I must insist that you remain here, Your Highness, under heavy guard until I finish sweeping the castle. They may not be alone. I am presently conducting a—”
“Insist what you like, Wylin, but get out of my way. I want to see my father!” Alric demanded, pushing past him.
“King Amrath’s body has been taken to his bedroom, Your Highness.”
His body!
Alric did not want to hear any more. He ran up the steps, his slippers flying off his feet.
“Stay with the prince!” Wylin shouted after him.
Alric reached the royal wing. There was a crowd in the corridor that moved aside at his approach. As he reached the chapel, its door lay open with several of the chief ministers gathered inside.
“My prince!” he heard his Uncle Percy call to him from inside, but he did not stop. He was determined to reach his father.
He couldn’t be dead!
He rounded the corner, passed his own room, and rushed into the royal suite. Here the double doors were open as well. Several ladies in nightgowns and robes stood just outside weeping loudly. Inside, a pair of older women busied themselves wringing out pink-stained linens in a washbasin.
To the side of the bed stood his sister Arista, dressed in a burgundy and gold gown. Her arms wrapped around the bedpost, which she gripped so tightly that her fingers were white. She stared at the figure on the mattress with eyes that were dry but wide with horror.
On the pale white sheets of the royal bed lay King Amrath Essendon. He still wore the same clothes Alric had seen him in before he retired for the night. His face was pale, his eyes were closed, and near the corner of his lips, there was a tiny tear of dried blood.
“My prince—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” his uncle corrected himself as he followed him into the bedchamber. His Uncle Percy always looked older than his father did—his hair was very gray, his face wrinkled and drooping; however, he possessed the trim elegant build of a swordsman. He was still in the process of tying up his robe as he entered. “Thank Maribor you are safe. We thought you might have met a similar fate.”
Alric was at a loss for words. He just stood staring at the still body of his father.
“Your Majesty, do not worry. I will take care of everything. I know how hard this must be. You’re still a young man and—”
“What are you talking about?” Alric looked at him. “Take care of what? What are you taking care of?”
“A number of things, Your Majesty. There is the securing of the castle, the investigation as to how this happened, the apprehension of those responsible, arrangements for the funeral, and of course, the eventual coronation.”
“Coronation?”
“You are king now, sire. We will need to arrange your crowning ceremony, but that, of course, will wait until we have everything else settled.”
“But I thought…Wylin told me the murderers have been captured.”
“He captured two of them. I’m just making certain there aren’t anymore.”
“What will happen to them?” He looked back at the still form of his father. “The killers, what will happen to them?”
“That is up to you, Your Royal Majesty. Their fate is yours to decide, unless you would prefer I handle the matter for you, since it can be quite unpleasant.”
Alric turned to his uncle. “I want them to die, Uncle Percy. I want them to suffer horribly and then die.”
“Of course, Your Majesty, of course. I assure you they will.”
The dungeons of Essendon Castle lay buried two stories beneath the earth. Ground water seeped through cracks in the walls and wet the face of the stone. Fungus grew in the mortar between stone blocks, and mold coated the wood of doors, stools, and buckets. The foul, musty smell mixed with the stench of decay, and the corridors echoed with the mournful cries of doomed men. Despite the rumors told in Medford’s taverns, the castle dungeons had a limited capacity. Needless to say, the prison staff found room for the king-killers. They moved prisoners to provide Royce and Hadrian with their own private cell.
News of the king’s death did not take long to spread, and for the first time in years, the prisoners had something exciting to talk about.
“Who’da thought I’d outlast old Amrath,” a graveled voice muttered. He laughed, but the laughter quickly broke into a series of coughs and sputters.
“Any chance the prince might review our sentences on account of all this?” A weaker, younger voice asked. “I mean it’s possible, isn’t it?”
This question was met with a lengthy silence, more coughing, and a sneeze.
“The guard said they stabbed the bastard in the back right in his own chapel. What does that say about his piety?” A new bitter voice questioned. “Seems to me he was asking for a bit too much from the man upstairs.”
“The ones that done it ’ere in our old cell. They moved me and Danny out to make room. I saw ’em when they shifted us, two of ’em, one big, the other little.”
“Anyone know ’em? Maybe they was trying to break us out and got sidetracked, eh?”
“Gotta have some pretty big brass ones to kill a king in his own castle. They won’t get a trial, not even a fake one. I’m surprised they’ve lived this long.”
“Gonna want a public torture before the execution. Things been quiet a long time. Haven’t had a good torture in years.”
“So why ya think they did it?”
“Why don’t you ask ’em?”
“Hey, over there? You conscious in that cell of yours? Or did they beat you stupid?”
“Maybe they’re dead.”
They were not dead, but neither were they talking. Royce and Hadrian stood chained to the far wall of their cell, their ankles locked in stocks, and their mouths gagged with leather muzzles. They had only been there for the better part of an hour, but already the strain on Hadrian’s muscles was painful. The soldiers had removed their gear, cloaks, boots, and tunics, leaving them with nothing but their britches to fight the damp chill of the dungeon.
They hung listening to the rambling conversations of the other inmates. The conversation halted at the sound of heavy approaching footfalls. The door to the cellblock opened and banged against the interior wall.
“Right this way, Your Royal Highness—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” the voice of the dungeon warden said rapidly.
A metal key twisted in the lock, and the door to their cell creaked open. Four royal bodyguards led the prince and his uncle, Percy Braga inside. Hadrian recognized Braga, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor of Melengar, but he had never seen Alric before. The prince was young, perhaps no more than twenty. He was short, thin, and delicate in appearance with light brown hair that reached to his shoulders, and only the ghost of a beard. His stature and features must have come from his mother because the former king had been a bear of a man. He wore only a silk nightshirt with a massive sword strapped comically to his side by an oversized leather belt.
“These are the ones?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Braga replied.
“Torch,” Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. “Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces.” Alric peered at them. “No marks? They haven’t been whipped?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Braga said. “They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can’t be certain these two acted alone in this.”
“No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”