artisan.
“Uncle!” Duke Vicentius shouted over the clamor of the mill, being the one closest to him.
King Felix looked up from his bench, revealing the beads of perspiration on his brow. He waved the lot of them toward his workspace as he removed his leather apron, revealing the sweat-stained shirt underneath.
“Nephew,” Felix acknowledged as he cast his apron on the bench. “King Jameson,” he added, looking toward Symon.
“Your Majesty.” Symon bowed his head.
King Felix waved for him to lift his head. In the brief spell when Symon had glanced down, the King had managed to swipe a block of wood from his bench. Taking a carving knife from his pocket, he began to whittle. “I learned the details of your visit to our close friend and ally, the Grand Duke of Seylonna.”
“Yes. ‘Tis tragic what occurred.”
“Nonsense. I’m glad to be rid of him.”
“Your Majesty?”
“The old man who held that dukedom had been descending into madness for some time. He kept on sending his men on wild outings, claiming that foreigners were raiding his lands and harassing his peoples. Our agents – some of which were his own spies who bent to the Ibian throne – revealed the truth: the reported provocations came from his men-at-arms, not from anyone else.”
“I suspect that’s why his son took the reins. Unfortunately, he too perished.”
“Bah!” He flicked a wood shaving from his carving. “Replacing a senile old man with a runt proved little better. I saw His Grace, Ienello of Seylonna, only once in my court. A sad little man, and not a pinch more. With such a bloodline, it’s no wonder that kin fell into ruin. I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Vicentius snickered. The Realeza within earshot smirked.
“So the attack,” Symon added. “It doesn’t worry you?”
“I’ve already sent emissaries to those kingdoms bordering the Seylonna . . . Lower Volkmar, Tosily, Belgarda . . .”
The mention of each name sent a shudder through Symon. His breath deepened. His eyes narrowed. He fought the urge to close his fists. All such gestures unfolded with subtlety, as he made a dedicated effort to maintain his composure. Yet failing, Felix noticed, his stare firmly planted on Symon.
“You disapprove?”
“You know my kin has never trusted the Family of the Fox, not to mention their cozy neighbors.”
“I never said I trusted them either.”
“And still you dismiss the notion they had anything to do with the attack on Castle Seylonna.”
“As your people say, ‘Aye.’”
“Then, with no fear of those who border you, why all the secrecy? The longbowmen on the beach? The . . .” Symon glanced at Duke Vicentius. The Badger smiled, flashing his ivories. “. . . other precautions?”
Felix dug the point of his knife into his carving. Perhaps to create an eye? A mouth? “I know it seems strange. The current plight we’re facing. An attack on the border. Then before that, the fire to your camp, followed by the collapse of one of my towers. In the face of everything, you would expect differently of a man such as me, wouldn’t you?”
The King paused, waiting for Symon to answer.
“Any man would,” Symon offered.
“I’m not asking about any man. I’m asking you. From one monarch to another, what would you do?”
“What my people would expect. Secure the capital. Call up the reserves. Station my troops at all major fortifications and send scouts to gather intelligence from all corners of the kingdom. That is what I would do.”
“A soldier at heart. Like your father.”
“And you disapprove?”
“I . . . disagree with such a predictable approach.”
“Why?”
Felix paused. “Leave us.”
The Duke of Tehonne, who had allowed himself to recline on a stack of wood pillars, perked. “Uncle?”
“Go on.”
Vicentius rose to his feet, shrinking after the Realeza and the Marlishmen who returned from whence they came. Everitt retreated just as warily, lingering long enough for him to spot a raised hand from Symon, a command as strong as any. With their departure, Felix put his carving before his lips, blowing away the shavings. The fluttered in the air, like so much sawdust, lingering.
“Your father, he was an honest man?”
“Aye.”
“Same as you?”
“Better.”
Felix grunted. “What did he think of me?”
“Your Majesty, he spoke highly –”
“Lies!”
Felix reddened. The knife in his hand stuck end-first into his carving.
“What . . . did . . . he think . . . of me?”
“He believed you to be a runt.”
Felix stared ahead at Symon, unflinching. “And?”
“Inept at battle. Strategy, commanding, all well and good. But amid the chaos of fighting, on the front lines, he thought you lacked the capacity to lead.”
“He said that?”
“In those very words . . . no. In bits and pieces, he would recollect on the Century War. He would never comment on any commander or king in whole. His opinions, he shared them in small doses.”
“Allowing you to read between the lines, gather his sense on all regal matters.”
“My father was a man of few words.”
“Wise. Not a bad way to rule.” Felix laid his carving knife on his workbench. “You question my actions, King Jameson?”
“Pardon?”
“No need to deny it. Not here, with us alone.”
“I . . . wonder a great deal about many things I’ve seen in the land. Including your rule, yes.”
“Things you discuss with your court.”
“Yes.”
Felix sighed. “The attack on the tower, the night of your wedding. I confess: it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Nor was the assault on Grand Duke Ienello and Castle Seylonna. Tensions have been brewing at home and abroad, which affect all of Ibia. Do you remember what I told you the night of your coronation?”
Damn it to hell! Symon did recall Dawkin, who served as Jameson that fateful night, speaking of his exchange with King Felix. But even with dose after dose of memory tea, Symon could not retain the entirety of what had happened – it was too bloody much!
“No matter,” King Felix continued, noting Symon’s pause. “‘Twas a long day for you, I’m sure. The mention I refer to was when I spoke of your promise to my daughter. Unofficial at that time though it was, I nonetheless saw the event on the horizon, and with you finally crowned, I made sure to pull you aside to address the matter – king to king.”
“It’s starting to come back to me,” Symon offered, feigning familiarity with Felix’s memory.
“Within the company of our confidants, I approached you. I extended my congratulations and well wishes for your reign as any monarch – whether ally or foe – would do. Then, with the members of our court losing interest in our pleasantries, side conversations broke off, allowing us to make idle talk until we finally shifted away from the ears of our courts onto the balcony.”
Symon strained into the recesses of his consciousness, the faintest hints of the moment coming together as Dawkin’s recollection of the coronation melded with Felix’s words.
“In our solitary discussion, I gave you one piece of advice. One bit of counsel to remember, should you ever find yourself with enemies aplenty, especially after uniting with my kin by marriage. Sorry to say, my attempt at guidance turned out to be a fleeting effort, lost on a freshly-minted sovereign.” Felix darkened, the creases of his eyes deepening as his eyes narrowed, transforming his façade from a mask of disappointment to one of indignation. The slight of having forgotten his advisement would not easily be forgotten – nor forgiven.
Damn it, you fool! Symon chastised himself. What did he say? Remember, you brute. Remember!
Then, it dawned on him. A moment too late. For as he opened his mouth to utter, Felix continued.
“Never be predictable.”
“As, yes. I recall –”
“Liar! You forgot. Not surprisingly. I knew your father to be the same way when he first took the throne. Edict after edict he issued, one decree after another, all easy to foretell, as though he had them written out for him years beforehand. Word of his rule reached my court by couriers, and in my youth, I relished in how I could guess at your father’s directives before I received them. Even on the front, he remained as such, proving steadfast in his resolve as all the world shifted and pivoted around him.
“Perhaps his course saved his reign in those critical first years. I knew monarchs who grew too reactive upon transitioning from their princehood, so that their foolishness stained their rule, preventing any duke or baron from ever considering them seriously. Whatever his mindset, your father wised up as they say, his commands not always what was to be expected. Still, it proved too little, as you witnessed with not one but two attempts on his life –”
Symon winced. The last part struck a nerve. And Felix knew it.
“See. Predictable.” He pointed at Symon.
Symon swallowed. “So, this is why we’re here? In a sawmill instead of your Throne Room? To err on the side of caution, throw off our enemy’s assumptions?”
“Precisely. Though I’ve grown too accustomed to using this location as a front for my clandestine meetings. You see my favorite workbench there. Along with my apron. And carving knife.” He picked up the blade from the bench. With a flick of his wrist, he flung it over a stack of lumber. It clanged on the floor beyond Symon’s line of sight. “My preference for this place has become a liability. After our meeting, I’ll instruct my nephew to burn the whole of it to the ground. I’ll miss this place.” Felix turned his back to Symon to take in his surroundings, to gaze upon the rafters and breathe in the sawdust.
“Your Majesty . . .”
Felix looked to Symon.
“What would you have me do? Become unpredictable? Brazen? Is that it?”
“You haven’t been picking up on my nuances, have you?”
“Regretfully, not.”
“You needn’t act irrationally nor without reason. You shouldn’t act without counsel nor reflection. I just want you – for the sake of your kin, as well as my daughter – to avoid, shall we say, patterns.”
“Patterns?”
“Patterns. Schedules. Agendas. Models of behavior and certain orders of thought, one any idiot can guess at without having met you, much like how you’ve behaved with my daughter following your marriage. Your retreat to Manor deila Krestta Deorro following the wedding – and attack on the castle – was unexpected, perhaps inconsiderate to the kin of the soldiers and barons lost in the fire. But it showed you to be capable of change so early in your reign, unlike your father and many others. And then you sent her off, ahead of you, to upper Ibia. Mayhaps a stroke of genius, an unforeseen decision, for any other newlywed would be keeping his wife close in times such as these.”
“So . . . you approve.”
“Of how you’ve moved to protect my daughter, yes. Unorthodox though your actions may be, even questionable. But upon review, understandable.”
“And my other decisions? As monarch?”
Felix took a step forward. His gesture did little to close the gap between them, for several paces still separated them. It nonetheless established an increase in their proximity, such that Symon could not look away. The intensity of Felix’s gaze . . . Symon wanted to turn, for the moment felt akin to being pierced by a red-hot iron poker.
Resisting the urge to move, Symon planted his feet.
“Need improvement, I’d say,” Felix continued. “From the time of day you hold court with your barons and ministers to when you supper. All those activities would be fine in normal circumstances. These days following your union with my daughter have been anything but. For certain, your court, along with your Right Captain and your guards, will insist on set times for all your duties, arguing they need to know your schedule so they can know when and where to find you. And you should concede to many of their demands. Just not all of them. Change at will. Without warning. Your reign depends on it.”
Beyond, a dog barked. Distant and unthreatening. Felix tilted his head toward the sound, his intensity broken.
“Alas, I haven’t heeded my own advice. I’ve droned on too long, as any man would expect of me.” Felix whistled. From the entrance beyond and the hidden corners of every woodpile, his Realeza emerged, with the Badger striding in with them. Everitt and the Marlish guard followed, a clip behind their movements. Though not off their guard, they seemed rushed, the small distinction in timing between his men and Felix’s was not lost on Symon.
Nor Felix.
He offered no wink or grin at the moment of realization, one that bonded them to a mutual understanding of their conversation. Instead, he turned as his retinue closed in, marching toward the rear of the building.
“You have a minute before a fire engulfs the whole of this place. Leave now. Don’t look back,” Felix said, his back to Symon.
Symon turned to his men, waving them toward the front.
“Your Majesty.”
Symon looked over his shoulder. Felix had ducked out of sight, as had his Realeza. Only the Badger had fallen back.
“Compliments of my uncle.”
The Badger tossed an item to Symon. He threw it too high. Symon managed to snatch it from the air, to prevent it from sailing overhead.
In his hand, he held the King’s carving. A squat rendering of a soldier, complete with helm, sword, and shield. Dug deep into the face of the shield lay the sigil of Marland, of his manor: the four-pointed compass.
“Careful you don’t let it burn,” the Badger muttered of the carving as he dashed through the pilings after his uncle.
Symon closed his fist around the soldier. “I won’t.”411Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ5jn6rlvxF
