“Not that I know of,” Mauvin replied, his face showing more concern now.
“No riders? No dispatches for the count?” Alric asked again.
“No, Alric, what is it?”
“My father is dead. He was murdered in the castle by a traitor.”
“What!” Mauvin gasped, taking a step back. It was a reaction rather than a question.
“That’s not possible!” Fanen exclaimed. “King Amrath dead? When did this happen?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure how long it has been. The days following his murder have been confusing, and I’ve lost track of the time. If word has yet to reach here, I suspect it hasn’t been more than a few days.”
All the workers stopped what they were doing and stood around listening intently. The constant ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer ceased and the only sound in the courtyard was the distant mooing of a cow and the quacking of the ducks.
“What’s this all about?” Count Pickering asked as he stepped out of the castle holding up an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the morning’s bright sun. “The boy came in panting for air and said there was an emergency out here.”
The count, a slim, middle-aged man with a long, hooked nose and a well-trimmed prematurely gray beard, was dressed in a gold and purple robe pulled over his nightshirt. His wife Belinda came up behind him, pulling on her robe and peering out into the courtyard nervously. Hadrian took advantage of Pickering’s sun-blindness to chance a long look. She was just as lovely as rumor held. The countess was several years younger than her husband, with a slender, stunning figure and long golden hair, which spilled across her shoulders in a way she would never normally show in public. Hadrian now understood why the count guarded her jealously.
“Oh my,” Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. “I don’t even think of horses when I look at her.”
Hadrian dismounted and helped Myron off the horse. “I share your feelings, my friend, but trust me, that’s one woman you really don’t want to stare at.”
“Alric?” the count said. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”
“Father, King Amrath has been murdered,” Mauvin answered in a shaky voice.
Shock filled Pickering’s face. He slowly lowered his arm and stared directly at the prince. “Is this true?”
Alric nodded solemnly. “Several days ago. A traitor stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer.”
“Traitor? Who?”
“My uncle, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor—Percy Braga.”
Royce, Hadrian, and Myron followed their noses to the kitchen after Alric had left for a private meeting with Count Pickering. There they met Ella, a white-haired cook who was all too happy to provide them with a hearty breakfast in order to have first chance at any gossip. The food at Drondil Fields was far superior to the meal they ate at The Silver Pitcher Inn. Ella brought wave upon wave of eggs, soft powdered pastries, fresh sweet butter, steaks, bacon, biscuits, peppered potatoes, and gravy along with a jug of apple cider, and an apple pie baked with maple syrup for dessert.
They ate their fill in the relative quiet of the kitchen. Hadrian repeated little more than what Alric had already revealed in the courtyard however, he did mention that Myron had lived his life in seclusion at the monastery. Ella seemed fascinated by this and questioned the monk mercilessly on the subject. “So, you never saw a woman before today, love?” Ella asked Myron who was finishing the last of his pie. He was eating heartily and there was a ring of apples and crust around his mouth.
“You’re the first one I’ve ever spoken to,” Myron replied as if he were boasting a great achievement.
“Really,” Ella said smiling with a feigned blush. “I am so honored. I haven’t been a man’s first in years.” She laughed but Myron only looked at her puzzled.
“You have a lovely home,” Myron told her. “It looks very…sturdy.”
She laughed again. “It’s not mine, ducky, I just work here. It belongs to the nobles, like all the nice places do. Us normal folk, we lives in sheds and shacks and fights over what they throw away. We’re sorta like dogs that way, aren’t we? ’Course, I ain’t complaining. The Pickerings aren’t a bad lot. Not as snooty as some of the other nobles who think the sun rises and falls because it pleases them. The count won’t even have a chambermaid. He won’t let no one help him dress neither. I’ve even seen him fetch water for himself more than once. He’s downright daft that one. His boys take after him too. You can see it in the way they saddle their own horses. That Fanen, why just the other day I seen him swinging a smith’s hammer. He was having Vern show him how to mend a blade. Now I asks you, how many nobles you see trying to learn the blacksmith trade? Can I get anyone another cup of cider?”
They all shook their heads and took turns yawning.
“Lenare, now she takes after her mother. They’re a pair, they are. Both are pretty as a rose and smell just as sweet, but they do has their thorns. The temper those two have is frightful. The daughter is worse than the mother. She used to train with her brothers and was beating the stuffing out of Fanen until she discovered she was a lady and that ladies don’t do such things.”
Myron’s eyes closed, his head drooped, and suddenly the chair toppled as the monk fell over. He woke with a start and struggled to his knees. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Ella was so busy laughing she couldn’t answer and simply waved her hand at him. “You’ve had a long night, dear,” she finally managed to say. “Let me set you up in the back before that chair bucks you off again.”
Myron hung his head and said quietly, “I have the same problem with horses.”
Alric told his story to the Pickerings over breakfast. As soon as he finished, the count shooed his sons out and called for his staff to begin arranging for a full-scale mobilization of Galilin. While Pickering dispatched orders, Alric left the great hall and began wandering through the halls of the castle. This was the first time he had been alone since his father’s death. So much had happened, he really had not had time to think. He felt as though he was caught up in the current of a river, whisked along by the events unfolding around him. Now it was time to take control of his destiny.
Alric saw few people in the corridors. Aside from the occasional suit of armor or painting on the wall, there was little to distract his thoughts. Drondil Fields, though smaller than Essendon, felt larger due to its horizontal layout, which sprawled across the better part of the hilltop. Where Castle Essendon had several towers and lofty chambers rising many stories high, Drondil Fields was only four stories at its tallest point. As a fortress, fireproofing was essential so the roof was made of stone rather than wood, requiring thick walls to support their weight. Because the windows were small and deep, they let in little light, which made the interior cavelike.
He remembered running through these corridors as a child chasing Mauvin and Fanen. They had held mock battles, which the Pickerings always won. He had always trumped them by bringing up that he would be king someday. At the age of twelve, it had been wonderful to be able to taunt a friend who had bested him with, “Sure, but I’ll be king. You will have to bow to me and do as I say.” The thought that in order to become king his father would have to die had never really occurred to him. Nor had he known what being the king really meant.
I am king now.
Being king was always something he had imagined to be far, far in the future. His father had been a strong man, not much older than Pickering. Alric had looked forward to many years as prince of the realm. Only a few months ago, at the Summersrule Festival, he and Mauvin had made plans to go on a year-long trip to the four corners of Apeladorn. They had wanted to visit Delgos, Calis, Trent, and even planned to seek the location of the fabled ruined city of Percepliquis. To discover and explore the ancient capital of the Old Novronian Empire was a childhood dream of theirs. They wanted to find fortune and adventure in the lost city. Mauvin hoped to discover the rest of the lost arts of the Teshlor Knights, and Alric was going to find the ancient crown of Novron. While they had mentioned the trip to their fathers, neither one brought up Percepliquis. They knew they would not be allowed to travel there. Walking the fabled halls of Percepliquis was probably the boyhood dream of every youth in Apeladorn. For Alric though, his adolescence was over.