Chapter 1
The sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows lining the upper right-hand wall, turning the dust motes a kaleidoscope of colors. Sitting in the overly warm room, Tarren wondered again why everyone seemed to think that throne rooms needed stained glass. If only they had the ability to open the windows to the early summer morning outside… Eryk was outside enjoying the sun and the flower-scented breeze, enjoying the hunt, while he was stuck here, bored and sweating in his heavy robes.
Courtiers lined the walls to the left and right, looking like bright flowers brought in from the gardens outside. The ladies certainly wore a wide enough variety of scents to be mistaken for a flower garden, he thought. The gowns and finery looked stunning against the dark wood of the paneled walls, but the nobility of the realm were just as warm as Tarren was, fanning themselves with whatever they had available. A few of the frailer ladies looked ready to faint, which would certainly liven up this session of court.
Tarren sat on the throne at the end of the long hall, an imposing figure facing the row of petitioners, most of whom had already presented their cases to him. To his left sat his chief advisor, Lord Collin, and the court secretary. All three of them were older men, with dark hair now greying and muscle turning to fat from lack of exercise. Tarren and Collin had been friends for a long time, had grown up together in fact, and over the years they had substituted sparring and hunting for eating rich foods and listening to people complain. Tarren certainly looked older than he should for his fifty years. To the right of the throne stood a serving man, holding a tray with cool water and glasses for the men on the dais.
Just to the right and slightly farther back than Tarren’s throne, a smaller seat sat empty. Sometimes it seemed to Tarren that he could catch a glimpse of a young, dark haired woman out of the corner of his eye, even now. She was always smiling at him when he saw her there, happy to be near him. He sighed quietly, missing his wife as he always did, and his thoughts turned once again to the argument he’d had with Eryk this morning.
“You know it’s time, Eryk. It’s actually well past time!”
“Why? What’s the rush? What makes you think that you know what’s best for me? You’re still healthy, so I don’t understand why I have to just pick some random woman NOW and marry her.”
“You know it has nothing to do with me or my health. It has to do with the safety of the realm. This is your responsibility, Eryk. What happens if you fall victim to a hunting accident? We all know that you can be very reckless and goodness knows that you’ve spent every possible minute out of the castle these last weeks. Do you honestly think that an eight-year-old boy can rule this kingdom?”
“Well if I pick one of the ladies you’ve been parading in front of me and then die in such an accident, do you think that an unborn child can rule the kingdom? Assuming I even managed to get her with child that quickly. Your ‘logic’ makes no sense, Father.”
Tarren knew that it was definitely time for his son to find a bride, regardless of the circular arguments. His mother had been gone nearly a decade now, and Eryk was an only child. The next closest heir was Tarren’s eight-year-old nephew, the son of his deceased brother. Davin’s line on his mother’s side was questionable at best, but that hadn’t mattered when she’d been married into the family. Tarren was young and strong at the time, and Eryk was well past the age when children usually died.
Regardless, the monarchy needed a strong bloodline, a solid line of descendants, which meant that Eryk, now twenty-five, needed a son and the sooner, the better. Eryk, of course, disagreed with his father’s assessment, and in a fit of anger, he had once again thrown together a hunt, leaving the castle as quickly as he could this morning. Tarren and Eryk had been having this argument almost daily now for a week, and the tension between them was palpable. The fact that Tarren had announced a Courting Ball hadn’t made things any better.
Sighing again, Tarren wearily pulled his attention back to the gentleman before him. The last case of the day was a farmer, by the look of him. He was dressed all in drab, worn clothing, dyed various shades of brown and grey. He held a soft hat in his hands, twisting it as he walked slowly forward toward the king. He was an ordinary looking man, with dull brown eyes and dirty brown hair, and he looked nervous – maybe even a little bit scared. Tarren couldn't help but wonder what had brought him here today. It was not unusual for petitioners to be nervous when they came before their monarch, but this man seemed nervous far beyond what Tarren considered normal. He had presided over a large number of courts during his time as king, and something about this man just didn't seem right to him.
The man approached, still wringing his hat between his hands in what seemed to be an unconscious nervous gesture. Suddenly, the petitioner’s hand flicked forward at lightning speed, launching something toward the king.
Tarren blinked, startled, as a streak of silver crossed in front of his eyes with a loud ping and a crash. It wasn’t until he registered the sound of smashing glass that he realized that it had been the silver serving tray.
“Majesty! Look out!”
The tray, thrown by the serving man, had deflected the first of the darts thrown by the would-be assassin before striking the assailant in the head. The serving man was right behind his tray, throwing himself in front of his king as he drew a hidden knife, determined to protect his liege with his life if he needed to. The other darts struck home.
As the actions of the unknown man and of the serving man registered with the crowd, the throne room erupted into chaos. Courtiers screamed and tried to flee while some of the guards stationed around the periphery of the throne room tried to fight their way through the people to get to the attacker. Still other guards tried to get on to the dais in order to protect the king, and the serving man, Rupert, closed quickly with the assailant while ignoring the darts protruding from his body and the poison coursing through his veins.
Rupert let the assassin make the first move, knowing that his job was to defend the king, not necessarily to kill the man in front of him. The guards were moving in as quickly as they could through the crowd, so it was just a matter of time until they managed to subdue the man. He crouched, weight on the balls of his feet, and he watched the assassin carefully.
The assassin knew that he had to kill Tarren as fast as possible; delaying was not an option. He knew that he was likely going to die – attacking the king in his throne room essentially ensured that – but he was still going to complete his contract. He withdrew the hidden weapons from his clothing and rushed to meet the king’s defender.
As Rupert stepped forward to meet the assassin’s charge, he felt a wave of vertigo hit, rocking his balance. The world wavered, and he forced himself to focus as he brought his long-bladed knife up to block the assassin’s descending sword stroke. The assassin’s short sword struck Rupert’s knife with a loud clang, and the force of the blow sent Rupert to his knees, his arm stretched above his head.
He glanced under his arm toward the guards he could see in his peripheral vision. They were continuing to advance, moving slowly through the diminishing crush of courtiers, but they weren’t nearly close enough. Rupert knew that he had to get back to his feet, that he had to press the attack, but he could feel the poison’s weakness spreading outwards. His arms were starting to feel heavy, and his vision was starting to go dark around the edges.
The assassin could feel Rupert’s arm quivering beneath his sword blade, the vibration transferring up to his own arm. With a wicked smile, the assassin drew his other arm back, a dagger glinting in the sunlight. He would finish this man quickly and then deal with the king. The guards were still too far away to do anything to stop him.
As the dagger flashed forward, Rupert somehow found the strength he needed to heave himself to his feet, twisting aside as he did so. The assassin’s dagger scraped his side, catching in his shirt but only scratching along his skin, and Rupert slash
ed his own knife across in front of him. The assassin danced back, easily avoiding the blade, and Rupert felt the world tilt around him again. As he fell to his hands and knees, unable to stay upright any longer, the first of the guards finally joined the fight.
When the chaos settled after a few minutes, most of the throne room was empty. The mid-afternoon light coming through the windows added a surreal quality to the scene, though Tarren had to admit that the red hues seemed particularly appropriate with the sharp coppery smell of freshly spilled blood in the air. There were three noble ladies who’d fainted and needed carrying from the room, but they were unharmed with the exception of a few bruises. The unknown assassin was dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, having died of injuries caused by the multiple sword wounds across his body. He had put up quite a fight, and the guards had no choice but to kill him. A dagger lay near one outstretched hand, and he grasped his short sword in his other hand. Tarren shook his head, trying to figure out where the man had possibly been able to hide the weapons. Finally, the serving man was lying in front of the dais with three apparently poisonous darts in his body, having successfully protected his king. Tarren was only feeling shaken as a result, as were Lord Collin and the secretary.
Tarren glanced at Collin, worried, and asked the guards to move Rupert to his study, which wasn’t too far from the throne room. He sent the secretary to summon the healers, and also requested the presence of the captain of the guard, Byron, as soon as possible. He and Collin followed along behind the guards, each of them silently lost in their own thoughts. The sudden end to the day’s court session was surprising and both men were visibly distressed by the turn of events.
The healers responded to the summons very quickly, and arrived in Tarren’s study just after the king and his escort. The guards laid their burden down on a convenient couch and excused themselves to let the healers work. Two of them remained stationed outside the door while Tarren and Collin moved over to the side of the room and began to discuss the situation in quiet voices.
“What happens if he doesn't survive? Will they be angry?” asked Collin, uncertainty evident in his voice. It had been a long time since anyone had actually attempted to assassinate the monarch of Bacovia, and Collin felt that Tarren looked visibly aged by the stress of the attack. Collin knew that he, at least, certainly felt stressed and old, and his slowed reflexes saddened him. He should have been able to do more than just cower when the assassin attacked.
“No, they won’t be angry. Rupert was doing his job, after all. I’m sure they'll be upset though – I believe he’s a cousin.” Tarren sighed and looked over at the healers, quickly and quietly working over Rupert’s too still body. “I have to admit that it doesn't look good, and we should likely prepare ourselves for the worst.”
As if this proclamation was a summons, one of the healers moved away from the others and came toward the king. “Sire,” he began. “I’m afraid that he’s fading quickly. The poison is spreading rapidly throughout his system, and without an antidote, he is going to die, and soon.
“Unfortunately, with the assassin dead, we cannot know what type of poison he used, but we can try to find out by studying the darts we removed. The study takes time though, time that he does not have, and there’s no guarantee that we will identify the poison.
“I’m sorry that we don’t have better news, your Majesty, but we will work as quickly as we can, just in case he manages to hang on longer than we anticipate.”
“I know that you will all do your best,” answered Tarren. “Is he in any pain?”
“No, your Majesty. He is unconscious, and is likely to remain that way.”
“Well, we can be thankful for small blessings, I suppose.”
Tarren turned back toward Collin. “What is taking Byron so long?” he muttered, impatiently. Collin shrugged, but moved to the door to speak to one of the guards on duty there. Tarren sighed, very uncomfortable with the whole situation, and moved toward the still form of Rupert lying on the couch. He stopped a short distance away, not wanting to get in the way of the still working healers.
Looking down at the unconscious form of his friend and bodyguard, Tarren sighed again, thinking to himself that he’d been doing a lot of sighing today. He straightened at the sound of a knock on the door, and Collin moved to let Byron into the room.
Byron was a muscular man, below average height at a few inches over five feet tall. Other than his height, he was totally nondescript when he was standing still, with his short cropped, sandy blond hair and brilliant blue eyes. Watching him move, however, was like watching a hunting cat in action, his motions flowing smoothly each into the next; there was definitely nothing nondescript about that. Byron, well respected by his men, was an excellent leader despite the fact that he was younger than the majority of them. He was the youngest captain in the history of the kingdom, having taken on the role when he was only twenty-one years old.
Byron glanced toward the busy healers gathered around the couch, and seeing Rupert there, paled slightly. “Not you too?” he asked, turning back to face the king.
“What do you mean, me too?” asked Tarren. “What happened?”
“That was what took me so long to get here, your Majesty. There was an attempt on Eryk’s life, while he was out hawking.”
Tarren looked very upset by the statement, and immediately found a chair to sit in. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered quietly.
“Well, it’s a little hard to say, exactly. We have no idea who the man was, where he came from, or especially how he managed to infiltrate Eryk’s small group…
“Eryk and Branden were having their usual competition, Branden with a falcon and Eryk with a hawk.” Byron glanced significantly at Rupert before continuing. “When the birds turned to begin their descent, the hawk seemed to head toward Eryk, but in actuality, it was aiming for the man behind him, who was about to stab the prince in the back. The hawk streaked past Eryk, catching the prince’s scalp unfortunately, and proceeded to attack the assassin. It made quite a bloody mess of his face, and the guards got to him just after that.”
“Where is Eryk now?”
“Getting a few stitches from the healers. The hawk caught his scalp on the way by, as I said. The darned thing has quite the talons. No need to worry though; it’s merely a scratch. The healers said it should heal in a week or so, and it shouldn’t leave much of a scar.”
Collin had been standing silently in the background since his previous interruption. Now, he turned to the healers and gently asked them to leave. They assured him that Rupert was resting as comfortably as possible, and then they excused themselves.
“So what now?” Collin asked. “We have two dead assassins and a nearly dead bodyguard.”
“Well,” answered Tarren, “I think that I should start by writing to an old friend of mine. This situation seems to be serious, more serious than I originally thought, with an attack against both Eryk and myself. Since neither of the attacks was successful, I imagine that they will try again, whoever they are.”
“What will happen if…?” Byron trailed off, unknowingly echoing Lord Collin’s words from earlier. He didn't want to finish the thought; he and Rupert had been friends for years, ever since he became captain of the guard.
“Well,” Tarren answered, “at this point we need to at least pass along word of Rupert’s condition and let them make the decision. I suspect that they will send a replacement though, especially with his condition apparently so severe.”
“I wonder what he'll be like,” Collin mused. “I don’t remember Rupert’s predecessor very well. We've had Rupert here for how long now?”
“At least twenty-five years,” Byron put in. “Rupert’s been Tarren’s bodyguard for much longer than I've been captain. I remember being told about him when I assumed the office, and that was a good four or five years ago, now.”
“Rupert replaced Jackob, if you remember. Jack
ob wasn’t with us very long either, before he was called back to Evendell.” Tarren moved over to his desk and pulled out some paper and a pen.
“There’s no point in putting this off,” he stated as he sat down to write. “Someone summon a courier please. It’s a good three or four day ride, as long as the weather stays good.”
Collin left the room to summon the courier Tarren requested. Byron also excused himself, with a quick pained glance at his comatose friend, to look in on Eryk one last time and to see how quickly news of the double assassination attempts was spreading through the castle. He also made a mental note to increase the guards in and around the building, especially while they waited for the new bodyguard.
Left alone, Tarren penned the difficult letter. He wasn’t just writing to request a new bodyguard, he was writing to inform an old friend about the imminent demise of kin. He thought to himself about Eryk’s attack, and made a very special request. One that neither Collin nor Byron would approve of, but one that had to be made.
“It has to be done,” Tarren muttered to himself under his breath. He blew on the paper to help dry the ink, and folded the letter into an envelope. Taking out some gold sealing wax and the eagle-in-flight royal seal, he sealed the letter and waited for the courier to come and collect it.