“All right, then,” Jared said, nodding. “We’ll go there.” We have our orders, he almost added. “Please send word to Prince Axel and the other members of the Twelve where we will be, in case they need us.”
She nodded again, her face softer now. “I will, of course.”
Before departing, Kai leaned in toward Lady Koel. “It never ceases to surprise me how people behave when they have the backdrop of war as their excuse,” he said huskily. “If I survive this conflict, I assure you that your betrayal will not be forgotten.” With that, he turned and strode across the flagstones to where Bram and Hal were already waiting on their horses.
Lady Koel stood for a moment, as still as a statue but for the wind buffeting the long, dark strands of her hair. Then she turned slowly to Jared. “None of this was personal, you know.”
He did not answer her. What answer could he find? His strikingly beautiful, fiercely intelligent cousin had always been an enigma. That was never more true than now. He turned and walked away from her, down toward the stone steps. He heard footsteps following him. Turning, he came face-to-face with his mother once more.
“I cannot—I will not—lose another son,” Elin told him.
“Then let us pray you do not have to,” Jared replied, submitting once more to his mother’s embrace. “Please tell Asta to stay safe,” he said, as she released him. “Knowing that she is out of harm’s way will allow me to stay strong.”
His mother opened her mouth as if to say something, but then she simply nodded. Jared hurried on to join his fellows.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Archenfield
FATHER SIMEON FELT THE COOL WIND AGAINST HIS face as he rode out toward the settlement of Dalhoen. As his horse gained momentum, he settled into a more comfortable rhythm in the saddle and wondered why on earth he did not take the opportunity to ride more often. He had an entirely new appreciation of the beauty of the Princedom: the blue-green forest to the right, leading down to the silver fjord, and up to the left, the stark beauty of the glen and, beyond, the purple-hazed mountains. If he had needed a reminder as to why he was doing what he was about to do, these views would have given it to him. But he needed no reminder.
As the white army tents came into sight, he saw a pair of soldiers riding out to meet him and, with some reluctance, slowed his horse. He felt the exhilaration of speed drain away as he drew level with the first of the soldiers. More than anything, he didn’t want to be led into the army camp—the risk was too great. Either Prince Jared, Kai Jagger or Hal Harness could be somewhere within those barricades. They would attempt to deter him from his course.
“Halt!” The young woman—also on horseback—raised her hand toward him.
Simeon took in the girl’s battle-weary face, the dried blood on her shirtsleeves. She was far too young to be witness to such bloodshed.
Holding tight to her reins, she leaned forward in her saddle. “Where are you off to at such a pace?”
He had anticipated this question. “I need to ride out to meet and talk to the advancing Paddenburg party.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You do? Under whose orders do you undertake this act of madness?”
“Do you not recognize me, child? I am Father Simeon. The Priest.” He submitted to the girl’s scrutiny.
“I’m sorry to ask this, Father, but has Lady Koel dispatched you?”
“That is correct,” he replied.
“Do you have any form of written decree? Something to verify that what you say is true?”
Father Simeon glanced down at his breastplate. He was not accustomed to wearing armor. It was marked with a cross, readily identifying him as a man of God. He reached beneath his breastplate and pulled free the roll of parchment he had secreted there. The message was written in his own hand, of course, but how qualified was this child to recognize a forgery from an official palace decree?
“Are there others in your party?” She glanced over his shoulder, searching for signs of riders he might have outpaced.
Father Simeon shook his head, smiling. “No,” he said. “I am riding alone.” The words brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. For the longest time, he had had the sense that he was riding alone through this vale.
The young soldier frowned, returning the parchment. “I’m afraid, Father, I must ask you to turn back. It just isn’t safe for a lone rider. Frankly, even for a group—”
Father Simeon met the young woman’s eyes. “You must let me on my way. My authority outstrips yours. And I travel under a greater authority than either of ours.”
She shook her head. There was water in her eyes—it might have been from the stinging wind. “Please, Father, do as I ask. Turn around!”
“I cannot turn back from this path.” He heard the certainty in his own voice and smiled again, as if running into a once cherished but sadly long-absent friend.
She shook her head slowly. “I wish with all my heart you would not do this, Father. But if you must, then, I beg you, be vigilant. The enemy has advanced beyond Mellerad. There will likely be Paddenburg scouts looking to pick off anyone in their path.” She cleared her throat and called to her soldiers. “Make way for Father Simeon.” When they turned to her, questions on each of their faces, she adopted her previous, more forceful tone. “Just do it.”
Lydia rode at Henning’s side as they led the phalanx of troops. Though she had argued against this—asserting the unnecessary risk arising from two of Paddenburg’s commanders in chief traveling together—she had known that this was an argument she would lose. They had each left a sizable contingent of troops to break the dwindling defenses at Mellerad and Pencador—their role was to lead Paddenburg’s troops into battle, not to undertake a dirty and prolonged street combat. The foot soldiers of Paddenburg would finish the job Lydia and Henning had begun.
It was of paramount importance to Henning and Ven to advance toward the palace of Archenfield together: if all was going to plan in the east, Ven would join them south of Grasmyre. Archenfield would be the second of the Thousand Territories beyond Paddenburg they would lay claim to, but it was a far more glorious prize than Tanaka. When the story was laid down in the history books, it must tell of the two brothers riding side by side.
On hearing Henning describing it thus, Lydia had wondered how history would record her own contribution to the seismic shifts within the kingdoms. She had a sudden vision of the maze.
“I’m walking, Lydia! See how I’m walking!”
“Yes, I see. And it’s wonderful. But you must not overexert yourself.”
The vision of the maze was pushed aside by one of the pillow, claiming the last of Leopold’s breath.
“Lydia, darling, you’re miles away!”
“What’s that?” She turned to find Henning gazing upon her.
He looked sad. “Sometimes you seem to disappear from me and I just can’t bear it. I want to follow you everywhere you go.”
She sighed. “Trust me, it is much better for both our sakes that you cannot.”
The tiny village of Malyx was quite deserted. It was distressing to see the remnants of the people’s lives strewn through the streets: articles as commonplace as shirts, sewing baskets and copper pots had been left behind as they fell from carts and horses, or perhaps simply from a pair of overloaded arms.
It was the pervasive silence that Simeon found most unsettling—the utter absence of life.
The Paddenburg scouts had been following him for some time now. He had become aware of their movement in the shadowy fringes of the forest that marked the northern outskirts of the village, and they had quickly emerged into the light, charging toward him with alarming speed in their black armor. In that moment, he had understood that his mission would soon reach its end.
He was no match for these invaders. He was not a man of war. Still, he must stick to the path he had chosen.
Once he had cleared the military camp at Dalhoen, Simeon had dismounted and removed a tunic and riding blanket from his c
loth satchel. Both articles bore the Wynyard crest and the vivid blue, gold and green of the Princedom. In these rich colors he would never be mistaken for an ordinary soldier or a fugitive villager. It would be obvious, even to the lay soldiers of Paddenburg, that this was a rider of some importance, perhaps even nobility.
When the black-clad soldiers had first come bolting out of the forest, he had thought that he had failed—that a scout’s indiscriminate sword would soon sever his spine. But then the riders had slowed and, with weapons extended, taken Simeon into their custody. Just as he had invited them to do.
Lydia heard it first: the drumming of hooves, soft initially but growing louder all the time. “What’s that?” she asked, her head cocked.
“It could be our scouts,” Henning replied, drawing his horse to a stop. “Or a small posse of enemy riders.”
Lydia shrugged. What did it matter? What threat did a few horsemen pose when they had several hundred following in their wake?
They sent back the command to halt. As the phalanx grew still, they were enveloped for a time by a curious silence, broken only by the sound of the approaching horses.
Lydia glanced around at the countryside, thinking how accurately Logan had described it in his secret letters.
At last, the riders came into view. Two were dressed in the black armor of Paddenburg, but between them was a rider in the blue, gold and green colors of Archenfield.
Lydia knew their soldiers were ordered to kill on the spot. This man must be of some perceived value to have been taken alive.
If their prisoner was disconcerted by the sight of the army, he gave no sign of it. He drew to a standstill before them.
“Prince Henning,” he said.
“The one and only,” Henning answered. “And who might you be?”
The man smiled. “My name is Father Simeon, the Priest. I am one of the Twelve who assist our Prince in the rule of this Princedom. I have come to welcome you to the soil of Archenfield.”
Lydia smiled. “Of course.” She nodded. “If in doubt, send out the Priest.”
“You have come to welcome us?” Henning scoffed. “You do understand that we are invading your little Princedom? Soon, these flags you see behind me will fly from the roof of your palace, signaling that Archenfield is now a dominion of Paddenburg.”
Father Simeon nodded. “I am under no illusions as to why you have come. But still, you are strangers in my land, and I humbly bid you welcome.”
Henning nodded slowly. “That’s very decent of you, I suppose.”
Father Simeon shrugged. “Perhaps it would surprise you to know that I do not set much store by decency.”
“Really?” Henning answered. “You said you are a priest!”
“Oh, I am a priest,” Father Simeon replied. “And there are many things that concern me. But decency is quite a long way down the list.” He looked at Lydia for the first time and smiled serenely in greeting. “Decency speaks to me of conforming to a certain standard of outward morality or respectability. It is, to my mind, a rather superficial quality.” His eyes blazed with conviction. “What interests me far more is genuine goodness.”
“If it’s goodness you are looking for,” Lydia told him, “I fear we’re probably not your kind of people.”
Simeon shook his head. “I don’t think that’s true.” He turned back to Prince Henning. “Your Majesty, they say that your brother moved worlds to find a cure for your father and bring him succor. The way sons treat their fathers tells us much about a nation.”
Lydia leaned close to Henning. “This could be a trap,” she said quietly. “They could simply have sent him out to buy them time.”
“It’s Miss Wilde, isn’t it?” Father Simeon resumed. “Yes, of course, I see the considerable resemblance to your brother.”
“How is Logan?” She could not help but ask him.
“He is… troubled,” Father Simeon said. “He has lost his way, I fear. But there is goodness in him too. I know it. I have seen it on many occasions.” His kind eyes met Lydia’s and she believed he meant every word he said.
“Father Simeon.” Henning’s voice had its familiar mastery restored. “It is so very kind of you to ride out to engage with us on such matters, but I am afraid time is pressing. We must ask you to stand aside so that we may proceed.”
“Yes, of course.” Father Simeon nodded.
“Then you will stand aside?”
Father Simeon appeared lost in thought for a moment. “No.”
Henning frowned. “But you said—”
“I meant that of course you would want to be on your way, to continue on your journey toward the palace. But you must understand, I cannot let you proceed any farther. The palace and all those within it mean too much to me. This Princedom… this ‘little’ Princedom, as you called it before, is too precious to me to allow you to claim it as some kind of trophy.”
“I understand your position,” Henning told him. “And your words might, under other circumstances, prove stirring. But the fact remains—we are going to claim this Princedom and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“You are, of course, welcome to your opinion,” Father Simeon said.
“I told you,” Lydia hissed. “This is some kind of trick. We don’t have time for this! Every moment we lose here, they have more time to prepare God knows what for our arrival.”
Simeon shook his head. “You are mistaken, Miss Wilde,” he said. “There is no trick. I am not here to stall you or distract you. Quite the opposite.”
“What is it you want from us?” Henning asked, his patience at an end.
“I thought that I had been more than clear, Prince Henning. I am here to ask you to reconsider your actions. I’m here to implore you to turn around and retreat.”
“And why would we do that?” Henning asked.
“Because, Prince Henning, this is not your land, and you have no genuine claim upon it. You are under the illusion, perhaps, that the more land you gather under your name, the greater a man you will become. This kind of thinking is a trap I have observed many men—and women—fall into. You may devote the rest of your time on earth to taking each of the Thousand Territories under your command but, believe me, you will never find peace or fill the void inside you.”
Letting go of his reins, the Priest began to dismount. He had a deep need to feel the soil of Archenfield directly beneath his feet. But then he found that simply standing was not enough either. He creaked down onto his knees on the ground in front of Prince Henning’s horse. “I plead with you, Prince Henning—in the name of the thousands who will be slaughtered, displaced, orphaned, that you turn around and go back to Paddenburg.” His voice cracked. He paused, then resumed, as resonant as a bell. “I kneel before you to beg you to go home.”
“Father Simeon, good Father Simeon,” Henning said softly as he dismounted from his own horse. “You can talk to us from now until the turning of the year, but you will have no luck in changing our minds or deterring us from our course.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Father Simeon said.
“What’s that?” Lydia asked suddenly, her head on one side. “Do you hear it?”
Henning glanced at her, puzzled. “No. What?”
“Listen!” Lydia shouted. “Horses’ hooves. There are others in his wake! I told you this was a ruse—”
“I swear to you,” Father Simeon implored them. “I came to you on my own.”
“Then how do explain the sound of horses?” Lydia asked. “You do hear it?”
Father Simeon seemed genuinely confused, but Henning had clearly had enough.
Lydia saw him reach for the hilt of his sword. “Henning, no!”
She watched impotently as Henning drew his sword from its sheath and swung the blade toward the Priest’s neck. Father Simeon’s eyes were strangely tranquil as the sharp metal edge made contact. His expression remained calm as his head was sliced cleanly from his body and tumbled down onto the muddy ground beside
his body. He was still kneeling before his killer.
“Was that absolutely necessary?” Lydia rasped, as Henning wiped clean his sword blade.
“He left me no choice,” Henning said, returning his weapon to its sheath. “We have come too far—you and I and Ven and Logan. Nothing and no one must stand in the way of our victory.”
THIRTY-NINE
The Fort, Mellerad
FROM THE HEIGHTS OF THE FORT’S BELL TOWER, Axel had a vertiginous view down to the settlement and across to all sides. He had come up here to gain a clearer perspective on the fighting. From there, the combatants seemed little more than ants or flies. A dark swarm clustered beneath him, and it was all but impossible to distinguish the soldiers belonging to the invading army from Archenfield’s own forces. The latter’s ranks had been swelled not only by the settlement dwellers from Mellerad, but also by the influx of fugitives from the western settlements that had been toppled, one by one, in grim succession.
Axel strained his eyes in a vain attempt to distinguish the abhorrent black armor and purple silks of the warriors from Paddenburg, but the fact that the dark mass below was clustering closer and closer to the edges of the fort left him confident that the enemy had the upper hand.
The forces of Paddenburg were closing in. If the fort fell, then the settlement of Mellerad was lost. And if Mellerad fell, there would be no other option but to order his own forces to retreat and wave the flag of surrender: there were no further viable defenses beyond this fort to halt Paddenburg’s advance to the palace of Archenfield. Was he destined to be consigned to the history books as the Prince who ruled for barely a day?
Axel opened his mouth and allowed all his pent-up rage and disappointment to stream out. What emerged was a base, animal roar.
It caught the attention of the soldiers on the battlements a level below him. Questioning eyes met his from below. “Keep firing!” he barked angrily. Glancing down again, it seemed to him that the swarm was drawing ever closer.