Authors: Jim Greenfield
Treteste stood still, his puffy face pink with anger. His knuckles were white as he tried unsuccessfully to crush the goblet in his hand. He threw it into the fireplace.
"Now I know how Yeates felt!" He spoke through clenched teeth as he turned away. Daass allowed himself a smile at the king's back.
Several minutes passed before the king spoke. Pear juice still clung to his beard. Daass noticed the tremor in his hands.
"I said I knew of the rumors, but the reality hits me like a stave. And what of you, Lord Daass? What does the Brotherhood seek to gain by telling me this? Surely your coming here was not to spare your king further embarrassment. Your welfare is your only concern. Come tell me your price."
"Price? I ask no price, sire. Sir Kirkes has been a problem for us for many years. It was the hand of Cothos that delivered this information to the Brotherhood. We did not seek it, nor set the process in motion. I would be remiss in not adding that I desired Kirkes' downfall, for I did, vehemently. We believed it was our duty to Cothos to bring this information to you. We also believed withholding it could be detrimental to Calendia."
"I see. I admit I don't trust you, Daass, but I recognize when someone is trying to forge a relationship. I will work with you to draw the Brotherhood of the Rose and the throne closer together. Calendia will be mighty again." He was calm again, no sign of the rage or tremors. Perhaps he had put it all out of his mind. He appeared totally concerned with the combination of the Brotherhood and the throne. He spoke for several minutes. Daass had a newfound respect for the king.
"Yes, your Highness," said Daass. "May I offer a squad of the Rose Knights to aid your soldiers? The Brotherhood wants to do all it can."
"That's a generous offer, Lord Daass. I accept. I will send Sir Crestan to Vizier Garlac to work out the command. Please come again soon." Treteste left the room. Daass stood staring at the doorway where the king had exited. He is insane, yet there is a glimmer of brilliance behind the bloodshot eyes.
Daass returned to his quarters to find messages for him, but no one had seen Brother Carle recently. He wanted to know more about the Queen's confession. Perhaps she spoke of more than Sir Kirkes.
A sharp rap on the door to the queen's apartment brought curses from within. When the servant opened the door a soldier pushed her aside to allow others to enter.
"What's the meaning of this?" cried the queen. She recognized the colors of the Rose Knights. "The Brotherhood!! What is going on?"
"We are in the service of the king, your highness." The captain averted his eyes. Three soldiers surrounded her, their eyes downcast. They blocked all escape. "We are commanded to arrest you and take you to the dungeon."
"Arrested for what?"
"I do not know. Come quickly, else we use force."
She picked up a bottle to throw but another knight struck her arm sending the bottle to the floor. She watched it spin until it stopped.
"Please, your highness. Do not make it any more difficult. Please dress."
"I know you. Foract! How can you do this? I am your queen. Obey me."
"I am sorry your highness. Lord Daass commanded us to the king's service and it was the king himself who ordered you imprisoned. I heard the words myself."
Richela pulled a knife from her gown and struck Foract in the shoulder. He cried out, knocking her to the floor with his mailed fist.
"Take her like that. She has lost the privilege to dress. She will go to the dungeon in her nightgown."
Kirkes entered and dropped to his knee, waiting for the command to rise. Treteste said nothing. Kirkes looked up to see the king staring at him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crestan smirking. Too late he reached for the hilt of his sword. Two blades rested on his neck.
"Ah, Sir Kirkes, I am afraid I know now, the secret of your loyalty," said Treteste. "Once I believed, as the world believed, that you are a man whose word was stone. Once I believed that you were content in your knighthood and wealth, that nothing could entice you to betray your vows. How wrong I was. How blind I was. How stupid. And the most galling of all was Lord Daass had to inform me of what so many others knew. Lord Daass! Do you realize how embarrassing that is for that viper to bring the truth to me? And I had to acknowledge his friendship to receive his information." He paced, his hand trembling.
"Richela confessed at once, almost at once. Now she is in the dungeon, and you shall join her. The war with Wierland takes precedent. I do not have the time to enjoy killing you, but after Wierland is defeated, I shall take all the time the world can offer to make you suffer. All the time. I look forward to it." He nodded to Crestan.
"Disarm him," said Crestan. "Take him away." Crestan smiled at Kirkes whose venomous glance vanquished Crestan's smile. Kirkes glared at him until the door was shut.
The soldiers pushed the huge man ahead of them, afraid of the mood of the king. They were not gentle with Kirkes, knowing Crestan hated him. Crestan would find out how they treated him and their fate in Treteste's regime depended on it. Kirkes said nothing to the indignity.
As they passed the guards to the dungeon a murmur of disbelief rose in their ranks and even the unfortunate souls behind the iron bars shook their heads at Treteste's folly.
Carle stood in the shadows, aghast at the sight of Kirkes, manacled and led to the lower levels. An extra guard stood at the door leading downward. Carle guessed that the more sensitive prisoners must be down there where no one would see them and protest. He knew Estes could not be down there for he had already searched the lower levels.
He stayed where he was listening to the rhythm of the dungeon, learning the guard changes, official visitors, and meal times. Most of all he listened to the guards talk, learning who was imprisoned and where they were. He found out exactly the locations of Kirkes and the Queen but heard nothing of Estes. That meant Estes' identity was unknown and that he was on the main level of the dungeon.
"Brother?" A voice whispered as Carle passed a cell. He hesitated, not sure what to do.
"Brother, help me." It was a woman's voice. Its lilting quality drew him to the cell.
"What is it? How can I help you?"
"My family doesn't know I'm here. They will be worried and looking for me. Will you send a message to them?"
"I might, if it's short. I'm not supposed to be here. What is your name?"
"Melana. I travel with a troupe of minstrels. Apal's troupe."
"Ah, then I know who you are and I can guess why you are here. I was at the mill when Apal spoke with the other lords."
"Then you must help me." She looked down the corridor. Carle's gaze followed hers; there was no one within hearing. She spoke quietly. "They are at the Boars head Tavern. Apal must be informed as soon as possible."
"I will do all I can."
"Bless you, Brother."
"Thanks, I'll need it."
He moved quickly in the shadows, treading his way back to the upper levels. He shook the dust off his habit and folding his hands, walked with the proper piety out of the castle proper and walked into Dellana.
She grabbed his arm.
"I'm in trouble. Will you help me?" Her eyes pierced him with her intensity.
Carle rolled his eyes. What had he become, a knight-errant, saving beautiful ladies? At least he knew Dellana was pretty and he thought Melana beautiful. Her voice was anyway; he couldn't see clearly into her dark cell. He smiled.
"Yes, my lady Dellana. For a single kiss I will help you." Why did he say that?
Dellana laughed. "You impertinent man! Do you cast aside your vows so easily?"
"Perhaps. For you."
She squeezed his arm, leading him through the courtyard.
"I have a message I must deliver," said Carle. "Let me discharge that duty first."
"Of course, my gallant suitor. Do what you must do. I shall await you in my room."
Carle's face reddened. Did she mean it that way? She waved at him. He turned away. Not enough prayer that was the problem. When did he pray last? His mother suggested he join a men-only order to keep him focused on his faith, but he thought he was strong enough to work with women. At least he believed it at the time. Why was mother always right?
One crisis at a time. He neared the tavern, thinking of a legitimate reason for him to go there. He stood across the street watching the door. No good reason to enter the tavern came to mind. What was he to do? He watched people enter and toyed with the idea to ask one of them to find Apal but how to know who to trust? Suddenly, he felt someone standing next to him. It was Apal.
"I saw you at the mill, Brother. Are you will us or a spy?" He felt the knife in his ribs.
"I bring word from Melana," he said hoarsely. "I'm here to help."
"Good. Good. Go around the back. I will let you in. Mind the dogs. They don't eat regularly."
Carle nodded, wondering what wayward turns his life would take next. A rebel Brother with a lover. He laughed out loud, heedless of the stares of the rough people on the street. He felt buoyant, but did not know why. Nor did he care.
Culver stared at the figure standing before him. A lean gnarled shape towered over him; a full foot taller than Blackthorne, its dusty cloak flapping in the calm air. The hands, long and yellow, clutched continuously, a raptor impatient to strike. The sallow face framed the red eyes. When the mouth opened, the white teeth sparkled, filed to points. Culver felt shocked by the sudden appearance of the shape. He had a prickling on the back of his neck that led him to walk to the gate, but he didn't expect to find anything. He never expected to face a seven-foot wraith. He was sorry they had left Paglo.
"Well? Tell Blackthorne I am here, or do I need to step on you?" The voice was refined, a person of learning, precise with thought. He moved forward, an expanding blackness, but Culver did not move. He hoped the gate had a spell to keep the sorcerer out, but the creature walked in directly. The eyes looked beyond Culver to the courtyard.
"Are you really Berimar the sorcerer?" Culver never considered the danger from Berimar. The sight of the creature at the gate stunned him. He just stared. He had never seen a man so tall. Trolls were taller of course, but they were so broad and ugly. Berimar was tall and thin like a tree and the air around him chilled as he moved. Culver was fascinated. He wondered if the image would work in a poem. He hadn't thought about poetry for several days.
The crimson eyes widened. "Of course," he snapped. "Do you not recognize me? Am I not unique in this world? Can you not feel my power radiate around me?" His voice was thickly accented, but Culver did not recognize the origin, nor did he acknowledge the questions. Berimar grabbed Culver's shoulder with an icy grip. "Away fool, I shall find him myself." He shoved Culver aside. Suddenly, there was a lean figure standing in Culver's place, eyes flashing at the intruder. Culver thought he heard the crackle of energy, of magic.
"No need, Berimar," said Blackthorne, his arms folded. "I was aware of your arrival. My guest merely beat me to your welcome."
"Some welcome, harrumph. More useful as a doormat, I daresay. Dull-witted gnome." Berimar glided forward, his shape seeming to broaden to fill the courtyard, and then it folded back in on itself like a huge black blanket.
"I sense your power," said Blackthorne. "It clatters in readiness like a child wearing his father's boots. Has it been so long since you tried to be subtle? Be warned; this place is warded." Their eyes locked. Culver backed away from the two men. Berimar relaxed.
"Tch. I expected no less." He looked around the compound and at the Tuors and Wynne, standing near the house. "Quite a collection of performers you have here Blackthorne. I don't imagine you get many travelers here. Not willing ones at any rate. Did you buy them from gypsies? Or did you grow them yourself?" He chuckled to himself. "I didn't expect you to be a fan of the circus. Where is the fire-eater? I have always enjoyed their acts."
"Your courtesy is astounding, Berimar. Galamog must be embarrassed to allow you to attend court functions." Berimar's red eyes brightened as Blackthorne turned away. "Allow me to introduce you. We have Elise, Culver, and Tomen. And this is Wynne." The Tuors bowed low. Wynne did not respond. Berimar nodded to himself as if an earlier opinion had been confirmed.
"Ah. The sorceress." Berimar looked her up and down, a half smile on his face. Wynne's face reddened. Berimar made some low noise to himself.
"Mind your manners," snapped Wynne. She started to call upon her power, but her thoughts were scattering, unable to focus. "I am not a toy. I will defend myself."
"Easy, easy. I meant no disrespect," hissed Berimar. Blackness billowed around him like smoke raised by a bellows, pulsing with his mood. "My culture is different than yours and women have a special place. Very special. I do not know your customs."
"I know all about Mordyn," said Wynne. "Special indeed. Chattel! I will split you in two before you insult me again. I will use the Faerion!" Blackthorne shook his head at information so freely given.
"What? You have the Faerion!" Berimar looked to Blackthorne who shrugged. "How did she get it? Does she know what to do with it?" He peered at from his great height. She shrank back toward Tomen who readied his knife. Blackthorne shook his head at the Tuor.
"That is not necessary in my house Tomen. She is resourceful," said Blackthorne. "I wouldn't test her word. There are spells in the Faerion to vex even you, Berimar. Perhaps even Galamog."
Berimar continued to stare at Wynne. She sensed his power growing but Blackthorne's wards dampened it, rendering it ineffective. Berimar shook his bronzed fist at his host.
"Curse you, Blackthorne. I must read that book. Remove your wards."
"You know I won't. You will have to behave, servant of Galamog."
Berimar cringed at the word 'servant'. His red eyes fixed themselves on Blackthorne. A sudden crispness of the air alerted the others of the magic around them. Elise drew close to Culver who kept backing up to the door of the house. Finally, Berimar threw up his arms.