The Crown Conspiracy

Chapter 10: Coronation Day

Sixty-eight people had died, and over two hundred bore wounds from what became known as the Battle of Medford. The timely attack by the citizenry at the gate precipitated the prince’s entrance into the city, and arguably saved his life. Once news spread through the city of Alric’s return, all resistance ended. This restored peace but not order. For several hours after the battle, roving gangs took the opportunity to loot shops and storehouses, mostly along the riverfront. A shoemaker died defending his cobbler shop, and a weaver was badly beaten. In addition to the general thieving, the sheriff, his two deputies, and a moneylender were murdered. Many believed there were those who took advantage of the chaos to settle old scores. The killers were never identified, and no one bothered to look for the looters. In the end, no one was even arrested; it was enough that the violence was over.

Most of the snow that had fallen the day of the battle had melted over the next few days, leaving only dirty patches hiding in the shadows. Still for the most part, the weather remained decidedly cold. Autumn was officially finished, and winter had arrived. In the freezing winds, a silent crowd stood outside the royal crypt for hours as they removed Amrath’s body for the official state funeral. Many others were buried that same day. The funerals provided a cleansing of the entire city’s grief, followed by a weeklong period of mourning.

Among the dead was Wylin, the master-at-arms of Castle Essendon. He fell while directing the defenses at the castle gate. It was never determined if Wylin had been a traitor or had merely been deceived by the archduke’s lies. Alric gave him the benefit of the doubt and granted him burial with full honors. Although Mason Grumon died, Dixon Taft, manager of The Rose and Thorn, survived the battle with only the loss of his left arm just above the elbow. He might have died, along with many others, except for the efforts of Gwen DeLancy and her girls. Prostitutes, it turned out, made excellent nurses. The maimed and wounded who lacked family to care for them filled Medford House for weeks. When word of this reached the castle, food, supplies, and linens were sent.

News spread throughout Melengar of Alric’s heroic charge on the fortified gates. How he survived the hail of arrows, only to bravely fling off his helm and dare them a second time—it made for great barroom stories. Few thought much of the son of Amrath prior to the battle, but now he became a hero in the eyes of many. A somewhat lesser known tale gained popularity a few days later as it, too, circulated through the city’s taverns. This outlandish yarn described how two criminals, falsely accused of the king’s murder, had escaped a tortuous death by abducting the prince. The story grew with each telling, and soon these same thieves were said to have gone on a rollicking trip through the countryside with the prince, returning just in time to save the princess from the tower seconds before it collapsed. Some even claimed to have helped save the prince from a roadside execution while others insisted they personally saw the princess and one of the criminals dangling from the side of the castle after the collapse of the tower.

Despite extensive searches, the dwarf whose hand actually killed the king escaped. Alric posted a reward notice offering one hundred gold tenents on every crossroad sign and on the door of every tavern and church in the realm. Patrols rode the length of every road searching barns, storehouses, mills, and even under the spans of bridges, yet he was not found.

Following the week of mourning, work began on repairing the castle. Crews cleared away the debris, and architects estimated at least a year to rebuild the lost tower. Though the falcon flag flew above the castle, the city saw little of Prince Alric. He remained sequestered within the halls of power buried under hundreds of obligations. Count Pickering, acting as a counselor, remained in the castle along with his sons. He assisted the young prince in his efforts to assume his father’s role.

One month to the day after the burial of King Amrath, the prince’s coronation took place. By that time, the snows returned and the city was white once more. Everyone came to the ceremony, yet, only a fraction could fit inside the expansive Mares Cathedral where the coronation took place. The majority only caught a brief glimpse of their new monarch when he rode in an open carriage back to the castle or as he stood on the open balcony while trumpets blared.

It was a full day of celebration with minstrels and street performers hired to entertain the citizenry. The castle even provided free ale and rows upon rows of tables filled with all manner of food. In the evening, which came sooner with the shortening of the days, people crammed into the local taverns and inns that were full of out of town visitors. The locals retold the stories of the Battle of Medford and the now famous legend of Prince Alric and the Thieves. These stories were still popular and showed no sign of going out of fashion. The day was long and eventually even the lights in the public houses winked out.

One of the few buildings still burning a candle was in the Artisan Quarter. It was originally a haberdashery, but the previous owner, Lester Furl, had died in the battle the month before. Some said the plumed hat he wore that day caught the attention of an axe. Since then, the wooden sign of the ornate cavalier hat still hung above the door, but no hats were for sale in the window. Even late into the night, the light was always on; however, no one was ever seen entering or exiting the shop. A small man in a simple robe greeted those nosy enough to knock. Behind him, visitors saw a room filled with the dried, hairless skins of animals. Most soaked in tubs or were stretched out on frames. There were pumice stones, needles and thread, and folded sheets of vellum piled neatly along the walls. The room also contained three desks with upright tops over which large sheets of parchment lay with carefully written text. Bottles of ink rested on shelves and in open drawers. The man was always polite, and when asked what he sold in his shop, he would reply, “Nothing.” He simply wrote books. Because few people could read, most inquiries ended there.

The fact was, there were very few books in the shop.

Myron Lanaklin sat alone in the store. He had written half a page of Grigoles Treatise on Imperial Common Law and then just stopped. The room was cold and silent. He stood up, walked to the shop window, and looked out at the dark, snowy street. In a city with more people than he saw in his lifetime, he felt utterly alone. A month had passed, but he had only finished half of his first book. He found himself spending most of his time just sitting. In the silence, he imagined he could hear the sound of his brothers speaking the evening vespers.

He avoided sleep because of the nightmares. They had started the third night he slept in the shop. They were terrible. Visions of flames and sounds of pleading coming from his own mouth as the voices of his family died in the inferno. Every night they died again, and every day he awoke on the cold floor of the tiny room in a world more silent and isolated than the abbey had ever been. He missed his home and the mornings he spent with Renian.

Alric made good on his promise. The new king of Melengar provided him the shop rent-free and all the materials needed for making his books. Never was there a mention of cost. Alric endeavored to support the literary sciences in his realm starting with Myron as his little pet project. Myron should have been happy, but he felt more lost each day. Although he had more food than ever before, and no abbot to restrict his diet, he ate little. His appetite dwindled along with his desire to write.

When he had first arrived at the shop, he felt obligated to replace the books, but as the days slipped by, he sat alone and confused. How could he replace the books? They were not missing. No shelf lay bare, no library stood wanting. What would he do if he ever completed the project? What would he do with the books? What would become of them? What would become of him? They had no home, and neither did he.

Myron sat down on the wooden floor in the corner, pulling his legs to his chest and rested his head against the wall. “Why did I have to be the one who lived?” he muttered to the empty room. “Why did I have to be left behind? Why is it I’m cursed with an indelible memory, so that I can recall every face, every scream, every cry?”

As usual, Myron wept. There was no one to see, so he let the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He cried there on the floor in the flickering candlelight and soon fell asleep.

The knock on the door startled him. He stood up. It was still night. He could not have been asleep long; the candle still burned. Myron moved to the door and opening it a crack, peered out. On the stoop outside, two men in heavy winter cloaks stood waiting.

“Myron? Are you going to let us in or leave us to freeze?”

“Hadrian? Royce!” Myron exclaimed as he threw open the door. He embraced Hadrian immediately and then turned to Royce and paused, deciding a handshake would suit him better.

“So it’s been a while,” Hadrian said, shaking the snow off his boots. “How many books have you finished?”

Myron looked sheepish. “I’ve had a little trouble adjusting, but I will get them done. Isn’t this place wonderful?” he said trying to sound sincere. “It was very generous of His Majesty to provide all this for me. I have enough vellum to last years and ink! Well, don’t get me started. As Finiless wrote, ‘More could not be gotten though the world be emptied to the breath of time.’”

“So you like it here?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh, I love it, yes. I really couldn’t ask for anything more.” A look exchanged between the two thieves, the meaning of which Myron could not discern. “Can I get either of you something, tea perhaps? The king is very good to me. I even have honey to sweeten it.”

“Tea would be nice,” Royce said, and Myron moved to the counter to fetch a pot.

“So what are you two doing out so late?” Myron asked then laughed at himself. “Oh, never mind, I guess this isn’t late for you. I suppose you work nights.”

“Something like that,” Hadrian said. “We just got back from a trip to Chadwick. We are heading back to The Rose and Thorn but wanted to stop by here on the way and deliver the news.”

“News? What kind of news?”

“Well I thought it might be good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Why’s that?” the monk asked, pouring water into the pot.

“Well, it would mean leaving here.”

“It would?” Myron turned suddenly, spilling the water.

“Well, yes, but I suppose if you’re really attached to this place we could—”

“To go where?” Myron asked anxiously, setting down the pitcher forgetting the tea.

“Well,” Hadrian began, “Alric offered us whatever we wanted as payment for saving Arista, but seeing as how Arista saved our life first, it didn’t seem right asking for money, or land, or anything personal like that. We got to thinking just how much was lost when the Winds Abbey was destroyed. Not just the books mind you, but the safe haven for those lost in the wilderness. So we asked the king to rebuild the abbey just like it was.”

“Are…are you serious?” Myron stammered. “And did he say yes?”

“To be honest, he sounded relieved,” Royce said. “I think he felt as if there was a dagger dangling over his head for a month. I suppose he was afraid we’d ask for something ridiculous like his first born or the crown jewels.”

“We might have, if we hadn’t already stolen them,” Hadrian chuckled, and Myron was not sure if he was joking or not.

“But if you really like this place,” Hadrian, said whirling his finger in the air, “I suppose we—”

“No! No…I mean, I think you are right. The abbey should be rebuilt for the sake of the kingdom.”

“Glad you feel that way because we need you to help the builders design it. I am assuming you could draw a few floor plans and maybe some sketches?”

“Certainly, down to the finest detail.”

Hadrian chuckled. “I bet you can. I can see you’re going to drive the royal architect to drink.”

“Who will be the abbot? Has Alric contacted the Dibben Monastery already?”

“He sent out a messenger this morning as one of his first acts as king. You’re going to have a few guest monks trickling in over the winter, and this spring all of you will have a great deal of work to do.”

Myron was grinning widely.

“About that tea?” Royce inquired.

“Oh yes, sorry.” He returned to pouring water into the pot. Stopping once more, he turned back to the thieves and his grin faded.

“I would so much love to return to my home and see it rise again. But…” Myron paused.

“What is it?”

“Won’t the Imperialists simply come back? If they hear the abbey is there again…I don’t think I could…”

“Relax, Myron,” Hadrian said, “that’s not going to happen.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Trust me, the Imperialists won’t advocate another foray into Melengar,” Royce assured the monk. The smile on the thief’s face made Myron think of a cat, and he was happy not to be a mouse.

In the hours before dawn, the Lower Quarter was quiet. Dampened by the snow, the only sound came from the muffled hoof falls of mounts as they moved slowly up the alley to The Rose and Thorn.

“Do you need any of the money?” Royce asked Hadrian.

“I have enough. Deposit the rest with Gwen. What does that come to now?”

“Well, we’re in pretty good shape. We have our share of the fifteen gold tenents for returning Alenda’s letters, and the twenty from Ballentyne for stealing them in the first place, plus DeWitt’s one hundred, and Alric’s one hundred. You know, one day we’re going to have to find DeWitt—and thank him for that job.” Royce grinned.

“Do you think it was fair asking for the money along with the abbey?” Hadrian asked. “I have to admit the guy was starting to grow on me, and I hate to think we took advantage of him.”

“The hundred was for going into Gutaria with him,” Royce reminded him. “The abbey was for saving his sister. We didn’t ask for anything Alric didn’t agree to in advance. And he did say anything so we could easily have asked for land and noble rank.”

“Why didn’t we?”

“Oh? So you would like to be the Count Blackwater, would you?”

“It might have been nice,” Hadrian said sitting up straighter in his saddle, “and you could be the infamous Marquis Melborn.”

“Why infamous?”

“Would you prefer notorious? Nefarious perhaps?”

“What’s wrong with beloved?”

Neither could hold a straight face at the thought.

“Come to think of it, we failed to bill the good king for saving him from Trumbul. Do you think—”

“It’s too late, Royce,” Hadrian told him.

Royce sighed, disappointed. “So, I think he wasn’t too put out all things considered. Besides we are thieves, remember? Anyway, the bottom line is, we won’t be starving this winter.”

“Yes, we’ve been good little squirrels, haven’t we?” Hadrian said.

“Maybe this spring we can start that fishing enterprise you wanted.”

“I thought you wanted the winery?”

Royce shrugged.

“Well, you keep thinking. I’m going to go wake up Emerald and let her know I’m back. It’s too cold to sleep alone tonight.”

Royce passed the tavern and dismounted at Medford House. For some time, he stood, just staring at the top window while his feet grew colder and colder in the snow.

“You are going to come up, aren’t you?” Gwen asked from the doorway. She was still dressed and as pretty as ever. “Isn’t it awfully cold out there?”

Royce smiled at her. “You waited up.”

“You said you’d be coming back tonight.”

Royce pulled his saddlebag off his horse and carried it up the steps. “I have another deposit to make.”

“Is that why you were standing in the snow for so long? You were trying to decide whether or not to trust me with your money?”

Her words stung him. “No!”

“Then why were you standing there so long?”

Royce hesitated. “Would you prefer me if I were a fisherman, or perhaps a wine maker?”

“No,” she said, “I prefer you as you are.”

Royce took her hand. “Gwen, you have to understand. It never ends well for someone like me. You’d be better off with a nice farmer or rich merchant. Someone you can raise children with, someone you can grow old with, someone who will stay at home and not leave you alone and wondering.”

She kissed him.

“What was that for?”

“I’m a prostitute, Royce. There aren’t many men who consider themselves unworthy of me. I prefer you just as you are and just as you will be. If I did have the power to change you, the only change I would make would be to convince you of that.”

He put his arms around her, and she pulled him close. “I missed you,” she whispered.

Archibald Ballentyne awoke with a start.

He had fallen asleep in the Gray Tower of Ballentyne Castle. The fire had burned out, and the room was growing cold. It was also dark, but the dim glow of the faint orange embers in the hearth gave a little light. There was an odd and unpleasant odor in the air, and he felt the weight of something large and round on his lap. He could not make it out in the darkness. It seemed like a melon wrapped in linen. He stood up and set the object in his chair. He moved aside the brass screen and, taking two logs from the stack nearby, placed them on top of the hot coals. He prodded the embers with a poker, blew on them, and coaxed the fire back to life. As he did, the room filled with light once more.

He set the poker back to its stand, replaced the screen, and dusted his hands off. As he turned around, he looked at the chair he had been sleeping in and immediately pin-wheeled backward in horror.

There on his seat was the head of the former Archduke of Melengar. The cloth, which was covering it, had partially fallen away revealing a large portion of what had once been Braga’s face. The eyes were rolled back leaving white and milky orbs in their sockets. The yellowed skin, stretched and leathery, was shriveled. A host of some kind of worms moved in the gaping mouth, slithering in a heaving mass which made it almost appear as if Braga’s tongue was trying to speak.

Archibald’s stomach twisted in knots. Too frightened to scream, he looked around the room for intruders. As he did, he saw writing on the wall. Painted in what appeared to be blood, in letters a foot tall, were the words:

Never interfere with Melengar again

By order of the king

…and us