Within the Hollow Crown (3 page)

“What about the-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Landos said, waving his hand around. “I’m having enough trouble keeping it straight in my mind.”

“He always gets us into this kind of trouble.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you think we should do something about it?”

“Like what? We can’t have him killed for being an idiot.”

“I’ve killed people for less.”

“I’m going to bring it up with Michael. We’ll see if he has any ideas.”

“Well, I’m going to knock on the door and see if Lord Rutherford has enough wits about him to get me a hot tea.”

Lady Vye turned her horse and headed for the main gate. Landos sighed, looked at the departing army,
and followed her.

Chapter
3: A Glorious Quest Worthy of a Librarian

Jareld and Thor dismounted outside the cave as the sun glinted over the watery horizon.

It was the seventh cave they had stopped at that morning, the first six having nothing but a lot of turcle, red dirt, worm-glue, splishle, and glipp. They had started looking in caves from the first light of dawn, even though they had arrived in the area at sundown.

“I don’t want to go into caves at night,” Jareld had said. “There might be a sleeping bear.”

“Better a sleeping bear than a waking one,” Thor had
argued.

But in the end, they had decided against it. The drizzle had ruined most of their torches, and they were tired. As they entered the seventh cave
this morning, however, they were getting frustrated. There was no sign of Sir Dorn or the League of the Owl. For Jareld, even the possibility of finding a relic of the League of the Owl…

It
was Jareld’s favorite story, because it was sad and because it was true. More than a hundred years ago, King James II, easily everyone’s favorite historical
King
,
ruled the land. King James believed that the wealth of a country could be measured by the prosperity of its common people, not its nobles. Many had spoken this sort of rhetoric before, but few knew how to do anything about it.

Count Wallace, in the third century of Rone, gave away all the gold in his castle to the poor. But the gold just ended up being collected by various gangs of bandits who ran amuck around the land. When Wallace tried to get things under control, he found that the soldiers wouldn’t do what he told them to. Not if he couldn’t pay them.

In another instance, a generous Baron tried to build a house for every family in his land. He started the greatest wood excavation in history, and organized dozens of carpenters, architects, and masons to build good homes for everyone. Unfortunately, he chose to chop down a forest that was inhabited by the Great Spiders, a group of six-foot-tall arachnids. These spiders didn’t so much build webs and capture their prey as they did bite people’s heads off. After the death toll reached three hundred, the Baron abandoned his silly idea about generosity.

But King James II knew how to do it. He knew how to control the import-export ratio, how to use tariffs to ensure domestic growth, how to levy taxes as a means of supporting the farmers, and how to promote the arts, including traveling circuses, acting troupes, and small bands of musicians. Nothing sexy. Just good, clean governing.

He was also the first to organize the law of the land. “One Standard for Every Man,” he said, establishing an edict of all the laws that everyone was beholden to. It was called the King James Standard. There were two hundred, thirteen laws in the first part of the document, which ran for seventeen pages. The second part of the document, which lasted another eighty-eight pages, described the rules for settling disputes. The law was established in a hierarchy, from local magistrates all the way to the King himself. Certain decisions could be appealed. Certain ones couldn’t. The law could not get involved in certain situations, but was mandatory in others. Barristers were appointed to every court to ensure that the rules were followed.

But
James didn’t want the hierarchy to be so strict that the King’s ear couldn’t reach the far lands. And so he formed the League of the
Owl
.

They were the elite knights. The best of the best. They were practiced in martial skill, were pure of heart, charitable, defenders of the weak, champions of the poor, and
chaste
.

But the skill they needed above all else was an ability to understand and enforce the law. They were sent out to represent the King in all matters of the law, and if they happened to get little Timmy out of the well and chase off the ruffians that were attacking the town, all the better.

The
trials and triumphs of the League are well documented, but Jareld couldn’t help but obsess over their tragic end. As James’ reign brought prosperity to the Kingdom, the Queen was kidnapped. In the ensuing chaos, the King and the League chased after the kidnappers, and ended up fighting the Great
Wyrm
Devesant in the Caves of Drentar.

Only one Knight survived, Sir Dorn of Arwall. He was a young knight. Unproven. But he was the only one who returned to the Kingdom of Rone, though it was without the bodies of the King, the Queen, any of his fellow League members, or the King’s Sword, the Saintskeep. In the century since, many have tried to find the Saintskeep. Most of these treasure hunters would go to the Caves of Drentar and try to find the Dragon’s lair. Those that survived long enough to encounter the Dragon did not live long enough to tell anyone about it.

Jareld was not a treasure hunter. He was a historian. He would have been perfectly happy discovering the location of the missing sword on a map and then calling it a day. Unfortunately, the only credit he hadn’t earned from the Towers of Seneca was his field study. Things started going wrong about three weeks ago.

“Master Gallar!” he had called, “Master Gallar, come see what I’ve found!”

Gallar was the Master of the Towers, the head instructor at Seneca. He was in the middle of teaching some students about the Battle at Cliffhaven when Jareld had burst into the classroom.

“Jareld,” Gallar said, “I am in the middle of a class.”

“I know,” Jareld said, pausing to gasp for air, “But this is important.”

Jareld collapsed his hands onto his knees, panting heavily. He was good at many things, but those things all required him to sit at a desk, so he was not inclined to run up three flights of stairs as quickly as he just had.

“A great many things are important,” Gallar said, “Like the Battle at Cliffhaven.”

Gallar waved at the maps on the wall, which he had been using to demonstrate the movements of the armies involved. Jareld caught some semblance of his breath.

“The Battle of Cliffhaven,” Jareld said, “Is rubbish. General Williams used the high tide to corner Avonshire’s men.”

Gallar threw his arms in the air. “You just ruined the best part.”

“This is about the Saintskeep,” Jareld said, in a loud whisper. He wasn’t trying to be secretive. He was just catching his breath. Nonetheless, the students in Gallar’s classroom did their requisite murmuring and whispering in response to Jareld’s statement. Gallar immediately pulled Jareld outside the classroom.

“What are you talking about?” Gallar demanded, once they were in the ground floor library.

“The Saintskeep,” Jareld said. “I’ve found something. Look.”

Jareld pointed to some open texts on his workstation. “This is an account of Prince John’s, a copy of his journal that we recently acquired from Anuen. Now, we’ve looked this over before, when we visited the King last summer, but we finally have our own copy. Look at this.”

Jareld opened to a marked page and began to read, “’Tonight, finally, we might have some answers. The East Tower rang early in the night, and I was summoned to the Royal Chambers.’ See?”

“What do I see?” Gallar asked.

“He says the East Tower rang. The East Tower. Anuen is on the West coast. Sir Dorn came back by boat, Sir, from the Caves of Drentar. He would have landed right there in Anuen and walked up the main road to the castle. The West Tower would have rung. He should have been coming in from the West.”

“There are many reasons he could have come around the long way,” Gallar said.

“Then,” Jareld went on unabated, “I checked his account of the events in the Caves of Drentar.” Jareld tossed a few books around until he found the one he wanted.

“According to this,” Jareld said, reading from King John’s journal, “Dorn said he remembers the moon of the solstice on the night he made it back to the ship.”

“So, he left the Caves on the Solstice. We all know that much.”

“Then why did he not make it back to the Castle until the eighteenth of March? It doesn’t take two months to get from the Caves of Drentar to Anuen. Even if he hit bad weather, which he never mentioned, it shouldn’t take more than three weeks.”

“He was sailing the King’s Galleon alone. All of his comrades were dead. He was probably not a great navigator.”

Jareld held up a finger. It was his index finger, and he held it up in such a way that made Gallar think that Jareld had anticipated this objection. He kept the finger up with his one hand while his other hand found a faded parchment.

“I took the liberty of finding a copy of Sir Dorn’s Testified Accomplishments. These were recorded at his acceptance into the League.”

He handed the parchment to Gallar, using that extended index finger to point to the third entry. Gallar already had an idea of what it would be, but he read it anyway. Sir Dorn, it seemed, was the Vice Admiral of Count Arwall’s 2
nd
Navy. He had gotten to that point, apparently, by being the Chief Navigator aboard the capital ship of the Count’s 1
st
Navy.

“Certainly,” Gallar said, handing back the parchment, “It does seem odd.”

“Odd? Master, he was a seasoned sailor. He would have had some trouble, but he could have gotten the ship going. And he could have navigated by the stars alone if his compass didn’t work. He could have navigated by the migration of trout, I’d be willing to bet.”

“Trout are freshwater,” Gallar said, feeling the need to appear smarter than his pupil on something, at least. “So, he took some time, you think, getting back to Anuen, but you haven’t proven anything. There are still plenty of explanations, and none of them has to do with the Saintskeep.”

Jareld used that same finger to delay Gallar’s further objections while his left hand grabbed up some leather bound notes.

“This,” Jareld said, flipping through some pages, “Is the Royal Historian’s transcription of Sir Dorn’s testimony, the night he returned to Anuen:

… I was just recovering from the hit I had taken, and saw that the King was also injured. I knew our time was short, and our mission a failure. When the Wyrm poised to strike again, I charged in to stand between it and the King. In striking the Dragon, my sword became embedded in his thick hide, and when he turned, I was left without a weapon…

“He goes on for a bit here. The King eventually signaled the retreat, and only three men left the room: King James, Sir Dorn, and Sir Martin. He describes how Sir Martin collapses from his wounds, but Sir Dorn keeps trying to carry the King back to the ship. And eventually:

… And I lay the King out on the damp, dirty ground of those evil caves, and at the King’s request, I performed the Final Rites of the Resting, and saw that before I had even finished, the King had passed from our world…

Jareld closed the texts and looked up with that look on his face again. The look on Gallar’s face didn’t quite match. Jareld continued:

“See: He performed the Final Rites. You need a sword to perform the Final Rites.”

“You think he used the Saintskeep?”

“He would have had to. His sword was gone, and he doesn’t mention picking up another. Besides, he was carrying the King the whole time, so his hands would have been occupied.”

“But if he performed the Rites with the Saintskeep, which would have been presumptuous of him, by the way, then why didn’t he return to Anuen with it?”

“Exactly! I think he brought the sword back to the continent, but not to the Prince.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jareld, what was the first thing I taught you when you said you wanted to be a Master Historian?”

“You said that I had to know more than the names and the dates.”

“I told you that you had to understand the reasons. Why do you think he did this?”

“I really can’t think of any good explanation. But it’s worth looking into.”

“I agree. You will leave tomorrow with Thor.”

Gallar turned and left the library. Jareld, stunned by what had just happened, dragged his hand down his face before taking pursuit.

“Wait a minute,” Jareld said, catching up to Gallar. Gallar kept
climbing the stairs, so Jareld had to make his argument in transit. “I shouldn’t be the one who does this. Certainly there are other people who should go on a quest like this.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, I just assumed we would find a worthy knight or something. You know. Someone who can fight off bad things.”

“Look, you’re almost done with your tenure here. The only requirement you haven’t fulfilled is your Field Practical. This sounds like a perfect opportunity.”

“Oh, that isn’t fair,” Jareld said, with a younger-brother-like scorn. “Tommy Brimmerfell graduated by translating the Edicts of Temec.”

“And a very good job he did of it,” Gallar said, getting to the staircase. He hoped to have Jareld out of breath before they reached the forth floor, but the Towers had
twelve floors, incase they became necessary.

“Of course he did a good job of it,” Jareld said. “They’ve already been translated into seventeen languages. He had texts to work with.”