TWO
Freod
Uniformed in orange and crimson with a complementing round hat of orange felt, which earned the Polemars, the palace guards, the nickname Melon Heads, Captain Connlin stood behind the desk in his office. He leveled a stern eye on Lord Brant. Guards had caught up with Lord Darrin’s retinue by midday and had returned Brant to Dorlevan before nightfall.
“For your own safety, a guard will accompany you to all places at all times. His Majesty wills it.”
The arrangement, Brant soon discovered, was not that his guard accompanied him, but more often he accompanied his guard. Quig was the man’s name, a robust and gentle widower with a young son. Quig was almost as old as Prince Wesley, but paternal, and Brant felt an immediate bond with him. When the royal family did not deem Quig refined enough to share their table, Brant was just as willing to eat with him in the guards’ mess. It brought back to Brant pleasant memories of Dulcissime, his father’s ancestral home in rural Grenechey, where he had spent his early childhood happily playing in the dells with the sons and daughters of the tenant farmers. Quig and his fellow Polemars were a friendly lot, and Brant came to prefer their company to that of the royal family, which included the Ebrulfs.
“I dreamed last night,” Brant confided to Quig as he heaped a second helping of kidney pie onto his plate, “that Scieldsie were after me. The faster I tried to run, the slower I went, like I was running through knee-deep mud, though I know I was on solid ground. Horsemen were nearing: I could hear the clop of hoofs. Closer. Louder. I tried to crawl, I grasped at rocks and roots but still my legs would hardly move. Duke Eben was riding in the lead. He was mounted on a hideous horse with a scorpion’s tail. He reached down to seize me…that’s when I woke up.”
“Scieldsie,” Quig scowled. “Lucky it was only a dream. You wouldn’t want to know what would happen if they really caught you. Those prisons of theirs: totally inhuman. Ashland’s the worst. Scieldsie aren’t supposed to be police: that’s what the paladins are for. And we don’t need so many of them—they’re a ruddy second army now! No, they’re the King’s Personal Guard—that’s all. Only to protect the king. It’s not right, this business of them having courts and prisons of their own. I agree with General Sir Nelson: the Scieldsie’s too powerful.” He realized how loudly he had said this. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That’s what me and a lot of others think.”
With his dream still much on his mind, Brant lay awake that night, pondering his circumstances, contemplating what future awaited him. If his life were a chess game, what moves was Fate playing against him, and how should he counter? How close was he to being checkmated? He knew it would not be right away. No, King Durwin would not fail to keep him alive until he attained the age of majority. But after that, for how long? The boy rolled over and frowned. After his twenty-first birthday, his days would be numbered. Unless…unless? How to thwart Fate’s game when Fate controlled the board and made up the rules? He would have to cease his defensive game; he would have to take the offensive and check Fate’s king. But how?
He slipped out of bed and opened the mahogany wardrobe. From within he took out a scabbard of reseda leather, bound at the top by a wide band of etched silver and protected at the bottom by a complementing chape of etched steel. This was Freod, his father’s sword. Brant pulled out the blade and let the golden firelight play off its scarred surface, looking as if the blade itself were gold. The silver hilt that spiraled with gold to a gold-plated pommel had begun to tarnish. The sword was marvelously balanced, and it felt good in his hand. He brandished it. He would make Fate cower on her knees before such a swordsman, begging to be spared for cheating him.
The yearning to be away from Dorlevan wrung his heart. What was holding him back, he asked himself. His gaze traveled across his bedchamber. In the small anteroom of his suite slept Quig and his young son. They posed no real barrier. Brant sat down on the bed, tightly clutching the sword now sheathed again in its scabbard. Excitement tingled through him as he contemplated the idea of escape. Nothing rash like the luggage fiasco. No, this would be carefully planned.
He would head to Curlowen again, to the academy. No, not a good idea: the headmaster did what pleased the King…if King Durwin wanted Brant at Dorlevan, he would be returned. He could go to Dulcissime and live with his Uncle Garrett. No, the more he thought about it the more he realized that he could not stay there. Certainly as a stopover, but not to stay. It would be the first place the Scieldsie would look for him. But where else could he go where neither death threats nor Durwin’s command mattered? Logavine was a friendly kingdom and nearby, just over the mountains. Rudbekia and Ispezia had to be reached by boat. Brant doubted being a successful stowaway. And Joaillia…well, Joaillia was entirely out of the question. The only thing that could entice him to touch Joaillian soil would be if he were dumping a jando’s corpse on the beach—one preferably run through with Freod. Yes, in Logavine he would find welcome and aid; their masters would teach him the knightly arts, and later he would return, maybe with an army and a bride, to claim his inheritance.
His heart began to pound. He was really going to do it. Freedom frolicked beyond these confining walls. But so did danger. Capture by the Scieldsie would mean returning to this life awaiting death; capture by Eben’s Galsha Guard would mean instant death. But success would gain him a kingdom.
“For your own safety, a guard will accompany you to all places at all times. His Majesty wills it.”
The arrangement, Brant soon discovered, was not that his guard accompanied him, but more often he accompanied his guard. Quig was the man’s name, a robust and gentle widower with a young son. Quig was almost as old as Prince Wesley, but paternal, and Brant felt an immediate bond with him. When the royal family did not deem Quig refined enough to share their table, Brant was just as willing to eat with him in the guards’ mess. It brought back to Brant pleasant memories of Dulcissime, his father’s ancestral home in rural Grenechey, where he had spent his early childhood happily playing in the dells with the sons and daughters of the tenant farmers. Quig and his fellow Polemars were a friendly lot, and Brant came to prefer their company to that of the royal family, which included the Ebrulfs.
“I dreamed last night,” Brant confided to Quig as he heaped a second helping of kidney pie onto his plate, “that Scieldsie were after me. The faster I tried to run, the slower I went, like I was running through knee-deep mud, though I know I was on solid ground. Horsemen were nearing: I could hear the clop of hoofs. Closer. Louder. I tried to crawl, I grasped at rocks and roots but still my legs would hardly move. Duke Eben was riding in the lead. He was mounted on a hideous horse with a scorpion’s tail. He reached down to seize me…that’s when I woke up.”
“Scieldsie,” Quig scowled. “Lucky it was only a dream. You wouldn’t want to know what would happen if they really caught you. Those prisons of theirs: totally inhuman. Ashland’s the worst. Scieldsie aren’t supposed to be police: that’s what the paladins are for. And we don’t need so many of them—they’re a ruddy second army now! No, they’re the King’s Personal Guard—that’s all. Only to protect the king. It’s not right, this business of them having courts and prisons of their own. I agree with General Sir Nelson: the Scieldsie’s too powerful.” He realized how loudly he had said this. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That’s what me and a lot of others think.”
With his dream still much on his mind, Brant lay awake that night, pondering his circumstances, contemplating what future awaited him. If his life were a chess game, what moves was Fate playing against him, and how should he counter? How close was he to being checkmated? He knew it would not be right away. No, King Durwin would not fail to keep him alive until he attained the age of majority. But after that, for how long? The boy rolled over and frowned. After his twenty-first birthday, his days would be numbered. Unless…unless? How to thwart Fate’s game when Fate controlled the board and made up the rules? He would have to cease his defensive game; he would have to take the offensive and check Fate’s king. But how?
He slipped out of bed and opened the mahogany wardrobe. From within he took out a scabbard of reseda leather, bound at the top by a wide band of etched silver and protected at the bottom by a complementing chape of etched steel. This was Freod, his father’s sword. Brant pulled out the blade and let the golden firelight play off its scarred surface, looking as if the blade itself were gold. The silver hilt that spiraled with gold to a gold-plated pommel had begun to tarnish. The sword was marvelously balanced, and it felt good in his hand. He brandished it. He would make Fate cower on her knees before such a swordsman, begging to be spared for cheating him.
The yearning to be away from Dorlevan wrung his heart. What was holding him back, he asked himself. His gaze traveled across his bedchamber. In the small anteroom of his suite slept Quig and his young son. They posed no real barrier. Brant sat down on the bed, tightly clutching the sword now sheathed again in its scabbard. Excitement tingled through him as he contemplated the idea of escape. Nothing rash like the luggage fiasco. No, this would be carefully planned.
He would head to Curlowen again, to the academy. No, not a good idea: the headmaster did what pleased the King…if King Durwin wanted Brant at Dorlevan, he would be returned. He could go to Dulcissime and live with his Uncle Garrett. No, the more he thought about it the more he realized that he could not stay there. Certainly as a stopover, but not to stay. It would be the first place the Scieldsie would look for him. But where else could he go where neither death threats nor Durwin’s command mattered? Logavine was a friendly kingdom and nearby, just over the mountains. Rudbekia and Ispezia had to be reached by boat. Brant doubted being a successful stowaway. And Joaillia…well, Joaillia was entirely out of the question. The only thing that could entice him to touch Joaillian soil would be if he were dumping a jando’s corpse on the beach—one preferably run through with Freod. Yes, in Logavine he would find welcome and aid; their masters would teach him the knightly arts, and later he would return, maybe with an army and a bride, to claim his inheritance.
His heart began to pound. He was really going to do it. Freedom frolicked beyond these confining walls. But so did danger. Capture by the Scieldsie would mean returning to this life awaiting death; capture by Eben’s Galsha Guard would mean instant death. But success would gain him a kingdom.
* * *
Brant carefully laid his plans. For days he smuggled bread and cheese and fruit away from the table. Soon he would have enough for his journey. The day he chose for his escape was the day Quig would be visited by his mother, who was taking her grandson back to live with her.
It was a melancholy day for Quig. At dinner he ate nothing at all. Brant himself found he had no appetite. All who observed this took it as sympathy for his guard. Brant alone knew how his stomach fluttered with anticipation. All looked up when a man uniformed in the bright blue tunic of the Scieldsie made his way through the mess to Quig.
“Lord Muth would speak with you,” was the only explanation Quig got.
All eyes watched them exit. No one saw Brant cram a biscuit up his sleeve. An observant sergeant, however, did notice the baked apple that was set before the young lord.
“Stop that man!” he ordered guards to restrain a Polemar near the door. “Don’t eat that,” he also warned Brant. “Take him to the interrogation room. Inform Captain Connlin: looks like another assassin. Here,” he handed the baked apple to another Polemar, “feed some of this to the rats but also save some for our man there,” he motioned to the man in custody. “Escort His Lordship back to his suite,” he ordered two other guards.
Brant waited for night to come, the memory of the poisoned dessert still fresh in his mind; he would not feel safe until he was beyond Dorlevan, out of Galsha, out of Khryterdon. When the chapel bells sounded for matins, he would be gone.
Sword girded at his hip, his clothes and food packed in a satchel, he practiced walking noiselessly across the red and white glazed floor tiles. His hooded cloak billowed gently with his steps. It was fashioned of preshrunk wool, woven so tightly that it repelled wind and weather. Minutes crawled by. Then the bells tolled. Brant blew out the candle and tiptoed from the room, past the sleeping form on the bed in the anteroom.
“Just where do you think you’re sneaking to?”
Brant stopped more from surprise that the voice belonged to a man who was not Quig.
“Come along.”
Before Brant could resist in any way, the Polemar pushed him into the hallway. Brant pushed back and ran. He reached the Grand Staircase. It would take him to the main foyer; from the Grand Portico he could race along the westward path to the stables. Candlelight fractured his shadow and scattered it down the center flight of the staircase to the wall of the landing below. The yell of the Polemar sounded the alarm. Other Polemars from the main floor started up both the left and right branches to the landing, trapping Brant. The boy drew his sword. His onslaught was fierce but his inexperience betrayed his purpose. In short time the Polemars disarmed him and led him away.
Captain Connlin took the sword and opened the satchel. He shook his head in the manner of a disappointed father.
“My lord, we are well able to protect you. Indeed, we are dedicated to the preservation of your life. You only imperil yourself when you machinate against us.”
A shadow of the cynicism welling up in Brant surfaced in a faint smirk. He knew their noble dedication would cease the day he turned twenty-one.
With affected humility he mocked, “Yes, sir. My life is so much more pleasant lived under your protection. A thousand thanks.”
“I comprehend your annoyance with us. And I do not doubt that you will attempt this again seven ways to Sunday. Therefore, more secure lodging must be implemented. I regret the discomfort it may cause you, but it is for your own good. Take him to the holding cells. Cell #2 is vacant,” Connlin instructed the Polemar who had been in Quig’s bed.
“He will?—Who’s he?” Brant nodded at the Polemar.
“Darius. He’s Quig’s replacement.”
“Why? Where’s Quig?”
“On his way to Ashland, I presume. Lord Muth has no tolerance for careless tongues. As well he shouldn’t: loose-talkers have to be controlled or they’ll spread their ideas around and gather followers, and the next thing you know, up rises a villain like Luick, and we get here what happened in Joaillia.” Captain Connlin glanced pointedly at Darius to take the lesson to heart. To Brant he concluded, “You will reside in Cell #2 until the royal family leaves for the summer palace. His Majesty desires that you remain under the protection of his roof. Again, my apologies for your inconvenience.”
Lord Muth strode into Connlin’s office as Darius conducted Brant out. The Lord Chief of the Scieldsie was a gaunt middle-aged man with thinning hair, sunken cheeks and sharp eyes that perpetually glared down his pointy nose. Connlin, his junior by a dozen years, faced him with composure as Lord Muth shut the door.
Darius and his charge turned left down the passageway and crossed through the arch to the steps to the Mrahm dungeon, where a massive iron gate hung waiting to clamp its spiky teeth into the floor below. Fresh rue leaves covered the flagstones to protect the guards from the diseases thick in the unwholesome stench of the charnel prison, a yawning den of despair at the bottom of two sets of thirteen steps, at whose sanguine hearth fire instruments of torture glittered in the interrogation room. The reek, faint but increasing, assaulted them as they descended the first set of steps.
At the landing the Polemar and Brant turned left down the shallow hallway and strode to Holding Cell #2, a chamber about five by seven feet in dimension, furnished with only a cot and a table. Darius locked the boy within and returned to his post.
Weeks passed, and Brant’s discontent increased. The confinement of the small cell stifled him. Captain Connlin allowed him books and what amenities fit in the tiny space, as well as visitors, of which Adalia was a faithful one, but release alone would please Brant, and that the captain refused him.
It was a melancholy day for Quig. At dinner he ate nothing at all. Brant himself found he had no appetite. All who observed this took it as sympathy for his guard. Brant alone knew how his stomach fluttered with anticipation. All looked up when a man uniformed in the bright blue tunic of the Scieldsie made his way through the mess to Quig.
“Lord Muth would speak with you,” was the only explanation Quig got.
All eyes watched them exit. No one saw Brant cram a biscuit up his sleeve. An observant sergeant, however, did notice the baked apple that was set before the young lord.
“Stop that man!” he ordered guards to restrain a Polemar near the door. “Don’t eat that,” he also warned Brant. “Take him to the interrogation room. Inform Captain Connlin: looks like another assassin. Here,” he handed the baked apple to another Polemar, “feed some of this to the rats but also save some for our man there,” he motioned to the man in custody. “Escort His Lordship back to his suite,” he ordered two other guards.
Brant waited for night to come, the memory of the poisoned dessert still fresh in his mind; he would not feel safe until he was beyond Dorlevan, out of Galsha, out of Khryterdon. When the chapel bells sounded for matins, he would be gone.
Sword girded at his hip, his clothes and food packed in a satchel, he practiced walking noiselessly across the red and white glazed floor tiles. His hooded cloak billowed gently with his steps. It was fashioned of preshrunk wool, woven so tightly that it repelled wind and weather. Minutes crawled by. Then the bells tolled. Brant blew out the candle and tiptoed from the room, past the sleeping form on the bed in the anteroom.
“Just where do you think you’re sneaking to?”
Brant stopped more from surprise that the voice belonged to a man who was not Quig.
“Come along.”
Before Brant could resist in any way, the Polemar pushed him into the hallway. Brant pushed back and ran. He reached the Grand Staircase. It would take him to the main foyer; from the Grand Portico he could race along the westward path to the stables. Candlelight fractured his shadow and scattered it down the center flight of the staircase to the wall of the landing below. The yell of the Polemar sounded the alarm. Other Polemars from the main floor started up both the left and right branches to the landing, trapping Brant. The boy drew his sword. His onslaught was fierce but his inexperience betrayed his purpose. In short time the Polemars disarmed him and led him away.
Captain Connlin took the sword and opened the satchel. He shook his head in the manner of a disappointed father.
“My lord, we are well able to protect you. Indeed, we are dedicated to the preservation of your life. You only imperil yourself when you machinate against us.”
A shadow of the cynicism welling up in Brant surfaced in a faint smirk. He knew their noble dedication would cease the day he turned twenty-one.
With affected humility he mocked, “Yes, sir. My life is so much more pleasant lived under your protection. A thousand thanks.”
“I comprehend your annoyance with us. And I do not doubt that you will attempt this again seven ways to Sunday. Therefore, more secure lodging must be implemented. I regret the discomfort it may cause you, but it is for your own good. Take him to the holding cells. Cell #2 is vacant,” Connlin instructed the Polemar who had been in Quig’s bed.
“He will?—Who’s he?” Brant nodded at the Polemar.
“Darius. He’s Quig’s replacement.”
“Why? Where’s Quig?”
“On his way to Ashland, I presume. Lord Muth has no tolerance for careless tongues. As well he shouldn’t: loose-talkers have to be controlled or they’ll spread their ideas around and gather followers, and the next thing you know, up rises a villain like Luick, and we get here what happened in Joaillia.” Captain Connlin glanced pointedly at Darius to take the lesson to heart. To Brant he concluded, “You will reside in Cell #2 until the royal family leaves for the summer palace. His Majesty desires that you remain under the protection of his roof. Again, my apologies for your inconvenience.”
Lord Muth strode into Connlin’s office as Darius conducted Brant out. The Lord Chief of the Scieldsie was a gaunt middle-aged man with thinning hair, sunken cheeks and sharp eyes that perpetually glared down his pointy nose. Connlin, his junior by a dozen years, faced him with composure as Lord Muth shut the door.
Darius and his charge turned left down the passageway and crossed through the arch to the steps to the Mrahm dungeon, where a massive iron gate hung waiting to clamp its spiky teeth into the floor below. Fresh rue leaves covered the flagstones to protect the guards from the diseases thick in the unwholesome stench of the charnel prison, a yawning den of despair at the bottom of two sets of thirteen steps, at whose sanguine hearth fire instruments of torture glittered in the interrogation room. The reek, faint but increasing, assaulted them as they descended the first set of steps.
At the landing the Polemar and Brant turned left down the shallow hallway and strode to Holding Cell #2, a chamber about five by seven feet in dimension, furnished with only a cot and a table. Darius locked the boy within and returned to his post.
Weeks passed, and Brant’s discontent increased. The confinement of the small cell stifled him. Captain Connlin allowed him books and what amenities fit in the tiny space, as well as visitors, of which Adalia was a faithful one, but release alone would please Brant, and that the captain refused him.
* * *
In the dark, cavernous furnace room beneath the palace a pair of grimy, lean-faced convicts dumped more fuel into the furnace’s low-arching mouth to be digested in the stench and smoke of its combustible entrails. The furnace thundered its hunger, sweating out blistering snakes of heat from the scorched belly of its brick frame.
The great leather lung beside the furnace, winding its ferocious voice, fell…rose and fell…in rhythm with the chain straining from the U-shaped link bolted to the pumping bar overhead. Thick and sturdy, brown from innumerable years of abuse, the iron links gleamed brighter at the bottom where Brant’s hands labored. The sweltering air pressed its thickened mass against every inch of Brant’s body, adding weight to the chain with every pull. His forearms ached. Dirty sweat streaked his face and clumped his hair in strings at his neck. His frayed linen shirt had the look and feel of a rag wrung in molasses. In and out…his breaths labored with the bellows.
Eyes that until recently had sparkled with adventure and jollity now glared as sourly as the odor that hung about him, here amid penal fire, bound to pull at adamant chains. And for what? For pitching a plate of rye bread against the wall in the Polemars’ mess hall. Brant gazed darkly at the furnace.
How he would love to heap these burning coals on the King’s head! Even better would be if these flames were Durwin’s funeral pyre, broad and deep with kindling and wood in abundance and billows of smoke as rank as sulfur rising for endless days. Spitting, Brant vowed that one day he would repay King Durwin for every pain and degradation he now suffered. With interest!
A hand gripped the chain midway up. It yanked both the links from the boy’s hands and the thought from his head. The hand belonged to Darius. Brant could return to his cell now.
The boy dropped onto his cot, too tired for anything but a haze of vague memories of days when he could freely hike and explore the forest around the palace. Fragmented plans for escape faded in and out like sunshine behind clouds. From the shallow hallway he heard the sound of keys jangling accompanied by a girl’s humming. Lady Adalia was coming to visit. He groaned: he wanted to be alone.
Lady Adalia swept in and waited for Darius to relock the door and leave. She grinned at Brant. He did not look up.
“Ah-hem! Is not my gown prettier than the last one?”
“I am speechless.”
“You’re not even looking at it.”
He raised an eye to her frock of carnation pink.
“Spectacular,” he mumbled blandly.
Adalia smiled with pleasure nonetheless.
“I hate this place.”
“Of course you do. How could anyone not hate this smelly little box.”
He smirked in spite of himself. “I meant Dorlevan. And to what do I owe the honor of this visit? My charms, such as they are? Or are you avoiding Halsey again?”
She hesitated.
“Moss! Moss! Moss! Moss! Moss!” he jeered. “When you’re married to him it’s going to be moss, moss, moss all day and night!”
“Do not say that—not even in jest. It will never happen. I shall never marry against my wishes. I would rip the contract in their faces. I am not a spineless weakling!”
“Of course you aren’t. Woe to anyone who thinks otherwise,” said Brant soothingly, suddenly concluding that taunting her right now was not expedient. “Know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about that day we were out there in the forest and found the hidden exit to those ancient tunnels. Remember that?”
Adalia remembered.
“Those were good times,” Brant continued. “We’d be gone all day, and no one knew where we were, not even Uncle Latimer.” He grinned at the irritation it used to cause his uncle. “Great fun for a twelve year old.”
“How about me! I was only ten!”
“Remember pretending I was the World’s Greatest Knight, and you were the Princess?”
Adalia smiled at the memory. “I was taken prisoner by Joaillians, and you rescued me.”
“I slew a thousand of them!” Brant leaped up and pantomimed crossing swords with numerous opponents. “Do you know where they put Da’s sword? They took it when they jugged me in here.”
Adalia shook her head.
Brant sat down again. The clouds suddenly parted, and a brilliant plan shone through, lighting up his mind. He chose his words carefully, “Don’t you think it would be great fun if we could do something like that again—pretend the World’s Greatest Knight and the Princess were on a mission of intrigue and adventure?”
“It would be grand. Halsey’s a bore. And Elisia…” she wrinkled her nose “…I would rather be shaved bald than even talk to her.”
“Why don’t we invent another adventure! Just like the old days. Hmm…let me see…I know: The World’s Greatest Knight commissions the Princess to retrieve secret information for him. Find out how often the Melon Heads patrol the palace.”
Adalia avidly agreed.
“You must be careful to let no one know about this mission.”
“Fear not, Sir Knight, thou knoweth well my skill.”
“I’m serious, Adalia. You must be careful so that no one even suspects what you are doing. Understand?”
His tone surprised her.
“It is just a game.” The girl eyed him curiously. “No, you are plotting something, aren’t you. What?”
“Escape,” he admitted ever so reluctantly. “I cannot stand this any longer. I have to get out of here. I’m going to live in Logavine.”
“You cannot live there as an exile,” Adalia protested.
“I cannot live here as a prisoner!”
She shook her head. “Nothing could persuade me to cross the wilderness. How do you plan to get out of here?” She gestured to the cell.
“I have my ideas.”
“Tell me.”
“Not now.”
“Please!”
“When you can give me the positions and schedules of the Melon Heads, then I will tell you the next part of my plan.”
Adalia was not sure she liked the deal; she wanted to know everything now. But he left her no choice.
“May stealth and cunning keen guide thee and cloak thy steps, Princess.”
“Verily, Sir Knight, I shall not fail.”
After a week of observations, Adalia returned and flatly gave him his information. She demanded to know his plans. He showed her the lock. Unlike the Mrahm cells, which were padlocked from the outside, the holding cells had standard keyholes.
“I will need a key.” Before Adalia could protest, Brant continued, “I do not expect you to get me one. A key is the sort of thing that would be readily missed. But if you could get me a tool, I could use it like a key, that would do.”
The great leather lung beside the furnace, winding its ferocious voice, fell…rose and fell…in rhythm with the chain straining from the U-shaped link bolted to the pumping bar overhead. Thick and sturdy, brown from innumerable years of abuse, the iron links gleamed brighter at the bottom where Brant’s hands labored. The sweltering air pressed its thickened mass against every inch of Brant’s body, adding weight to the chain with every pull. His forearms ached. Dirty sweat streaked his face and clumped his hair in strings at his neck. His frayed linen shirt had the look and feel of a rag wrung in molasses. In and out…his breaths labored with the bellows.
Eyes that until recently had sparkled with adventure and jollity now glared as sourly as the odor that hung about him, here amid penal fire, bound to pull at adamant chains. And for what? For pitching a plate of rye bread against the wall in the Polemars’ mess hall. Brant gazed darkly at the furnace.
How he would love to heap these burning coals on the King’s head! Even better would be if these flames were Durwin’s funeral pyre, broad and deep with kindling and wood in abundance and billows of smoke as rank as sulfur rising for endless days. Spitting, Brant vowed that one day he would repay King Durwin for every pain and degradation he now suffered. With interest!
A hand gripped the chain midway up. It yanked both the links from the boy’s hands and the thought from his head. The hand belonged to Darius. Brant could return to his cell now.
The boy dropped onto his cot, too tired for anything but a haze of vague memories of days when he could freely hike and explore the forest around the palace. Fragmented plans for escape faded in and out like sunshine behind clouds. From the shallow hallway he heard the sound of keys jangling accompanied by a girl’s humming. Lady Adalia was coming to visit. He groaned: he wanted to be alone.
Lady Adalia swept in and waited for Darius to relock the door and leave. She grinned at Brant. He did not look up.
“Ah-hem! Is not my gown prettier than the last one?”
“I am speechless.”
“You’re not even looking at it.”
He raised an eye to her frock of carnation pink.
“Spectacular,” he mumbled blandly.
Adalia smiled with pleasure nonetheless.
“I hate this place.”
“Of course you do. How could anyone not hate this smelly little box.”
He smirked in spite of himself. “I meant Dorlevan. And to what do I owe the honor of this visit? My charms, such as they are? Or are you avoiding Halsey again?”
She hesitated.
“Moss! Moss! Moss! Moss! Moss!” he jeered. “When you’re married to him it’s going to be moss, moss, moss all day and night!”
“Do not say that—not even in jest. It will never happen. I shall never marry against my wishes. I would rip the contract in their faces. I am not a spineless weakling!”
“Of course you aren’t. Woe to anyone who thinks otherwise,” said Brant soothingly, suddenly concluding that taunting her right now was not expedient. “Know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about that day we were out there in the forest and found the hidden exit to those ancient tunnels. Remember that?”
Adalia remembered.
“Those were good times,” Brant continued. “We’d be gone all day, and no one knew where we were, not even Uncle Latimer.” He grinned at the irritation it used to cause his uncle. “Great fun for a twelve year old.”
“How about me! I was only ten!”
“Remember pretending I was the World’s Greatest Knight, and you were the Princess?”
Adalia smiled at the memory. “I was taken prisoner by Joaillians, and you rescued me.”
“I slew a thousand of them!” Brant leaped up and pantomimed crossing swords with numerous opponents. “Do you know where they put Da’s sword? They took it when they jugged me in here.”
Adalia shook her head.
Brant sat down again. The clouds suddenly parted, and a brilliant plan shone through, lighting up his mind. He chose his words carefully, “Don’t you think it would be great fun if we could do something like that again—pretend the World’s Greatest Knight and the Princess were on a mission of intrigue and adventure?”
“It would be grand. Halsey’s a bore. And Elisia…” she wrinkled her nose “…I would rather be shaved bald than even talk to her.”
“Why don’t we invent another adventure! Just like the old days. Hmm…let me see…I know: The World’s Greatest Knight commissions the Princess to retrieve secret information for him. Find out how often the Melon Heads patrol the palace.”
Adalia avidly agreed.
“You must be careful to let no one know about this mission.”
“Fear not, Sir Knight, thou knoweth well my skill.”
“I’m serious, Adalia. You must be careful so that no one even suspects what you are doing. Understand?”
His tone surprised her.
“It is just a game.” The girl eyed him curiously. “No, you are plotting something, aren’t you. What?”
“Escape,” he admitted ever so reluctantly. “I cannot stand this any longer. I have to get out of here. I’m going to live in Logavine.”
“You cannot live there as an exile,” Adalia protested.
“I cannot live here as a prisoner!”
She shook her head. “Nothing could persuade me to cross the wilderness. How do you plan to get out of here?” She gestured to the cell.
“I have my ideas.”
“Tell me.”
“Not now.”
“Please!”
“When you can give me the positions and schedules of the Melon Heads, then I will tell you the next part of my plan.”
Adalia was not sure she liked the deal; she wanted to know everything now. But he left her no choice.
“May stealth and cunning keen guide thee and cloak thy steps, Princess.”
“Verily, Sir Knight, I shall not fail.”
After a week of observations, Adalia returned and flatly gave him his information. She demanded to know his plans. He showed her the lock. Unlike the Mrahm cells, which were padlocked from the outside, the holding cells had standard keyholes.
“I will need a key.” Before Adalia could protest, Brant continued, “I do not expect you to get me one. A key is the sort of thing that would be readily missed. But if you could get me a tool, I could use it like a key, that would do.”
* * *
Each spring when the lake was free of ice the Duke and Duchess of Mheyphain paid an official visit to the palace. The day was perfect for riding. The court delighted in guiding their bell-laden mounts along the riding paths serpentining through the dense walnut woodlands. They made their way to the southern shore of the great emerald Lake Nuhilyv and then back across the gently rolling acres of lawn to Dorlevan Palace, poised like a smoky black crystal of morion quartz amid a velvet landscape. On the far shore of Lake Nuhilyv, foothills of the Mheyphainian Mountains rose like the backs of gigantic beasts crawling from the lake. Beyond, the heads of the lower Mheyphainians, wrapped in violet vapor, gazed sagelike on the dormant vale. Afterwards, Adalia lingered in the stable to groom her palfrey. On the ground she found an old nail. It was not key-shaped, nor a tool per se, but it was long, and Brant accepted it with appreciation, certain he could conform it to his need.
The key to Holding Cell #2 had a single hooked tooth shaped like a squat and boxy numeral 5. It occurred to Brant as he worked to shape the nail, heating the iron over his candle and bending it against the metal hinges of the door, that he would need a safe place to hide it. The ledge of the door frame being too obvious, he decided to keep it behind a loosened stone in the wall. He selected one positioned just above his head. When the mortar chunks were replaced, it looked no different from the overall disrepair of the cell walls.
The night the nail turned the lock, Brant put the information Adalia had given him regarding the patrols to the test. He crept down the shallow, torchlit hallway to the connecting Mrahm stairwell. Footsteps ascended the Mrahm steps to his left. Brant flattened himself against the wall. Methodically a Polemar crossed the landing and continued up the stairs. Brant followed.
Along the passageway beyond the dungeon’s mouth, Brant passed Connlin’s office as he crept toward the circular turret staircase. There he stopped, uncertain which direction to take: up the stairs, or to his left past the formal entrance doors to the Woods Hall along the north side of the colonnade whose arched windows viewed the center terrace along its south side? He decided to indulge his trial expedition with a visit to the grand chambers at the western end of the colonnade.
Brant stopped first at the Dining Salon where the royal family ate informally, then down through the comfortable Green Salon to the Galsha Suite, a formal sitting room whose far door opened to the Grand Foyer and Staircase; guests would gather in the Galsha Suite before dinner or when awaiting an audience with His Majesty. Brant next haunted the connecting Music Chamber. At the silent organ, he ran his fingers over the keys. In his head he went through a few etudes and then moved on. An elderly servant carrying an alabaster goblet of refined sugar stopped and observed a boy cautiously exiting the Galsha Suite. He would inform his master, Prince Wesley.
Back in his cell, Brant lay back and reviewed his jaunt with giddy satisfaction. Its ease made him confident. He sat up suddenly and flung a blanket in disgust: after all that, he had forgotten to look for his father’s sword.
Minutes later, Brant was back at the landing, prying open the door to the weapons storage room. When he found that Freod was not on the racks or pegs, he nearly wailed in disappointment. He had been so certain. Where did they put it? Brant could think of only one other place to look: the Scieldsie weapons ambry below the kitchen next to the Polemars’ mess hall.
Brant’s search ended before it began: a locked gate secured the storage room. For the key, he would have to search the office of the Lord Chief of the Scieldsie up on the second floor. Lord Muth’s inconvenient presence in his office forced the boy to delay until tomorrow.
The next morning Adalia strode into Holding Cell #2, but the sight before her blanched the animated flush on her cheeks. There on Brant’s cot lay a form shrouded head to foot with a brown plain weave blanket. The form did not move, did not seem to breathe. Cautiously she approached.
“Brant?” she tried to sound calm and cheerful.
She reached her hand forward, withdrew timidly, then gaining courage slowly drew a corner of the blanket from the head. The boy’s face and his closed eyes were rigidly immobile. But a sudden movement sent the blanket back over his head. Adalia stepped back in surprise. She put her hands to her hips: he was just playing games.
“Brant, get up. I have something to tell you.”
When no reply came, she strode forward and again pulled back the blanket.
He imitated the throes and sounds of strangulation, collapsed and flung the blanket again over himself.
“Brant…”
Silence.
The girl looked to the door. “Brant…”
As yet no footsteps approached from the hallway but she knew that would soon change. She wrung her hands in distress.
“Please, Brant. When they find that nail it won’t take them a minute to trace it back to me.”
“What nail?” spoke the corpse.
“You know very well of what I am speaking.” She scanned the cell. “Where did you hide it?”
Again the shrouded form was silent.
“Brant!”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I am involved in this up to my eyebrows; I have a right to know.”
“Leave me alone.”
“When Prince Wesley gets here, you’ll be sorry.”
He lowered the shroud. “What about Prince Wesley?”
Now that she had his attention, Adalia was tempted to tease him by withholding her information. But as she was an accomplice, prudence would not let her endanger herself for spite.
“Prince Wesley is on his way down here right now.”
“Why?”
“Because some servant claims he saw you outside the Galsha Suite last night.”
Brant cast off the blanket in alarm.
“When he finds that nail it will not take him a minute to trace it back to me. I was careful—how come you could not have been more careful. Now look what you have done.”
“They will not find it. It is too well hidden.”
“Do not underestimate Prince Wesley, Brant.”
“Trust me—everything will be fine. He will never find it.”
“Where did you hide it?”
“Never mind.”
“I need to know.”
“No. It is better this way. If you are questioned, you can answer truthfully that you do not know.”
Adalia was about to protest when Brant held up his hand for silence. There were voices in the hallway. The boy picked up the Psalter by his lamp and read to her in an instructive tone: Nolite confidere in principibus…tunc peribunt omnia consilia eius…
As the door opened, Adalia met the duke and Polemars with an innocent grin. Prince Wesley was about to dismiss her but paused.
“Conduct her to the Duchess’ chambers. Instruct the maids to search her garments.”
Other guards hauled Brant from the cell and frisked him. Pearls and jet, embroidered extravagantly on the duke’s red velvet robe, shimmered in the weak light as he watched. Periodically he waved an herbal bouquet in front of his face to purify the foul air. His intense eyes shifted from the guards searching the cell to Brant. The duke glowered. He had always despised the son of the woman who had appeared to be his sweet fiancée only to break their marriage contract without warning and then choose a landless cavalier to sire the throne-heir! The existence of this son of a mullet-escutcheoned jouster impeded Halsey’s right to inherit the entire kingdom.
“What are you looking for?”
The duke looked down at Brant.
“That innocent smirk is a thin disguise, boy. I know that you have a key. And when I find it, I will gladly whip the living hide off you.”
“You will not. These men are under the King’s strictest orders not to allow anyone to so much as bruise me.”
The duke curled his lip.
“His Majesty gave me leave to employ any means whatsoever to obtain that key. And I shall.” He stretched the truth to frighten Brant and became annoyed when the boy maintained his swaggering stance. Prince Wesley glowered. “Tell me where you have hidden it.”
Brant shrugged.
“I have no key. I have not held a key in my hands in months. Your mind must be hallucinating in its old age.”
The duke’s face reddened. He smacked Brant sharply across the face with the back of his hand. Temper stirred, Brant struggled to hit the man, but the guards held him. Prince Wesley backed away several paces, reviling Brant under his breath.
The guards reported a fruitless search of the cell. The duke slapped the herbal bouquet against his palm and began to pace. Two other Polemars arrived on the landing. Lady Adalia had no key, they reported. Furious, Prince Wesley ordered a fresh search of the cell.
“You can search it twenty times,” Brant boasted, “and you will still find nothing.”
Prince Wesley turned on him, “Your insolence rattles my nerves. I know that you have a key, and I know that you have hidden it in there.” He assessed the boy. “You lie so easily; it is second nature to you. Falseness is in your blood. You are the true farrow of a cruel seductress. You even resemble her.”
The duke put a finger to Brant’s overgrown hair.
The insults inflamed Brant. He struggled to free himself and attack the duke. Prince Wesley stood beyond Brant’s reach. The boy would not go unavenged, and he spat in the face of the Duke of Lairenkin. Outraged, Prince Wesley recalled the guards from the cell. He ordered them to take the boy to Mrahm’s interrogation room. Prince Wesley followed, eager to feel the whip in his hand.
Brant spent the night in the infirmary.
His torn flesh carefully dressed and bandaged, he moaned like a dove as he lay prone on the bed, wondering if Prince Wesley would have made an end of him had not Captain Connlin stepped between him and the whip. He shuddered at what would have happened had Freod been found in his cell. However, he still planned to search again. He had set his escape for a week from tomorrow: the night preceding the royal departure, and he was not leaving without the sword. It was his last link to a past that was rapidly becoming as faint as a child’s whisper in a thundering storm.
The key to Holding Cell #2 had a single hooked tooth shaped like a squat and boxy numeral 5. It occurred to Brant as he worked to shape the nail, heating the iron over his candle and bending it against the metal hinges of the door, that he would need a safe place to hide it. The ledge of the door frame being too obvious, he decided to keep it behind a loosened stone in the wall. He selected one positioned just above his head. When the mortar chunks were replaced, it looked no different from the overall disrepair of the cell walls.
The night the nail turned the lock, Brant put the information Adalia had given him regarding the patrols to the test. He crept down the shallow, torchlit hallway to the connecting Mrahm stairwell. Footsteps ascended the Mrahm steps to his left. Brant flattened himself against the wall. Methodically a Polemar crossed the landing and continued up the stairs. Brant followed.
Along the passageway beyond the dungeon’s mouth, Brant passed Connlin’s office as he crept toward the circular turret staircase. There he stopped, uncertain which direction to take: up the stairs, or to his left past the formal entrance doors to the Woods Hall along the north side of the colonnade whose arched windows viewed the center terrace along its south side? He decided to indulge his trial expedition with a visit to the grand chambers at the western end of the colonnade.
Brant stopped first at the Dining Salon where the royal family ate informally, then down through the comfortable Green Salon to the Galsha Suite, a formal sitting room whose far door opened to the Grand Foyer and Staircase; guests would gather in the Galsha Suite before dinner or when awaiting an audience with His Majesty. Brant next haunted the connecting Music Chamber. At the silent organ, he ran his fingers over the keys. In his head he went through a few etudes and then moved on. An elderly servant carrying an alabaster goblet of refined sugar stopped and observed a boy cautiously exiting the Galsha Suite. He would inform his master, Prince Wesley.
Back in his cell, Brant lay back and reviewed his jaunt with giddy satisfaction. Its ease made him confident. He sat up suddenly and flung a blanket in disgust: after all that, he had forgotten to look for his father’s sword.
Minutes later, Brant was back at the landing, prying open the door to the weapons storage room. When he found that Freod was not on the racks or pegs, he nearly wailed in disappointment. He had been so certain. Where did they put it? Brant could think of only one other place to look: the Scieldsie weapons ambry below the kitchen next to the Polemars’ mess hall.
Brant’s search ended before it began: a locked gate secured the storage room. For the key, he would have to search the office of the Lord Chief of the Scieldsie up on the second floor. Lord Muth’s inconvenient presence in his office forced the boy to delay until tomorrow.
The next morning Adalia strode into Holding Cell #2, but the sight before her blanched the animated flush on her cheeks. There on Brant’s cot lay a form shrouded head to foot with a brown plain weave blanket. The form did not move, did not seem to breathe. Cautiously she approached.
“Brant?” she tried to sound calm and cheerful.
She reached her hand forward, withdrew timidly, then gaining courage slowly drew a corner of the blanket from the head. The boy’s face and his closed eyes were rigidly immobile. But a sudden movement sent the blanket back over his head. Adalia stepped back in surprise. She put her hands to her hips: he was just playing games.
“Brant, get up. I have something to tell you.”
When no reply came, she strode forward and again pulled back the blanket.
He imitated the throes and sounds of strangulation, collapsed and flung the blanket again over himself.
“Brant…”
Silence.
The girl looked to the door. “Brant…”
As yet no footsteps approached from the hallway but she knew that would soon change. She wrung her hands in distress.
“Please, Brant. When they find that nail it won’t take them a minute to trace it back to me.”
“What nail?” spoke the corpse.
“You know very well of what I am speaking.” She scanned the cell. “Where did you hide it?”
Again the shrouded form was silent.
“Brant!”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I am involved in this up to my eyebrows; I have a right to know.”
“Leave me alone.”
“When Prince Wesley gets here, you’ll be sorry.”
He lowered the shroud. “What about Prince Wesley?”
Now that she had his attention, Adalia was tempted to tease him by withholding her information. But as she was an accomplice, prudence would not let her endanger herself for spite.
“Prince Wesley is on his way down here right now.”
“Why?”
“Because some servant claims he saw you outside the Galsha Suite last night.”
Brant cast off the blanket in alarm.
“When he finds that nail it will not take him a minute to trace it back to me. I was careful—how come you could not have been more careful. Now look what you have done.”
“They will not find it. It is too well hidden.”
“Do not underestimate Prince Wesley, Brant.”
“Trust me—everything will be fine. He will never find it.”
“Where did you hide it?”
“Never mind.”
“I need to know.”
“No. It is better this way. If you are questioned, you can answer truthfully that you do not know.”
Adalia was about to protest when Brant held up his hand for silence. There were voices in the hallway. The boy picked up the Psalter by his lamp and read to her in an instructive tone: Nolite confidere in principibus…tunc peribunt omnia consilia eius…
As the door opened, Adalia met the duke and Polemars with an innocent grin. Prince Wesley was about to dismiss her but paused.
“Conduct her to the Duchess’ chambers. Instruct the maids to search her garments.”
Other guards hauled Brant from the cell and frisked him. Pearls and jet, embroidered extravagantly on the duke’s red velvet robe, shimmered in the weak light as he watched. Periodically he waved an herbal bouquet in front of his face to purify the foul air. His intense eyes shifted from the guards searching the cell to Brant. The duke glowered. He had always despised the son of the woman who had appeared to be his sweet fiancée only to break their marriage contract without warning and then choose a landless cavalier to sire the throne-heir! The existence of this son of a mullet-escutcheoned jouster impeded Halsey’s right to inherit the entire kingdom.
“What are you looking for?”
The duke looked down at Brant.
“That innocent smirk is a thin disguise, boy. I know that you have a key. And when I find it, I will gladly whip the living hide off you.”
“You will not. These men are under the King’s strictest orders not to allow anyone to so much as bruise me.”
The duke curled his lip.
“His Majesty gave me leave to employ any means whatsoever to obtain that key. And I shall.” He stretched the truth to frighten Brant and became annoyed when the boy maintained his swaggering stance. Prince Wesley glowered. “Tell me where you have hidden it.”
Brant shrugged.
“I have no key. I have not held a key in my hands in months. Your mind must be hallucinating in its old age.”
The duke’s face reddened. He smacked Brant sharply across the face with the back of his hand. Temper stirred, Brant struggled to hit the man, but the guards held him. Prince Wesley backed away several paces, reviling Brant under his breath.
The guards reported a fruitless search of the cell. The duke slapped the herbal bouquet against his palm and began to pace. Two other Polemars arrived on the landing. Lady Adalia had no key, they reported. Furious, Prince Wesley ordered a fresh search of the cell.
“You can search it twenty times,” Brant boasted, “and you will still find nothing.”
Prince Wesley turned on him, “Your insolence rattles my nerves. I know that you have a key, and I know that you have hidden it in there.” He assessed the boy. “You lie so easily; it is second nature to you. Falseness is in your blood. You are the true farrow of a cruel seductress. You even resemble her.”
The duke put a finger to Brant’s overgrown hair.
The insults inflamed Brant. He struggled to free himself and attack the duke. Prince Wesley stood beyond Brant’s reach. The boy would not go unavenged, and he spat in the face of the Duke of Lairenkin. Outraged, Prince Wesley recalled the guards from the cell. He ordered them to take the boy to Mrahm’s interrogation room. Prince Wesley followed, eager to feel the whip in his hand.
Brant spent the night in the infirmary.
His torn flesh carefully dressed and bandaged, he moaned like a dove as he lay prone on the bed, wondering if Prince Wesley would have made an end of him had not Captain Connlin stepped between him and the whip. He shuddered at what would have happened had Freod been found in his cell. However, he still planned to search again. He had set his escape for a week from tomorrow: the night preceding the royal departure, and he was not leaving without the sword. It was his last link to a past that was rapidly becoming as faint as a child’s whisper in a thundering storm.
* * *
As Queen Edlyn’s niece and heiress to her properties, Lady Adalia Erentrude was the most eligible maiden at court. Since the tragic deaths of her parents, Lady Marianna and Lord Joseph, years ago in a fire that engulfed her family home, she was also the King’s ward. The Duke of Grenechey and the Lord of Mindarev were among those quietly lobbying the childless King to legally adopt the girl and elevate her to Crown Princess, a move also favored by Queen Edlyn and the Count of Hanfordstev. Knowing how many families sought to persuade King Durwin, Prince Wesley labored to ensure that Adalia was Halsey’s bride and that Halsey remained the throne-heir.
The Duke of Lairenkin chose the day of his son’s fourteenth birthday to announce that the King had consented to the betrothal of Lady Adalia to Prince Halsey; though not stated, it was inferred that Durwin had decided not to adopt her. Prince Wesley would next wrangle to get that in writing too. Adalia had long feared the betrothal. Though the boy was a tedious conversationalist, he was kindhearted. It was not so much marriage to him that distressed her but marriage to his family. She would have to live with them at their gloomy castle in County Eayleshaw with no ally except her nurse Madra, since Halsey was now of age to enter the Military Academy. Starting in the autumn he would be away for six years, with only brief holiday furloughs. The wedding would take place after his graduation, only then allowing her dominion over her own residence. Adalia had not the strength to hold back tears when Prince Wesley informed her.
The actual betrothal would take place at Bounbrow, the summer palace two miles west of the capital city of Listroba, where the signing of the marriage contract would be duly witnessed by the State Chronicler. However, a symbolic ceremony took place at Dorlevan. Prince Halsey and his mother, and Lady Adalia and her aunt, entered the Guard Chamber through opposite doors. Acutely embarrassed, Prince Halsey proposed. Adalia looked at the faces around her and meekly consented. Together they lit the candle used by all the daughters of the House of Cathmael at their betrothals. Ceremony completed, Adalia left with Halsey and the duchess; the girl belonged to the Ebrulf family now.
All night Adalia cried in her nurse’s arms, though she received no comfort. The old woman thought the prince was a magnificent catch for Adalia, and she tried to persuade her young charge to see the benefits of her betrothal. Adalia wept all the more. She would get sympathy from no one. Not even Brant, for she was sure he would laugh at her, call her “mother of moss.” At least with the death of her parents she was allowed time to grieve her loss, to be sad in her loneliness. Not for this, not after tonight. She must always present a smile, even if keeping her misery to herself felt as though coals were scorching her nerves. Protocol demanded cheerful compliance.
The Duke of Lairenkin chose the day of his son’s fourteenth birthday to announce that the King had consented to the betrothal of Lady Adalia to Prince Halsey; though not stated, it was inferred that Durwin had decided not to adopt her. Prince Wesley would next wrangle to get that in writing too. Adalia had long feared the betrothal. Though the boy was a tedious conversationalist, he was kindhearted. It was not so much marriage to him that distressed her but marriage to his family. She would have to live with them at their gloomy castle in County Eayleshaw with no ally except her nurse Madra, since Halsey was now of age to enter the Military Academy. Starting in the autumn he would be away for six years, with only brief holiday furloughs. The wedding would take place after his graduation, only then allowing her dominion over her own residence. Adalia had not the strength to hold back tears when Prince Wesley informed her.
The actual betrothal would take place at Bounbrow, the summer palace two miles west of the capital city of Listroba, where the signing of the marriage contract would be duly witnessed by the State Chronicler. However, a symbolic ceremony took place at Dorlevan. Prince Halsey and his mother, and Lady Adalia and her aunt, entered the Guard Chamber through opposite doors. Acutely embarrassed, Prince Halsey proposed. Adalia looked at the faces around her and meekly consented. Together they lit the candle used by all the daughters of the House of Cathmael at their betrothals. Ceremony completed, Adalia left with Halsey and the duchess; the girl belonged to the Ebrulf family now.
All night Adalia cried in her nurse’s arms, though she received no comfort. The old woman thought the prince was a magnificent catch for Adalia, and she tried to persuade her young charge to see the benefits of her betrothal. Adalia wept all the more. She would get sympathy from no one. Not even Brant, for she was sure he would laugh at her, call her “mother of moss.” At least with the death of her parents she was allowed time to grieve her loss, to be sad in her loneliness. Not for this, not after tonight. She must always present a smile, even if keeping her misery to herself felt as though coals were scorching her nerves. Protocol demanded cheerful compliance.
* * *
A chill wind, damp with the dews of springtime, blew outside the windows as Brant set a lit candle on Lord Muth’s desk. The drawers yielded no keys. There were chests along the wall to his left and a curtained alcove under the stairs to his right. He opened a chest. Voices from the Grand Staircase startled him. They were descending towards the hall outside the office door. He dropped the lid with a muffled bang and dashed behind the curtain. Fear quickened his pulse. He had forgotten to extinguish the candle! He strained his ears. The voices came closer. Reflexively he backed farther into the alcove. The voices neared. Then turned away. Then silence. Emerging, Brant stumbled over another chest on the alcove floor. To steady his balance, his groping hand clutched a narrow object hanging by the curtain. In the light of the office he discovered the object was a scabbard.
Brant grinned with relief to have Freod back in his grasp. He checked the hall and the Grand Staircase. All clear. With the sword belt slung over his shoulder, Brant silently hurried past the guest suites and down the corridor to the circular turret staircase. He stopped halfway down. In the colonnade below, a guard paced. Brant began to retreat but the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs behind him deterred him. Brant glanced to his right. Hidden behind the bottom-most of the three huge antique tapestries that hung along the staircase were four niches set in the stone work of the turret’s wall, one of which contained a hidden spring causing the stones to swing inward to reveal the top of steep and narrow steps: the secret entrance to the tunnels. The boy waited for the guard to pace away then concealed himself in the niche behind the tapestry, which gave him a strategic vista of the upper and lower curve of the staircase. He observed the scene through the weave.
Moments later, the patter of excited footsteps stopped at the bottom step. The Polemar and a serving girl threw themselves into a passionate embrace.
“I must get back to my rounds,” the guard told his sweetheart, “but tomorrow night will be perfect! The Duke of Galsha is arriving in the morning for an extended visit, and Connlin’s assigned me to patrol the stables. I’ll await you there,” he kissed her, “Till then…”
The couple went their separate ways.
Eben was coming tomorrow! Brant emerged from hiding and hurried back to his cell.
He lay on his cot running different scenarios through his head. Eben’s threat to see him dead before Lady Day insinuated itself through each of them. With the failure of his assassins, the duke was probably coming to finish the task himself. His spies had probably told him that Brant was locked in a cell like a sitting duck. The equinox and the royal family’s departure were only six days away, Lady Day was four days after that. They would not be delayed by his funeral!
His heart began to race: he had not planned on escaping tonight. But he would have to. He would have to be gone before Duke Eben arrived. There were a lot of preparations to make…before midnight…when he would be gone without a trace…headed to a destination no one knew of. No one. No one? Adalia knew. Brant moaned. Undoubtedly, she would be questioned; though he had faith in her loyalty, they had ways of making her betray him. He considered taking her with him. She was his friend and partner in adventure, but she could also be irksome. Just getting her to go could be impossible. Brant reviewed his options. He realized it was necessary for both their sakes.
Brant grinned with relief to have Freod back in his grasp. He checked the hall and the Grand Staircase. All clear. With the sword belt slung over his shoulder, Brant silently hurried past the guest suites and down the corridor to the circular turret staircase. He stopped halfway down. In the colonnade below, a guard paced. Brant began to retreat but the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs behind him deterred him. Brant glanced to his right. Hidden behind the bottom-most of the three huge antique tapestries that hung along the staircase were four niches set in the stone work of the turret’s wall, one of which contained a hidden spring causing the stones to swing inward to reveal the top of steep and narrow steps: the secret entrance to the tunnels. The boy waited for the guard to pace away then concealed himself in the niche behind the tapestry, which gave him a strategic vista of the upper and lower curve of the staircase. He observed the scene through the weave.
Moments later, the patter of excited footsteps stopped at the bottom step. The Polemar and a serving girl threw themselves into a passionate embrace.
“I must get back to my rounds,” the guard told his sweetheart, “but tomorrow night will be perfect! The Duke of Galsha is arriving in the morning for an extended visit, and Connlin’s assigned me to patrol the stables. I’ll await you there,” he kissed her, “Till then…”
The couple went their separate ways.
Eben was coming tomorrow! Brant emerged from hiding and hurried back to his cell.
He lay on his cot running different scenarios through his head. Eben’s threat to see him dead before Lady Day insinuated itself through each of them. With the failure of his assassins, the duke was probably coming to finish the task himself. His spies had probably told him that Brant was locked in a cell like a sitting duck. The equinox and the royal family’s departure were only six days away, Lady Day was four days after that. They would not be delayed by his funeral!
His heart began to race: he had not planned on escaping tonight. But he would have to. He would have to be gone before Duke Eben arrived. There were a lot of preparations to make…before midnight…when he would be gone without a trace…headed to a destination no one knew of. No one. No one? Adalia knew. Brant moaned. Undoubtedly, she would be questioned; though he had faith in her loyalty, they had ways of making her betray him. He considered taking her with him. She was his friend and partner in adventure, but she could also be irksome. Just getting her to go could be impossible. Brant reviewed his options. He realized it was necessary for both their sakes.
* * *
Adalia waited with the Ebrulf family in the Galsha Suite; soon a herald would lead the young pair through the Grand Foyer and the Guard Chamber to the Audience Chamber to receive the King’s formal blessing. A cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Clad in ivory satin embroidered with beige woolen turtledoves, and hair painstakingly coiled in a net of mummy-brown silk woven with coral beads, Adalia sat next to Prince Halsey. She wound her handkerchief around her fingers until they nearly turned blue. At the prince’s other side sat his sister. Princess Elisia watched Adalia. Though the girl’s betrothal to Halsey removed her as a rival for Sir Basil’s affection, the princess was annoyed that Adalia continued to wear the count’s garnet gift and was vexed by its tacit reminder that she herself had received only a small hand mirror from him.
“Adalia,” the young princess said, “you are wrinkling your handkerchief. You had better not let Mother see it.”
The girl tried to smooth it but it was hopelessly creased.
“Mother,” called Princess Elisia, “look at what Adalia did to her handkerchief.”
The duchess upbraided the girl and rang for the maid.
“Your carelessness, young lady, is deplorable. You are fortunate, indeed, that there is time to get you a new handkerchief. Have you no shame how a neglected appearance will reflect on this family?”
Adalia pressed her lips tightly and fought off tears. Prince Halsey gently took her hand. To soothe her, he spoke of his excitement about attending the Military Academy. Adalia wanted to scream.
With great esteem he declared, “I am going to be a Knight of the Griffin, like my father.”
Adalia glanced at the Duke of Lairenkin. Beneath a flowing green mantle, he proudly wore the sash of the order: an emerald-colored cincture of silk with delicate gold embroidery and fringe trimming the two ends to denote the rank of the knight. A scorch mark from incompetent pressing was scrupulously hidden in the knot. Investiture into the Most Noble Order of the Griffin was an accolade bestowed each year on the two highest-achieving cadets graduating from the Military Academy. Adalia cracked a smile. She knew that Prince Wesley had graduated thirty-eighth of forty-five in his class; he had been invested as an honorary Third Station knight as a wedding gift from King Latimer. Though he could be addressed as Sir Wesley, the duke preferred his royal title for its subtle reminder to all the kingdom that his royal ancestors were a Khrytish princess and a Logavini prince. Princess Elisia saw Adalia’s smile; her eyes flared.
When the maid arrived, the duchess called Adalia over. Again she scolded the girl and warned her not to jeopardize her appearance. Adalia retreated to the fireplace where she could regain her composure. A sharp tug on her arm brought her face to face with Princess Elisia.
“Do not ever laugh at my father—or anyone else in this family,” she hissed in a low but hot voice. “You are one arrogant bit of baggage. You think you are a precious gift to this family and that we should all bow down and revere you. There is nothing about you to honor. Your only value is as an heiress; otherwise no one would want you. Wealth does foolish things to men’s heads. Why else would the Count of Hanfordstev be interested in you? Certainly not because of your looks.”
The words cut Adalia. She had always wanted to be considered beautiful even if in reality her form was puny and her face was plain. And now the first marks of adolescence were beginning to blemish even that.
“In truth, I am delighted Halsey got you,” Elisia sneered, “he deserves you. Sir Basil is far too handsome and charming to have you for a wife; he will make such a divine husband. I shall wed him. Her Majesty has promised to match us.”
Adalia flushed. But before she could counter that the count had praised the loveliness of her hair, the duke came by.
“Is our daughter happy?” he asked Adalia, taking her in his arms and kissing her on the head. “We must always praise the wisdom of Good King Durwin for allowing this precious girl to be my daughter-in-law.”
He gave her another kiss. Adalia politely pulled away; he was messing her hair.
“Do not be concerned about your hair, Adalia,” the princess said when they were alone. “It looks as if you styled it with your feet—in the dark. Father only improved it.”
The insult stung Adalia. “Well, you—your hair—it looks like you use real rats in it because you have a rat’s face!”
Princess Elisia laughed. “Adalia, look I am bleeding. Your wit is so sharp. Please, no more or I shall surely die.”
At the end of her endurance, Adalia pushed the princess. She pushed back and sent Adalia stumbling into the logs stacked near the hearth. To Adalia’s horror, the embroidery became snagged and the satin soiled by the rough wood.
“Mother! Look what Adalia did to her gown!”
Blinded by tears, Adalia tried to mend the damage. She did not hear the duchess’ reproaches nor did she resist when the duke roughly grasped her arm and jerked her to her feet. The duchess wailed that there was no time for the girl to change and that she would bring humiliation to the family. Smiling, Princess Elisia smoothed her own gown. At the edge of the commotion, Prince Halsey called that the herald had come for them. Tear-stained and in disrepair, Adalia accompanied her fiancé to face the King and Queen.
“Adalia,” the young princess said, “you are wrinkling your handkerchief. You had better not let Mother see it.”
The girl tried to smooth it but it was hopelessly creased.
“Mother,” called Princess Elisia, “look at what Adalia did to her handkerchief.”
The duchess upbraided the girl and rang for the maid.
“Your carelessness, young lady, is deplorable. You are fortunate, indeed, that there is time to get you a new handkerchief. Have you no shame how a neglected appearance will reflect on this family?”
Adalia pressed her lips tightly and fought off tears. Prince Halsey gently took her hand. To soothe her, he spoke of his excitement about attending the Military Academy. Adalia wanted to scream.
With great esteem he declared, “I am going to be a Knight of the Griffin, like my father.”
Adalia glanced at the Duke of Lairenkin. Beneath a flowing green mantle, he proudly wore the sash of the order: an emerald-colored cincture of silk with delicate gold embroidery and fringe trimming the two ends to denote the rank of the knight. A scorch mark from incompetent pressing was scrupulously hidden in the knot. Investiture into the Most Noble Order of the Griffin was an accolade bestowed each year on the two highest-achieving cadets graduating from the Military Academy. Adalia cracked a smile. She knew that Prince Wesley had graduated thirty-eighth of forty-five in his class; he had been invested as an honorary Third Station knight as a wedding gift from King Latimer. Though he could be addressed as Sir Wesley, the duke preferred his royal title for its subtle reminder to all the kingdom that his royal ancestors were a Khrytish princess and a Logavini prince. Princess Elisia saw Adalia’s smile; her eyes flared.
When the maid arrived, the duchess called Adalia over. Again she scolded the girl and warned her not to jeopardize her appearance. Adalia retreated to the fireplace where she could regain her composure. A sharp tug on her arm brought her face to face with Princess Elisia.
“Do not ever laugh at my father—or anyone else in this family,” she hissed in a low but hot voice. “You are one arrogant bit of baggage. You think you are a precious gift to this family and that we should all bow down and revere you. There is nothing about you to honor. Your only value is as an heiress; otherwise no one would want you. Wealth does foolish things to men’s heads. Why else would the Count of Hanfordstev be interested in you? Certainly not because of your looks.”
The words cut Adalia. She had always wanted to be considered beautiful even if in reality her form was puny and her face was plain. And now the first marks of adolescence were beginning to blemish even that.
“In truth, I am delighted Halsey got you,” Elisia sneered, “he deserves you. Sir Basil is far too handsome and charming to have you for a wife; he will make such a divine husband. I shall wed him. Her Majesty has promised to match us.”
Adalia flushed. But before she could counter that the count had praised the loveliness of her hair, the duke came by.
“Is our daughter happy?” he asked Adalia, taking her in his arms and kissing her on the head. “We must always praise the wisdom of Good King Durwin for allowing this precious girl to be my daughter-in-law.”
He gave her another kiss. Adalia politely pulled away; he was messing her hair.
“Do not be concerned about your hair, Adalia,” the princess said when they were alone. “It looks as if you styled it with your feet—in the dark. Father only improved it.”
The insult stung Adalia. “Well, you—your hair—it looks like you use real rats in it because you have a rat’s face!”
Princess Elisia laughed. “Adalia, look I am bleeding. Your wit is so sharp. Please, no more or I shall surely die.”
At the end of her endurance, Adalia pushed the princess. She pushed back and sent Adalia stumbling into the logs stacked near the hearth. To Adalia’s horror, the embroidery became snagged and the satin soiled by the rough wood.
“Mother! Look what Adalia did to her gown!”
Blinded by tears, Adalia tried to mend the damage. She did not hear the duchess’ reproaches nor did she resist when the duke roughly grasped her arm and jerked her to her feet. The duchess wailed that there was no time for the girl to change and that she would bring humiliation to the family. Smiling, Princess Elisia smoothed her own gown. At the edge of the commotion, Prince Halsey called that the herald had come for them. Tear-stained and in disrepair, Adalia accompanied her fiancé to face the King and Queen.
* * *
When he was certain everyone had retired for the night, Brant unlocked his cell door and replaced the nail. If he were caught and the nail were found on his person, he would have no chance to attempt a second escape. With sword girded and blankets in hand, he quit the prison. He did not know where the Polemars had put his cloak; a blanket would have to suffice. Like a cat on the hunt he crept to the kitchen. He filled another blanket with provisions and a water sack, and slung the bundle over his shoulder. He selected a daggerlike knife and stuck it in his belt.
Silent as vine tendrils, he climbed the servants’ staircase; it was just off the kitchen and led up to the linen room just down the hall from Adalia’s suite. Halfway, he chided himself for not using the circular turret staircase instead and stowing the bundle in the tunnel entrance. But valuable time would be wasted by going back. Hiding in shadows, Brant crept to the girl’s door.
His heart pounded as he opened the door to Adalia’s suite. He feared that Madra, who slept in the anteroom, would awaken. Inching by her, he bit his lip as he lightly placed each step. At last he closed the door of the inner chamber. Thick wooden shutters of planks bolted with iron studs kept both chill and moonlight from the room. Brant opened them and then pulled back the bed curtains. He whispered Adalia’s name several times before she jolted awake. The sight of Brant threw her into confusion.
“Where am I?”
“In your room.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I am leaving for Logavine tonight.”
“You woke me just to tell me that?”
“No. I decided that you are coming with me.”
The girl stared at him. “I am not! I am going to sleep.” She pulled shut the bed curtains. Brant snapped them open again. “Get out of my room!” she cried in her loudest whisper. “I am not going with you into the wilderness and get eaten by wild animals.”
She tried to shut the curtains but he held them open.
“You know too much about my plan. Don’t you realize Durwin will put you on the rack and smile like a viper when he rips your joints apart? If I were you, I should feel safer with wild animals.”
Adalia held the covers to her chin and shuddered. Her humiliation at the reception was torture enough. The reception! Suddenly she remembered her fiancé. She turned to Brant and smiled.
“You are right; I should go with you.”
Her rapid change in attitude left Brant bewildered.
“You are willing?”
“Certainly—is that not what you want?”
“Yes, but…” He had prepared a dozen more arguments, expecting to employ all of them in the task of persuading her.
Adalia’s bare feet pattered over the cold tiles to the armoire near the chamber door.
“Hmm…what should I wear?” She pulled out two gowns. “Which do you like better?…No, never mind. I do not look very good in either.”
“What about this?” Brant picked an ivory satin garment off a chair.
Adalia snatched the gown and flung it across the room.
“I never want to see that rag again!”
“Shh…Adalia, keep your voice down. I do not care what you wear. Find the warmest thing you have, but be quick—the more time we waste the better the chance of being caught.”
“We shan’t be caught,” she stated with authority.
From beneath her chemise she drew forth the golden reliquary. Eyes closed, she concentrated on her wish and vigorously rubbed the charm between her hands. With confidence she raised her head and smiled at her friend. There, they would be quite safe now. Brant’s features tightened in anger; no reasonable argument could persuade her to hurry now.
He sat on the bed as she rummaged through the armoire. Light appeared in the cracks of the chamber door. Madra was awake. Brant could hear the clomp of her clogs on the tiles. He knew it was just a matter of seconds before she would come in. With a sharp sign, Brant motioned for Adalia to stay put. He leaped onto her feather mattress, shut the bed curtains and threw the covers over his head. The nurse entered, nearly hitting Adalia in the nose with the door. She stopped and stared at the open shutters. She closed them and went to the bed. Brant could hear the bed curtains being drawn back. Shamming sleep, he made girlish sighs. Madra patted the sleeping form on the head and left. Brant sprang out of bed and opened the shutters again.
Cautioning Adalia to silence, he pulled a gown from the armoire, thrust it into her hands and sent her to the bed. Behind the curtains, Adalia slowly changed. She had never dressed without assistance and she fumbled with the lacings.
“Are you ready yet?”
“In a minute.”
Brant regretted every minute that passed.
The girl emerged. She said nothing to Brant and set to work packing a sturdy loden-lined carpetbag. She packed her favorite gowns plus all the amenities she deemed necessary. Brant tugged the chamber pot from her hands.
“You cannot take all this.”
“I am not packing anything unnecessary,” she insisted.
“You call these things necessary?” He took out items. He held up an ivory-backed, silver looking glass. “You are not going to need this where we are going.”
Adalia grabbed the mirror.
“This belonged to my mother, and I will not leave it behind.”
She stood as tall as she could and tried to look threatening.
Light appeared in the anteroom once more, and Brant again motioned for Adalia to keep still. His heart throbbed in his ears but he heard no footsteps. Soon the light went out but he continued to stare at the door. He knew they could not pass Madra when they fled. He forsook the plan to use the tunnels and formed a new plan to flee through the window. The boy pulled off the sheets and knotted them. He cut down the bed curtains and knotted them, too. He tied one end of the crude rope to the bed and the other to the bundle and carpetbag.
“Did you wrap your mirror well?”
She had wound several garments around it. Brant knelt on the cushions of the stone window seat and dropped the laden rope out the open window; he tossed several blankets out after it. He instructed her to cling securely to his back, and they disappeared out the window.
Adalia refused to mount the mule Brant had saddled. She rejected his reasoning that the sure-footed animal would be strong enough to carry their combined weight; royal ladies simply did not ride mules. She wanted to ride her palfrey. Brant did not have tactics prepared for stealing her palfrey from the guarded royal stables. Deaf to her protests, Brant put her on the mule.
They made their way quickly through the budding walnut woodland. Adalia knew of a boat moored nearby which they could use to cross the lake. They waved to the flourishing vale as the remnants of their trail disappeared on the still water of Lake Nuhilyv.
Silent as vine tendrils, he climbed the servants’ staircase; it was just off the kitchen and led up to the linen room just down the hall from Adalia’s suite. Halfway, he chided himself for not using the circular turret staircase instead and stowing the bundle in the tunnel entrance. But valuable time would be wasted by going back. Hiding in shadows, Brant crept to the girl’s door.
His heart pounded as he opened the door to Adalia’s suite. He feared that Madra, who slept in the anteroom, would awaken. Inching by her, he bit his lip as he lightly placed each step. At last he closed the door of the inner chamber. Thick wooden shutters of planks bolted with iron studs kept both chill and moonlight from the room. Brant opened them and then pulled back the bed curtains. He whispered Adalia’s name several times before she jolted awake. The sight of Brant threw her into confusion.
“Where am I?”
“In your room.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I am leaving for Logavine tonight.”
“You woke me just to tell me that?”
“No. I decided that you are coming with me.”
The girl stared at him. “I am not! I am going to sleep.” She pulled shut the bed curtains. Brant snapped them open again. “Get out of my room!” she cried in her loudest whisper. “I am not going with you into the wilderness and get eaten by wild animals.”
She tried to shut the curtains but he held them open.
“You know too much about my plan. Don’t you realize Durwin will put you on the rack and smile like a viper when he rips your joints apart? If I were you, I should feel safer with wild animals.”
Adalia held the covers to her chin and shuddered. Her humiliation at the reception was torture enough. The reception! Suddenly she remembered her fiancé. She turned to Brant and smiled.
“You are right; I should go with you.”
Her rapid change in attitude left Brant bewildered.
“You are willing?”
“Certainly—is that not what you want?”
“Yes, but…” He had prepared a dozen more arguments, expecting to employ all of them in the task of persuading her.
Adalia’s bare feet pattered over the cold tiles to the armoire near the chamber door.
“Hmm…what should I wear?” She pulled out two gowns. “Which do you like better?…No, never mind. I do not look very good in either.”
“What about this?” Brant picked an ivory satin garment off a chair.
Adalia snatched the gown and flung it across the room.
“I never want to see that rag again!”
“Shh…Adalia, keep your voice down. I do not care what you wear. Find the warmest thing you have, but be quick—the more time we waste the better the chance of being caught.”
“We shan’t be caught,” she stated with authority.
From beneath her chemise she drew forth the golden reliquary. Eyes closed, she concentrated on her wish and vigorously rubbed the charm between her hands. With confidence she raised her head and smiled at her friend. There, they would be quite safe now. Brant’s features tightened in anger; no reasonable argument could persuade her to hurry now.
He sat on the bed as she rummaged through the armoire. Light appeared in the cracks of the chamber door. Madra was awake. Brant could hear the clomp of her clogs on the tiles. He knew it was just a matter of seconds before she would come in. With a sharp sign, Brant motioned for Adalia to stay put. He leaped onto her feather mattress, shut the bed curtains and threw the covers over his head. The nurse entered, nearly hitting Adalia in the nose with the door. She stopped and stared at the open shutters. She closed them and went to the bed. Brant could hear the bed curtains being drawn back. Shamming sleep, he made girlish sighs. Madra patted the sleeping form on the head and left. Brant sprang out of bed and opened the shutters again.
Cautioning Adalia to silence, he pulled a gown from the armoire, thrust it into her hands and sent her to the bed. Behind the curtains, Adalia slowly changed. She had never dressed without assistance and she fumbled with the lacings.
“Are you ready yet?”
“In a minute.”
Brant regretted every minute that passed.
The girl emerged. She said nothing to Brant and set to work packing a sturdy loden-lined carpetbag. She packed her favorite gowns plus all the amenities she deemed necessary. Brant tugged the chamber pot from her hands.
“You cannot take all this.”
“I am not packing anything unnecessary,” she insisted.
“You call these things necessary?” He took out items. He held up an ivory-backed, silver looking glass. “You are not going to need this where we are going.”
Adalia grabbed the mirror.
“This belonged to my mother, and I will not leave it behind.”
She stood as tall as she could and tried to look threatening.
Light appeared in the anteroom once more, and Brant again motioned for Adalia to keep still. His heart throbbed in his ears but he heard no footsteps. Soon the light went out but he continued to stare at the door. He knew they could not pass Madra when they fled. He forsook the plan to use the tunnels and formed a new plan to flee through the window. The boy pulled off the sheets and knotted them. He cut down the bed curtains and knotted them, too. He tied one end of the crude rope to the bed and the other to the bundle and carpetbag.
“Did you wrap your mirror well?”
She had wound several garments around it. Brant knelt on the cushions of the stone window seat and dropped the laden rope out the open window; he tossed several blankets out after it. He instructed her to cling securely to his back, and they disappeared out the window.
Adalia refused to mount the mule Brant had saddled. She rejected his reasoning that the sure-footed animal would be strong enough to carry their combined weight; royal ladies simply did not ride mules. She wanted to ride her palfrey. Brant did not have tactics prepared for stealing her palfrey from the guarded royal stables. Deaf to her protests, Brant put her on the mule.
They made their way quickly through the budding walnut woodland. Adalia knew of a boat moored nearby which they could use to cross the lake. They waved to the flourishing vale as the remnants of their trail disappeared on the still water of Lake Nuhilyv.
* * *
The Steward of the Household showed Duke Eben to his guest suite. The duke remarked on the commotion among the Polemars at his arrival. He was shrewd enough to know that it was not on his account. A look of proper concern expressed itself on his face when he finagled the real reason out of the steward. In the spirit of due urgency he asked the steward to summon hence the captain of his guard, to aid the King’s search, of course.
* * *
Captain Connlin stood before Lord Muth’s desk and delivered his report. A thorough search of the palace and grounds revealed that a mule and a boat were also missing. Connlin said nothing more, no I-told-you-so’s. He had been briefed about the Duke of Galsha’s visit: it was meant as a safety precaution as it was believed that the man would be less likely to make an overt attempt against Brant from within the palace than covertly through operatives from afar. The Polemars had already taken out two assassins, and their captain had every confidence in fulfilling his mandate to protect. However, he had been concerned about how Brant would react to the visit; that it had prompted the boy to flee did not surprise him. Contrarily, Lord Muth viewed Brant’s ability to escape as proof that the Polemars were not equal to their task. And no Polemar had been alert enough to catch Brant removing Freod from this very room! Had Connlin perceived this thought, he would have been quick to point out that no Scieldsie had caught the boy either. Nonetheless, when Brant was recovered, Lord Muth decided he would be placed in Scieldsie custody. As the Duke of Galsha had just been. What Captain Connlin had not been briefed about was that the invitation was a trap and that the duke had taken the bait. For months the Lord Chief of the Scieldsie had been assembling both evidence and “evidence” of conspiracy to murder the heir, a treasonous offense that could pass the scrutiny of Galsha’s counts and lords, not to mention the other dukes. Duke Eben was now under Scieldsie guard and would remain “a guest” at Dorlevan until his trial. At present, however, this matter fell a sizable second to the paramount issue of Brant’s recapture.
The Lord Chief of the Scieldsie turned to the leader of the elite Scieldsie tracking squad.
“Most likely, he is heading to Dulcissime: I cannot see that he has anything to gain by going north, south or east. But we can’t assume the boat is a decoy. Start your search along the shore heading west. The garrisons in Galsha, Curlowen, Mheyphain and Grenechey will man checkpoints at all crossroads. They are ordered, as are you, to arrest anyone who interferes, even the nobleborn, and especially their guards. No one will hinder the King’s purpose. His Majesty has ordered no limits on your tactics, none but one: if your men know nothing but this—remember nothing but this—let it be burned in their brains—upon pain of slow death at Ashland: the boy must be recovered ALIVE.”
The Lord Chief of the Scieldsie turned to the leader of the elite Scieldsie tracking squad.
“Most likely, he is heading to Dulcissime: I cannot see that he has anything to gain by going north, south or east. But we can’t assume the boat is a decoy. Start your search along the shore heading west. The garrisons in Galsha, Curlowen, Mheyphain and Grenechey will man checkpoints at all crossroads. They are ordered, as are you, to arrest anyone who interferes, even the nobleborn, and especially their guards. No one will hinder the King’s purpose. His Majesty has ordered no limits on your tactics, none but one: if your men know nothing but this—remember nothing but this—let it be burned in their brains—upon pain of slow death at Ashland: the boy must be recovered ALIVE.”
