“Calm down, brother.”
Gerry stared at Ely, incredulous. “You are telling me to calm down?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, you runt. I mean, look at you. Pacing like a penniless whore awaiting her next patron.”
Gerry fumed. “I, why, you shouldn’t –”
“Shush, shush, shush. You must control that temper of yours.”
The irony of Ely’s admonishments did not escape Gerry. “You never listen when we try to talk sense into you!”
“Because I, unlike you at this moment, always have sense. It never leaves me, so there is simply no reason for me to listen to you or our brothers. Sure, I tuck it away on some days, which allows my other – say, qualities – to produce themselves. But I am never, ever, without sense. Really, brother, it is ridiculous of you to suggest such a thing.” Ely, having spoken his piece, reclined before their table as he sipped his wine.
Frustrated, and at a loss of words, Gerry snapped away to resume his pacing. Twenty minutes had passed since the top of the hour, meaning that their brother was twenty minutes late. Such tardiness could only mean one thing: a problem. Or, to be more specific, a new problem. For dilemmas abounded in the days since the Marlish encampment and Castle Arinn endured assault. In response to the tragedy, barons from both courts plied the royals for audiences with the monarchs. Not that it did a lick of good. King Felix would meet with his subjects in his Throne Room, while Symon did the same in a tower provided by Kin Garsea. But with the two sovereigns committed to appeasing their countrymen, their decisions and promises often fell at odds with one another, which led to more questions from their supporters – along with a mounting communal sense of doubt. The incertitude compounded the already tense relations between the visiting Marlish and host Ibians, so much so that word of Symon extending troops to guard his people had reached Ely and Gerry’s ears.
“I wonder if the reason for our brother’s delay is his marital duty,” Ely mused.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, he has wed Prin – forgive me – Queen Taresa.”
“He would never, why, he has a duty to us to attend to . . .”
“Oh, he has a duty he does. One that involves him between her legs.”
Gerry lashed out at Ely. Fortunately for his brother, Gerry proved to be a horrible judge of distance. Unfortunately, his swing still connected – with Ely’s bronze goblet of wine. The receptacle bounced off the floor as its contents splashed in an arch, the widest curve of which soiled Ely’s doublet.
“You vile fox!” Ely snapped, grabbing the fringe of his violet silk and crushed velvet garment. “This was my favorite doublet!”
“Serves you right!” Gerry shouted back, his nerve not wavering. He met Ely’s incredulous stare with a steely look all his own. Such a demeanor from his smaller, often meeker, sibling put Ely at odds at how to respond.
“Why, I should, you . . .” Ely drew his dirk. He glanced at Gerry, who responded by drawing his blade. Ely, suddenly robbed of his brash confidence, looked around. For an opening? An escape? Who could say? Not one, though any soul could attest that Ely wanted nothing to do with Gerry.
The heavy door to the chamber opened. A Voiceless marched in, halted, and stared from one brother to the next. He stood so stunned that Symon had to step around him to enter.
“What in the name . . .” he shot a glimpse at the knight before catching on to his line of sight. Seeing his siblings armed and facing each other prompted him to charge forward. “Disarm yourselves!”
Gerry obliged, as did Ely, though the latter waited for Gerry’s dirk to clang before he dropped his own.
“Now, what is the meaning of this?!” Symon demanded.
Gerry the meek returned. “He said –”
“I did not!” Ely interrupted.
“He spoke ill of Taresa!”
“Symon, I merely suggested that you and her –”
“Quiet! The both of you.” Symon rounded the table. With his jaw clenched, his stare narrowed, and his brow furrowed, the commander within emerged; the kind in no mood for antics nor games.
Symon stomped up to Gerry first. He loomed over his smaller brother, the latter having forgotten to wear his lifts. Gerry, his momentary rage toward Ely subsiding in the face of a more worthy threat, slunk into the chair at the table. Symon then directed his ire toward Ely, who met his brother’s façade with rolled eyes and a huff, but ultimately relented as he took his seat.
“I ought to flog the both of you,” Symon seethed, “to find you fighting over a war of words while the fate of our kingdom hangs by a thread.”
“Very poetic, brother,” Ely quipped.
Symon, enraged, nodded to the Voiceless who had entered with him. In one full motion, the mute knight removed the scabbard buckled to his waist as he unsheathed the sword. Ely stumbled out of his chair as the Voiceless stepped toward him – to drop the sword on the table. The hilt clattered atop the wood as the blade, coated in dirt and ash, snapped into a handful of fragments. Gerry recoiled at the ringing sound of steel splintering.
“That is what happened while you two were fooling around.” Symon pointed at the weapon. “My men recovered it from what little remained of our camp. The rest – bones, teeth, charred remains – fell to bits in their hands as they tried to pick it up. Not that the lot of you care.”
Gerry’s hand gravitated to the closest shard. But returning to his senses, he withdrew, out of respect for the poor soldier who no doubt fared worse than the broken blade before him. He nearly raised his voice to Symon to offer an apology until he noticed Ely heaving.
“How dare you!” Ely fumed.
Symon, like a deer caught by surprise, straightened at the unexpected affront. “What?”
“You think we didn’t know what was going on? That we were unaware? As though we were hiding underground in Terran like we were children? I stood by and watched as you gallivanted around the ballroom while I discovered the vipers in our midst. I took to the streets to spy on our so-called allies in their den of foxes while you and your bride wetted the bed. I went through great lengths to secure as many secrets as I could while you rushed half-naked into a battle that was over before it had begun. And now, you stand here, to accuse me of not caring? I tell you, brother, I care more now than you ever dare to know. Or does that come as a shock to you? It must. I bet you never even bothered to read the dozen notes I passed through our guards to provide intelligence I knew you could use. But did I ever receive a response? An acknowledgment? A thank you? No. Not once. So ask yourself, who amongst us cares, Symon? Who really cares?”
The chamber descended into silence. The Voiceless – perhaps thanking Mar for his muteness – remained at attention. Gerry looked to Symon, who stood stone-faced. Gerry knew that expression since youth. It came when Symon found himself challenged by two competing emotions: humiliation and rage. Today, the rage came from discovering his siblings quarreling, though the bulk no doubt was the product of the week’s preceding events. And the humiliation . . . well, Ely had done his part to provide that.
“Your findings,” Symon began through gritted teeth, “while thorough, lacked truth. Or how would Dawkin say? ‘They needed to be validated,’ or, ‘They’re hearsay,’ or some sort of rubbish. I know you took to great pains to retrieve the information. But what you found could easily be rumors or lies. There is simply no way to know.”
Ely, never the one to be proven wrong – even when he clearly was – did not relent. “Tssk, tssk, my careful warrior. Rumors abounded, yes, in the aftermath of the attack, as we can agree upon. Many falsities spread, the product of anxiety and fear. I am well aware of the inclinations of the beast of paranoia; believe me, I am. Which is why I took great lengths to vet the entirety of what I heard. If you had read those notes I sent, you would have discovered that for yourself. Since you did not, let us here and now review what I learned, shall we?”
“I don’t have the notes you sent on me –”
“I thought you wouldn’t. Pity. The soldier runs into battle half-naked once again.”
Ely reached behind his back to retrieve a small journal he had tucked under his belt. He flipped through the pages before arriving at his chosen sections, no doubt his latest set of observations.
“Now, let us see . . .” Ely scanned the journal’s contents. “Gerry, be a good chap and bring the maps I brought. From the satchel in the corner.”
Gerry, ignoring the condescension behind Ely’s request, dutifully fetched the rolls of parchment from the sack. Picking them up, he regarded the antiquity of the maps, as well as their origins. These aren’t Marlish, he noted. These are Ibian. Local. Indeed, Ely had certainly done his research, so much so he would have put even Dawkin to shame.
He laid the maps, six rolls in total, before Ely on the table. Ely offered a respectful nod to Gerry in thanks. He actually does believe in what he discovered. The solemnity of the thought – of Ely maturing from an imp of foolishness to a royal of value – enticed Gerry to lean over the table in interest. Even Symon cast aside his wounded pride to direct his focus to the drawings.
“I collected these, at a considerable expense of coin and time, while sneaking around Arinn.”
“I hope you didn’t –” Symon started to warn.
“Relax. I didn’t do anything to attract attention. I gathered these with care.”
“Did anyone –”
“I used fading potion. And quite a bit. Nearly the lot of what we brought with us. So anyone, whether Ibian or Marlish, who encountered me was robbed of their memory almost immediately. I even put on my best disguises to accessorize my caution. Plus, I gifted the Voiceless at my side with my genius of disguise. Isn’t that right, my mute friend?”
Ely shot a glance at the Voiceless, who had retreated to the corner. The guard, not one inclined to Ely’s brand of humor, responded with a scowl.
“You were careful,” Gerry said.
“Always, brother, always,” Ely boasted. “And it paid dividends. I mean, look at this.” Ely unfurled the largest of the maps, revealing a majestic drawing of Afari, the skill of which dated it to the Epoch of Artisans. Across the whole of it, though, lay markings in Ely’s hand.
“Ely!” Gerry exclaimed. “This map was priceless.”
“Oh, posh! I can find ten just like it if I had to. Besides, I improved upon its contents. See.” Ely pointed first to the bottom center of the map, which displayed the peninsula of Belgarda and its principal city of Vloma. There, Ely had marked: The Supreme Devout speaks of threats upon the continent in his yearly address to his Conclave of High Bishops.
“I do remember that mention from the note you sent,” Symon mused. “It arrived soon after I received word from Felix’s private horse messenger, who rode day and night to deliver news to him personally from the Court of Vloma. I simply assumed you had somehow intercepted the report from his parcel before transferring it to me.”
“You assumed wrong. You see, certain details have a way of making their presence known far ahead of any royal messenger, even one as expeditious as that of King Felix.”
“But how?”
“A mage never reveals his secrets.”
“But what’s so noteworthy about the Supreme Devout’s address?” Gerry inquired.
“I’m glad you asked. You see the shorthand beside iconography of Vloma?”
Gerry made out a series of numbers and periods. 147. 6. 1302. 5.
“The date of the royal wedding?” Gerry blurted, looking to Symon then Ely.
“Exactly. The Supreme Devout gave his yearly address three weeks earlier than he usually does, on the same day that Symon married Taresa.” Ely turned to Symon. “You said His Grace apologized for Tongelus di Valia not being able to attend your nuptials.”
“Yes, I sent word to you two on the matter via one of my letters from the castle, as I recall.”
“A slight to both Kin Garsea and our own house, wouldn’t you say?”
Symon rubbed his chin. “I suppose.”
“And would your supposition evolve to certainty if I told you of the contents of his address?”
Symon straightened. “How could you possibly know that? The contents of any Conclave’s meeting, especially the clandestine gathering of High Bishops, are iron-clad, never to be discussed until announced in court, which Tongelus has yet to do.”
“A mage –”
“Right, right, never mind.” Symon waved his hand. “Now, out with it.”
“The Supreme Devout made his disapproval of the royal union known. He said, and I quote from a slew of reliable sources, ‘A threat has landed upon our shores, one intent on joining his evil with our goodness, who will taint our purity with his kin’s legacy of sin.’ The indication is as clear as a snowmelt. He could have said ‘their’ or ‘its.’ Instead, he said ‘his,’ referring to he, or him. You. He spoke of you, Symon. On the very day you wed.”
Symon’s hand stayed planted on his chin. Though never one to attach much meaning to a war of words, the coincidence of the pairing was not lost on him. “What else?”
“I’m delighted you asked. The Supreme Devout droned on and on about the affairs of Afari. Or at least that’s what my contacts confirmed. Much of what he said could be dismissed by the everyday audience as boring drivel. In reading through the notes on his address, I nearly fell asleep at several points myself. Until the pieces took on a pattern, and certain facts began to make themselves known.” Ely, beaming, gestured to the top-right quadrant of the map.
Gerry leaned over, squinting, for the referenced section of the parchment appeared stained by some dark liquid. Nonetheless, he could spot the outline of the kingdom of Volkmar. Beside its borders lay Ely’s scribble: Ludwinn – sent delegation to Vloma.
“That’s all?” Gerry asked.
“All?! It is, in fact,” Ely replied, defensively.
“You’ll need to fill in more of the gaps,” Symon added.
“Oh, fine. Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence? With Ludwinn sending a delegation to Vloma? Before Tongelus gave his address?”
“Ludwinn is always dispatching his delegations. They’re little more than bands of thugs who appear in courts throughout Afari, demanding bribes so their troops don’t rape and pillage the surrounding countryside. That’s why Father continued to ban them from his court after the Century War ended.”
Tis true, Gerry recalled. Their father had often spoken ill of the Volkmar, almost in the same vein as he regarded the Foleppi or Mynhard. Though larger and more powerful than the previously noted enemies, with a lineage that stretched back before written record, in the eyes of Audemar they deserved no more respect than rats nor their lice. In fact, every Saliswater monarch had expressed a similar level of disdain for the northernmost kingdom of Afari, even in the days when relations between the Volkmar and Marlish stood as tepid.
Ely paused, perhaps considering their father’s attitude for their enemy, before perking. “Oh, oh, I forgot to mark on this map what I found on that one.” He reached for the map furthest from him, the smallest, and did quick work to lay it before them. As expected, the land it depicted was more modest in scope, with chevrons and curves dotting the whole of it to note mountains and hills throughout.
“Northern Afari,” Symon stated. “Or a part of it.”
“The soldier knows his geography. Who says troops can’t be smart.” Ely shot a glance at the Voiceless in the corner. “You could learn a thing or two from my brother.”
“Come now, Ely,” Gerry urged.
“Right, yes. Well, you can see from the map a series of parallel lines cutting through the ranges and weaving through the hillocks. The more width or space between the pair of lines, the larger the road. The biggest is there.” Ely pointed to what amounted to two thick lines that snaked from the left corner of the map to its right edge before turning south to end at the bottom of its center. “That is the road the delegation took once they sailed from their seat in Karr down the Delke River to the port of Frossberg. An overland route as broad as that could accommodate a small army, wouldn’t you say?”
“Could,” Symon replied. “Did it?”
“I have . . . sources . . . working to confirm those very details.”
“Are you saying the Volkmar are trying to invade Vloma?” Gerry inquired.
“No,” Symon interjected. “They wouldn’t. Even in the hype of the wedding and the attack on the castle, we would have learned of a force that large. But a smaller, expeditionary detachment, one sizeable enough for a kingdom to convey a commitment to a powerful alliance . . . It would be a move of diplomacy.”
“Two brutes flexing their respective muscles, huh?” Ely poked.
“Yes, brother, if you say so.”
“Oh, but I do. Plus, there is more I discovered to support my theories, such as –”
“That’ll do,” Symon commanded, holding his hand out to Ely.
“You need to hear this.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll listen to it all. As you will to me. Under the right conditions.” Symon turned to the knight. “Gather the truth serum and memory tea. We’re having back-to-back sessions,” Symon nodded to Ely, then Gerry. “Ready yourselves.”
Gerry breathed. He had consumed what amounted to a thick manuscript of narratives, with no detail omitted. As the effects of the memory tea began to wane, he glanced at Symon and Ely, who lay on cots opposite of each other, recovering from their truth sessions.
Surprisingly, his head didn’t throb, as it often did after a long session. Since he endured two sessions of moderate length, which taken together constituted the most extensive hearing in his experience, he considered himself fortunate. He couldn’t say the same for his brothers, who twisted and writhed. Though their eyes remained closed as they tried to sleep, their grimaces with those contorted lips spoke of residual pain from their extensive recollections.
Gerry sauntered over to the chamber pot, about to relieve himself, when a strong hand pushed him aside.
“Hey!” he blurted before realizing it was Symon.
“My apologies, brother,” Symon offered, though he still stood before the pot to empty his bladder. “But all that truth serum makes one . . . full. Not to mention the memory tea I drank when Ely spoke his turn.”
“You’re full? What about me? I had to swallow a pot of that tea listening to the both of you.”
“And what did you learn?”
So we’re on to this? Gerry mused as Symon finished up to step away to the nearby washbasin. Gerry eagerly took his place as Symon waited for his reply. “I gathered all you and Ely know. The massive fire. The explosion of the tower. Ely’s espionage. His wild theories. The entirety of it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Who do you think is behind it?
Gerry, done with the chamber pot, moved to the washbasin. “I have no bloody idea,” he said as he cleaned his hands.
“Then you have the right of it.” Symon rubbed his chin, considering.
Gerry wanted to ask questions, to say something, but what could he? His brothers had released the full contents of their minds so that nothing remained. Nothing hidden. No secrets. Nary an unspoken thought or unexpressed emotion. Every suspicion in the recesses of their wits had been laid bare.
Therein remained the problem. The three of them – for all their experiences of the past few days to collaborate with the court, their men-at-arms, and with each other – did not know what to do next.
And now it’s my turn to be King.
The anxiety of his ascension had been suppressed by the prospect of listening to his brothers. But with their pieces done, and with no plan to follow, the weight of what waited for him – the possibility of everything – struck him hard. At that very moment.
His breath became shallow. His heartbeats quickened. His vision blurred.
Dear Mar . . .
Then a palm collided with his cheek.
The chamber spun, as did Gerry, before he fell against the wall. He fought to regain his footing, but before he could, Symon pounced before him. His steady hands gripped his shoulders to hold him in place and prevent him from escaping.
“Don’t you ever do that again!”
“What?! You hit me!”
“I did. And I’d do it once more, or many times, if given the chance. But out there, when you’re on the throne or standing before court, I won’t be able to save you. Those shakes of yours, the bits of anxiety, why – Gerry, we are not princes anymore. We are kings. Kings. You can’t turn the coward or act the fool when the duties of the Throne overwhelm you. There are too many eyes on King Jameson at present, especially now that we the King have wed Taresa. You must . . . do all you can not to act. . . like you.”
Symon had never been so bold before. Sure, he had pulled Gerry away to offer counsel, or to correct his form during a sparring session. Even when he had admonished him in front of others, be it their siblings or the Voiceless, never had the frankness of his words overtaken his compassion.
Until now.
Those eyes could pierce a steel helm, their intensity more shocking than a fleet of arrows. By Mar, he doesn’t blink. He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m scared, Symon. I don’t know what to do.”
“I know. That doesn’t matter. No one knows what to do. Not one. Sure, every baron of Marland will beg a private audience with you, claiming their interests or keen insight should be elevated to your consideration. The Ibian barons will do the same, though because you are not their king, they will yell and argue for your attention. Not to mention the bishops, the mages, the commanders – Gerry, for all their confessed skills and instincts, they are children looking to their father for guidance, knowing their father hasn’t a clue on the evils ahead.”
“And you want me to be the father? To a kingdom? To our peoples?”
“You must, Gerry. We were born for this. To lead when we are lost. Tis our fate.”
Our fate? Or yours? Not that it made a difference, for Gerry knew the right of what Symon tried to say. Despite the apprehension in his gut, the end action would not change. He needed to take his Mar-given place at the Throne.
Gerry nodded. The gesture seemed to placate Symon, who eased his grip, allowing Gerry to shake free.
“I’ll help you prepare,” Symon offered.
“What of him?” Gerry asked, motioning to Ely.
“Let him be. Given his history with the bottle, he’s more prepared than us to recover from the bad effects of some serum and tea.”
The two withdrew to the barracks Felix had granted to Jameson for his retinue of personal guards. The vaulted brick chamber offered little in the way of comforts, with only one hearth for long hall capable of holding a hundred men and few alcoves for their arms. Nonetheless, as they always did, the muted guards had made the space as hospitable as possible. Adjacent to the hearth, the Voiceless had partitioned a section for the brothers, to allow them a smidge of privacy near the warmth. Gerry’s cot and his belongings rested against the corner. While he dressed in his regal fineries, Symon offered snippets of encouragement and advice, undoubtedly to save face after admonishing his little brother earlier. Although earnest in his efforts, Gerry still harbored the sting of his honesty, causing him to regard little of what his brother said. Until . . .
“Gerry, did you hear me? About Taresa?”
Gerry, shaking himself from his bitterness, perked. “What about her?”
“I said when you retire on your first night, take care to be gentle.”
“Gentle? Why?”
Symon sighed. He shifted in his seat on the cot. Gerry, not accustomed to seeing his soldier-of-a-brother unsettled, turned the whole of his body to face him.
“After the feast, we withdrew to the wedding chamber, like I said. Then I told you and Ely about rushing off to the fire, then the explosion at Castle Arinn.”
“Right.”
“What I failed to mention . . . The whole night was one of uncertainty. The bed, the act . . . prolonged . . . or put off . . . When I left our wedding chamber the night of the fire, I had not . . . done my duty.”
Gerry’s heart leapt. Is he possibly saying what I think? “Symon . . . Is Taresa still . . . unclaimed?”
Symon, never gracious in defeat, looked away.
By Mar. I will be her first, and she mine. “Thank you.”
Symon rose, muttering something incomprehensible.
“Does she, you know, expect anything, of Jameson?” Gerry asked as Symon opened the flap of the partition.
Symon paused, choosing his words carefully. “She needs a man.”
In other words, not me. “I understand.”
“A gentle man, as she lacks experience, but a man nonetheless.”
So I am to be a king, a hero, and a lover during this turn? Gerry reflected as Symon gestured to the opening. Gerry ducked under the parted flap before Symon followed after. He accompanied Gerry through the barracks then to the end of the hallway, where the main bailey and the rest of Castle Arinn waited beyond.
“I told Sir Everitt to wait just outside come morning, once he resumed his duties,” Symon offered. “I said I needed to stand on my own, to offer a few words of encouragement to the men and counsel each of them through the long night, without my retinue being present. He obliged, knowing I’d be safe among my men. He or a guard he assigned should be on the other side, ready to escort you.”
“Very well.”
“Good fortune to you,” Symon stated.
“I appreciate it, brother.”
Symon turned to march back down the hall. Gerry reached for the door ring, bracing himself for the fate awaiting him on the other side.
“Oh, and Gerry.”
Gerry glanced over his shoulder.
“Don’t embarrass us. As I did.”
Symon, solemn and doubtful, stared at his brother. Then, offering nothing else, he exited the hall.
Just another day in our kinghood, Gerry assured himself, as Symon had failed to do. Heart and mind racing, he opened the door to find his Right Captain standing at attention, just as Symon suspected he would.
“Are you well and ready, James?” Sir Everitt asked.
“Never better,” Gerry lied. “Now, take me to my queen.” 394Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyMgkQUKIER
