“Your Majesty, her fever hasn’t returned. She remains committed.”
As I knew she would. “Many thanks to you, Mage.”
Wystan bowed his head. “I live to serve, My King.”
The Royal Mage withdrew. Gerry watched him stroll away. My King. The title never stimulated his sensibilities when used in public, such as in Court or when announced in a procession. In private, the moniker carried a heavier weight, stirring Gerry’s consideration. Even more than a year after the coronation, Gerry had to fight the urge to pivot and search for his father.
King Jameson. King Geremias.
Gerry shook off the notion. He nodded to the Voiceless flanking the doorway as he entered.
Lady Celia retreated from Taresa’s bedpost upon seeing His Majesty. Gerry waited for the handmaiden to close the door as she exited before he took a seat beside her. As he did, Taresa twisted onto her back, her eyes shut.
“James,” she uttered.
“I’m sorry. Did my voice carry from the door?”
“Your smell. I can pick you out from afar, my dear.”
“A pleasant one I have. I hope.”
“Most of the time.”
Gerry cracked a smile. Taresa’s eyelids fluttered open.
“What time is it?”
“You needn’t worry about that. We’ll leave when you are able. Unless you prefer to stay –”
“Don’t you dare. I already spent too much time away from you, with my father sending you off on that ridiculous diplomatic mission.”
She raised herself on her elbows even as Gerry shushed her to stay in bed.
“Don’t excite yourself,” he chided. “You need to rest. You have to stay calm.”
“I’m always calm,” Taresa replied curtly, perhaps in response to Gerry, mayhaps because of something else.
“Very well.”
“I only want us,” her hand gravitated to her abdomen, “to be close to you.”
Gerry sighed. At the last Court’s last session, some of the bishops and barons had raised issue with the Queen traveling to the countryside in her condition. “A fortress is no place for a lady expecting.”
That comment provoked a scowl. “King Jameson, we Ibian women are not the feeble maidens of your island. We are iron-willed strongholds, especially when with child. If you believe a minor carriage ride and a dirt road will deter me from spending time from my husband, then you don’t know me at all.”
Well, I tried. “As you wish, My Queen.”
Only half an hour passed before Taresa’s ladies-in-waiting had the Queen ready. In that time, Gerry busied himself by inspecting the guards and sentries on the castle ramparts, before directing his efforts to the soldiers who lined the road leading out of the grounds. He had only minutes to examine the latter before Sir Everitt rode to his side.
“My King. Her Majesty is waiting.”
“And the royal carriage?”
“I just came from the coach house. I personally went through every axle, wheel, and strap. Thrice. There is no finer conveyance in the country for Queen Taresa.”
“Good.”
“A bit heavy-handed with this trip, aren’t we?” Everitt looked to the men-at-arms standing at attention on either side of the road.
His Right Captain was hardly wrong. After Dawkin had announced the venue of the Conclave half a fortnight earlier, the barons in attendance responded with protests and suggestions aplenty. Once again, Sir Everitt had to clear the War Hall. What is more, Dawkin had been so bold as to demand a personal audience with each lord to instill the full weight of his edict and the consequences for anyone – be it commoner or baron – who dared to question his authority. The move worked, with the lords in attendance conceding to King Jameson’s choice for the location and date of the next Conclave. But in the process, the stakes had been raised. In every day following Dawkin’s command, he and his brothers made sure they displayed their authority.
Today proved no exception. Gerry glanced around him. The polished helms of his men held spheres of reflected sunlight. Their crisp blue capes flapped in the subtle breeze, never losing the lines of their ironed cloth, each one a wave in the sea of soldiers. Their freshly-oiled boots and scabbards exuded the scent of leather, as though they stood in a tannery.
“The details matter,” Gerry quipped. “Nothing is gained by relenting our perfectionism now.”
“Aye,” Everitt conceded, smirking.
“What?”
“I see you took what I said in your library to heart. Well done, James.”
“See to my queen, Sir Everitt.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Satisfied with his king – and seemingly himself – his Right Captain clicked his heels into his steed and rode back to the bailey.
Gerry trailed back at his leisure, stopping every few paces to search the soldiers for flaws in their appearance. He found none. He arrived at the royal carriage satisfied, just as Taresa stepped into the open air of the yard with her flock of attendants.
“Husband, you almost kept me waiting,” Taresa chided.
“Never, my lady.” Gerry dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby servant. He took his wife by the hand as Everitt dismissed the coachman to hold the carriage door open for them.
“A last-minute fourth inspection?” Gerry asked.
“Of course,” Everitt said.
“It met with your satisfaction?” Taresa inquired.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Everitt looked at Gerry. “At your word, we leave.”
Gerry took his seat next to Taresa. Through the open door of the carriage, he scanned the grounds one last time. He glimpsed blue capes, watchful attendants, and the caravan of wagons and carts to accompany their majesties on their journey. All sights of castle life he had known his entire life. Not a banner, cart, nor personage stood out of place, though the laughter in the yard did pique his interest.
“Ah, the toys,” Taresa said, her sights following Gerry’s. Across the royal carriage, two giggling children bearing paddles sidestepped as they hit a rubber ball between them.
“Just how many did your retinue give away? And to whom?” Gerry asked.
“Oh, my attendants passed out gifts to all the servants’ children.”
“Oh, how thoughtful.”
“Then they took all the rest into the city, where they distributed them to every boy and girl in view.”
“Taresa, I should say, that is . . .”
“What?”
“Well . . .” Gerry grasped at a spare thought. What would Dawkin say? “Some parents may object, as idle play may distract the children from their labors. I assume some of those citizens will find their way to my court. And then there are the guilds, those who make toys for sale within Arcporte and beyond. I imagine they wield considerable influence.”
Taresa furrowed her brow. Gerry raised his, anticipating a backlash. Suddenly, his wife burst out laughing.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, her high-pitched words punctuated by chuckles.
“Is it?”
“I brought those toys for the specific purpose of securing favor. And you admonish me?”
“I didn’t mean –”
“You sound just like my father.”
“I daresay –”
“It’s a compliment, James. He’s a reasonable man, much like you. The truth is, the giving of gifts when two royals marry is an Ibian tradition. It signals the coming of a grand gift – that of an heir – for the subjects to welcome.”
“Oh.”
Taresa took Gerry’s hand in hers. She placed his on her abdomen.
“In our case, a present well on its way.”
Gerry smiled. He peaked out the window again to watch as the two children chased their ball from the yard into the halls of the corridor.
Castle life. Everything in its place. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Gerry, fighting the darkness within, leaned to the opposite window. “We depart,” he commanded.
Sir Everitt bowed. He needed only to step from the carriage window for his men to note his cue. They scurried down the caravan, taking their places on carriage perches or in saddles, readying to depart.
Taresa offered a wave to her attendants, oblivious to the missing detail her husband sought. An extra Voiceless amongst the guards. A servant sauntering through the stables. Or an apprentice meandering the yard in search of the master he didn’t have. The mark of a familiar gait. A man of a certain height. In disguise. Hidden. Yet familiar.
No sign of his brothers. Anywhere.
Terran had been tense in the days leading to his current ascension. Once Symon managed to shake off the potion Dawkin had slipped him, he roared with rage, threatening to cut the limbs from the brother who betrayed him. With Dawkin already above at the time, it fell to Ely and Gerry – along with every Voiceless in range of their shouting – to subdue their strongest sibling. Having no choice, the two brothers confined Symon to his room.
Dawkin, hearing of Symon’s fit, descended early, bringing news not only of the upcoming Conclave but of Taresa’s fever as well. The totality of events created a conundrum. Dawkin having just served his rotation – in deceit, no less – and Symon in no manner to control his temper left only Ely and Gerry fit to ascend next. While Ely stood next in line to serve, the details of Taresa’s illness turned his stomach, leaving Gerry to rise sooner than anticipated.
The placement, in actuality, did nothing to disturb Gerry. In any other circumstance of his princehood, the thought of ascending out of rotation would have stirred his bowels and caused headaches without end. Instead, a calm overtook him, a sensibility which only persisted when he saw her first upon his ascension. He visited her straightaway to discover her forehead beaded with sweat and her body consumed by fever. While the Royal Mage had already directed the attendants to her needs, Gerry still barked orders to have her linens changed and her limbs massaged. He stayed by her side through it all and into the night, until going to Court in the morning to conduct regal affairs.
The totality of his experience invigorated him. Never before had such a sense of purpose been instilled in him. Knowing it had come from within, of his own accord – not because his brothers decided, his grandfather urged, or the barons insisted – stoked his energy all the more.
Still . . . With the absence of his brethren, he remained incomplete.
“Dear,” Taresa said. Gerry shifted his sights from the grounds to his wife. With her eyes pressed shut, she squeezed his hand. “Tell me a story.”
“A story?”
“When we last spoke, the night before last, your attendant had some maps and scrolls with him. You told me you sought a place with meaning for the Conclave, and in your search, you found some places with stories all their own. Tell me one. About where we’re going.”
Gerry studied her face. The sunlight from the window painted a diagonal streak of cream across the lower half of her face, while the top half held a slightly darker, though no less stunning, version of her beauty. Eyes closed, draped in shadow, she rested in the comfort of his hand’s embrace, her fingers delving further into his.
“Please,” she uttered.
“As you wish.” Gerry cleared his throat. “My father often spoke of the Sayonn Days, when kin and har-kin roamed the island, moving with the seasons to gather and fish. The peoples fashioned their lives on simple principles, with the blessings of Mar himself so abundant they never stood in want.
“That is not to say their lives were perfect. When tempers flared between barons or kings, the threat of war loomed then as now. Even as nomads, they knew to build safe havens for those times. Metallurgy and masonry had not yet developed, so what did our Marlish ancestors do? Using their tools of wood and stone, they constructed earthen fortresses, predecessors to our castles.
“Most were but hillocks or mounds fashioned with burrows for foodstuffs and supplies to serve an army during a siege or battle. A chosen few rose to prominence, becoming the inspiration for legends in which faeries found homes in the rafters of some while behemoths squatted in the larger ones left abandoned between conflicts.
“In any case, while the myths and stories arising from such garrisons survived, sadly, most of the structures did not. The rains of centuries ate away at their heights, the wind leveling their rises. Some went on to serve as the foundations for the castles of today, stacked by rock and mortar. Only a handful survive in earnest, including the persistent structure of Glic Anglisk Castle, a mighty fortress of packed dirt and petrified wood built by the founders of our capital . . . Dear?”
The rise of her snoring answered his query. He chuckled, left to wonder where in his blathering he had lost her to slumber.
A gentle tap on the door diverted his amusement. Gerry drew the curtain over the window to spot Everitt riding atop his destrier outside.
“Thought you should know.” His Right Captain pointed ahead.
Gerry yanked the curtain back. He peered forward. A line of blue-draped soldiers separated the row of carriages from the common folk. Unalarmed by the show of force, the citizenry cheered, their palms waving and fists rising. At first glance of the uproarious crowd, Gerry nearly sought to question his Right Captain.
Then he saw.
The crook of a staff. Not an unusual sight in and of itself. Its difference stood as one of sheen and tone, with the gleam of the white, polished wood catching Gerry’s eye. A ceremonial mitre accompanied the crook, its gold and scarlet trim an oddity amongst the surrounding swell of pulsating hands.
“Slow,” Gerry commanded.
“Are you certain?” Everitt asked.
“Aye.”
Everitt clipped his heels to ride up to the royal coachman. The driver shrugged before tightening his grip on the reins. The horses before him neighed as they curbed their gait.
With the reduced speed, every stone and divot in the road bounced the carriage – and those it carried – a little higher. Gerry doubted the image of him hopping within his transport would impress the bishop. Still, he issued no order to adjust its speed. The carriage clambered ahead.
Ahead, a red ball no larger than a fist bounced into the road. A boy darted after the toy, between a small opening amongst the soldiers.
The sandy-haired lad reached his ball right in front of the first line of royal draft horses. The steeds flailed and neighed, coming to an abrupt stop as a soldier rushed to scoop up the boy from the road.
The momentum lurched Taresa forward. Gerry caught her in his arms as she awoke, startled.
“There, there,” he said, setting her back into place.
“James.”
Taresa looked past him, her complexion drained. Gerry shifted in his seat, following her lead.
The carriage rested before the High Bishop. As though on cue, the commoners before Perceval parted. He stood immaculate in his crisp white robe, overlaid with a sash of gold and scarlet to match his mitre. For all the beauty of his garb, the austerity of his posture appeared – well, off. Gerry could not place it until he spotted a nearby peasant glance down at the High Bishop’s feet, then his own.
The bottom trim of his robe flowed with a breeze, revealing feet blistered and caked with grime.
Gerry tilted his eyes up. Yes, it became clearer now. Perceval held his staff more firmly than one ought, leaning on the pole for support. He shifted his feet with subtle grace, though with each turn or shift of his weight, he held back a grimace.
His eyes told of it all. The pain. The humility accompanying his formality. The depth of his faith prompting him to such lengths. Along with the rage. The rage of having been betrayed by the Throne.
Perceval pursed his lips. Then they parted.
“Sanctuary.”
A solitary word. It carried a chill that reverberated down the whole of Gerry. For it bespoke of a power no other utterance could have held.
Dawkin, Gerry said to himself. Do you have any idea what you have done?
Gerry had heard the recitation of events during a personal truth session with Dawkin. The magistrates had stumbled upon the cache of explosives the Lost Souls tried to smuggle into Arcporte. A fight ensued, resulting in a few explosions from an incendiary substance. A handful of Lost Souls managed to escape, to find their way into Mar-by-the-Sea Cathedral. There, they fell to their knees to plead to the High Bishop for sanctuary, which according to the doctrines of the Church, he was honor-bound to grant. A decree noting the act of sanctuary was then nailed to the door of the Cathedral, in accordance with custom.
Dawkin, acting through their grandfather, would have none of it. He ordered the Cathedral stormed in the middle of the night, where the soldiers rounded up the Lost Souls under its roof and placed them under arrest.
After hearing of the scandal Dawkin ignited, Gerry went on to endure many more earfuls from Court, from merchants enraged at the Lost Souls to apologetic barons whose sons had joined the controversial movement.
Absent from the litany of accounts were those from the Church of Mar.
No bishops, high or low, came to Court. Nor did any clergy attend the daily masses scheduled in the King’s chapel. No scrolls or letters arrived bearing the seal of the Church. All correspondence vanished, thereby crystallizing the Church’s unspoken message:
The sacred covenant of sanctuary had been violated.
While Dawkin’s disapproval of religion had been tolerated over the years, with his usual jabs at their garb or criticisms of their edicts, Gerry never believed he would act on them.
You fool! The Throne is now an enemy of the Church.
The butt of Perceval’s staff clapped the ground. As if commanding the air itself, the surrounding noise dissipated. For any who had missed the High Bishop’s first announcement, there was no mistaking his last.
“Sanctuary.”
His staff struck the cobblestone again. Perceval said nothing. Yet with the thump, a man of the cloth emerged from the mass, to take position by His Eminence.
“Sanctuary,” said the lowly cleric.
Clack!
Another, this time a monk, came upon Perceval’s left flank.
“Sanctuary.”
The staff beat the stone without haste. One by one, more men of the Church emerged. They spoke the same word with the same inflection, same tone, never tinged with anger nor hate nor any emotion. Their phrase always came out the same. Clear. Cold. Unmistakable.
Through the gathering, Perceval never broke sight with the King. His dark brown eyes held true, piercing the expanse between them, burrowing themselves into Gerry’s permanent memory.
On the periphery of Gerry’s vision, the kingdom waited. Peasants and merchants stared, partly in disbelief, while also afraid of what would come next. Everitt, having rounded the carriage on his mount, lingered for Gerry’s directive, his men in view also expecting.
Then a hand, both soft and comforting, rested on his shoulder—Taresa’s.
Gerry breathed. He lifted his hand out the window, never breaking his stare with the High Bishop. He pointed forward to flick his index finger.
Everitt lifted his head high. “Move out!”
The coachman snapped his reins. The wheels clapped over the cobblestone once more.
Gerry shot a look back at the High Bishop. The crook of his staff rose, then fell. Although Gerry could hear nothing beyond the carriage wheels, he knew the sound would beckon forth another. A man of faith. One with soiled feet. An unshakeable force.
“Thank you,” he said.
He stared at Perceval for as long as he stayed in view. And even beyond that. Taresa’s hand fell from his shoulder as she settled back into her seat. Within moments, her snoring resumed.
The clatter of hooves trotting joined Gerry’s carriage. Everitt appeared alongside his window.
“That was ill-timed.”
“You have a way with words, you know that?”
“May I suggest a detour?”
“We have a schedule to keep, don’t we?”
“Your Majesty will want to see this.”
The keystone held in place. A remarkable feat, Gerry considered. He strolled beneath it, on to the other side. The engraving stretched under and throughout, paying homage to all kins and har-kins, families he had long known or heard of in his lifetime.
“I never believed they would finish it so soon.”
“I only learned of it myself the morning before,” Everitt admitted. “Our masons manage quick hands, I suppose.”
“To say the least,” Gerry added, remaining in marvel at the craftsmanship.
A vision from heaven, the curve of stone bore a ribbon of seals. Gerry had known them all his life, and yet, seeing them chiseled into the massive block imparted a sense of honor, a mark of pride somehow strange to him. Perhaps it was all due to the fact he had commissioned it – The Marlish Academy of Alchemy.
“‘Tis coming along nicely, James.”
Gerry failed to answer. Instead, he took in the expanse of the unfinished grounds. Inlaid in the earth stretched the broad trenches waiting to be filled with rubble and mortar for the foundations of the adjacent buildings. That of the Atheneum of Alchemy – intended to house the library and offices of the mages – had been complete, with the most massive pillars put into place. Of those, two supported the arch designed to hold the entryway. There, the keystone sat in the balance, the crowning achievement of months of preparation and labor.
“You should be proud,” Everitt added, coming alongside him.
“So should you.”
“Pardon?”
Gerry pointed upward.
The seal of Kin Saliswater – a fourpointe compass – rested at the center of the keystone. To the right of the crest lay that of another family, one with three robins in the foreground.
“I don’t understand,” Everitt admitted.
“I had the master sculptor add the design for your family.”
“That’s very kind of you, James. But, um, well . . .”
“Yes?” Gerry couldn’t help himself from grinning.
“The details are a little off. There is no diagonal stripe on my family crest. And traditionally those seals around or bordering those of the King are not of har-kins.”
Gerry’s mouth widened into a smile. He waited. Finally, after a moment longer, Everitt’s jaw dropped.
“Ha!” Gerry exclaimed.
“You mean, my family – a har-kin – has been elevated?”
“The Furdes have been the strongest allies of the Saliswaters for years, long before you became my Right Captain. With your valor at the Battle of the Riverford, I knew the time had come to honor your family, who has done everything possible to protect mine. Believe me, Everitt, this was long overdue.”
“Your Majesty . . .” Everitt bowed his head, ever the formal knight.
Gerry, still beaming with delight, returned his gesture with a wave of his hand. “‘Tis nothing.”
“The barons of greater manors, they won’t appreciate a har-kin jumping ahead of their positions, especially in such public monuments which clearly display my favor. The Conclave must still approve of my family’s appointment to a higher rank.”
“The barons! Let them huff and protest all they want! They cannot doubt the many sacrifices of you and your ancestors. Some may cast votes against the promotion out of spite or envy. Let those bastards rot! Enough will support your ascension to make it official. You’ll see.”
“Hmm. Kin Furde. Kin Furde,” Everitt said aloud to himself. “It rings true.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Everitt glanced away, contemplative. “I’ll need to pick the proper moment to tell my father. He’ll need to be of right mind to appreciate this honor.” Everitt considered. “It’s possible the Conclave will bring up his condition.”
“Aye, they might.”
“He has yet to concede his status as baron, even when he is not of right mind.”
Gerry turned to his friend. “The Conclave – and I – have the authority to do something about that too.”
Everitt sighed. “‘Tis not right.”
“Everitt, you were always in line to inherit your manor with all its privileges, including rank.”
“No, not always. Adequin . . . Never mind.”
Gerry winced. The mention of the eldest Furde sibling, Mar rest his soul, stirred memories of grief, reopening wounds never fully healed. With the exception of Symon, neither he nor his brothers knew how to traverse the sensitive subject with any measure of success.
Still, I must try. “A Furde rising to the rank of baron of a newly-forged kin. Why, there is no circumstance in which your family should not celebrate, including your father, no matter his mental state. You can even bring him here, after you’ve risen to lord, for the inauguration ceremony. He’ll come, see the crest, and know the pride of his family’s accomplishment. You’ll see.”
“James, listen to yourself,” Everitt chuckled. “You sound like a young lad dreaming of knighthood.”
“Too much?”
“No, no. ‘Tis lighthearted is all. And, honestly, you’re right. It will be a great honor, regardless of my father’s state. I am in your debt, James. Thank you.”
They stared up at the keystone, together.
“You two seem awfully smitten, having left a queen to wake alone in a carriage.” Taresa sauntered up between them, a shawl pulled across her shoulders.
“Your Majesty, the fault is mine. I suggested His Majesty veer from the royal procession to inspect the progress of the Academy grounds, the construction of which is well ahead of schedule –”
“Everitt,” Taresa interrupted. “I was only joshing you.”
Everitt blushed. “‘Twas a fine joke, Your Majesty.”
“Everitt, what have I told you?”
“Taresa. You got me good, Taresa.”
“Better.” Taresa turned. “Are you boys done? One of the servants from the procession retreated back to us, said quite the crowd has swelled to greet us in the township just below.”
“James?” Everitt glanced at Gerry.
“Right. On with it, I suppose.”
Everitt fell in beside Taresa to offer his arm and escort her back to the carriage. He deftly pointed to every tiny crag or recess before them, eliciting a smile from His Queen.
Gerry held back, allowing himself a moment to take in the grounds by himself. He glanced upward, his gaze settling on the top crest of his kin on the keystone.
The crowd below did not disappoint. As Taresa had said, it had grown more significant than those which had greeted them upon departure. The commoners on both sides of the road spilled forth before their path, despite the best efforts of the soldiers to keep them at bay. As a result, the royal coachman drove the carriage at a snail’s pace, the lack of momentum inspiring some of his more coarse phrases.
From within, Gerry and Taresa watched the jubilant onlookers, offering a wave here and there.
“James,” Taresa ventured. “Is this common?”
“Why, no, it isn’t. The people are merely excited to catch a glimpse of their new queen, ‘tis all.”
“No, I mean . . . How do I say this? Your Throne seems to have a tradition of being very accommodating.”
“How so?”
“That wasn’t the right word. But it does strike me as odd at how often you must answer your Conclave.”
“Oh, hmmm.” Gerry recalled a recitation Dawkin had uttered during one of their truth sessions. “I’m aware your Conclave is less . . . diverse.”
“Pardon?” Taresa replied, a touch defensive.
“Kin Saliswater has not held the kingdom nearly as long as Kin Garsea has held theirs. Your family has had the product of time to forge alliances, marry into other powerful kins and hard-kins, establish trade agreements, and so forth. Us Saliswaters have not possessed such an advantage. Why, half our dynasty has been marred by the Century War, which we barely survived . . .”
Gerry trailed off even as Taresa looked on, expecting more. After all our victories, the deals, the collection of decades holding court, are we still so vulnerable? Have we any real power at all? Or is it one long ruse, to be shattered as quickly as a crystal goblet falling from a table?
“My dear?” Taresa prodded.
“Kin Saliswater has endured many challenges. Every monarch we’ve placed on the Throne has held their head high, even as their crown weighed heavily on them.” Fatigue settled on Gerry, suddenly and without the promise of an end. “So yes, we answer to many, hoping against hope for the masses of both peasants and nobles to bless us with a few more years to reign.”
Gerry peeked out the window, offering a hand to the audience. They responded with jubilee, unmatched by his mood.
Taresa slid his hand in his. “You are King Jameson of Kin Saliswater. If one man can hold this island together, it is you. Besides, you don’t have to do this alone.” She squeezed his hand.
Aye, he mused. I don’t. If you only knew how true your words rang.
Delivering himself from his thoughts, Gerry watched the crowd as they inched past. Their shouts intermingled, he sought out their calls at random.
“Blessed is the King!”
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
“Long live Kin Saliswater!”
“The book! The book I gave you! Dawkin, you must read it!”
The last utterance stirred Gerry. He released Taresa’s hand to lean on the window, scouring the flock of onlookers.
“James, what is it?” Taresa asked.
“Dawkin! Dawkin!” The words glanced upon Gerry’s ears again. He searched to his left, from where he could swear the voice came. In a flash, he caught sight of a head of golden locks, along with a waving hand. But the crowd, dense and without end, swallowed her as the carriage pressed onward. Or perhaps she never was there at all? Gerry searched the audience again, finding neither her nor even the place she stood. The moment, whether true or not, vanished.
“James, did you see something?”
Did I? I know I heard the name Dawkin. Didn’t I? Certain of nothing, Gerry shook his head. “‘Tis nothing, I suppose.” Gerry leaned back in his seat, his mind awash in uncertainty.
“Remember.” Taresa took his hand once more. “You are King Jameson of Kin Saliswater. You can do anything.”
Gerry smirked. He gripped her hand, though no words left his mouth in answer. Turning back to the crowd beyond his window, he waved.418Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWJb2hFfiuA
