Within the Hollow Crown (24 page)

Chapter
65: A Silence of Choice

Michael and company waited, under heavy guard, in a chamber room just inside the Castle Anuen. It was a rather luxurious space for them, with plush chairs and footrests. They were even offered tea.

Michael, Timothy, and Emily sat in one corner, strategizing. Flopson had done his best, but was eventually kicked out of the room after insulting Timothy and stealing his bootlaces. Vye, however, was sitting in the far corner, with Halmir, as they spoke in hushed tones.

“You should tell him,” Halmir said.

“I can’t,” Vye whispered back.

Vye had spent the last hour using her farsight to check around Hartstone Castle. It was an exhausting exercise, even while sitting, but she wanted to get all the information she could. And so far, the information wasn’t good.

She could see Landos in the infirmary. It was too blurry to tell how he was faring. But at least he was there. Because Vye’s next check was the morgue.

She saw all the guards, of course. Dozens of them. But she identified Gabriel right away. His long mane of gray hair, his wrinkled forehead. Even in death, he seemed stern.

Vye was able to check another half dozen places in the castle before she wore herself out. But no matter where she checked, she couldn’t find Sarah.

“He would want to know.”

“Of course he would, but I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Because your friends are coming for us, and we don’t have much time to put together a defensive plan. And right now, I think Michael is the best chance we have to put all the pieces together.”

There was a beat, a moment, during which neither of them said anything.

“They are not my friends,” Halmir said, at last.

“Well, they were.”

“Do not blame me for what is happening. I am here to help, now.”

“Well, a lot of good it’s going to do!” Vye said, raising her whisper as loud as it would go. Michael looked up at her, but she didn’t make eye contact and looked back at Halmir. She spoke more softly, “You’ve killed a lot of people, Halmir. I’ve forgotten that these last couple of days.”

“I am trying to redeem myself for those actions,” Halmir said, “I am hoping I have recognized my errors in time to make them right. But, in the meantime, don’t you think Count Deliem should know that something has happened at his Castle? That his wife could be in peril?”

“I will tell him,” Vye said. “Eventually. But I know the men who were cleaning up the chamber. They work at the Castle. That means somebody survived. That means we still control Hartstone. Even if everybody I know is dead... I will tell him, when the armies of the Kingdom are unified, as I believe only Michael will be able to unify them.”

“I hope your news doesn’t come too late.”

Chapter 66: The Plank

“How did it go?” Thor asked Jareld when he was returned to their corner of the Caves.

“The good news is they’re probably going to find the sword,” Jareld responded, “The bad news is they’re going to make us walk the plank.”

“The plank?” Corthos said, “But there be no water here.”

“Then it should be very interesting.”

Eventually, they were roused from their thoughts by rude pirates with scimitars and rapiers. They were led down many corridors, each darker and nastier than the last. It became clear that the maid hadn’t been down this way. This was the road less traveled, and either by happenstance or design, it had an ickier feeling for the trio of prisoners.

Finally, they came to a large room. It had been artificially dug out, supported with wood and metal beams across the “ceiling” and “doorway.” There was light in this room, more light than there had been anywhere else in the caves. The light was caused by the ring of fire that outlined the huge pit in the middle of the room, and was also the only thing that kept the scorpions from escaping said pit and killing the pirates.

The room also had a convenient bleacher section, where the population of pirates was currently residing, cheering and jeering at the upcoming spectacle. Jareld now understood the mystery of the plank: It jutted out over the scorpion pit, in front of the entire crew of pirates, so that everyone could watch the prisoners die.

There was a brief fanfare played on a sad excuse for a trumpet.

“And now, His Royal Majesty, King Scratchy, the Nine-Fingered Pirate, the Twenty-Seventh,” the herald said.

The pirates cheered as, from another entrance, The Twenty-Seventh entered and took his “throne” in the midst of the bleachers.

“Bring out the prisoners!” the King said.

There was a cheer of approval.

“Your Majesty,” Eye-Patch said, “The prisoners have already been brought.”

“Very well then,” the King said, “Do the prisoners have any final words to say, except, of course, for the words of panic and pleading that you will say when you are stung many times over by a pit full of scorpions?”

“I can start pleading now,” Jareld said.

There was a little murmur of laughter.

“Listen, Corthos,” Jareld said, “You’re a pirate. Or at least, you’re more of a pirate than I am. And since you’ve been on a boat in your life, you’re more of a pirate than these scallywags. You have to think of something, quickly, that will save us.”

“Me apologies,” Corthos said, “I be terrified beyond tha’ capacity fer rational thought.”

“Let the first prisoner be brought forth!” the King declared.

Because of the position in which they were standing, that turned out to be Jareld.

“You always had to go first,” Thor said, as Jareld was dragged to the edge of the plank.

Jareld peeked over the side of the pit. His eyes took a second to adjust, but he could eventually make out the nest of foot-long scorpions. Foot-long scorpions. No big deal. He was five feet and change. They were one foot. He could survive this. He just had to kick a few of them, scare them into their corners, and then stay in the pit, indefinitely, without food, water, or sleep, for as long as it took for the other two to formulate an escape plan.

“Into the Pit!!” the King cried. Eye-Patch kicked the beam from his end, the safe-end, as Jareld called it in his mind, and Jareld tumbled fifteen feet to the bottom of the pit.

Chapter
67: The Sacrifice

After a pleasant wait, Michael, Timothy, Vye, Halmir, Flopson, and Emily were brought before Castor Rone, or King Castor, as he called himself. They were invited into the Throne Room, the very seat of the Kingdom. Pristine ivory pillars surrounded the long walkway down to the dais, a semi-circular pedestal upon which Castor sat. Behind him, the flag of Rone, a large red lion over black. Ornate stone carvings detailed the six-century history of the Kingdom. The heroes and legends. The original King James Standard lay open on a podium near the dais.

Michael and Timothy did most of the speaking, mentioning the Men of the Kingdom and the Women of the Kingdom a few times here and there. After much debate, Castor Rone stood from his throne, and stepped down the pedestal.

“You are willing to forgo your claim to the throne?” Castor asked of Timothy.

“For the good of the Kingdom, yes,” Timothy said.

“And what is your angle in all this?” Castor asked Michael.

“A desire to live in peace” Michael said, “I do not think that is the fate the Turin would have for us.”

At the mention of the Turin, all eyes flashed to Halmir, but then tried to flash somewhere else before he could notice. He noticed all the more.

“Indeed,” Castor said. “You have brought an interesting proposition, but I cannot believe it is serious.”

“It is deadly serious,” Timothy said.

“Not so long as you and Emily are married. I will not accept her rule as a decoy for your ascension to the throne.”

“Then we will have the marriage annulled,” Emily offered. Timothy looked sideways at Emily.

“Annulment?” Castor said. “You would do that, Your Grace?”

Emily cleared her throat, put on a sad face, and turned to Castor, “For the good of the Kingdom, yes.”

Castor nodded, mildly surprised but nonetheless pleased. Vye was the only one who saw the corner of Emily’s lip curl into a smile.

“Well then,” Castor said, “For the good of the Kingdom.”

Chapter
68: The Words You Learn First

Jareld fell fifteen feet, landed awkwardly on his right ankle, sprained it, collapsed into a ball, then immediately got up on his good leg while the scorpions surrounded him.

It was time to initiate his plan, the one in which he tried to stay alive long enough for the other two prisoners to come up with a rescue plan.

Then he remembered who the other prisoners were and panicked.

“I’ve got it!” Corthos said.

“What?” Jareld said, kicking one of the scorpions, then reeling in pain from his ankle.

“I’ve got it!” Corthos repeated, “I know what to do.”

“Speak quickly!” Jareld called, turning wildly from left to right, spinning around, and shaking his foot to get the scorpion off it.

“Insult the King!” Corthos called.

“What?” Jareld said.

“Insult the King! It’s your only hope!”

Jareld stomped his right foot down on one of the critters, making a crunching sound, and once again spraining his ankle. He switched gears to speak the pirates’ language.

“Your Majesty!” Jareld called out, suddenly feeling a scorpion crawling up the back of his leg. He shuddered. The scorpion poised its stinger.

“Ah,” the King called, “You wish to start pleading for mercy?”

“No,” Jareld said, “I wanted to tell you that your mother…”

Jareld realized at this moment that the scorpion’s stinger had struck, but hadn’t managed to penetrate his cloak. He tried to reach behind him to sweep it off, but another scorpion clung to his sleeve, and started to crawl up his arm.

“Yes, my mother?” the King asked.

“Oh, yes,” Jareld said, eyeing the scorpion’s stinger, “Your mother is a pile of cow droppings.”

“What kind of droppings?” the King said.

“Cow droppings,” Jareld said.

The King leaned over to his herald, and the two of them whispered to one another. The scorpion on Jareld’s arm was feeling along his elbow for a tender place to strike. Jareld was reaching his other hand slowly behind the scorpion, trying to grab it by the stinger.

“What is this ‘cow’ which you speak of?” the King said, finally.

“Never mind!” Jareld called.

“Are you ready to start begging now?” the King asked. The impatience in his voice was clear.

“No!” Jareld said, “Or at least, not before I tell you that your mother is…”

Jareld realized he didn’t know the Kahlerian word for whore. He grabbed the scorpion by the stinger just as it was about to strike his neck, and was dangling it away from him at the same time that he felt a couple more crawl onto each of his boots. He tried to sweep them off with his heels, but they were getting too high on his legs.

Jareld’s mind raced. He didn’t know the Kahlerian words for donkey, ass, hairy, cunt, retarded, or monkey. These words required a certain amount of finesse with the language, and weren’t in the quick intro course that Jareld had taken.

“What did he say?” a woman’s voice called from the crowd above.

“Sit down Mom,” the King called back, “Listen, inferior prisoner from the sun lands, what is it you have to say about my mother.”

“She is…” Jareld said, feeling a scorpion climbing up his back, “Very, very bad.”

The cheering and jeering went dead.

“What did you--”

“I said she was very bad!” Jareld reiterated. He was sweeping his hands around his back, trying to kick the scorpions off his thighs, and feeling a couple of stingers strike his cloak, but fortunately not breaking through.

“How dare you!” the King said, standing and approaching the edge of the pit and looking down. “That insult is unforgivable. Bring him up!”

A rope was lowered to Jareld, which he took gratefully. A couple of other pirates took burning irons and pressed them against the invading crawlers. By the time Jareld was out of the pit, he was clear of the bugs.

Corthos and Thor approached him.

“The challenge has been made!” The King declared to the hall. There was a cheer. “The fight will be tomorrow at
dawn.”

“What?” Jareld said.

“He said the fight will be tomorrow at dawn,” Eye-Patch repeated, binding Jareld’s hands again, “Which is in about an hour.”

Chapter
69: Eternity

The laws surrounding marriage were very simple. If two people wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, they got married.

Laws surrounding divorce were more complicated.

When married, you made certain vows regarding eternity, which really, no mortal is in a position to make.
You would swear up and down that there was no limit to the amount of time you would spend with
your new mate
.

Fortunately, Michael knew the King James Standard just well enough to circumvent the problem. You needed three Counts or Dukes to make a declaration that annulled the marriage. Basically, you were vetoing the couple’s capacity to make declarations that involved eternity.

So, Duke Avonshire was summoned to Anuen. Michael had the appropriate rank already. And then there was Timothy.

“I can act in lieu of my father,” Timothy said.

“Can he?” Castor Rone asked, “I mean, we’re annulling his marriage. How can he vote on that?”

“I’m voting in your favor,” Timothy objected.

“Even if he wasn’t,” Michael interjected, “Who better to say he couldn’t make declarations about eternity than the man who made the original declaration?”

Vye heard it in his tone of voice. Michael was the voice of reason. He was of lower rank and noble standing than Duke Avonshire, Castor Rone, Timothy, and Emily. But each of them was looking to him to solve the problem. They wouldn’t act without him.

“Even so, he’s not technically the Duke of Brimford,” Castor pressed on. He resented being overruled by his nemesis, and he wasn’t going to make this easy. “He’s not even next in line to be the Duke, his brother is.”

“According to the James Standard,” Duke Avonshire said, “He can speak for Brimford, in dire circumstances, if his father and brother are not available.”

“Are these dire circumstances?” Timothy asked.

“How does the Standard define a dire circumstance?” Castor asked.

“It’s close enough if we all agree, yes?” Michael said. “We’re meant to be able to interpret certain laws, correct? We are all acting on good faith. We are all trying to do what is best for the Kingdom. Let’s not get weighed down by petty objections.”

He was speaking to the room, but he ended his thought facing Castor, who nodded.

“Go
od,” Michael said, “Now, where’s the scribe?”

The Royal Scribe entered the west door, mumbling to everyone.

“I’m sorry, what did he say?” Michael said.

“Oh, you’ve never met our Royal Scribe, Eric,” Castor said, “Great penmanship, but he never speaks louder than a whisper.”

Eric scanned the room. Castor, Avonshire, Timothy, Emily, and Michael. All of his targets in one place...

But also...

He spotted Halmir in the corner. Halmir? What was he doing here? What was he doing alive? And unbound? Was he helping the Rone scum? Why was he comforting a Rone woman? Was that...her?

Eric considered himself fortunate. Halmir had never met him, and Eric wouldn’t have known who he was if he wasn’t the only Turin in a hundred miles and wearing the colors of the Turin-Sen.

“Pardon me,” Eric murmured. “...need...parchment...”

He shuffled out of the room. He needed to contact Argos.