The Crown Conspiracy

Chapter 7: Drondil Fields

The four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an ox cart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

“Don’t stare, Myron,” Hadrian told him. “They will think you’re up to something.”

“They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell them that.”

Ahead a hill rose and on top of it, stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle; it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

“That’s Drondil Fields,” Alric told them. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead. As they came into view of the castle, he began speaking with a tone of pride and warmth in his voice. “It’s the oldest and strongest fortress in Melengar. They built it with thick walls of granite shaped like a five-pointed star making it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.

“It was once the home of Brodic Essendon, who in the turmoil of the civil wars following the fall of the Empire, subdued these lands to become warlord. His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work his father started. He defeated the forces of Lothomad the Bald and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. That was the last battle of a long war, which carved the kingdom out of the political chaos of the post-imperial era.

“They fought the battle just down there, in those fields to the left of the hill. They belonged to a farmer named Drondil and afterwards this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.

“This was also the site where Tolin, his clansmen, and his warlords drew up the Drondil Charter, which divided Melengar into seven provinces. He rewarded his faithful warlords with the titles of counts and gave each of them a parcel of land. Once he was officially crowned king, Tolin felt it wasn’t proper to live in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and, before moving there, Tolin entrusted Galilin, the largest and richest of the provinces, to his most loyal general Seadric Pickilerinon. Seadric’s son assumed control of the province a short time later, after his father died of a terrible fever. He was the one who shortened his name to Pickering.

“The Essendons and Pickerings have always been close. We often spend Wintertide and Summersrule here with them. There is no direct blood relation, but it is as if we are kin. I grew up with Count Pickering’s sons and they are like my brothers. Of course, the other nobles aren’t happy about that, particularly those who actually are blood-relatives. Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though since no one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords.”

“We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia,” Hadrian muttered, but it did not stop the prince from continuing.

“Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld, the post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the legendary Teshlor Knights. The Teshlor, the greatest warriors ever to have lived, once guarded the Emperor himself. Like everything, they were lost with the Empire. What Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld was just a tiny bit of the Teshlor skill, just one discipline, but that knowledge was faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and the secret give the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.

“This hill never used to look like it does now,” Alric explained, gesturing to the trees growing on the slope all the way up to the walls. “It used to be cut clear to afford no cover to would-be attackers. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn’t seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn’t see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon,” Alric sighed, “now little more than a country estate.”

“Here now, hold on there!” an overweight gate warden ordered as they approached the castle. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. “Where do you think you’re all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?”

Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. “I…I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he stumbled, snapping to attention. “I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me.” He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. “Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?” Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.

Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard did little to remind one of a fortress. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep’s portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black-and-white dog gnawed a bone at the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.

Near a blacksmith shed, where a beefy man hammered a glowing rail of metal, two young men sparred with swords in the open yard. Each of them wore helms and carried small heater shields. A third sat with his back to the keep steps. He was using a slate and a bit of chalk to score the fighters’ match. “Shield higher, Fanen!” the taller figure shouted.

“What about my legs?”

“I won’t be going after your legs. I don’t want to lower my sword and give you the advantage, but you need to keep the shield high to deflect a down stroke. That’s where you’re vulnerable. If I hit you hard enough and you aren’t ready, I can drive you to your knees. Then what good will your legs be?”

“I’d listen to him, Fanen,” Alric yelled toward the boy. “Mauvin’s an ass, but he knows his parries.”

“Alric!” The taller boy threw off his helm and ran to embrace the prince as he dismounted. At the sound of Alric’s name, several of the servants in the courtyard looked up in surprise.

Mauvin was close to Alric in age but was taller and a good deal broader in the shoulders. He sported a head of wild dark hair and a set of dazzling white teeth, which shone as he grinned at his friend.

“What are you doing here, and by Mar, what are you dressed up as? You look frightful. Did you ride all night? And your face—did you fall?”

“I have some bad news. I need to speak to your father immediately.”

“I’m not sure he’s awake yet, and he is awfully cranky if you wake him early.”

“This can’t wait.”

Mauvin stared at the prince and his grin faded. “This is no casual visit then?”

“No, I only wish it was.”

Mauvin turned toward his youngest brother and said, “Denek, go wake Father.”

The boy with the slate shook his head. “I’m not going to be the one.”

Mauvin started toward his brother. “Do it now!” he shouted, scaring the young boy into running for the keep.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Fanen asked, dropping his own helm and shield on the grass and walking over to embrace Alric as well.

“Has any word reached you from Medford in the last several days?”

“Not that I know of,” Mauvin replied, his face showing more concern now.

“No riders? No dispatches for the count?” Alric asked again.

“No, Alric, what is it?”

“My father is dead. He was murdered in the castle by a traitor.”

“What!” Mauvin gasped, taking a step back. It was a reaction rather than a question.

“That’s not possible!” Fanen exclaimed. “King Amrath dead? When did this happen?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how long it has been. The days following his murder have been confusing, and I’ve lost track of the time. If word has yet to reach here, I suspect it hasn’t been more than a few days.”

All the workers stopped what they were doing and stood around listening intently. The constant ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer ceased and the only sound in the courtyard was the distant mooing of a cow and the quacking of the ducks.

“What’s this all about?” Count Pickering asked as he stepped out of the castle holding up an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the morning’s bright sun. “The boy came in panting for air and said there was an emergency out here.”

The count, a slim, middle-aged man with a long, hooked nose and a well-trimmed prematurely gray beard, was dressed in a gold and purple robe pulled over his nightshirt. His wife Belinda came up behind him, pulling on her robe and peering out into the courtyard nervously. Hadrian took advantage of Pickering’s sun-blindness to chance a long look. She was just as lovely as rumor held. The countess was several years younger than her husband, with a slender, stunning figure and long golden hair, which spilled across her shoulders in a way she would never normally show in public. Hadrian now understood why the count guarded her jealously.

“Oh my,” Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. “I don’t even think of horses when I look at her.”

Hadrian dismounted and helped Myron off the horse. “I share your feelings, my friend, but trust me, that’s one woman you really don’t want to stare at.”

“Alric?” the count said. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

“Father, King Amrath has been murdered,” Mauvin answered in a shaky voice.

Shock filled Pickering’s face. He slowly lowered his arm and stared directly at the prince. “Is this true?”

Alric nodded solemnly. “Several days ago. A traitor stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer.”

“Traitor? Who?”

“My uncle, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor—Percy Braga.”

Royce, Hadrian, and Myron followed their noses to the kitchen after Alric had left for a private meeting with Count Pickering. There they met Ella, a white-haired cook who was all too happy to provide them with a hearty breakfast in order to have first chance at any gossip. The food at Drondil Fields was far superior to the meal they ate at The Silver Pitcher Inn. Ella brought wave upon wave of eggs, soft powdered pastries, fresh sweet butter, steaks, bacon, biscuits, peppered potatoes, and gravy along with a jug of apple cider, and an apple pie baked with maple syrup for dessert.

They ate their fill in the relative quiet of the kitchen. Hadrian repeated little more than what Alric had already revealed in the courtyard however, he did mention that Myron had lived his life in seclusion at the monastery. Ella seemed fascinated by this and questioned the monk mercilessly on the subject. “So, you never saw a woman before today, love?” Ella asked Myron who was finishing the last of his pie. He was eating heartily and there was a ring of apples and crust around his mouth.

“You’re the first one I’ve ever spoken to,” Myron replied as if he were boasting a great achievement.

“Really,” Ella said smiling with a feigned blush. “I am so honored. I haven’t been a man’s first in years.” She laughed but Myron only looked at her puzzled.

“You have a lovely home,” Myron told her. “It looks very…sturdy.”

She laughed again. “It’s not mine, ducky, I just work here. It belongs to the nobles, like all the nice places do. Us normal folk, we lives in sheds and shacks and fights over what they throw away. We’re sorta like dogs that way, aren’t we? ’Course, I ain’t complaining. The Pickerings aren’t a bad lot. Not as snooty as some of the other nobles who think the sun rises and falls because it pleases them. The count won’t even have a chambermaid. He won’t let no one help him dress neither. I’ve even seen him fetch water for himself more than once. He’s downright daft that one. His boys take after him too. You can see it in the way they saddle their own horses. That Fanen, why just the other day I seen him swinging a smith’s hammer. He was having Vern show him how to mend a blade. Now I asks you, how many nobles you see trying to learn the blacksmith trade? Can I get anyone another cup of cider?”

They all shook their heads and took turns yawning.

“Lenare, now she takes after her mother. They’re a pair, they are. Both are pretty as a rose and smell just as sweet, but they do has their thorns. The temper those two have is frightful. The daughter is worse than the mother. She used to train with her brothers and was beating the stuffing out of Fanen until she discovered she was a lady and that ladies don’t do such things.”

Myron’s eyes closed, his head drooped, and suddenly the chair toppled as the monk fell over. He woke with a start and struggled to his knees. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Ella was so busy laughing she couldn’t answer and simply waved her hand at him. “You’ve had a long night, dear,” she finally managed to say. “Let me set you up in the back before that chair bucks you off again.”

Myron hung his head and said quietly, “I have the same problem with horses.”

Alric told his story to the Pickerings over breakfast. As soon as he finished, the count shooed his sons out and called for his staff to begin arranging for a full-scale mobilization of Galilin. While Pickering dispatched orders, Alric left the great hall and began wandering through the halls of the castle. This was the first time he had been alone since his father’s death. So much had happened, he really had not had time to think. He felt as though he was caught up in the current of a river, whisked along by the events unfolding around him. Now it was time to take control of his destiny.

Alric saw few people in the corridors. Aside from the occasional suit of armor or painting on the wall, there was little to distract his thoughts. Drondil Fields, though smaller than Essendon, felt larger due to its horizontal layout, which sprawled across the better part of the hilltop. Where Castle Essendon had several towers and lofty chambers rising many stories high, Drondil Fields was only four stories at its tallest point. As a fortress, fireproofing was essential so the roof was made of stone rather than wood, requiring thick walls to support their weight. Because the windows were small and deep, they let in little light, which made the interior cavelike.

He remembered running through these corridors as a child chasing Mauvin and Fanen. They had held mock battles, which the Pickerings always won. He had always trumped them by bringing up that he would be king someday. At the age of twelve, it had been wonderful to be able to taunt a friend who had bested him with, “Sure, but I’ll be king. You will have to bow to me and do as I say.” The thought that in order to become king his father would have to die had never really occurred to him. Nor had he known what being the king really meant.

I am king now.

Being king was always something he had imagined to be far, far in the future. His father had been a strong man, not much older than Pickering. Alric had looked forward to many years as prince of the realm. Only a few months ago, at the Summersrule Festival, he and Mauvin had made plans to go on a year-long trip to the four corners of Apeladorn. They had wanted to visit Delgos, Calis, Trent, and even planned to seek the location of the fabled ruined city of Percepliquis. To discover and explore the ancient capital of the Old Novronian Empire was a childhood dream of theirs. They wanted to find fortune and adventure in the lost city. Mauvin hoped to discover the rest of the lost arts of the Teshlor Knights, and Alric was going to find the ancient crown of Novron. While they had mentioned the trip to their fathers, neither one brought up Percepliquis. They knew they would not be allowed to travel there. Walking the fabled halls of Percepliquis was probably the boyhood dream of every youth in Apeladorn. For Alric though, his adolescence was over.

I am king now.

Dreams of endless days of reckless adventures, exploring the frontier while drinking bad ale, sleeping beneath the open sky, and loving nameless women blew away like smoke in the wind. In its place came visions of stone rooms filled with old men with angry faces. He had only occasionally watched his father hold court, listening while the clergy and the nobles demanded less taxes and more land. One earl had even demanded the execution of a duke and the custody of his lands for the loss of one of his prized cows. His father sat, in what Alric felt must have been dull misery, as the court secretary read the many petitions and grievances on which the king was required to rule. As a child, he had thought being king meant doing whatever he wished. But over the years, he saw what it really meant—compromise and appeasement. A king could not rule without the support of his nobles and the nobles were never happy. They always wanted something and expected the king to deliver.

I am king now.

To Alric, being king felt like a prison sentence. The rest of his life would be spent in service to his people, his nobles, and his family, just as his father had done. He wondered if Amrath had felt the same way when his own father had died. It was something he never considered before. Considering Amrath as a man and the dreams he might have sacrificed was a foreign concept to the young prince. He wondered if his father had been happy. Thinking of him now, the image that came to mind was his bushy beard and bright smiling eyes. His father had smiled a great deal. Alric wondered if it was due to his enjoyment of being king or because being with his son gave him a much-needed break from the affairs of state. Alric felt a sudden longing to see his father once more. He wished he had taken time to sit and talk with him, man to man, to ask for his father’s council and guidance in preparation for this day. He felt completely alone and uncertain about whether he could live up to the tasks that lay before him. More than anything, he just wished he could disappear.

The shrill ring of clashing metal awakened Hadrian. After Ella’s breakfast, he wandered into the courtyard. The weather was turning distinctly colder but he found a place to nap on a soft patch of lawn that caught the full face of the sun. He thought he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, it was well past noon. Across the yard the Pickering boys were back at sparring.

“Come at me again, Fanen,” Mauvin ordered, his voice muffled by his helm.

“Why? You’re just going to whack me again!”

“You have to learn.”

“I don’t see why,” Fanen protested. “It’s not like I’m planning a life in the soldiery or the tournaments. I’m the second son. I’ll end up at some monastery stacking books.”

“Second sons don’t go to abbeys, third sons do.” Mauvin lifted his visor to grin at Denek. “Second sons are the spares. You have to be trained and ready in case I die from some rare disease. If I don’t, you’ll get to roam the lands as a bachelor knight fending for yourself. That means a life as a mercenary or on the tournament circuit. Or if you are lucky, you’ll land a post as a sheriff or a marshal or master-at-arms for some earl or duke. These days, it is almost as good as a landed title really. Still, you won’t get those jobs, or last long as a merc or swordsman, unless you know how to fight. Now come at me again, and this time pivot, step, and lunge.”

Hadrian walked over to where the boys were fighting and sat on the grass near Denek to watch. Denek, who was only twelve years old, glanced at him curiously. “Who are you?”

“My name is Hadrian,” he replied as he extended his hand. The boy shook it, squeezing harder than was necessary. “You’re Denek right? The Pickering’s third son? Perhaps you should speak with my friend Myron, seeing as how I hear you are monastery bound.”

“Am not!” he shouted. “Going to the monastery, I mean. I can fight as well as Fanen.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hadrian said. “Fanen is flat-footed, and his balance is off. He’s not going to improve much either, because Mauvin is teaching him, and Mauvin is favoring his right and rocks back on his left too much.”

Denek grinned at Hadrian and then turned to his brothers. “Hadrian says you both fight like girls!”

“What’s that?” Mauvin said, whacking aside Fanen’s loose attack once more.

“Oh, ah, nothing,” Hadrian tried to recant and glared at Denek, who just kept grinning. “Thanks a lot,” he told the boy.

“So, you think you can beat me in a duel?” Mauvin asked.

“No, it’s not that, I was just…explaining I didn’t think Denek here would have to go to the monastery.”

“Because we fight like girls,” Fanen added.

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Give him your sword,” Mauvin told Fanen.

Fanen threw his sword at Hadrian. It dove point down in the sod not more than a foot before his feet. The hilt swayed back and forth like a rocking horse.

“You’re one of the thieves Alric told us about, aren’t you?” Mauvin swiped his sword deftly through the air in a skillful manner that he had not used in his mock battles with his brother. “Despite this great adventure you all have been on, I don’t recall Alric mentioning your great prowess with a blade.”

“Well, he probably just forgot,” Hadrian joked.

“Are you aware of the legend of the Pickerings?”

“Your family is known to be skillful with swords.”

“So, you have heard? My father is the second best swordsman in Avryn.”

“He’s the best,” Denek snapped. “He would have beaten the archduke if he had his sword, but he had to use a substitute, which was too heavy and awkward.”

“Denek, how many times do I have to tell you, when speaking of one’s reputation, it does not boost your position to make excuses when you lose a contest. The archduke won the match. You need to face that fact,” Mauvin admonished. Turning his attention back to Hadrian he said, “Speaking of contests, why don’t you pick up that blade, and I will demonstrate the Tek’chin for you.”

Hadrian picked up the sword and stepped into the dirt ring where the boys had been fighting. He made a feint followed by a stab, which Mauvin easily deflected.

“Try again,” Mauvin encouraged.

Hadrian tried a slightly more sophisticated move. This time he swung right and then pivoted left and cut upward toward Mauvin’s thigh. Mauvin moved with keen precision. He anticipated the feint and knocked the blade away once more.

“You fight like a street thug,” Mauvin assessed.

“Because that’s what he is,” Royce assured them as he approached from the direction of the keep, “a big, dumb street thug. I once saw an old woman batter him senseless with a butter churn.” He shifted his attention to Hadrian. “Now what have you gotten yourself into? Looks like this kid will hand you a beating.”

Mauvin stiffened and glared at Royce. “I would remind you I am a count’s son, and as such, you will address me as lord, or at least master, but not kid.”

“Better watch out, Royce, or he’ll be after you next,” Hadrian said, moving around the circle, looking for an opening. He tried another attack but that, too, was blocked.

Mauvin moved in now with a rapid step. He caught Hadrian’s sword hilt-to-hilt, placed a leg behind the fighter, and threw him to the ground.

“You’re too good for me,” Hadrian conceded as Mauvin held out a hand to help him to his feet.

“Try him again,” Royce shouted.

Hadrian gave him an irritated look and then noticed a young woman entering the courtyard. It was Lenare. She wore a long gown of soft gold, which nearly matched her hair. She was as lovely as her mother, and walked over to join the group.

“Who is this?” she asked, motioning at Hadrian.

“Hadrian Blackwater,” he said with a bow.

“Well, Mister Blackwater, it appears my brother has beaten you.”

“It would appear so,” Hadrian acknowledged, still dusting himself off.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of. My brother is a very accomplished swordsman—too accomplished, in fact. He has a nasty tendency to chase away any would-be suitors.”

“They are not worthy of you, Lenare,” Mauvin said.

“Try him again,” Royce repeated. There was a perceptible note of mischief in his voice.

“Shall we?” Mauvin asked politely with a bow.

“Oh, please do,” Lenare bade him, clapping her hands in delight. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t kill you. Father doesn’t like them to actually hurt anyone.”

With an evil smirk directed toward Royce, Hadrian turned to face Mauvin. This time he made no attempt to defend himself. He stood perfectly still holding his blade low. His gaze was cool and he stared directly into Mauvin’s eyes.

“Put up a guard you fool,” Mauvin told him. “At least try to defend yourself.”

Hadrian raised his sword slowly, more in response to Mauvin’s request than as a move to defend. Mauvin stepped in with a quick flick of his blade designed to set Hadrian off his footing. He then pivoted around behind the larger man and sought to trip him up once more. Hadrian, however, also pivoted and, swinging a leg, caught Mauvin behind the knees, dropping him to the dirt.

Mauvin looked curiously at Hadrian as he helped him to his feet. “Our street thug has some surprises, I see,” Mauvin muttered with a smile.

This time, Mauvin struck at Hadrian in a fast set of sweeping attacks, most of which never caught anything but air as Hadrian avoided the strokes. Mauvin moved in a flurry, his blade traveling faster than the eye could follow. The steel rang now as Hadrian caught the strokes with his blade, parrying them aside.

“Mauvin, be careful!” Lenare shouted.

The battle rapidly escalated from friendly sparring to serious combat. The strokes moved faster, harder, and closer. The shrill ring of the blades began to echo off the courtyard walls. The grunts and curses of the fighters became grimmer. The match went on for some time, the two fighting toe to toe. Suddenly Mauvin executed a brilliant maneuver. Feinting left, he swung right, following through the stroke and spinning fully around exposing his back to Hadrian. Seeing his opponent vulnerable, Hadrian made the obvious riposte, but Mauvin miraculously caught his blade instinctively without seeing it. Pivoting again, Mauvin brought his own sword to Hadrian’s undefended side. Before he could finish the blow however, Hadrian closed the distance between them and Mauvin’s swing ran behind the larger man’s back. Hadrian trapped the boy’s sword arm under his own and raised his sword to the boy’s throat. There was a gasp from Mauvin’s siblings. Royce simply chuckled with sinister relish. Releasing his grip, Hadrian set Mauvin free.

“How did you do that?” Mauvin asked. “If performed correctly, which it was, the Vi’shin Flurry has no defense!”

Hadrian shrugged. “It does now.” He threw the sword back toward Fanen. It landed point first between the boy’s feet. Unlike the previous time, it dove in edge first so the hilt did not swing.

With his eyes on Hadrian and an expression of awe on his face, Denek turned to Royce and said, “That must have been an awfully wicked old lady and a big butter churn.”

“Alric?”

The prince had wandered into one of the castle storerooms and was sitting in the thick nave of a barrel-vaulted window looking out at the western hills. The sound of his friend’s voice roused him from deep thoughts, and it was not until then that he realized he was crying.

“I don’t want to disturb,” Mauvin said, “but father’s been looking for you. The local nobles have started to arrive, and I think he wants you to talk to them.”

“It’s okay,” Alric said, wiping his cheeks and glancing once more longingly out the window at the setting sun. “I’ve been here longer than I thought. I guess I lost track of the time.”

“It’s easy to do in here.” He walked around the room and took a bottle of wine out of a crate. “Remember the night we snuck down here and drank three of these?”

Alric nodded. “I was really sick.”

“So was I, and yet, we still managed to make the stag hunt the next day.”

“We couldn’t let anyone know we were drinking.”

“I thought I was going to die, and when we got back, it turned out Arista, Lenare, and Fanen had already turned us in the night before.”

“I remember.”

Mauvin studied his friend carefully. “You’ll make a good king, Alric. And I’m sure your father would be proud.”

Alric did not say anything for a moment. He picked up a bottle from the crate and felt its weight in his hand. “I’d better get back. I have responsibilities now. I can’t hide down here drinking wine like the old days.”

“I suppose we could if you really wanted to,” Mauvin grinned devilishly.

Alric smiled and threw his arms around him. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry we’ll never get to Percepliquis now.”

“It’s all right; besides, you never know. We might get there someday.”

As they left the storeroom, Alric dusted dirt off his hands that he picked up from Mauvin’s back during their embrace. “Is Fanen getting so good now that he was able to put you in the dirt?”

“No, it was the thief you brought with you, the big one. Where did you find him? His skill at sword fighting is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s actually rather remarkable.”

“Really? Coming from a Pickering, that is high praise indeed.”

“I’m afraid the Pickering legend won’t last long at this rate: father loses to Percy Braga, and now I get thrown in the dirt by a common ruffian. How long will it be before we are being challenged for our land and title by the other nobles without fear?”

“If your father had his sword that day…” Alric paused. “Why didn’t your father have his sword?”

“Misplaced it,” Mauvin said. “He was certain it was in his room, but the next morning, it was gone. A steward found it later the same day laying somewhere strange.”

“Well, sword or no, I can tell you, Mauvin, I think your father is still the best swordsman in the kingdom.”

Royce, Hadrian, and Myron continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Pickerings with a hearty lunch as well as supper served to them in the warm comfort of Ella’s kitchen. They spent most of the day napping, recovering lost sleep from the previous days. By nightfall, they were beginning to feel like themselves again.

Hadrian had a newfound shadow as Denek followed him wherever he went. After supper, he asked the three to come watch the marshalling of the troops from one of his favorite spots. The boy led them to the parapet above the main gate. From there, they could see both the grounds outside the castle and inside the courtyard without being underfoot.

Around early evening people began to arrive. Small groups of knights, barons, squires, soldiers, and village officials trickled in and formed camps outside the castle. Tall poles bearing the banners of various noble houses stood in the courtyard, signaling their presence in accordance with their sworn duty. By moonrise, eight standards and about three hundred men gathered in camps around bonfires. Their tents littered the hillside and extended throughout the orchards.

Vern, along with five other blacksmiths from various villages, worked late sharing his forge and anvil. They were hammering out last minute requests. The rest of the courtyard was equally active with every lamp lit, and each shop busy. Leather workers adjusted saddle stirrups and helms. Fletchers fashioned bundles of arrows, which they stacked like cord wood against the stable wall. Wood-cutters created large rectangular archer shields. Even the butchers and bakers worked hard preparing sack meals from smoked meats, breads, onions, and turnips.

“The green one with the hammer on it is Lord Jerl’s banner,” Denek told them. The weather had turned sharply cold again, and his breath created a frosty fog. “I spent a summer at their estate two years ago. It is right on the edge of the Lankster Forest, and they love to hunt. They must have two dozen of the realm’s best hounds. It’s where I learned to shoot a bow. I bet you know how to shoot a bow real well, don’t you, Hadrian?”

“I’ve been known to hit the forest from the field on occasion.”

“I bet you could outshoot any of Jerl’s sons. He’s got six, and they all think they are the best marksmen in the province. My father never taught us archery. He said it didn’t make sense because we would never be fighting in ranks. He taught us to concentrate on the sword. Although I don’t know what good it will do me if I’m sent to a monastery. I’ll be stuck doing nothing but reading all day.”

“Actually there is a great deal more than that to do in an abbey,” Myron explained, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “In spring, most of your time will be spent gardening, and in autumn, there is the harvest, preserving, and brewing. Even in winter, there is the mending and cleaning. Of course the bulk of your time is spent in prayer, either communal in the chapel or silently in the cloister. Then there is—”

“I think I’d rather be a foot soldier,” Denek sighed with a grimace. “Or maybe I could join you two and become a thief! It must be a wonderfully exciting life running all over the world, accomplishing dangerous missions for king and country.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Hadrian muttered softly.

Below them, a single rider rode up quickly to the front gate.

“Isn’t that the banner of Essendon?” Royce asked, pointing to the falcon flag the rider carried.

“Yeah,” Denek said surprised, “it’s the king’s standard. He’s a messenger from Medford.”

They looked at each other puzzled as the messenger entered the castle and did not re-emerge. They went on talking with Myron, who was trying in vain to convince Denek life in the monastery was not bad at all, when Fanen came running up the catwalk.

“There you are!” He shouted at them. “Father has half the castle turned out looking for you.”

“Us?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes,” Fanen nodded. “He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers right away.”

“You didn’t steal the silver or anything did you, Royce?” Hadrian asked.

“I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon and threatening Mauvin just to show off,” Royce retorted.

“That was your fault,” Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him.

“It’s nothing like that,” Fanen interrupted them. “The Princess Arista is going to be executed for treason tomorrow morning!”

Once long ago, the great hall of Drondil Fields was the site of the first court of Melengar. It was here that King Tolin drafted and signed the Drondil Charter, officially bringing the kingdom into existence. Now, old and faded, the parchment was mounted on one wall in a place of honor. Around it, massive burgundy drapes hung tied back by gold chords with silken tassels. Today, the hall served as the council chambers of Count Pickering; Royce and Hadrian hesitantly entered the hall.

At a long table in the center of the room sat a dozen men dressed in the finery of nobles. Hadrian recognized most of the men and could make some good guesses at the identities of those he did not know. There were earls, barons, sheriffs, and marshals; the leadership of eastern Melengar sat assembled before them. At the head of the table was Alric and, at his right, Count Pickering. Standing behind his father was Mauvin, and as Hadrian and Royce entered, Fanen took up position next to his brother. Alric was dressed in fine clothes, no doubt borrowed from one of the Pickerings. Less than a day passed since Hadrian last saw the prince, but Alric looked much older than he remembered.

“Have you told them why they were summoned?” Count Pickering asked his son.

“I told them the princess was to be executed,” Fanen replied. “Nothing more.”

“I’ve been summoned by Archduke Percy Braga,” Count Pickering explained holding up the dispatch, “to report to Essendon Castle as witness for the immediate trial of Princess Arista on the grounds of witchcraft, high treason, and murder. He has accused her not only of killing Amrath but also Alric.” He dropped the dispatch on the table and slammed his hand down on it in disgust. “The blackguard means to have the kingdom for his own!”

“It is worse than I feared,” Alric summarized for the thieves, “My uncle planned to kill me and my father and then blame both murders on Arista. He will execute her and take the kingdom for himself. No one will be the wiser. He’ll fool everyone into thinking he is the great defender of the realm. I’m sure his plan will work. Even I was suspecting her only a few days ago.”

“It’s true. It has long been rumored that Arista has dabbled in the arcane arts,” Pickering confirmed. “Braga will have no trouble finding her guilty. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. The thought of a woman with magical powers is terrifying to old men in comfortable positions. Even without the fear of witchery, most nobles are uncomfortable with the thought of a woman monarch. The verdict will be assured. Her sentence will be handed down quickly.”

“But if the prince were to arrive,” Baron Enild said, “and show himself alive then—”

“That’s exactly what Braga wants,” Sir Ecton declared. “He can’t find Alric. He’s searched for days and couldn’t locate him. He wants to draw him out before he has a chance to gather an army against him. He’s counting on the prince’s youth and lack of experience. He wants to manipulate the prince to react with emotion instead of reason. If he can’t find Alric, he will lure the prince to him.”

“Less than half our forces have mustered so far,” Pickering grumbled despairingly. He walked to the great map of Melengar, which hung opposite the ancient charter, and slapped the western half of the map. “Our most powerful knights are the farthest from here, and because they have the most men to rally, it will take them longer to report. I don’t expect them for another eight hours, maybe as long as sixteen.

“Even if we resign ourselves to employing only Galilin’s forces, the earliest we could be ready to attack wouldn’t be until tomorrow evening. By then Arista will be dead. I could march with what troops I have, leaving orders for the others to follow, but doing so would risk the whole army by dividing our forces. We cannot jeopardize the realm for the sake of one woman, even though she is the princess.”

“Judging from the mercenaries we encountered at the inn,” Alric told them, “I suspect the archduke anticipates an assault and has strengthened his forces with purchased arms loyal only to him.”

“He will likely have scouts and ambushes prepared,” Ecton said. “At first sight of our march, he will tell the other nobles assembled for the trial that we are working for Arista and that they need to defend Essendon against us. There is simply no way for us to march until we have more forces.”

“Waiting,” Alric said sadly, “will surely see Arista burned at the stake. Now, more than ever, I feel guilty for not trusting her. She saved my life. Now hers is in jeopardy, and there is little I can do about it.” He looked at Hadrian and Royce. “I can’t simply sit idly by and let her die! But to act prematurely would be folly.”

The prince stood and walked over to the thieves. “I have inquired about you two since we arrived. You’ve been holding out on me. I thought you were common thieves. So, imagine my surprise when I discovered you two are famous.” He glanced around at the other nobles in the room. “Rumor has it you two are unusually gifted agents known for taking difficult, sometimes nearly impossible assignments of sabotage, theft, espionage, and, even on rare occasions, assassinations. Don’t bother denying it. Many in this room have already confided in me that they have used your services in the past.”

Hadrian looked at Royce and then around at the faces of the men before them. He nodded uncomfortably. Not only were some of the men past clients, some had been targets as well.

“They tell me you are independents and are not aligned with any established guilds. It is no small feat to operate with such autonomy. I have learned more in a few hours from them than I did after days riding with you. What I do know, however—what I discovered for myself—is that you saved my life twice, once to honor a promise to my sister and once for no reason I can discern. Last night, you challenged the might of the Lord Chancellor of Melengar and came to my aid against a superior force of trained killers. No one asked you to, no one would have faulted you for letting me die. You could expect no reward for saving me and yet, you did it. Why?”

Hadrian looked at Royce who stood silent. “Well,” he began as he glanced at the floor. “I guess…we’d just grown kind of fond of you I suppose.”

Alric smiled and addressed the room. “The life of the Prince of Melengar—the would-be king—was saved, not by his army, not by his loyal bodyguards, nor by a grand fortress—but by two treacherous, impudent thieves who didn’t have the good sense to ride away.”

The prince stepped forward and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I am already deeply in your debt, and have no right to ask, but I must beg you now to display the same poor judgment once again and save my sister. Please, steal her from Braga’s clutches and you can name whatever price you wish.”

“Another last-minute, good-deed job,” Royce grumbled as he stuffed supplies into his saddlebag.

“True,” Hadrian said, slinging his sword belt over his shoulder, “but this is at least a paying job.”

“You should have told him the real reason we saved him from Trumbul—because we wouldn’t see the hundred tenents otherwise.”

“That was your reason. Besides, how often do we get to do royal contracts? If word gets around, we’ll be able to command top salaries.”

“If word gets around, we’ll be hanged.”

“Okay, good point. But remember, she did save our skins. If Arista hadn’t helped us out of the dungeon, we’d be ornaments for the Medford Autumn Festival right now.”

Royce paused and sighed. “I didn’t say we weren’t doing it, did I? Did I say that? No, I didn’t. I told the little prince we’d do it. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

“I just want to make you feel better about your decision,” Hadrian said. Royce glared at him. “Okay, okay, I’ll see about the horses now.” He grabbed his gear and headed for the courtyard where a light snow was starting to fall.

Pickering had provided the thieves with two of his swiftest stallions and any supplies they thought they might need. Ella had a late night snack and a sizable travel meal prepared for them. They took heavy woolen cloaks to brace against the cold and dark scarves that they wrapped around the lower half of their faces to keep the chill of the wind off their cheeks.

“I hope we will meet again soon,” Myron told them as they prepared their mounts. “You two are the most fascinating people I have ever met, although I suppose that isn’t saying a lot is it?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Hadrian told him and gave the monk a bear hug, which caught the little man by surprise. As they climbed into their saddles, Myron bowed his head and muttered a soft prayer.

“There,” Hadrian told Royce, “we’ve got Maribor on our side. Now you can relax.”

“Actually,” Myron said sheepishly, “I was praying for the horses. But I will pray for you as well,” he added hastily.

Alric and the Pickerings came out to the courtyard to see them off. Even Lenare joined them, wrapped in a white fur cape. The fluffy muffler was wrapped so high on her shoulders that it hid the lower portion of her face. Only her eyes could be seen.

“If you can’t get her out,” Pickering said, “try to stall the execution until our forces can arrive. Once they do, however, you’d better have her secured. I am certain Braga will kill her out of desperation. Oh, and one more thing, don’t try to fight Braga. He’s the best swordsman in Melengar. Leave him for me.” The count slapped the elegant rapier he wore at his side. “This time I’ll have my own sword, and the archduke will feel its sting.”

“I will be leading the attack on Essendon,” Alric informed them. “It is my duty as ruler. So if you do reach my sister and if I should fall before the end of this, let her know I’m sorry for not trusting her. Let her know…” he faltered for a moment, “let her know I loved her and I think she will make a fine queen.”

“You’ll tell her yourself, Your Majesty,” Hadrian assured him.

Alric nodded and then added, “And I’m sorry about what I said to you before. You two are the best Royal Protectors I could ever hope for. Now go. Save my sister or I’ll have you both thrown back in my dungeon!”

They bowed respectfully in their saddles, then turned their horses and urged them into a gallop. They rode out the gate into the cold black of night.