The Orphan King (25 page)

“You are speaking in riddles.”

“Because I know only what I have guessed after a lifetime in Magnus. Haven’t you wondered why this castle is set so securely, so far away from the outer world? Why would anyone bother attacking a village
here? Yet an impenetrable castle was founded. And by no less a wizard than Merlin.”

The door exploded open.

Time fragmented before Thomas’s eyes. Geoffrey the candle maker ran toward them with a short club extended, the guards on his heels. Thomas leapt forward, seeing Geoffrey’s obvious target. But he was too late. Geoffrey swung the club, smashing Isabelle across the head.

She collapsed.

With lifted swords, the guards were almost upon Geoffrey, who began to swing the club at Thomas.

“No! Don’t!” Thomas roared as he dodged Geoffrey’s first wild swing. “He must not be killed!”

Too late again. Geoffrey fell into a limp huddle. His arm and hand scraped the floor in a last feeble twitch.

Thomas could only stare at the ring Geoffrey wore.

He finally rose in the horrified silence shared by both guards.

“My lord, we did not know—”

Thomas waved a weary hand to stop the soldier’s voice.

Isabelle lay motionless, blood matting her hair. He bent and gently took the medallion from her neck. Then he matched it to the ring on Geoffrey’s hand.

The image was identical.

E
ach dawn found Thomas on the eastern ramparts of the castle walls. The guards knew to respect his need for privacy; each morning the sentry for that part of the wall would retreat at the sight of his approach.

The wind had yet to rise on the moors. The cry of birds carried from far across the lake surrounding Magnus. The first rays of sunlight edged over the top of the eastern slope and began to reflect off the calm water. Behind Thomas, the town lay silent.

It was the time of day that he searched his own emptiness. He’d fulfilled the beginning of the vow he’d made to his mother. But he still felt the grief as strongly as if he had buried her the day before.

“What now?” he said to the morning. “I thought this would be the end, but why does it seem like only the beginning? Who are the Immortals? Where are they? What must I do next?”

The morning did not answer.

He could keep a brave and resolute face as the new lord of Magnus. Yet in the quiet times, he still keenly felt alone. Journeying here, he had a family of sorts. Now he was an orphan again. An orphan king. With too many questions unanswered.

There is so little that I know
, Thomas thought.

Who was the old man who cast the sun into darkness and directed me here from the gallows?

Why did William help me and then depart? Why did he keep secret his role in first defending Magnus?

What conspiracy was Isabelle about to reveal before her death? Why did she and the candle maker share the same strange symbol?

And what fate has fallen upon Katherine?

There is so much I must do
, Thomas thought.

The book of priceless knowledge must be brought safely to the castle
.

Magnus must be prepared for the arrival of the Earl of York
.

And I must not cease in searching—without the villagers’ awareness—for the secrets of Magnus
.

Thomas closed his eyes.

For a moment, Katherine’s voice echoed in his mind. He kept his eyes closed, desperate for any comfort. What had she once said?
“You and I are threads, Thomas. We cannot see God’s plan for us.”

Thomas opened his eyes. The sun had broken over the top of the faraway hill, spilling rays across the dips and swells of the land. Thomas smiled.
Oh, that there were a God with enough love and wisdom to watch over all our follies
.

He speculated with wonder on that thought for many long minutes. He thought of Katherine’s braveness and conviction. He thought of his own confusion.

Suddenly, Thomas spun on his heels and marched from the ramparts.

He strode through the village streets and came to a small stone building near the center market square. There, he banged against the rough wooden door.

A strong voice answered, and the door opened to show an elderly man with gray hair combed straight back.

“My lord,” he said without fear. “Come inside, please. We are graced with your presence.”

They moved to the nave at the front of the church. Sunlight streamed through the eastern windows and cut sharp shadows across both their faces. In the man’s eyes, Thomas saw nothing of the greed he had witnessed those many years at the abbey. It was enough to encourage him to speak.

Thomas smiled tightly. He had spent much time considering Katherine’s strong faith. And he could not forget that during his worst moment in the air, he had cried out to the God he thought he did not believe in.

“Father,” Thomas said. “I have questions for you.”

F
ROM
F
ORTRESS OF
M
IST
Available February 2013

I
n the tent of his army camp, Thomas woke to the scent of a trace of perfume and the softness of hair falling across his face.

This was no soldier. How had she—

He drew breath to challenge the intruder, but he felt a light finger across his lips, and a gentle shushing stopped him from speaking.

“Dress quickly, Thomas. Follow without protest,” the voice then whispered.

Thomas saw only the darkness of silhouette in the dimness of the tent where she knelt beside him.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice continued. “An old man wishes to see you. He asks if you remember the gallows.”

Old man. Gallows
. In a rush of memory as bright as daylight, Thomas felt himself at the gallows. The knight who might win Magnus with him was about to hang, and Thomas waited in front, intent on attempting a rescue through disguise and trickery. Then the arrival of an old man, one who identified Thomas behind the disguise and knew of his quest, one who commanded the sun into darkness, one who had never appeared again.

“As you wish,” Thomas whispered in return, with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the sudden trembling in his stomach. No mystery—not even the terror of the strange symbol of Magnus—was more important to him than discovering the old man’s identity.

The silhouette backed away slowly, beckoning Thomas with a single crooked finger. He rose quickly, wrapped his cloak around him, and shuffled into his shoes.

How had she avoided the sentries outside his tent?

Thomas pushed aside the tent of the flap and followed. Moonlight shown on both sentries sitting crookedly against the base of a nearby tree.

Asleep
. It was within his rights as earl to have them executed.

“Forgive them,” the voice whispered as if reading his mind. “Their suppers contained potions.”

He strained to see the face of the silhouette in the light of the large pale moon. In response, she pulled the flaps of her hood across her face. The tall and slender figure led him slowly along a trail that avoided all tents and campsites.

Ghost-white snakes of mist hung heavy among the solitary trees of the moor valley.

It felt too much like a dream to Thomas. Still, he did not fear to follow. Only one person had knowledge of what had transpired in front of the gallows—the old man himself. Only he, then, could have sent the silhouette to his tent.

At the farthest edge of the camp, she stopped to turn and wait.

When Thomas arrived, she took his right hand and clasped it with her left.

“Who are you?” Thomas asked. “Show me your face.”

“Hush, Thomas,” she whispered.

“You know my name. You know my face. Yet you hide from me.”

“Hush,” she repeated.

“No,” he said with determination. “Not a step farther will I take. The old man wishes to see me badly enough to drug my sentries, so he’ll be angry if you do not succeed in your mission. Show me your face or I turn around.”

She did not answer. Instead, she lifted her free hand slowly, pulled the hood from her face, and shook her hair loose to her shoulders.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for that moment.

The sudden ache of joy to see her face hit him like a blow. For a timeless moment, it took from him all breath.

It was not her beauty that brought him that joy, even though the curved shadows of her face would be forever seared in her mind. No. Thomas had learned not to trust appearances, that beauty indeed consisted of heart joining heart, not eyes to eyes. Isabelle, now in the dungeon, had used her exquisite features to deceive, while gentle Katherine—horribly burned and masked by bandages—had proven the true worth of friendship.

Thomas struggled for composure. He couldn’t understand it, but he felt drawn deeper into the world, as if he had been long pledged for this very moment.

She stared back, as if knowing how he felt, yet, unlike him, fearless of what was passing between them.

“Your name,” Thomas said. “What is your name?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“Everyone of this world,” she answered. “What if I am nothing more than a spirit? A walking dream?”

“You toy with me. As if you already know me. Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to believe that you are one of us,” she answered.

“One of you. A spirit? A walking dream?”

As answer, she took his hand, lifted it to her mouth, and kissed the back of his hand so gently he wondered if he had imagined her lips brushing against his skin.

She dropped his hand again. “I have already said too much. Follow me. The old man wishes to see you.”

Abruptly, she turned and he had no choice but to follow as she picked faultless footsteps through ground soon darkened from the moon by the trees along stream of the valley.

They walked—it could have only been a heartbeat, he felt so distant from the movement of time—until reaching a hill which rose steeply into the black of the night.

An owl called.

She turned to the sound and walked directly into the side of the hill. As if parting the solid rock by magic, she slipped sideways into an invisible cleft between monstrous boulders. Thomas followed.

They stood completely surrounded by granite walls of a cave long hollowed smooth by eons of rainwater. The air seemed to press down upon him, and away from the light of the moon Thomas saw only velvet black.

He heard her return the owl’s call, but before he could question the noise, a small spark appeared. His eyes adjusted to see an old man holding the small light of a torch that grew as the pitch caught fire.

Light gradually licked upward around them to reveal a bent old man wrapped in a shawl. Beyond deep wrinkles, Thomas could distinguish no features—the shadows leapt and danced eerie circles from beneath his chin.

“Greetings, Thomas of Magnus.” The voice was a slow whisper.
“Congratulations on succeeding in your first task, the conquering of the castle.”

“My first task? Who are you?”

“Such impatience. One who is Lord of Magnus would do well to temper his words among strangers.”

“I will not apologize.” Thomas filled with indignation. “Each day I am haunted by memory of you. Impossible that you should know my quest at the hanging. Impossible that the sun should fail that morning at your command.”

The old man shrugged. “Impossible is often merely a perception. Surely by now you have been able to ascertain the darkness was no sorcery, but merely a trick of astronomy as the moon moves past the sun. Your books would inform a careful reader that such eclipses may be anticipated, or predicted, as some might say.”

“You know of my books!”

That mystery gripped Thomas so tightly he could almost forget the presence of the other in the cave. The young woman.

The old man ignored the urgency in Thomas’s words. “My message is the same as before. You must bring the winds of light into this age and resist the forces of darkness poised to take Magnus from you. Otherwise, it’ll be little more than a fortress of mist. The assistance I may offer is little—the decisions to be made are yours.”