“What? First Ivona is taken, and now the same is attempted on Milada himself. Let us be off at once!” Meredith exclaimed.
“Have no fears for Ivona, for she is safe. I will explain on the way.”
With that they began their march to Milada’s castle at double pace. Yet before they had gone a dozen yards, a man – panting heavily – came running up from behind them.
“Admiral, Admiral!” he called, “I bring news.”
“Speak it then, Forsmil,” the Admiral responded, for the man was one of his crew.
“Montague has escaped!”
There was a moment of silence.
“We have been discovered,” the Admiral whispered at length. “Onward, then, to the Western Marches. Before it is too late!”
Chapter 29
Meanwhile, in the Western Marches, the day went on as well. In the second floor of the castle, the Fardy brothers sat in counsel with Milada. They were in the family room, which covered most of the second floor, with passages to each of the upper towers contained in a circular pillar in the center of the room – thirty feet in diameter – with each door leading to a different tower. The outside walls of the room were walled entirely in glass, with several bookshelves and tables standing in front it. Part of the room was sectioned off as a training room for the guards, and another part as a storage room for the same. The rest of the room was furnished as a family, or sitting, room.
It was unusual to see a castle with walls of glass, yet the beauty of the surrounding land was also unusually potent. At this time, the sky was cloudless and the sun nearing the end of its daily pass. The castle itself sat in the center of a circular meadow that stretched for a mile in each direction. The village was nestled between the meadow and the castle, circling entirely around the latter. The ground sloped downward as it came toward the castle and the village, and the farmers took advantage of this to irrigate their lands: all the rain ran down to them. The trees cast a shadow over half the meadow, as the sun sank lower, and in the shaded portion it was already night. Yet in the rest of the meadow, it was late afternoon.
Milada looked out of the window absently, murmuring sometimes to himself, and sometimes to the others. His manner was frightened, as it had been when Willard rescued him: though his body still danced strangely, his limbs seemed more to writhe than to waltz. The Fardy brothers looked at each other anxiously. They wished to be briefed on the situation with the nobles and the rebellion from Milada’s viewpoint. Yet Milada did not help their efforts, and the brothers did not have the tact to steer him along.
“Look there, my friends,” Milada said gloomily, pointing to the shaded meadow. “Look there, where the night meets the day. See the contrast between the depression and the joy? See the contrast between the cold complacency and the zealous enthusiasm? Such is the state of my heart. Indeed, such is the state of Atilta: divided between the night of tyranny, and the day of freedom. And look friends, is it not the day which wanes?”
“Does not the dawn replace it, though?” asked the blond Fardy.
“Yes,” Milada sighed, “Yet the dawn gives way to the noon; and noon once more to the evening. What good is freedom, if it cannot be kept? Have we freed anything but the blood of our compatriots, and that only to spill out on barren ground?
“We are patient men, Milada,” said the brown Fardy. “But there is a time for peace and a time for rising up. It cannot always be one or the other.”
“Perhaps,” suggested the black Fardy, “Perhaps we should prove our patience before we preach it. Remove the plank from our own eyes, so to say.”
“Prove before we preach? By my mother’s left arm! Brother, what sort of a humble, forbearing remark was that? Am I to understand that you would feign to question your own patience? Well, then, let me prove it to you. Only be glad that I have no plank in my eye, or else I would pull it and use it as an instrument of learning upon your head,” and the blond Fardy grabbed an ancient, handwritten manuscript from the bookshelf beside him and struck his black brother firmly on the head.
Upon seeing this, the brown Fardy’s eyes opened wide and he leapt to his feet.
“The Fardys are a virtuous bunch,” he said, “My brother here showing his patience, and my brother there showing his zeal. Yet I would count myself a sinner, if I did not step forward and protect the patience of my brother.”
“You will do no such thing, or else someone might think you impatient! I strike him that he may see his own patience, his own superior cheek-turning morals. Perhaps it is best that I show you your patience as well!” The blond Fardy gave his brown-haired relative a quick smack with the ancient manuscript.
“By the hand that rests on my mother’s left arm! I will not let you show yourself impatient while showing me patient. For that would make me your superior, and I will not suffer myself to harbor such pride!” The brown-haired Fardy returned his brother’s blow with a punch to the face that knocked him backwards onto the floor with a resounding thud.
“By the dainty mole that rests upon the hand that rests upon my mother’s left arm! I will not allow you to put yourself last here on earth, for I know as well as any that he who is first will be last, and he who is last will be first .” With that the blond Fardy raised the ancient manuscript in preparation to hit his brother with it. But his other kin – the black Fardy – arrested his arm in mid-swing. The sudden, jolting stop causing the book to fly across the room at great speed.
Just then, Milada was aroused from his melancholy meditations and looked across the room to where the Fardy brothers were quarreling. As he opened his mouth to bid them cease, the book crashed squarely into his nose and tumbled down to his lap. It landed open, facing upward. The impact brought him to the alert, and, as he regained his composure, he looked down at the book. It was open to a page that held a sketch of the Kings Plantagenet of many generations ago, with this text written beneath it:
In ancient times, the Plantagenets were rulers of the Holy Roman Empire. As it broke apart, they moved their capital to France, and from there to Atilta. Their purest line reigns there, and they have reigned with mercy and compassion. The people love them dearly.
Upon reading this, Milada was filled with rage at the thought of the king’s murder. He thought of his duty to the people of Atilta and to history. The Fardy brothers saw the resolve written on his face and hoped to keep him engaged; the blond Fardy was the first to speak.
“Perhaps it is time to consult on the situation of the rebellion, Milada?”
“Yes, it is time,” he answered. “How are things in Eden and in the forest?”
“Jonathan Montague is about in the forest, kidnapping and attacking. The Queen of Saxony will arrive in Eden within the week, and the policy of France is soon to be decided. Above all, there are traitors among us. The end is coming, whether or not we are ready for it.”
“The nobles are neutral,” Milada said. “My trip found them inclined to the rebellion, because of Gylain’s increasing tyranny. We would do better with them on our side, but, as long as they are not for Gylain, we can survive. If we can make them question Gylain’s strength with a victory – more symbolic than strategic – we can count on their help. But if we fail to move forward in the coming weeks, they will commit to his banner.”
“Then our hope lies in Eden. If only we were there to help our comrades.”
“And yet we are not, brother. So let us be patient with our friend Milada, and keep guard over him – for if harm comes to him, all is lost as well.”
“True, my brother, but do you think that I would not be patient?”