Updated 11/16/24

Chapter 26

Blackhawk

As Blackhawk crested the hill, the granite towers of High Keep came into view. Atop each, three silver lightning strikes blazed on rippling blue banners, visible from a mile away. The castle dominated the highest hill in Freislicht. So high, the Sea of Glass could be seen from its battlements. So tall, any approaching enemy would be visible for many, many miles in every direction.

Blackhawk approached High Keep with awe and relief.

He sighed, shaking his head. He’d never acted like such a fool, nor could he explain the effect Little Soldier had on him. The days since they’d parted ways had provided no clarity.

When he entered the gate, the city buzzed with activity. People wearing crisp linen and silk filled the air with cheerful voices. Even the hawking farmers wore seemly homespun and broad smiles. A stark contrast to Lorness, which was devoid of any joy.

He’d not been to High Keep since he was Gaelib Melazera’s squire. Then fear of displeasing the earl held his complete attention.

Now he strolled about, mouth agape, admiring the limitless, colorful shops. Blackhawk didn’t see a single brothel.

Through one window, a bookseller opened a text with bright blue and red decorations. A woman leaned in to see. Up and down the street, doors opened and closed, people toted bundles in and out, exchanging warm greetings. Such liveliness lifted his heart.

The perfumes of flowering bushes hovered about as he rode on lanes of hewn white limestone. Tasty smells from carts of meat pies and sweet pastries made his belly growl. He’d never seen such plenty. In Lorness, such things didn’t exist—unless you were its lord.

Gaelib Melazera, was the wealthiest man in Freislicht. No. Gregory Locke, Duke of Lexandria, was richer. Blackhawk remembered when he’d first heard the name.

***

When Blackhawk was seven, Melazera promoted him from servant to page. Day after day, he remained still beside the earl’s ornate chair. Whenever he squirmed, the earl pinched him. He didn’t use many words to train Blackhawk.

That day, five master tailors had entered the Steward’s Hall, each declaring their accomplishments. The last tailor described the wondrous apparel he’d designed for Duke Gregory Locke of Lexandria.

Melazera’s eyes had darkened as he glowered at the hapless clothier. With a wave of his hand, guards seized the man.

“What have I done?” he said as they dragged him away.

Gaelib Melazera chose a tailor who brought in twelve men, tall stacks of fabric hiding their faces. During the hours of standing at attention as the clothier draped Blackhawk in every color of the rainbow, his lord commented on everything. Several times, he’d wished the earl would beat him instead. When the tailor left, Melazera said with a self-satisfied smile, “You will be a jewel on my hand.”

Every day, his lord had Blackhawk dress to complement his own outfit.

Blackhawk knew, now, Melazera only saw him as a treasured possession, a bauble to be worn to demonstrate its owner’s wealth and status.

Yet he’d prospered. The earl’s patronage had allowed him to eat, sleep safely, and survive harsh winters that would have ended his life.

That I pay for it with obedience and my body is just the way it is.

***

But today he had rank and less supervision. No one at High Keep knew who he was. Blackhawk would see very little of Melazera. They would still communicate, but his lord would leave him alone, and if their paths did cross, they would pretend to be strangers. He relaxed his jaw.

Easy enough. Fine by me.

This was what his lord wanted from his asset.

As he strolled by even more colorful displays, he thought this might be a new beginning. A beginning that needed to be marked.

Blackhawk entered a jewelry shop. His eyes ran over each gold and silver ornament. Almost everything cost a fortune. He had only twenty-one baden left. It could buy him five rounds with a whore or ale for a moon. A thin chain caught his eye. He paid the jeweler ten.

Next, he sought the herald.

Dressed in the royal blue tabard, the old man looked up from his journal, smiling. “You’re a tall one. How may I help you, son?”

“I’m looking for the senior officer in reception. Can you direct me?”

“Yes, young man. That would be Commander Peter Taelor.” The herald pointed, “If you head east, you’ll see a pavilion. Beyond that is the army section. You can’t miss it. When you hear the barracks, you’ll see the commander’s office.”

“Thank you.” Blackhawk was surprised to find that the commander met with new arrivals himself.

He considered the herald as he turned. The man’s cheerfulness wasn’t like his lord’s or Caileagh’s. Theirs always had a trick behind it. If Caileagh was cheerful, she might tie him up—or worse. Her eyes had magic. With a look, she could make anyone breathless and happy or desperate and heartbroken. Gaelib told her to leave Blackhawk alone.

She mostly did.

As he neared the barracks, the cacophony of hoots and shouts grew louder. Soldiers were working, but the atmosphere was light, without the drudgery common at Lorness or North Fort. Some barked orders. And some were—singing?

Soldiers chatted with shop owners.

Some of the men told jokes and played knucklebones.

A little girl squealed, “Da, oh Da,” as a militet scooped her up and twirled her around.

Is it the people? They look like people anywhere. Perhaps, there something in the breeze, or a plant grew here making everyone happy, like some of Caileagh’s potions?

Entering the commander’s office, he stood tall. “Lieutenant Steven Blackhawk reporting.”

A corporal leaning on his elbows glanced up from his papers and snapped to attention. “Yes, Lieutenant. Welcome, Lieutenant. Please have a seat, and I’ll tell Commander Taelor you’re here.” Yet, before he’d taken a step—

“Send him in, Corporal.”

The corporal pointed toward the voice before slumping back into his paperwork.

***

Blackhawk stood before a middle-aged man sitting at an oak desk, robust as a horse, a touch of gray dashed his temples. The man wasn’t taller, but as he rose to his feet, scrutinizing Blackhawk, his presence towered. “You are the youngest lieutenant I’ve ever met. How’d you manage that?”

“Manage what, sir?” Blackhawk responded, taking the other’s measure.

“To attain rank so quickly. You didn’t start in napkins, did you?” Taelor laughed.

Blackhawk remained serious. “No, sir, just determined to do my best. Still am.”

“Then I’m glad to have you.” When the commander offered his hand, Blackhawk took it and matched his firm grip. “Let me know if you have any trouble with your rank.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you posted?”

“North Fort, under Commandant Sulla.”

Taelor scowled. “Hmph, he would call himself that. He’s only a captain, but I suppose any officer commanding an outpost could use ‘Commandant.’ Anyone from captain to commander.”

“Thank you for clarifying that, sir,” Blackhawk said.

Is Sulla on the wrong side of Taelor?

“Ah, a man of few words I see. Smart. The corporal will show you to your quarters and give you the layout. Be back here at first light for your assignment, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” Blackhawk bowed, turned on his heel and left.

Chapter 27 - 1560

Blackhawk

After getting acquainted with his bare quarters and changing into clean clothes Blackhawk found his way to the mess hall.

Inside, Blackhawk joined the inevitable long line of men. A huge kettle holding the usual army pottage smelled good, nothing burnt. The quality of the ingredients was better too. A man dumped a ladleful into bowls without looking. Blackhawk accepted one and took a piece of bread and a plum from the serving table.

So far, High Keep was shaping up well.

He sat at a table with his back to the wall, near a door. He’d eaten a few bites when the murmurs started.

As the Four soldiers at the next table huddled over their bowls, they glared at Blackhawk before their eyes flitted back to their mousy-haired lieutenant. Their officer was short but had broad shoulders and bulging forearms. His weak chin and oft-broken nose complemented the scowl on his face.

Blackhawk continued his meal. He was hungry and hoped to finish it.

The four went on grumbling, becoming ever louder before their officer stood and strode toward him; half the diners left.

Taking in the dirt floor, the distance between tables, and how far the onlookers backed away, Blackhawk steadied his nerves.

The other lieutenant was a decade older, around twenty-five. His chest puffed out as he glanced from side to side at his comrades. “Who’d you steal the rank bands from, boy?”

A series of responses flitted through Blackhawk’s mind; he could respond in kind, but he was trying to be better.

“Are you addressing me?” Blackhawk rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Lieutenant Steven Blackhawk. And you?”

“Lieutenant Karl Fortuch,” the other barked. “How’d you get the lightning strike?”

“By hard work and obedience.” Blackhawk kept his tone light, despite Fortuch’s companions fanning out to surround him. He stepped clear of the table, waiting.

Some of the remaining soldiers pointed from him to the other four. One went from soldier to soldier. Pouches of coin came out. He wished he could place a wager on himself. The odds would’ve been great.

Men lined the walls, whispering. Some of them pointed at the tallest of Fortuch’s militet, calling him Hoof, just as he lunged. He had long legs and arms, even taller than Blackhawk.

Blackhawk dodged, grabbing Hoof’s wrist. Twisting it behind the man’s back, and locking the arm into place. “Can’t we talk about this?”

The man growled, reaching for a knife in his boot.

Blackhawk dislocated the joint and dropped him to the floor, taking the knife and sliding it in his own boot. “Stay down.”

As the man ignored him and rose.

Blackhawk’s heel struck. Hoof’s collarbone cracked like a roasted chestnut.

The other three rushed him.

Blackhawk threw his wooden plate at the middle soldier’s face and spun.

Someone yelled, “Look out, Manny!”

The plate clattered on the floor as Blackhawk sidestepped and caught the punch of the next man, who was very short, by the wrist, pulling the militet off-balance, breaking the joint.

Manny backed away with a shriek, cradling it.

Lieutenant Fortuch kicked, striking Blackhawk’s midsection.

Winded, Blackhawk groaned and took a step back.

Sensing weakness, Fortuch lunged.

Blackhawk evaded, just.

A smile of triumph spread across Fortuch’s face as his fist lashed out.

Blackhawk caught the arm, pivoting. “Didn’t you hear what I told your grunt?” He entwined his fingers in the other lieutenant’s hair, pulling Fortuch’s head down on his knee. “I said.” Blood poured from Fortuch’s nose. “Stay down.” With a punch in the temple, Blackhawk dropped the lieutenant, unconscious, to the floor.

Hearing surprised shouts from the crowd, he scanned the room. Then he faced his remaining opponent, a short man with a trimmed beard, tilting his head with a slight grin. “Wouldn’t you rather talk about this?”

“Yes—uh—sir,” the last man said dropping his hands showing his palms.

Blackhawk sat and pointed with his spoon.

“Have a seat. What’s your name?”

“Donert Maitlan, sir.”

“Would you like some bread?”

Maitlan nodded, gazed down at the bloody Lieutenant Fortuch, and sat.

Blackhawk tossed him a chunk.

Hoof, the tall man with the broken collarbone, glowered at the defeated Fortuch. Wincing, he took an empty seat, his arm in a sling he’d fashioned from his belt.

Smiling, Blackhawk offered him bread as well.

Manny cast a sullen glance at his former comrades but couldn’t meet Blackhawk’s gaze. The coward slunk out of the mess clutching his broken wrist. Fortuch remained motionless on the floor.

With the fight over, the mess hall filled up again. There was excitement in the air. Someone removed Lieutenant Fortuch.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement about talking. Since I’m new here, why don’t we go to the tavern and you can tell me about High Keep.”

“The Black Buck is close and I could use some pain killing,” Hoof said, as he tugged his belt tighter around his shoulders and hauled himself up.

The tavern was close, you could pitch a rock from it to the herald’s station. Blackhawk bought the first round. Donert Maitlan poured out a bag of knucklebones onto the table and raised his eyebrows, “Who will challenge me?”

“I will!” Blackhawk grinned, he was good at this game, but he’d make sure he only broke even. He meant to win friends. He charmed his growing group of listeners, asking questions to lead them. He wasn’t a Black Robe, but he knew information was power.

By the time he left the tavern, he’d made quite a few friends, including the two assailants and many onlookers. Pleased with the way things had turned out, he let out a sigh as he ambled back to his shanty, looking forward to his cot. He hoped not to suffer a charge of brawling.

After closing the door of his quarters, he drew out the shiny silver necklace. Unhooking the clasp, Blackhawk laid it out straight on the table. Fishing in his pocket, he set the buttons of iridescent shell beside the chain. He slid them each onto it and fastened it behind his neck.

The way is clear when it is needed.

***

Pounding on the door jolted Blackhawk from uneasy dreams. His muscles ached and his head felt stuffed with wool from all the drinks his new friends bought him. Through the window, the sky was still the deep blue-black of early morning, stars stubbornly clinging to the heavens.

"Lieutenant Blackhawk!" The militet's voice cracked with urgency. "Commander Taelor requires your presence. Immediately, sir!"

Blackhawk bit back a curse as he fumbled for his boots. He'd known the gossip would spread—tavern tales had wings, after all—but he'd hoped for at least until sunrise. His fingers struggled with the laces.

The streets were quiet save for their footsteps and the crackle of the soldier’s torch. The militet's backward glances spoke volumes: curiosity, worry, perhaps a touch of awe. Word of the brawl had spread far and fast.

Commander Taelor's door loomed before them; solid oak weathered by years of military rulings. The militet knocked, announced Blackhawk, and retreated with almost indecent haste.

Inside, the commander's office was a study in shadows and firelight. Taelor sat at his desk, a sword across his lap, methodically running an oiled cloth along its length. He didn't look up as Blackhawk entered, didn't acknowledge him at all beyond a slight tilt of his head.

Blackhawk stood at attention, focusing on the dancing shadows on the back wall. Four men had started the fight. He'd left three groaning on the floor, and not a one could say Blackhawk had struck first. But explaining that felt childish in the pre-dawn quiet.

The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of the cloth on steel.

Taelor spoke, his voice as neutral as his expression. "How'd you come to be so good in a brawl?"

The question wasn't what Blackhawk expected. He swallowed, memories rising unbidden. "My master's men often surrounded me without warning—to toughen me up. I adapted."

Now Taelor did look up, his eyes sharp in the candlelight. A frown creased his weathered face, not of anger, but something closer to concern. "Though I abhor such treatment, I value your skill."

The commander set aside the sword, standing to face Blackhawk. "The men are talking. Four against one, they say. Not a movement wasted. Like watching a dance, but with fists."

Blackhawk remained silent, unsure where this was leading.

"Would you train the men in those techniques?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before Blackhawk processed it. A slow grin spread across his face. "Yes, sir."

Taelor nodded, but his expression grew stern. "As for brawling, don't do it again. I want my men ready to fight an enemy, not each other." He paused, then added with the ghost of a smile, "At least, not outside of training."

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Report to the training yard at midday. Show our men how to survive being outnumbered." Taelor turned back to his sword. "And Blackhawk? Next time you're challenged, remember—you're not just defending yourself anymore. You're defending our reputation."

As Blackhawk left the office, the first fingers of dawn were reaching across the sky. His aches seemed lighter somehow.

He'd adapted to survive his master's cruelty. Now, perhaps, he could help others do the same.

Chapter 28

Gaelib

Gaelib stood before his map table, adjusting the fine carved eagles with meticulous precision. Each piece represented an acolyte, a spy placed within castles across the land. Some would watch the watchers—a web within a web.

A sharp rap at the door. “My lord?” Caileagh's voice, edged with impatience. “The hour grows late.”

“Stop your incessant nagging,” Gaelib grumbled, not looking up. “I said I'll be there.” Caileagh swept into the room, her dark robes rustling. Her eyes narrowed at his tone, but her voice remained honey-sweet. “The spirits don't like to be kept waiting, my love. Nor do I.”

Gaelib's hand moved to the jewel-encrusted dagger at his belt—his father's gift. He stroked it, drawing calm from its familiar contours. “Another ritual. Another sacrifice. There's always something more, isn't there?”

“Each step brings you closer to your destiny.” Caileagh moved behind him, her breath warm on his neck. She gestured at the map. “Our little birds, singing their songs across the kingdom. But the Warrior can give you so much more.”

Gaelib picked up a carved hawk, kissing it before placing it at the garrison in High Keep. “My most prized asset,” he murmured.

“And after tonight's ceremony, you'll know their songs the moment they're sung.” Caileagh's fingers traced his shoulders. “The Warrior's sight, granted to you.”

He turned to face her, irritation warring with desire. “You've spoken of little else all week. Spiritual wisdom, great honors—always dangling just out of reach.”

“Because you are destined for greatness.” Her hand cupped his cheek. “You will be the most powerful man in the world. My spirit guides have shown me.”

Gaelib's eyes gleamed. “More powerful than my father ever was?”

“Your uncles still speak of his deeds, don't they? His wisdom, his political gains, his investments?” A knowing smile curved Caileagh's lips. “After tonight, they'll speak only of you.”

He allowed her to help him into his ceremonial robes, wincing as the collar chafed his neck. “This feels like a noose. Can’t we afford finer materials?”

“Tomorrow, my love. Tonight, we focus on the ritual.” She smoothed the fabric. “A small discomfort for ultimate power.”

Gaelib forced his most pleasant smile. “For you, my sun and moon, I endure it gladly.”

As they walked to the waiting carriage, Caileagh on his arm, she leaned close. “Do you believe, Gaelib? In the rituals, in the Warrior's power?”

He helped her inside before answering. “I believe in results, my dear. The rituals have their place in our elaborate schemes.” A small place, he thought but didn't say.

The carriage lurched into motion, and Caileagh nestled against him. “Tonight, will bring results beyond your imagining. The Warrior has promised.”

Gaelib gazed out the window at his darkening domain. Yes, he thought, results beyond anyone's imagining. For the Warrior might have given him Caileagh, might grant him powers and knowledge, but the crown—that he would take for himself.

And all would speak of Gaelib Melazera's great deeds, or they wouldn't speak at all.

***

The crunch of the carriage wheels halted. As a groom opened the door, Gaelib's hand lingered on the dagger at his belt. His sacrifices took place in his own private hall—he thought of his last offering, his favorite hunting dog, the puppy his mother had given him on his tenth nameday. An old ache stirred.

I still miss that dog.

But tonight was different. Tonight was for the God of Order and Destiny.

“Having second thoughts?” Caileagh's voice cut through the darkness.

Gaelib's fingers trembled as he straightened his robes. “Merely—memories.” His throat tightened. “Those first sacrifices seem... small now.”

“As your power grows—" She seized his wrist, her grip fierce and cold.”—so must the price we pay.” Her eyes searched his face. “Tell me what you've seen.”

He recognized the steel beneath her silk tone. A test. Always testing. “Blood opens their ears.” His laugh came short, bitter. “Though their obsession with precision escapes me.”

“Understanding isn't required.” The words snapped like a whip. “Obedience is.”

The cavern mouth gaped before them, black as judgment. Gaelib swallowed. “And the classifications?”

“Recite them.”

“The Enlightened, rule. The Useful, serve. And—”

“The Sacrificial.” Caileagh's smile gleamed in the dark. “Sweet innocents to sate the Gods’ appetites.” She traced his jaw with one finger. “I select them—with care.”

The Sanctuary of the Alte Regieren swallowed them whole. The flames of a hundred candles seemed like teeth in a mouth that breathed shadows onto the walls, their smoke rising in perfect columns. Black-robed acolytes chanted in an ancient tongue that vibrated in his bones.

As Caileagh left to prepare, doubt gnawed at him. Where does the Warrior rank? Above Caileagh's spirits, of course, but below the Gods? I should know their weaknesses, their feuds—

His musings were interrupted as Caileagh returned, resplendent in black satin, her face hidden behind a silver mask of twisted serpents. At her gesture, he sank into the rune-carved throne.

The chanting synced with his heartbeat, his eyes closed, as her whispered words warmed his ear. “Can you feel their submission?”

Before he could answer, a docent led forward their offering—a naked woman, hands bound, eyes glazed. Someone from the dungeons, Gaelib thought. A gift from my sun and moon.

Caileagh pressed the ceremonial knife into his hands. “The Gods watch, my love. Show them your devotion.”

Power coursed through him as he strutted toward the altar. The woman offered no resistance as they secured her to the stone. Gaelib felt his lusts rise as he traced the blade across her skin, carving the sacred symbols. Her screams were only a single discordant note amongst the chanting:

“Blood for power, flesh for favor...”

The acolytes’ voices grew louder, more fevered. At their crescendo, Gaelib thrust the blade deep. As the steel parted the flesh and scraped bone, her shriek blended with the chanting.

Ecstasy filled him as her blood flowed, and molten silver ran in his veins.

 Confused by disjointed images, Gaelib didn’t remember walking to the coach.

Caileagh's voice pierced the haze: “When I'm queen, you'll always protect me. No one will hurt me.”

“Did you—drug me?” The words felt thick in his mouth.

“No, My Love. Each step you take is your own choice.” Her fingers traced patterns on his arm. “The euphoria is the Gods' blessing. The Warrior's power grows in you.”

He tried to focus on her face, but his vision swam. A glowing figure appeared—beautiful, radiant as moonlight. It pointed, showing him his kingdom from above: every forest, every stream, from the Shining Mountains to the Sea of Glass. In the vision, time accelerated, the sun racing across the sky.

All mine, he thought. Every leaf, every creature—

“Soon,” Caileagh's voice seemed to come from very far away, “you'll be the most powerful man in the world.”

Gaelib smiled in his narcotic haze. His triumph was no longer a distant dream.

It was a prophecy written in blood.

Owakar

It was the full moon of late spring, the twenty-ninth year in the reign of King Edal.

Owakar paced, praying for someone to rise and stop these ever more frequent abominations. The worst account he’d read so far in Freislicht. The corruption of the land grew ever more oppressive as more and more people succumbed to the Serpent’s lies. The Serpent didn’t need any demons, he had so many debased people to do the work. The luach buzzed to life.

The Warrior sauntered toward Owakar. Dressed in his usual gray robes, his mane of inky black hair framed his perfect face. “Did you see? My pawn grows stronger. He’ll make a proper king, ruling with a rod of iron.”

J’shua Ha Mashiach had instructed Owakar to ignore the Warrior and let the aberrant being talk. He frowned. It was difficult.

“Nothing to say? No witty retort?” The Warrior grinned and walked on.

“That woman will be resurrected,” slipped from Owakar’s lips.

The Warrior laughed.

Owakar grit his teeth. Words from the Book of Life constrained his thoughts.

[Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.]

Owakar thrummed a message to Alocrin, “Meet at the inn?”

“Already here.” His mentor replied. “I thought you’d reach out.”

Chapter 29

Jonathan

 Jonathan kept one hand over the petition and the statements of each father that nestled inside his tunic as he neared the inner gate of High Keep, glowing with torchlight. Vendors were still hawking their wares. The clangs of a blacksmith rang in the distance. He’d attempted for three days to arrange an audience with prince Sagen, but after the third request, he was back at the inn, now certain that Gaelib was intercepting his messages.

But Jonathan knew he could reach the gardens unseen.

When a wagonload of sacked potatoes arrived, he slipped in behind the last servant and hoisted a bag over his shoulder. He followed, flopping his sack down, and then slid into the shadows. Once the chatter and the clacking of the horse drawn wagon receded, he used the servants’ corridor around the castle’s east side, hoping to avoid the chamberlain or any of his under-stewards.

The gardens appeared as he remembered. Splashes of color in every direction. Their central feature was an intricate maze formed by tall, manicured hedges. He and the prince had whiled away many a day there.

Seeing neither gardeners nor guards, he dashed into the thick yaupon labyrinth. The trick to navigating it was always following the right wall. His hand passed lightly over the prickly branches. After many turns, he found himself in the center with the prince seated on one of the stone benches, reading parchments strewn across a carved table. “Hallo.”

“Jon…?”

The prince’s face was much the same, only older. Sagen’s golden hair was darker but still bright. Clearly, his nanny no longer chose his attire. He wore a long leather coat and riding breeches. This was not the colorful peacock Jonathan knew as a youth.

Jonathan bowed low. “I remember how we enjoyed this spot, Prince,” He teased.

“Why did you sneak in, knight?” Sagen grinned. “All you had to do was let me know you were here. I’d have sent a carriage for you.” The prince locked arms with his friend. “It’s been too long. Seems like an age.”

“Seventeen years. I have been sending messages for two days.”

“I see.” Sagen sobered. “As Royal Steward, Gaelib’s been keeping me even busier than usual. This time with accounting.” The prince waved a page in the air, imitating the steward. “Sagen, you simply must understand these matters before becoming king.” He pounded one fist into the other. “Yes, yes, you absolutely must.”

The impersonation of Gaelib’s condescending voice and exaggerated gestures had both men laughing. Jonathan sat. He thought of their escapades, smiling. What a happy childhood it was.

“Father is hale and vigorous. It’ll be many years before I ascend the throne.”

“I suspect—” Jonathan hesitated. “Gaelib is still jealous.”

“I suppose so, but I don’t see why. His place is secure within the court. Father likes him. He gets to spend far too much time with me. But—look at you. You’re ruddy and strong. The Fellowship of Knights has been good for you.” He laughed. “I think Father should have sent me there. Will you be at High Keep for a while? Where are you staying?”

“Oh, it is not an inn you would know.” Jonathan chuckled. “I have an urgent petition for your father.”

He told Sagen what had happened in Lorness. “I have a request from some fathers there. I have many signed affidavits. They want the law of contracts reaffirmed and their children and wives returned. Boys are taken to the mines or the army, but the girls—” Jonathan’s eyes teared up.

Sagen’s face hardened.  “I am sure Gaelib will prevent you from seeing the king. As you say, he is—jealous.” Then he calmed. “Let me take the petition. I’ll see my father at dinner tonight. Meet me back here tomorrow.”

Jonathan handed Sagen the parchment. “There is one more thing. I did not mention it, as I do not want to make this matter about me.”

“What?”

“They took my daughter too. And my wife and her parents are missing.”

“Blast!” Sagen grabbed his shoulder. “Why didn’t you—you always were too selfless.” Sagen shook his head.

Jonathan sighed, opening his mouth to speak. He hesitated.

“What, old friend?”

“It is—possible—Gaelib was the cause of this. Unintentional, perhaps even inadvertent, but he did tax the nobles.”

“No one has done more to keep the kingdom solvent,” Sagen said. “But…”

The prince’s brows came together as he tilted his head forward, putting his eyes in shadow. “…Gaelib has a darkness. For several moons, when we were young men, he snuck me out to a brothel every night to play cards or dice with his friends. Though entertaining, I knew Father wouldn’t approve. And Gaelib did things—It showed me a side of Gaelib that—troubled me.”

Jonathan’s frown deepened. “It is his right to tax but not to subvert contract laws. He could have given them time to pay.” He tightened his fist. “Worse, there is no need for an army. There is no war.”

Sagen’s eyebrows rose. “How could you know that?”

“I have been to Mestelina three times in recent years, traveling all over their countryside. They do not want a war with us. They may be primitive, but they are upright people. Someone is stirring up the border. I will seek answers. First, I must find my family.”

“As you should.” Sagen rubbed his chin as his eyes bore into the knight. “I’ll talk to Father.”

Jonathan prayed the result would be favorable.

They shared warm memories and talked of hopes for the future. He told the prince about his son, David, becoming a knight when his apprenticeship was done. The sun drifted west and shadows reemerged from under the benches.

Sagen drew him into another embrace. “If we don’t want Gaelib to know you’re here, leave. The gardeners will come soon. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful.”

“I will. Tomorrow then.” Jonathan gripped Sagen’s shoulder, beaming. “Thank you, old friend.”

Chapter 30

Prince Sagen

Sagen sighed when he entered the king’s private dining room to find Gaelib, seated, eating grapes.

His father, at the head of the table, picked at a bowl of nuts. “Ah, Sagen. Son, come sit, enjoy this wonderful fruit.” He waved his hand toward the ripe peaches, figs, and grapes. “Gaelib brought them from his orchards.”

“An inspiring display, Gaelib,” Sagen said as he sat. He placed his leather boot across the other knee, leaning back in the chair. “But—what brings you here? Are the kingdom’s finances in jeopardy?”

“No—no—” the royal steward cooed. “Our coffers are full, our creditors satisfied, and the nobles happy.” His hands emphasizing each point. “Plus, there’s money enough for the army to control the frontier with an overwhelming show of force.”

Sagen watched as the small talk alternated between the king and his steward through the first course, leek-and-potato soup. Sagen gave small indications he was listening while praying that Gaelib would leave.  

During the second course, a porter entered with a message for the Earl of Lorness, causing him to make his excuses and depart.

Once Gaelib had left, Sagen sought a way to start. He knew his father hated the misuse of Freislicht’s laws. Yet he also acknowledged temporary servitude had always been a way for the poor to enhance their position or pay their debts. But the incidents Jonathan had shared were akin to slavery. He expected his father to reject that. However, even an indirect accusation of someone as powerful as Gaelib of being involved in such deeds—

“Some things have…” He gulped, “…come to my attention, Father.”

“Oh? What’s bothering you?”

“I saw an old friend today. Do you remember Jonathan Otual?”

“Yes,” the king said. “Became a knight, I think.”

“He did. He told me of problems with tax collections—in Lorness.” Sagen studied his father’s face, trying to gauge his father’s mood, unsure how to relate it best.

King Edal’s wispy, graying brows drew together. “Continue.”

“Gaelib has assigned heavy taxes on his nobles, which is his right. But—”

“But—?” The king’s growing concern was unmistakable.

Sagen hesitated. “According to Jonathan, his nobles are breaking your contract laws by calling in loans unjustly. They’re taking wives and children to cover the debts and—”

“And—what?” The last word was as sharp as a lash.

“He said they sold many of the girls to brothels. The boys—”

“Is there evidence?” King Edal demanded.

The prince nodded. “Jonathan brought a petition asking for relief.”

“Do you have it?” His father’s mood eased as he read the document. Then reread it. He grunted several times. Then he peered into Sagen’s eyes. “Jonathan should be in my court. His understanding of our laws is profound. As is his courage in bringing this to light. Bring me writing materials and wax for my seal.”

“With pleasure.” After obtaining what his father needed, Sagen returned to the table, a serious look on his face. He bit his lip.

King Edal looked up from the parchment. “There’s more. What have you left out?”

“Someone took Jonathan’s daughter. He hopes to save her.”

He focused on his son, accepting the quill, ink, and enough paper for a dozen copies. “Well done. I’m impressed. You could have used Jonathan’s loss to hook me with emotion. That you didn’t shows me you’re thinking, as a king should, of the wider populace, of the welfare of our country. Yes, excellent indeed.”

He began writing. “A speedy delivery is of the utmost importance, but….” He grinned. “I shall not inform Earl Melazera of this for at least a week, perhaps longer. He thinks me forgetful, so I won’t disappoint him. His reactions will tell us much about his part in this. Watch him, my son.”

“Father, you are wise.” Sagen smiled.

“Hmmm…” His father drummed the table with his fingers. “I want to see your friend. I need to hear of this firsthand. Where will you meet him?”

“Midmorning, at the center of the maze.”

“Excellent. I’ll join you.” He rubbed his hands together, smiling. “Set up the chessboard.”

***

The next morning, Sagen sat with his father before a table of peaches, sweet bread, and cheese.

King Edal leaned back in his chair. “Twenty years ago, I stood in the turret of the tallest tower, taking in the world below. The wind whipped around me. I loved it then and still do.”

Sagen listened, slicing a peach with a knife. Times when his father reminisced were rare.

His father continued, “The sail-like flags flapped above me as I watched you, far below, playing with two other boys. I heard the tapping of Lawrence Rothbard’s ironwood cane as he shuffled toward me. Without taking my eyes from you, I asked him if we could find you a companion. Someone who would learn alongside you. Someone who could—share—the ‘suffering’ with you. Perhaps even someone who could make it a game.”

Sagen had not heard this story.

“I dearly miss Old Rothbard. We planned a rigorous education for you so you’d be better prepared than I was.”

King Edal shut his eyes for a moment.

“When I was that age, being forced to learn was—difficult. Worse! It was boring, drudgery—make-work. Or so I thought at the time. I saw no point in learning endless facts, consequences, and related philosophies. I resented my teachers and my mother, whom I blamed for the tedious hours spent sitting at a desk. Especially, since my father encouraged me to spend as much time learning sword and shield, bow and arrow, and how to twist just so, causing an enemy’s blade to glance off my armor. That was excellent—and served me well—before I became king.”

His father paused, lost in the memory. “You must have much more wisdom than I, Sagen, for I fear your reign will have greater challenges than mine. I feel that discord and rebellion is brewing. But you will be equal to it.”

Sagen nodded, hoping he would continue. “Did Rothbard find Jonathan for us? I remember pacing back and forth before him like I was king. I am embarrassed to think of it.”

 “You did well that day.” His father smiled. “I was very proud of you taking charge. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. He was your servant to choose and command. It gave me a glimpse of the good ruler you will be.”

His father stood. “Rothbard said J’shua may have provided what we need. Then he told me about a strong, quick-witted boy, an orphan that was seeking an apprenticeship.”

His father gestured toward the door. “Let’s go meet your friend. I’m curious to see the man Jonathan has become.”