Returning from the underbrush, Garec held one of the limp feathered corpses aloft and called to Gilmour, ‘We’ve filled your dinner order, my exceedingly old friend.’
Brynne chuckled nervously at his attempt at levity.
Gilmour smiled in response to the teasing and happily stuffed the bird into his saddlebag. ‘It appears I will have to learn to appreciate old-age jokes now that my secret is out.’
Garec jumped back astride Renna and, glad for the break in the tension, asked, ‘So, are the stories of farming in Falkan and working with loggers in Praga all lies to cover up your true identity?’
‘Of course not,’ Gilmour answered. ‘My farm produced one of the finest tobacco crops in Falkan, and I can still strip and ride a log down the river with the best. I’ve had a long life since the massacre at Sandcliff Palace. Granted, much of what I have chosen to do has been out of necessity to hide from the bounty hunters sent from Welstar Palace to kill me. But I’ve enjoyed all my occupations over the Twinmoons since I fled Gorsk.’
‘Bounty hunters?’ Mika asked warily.
‘Yes, hideous fellows mostly.’ Gilmour brushed an imagined insect away from his face. ‘They have been hunting me since Prince Draven of Malakasia died nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago. His son, Marek, was the first to send assassins out after me. I can’t say for certain, but I believe Marek was the first of the Malakasians to be taken, mind and body, by Nerak. He was just a boy at the time, and a pleasant one too, before all this happened. I imagine Nerak hid Lessek’s Key and the far portal in Colorado before returning to ravage the royal families of Eldarn.’
‘What happened that night at Sandcliff Palace?’ Mika looked frightened, as if the answer might conjure up even more danger for them to deal with.
Gilmour chuckled amiably and tried to put them all at ease. ‘I’ll make you a deal, Mika. You roast these birds and that rabbit Garec bagged this morning. We’ll open a couple of skins of Garec’s wine and I’ll tell you all about it. There’s a clearing on the river about an aven further north of here, a protected cove where we can camp safely for the night.’
Taking his cue, Versen spurred his horse and led the company further north towards the Blackstone Mountains and the Falkan border.
WELSTAR PALACE, MALAKASIA
Torches hanging in sconces dimly lit the stone walls of the narrow passageways in Welstar Palace. Soldiers of the palace garrison lined the halls leading from Prince Malagon’s royal apartments to his audience chamber in the north wing. Each warrior was clad in the uniform of the Malakasian Home Guard, with the prince’s crest on a thick leather breastplate draped over a chain-mail vest. Black leather boots were laced tightly over dark leggings and flowing hooded cloaks made the platoon look more like students of holy writ than highly trained defenders of the prince. Beneath the folds of each cloak, Malagon’s soldiers were armed with broadswords or longbows.
There had not been an assault on Welstar Palace in nearly a thousand Twinmoons, but the Home Guard took their preparation and daily drills seriously. Officers in the garrison demanded nothing less than slavish – and obsequious – obedience from every soldier posted at Welstar Palace. Many had never seen their prince, but each was happy to die in Malagon’s defence if necessary. To be stationed at Welstar Palace was deemed a great honour by Malakasian men and women, and most occupation soldiers dreamed of the day they would be ordered home to safeguard Eldarn’s supreme monarch. Most did not realise that Prince Malagon rarely left his apartments. His generals and admirals met regularly to discuss the ongoing needs of occupation forces around Eldarn, but the prince rarely joined them.
Instead, he spent days on end meditating in the dark recesses of his chambers. Food was sent up from the palace kitchens, yet his guards spoke in hushed tones of elaborately prepared meals going untouched. Rumours abounded that the prince did not require food for sustenance.
On this night, Malagon had sent word of his intention to meet with his military counciclass="underline" he had a change in policy he planned to implement throughout Eldarn. As his closest advisors waited in his audience chamber, uncomfortable in dress uniform, they chatted nervously about the state of the occupation and the efficiency with which their respective military branches operated. Admiral Kuvar Arenthorn, from the northern coast, appeared to be particularly nervous at meeting the prince: sweat beaded his brow and dampened his armpits as he twittered on anxiously about Malakasia’s naval presence in the south. Admiral Arenthorn was the youngest officer present; he had risen quickly through the ranks after several ships were lost in the Northern Archipelago and the prince had ordered a summary execution of the entire naval executive staff. The Malakasian fleet had been pursuing two pirate vessels through the Ravenian Sea when they ran aground on the rocks that dotted the ocean between Malakasia and Gorsk.
Arenthorn drank deeply from a goblet of Falkan wine and quickly refilled the chalice. His under-tunic was soaked through; he feared he would soon discolour his uniform with unsightly sweat stains. A few of his colleagues looked askance at him as they picked at trays of tidbits prepared by Malagon’s team of chefs, but Arenthorn didn’t care. He gulped the wine, refilled the goblet a third time and moved towards the open window, hoping to find a measure of calm in tobacco.
Back in the shadowy halls of the royal residence, a garrison lieutenant barked an order and his entire platoon snapped to attention. Without fanfare – or even a telltale creak from the ancient oaken doors – Prince Malagon of Malakasia, almost invisible among the folds of a heavy wool cloak, drifted silently from his residence and on towards the palace audience chamber. None of the soldiers dared to look at their prince, but many noted the absence of sound as he passed by. It was as though his feet never touched the floor: he simply floated, more spirit than man, as his cloak billowed around him in the windless inner passageway. It was almost impossible in the half-light to discern where Prince Malagon’s robes ended and the ambient darkness began.
Loyal and obedient to a fault, not one of his personal guard would have dreamed of reaching out to test the edges of the infinite blackness that surrounded the prince. All understood their death would be swift and without warning if they so much as twitched. They escorted the prince to his audience chamber, where the door swung open before them, seemingly of its own volition. The guards glanced uneasily at one another as the chamber resealed itself once the shadowy apparition had moved inside. Surrounded by his most trusted advisors, there was no need for the palace garrison to accompany Malagon any further this evening. There were already four guards posted in the chamber.
Hearing the chamber door open, Admiral Arenthorn took a long last draw on his pipe and emptied its bowl into a discarded wine goblet on the windowsill. As Prince Malagon entered the room without a sound, every man dropped immediately to one knee, heads bowed low and eyes on the floor. The prince gazed across the bowed heads of his most deferential and loyal servants for a moment before gliding to the head of a large rectangular table in the centre of the room.
‘Join me,’ he said quietly, his grim voice echoed in their heads, breaking the strained silence.
Arenthorn looked about the room as the others rose slowly and moved to take their places at the council table. His seat was on the opposite side, near the wall. He crossed behind Malagon to take his place among his colleagues, but as he drew level with the prince, Admiral Arenthorn, his stomach turning and his heart pounding a nearly audible rhythm in his chest, drew his sabre from a jewelled scabbard and struck with all his might at the back of the prince’s robes.