The Ancient Ones (The Legacy Trilogy Book 3) (10 page)

‘That is not a very sound way to be rid of the problem. Have you considered the Truthseeker may live here or be one of your men?’

‘I have, Your Majesty, but there is little I can do about it but remain alert. Perhaps the culprit will give himself away eventually.’

Your Majesty. Leopold struggled to connect the title to himself. This would take time. ‘Or herself,’ he added, returning to the conversation.

Orrell nodded, content. ‘Quite right. I am glad I came to see you. I was not sure you were who Samuel claimed you to be. After this brief conversation, I am happy to find you have much more in common with your father than physical appearance.’

‘That’s strange,’ Leopold replied, absentmindedly scratching his cheek. ‘Most people always said I looked nothing like my father.’

‘Oh, no. You are the spitting image, although I must say you certainly inherited your mother’s eyes.’ He glanced towards the window, his attention attracted by marching footsteps below. ‘Actually, I did come here to ask you something.’

‘Oh?’

‘There has been much excitement after word spread of your arrival. I am about to address my men, and would ask that you join me. A few words from their Emperor would greatly inspire them. Just to see you would raise their hopes.’

Leopold was apprehensive. ‘Captain, I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘Say good morning, say good luck. They don’t expect a speech. These men are Turians. They want to see and hear the Emperor they thought long dead. They worship you as other men worship their gods. You will find no other people so devoted in all the world.’

Leopold considered it. ‘Very well. I will try.’

‘Excellent,’ the captain declared, ‘because they are gathered already. Captain Valiant is speaking to them now, so we should hurry.’

Leopold quickly regretted his decision. He considered the tight Turian clothing the old women had put him in. He did not mind wearing such dandified apparel in his room; walking around outdoors was a different matter. People would surely snigger. Then again, he had seen several nobles strutting the halls in stranger wear, and the portraits he had perused displayed all manner of bizarre clothing. Coughing, he undid the tight, ruffled collar strapped around his neck and threw it onto his bed. That would do for now.

Captain Orrell led Leopold briskly down the stairs, passing through the small courtyard below his room and through another building, his boots clomping on the cold wooden floor. A large painting hung there in the entrance, aged and faded. Leopold halted, examining it, calling the captain excitedly.

‘Who is this man?’ he asked, pointing towards the subject of the picture; the same wild-eyed fellow he had seen in many paintings the night before.

‘Emperor Leopold,’ the captain explained with puzzlement. ‘That is your father—Edmond Calais.’

Leopold paused, finding no words to voice his confusion. The man in the painting was certainly not the father he knew.

‘Shall we go?’ Orrell suggested.

Fully confounded, Leopold followed the captain while he tried to make sense of it all.

They came out of the building into another greater square where several hundred armed men were gathered in rows. They cheered immediately as Leopold came into view and he flinched at the riotous noise. Their numbers disturbed him, for he had never seen so many people in one place. Steeling himself, he stepped to Captain Orrell’s side, cringing at the continuous cheers. It took the stern words of the officer standing in front of them to quieten them.

‘Thank you, Captain Valiant,’ Orrell told the man, who in return stepped back.

A couple of guards placed a heavy box at their feet. Leopold waited idly, until Captain Orrell raised both eyebrows towards him and pointed a finger to the box.

‘Well,’ he urged. ‘Up you get, Your Majesty.’

Leopold cleared his throat and raised one boot. His leggings were proving tighter than anticipated and he struggled to get his leg up high enough, accepting Orrell’s hand in assistance. He faced the crowd, overlooking their heads, nervous and overwhelmed.

Oh, gods! he thought. What have I gotten into?

The men were looking at him, expectant and restless. Many had their mouths open; others were moving their heads about to see past those in front.

Old Salu doddered in the background, ignoring the proceedings and tapping the wall with his stick, grumbling in conversation with it. The presence of the harmless old madman was strangely comforting, reassuring.

‘Ah ... good morning,’ Leopold opened rather pathetically. ‘I hope you are all feeling well this fine morning.’ He noted the sky was overcast and not too fine at all. A heavy shower was imminent. He turned to the captain behind, and Orrell was subtly circling his hand, as if to say keep going.

‘It is a pleasure to speak to you.’ Leopold returned his attention to the men, and scoured his mind for something to say, something that a good leader might reveal in such times. His father had recited many famous speeches to him over the years—the reasons for which were lost to him at the time—and Leopold cursed himself for not being able to remember even one. ‘Until only yesterday, I had no idea of the fact, but apparently I am your Emperor.’

They looked sceptical. He was not doing well.

People hung out of the windows on every level around them—servants and ladies and children, looking at him and clinging to his words. He glimpsed Lady Chatrise, and sent her a nervous smile across the courtyard. The woman beside her was fighting with something; Toby was struggling in her arms, laughing and trying to climb right out the window in his efforts to see.

Scraps of his father’s talks started coming back to him, and Leopold hastily gathered them, stitching together the haphazard beginnings of a speech.

‘I know my father was a great man. He never told me of his past, but from him, I learned much about the Empire and all the great things that you, his loyal men, must have helped him to achieve. I understand these have been difficult times. There is probably not one amongst you who has not lost someone close to them, even everyone close to them, but looking at you here, I can see the Turian Empire is not lost—it has not withered. It lives, vibrant in your eyes, impregnable in your hearts. I do not see defeat. I see proud men and strong women behind you. I see children saved by your hands. I see an empire ready to make its return.’

He felt his confidence rising as he gained momentum.

‘As I stand in front of you, I can feel how proud it must feel to be your leader ... but alas, I am not your Emperor.’ Concerned muttering ran across the crowd. ‘I cannot become an emperor overnight, just because I have a bath and put on these awful, ill-fitting clothes. An emperor needs a throne and a palace. Soon you will go to battle and endeavour to retake Cintar. Perhaps we will find such things there, I do not know.’ Quizzical glances were shared. The stitching had definitely begun to fray. ‘The point I am trying to make is, and I’m sure you fully agree, we will most certainly win.’

A cough sounded in the ensuing silence. The courtyard waited expectantly.

‘Ah, that’s all,’ he added uncomfortably.

He smiled reassuringly at the men, but it did little to cure their astonishment. Captain Orrell offered his hand and Leopold accepted the assistance in getting down.

‘That was awful,’ the man muttered.

‘You said I could say anything!’ Leopold whispered harshly. ‘They hated it.’

‘Wait,’ Orrell urged him.

Captain Valiant stepped forward. ‘The Emperor of Turia!’ he bellowed.

A wild cheer erupted as the men threw up their fists and roared. The people in the windows clapped gleefully. Leopold faced them all, utterly surprised by the reaction.

‘See? I told you,’ Orrell said, struggling to be heard. ‘Just wait until you make a good speech. You will need to cover your ears!’

‘They are enthusiastic, aren’t they?’ Leopold said above the commotion.

‘As are you. I said a short speech. Now, let’s get you back to your room so we can keep you safe.’

Captain Valiant had to clamber up onto the box and roar at the men to quieten them. They had spent years hoping for such a day and were not about to be stopped in their celebration. The truth be known, Valiant’s efforts were half-hearted and he could have done much more to calm them, but it was his role to appear stern, and so stern he was.

Leopold followed Captain Orrell away from the courtyard and towards his room, but saw a flash of black cloth vanish into the passage before them. He hurriedly caught up with the magician, striding purposefully away, with Captain Orrell following patiently behind.

‘Samuel!’ Leopold called. ‘Wait!’

The magician froze, waiting until Leopold rounded to face him. As usual, he said nothing, waiting for Leopold to speak.

From where he stood, Captain Orrell could see the anger on Leopold’s face.

‘What is all this about my father?’ Leopold asked furiously, for in the short space of pursuing the magician, he had worked himself into a temper, convincing himself not to back down, not to take any lies from the devious scoundrel. ‘People tell me he died years ago. Who was the man that raised me? Why does he look nothing like the pictures of the Emperor? What deception is taking place here?’

The magician replied calmly. ‘The man in the paintings about these halls was indeed your father, Leopold. He did die, as they say, in Cintar before you were born—’

‘Nonsense!’ Leopold declared, interrupting him.

‘—but,’ the magician forged on, ‘he was reborn into another body. I told you, your father had many lives, but the last one he dedicated entirely to you. He kept his existence secret and let the world think he was dead. If I were you, I would not tell anyone otherwise. It would not help, except to let people think you are lacking of sanity.’

‘Why did he not tell me this?’ Leopold asked, his anger faded, overwhelmed with doubt.

‘I have told you why—to protect you.’

A sliver of hope appeared as Leopold thought the matter through. ‘If he can come back to life as you say, is it not possible he is already with us again? Could he be reborn amongst us even now as we speak?’ Surely it was possible.

Samuel possessed no emotion. He could not hear the desperation in the young man’s voice. Anyone else would have given Leopold a tactful answer to ease his disappointment, to soothe his sorrow. Of course, Samuel did not. He did not care about such things in the slightest.

‘He’s dead, Leopold,’ the magician said flatly. ‘The dead don’t come back. And one more thing: you will call me Lord Samuel. Nothing else will suffice.’

With that, the magician strode on his way, leaving Leopold with his hopes crashed down around him.

****

Leopold procrastinated for the remainder of the day. His guards would not let him roam, and he was required to summon them any time he needed to visit the privy—a bucket beside a hole in the wall that dropped into the sea—or stretch his legs or do anything beyond the bounds of his bedchamber. Even with them beside him, he was limited to that particular floor of the building, the other rooms emptied to keep him safe.

Nobody came to visit him, and so Leopold sat on the end of his bed or looked out his window, sighing with boredom and awaiting his next scrubbing from the old maids.

****

The next morning, a flurry of excitement came upon the island. The halls filled with people rushing about. Soldiers readied their armour and swords, while the women, the aged and the children followed them to assist. People hurried, carrying weapons, provisions and all manner of supplies.

Venturing from his chambers and looking out the far window by the privy, Leopold saw a small fleet of mismatched ships upon the sea, busied in preparation, men clambering over each inch of them and small cockboats darting between them and the shore, ferrying men and goods. From far to the north, more vessels were arriving and a dark bulk was set amongst them, wreathed in pale sails and dwarfing the craft around it, too distant to be seen clearly and coming too slowly for Leopold’s limited patience. He returned to his room and paced, waiting for news of when and what would happen in the day.

‘Come. It’s time to go,’ a voice announced. Captain Orrell filled the doorway, his sword at his hip.

Leopold was thankful the waiting was over. ‘Where is the magician?’ He refused to call the diabolical man a Lord.

‘Waiting for you. Follow me.’

Leopold hastened to keep up with the captain as they went down towards the waiting longboats that would carry them to the fleet.

‘Don’t get used to those clothes,’ the man said as they walked along.

‘Why is that?’ Leopold said, regarding himself in his new clothes. What he had chosen seemed reasonable.

‘The commander of the fleet adores pageantry. He’ll have you in a stately gown more appropriate for an emperor.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Leopold said, dismissively.

Orrell smiled dryly. ‘We shall.’

‘How did you meet the magician?’ Leopold asked, dogging the captain as they paced along. ‘You seem to know him better than most.’

‘We met long ago.’

‘He is abominable. How do you suffer him?’

‘I have seen what he is capable of and it is true he is a haunted soul. Put simply, we need him.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘He is our only chance,’ the captain stated with authority. ‘I have to trust him.’

Old Salu and Toby waited in a sleek boat that bobbed beside the keep and Captain Orrell left Leopold with them, pursuing other business. The spectre of Lord Samuel soon appeared, prowling into the chamber and creeping into the vessel without a word.

The magician never changed his appearance from his swathes of black; the other two were outfitted in fresh clothes—neat suit and jacket, like gentlemen. Toby did not seem to know any different, and sprung about threatening to fall into the sea. Salu sat motionlessly, a scolded child, forlornly wrapped in his tight-fitting suit.

The narrow craft was brimming with sealed wooden barrels—piled on top of Samuel’s waiting casket—each painted black with two red stripes across the middle.