The Record of the Saints Caliber (46 page)

The walk back to the portcullis seemed a thousand miles and Brandrir swore he could hear every gasp, every whisper, every comment of disbelief from the crowd. He walked as fast as he could because somehow running made the walk even more humiliating. He clenched his jaw and could feel his face flushing red. His mind flooded with a thousand questions, but the one that kept bobbing to the surface was,
Had he been set up or did the Lands truly denounce him as King?

Brandrir entered the portcullis, his steel boots biting into the stone floor as he rushed down the long hall, lit by the glow of gaslamps. A quick glance behind revealed nobody had followed him, although he could see Egret running down the path toward him, his black shroud fluttering in the night. Brandrir scowled. He had no desire to speak about this and the only thing he wanted to do right now was get back to the Grimwatch. He wanted to put this entire ordeal behind him. He pursed his lips, cursing his brother for having talked him into staying.
“I knew I should have just let him take the crown!”
he spat.

“Brandrir!” cried Egret, and Brandrir could now hear the loud clomp of the man’s boots enter into the castle corridor.

Brandrir ignored him and quickly took the first couple twists and bends to try to lose him, but it was no use. Egret came loping behind quickly, calling to him.

Brandrir grit his teeth and inwardly cursed as he stopped and turned around.

“Your Grace, please wait.” said Egret, but as the man jogged up to him and Brandrir’s eyes caught his, that feeling of humiliation washed over him again and there was no way Brandrir could stand and talk about anything right now.

Brandrir scowled and turned, his cape fluttering as he rushed down the corridor. He could hear Egret’s strides keeping pace with his own.

“Your Grace,” said Egret. “I am sorry, but your father has requested you in the Council room at once.”

Brandrir did not answer and hopped up a flight of stone stairs. In his mind he had already resolved to get back to his room, grab his few belongings, and ride for the Grimwatch this very night. Luckily he was already wearing everything that was important to him, so aside from throwing a few changes of clothes into a bag, he was already good to go. He’d worry about food and water on the road. He had no desire to stick around any longer than he had to. Although, he was now reminded again of Etheil and wondered where he and Solastron had been. He had not seen either of them in the audience.

“Your Grace, please come with me.” said Egret again, this time a little more sternly.

Brandrir did not break stride as he rushed down corridors and up stairs, making his way as quickly as he could toward the castle proper. “Where is Etheil.”

“Your Grace, I am sorry, but you must come with me.” said Egret, placing a hand on Brandrir’s right shoulder.

Brandrir was not a Knight of the Dark Stars. As Royal Bloodline, it was regrettably against the laws of Duroton to allow him to be Knighted as one. Despite that, Brandrir could move nearly as fast as they. In the blink of an eye he ignited the power shield within his mechanical arm, twisted around, and used it to throw Egret off of him. The shield sparked and cracked loudly as it impacted Egret’s shrouded breastplate, causing him to stumble clumsily backward, giving Brandrir all the time he needed to draw and ignite Raze in his right hand. The sword hummed menacingly as Brandrir looked upon the shocked Egret with fiery eyes, the corridor filling with the smell of ozone.

“Tell my father that the crown can go to my brother,” growled Brandrir. “I am leaving for the Grimwatch.”

Egret scowled and took up a more defensive stance, but did not draw his sword. “Don’t do this.”

“Go back to my father,” said Brandrir, his eyes piercing and severe. “Go back to my father now and tell him I am leaving. But I warn you, I shall see this castle fall before I let you so much as place another finger upon me.”

“Brandrir, this is madness,” said Egret. “You know I am sworn to the King’s service, and you are not King. If I must draw my steel to see his will done, then draw it I shall, even against you.”

Brandrir’s eyes flashed and Raze hummed as he flourished it. He raised his left arm and the electrical shield buzzed and crackled before him. Brandrir kept his piercing gaze upon Egret’s eyes and he knew he had just called the Commander of the Durotonian Guard’s bluff. The man would never draw steel against him unless he was specifically ordered to do so.

Egret shook his head. The echo of many steel boots now floated through the corridors and Brandrir knew the Royal Guard were coming. “Please, your Grace. Meet with your father and the Council. I am asking you as a friend.”

Brandrir did not remove his gaze, nor did he let down his sword or shield. “Where is Lord Etheil?” There was the slightest waver in Egret’s gaze. The march of armored soldiers was getting closer. “I may not be King, but I am still your Grace.” said Brandrir with great severity. “I command you to tell me where Etheil is.”

A contingent of Royal Guard now came down the hall, their white armor sparkling in the dim gaslight. Egret looked Brandrir in the eyes and said, “Your father named him an enemy of Duroton. He has been taken to the Black Cells.”

Brandrir felt his grip tightening around the handle of Raze and his jaw clenched to the point of pain. He could feel his face flushing and twisting with anger. Against his own will, his anger released in a roar and his fist impacted the wall so hard that fragments of stone chipped away. It must have been quite the show of intimidation, for the Royal Guard all stopped in their tracks.

Brandrir roared out again, this time sinking Raze deep into the wall and tearing it out with such force that the hewn stones broke apart, raining fragments upon the floor. He turned his fiery eyes upon Egret and even the Dark Star Knight took a step back. With a scowl, Brandrir pushed past Egret, throwing him against the wall. The white-faced soldiers all broke to either side of the corridor as Brandrir tore past them, hitting the last one across the chest with his electric shield, sending the man flying into his peers in a shower of sparks.

Brandrir was vaguely aware of the contingent of soldiers following him, and vaguely aware of Egret trying to speak to him. All Brandrir could focus on, however, were his own thoughts and he wasn’t even consciously directing his pace through the castle’s lower corridors, his feet taking him more or less toward the Black Cells by sheer autonomy. As he strode, he punched the wall again, his gauntlet sparking on the stone and sheering off the lacquer and paint. In his mind’s eye he could see his father—and probably his brother too—conspiring with the Council to do away with Etheil. Probably to do away with the Grimwatch even. He could see them signing papers and documents to recall the soldiers; to grant his own lieutenants—Syrus, Braken, Aries and the rest—to newly exalted nobles.

Brandrir’s mind suddenly flashed with a new resurgence of anger and his thoughts changed. He could hear Balin glibly telling his father how the prophecy had come to pass. He could see the smug grin on Balin’s face as the phoenix was consumed by the flames; could hear him laughing with Jord and Hymnar and Gefjon and the rest. Brandrir stopped dead in his tracks and punched the wall over and over again. Some part of his mind that was still conscious past the rage could feel the steel of his gauntlet denting and was aware of warm blood trickling from his knuckles.

“Brandrir!” called Egret, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Without thinking, Brandrir spun around, his sword making a brief hum as he swung it at Egret’s face. Egret quickly raised his own arm, blocking Brandrir’s forearm and tossing the strike away. But then Brandrir quickly struck out with his shield, throwing his entire shoulder and force of his body into the blow. With violent success the shield struck sparks upon Egret’s chest, throwing him backward, stumbling down the hall. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw some of the Royal Guard move toward him, and without thinking, he spun out his right arm. When ignited, Raze cut so cleanly and easily it was hard to tell if it had made contact. Such was it this time that he didn’t realize it had cut the knight in half until he looked down. There, he saw the white armor cleanly separated at the base of the chest, and the two horrific halves of the man bleeding out all over the floor.

Brandrir looked up, but the shocked and stunned faces of the Royal Guard only set his temper off even more. “Get out of here!” he roared at them. He swung Raze out and they all backed up. “Get out of here! All of you!” His shield buzzed as his mechanical left arm grabbed the nearest knight around the collar of his breastplate. His fist tightened, crumpling the steel, and he threw him into the rest with such force that they all nearly toppled in the hallway.
“Get out!”

Brandrir turned and strode down the hall. He heard Egret order the Royal Guardsmen to hold back. His mind was flashing with raw emotion and thoughts both dark and despairing. He felt like everything was unraveling; everything was coming undone. He was the King’s firstborn son, heir to the Crown of Duroton. For a thousand years a phoenix had never failed to rise for the Thorodin bloodline, yet here he was today, first of his name to be denounced by the lands. He was an outcast now. He wasn’t sure of his title or position any longer. Was he
anything
to Duroton now?

Brandrir grit his teeth and bashed sparks against the wall with his shield as he strode. He began to curse Etheil for having talked him into accepting the crown in the first place. He cursed his brother for having talked him into staying. He cursed his father and the Council and Egret and the Jinn. He cursed the phoenix, that malformed club-footed bird that was too crippled and weak to rise. He bared his teeth and released a terrifyingly angry roar as he scraped his shield and sword across either wall of the narrow corridor as he walked, leaving a trail of sparks and broken stones in his wake.

He came now upon some more spacious halls and chambers. Here there were guards and castle hands and maids. All of them looked upon him as if he were some freak; like he was that phoenix who failed to rise. He paid them no heed as he strode, but in the back of his mind he thought the Lands be damned should one of them get in his way. All he wanted to do was get back to the familiarity of the Grimwatch where he and his lieutenants shared ale and stories of battle; Back to the Grimwatch where fires crackled in the snowy nights; Back to the Grimwatch where the eyes of Kald gleamed like ice beneath the moon; Back to the Grimwatch where battle tested the mettle of men and the honor of their words.

Brandrir felt the wet warmth of an unbidden tear stream down his cheek. He suddenly felt homesick; suddenly out of place in this castle. More than ever, he realized he did not belong here. But it was more than that. He felt he was no longer welcome here. Brandrir raised his sword hand and wiped the tears from his cheek with the edge of his armored bicep. He wanted to ride to the Grimwatch with Etheil and Solastron at his side, across the great plains and snowy woods, through the Blue Wilds and to that great stone wall that had ever stood sentinel in the far north. He should never have come here. He should never have considered touching that accursed crown. He should never have sought to replace the hunk of steel in his hand for one upon his head. He punched the wall again as he strode.

Brandrir had not been to the Black Cells or the deep roots of the castle in ages, but through his anger and sadness his legs seemed to move on instinct and before long he found himself beyond the dungeons and in the forgotten bowels of the castle. He was now aware of the black bricks of the corridor. Very few gaslamps lent their light here, and as he loped down the hall two shrouded figures came running up from a side corridor. Brandrir knew they were Knights of the Dark Stars, though he couldn’t immediately place their names.

“Sorry, your Grace,” said one of them. “We did not mean to abandon our post, but…” The man’s voice trailed off under the fiery glare of Brandrir’s eyes.

At the end of the hall the narrow corridor opened into a large, circular chamber lined by a number of black, steel doors, each bearing a strange rune that glowed eerily in the darkness. “Etheil!” roared Brandrir.

A moment later and he heard a couple raps upon the far right door. “Here!” he could hear the muffled voice of Etheil and the loud bark of Solastron.

With all his attention on that door, Brandrir strode over to it and with a roar thrust the tip of Raze into the steel. To his surprise the blade did not sink in and was deflected away. He tried to sink his blade into the brick around the door, to cut away the brick, but the black stones too seemed impervious to his weapon. Brandrir’s eyes flashed like stormy skies as he turned to one of the two shrouded guards. “Unlock this door!”

The two Dark Star Knights exchanged puzzled glances. Then one said, “I’m sorry, your Grace, but the King’s own words—”

Brandrir shoved the man in the chest and placed his sword to the others’ neck. “Open that door!”

The two guards exchanged doubtful glances but then the one who Brandrir had pushed just shook his head and said, “Yes, your Grace. Right away.”

The man walked over to the door and took a black scepter from his side that was crowned with a glowing, white crystal. He waved the scepter over the door and the rune upon it stopped glowing. There was a loud clank and the door fell open.

Etheil pushed the door the rest of the way and he stood there in his black shroud, Solastron at his side, smiling brightly. Etheil looked at Brandrir, and his bright smile quickly faded. “Your Grace?”