Never before had Symon felt less sure of what to do.
Hesitation wasn’t unfamiliar to him. In battle, he paused, whether he forced himself to stop and formulate an immediate plan or because the situation called for him to lie in wait. In court, even when matters of law or diplomacy catapulted over his head to escape him, he managed to sit and look regal. Then there the moments of sure death. Not his demise. His subjects. For as king he now presided over executions of the high-ranking, duties he could not pass on nor ignore. Even in such scenarios, both straightforward and trying, he always knew to do something.
Now, though, he did nothing. Save for standing before the closed door like an idiot, as the most stunning woman in the world waited behind him.
“Your . . . Majesty?”
Symon sighed, opening his eyes. He turned away from the door to face Taresa.
“You can stop calling me that. We are married.”
“Ever since your coronation, I’ve grown so used to your title I never thought to address you otherwise. Yes, I suppose we should try to be more . . . familiar. How do your acquaintances address you?”
“Your Majesty.”
“Your family?”
“Your Majesty.”
“Even your grandfather?”
“Son. He calls me Son.”
“Well, that’ll never do. For me, at least.”
Symon smirked. “My Right Captain, Everitt. Sometimes he calls me James.”
“I like that. James.”
Symon gazed at Taresa. Hearing his name – well, what she thought was his name – ignited a passion within him, one he had never experienced. In all his years, with all the women he had known, none had stirred him as she did right then, in the fire of the moment.
Still, he stayed by the closed door.
What is wrong with me?
“Everitt, stop staring.”
His Right Captain hardly ever broke from his knightly demeanor. It felt odd having to correct him, especially in such a public ceremony.
“My apologies, James. By Mar, a thousand apologies.”
“Don’t appear out of sorts, is all.”
“I’m not. It’s not as though anyone is looking at me. Even the High Bishop is agape.”
He wasn’t wrong. Though sworn to celibacy, His Grace Lunes Sanzo had a façade that betrayed his vows. Then again, his stare was not unlike those of everyone else in the cathedral. Whether sparked by attraction, stirred by curiosity, or enamored by the sight of pristine beauty, all the guests in attendance studied the Jewel of Ibia as if for the first and last time.
Only Symon glanced away. Not that he wanted to avert his focus. He longed to gaze upon Taresa, who had been kept from his sight since he landed. No sooner had he set foot on the royal dock in Arinn when he found himself ushered away to attend pressing matters of state. First, he met with the High Bishop of Arinn, who blessed him and offered prayers to Mar in thanks for Jameson’s safe journey. Then Symon paid a visit to the Concidaad, the Ibian royal order of barons consecrated by both the King and High Bishop to protect the Throne. Little more than the extended family of Kin Garsea, Symon nonetheless had to convene with each baron, a real exercise of patience measured by tiresome, uninspiring conversations. Lastly, Symon gathered with King Felix himself for a modest dinner, which marked the start of his selabatto, an Ibian tradition in which the groom spent the three days before the wedding avoiding his bride.
Such absence from Taresa had built up the anticipation of this moment. A little too much.
Symon’s palms turned clammy. His focus blurred. His throat became parched.
What is happening?
His first intimate moment with a woman had caused no such reaction. At least not in him. True, the girl had been two years his senior and confessed to being experienced. Still, she had blushed when he first rolled on top of her. In fact, every girl – whether maiden or not – had expressed some shyness when Symon had taken them. Even before such affection blossomed, all his past lovers showed some degree of intimidation.
Though not Taresa.
In a gown of overlapping layers of white lace and chiffon, she looked like a rose, her petals perfectly blossomed. Her hair, styled in overlapping braids, matched the flawlessness of her dress. Smooth, pure, her face exuded a soft radiance. Not the product of any cosmetic or potion, her glow came from within. Her long stroll down the aisle displayed her perfect gait, the result of a lifetime of unspoiled confidence and charisma.
Arriving at the first step of the alter, Taresa paused. The High Bishop raised his hands toward the heavens, signaling the audience to bow their heads.
At that, Taresa looked up at Symon.
Had he been riding, he would have fallen from his horse. If in the middle of chewing, he would have choked on his food. If speaking, his words would have turned to mumbles and gibberish. Thank Mar, he was only standing, though that proved less than easy as his knees began to buckle.
“Easy, James,” Everitt whispered, noting his loss of balance.
Come on, you fool. Even Gerry could do better than this.
Symon straightened. He lifted his chin. He breathed deeply. By Mar, all the eyes of two kingdoms are on me. I need to act the part. I need to be Jameson. I will be King Jameson.
I must.
That strength of nerve lasted well through the night. With renewed determination, his composure returned, allowing him to partake in the ceremony without any further hindrance. When Taresa approached the altar, Symon bowed. He kneeled with the Princess as the High Bishop officiated the ceremony. When the exchange of vows commenced and their union had been sealed, Symon took Taresa by the hand to lead her down the aisle before the raucous audience. His composure went on as such from the carriage ride to the ballroom and well after the last toast. Only when King Felix and Queen Belitta bid goodnight did Symon’s collectedness falter. Not wanting his new bride to feel his suddenly-clammy hands, he guided her up the steps of their tower with a gentle touch to the small of her back. He allowed her to enter first, in the spirit of Ibian tradition, as he bent to one knee to offer a prayer of gratitude to Mar. Then he followed after her before closing the door.
“James?”
Symon jerked his head. Taresa had closed the gap between them. When did that happen? Her hand hovered over his forearm as she stared into his eyes.
“I . . .” Symon sputtered.
Taresa placed her hand on his forearm. “Would you care for me to –”
She glanced at the folding screens in the corner.
Symon, understanding her implication, nodded. In turn, she smiled.
“Why don’t you pour us some mead?”
Without waiting for an answer, Taresa glided to the screens. Symon, by contrast, shuffled like a lame horse over to the end table by their canopied bed. There a servant had laid out a platter with a carafe of mead and two crystal goblets etched with the seals of Kin Saliswater and Kin Garsea.
Wonderful. Another reminder of what is at stake.
Dutifully, Symon poured each of them a glass. Holding them, he turned.
Taresa had her back to him as she undid clasp after clasp, button after button. She stretched and reached, working with remarkable efficiency. Soon, her neck and shoulders laid bare above the rim of the screens as she flung her gown over the edge of one. The goblet from his right hand nearly slipped from his grasp as she raised her bare arms to unbraid her hair.
“Uhhh . . .” he muttered as mead splashed the floorboards.
“Did you say something, Your – James?”
“No . . . How do you like to be called?”
She stooped beneath the rim of the screens. “I just became a queen, your queen. I haven’t had the title of a sovereign nearly as long as you have. ‘Your Majesty’ is fine until it feels worn out. Or ‘My Queen’ if you prefer.”
“Oh, very well, My, Your –”
Taresa snapped back up and peered over the edge of a screen. “James.”
“Yes?”
“That was a jest.”
“Oh . . . Good one, I might add.”
Taresa winked. Symon blushed. He realized the thin straps of a lace nightgown now stretched over her shoulders. With deft fingers, Taresa tussled her unbraided hair, allowing her dark brown strands to stream down. She came out from around the screens, revealing a single white bed dress which stretched from her bosom to her ankles. She wore no other ornament. No jewelry adorned her neck nor wrists. At some time behind the screens, she had wiped the modest cosmetics from their ceremony, revealing a purer form of beauty than what all others had witnessed. With feet bare, she crossed the room to approach Symon, taking a goblet from his hand.
“One last drink before –”
“Yes,” Symon’s voice cracked. “To, um, uh . . . The kingdoms of Ibia and Marland.”
“How about ‘to us’?”
“A finer choice. Us.” Symon clanked his goblet against Taresa’s. She finished his mead before she even had a chance to sip hers. Grinning, Taresa tipped her glass to return the gesture in kind. She took the empty goblet from his hand and set both on the platter.
“Do you want to change?”
Symon followed her gaze. In his stupor, he had forgotten to disrobe.
“Why, I, I think so.” Bloody hell, I’m an embarrassment.
He went around her to retreat behind his own set of folding screens. There he found several nightshirts and trousers, all either white or light blue, with wispy ties and frilly collars. Symon scoffed. None would make him look the least bit appealing. He supposed that was the point, as the clothing served to cover him only until he retreated under the covers with his wife. Nonetheless, the absence of decent garb only set his mood fowler.
He chose instead to disrobe down to his undertrousers. Though clean and white, he felt the fool as he emerged from the screens half-naked. She wears lace while I don the same garment as a peasant.
Taresa, having settled under the sheets, perked upon seeing Symon bare-chested. Suddenly, her unfettered confidence dissipated as a rush of scarlet flooded her cheeks. In turn, Symon – considering that maybe he had revealed too much of himself too soon – blushed as well.
Dawdling to the canopied bed, Symon arrived at its edge. He sat down, his back half turned to Taresa, not wanting to offend her yet unsure of what to say. With the sheets firmly planted under her arms, Taresa shied away from his glance.
Is this her first time? Symon dared not ask.
“I, I thought the ceremony was nice,” he said.
“So did I.”
“Your family has been such gracious hosts.”
“They’re your family too, as of today.”
“Hmmm . . .”
“James?”
“Yes.”
“Can we just lay down? Before . . . we begin?”
“I would like that.”
Symon pushed himself onto the bed, where with some awkwardness he burrowed under the comforter. He shifted to his side, as did Taresa, so the two came face-to-face.
“I appreciate you allowing me the time to adjust.”
“Tis no effort, really.”
“This is my –”
“Not to worry.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“Have you . . . Never mind.”
Taresa cast her eyes down. Whether out of timidity or disappointment, Symon could not gather.
“My parents,” he started. “Their Promise lasted all of three months.”
“Three months? Why so short?”
“War. They knew it was only a matter of time before my father would be called back to the front in Afari, so with the blessing of the High Bishop, they married soon after the announcement of their Promise. At least that was the official account.
“My grandfather once told me such talk errored to mention both my father and mother had fallen madly in love at first glance. It was summer, and my father had just returned from his seventh campaign, his third as king. My grandfather worried his heir would fall in battle without siring a son, so with each homecoming, he arranged for barons to present their most eligible daughters, the fairest maidens Marland has ever seen.
“However, at each ball or banquet where these young ladies appeared, my father came away wanting. He grew tired of the formalities, the false mechanisms of beauty, with the corsets, wigs, girdles, and whatever else your . . . well, what most ladies wear. One evening, after attending yet another stuffy dinner, he went on a ride through the countryside. When he and his entourage came to a stream to water their horses, they chanced upon a huntress dressed in forest green and sporting a long quiver packed with hunting javelins. She was mid-hunt, in pursuit of a stag, when her javelin missed its mark and nearly impaled my father!”
“Oh! That’s quite the impression.”
“Certainly. The Right Captain and his guards drew their swords and made to arrest my mother on the spot. My father roared for them to withdraw so he could approach the mysterious woman in green –”
“And?”
“My day of birth came nine months later.”
Taresa’s mouth dropped. Symon grinned. Not sure if the tale was tall or true, she swatted him on the forearm as he playfully recoiled.
“You’re horrible!” she said.
“I tell no lies!”
“Really? Well then, King Honesty, were you so enamored with me when I first arrived in Arcporte? And don’t just say ‘yes.’ Paint a scene for me. What I wore. No. The hue and style of my dress. The fruits of the perfume I had applied. The words I said. How I uttered them. Tell me, James. Tell me a real story.”
She looked at him longingly, waiting for a response.
Symon paused. Though Gerry had recited every detail he could fathom of that encounter, Symon, for all the memory tea he had consumed to remember, failed to recount a shred of it. It was as though a devilish elf had mixed the most concentrated fading potion into his mead.
Do something, you fool!
He didn’t. She did.
Her lips, like rose petals, found his. Her hand, its caress as comforting as a warm cloak in winter, drifted to his side. Then to his chest. Which she then kissed twice before returning to his mouth.
Astonished, Symon’s eyes kept on her for a moment before he allowed himself to surrender. He slid into her arms, she in his. His fingers spread over the length of her bed dress, where her warmth radiated from underneath. Eager, they gravitated to the straps that held her clothing in place, and with a nimble touch he didn’t think he possessed, they unloosed them.
His skin then met hers. He shifted. As did she. Atop her, he opened his eyes to find her looking into his.
The texture of the sheets. The dimness of the dying candles. The strands of her hair as they laid over his skin. Symon knew not anything that came before nor did he want to consider anything after. He longed to imprint this moment – and only this moment – into his memory for as long as he lived.
He wanted all of it. The innocence in her eyes. The comfort of her embrace. The scent she carried. Of pear blossoms. Of a gentle dew. Of incense. And ash.
Symon narrowed his eyes. Ash.
“James?”
He rose off of her. He strode toward the shuttered window. Through the slit, he spotted a glow.
Throwing open the shutters, the inferno on the horizon bathed the room in fiery light. Symon shielded his eyes as his sight adjusted to the brilliance. An explosion, though far, startled him back, as Taresa rushed up from behind.
“What is happening?” Taresa asked, panicked.
Symon focused on the blaze. White at its center, orange at the periphery, it gleamed unlike any fire he had ever witnessed. Its tongues of flame whipped and flailed, each seeming to dodge and nip at all the others around, like wild dogs in a crowded kennel. Likewise, the roar emanating from the combustion brought to mind a pack snarling and howling in the night.
Taresa placed her hand on Symon’s shoulder. Symon broke off his stare at the brilliance to look down at the grounds. Though no yard directly below their window, Symon spotted groupings of attendants emerging from the servants’ entrance, no doubt curious about the uproar. They assembled before the edge of a small ravine, which gave way to a dense forest beyond. Their presence aside, he saw no royalty nor nobles nor knights.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“In the newlywed chamber.”
“Yes, I know, but where is it? What part of the castle?”
“The northeast corner, facing away from the harbor.”
Northeast corner. Northeast. The city lies full of wedding guests and their retinues. High royalty inhabits the spare chambers of the castle. By the King’s order, all the rest – the Ibian army, my soldiers – set up camp on the perimeter of the city.
Desperate, Symon peered again at the blaze, trying to gather his bearings. Could it be? There? My countrymen?
In answer, the white core of the inferno bulged, overtaking the orange tips. It blasted up and outward, the sheer heat from the explosion shocking Symon and Taresa back.
In its wake, no dogs of fury roared. Replaced a thousand-fold came the screams of men.
I have to know.
Symon took Taresa by the arms to guide her back to the bed.
“Do you have arms here?”
“Arms?”
“Weapons. Daggers. Swords.”
“Why, no.”
Symon withdrew to his folding screens. In haste, he dressed pulled on a pair of loose trousers and an undershirt. In his rush, he cast aside his wedding attire. Clank! He swung around to find his ornamental sword, a gift from the King, having clattered on the floor. Bejeweled and overlaid with gold leaf, Symon had not even inspected its edge for sharpness.
He grabbed the faux weapon – bejeweled and overlaid with gold leaf - and handed it to Taresa. “This’ll do.”
“James –”
“Taresa, my . . . Listen, you need to stay put. Lock the door behind me and do not open it for anyone – anyone – until I return. Do you understand?”
“You don’t have to do this. Stay.”
A second clap, as though thunder atop of thunder, blasted in through the window, its brightness and heat stronger than the one before. Symon, eyes shut, felt its warmth upon his skin.
“I must,” he said after the heat and light subsided. He made haste to the door. “Remember. No one enters.”
Outside, madness ensued. Panicked servants collided with one another. The guards fared little better as their commanders blasted war horns and barked overlapping orders. Symon dodged them all, from one level to the next, until he came to the main bailey. There, the frenzy swelled exponentially, as the lingering wedding guests added to the chaos. Fancy coats and feathered hats swirled with the matted hair of the peasantry. They collided and trampled each other with nary a thought to rank, as instinct tromped privilege. Symon, having neither the time nor the resources to quell the turmoil, shoved past the mob toward the first stables in his reach. Arriving, he discovered the horses in as much disorder as the citizenry. He managed to find one, saddled and bridled, nearly ready to stomp the stableboy holding its reins.
“Give me!” he sputtered. Though still naked from the waist up, Symon retained his regal presence. The stableboy obliged, stepping back as Symon mounted the courser naturally. With a clip of his heels, Symon bolted.
The night air greeted him first. Then the screams of the masses. Those faded quickly enough, as did the torchlight from the castle grounds. Soon, only the hoofbeats of his mount accompanied him, along with the canopied darkness of the forest. Symon thought himself lost.
On the spur of the moment, another blast lit up the forest, paving the way ahead.
The brilliant line he had glimpsed from the tower glowed in every latticed opening allowed by branch and bush. Those small segmented lights converged and enlarged as he pressed onward. With the illuminance, the shouts that had first assaulted his ears at the castle heightened. By contrast, mere whispers before, now they boomed. Hollers. Shrieks. Pleas. All manner of agonies cried out by men.
Emerging onto a meadow, Symon faced the blaze in all its glory. The thread of orange and white he first observed now stood as a mighty wall, nay, a range of foothills before him. The swelter from its face proved almost too much to bear, as beads of sweat burst forth on Symon’s brow while he shielded his eyes.
“James!”
Symon turned around. Sir Everitt, with three Voiceless in tow, approached. From whence he came and how long he had been in chase Symon could not say.
“Are you bloody mad?! Don’t you ever take off like that again!” his Right Captain fumed, not caring if his conduct violated protocol.
“I’m sorry,” Symon offered. A Voiceless rode up to Symon, offering him his belt with a sheathed broad sword. Symon looked down at his mount as it dawned on him that his saddle had not been holstered with a weapon. Embarrassed by his oversight, he humbly accepted the sidearm.
With that receipt, the brilliance behind him died.
Stunned, the five directed their attention to the now smoldering ruins of whatever remained. Symon, apprehensive of the answer to come, nonetheless begged the question to his Right Captain.
“Everitt, that camp . . . Ours?”
Nothing followed. Symon pivoted as if to pose the prompt again. This time, his Right Captain replied with a nod.
Dear Mar.
Duty followed. Symon felt the beat of each hoof beneath him, as though the horse he rode stomped not on the ground but on him. The shock echoed through the endless cavern of his soul, intensifying as the earth gave way to charcoal and embers. The ruins of the fire had somehow blackened to a hue darker than a starless night so that Symon could distinguish the path of destruction from the sky above. In addition to its lifeless color, the terrain offered the occasional snap and crunch of whatever the inferno had consumed, be it structure or beast, weapon or its owner. Symon feared more of the latter, as no soul appeared before him. Save one.
A squire, perhaps no older than his tenth year, stumbled through the smoldering remains. His eyes, reddened no doubt by smoke and heat, stood apart from the soot which caked his body. Seeing his King and the guards, the boy reached out. He attempted to hurry, though his legs did not respond in kind. His right appeared misaligned, moving at a clip behind his left. Not privy to his injury, the squire fell forward. Everitt hopped from his mount to rush to the boy’s side, with Symon close behind.
“Young master,” Everitt began, cradling the squire in his arms. “What happened?”
The boy, the light behind his eyes fading, blinked.
“Stay with us, please,” Everitt begged.
“Brave one,” Symon started. “Give us a word. Anything.”
The boy, sparked by duty, uttered. “Fire. And fox.” He pointed.
Symon and Everitt followed his gesture. On the crest of a nearby hill, amongst the smoldering remnants, stood a single cross. The banners of Kin Foleppi flapped from the crossbar, one on each side of the pole.
Beyond the banners, barely visible yet making no attempt to stay hidden, rested the silhouettes of four men atop coursers. Thanks to a steady breeze, one curtain of smoke after another drifted before them, accompanied by the occasional ember.
“Hey!” Symon yelled as he rose. “You!”
In response, the horseman farthest from Symon pulled at his reins, guiding his mount down the other side of the hill, away. Another rider followed suit, disappearing beneath the crest.
“Your Majesty,” Everitt urged. However, his plea came too late. Symon, unsheathing the sword the Voiceless had given him, marched up toward the hill.
“Mar damn your fire!” Symon cursed.
The third rider on the crest rode away. However, the fourth – and the last – remained, looking down upon Symon as he approached.
“You dare to attack my men?!”
“My King!” Everitt raced on after him. “James! James!”
“Come face me! Fight me! Damn you! Fight!”
Symon cocked his arm as he raised his sword, ready to storm the last rider. Only then did Everitt close in on him, as did the Voiceless in his retinue. They enveloped Symon, their gauntleted hands and plated arms wrapping around his body.
“Who are you?!” Symon screamed. “Who are you who dare to do this?!”
Symon thought he saw the last silhouette raise and drop his shoulders as if to shrug. The moment passed as soon as it came, for with another drift of smoke, the rider vanished.
Let me go!” Symon commanded as he tried to break free of his guards. “Let me –”
Another fire roared. This one as frightening and sudden as those that came before. Only it didn’t erupt on what remained of the encampment –
It came from behind. From Castle Arinn.
Symon and his men froze. They peered over their shoulders, each wary of what they might find. On the ridge holding the ancient seat of Kin Garsea, one of the southeast towers exploded in light, like the wick of a candle suddenly catching a spark to combust into an open flame. And burn it did, the kindle sending volumes of blazes and fumes to pollute the stars above.
Symon pulled free from his shocked men. “Taresa . . .”
A second blast erupted from the base of the burning tower. It engulfed the rest of the edifice, its inferno rising upward, turning the wick into a candle in flames. The crack of the blast sent shock waves into the forested region below. With the sound, the branches and leaves bent away, trampled by the unseen force. The horses – as battle-ready as any – nonetheless became spooked by the booming chaos. They scattered in all directions. The Voiceless, seeing their coursers panic, went on after them, leaving Everitt with Symon.
The two, still stricken, never took their eyes from Castle Arinn. They watched as the edifice, cracked and burnt, surrendered to its many inflictions.
The tower collapsed first. The weight of its split roof sent the topmost section down, followed by the middle before the base crumbled into a mess of scattered stones.
Symon scarcely saw the last stones topple. For his legs, burning just like the fires he witnessed, pressed long and hard as he cleared past tree after tree in the forest.
Twigs snapped under the constant pounding of his feet as did the branches that clawed at his face. And the leaves he tore from their hosts.
The air beat his face so that it could have easily bruised his skin. Yet his lungs could not consume enough, so hard they worked to breathe as he raced. Only when a wall of troops appeared before him did he halt, his momentum sending him into a mass of polished steel and aged wood.
“Let me through!” he raged. “Let me pass!”
A shaft slammed into his gut. Symon keeled over, gasping. Dropping to one knee, he fumed as he looked up to the visor of a helmed Realeza.
“Do you know who I am?” Symon demanded.
The Ibian guard responded by placing the butt of his halberd on the ground.
Symon rose to his feet. Intermixed with the regular troops stood Realeza, no doubt the nearest officers who dispersed orders to secure the grounds in the wake of the castle assault. All the personal guards of the Ibian royal family wore their helms with the visors down, obscuring the identity of each individual, preventing Symon from imprinting the image of their faces into his memory. The wall of soldiers that had blocked his path donned no such masks, as their headgear covered only their skulls, ears, and the bridges of their noses. In the absence of such concealment, those same troops carried a nervousness about them. Whether due to the recent attack or the mass of eyes still lingering after the festivities or the possibility that they had restrained a king, the Ibian men-at-arms threw glances and shifted their weight far too much for warriors. Symon, seeing the fear and doubt only a commander knew, straightened.
“Allow me to pass,” he said to the Realeza who had struck him, “and I shall forgive your slight.”
Symon stepped forward. The Realeza extended his halberd, as did the other guards. Warily, the Ibian soldiers held the line.
“Defy me,” Symon reassured, “and I will see every one of you hung.”
That threat sent a chill through the line. Even the Realeza loosened their defensive stances, save for the one who had dealt a blow to Symon.
Very well, Symon thought. We’ll continue this ruse. “And as for you,” he addressed the indifferent guard. “I will make you watch, one by one, as the men you have served with perish.”
The guard burnished the shaft of his halberd with his gauntleted hands, biding his time. Whether to consider letting Symon pass or to plow the sharpened head of his weapon into Symon’s gut, only Mar and the man could say.
The cascade of hooves approaching interrupted the impending threat. Sir Everitt and the three Voiceless, having recovered their coursers, rode up to the line, which had grown considerably with spectators in a few short moments. The Right Captain dismounted to march up beside Symon.
“Move back!” Everitt barked. Seeing the Right Captain and the Voiceless in armor, which validated their authority, sent the troops scurrying. Gaps formed in the line, offering Symon passage.
“I was just about to convince them to let me pass,” Symon insisted.
“Not looking like a washerwoman, you weren’t.”
Symon glanced down at his clothes. Now stained with sweat and grime, he did give the aura of an unkempt peasant.
“No matter,” he said, casting aside his foolishness. He strode through the mass of troops and onlookers, nearly making his way past the horde.
“Your Majesty!”
Symon paused, as did Everitt and the Voiceless at their sides.
The Realeza who had challenged Symon released his halberd, letting it fall. He stepped forward to raise his visor.
Grand Duke Xain.
“Your Grace?” Symon inquired, puzzled.
“Don’t look so surprised, cousin.” The Grand Duke softened his soldierly posture, sauntering up to the king as though in a pair of comfortable riding breeches. “You’ll often find me in the guise of my uncle’s personal guard.”
“To what end?”
“To serve, Your Majesty. You see, unlike some kin, we do not put on airs about doing our duty. We actually consider all responsibilities related to protection – be it a battle, standing watch, even shoeing horses – to be a great honor in defense of the Throne.”
“And you consider denying my king entry back into his bedchamber a noble act?” The Right Captain came face to face with the Grand Duke as he laid his hand upon the pommel of his sword.
“Everitt,” Symon directed. “Stand down.”
“As you wish.” Though Everitt’s hand never left his pommel.
“I only sought to keep the Princess – actually, now, the Queen – from harm. You see, it never occurred to me that King Jameson would leave his newlywed wife on the night of their ceremony. Even further from my mind was the thought he would abandon her, fleeing his love to chase a bonfire while my family’s ancient house burned. Quite contrary to the expected norms and behaviors of a monarch, much less a Marlish one. Some would go so far as to point out the deed as cowardly.”
Sir Everitt lifted his sword an inch from its scabbard.
“Everitt!” Symon yelled.
“Command or not, I will not stand for anyone disgracing my king.”
“Disgrace? I was merely mentioning –”
Everitt unsheathed the full length of his sword. In response, the Realeza tipped their halberds. The Ibian soldiers bent their blades as well. That prompted the Voiceless, though outnumbered, to bear their arms.
“Sir Everitt!” Symon roared.
Everitt pivoted. “Your Majesty. I will march ahead and clear your path. That you may rejoin your queen.”
Everitt waited for Symon to consent. Symon nodded. His Right Captain marched past, but not before offering a glare to Xain.
“A spirited fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Xain quipped.
“Everitt is a better man you could ever hope to be,” Symon declared.
“I’m sure. Though better isn’t always advantageous. You’re my better, and yet before you lies an army with nothing more than contempt for your reign, seeing as how you threatened them with hanging.”
Symon stewed. With every fiber of every muscle, he restrained himself from making an example of the Grand Duke.
“Your Majesty!” Everitt called from the small door of the rampart. “Your Queen awaits.”
Symon turned. As he marched, he clenched his fists almost as hard as his jaw. He caught up to his Right Captain, who fell to his side, silently allowing the King his anger. Together, with the Voiceless, they proceeded through throngs of servants and nobles, each seemingly more frightened than the last. As Symon came to the main bailey, remnants of the collapsed tower lay blackened, strewn as though cast aside by giants. Knights of the highest rank, from kin both Marlish and Ibian, inspected the damage. Some reported back to their barons. A large cluster gathered before King Felix, who listened patiently, as his family – including Taresa – stood at his side.
“James!” Taresa broke from the crowd. She ran to him, shattering all pretense of refinement for his comfort. Before Symon had a chance to cry back, she fell into his arms.
“I didn’t know . . . Where did you go? Who did you find?”
Indeed, who? Symon thought as he recalled the silhouettes of the riders on the burnt hill. Who?351Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmJXoPbmbPd
