"I sensed it even before he left, Sigrid," Gabriella whispered, laying her son in his crib. "This mission was doomed. Darrick's involvement was a terrible mistake. I should have ordered him to stay."
"You couldn't have even if you'd tried," Sigrid admonished, leading Gabriella out of the dark nursery and easing the door shut. "You are not yet Queen. The King's commission supersedes all." She turned to Gabriella and softened her expression. "You cannot give up hope, Princess. Your husband will return along with the Army and Sir Ulric. For all we know, they are nearly here, even this very night. How foolish will you feel when he greets you again, you who were convinced that his soul had already departed?"
The older woman made to touch Gabriella's shoulder, but Gabriella turned away. She crossed the room to the window. Deep blue night pressed against the glass.
"I fear you are wrong, Sigrid, and that you yourself know it. His candle was burnt out. Just like my mother's."
"They are symbols, Gabriella," Sigrid insisted, still standing near the nursery door. "We light them upon our graduation into adulthood. We extinguish them when those that we love die. They are not any more magical than we are, despite what Professor Toph might say."
Gabriella stared through her own reflection on the window glass. Her eyes were swollen and tinged with red. She shifted her gaze to the reflection of Sigrid behind her.
"On the night my mother died," she said softly, "my father sent you to extinguish her candle. He told me so himself. You have spoken of it as well."
Sigrid nodded. "Yes. It was my duty, not only to the dead Queen, but to the Kingdom. It was the first announcement of her murder to the people."
Gabriella turned and met Sigrid's eyes. Sigrid looked back at her, her expression tense and waiting, almost wary.
"Tell me, Sigrid," Gabriella asked quietly, studying her nurse's face, "did you extinguish the candle? Or was it already cold when you arrived there that night?"
There was a long pause. Sigrid's expression did not change. Finally, she drew a breath and answered slowly, "I extinguished it. I pinched the flame with my own two fingers. I still remember the heat of it. I wept, Princess, as the smoke arose from your mother's candle for the last and faded away."
Gabriella continued to stare at Sigrid's face, seeking any sign of falsehood. After a moment, she turned back to the window. She drew a deep breath, and it hitched in her chest.
"Dear one," Sigrid said, approaching her now and taking her by the shoulders. Gabriella submitted this time and allowed her old nurse to gather her into a matronly embrace. "Don't fret. Don't fear. Pray. If God wills it, our loved ones will return to us. We shall soon see. Darrick will relight his own candle. After all, only he can, yes? He will indeed return to us. If the Lord wills it…"
Gabriella allowed Sigrid to embrace her, but there was no comfort in it, and she did not close her eyes. She stared towards the indigo glass of the window, her eyes red but dry now. If the Lord wills it: that's what I am afraid of, she thought but did not say. That's exactly what I am afraid of…
Thomas and Yazim camped that night in the shadow of the dead castle. Its broken turrets and spires made a black hulk against the sky, blocking out the moon. The wind gusted capriciously, buffeting their fire and throwing its light beyond the clearing, up onto the brambly wilds of an ancient rose garden. The thorny vines embraced a nearby bridge, nearly burying it, whilst lush blooms filled the air with an almost sickly sweet perfume.
"Do you believe in haunts?" Thomas asked, peering up at the dark ruin.
Yazim shrugged. "Perhaps."
They sat in silence, letting the night unwind, listening to the rush of the wind in the rosy wilds. Finally, Thomas spoke again.
"Was the lady-in-waiting right? Did the Princess's husband return?"
Yazim looked aside at his companion. "What do you think?"
"I do not wish to say."
Yazim nodded slowly. "The young Field Marshal, along with the High Constable Sir Ulric, did reach the encampments of the enemy. They took their time setting up divisions and drawing their plan of attack. Such things were hardly subtle, and they consumed many weeks. The Army spread across the valley in tents, arranged their siege machines and trebuchets in such a way as to inspire fear and awe. Spies were sent to study the strongholds of the enemy. There was much careful deliberation and planning. Eventually, the Princess's husband, Darrick, grew impatient with Ulric's approach. He sensed something wrong, just as the Princess had warned him."
"But surely, the King's forces greatly outnumbered that of the enemy," Thomas interjected. "They were a mere collection of brutes and peasants, many of the latter conscripted against their will. What could they do against an organised royal militia?"
"Such were surely the thoughts of High Constable Ulric," Yazim agreed. "But Field Marshal Darrick was in charge of the spies, and what he heard in their reports made him wary. None today know the details of those reports. It may be that Merodach had stricken alliances with foreign powers, securing a much larger secret force to help overthrow Camelot. If so, nothing was ever proven. Regardless, Darrick advised Ulric to strike covertly, to flank the enemy camps by night rather than confront them head-on by daylight, as was the High Constable's plan."
"But Ulric refused, I should guess," Thomas commented. "After all, stealth and trickery are hardly the tactics of a noble army. Why resort to cunning by dark when one can rely on the might of numbers and the courage of conviction?"
"You would make an excellent High Constable yourself, my friend," Yazim smiled grimly.
"Alas, I would not, for I do not labour under such convictions myself. I am far too interested in the solidarity of my own skin to risk it for that of the Kingdom. But we are speaking of Camelot. Men were indeed willing to die on its behalf. They considered it a high honour."
"To die, yes," Yazim nodded, turning his face to the fire, "but not to be slaughtered."
Thomas shook his head slowly. "But how could such a thing happen?"
"It is a mystery that has vexed the tellers of histories for many decades," Yazim admitted. "All that is known for sure is that Merodach simply waited. He appeared to mount no preparation against the camps of the King's army. When the Army attacked, Merodach's forces merely fought back, but with strange, deadly ferocity. There was no contest. The King's ranks fell before the sword of the enemy like wheat before a scythe. It is said that a freak storm fell upon the melee, driving the Army back from the foothills and allowing the enemy to descend upon them in the open, surrounding them like a noose. When it was over, the valley floor was beaten to mud and stained red with the blood of the King's soldiers, most of whom died horribly and viciously."
"Thus, Darrick did die on that day," Thomas nodded gravely.
"No," Yazim countered, looking up at his friend. "Sir Ulric and the Princess's husband were captured. His tale was told by his personal page, who managed to escape from the enemy camp that night along with a few others. By the time they straggled back to the castle, the day after the birth of the young Prince, there were barely a hundred left to tell the tale."
Thomas frowned as the wind gusted again, carrying dead rose petals into the air. "To what end? Did the brute Merodach intend to use them as bartering tokens?"
Yazim let out a small, derisive laugh. "To barter for what? There was nothing the King had that Merodach wanted, save for the throne itself. Merodach's only aim was destruction and mayhem."
"Then what did he want with the Princess's man, Darrick?"
Yazim glanced at Thomas again and then up at the silhouette of the ruined castle. "It is quite simple, I suppose," he answered speculatively. "He wanted to interview him."
Merodach's stronghold was at the top of a short tower keep that had been captured many months earlier. It had been barely guarded at the time, being mostly forgotten and overgrown, but Merodach had transformed it into a thriving hub, fortified by no less than thirty watchmen and guards.
Darrick sat on a bench next to High Constable Ul
ric near the centre of the round room, surrounded by six of the hardest, most inhuman-looking men he had ever seen. Two other prisoners, Darrick's and Ulric's pages, were chained to the wall by manacles. Their captors stood against the curved walls, arms crossed or hands on the hilts of their swords, their faces nearly expressionless in the evening gloom. Rain fell beyond the narrow windows, filling the room with its steady roar and cool mist. In the middle of the room was a heavy table, close enough that Darrick could see parchments scattered over it. A large scroll had been sketched neatly, showing a detailed outline of the King's army encampments. Behind the table sat an ornate chair, still impressive despite its age and wear.
"They mean to interrogate us," Ulric muttered to Darrick, his voice gravelly. He'd been injured, but not mortally. The left side of his face was covered with a mask of dried blood, staining his red sideburns and goatee dark maroon. "We must withstand whatever torture they inflict upon us for the sake of the Kingdom. If we survive the night, I have devised a plan—"
"Be still your tongue," one of the guards growled with slow emphasis, "or we'll take it away from you."
"Do what you must," Ulric replied, lifting his chin. "We will not obey your orders."
The guard's eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. A moment later, however, a shadow moved as light bloomed in the room. A man climbed the stairs, carrying a torch.
"Forgive me for making you wait, good sirs," the man said, smiling at Darrick and Ulric and notching the torch into an iron stand. He was thin but muscular, with slightly receding dark hair, cut short and swept forwards so that it accentuated his square, regular features. He looked more like a pleasant school professor than a warlord. "Battle is a very time-consuming business, as you surely know," he went on, forgoing the chair and leaning against the corner of the table nearest the captives. "Fortunately, it seems that this particular skirmish is, for the most part, behind us now. Even you must be relieved by that fact, despite your predicament."
Merodach glanced over the table, spied a wad of cloth on its ledge, and reached for it. Drawing his sword with a flourish, he held it before him, showing the streaks of dark blood that stained it. He raised the cloth to wipe off the blade and then paused, glancing up at Darrick and Ulric.
"Now, there's no reason that this needs to be at all unpleasant," he said glancing from one to the other. "I presume that you already know why I have brought you here, yes?"
"Do your worst, you cur," Ulric spat, drawing himself upright and making to stand. "We will never bow to you, never give you the satisfaction of—"
Merodach moved almost lazily. He swung his sword around in a short, sweeping arc, slashing it diagonally across Ulric's throat. Darrick ducked as blood spurted forth in a curtain. Ulric gagged, choking on his own blood, and clutched uselessly at his neck. When Darrick looked up at him, he saw that Ulric's head was very nearly severed. A moment later, the High Constable keeled back over the bench and hit the floor, dead. He lay there crumpled, one heel still hooked over the bench, his eyes staring up with blank shock.
"There," Merodach said, leaning back against the table and looking at his sword. "As I said, there is no reason for unpleasantness. You won't be unpleasant," he asked, glancing up at Darrick, "will you, my good sir?"
Darrick was too stunned to speak. He looked at Merodach and willed himself to stay calm. The amazing thing, he thought, is that if I were pitted against him on the battle floor, I think I could defeat him. What is it about him that makes him so confident?
"That's better," Merodach replied, as if Darrick had answered him. "I only have a few simple questions. Nothing I could not learn via other sources if it became necessary, so you must not feel you are doing your king a disservice by answering them."
"And why," Darrick began in a dry rasp, then cleared his throat, firming his voice, "and why should I answer you? You'll just kill me when you are through."
Merodach frowned slightly. "Why would I do something like that? You think I enjoy killing people? You are but a young man with a full life ahead of you. I'd sooner destroy a priceless work of art than end your noble life. Answer me my questions, and surely, you will live to see another day."
Darrick considered this and then shook his head slowly. "You're lying," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You've murdered hundreds of people. We all know the stories of your cruelty. Your name is a tale of horror throughout the Kingdom."
At this, Merodach grimaced. He lowered his sword across one knee and began to clean it with the cloth in his left hand. "Regrettable but necessary propaganda," he announced with a sigh. "Alas, I have been forced to take some rather unfortunate actions in the name of my quest, but that does not make me into some sort of monster. Still, I respect that you doubt my word. The truth is," he said, raising his eyes again, "I need you alive. You are the King's son-in-law, are you not? You have his very ear. He will listen to you. I need you alive… to take him a message for me."
Darrick studied Merodach's face, looked into the man's eyes. "What message?"
"In good time," Merodach replied, waving the rag in his hand as if the issue was unimportant. "First, let us get a few niggling questions out of the way. Tell me, good Sir Field Marshal, how many trebuchets are left to guard the city walls of Camelot proper?"
Darrick paused. He lowered his chin thoughtfully and then raised it again. "Fifteen," he answered, looking directly into Merodach's eyes.
Merodach smiled at Darrick and then chuckled. The chuckle turned into a light laugh, and he lowered his sword so that its tip touched the floor. None of the guards, Darrick noticed, joined their leader in his mirth.
"Good sir," Merodach laughed, shaking his head. "That, I believe, is the worst lie I have ever heard. Come now, be reasonable. I want to let you live, if only so you can perform my little errand. Don't make me kill you for such pathetically feeble attempts at deception. Answer me truthfully. How many trebuchets defend the city walls?"
Darrick sighed deeply. He looked away towards the narrow windows and the falling rain beyond. "Six," he answered, and then shook his head. "Perhaps less. I don't recall."
"I think you recall very well, sir," Merodach said with a knowing smirk, "but good enough. Thank you. Now, what number is the King's retinue, and what is his daily schedule?"
Darrick met Merodach's gaze again and frowned. "I do not know what you mean. I only moved into the castle upon my wedding, and I left very shortly thereafter. I am not aware—"
"The King's daily schedule!" Merodach shouted suddenly, leaping to his feet and flashing his sword. "When does he leave the castle?! Who accompanies him? How many?!" Spittle flew from Merodach's lips as he screamed, leaning close to Darrick's face. "Lie to me one more time and you may return to the castle lacking your hands and feet! Tell me now!"
"He does not keep a regular schedule!" Darrick answered loudly, leaning back and hating himself for the waver in his voice. "He does as he pleases! He is the King!"
"How many are in his retinue?!" Merodach demanded, his eyes bulging.
"Three!" Darrick cried. "He keeps three guards with him when he leaves the castle!"
"Only three?" Merodach said in his normal voice, standing up straight and cocking his head quizzically at Darrick. "Why, I recall past Kings who took an entourage of no less than six armed escorts with them whenever they toured the countryside. King Xavier has become rather complacent, would you not say?"
Darrick shuddered. Sweat trickled down his temples. He struggled to control his breathing, to not show his fear.
"Three it is," Merodach commented jovially. "A manageable number, I must say. Thank you, my friend. Please, do you mind if I call you Darrick? I hate to stand on formality, especially given the circumstances."
Darrick merely stared at him, keeping his lips pressed firmly together. Outside, lightning flashed silently.
"Excellent, Darrick," Merodach said, half sitting on the table and turning his sword over on his knee. He resumed cleaning it with the cloth. "Ho
w many passages are there into the castle? Besides the portcullis entrance of course."
Darrick was silent. He firmed his jaw and looked away, out of the dark windows again. The rain fell steadily into the gathering darkness.
"You really do not seem to know how this works, Darrick," Merodach commented, pausing his cleaning. "I really am trying to be patient with you. Do you wish me to ask Brom here to break some of your fingers? I don't want to do it, but—"
"Four," Darrick answered, glaring up at his captor. "And I am only answering that because it is common knowledge to anyone who lives within sight of the castle."
Merodach smiled disarmingly. "Thank you for sparing us that ugly drudgery, Darrick. It is nice to deal with someone who exhibits such striking common sense. I know of the four main entrances of course. There are no secret passageways then? Are you quite certain?"
Darrick's face was pale but bravely stolid. "I am certain."
"Good," Merodach nodded. "Because if I discovered that you had lied to me… well, I have already illustrated the necessity of maintaining a rather fearsome image, yes? You would place me in the unfortunate position of having to teach you a lesson. I am sure I do not need to explain what that would entail."
"I am not lying," Darrick said, deflating a little on the bench.
"Excellent. Then we are very nearly through. Brom, if you would please fetch the message I have prepared for King Xavier. It is in the lock-box in my quarters. Here is the key."
Brom, the guard who had first threatened Ulric to stay silent, stepped forwards. He had ragged, black hair and pocked skin. His eyes were strangely dead as he took Merodach's key. A moment later, he disappeared down the tower stairs.
"You see," Merodach said, examining the glint of his sword and putting down the cloth, "I can be a reasonable man. The stories about me are not entirely true."