The hour was late. The crowd had cleared. The air had chilled.
Symon strolled the covered parapet, his head swimming from the night’s festivities. After the royal decree of his intended union had been made, he was urged to make the rounds with the barons once again. Slaps on the back and pats on the shoulder were aplenty. As was more talk of Symon’s prowess in bed, of Taresa’s supposed performance between the sheets, of the nights of ecstasy the two would have. A lesser man would have blushed through it all. However, Symon had learned long ago to keep his true feelings buried deep. Besides, the embarrassing talk was but a pebble compared to the mountain of effort he had exerted to defeat the Lewmarians.
From the parapet, he climbed the steps to the East Tower. He passed the two sentinels at the tower entrance, and more along the way to his room. None turned their heads as he approached or passed, nor nodded in his direction. Like statues, they remained upright, unassuming and attracting no attention to themselves.
At last, Symon reached the top room, his own. With the door shut behind him, he eyed his bed, contemplating a good night’s sleep.
Wait, he stopped himself. What night is this?
“Bloody Mar,” he muttered.
He wanted nothing more than to put off what he had to do until the morning. Or later the following evening. After all, what was another day?
Rather, his uncompromising sense of duty sent him trudging across the room to his private study.
Three times the size of his sleeping quarters, the study was an addition to the East Tower in the last days of the Century War, completed in the months following his birth. Arched windows of stained glass extended in a semi-circle on the top floor, where above a marble dome hung, sporting carved scenes of a royal hunt of elk, bear, and of course, fox. A spiral staircase led to the level below, where an ornate table of redwood and oak stood at the center. On both levels, lining every free space of the study, were collections of books and scrolls, all written in Marlish.
If the construction was done in haste, this augmentation to the castle had yet to show it, for Symon could find no signs of weathering or stress. An impressive feat, given that other parts of the royal residence were starting to reveal their use and age.
Symon briefly took in the grandeur he had grown up in. While the moonlight shone brightly, he paused to light a candle, taking it with him as he descended to the lower level. Orange glow and shadow danced on the walls as he found his way to the shelf directly beneath the staircase.
Though the candle flickered, Symon need no light for the books he chose. He grabbed the title on the second to the top shelf, one called Great Sieges & Battle Victories by Baron Symon of the long-gone Kin Dreus. He leaned the book toward him, so that it laid on the edge of its spine, and left it in place. He did the same with the titles Histories of Our Kin by Sir Dawkin of Har-Kin Ylou and The Tragedies of the Blessed by Baron Ely of Kin Rosaii. Finally, he reached for the book on the bottom shelf called The Marlish Fighter by Sir Geremias of Kin Paixton.
With all four books leaning outward, a series of clanks and creaks followed. Symon grimaced at the sound. We’ll have to oil them soon, he thought. They’re far past needing it.
The book shelf before him cracked open, revealing itself to be the façade to a hinged door. Symon ducked in, edging onto a walkway between a series of gears and springs, each one twisting and spinning as the door extended, then closed.
Symon continued on, his candle revealing a spiral stone staircase that led downward. He descended eight long flights before coming to a horizontal shaft that blew cold sea air into his face.
The salty breeze invigorated him as he cupped the flame of his candle. The hall curved, and Symon along with it, until he came upon a sentinel bearing a coat-of-arms of four robins on his breastplate.
The sentinel, with halberd tilted outward to prevent passage, made eye contact with Symon. He pulled his weapon back and stood aside.
The same dance of soldier and steel occurred further on, as the underground passage curved in the opposite direction, the salt air growing fresher as Symon proceeded. He passed five sentinels before the passage finally opened up into a wide hall carved from sandstone, one that sported adjacent rooms and supporting corridors.
Symon peeked into one of the rooms, a large meeting space with a four-pointed table at its center and with chairs at each corner. Save for the moonlight streaming in from a conical shaft above, the area was unlit. Symon, seeing it unoccupied, sighed in relief. Good. They didn’t wait up.
He made his way further down, passing a handful of closed doors, until he reached for the knob of one and entered. Like the meeting room, it too was dimly lit from a conical shaft above. Symon, his eyes having adjusted, blew out his candle. He threw off his vest and shirt, along with his boots. He pulled the curtain before the conical shaft, enveloping the whole of his room in darkness, before plopping into bed.
“Finally,” he whispered.
He allowed his eyelids to grow heavy, his own sense of guard lifted by knowing of the sentinels outside, by the walls around him.
“Is he still awake?”
The voice took care to whisper but it reached Symon’s ears all the same. He laid motionless, hoping the reply would grant him reprieve.
“He should be,” another answered.
“I thought I heard him stop by the Fourpointe Chamber,” said a third.
“Just poke your head inside and check.”
“The door will creak.”
“So?”
Symon sat up. “Oh, in the Name of Mar!” he exclaimed. “I can hear you.”
The door burst open, and with it, three familiar faces. All of them exactly like his.
“Don’t yell at them,” Ely pleaded half-heartedly, a devilish grin painted across his face. “I put them up to it.”
“I’m sorry, brother” Dawkin interjected. “Curiosity clearly got the better of us. We should have allowed you to sleep.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
“What happened?” asked Gerry, coming from behind the other two to point at Symon’s left cheek.
“A scratch. Nothing more.”
“Did the mage . . .”
“He did. The mark will stay.”
“Great,” Dawkin said. “You know what that means for us.”
“I do,” Symon replied, smirking. “Serves you right for waking me.”
Ely grabbed Symon’s shirt from the nearby chair and threw it to him. “Well, since we’re awake, you might as well tell us all about it.”
Symon mumbled incoherently as he dressed, his three brothers waiting by the door. When he was done, he wedged between them and out into the hallway toward their meeting area, with the others in tow.
The hour of the strong moon was upon them, for when Symon entered the Fourpointe Chamber, he found it brighter than when he had seen it before. His brothers went through the motions of lighting the sconces nonetheless. By the time they were done, the room radiated with rich, luminous color, as though it was outside during midday.
With the quarters aglow, Symon studied his brothers. Dawkin had no doubt been at his books again, for stubble had crept onto his face, in contrast to his otherwise immaculate appearance. As the one who prided himself for always being ready to ascend at a moment’s notice, he made sure to keep up his grooming and physique, as much as the resources of Terran allowed.
Ely, on the other hand, was clearly the most unkempt. The whiskers that sprouted from his chin could have doubled for a small horsehair brush, while the hair on his head appeared more like a dried mop than the receptacle for a princely crown. Symon could tell from the streaks in his locks that he had been experimenting with dyes and colorings again, reflecting his persistent interests in disguises. One day he will dye his hair a shade that will not wash out, Symon knew. On that day, we will all have to shave our heads.
For all the differences that Symon had picked out from his brothers, he could find none in Gerry. He had stayed as Symon had left him. Not surprising, for among the four of them he had the gift of remaining steadfast, specifically where his looks were concerned. All throughout their childhood, Gerry had lingered. His face, upon close inspection, stood out as the most angelic and unspoiled. It was a subtle observation, apparent to none except his identical brothers. Then there was his height, which lagged behind the other three, who sprouted in unison. The variation between Gerry and his brothers was past two inches, a gap that could not be ignored and had to be compensated with lifts in all his boots and footwear. Symon feared that as they entered their early twenties Gerry’s chance to grow further had passed, his stature destined to remain an impairment.
Ely searched the small tables that lined the chamber. “Gerry, where is the serum?” he asked. “And the tea?”
“It is at the ready,” Gerry replied, though from his tone it sounded as if he was not sure. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he hurried from the chamber.
“You really want to have a full truth session now?” Symon inquired.
“Are you that tired?” Dawkin replied. “It just turned the hour of the strong moon. Surely while you were on the outside you stayed up far past that.”
“I did. To ride and scout, then fight and ride back, all before attending a feast for buffoons and drunkards.”
“You sound so sour considering all the fun you have had,” Ely jested. “All the more reason for us to listen to you, to learn what has you in such a mood.”
“The source of my mood right now is simple: lack of proper sleep.”
“Soon enough, brother. Soon enough.” As Gerry entered with a tray of small bottles, cups, and kettle, along with a mortar and pestle, Ely turned to him. “Geremias.”
“Don’t call me that,” Gerry retorted.
“Good Mar! Are all my brothers in a mood tonight? Very well. Gerry, please prepare the truth serum with extra lavender and sweet hops, so that Symon here can rest well and hopefully . . . I say, hopefully . . . wake up in a better mood.”
Gerry scowled at Ely but complied. He placed his tray on the center table and went about using the pestle and mortar to grind blue rose petals, before adding the other ingredients.
While Gerry prepared the concoction, Symon took a seat on the couch at the west end of the chamber. “So what went on down here while I was gone?” he asked.
“Very little,” Dawkin answered. “In preparation of your return, I practiced my Lewmarian. Is it safe to say you brought back some prisoners?”
“Some and more,” Symon confirmed as he reclined, readying himself for the truth session.
“Oh, do tell,” Ely prodded him. “Anyone noteworthy?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Symon!”
“Fine, fine. The next time you ascend, you’ll find Warlord Konradt in our dungeon.”
That perked the interest of the three all at once. “The Warlord Konradt?” Ely asked.
“Son of Vice Warlord Videl?” Dawkin added. “One of the fiercest . . . nay, perhaps the fiercest Lewmarian warrior alive.”
“Yes. That Warlord Konradt.” Symon smirked.
Gerry turned from his tray, cradling a cup. He approached Symon. “It’s ready.”
Symon accepted the cup. In it, small dots of blue floated in an amber-colored syrup.
He looked up to find his brothers collecting around the tray, each one taking a cup for themselves.
“I made the memory tea stronger than usual,” Gerry assured Ely and Dawkin. “I suspect we’ll need to recall every detail of what Symon has to say.”
“Extra strong, you claim,” Ely repeated, sniffing the concoction in his cup. “It’s likely to give us a worse headache than usual.”
“You can handle it,” Gerry remarked.
“Brothers . . .” Dawkin said. “Princes. Let us do our duty.” Dawkin raised his cup in a toast. Ely and Gerry did likewise.
Symon looked on at them, then back to his cup. He raised it. “To Marland.”
He threw his head back and swallowed the whole of its contents in one gulp.
Once more, he told himself. We do this.408Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2VZB3BfGxH
