Day 16. Recovering the King

Chapter 38. 

   The sun rose over Taro Myule and a quiet Citadel. Beams of light shone through the windows of the barracks set high on the walls, milky glass distorting the shade to a warmer yellow than it was outside. Kit watched the shadows turn as the sun rose and spread her light in a moving pattern, as he sat in bed wrapped in bandages, feeling every wound he had taken the night before. 

   According to Rogo, the battle had been short fought once the Highland Cavaliers and the Knights of Arl were able to join the conflict. The short man visited Kit just before done and gave him a report, letting him know that all of the patrons in the banquet hall were alive and that the sleep mixture in the wine had worn off. He was jittery and ill at ease, Kit could see that right away, which made sense for how much had transpired. 

   Borneld had vanished and many of his soldiers were gone as well, and there was no sign of the man who killed the Plains Steward, Ishon, though Rogo confirmed that man had been stabbed repeatedly. Why he was killed the advisor couldn’t tell Kit, and Kit wondered how many actors were at play. 

   Of all that had occurred, the thought that continued to return to Kit’s mind was the lack of madness. He had taken both goma and sild, two of the three enhanced goat meats, and yet hadn’t lost his mind. If the warnings were true, the same warnings he had heard his entire life, he should be blind and foaming at the mouth, not sitting with cogent thoughts in his head and only a dull ache in his body. He felt unwell, there was no denying that, but that could have just been the poisoned wine and nothing more. 

   The barracks were empty as Queen Ynar had gathered her men to patrol the citadel and ensure no one left, per Kit’s orders, but a door at the far end of the hall opened and a man hobbled in, leaning heavily on one crutch. 

   Kit knew him before the man could get too close and found a smile on his face despite the pain. 

   “The coin has flipped,” said Rusk as he reached the bed nearest Kit’s and sat down, grimacing against the pain that clearly still assailed him. 

   “You’re not quite as whole as I was when I first visited you,” said Kit. “Though I can appreciate the similarities.” 

   The monk nodded and rubbed at his thigh, perhaps trying to ease a stiff muscle. “They told me what happened last night, I couldn’t believe it till I came out and saw the bodies and the wounded. Quite the banquet it seems.” 

   Kit nodded, still trying to gather his thoughts about the whole affair. “I wasn’t prepared for an attack. It seems Borneld will stop at nothing to get revenge for the slight he believes we have given him.” 

   “No forgiveness?” Rusk asked with a goofy smile. 

   Kit laughed and shook his head. “Not his style.” 

   “What about you, oh king?” asked the man. “Would you forgive Borneld for this?” He gestured to the bandages on Kit’s body.

   “He didn’t do this,” Kit said. “And I cannot forgive most of the men who caused these wounds, even if I wanted to. I think it would be difficult to forgive a dead man, let alone a whole troupe of them.” 

   Rusk nodded solemnly and looked pensive for a moment, the warm light coming through the windows gave a healthy glow to his face. It was incredible that only a few weeks ago he was broken and bloody and could barely speak, and here he was with scars still but no bruising on his face and most of the use of his legs. 

   “I would have fought, were I in your place,” said the man. “Olereon would not stand for injustice against others, and I believe you were in the right to protect not only the Queen, but also what may have come should Borneld’s men have won the night.” 

   “So you’ve changed your mind?” asked Kit. 

   “No,” he said clearly. “I’ve perhaps broadened my thoughts. Besides, if you would have laid down your arms we couldn’t be here talking like two old war veterans.” 

   “True,” laughed Kit. 

   “I do wonder,” continued the monk with a serious angle to his words, “if this encounter has pushed you in any one direction in regards to your belief in the eternal, towards your perception of prevailing truth and a saving hand.” 

   “Do I believe in religion now?” asked Kit. “Is that what you mean?” 

   Rusk shrugged and nodded at once, a curious little mix of gestures that conveyed a general feeling of not trying to overstep.

   “Are you preaching to me, monk?” 

   The man smiled at her, one that hid his eyes in the narrow way that a full smile on his face did. But he did not answer and Kit was left to do the talking. 

   “I believe in the meat,” Kit answered finally. “I believe in the training I spent years undertaking to wield my sword in such a way,” he glanced affectionately at Bloodswill resting against the wall beside the bed, “and I believe in the help of a warrior woman from another kingdom. Those are prevailing truths I can see and saving hands I can hold.” 

   “This warrior woman holds to the Veclian tenets?” asked Rusk, clearly knowing the answer. 

   “So she said,” replied Kit. 

  The man nodded as if pondering a great mystery. “What would she say?” he asked. 

   Kit thought he might know but wasn’t in the mood to speculate. He understood fully where the man was trying to direct his thoughts, and while it did seem odd that he was able to process the meat so well and that he was not slain in the fight despite falling to the courtyard through the roof of a carriage, being surrounded by soldiers until he could cut his way through, locking himself and the Queen in the royal wing and then fighting their way out without dying. . . Perhaps there was something. 

   “Shall we find her and ask?” Kit asked, sucking in a chest full of air and then swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up in one quick movement. He tottered a bit and the monk stuck out his crutch just at the right time for Kit to grab hold and steady himself. He leaned on the crutch more than he would have liked and found that he didn’t really want to let go. 

   Rusk stood and though he slouched a little without the aide of the crutch, he seemed to be able to at least shuffle along. Kit knew he had taken too many arrows in his leg to be able to walk well, despite feeling close to well. There was pain, of course, but the Queen’s herbalist had done wonders through the night. 

   “I don’t suppose you can bring my sword,” Kit asked as he stepped away from the beds. 

   Rusk hobbled over to it and gave it a heft, his face straining with the excursion. He was not a strong man, that was visible. 

   “I can hardly lift it,” said the monk. 

   Kit nodded and let out a sigh. “I don’t suppose I can bring it with me everywhere, though I wish I could. Shall we go?” 

   The two men walked side by side, hobbling and shuffling their legs, a pair of old war veterans indeed. 

   The morning sun felt even better on Kit’s skin from the outside than from inside the barracks and he stood for a moment letting it warm him. It felt, oddly enough, as though he had been lying in the bed for weeks rather than only a half dozen hours. 

   There were a few servants cleaning up broken glass and pieces of wood, and a pair of carpenters across the courtyard looking at the door to the royal wing and taking measurements and notes. Rogo was quick to have things fixed, there was no doubt about the man’s efficiency. 

   A group of three soldiers walked past dressed in full plate and chain, two of the men Kit recognized as Knights of Arl and the third was a new man though Kit could clearly see the symbol of Midcharia on the man’s breastplate. They saluted, each in their own way and continued on, some spirited conversation raging among them about the best bait for fishing, or something along those lines. 

   “She was in the banquet hall and told me you were here,” Rusk said, leading Kit in that direction. “She wouldn’t speak to me at first, but your soldier Ulrig let her know who I was. She’s a fiery woman, though I still don’t see how she would have wielded a glaive against bloodthirsty soldiers.”

   “I know of some warrior women back in the forests,” Kit said, instantly thinking of Valia. “There are stories of powerful female fighters in the past as well, women we have made statues out of and still tell stories about.” 

   “In those stories they all have some magical item, though,” said Rusk. “A sword blessed by this god or that, a helm made from a fallen star, a bit of the sun wrapped in a bowstring.” 

   “I suppose,” said Kit, not really sure what the man was getting at. “She can use the goat meat,” he said. 

   Rusk stopped walking. They were just about to reach the door that would lead up a stairwell that entered a back hallway of the banquet hall, and a pair of guards stood outside with spears at attention. They were Kit’s Knights, both men nodding to their wounded king. 

   “It’s not a common thing for women to do,” said Rusk. “Rarely do they gain any benefit from the meat, no matter the animal, but especially not goat.” 

   “You know a great deal about the enhanced farming?” Kit asked. 

   The monk gave a small nod and glanced at the waiting guards as if to see if they were listening. “How many female soldiers do you have in your Knights of Arl?” he asked. 

   Kit shook his head. “Not one.” 

   This seemed to satisfy the monk. “Because they cannot use the meat, goma or sild or even hef, and thus cannot be as effective?” 

   “That’s the majority of it,” answered Kit. 

   “And this queen can use the meat,” he said.

   “I believe so,” said Kit. 

   “Fascinating.” 

   Rusk turned to the door and stepped closer and the guards parted, letting him in with Kit following. 

   They climbed the stairwell as quickly as two injured men could, and reached the back hallway with heavy breathing and sweat on their brows. Then, they were in the banquet hall and standing behind the ruined head table where Kit had sat not long ago. 

   Soldiers and guards stood all around, some talking and some standing in silence, all seemed on edge and at the ready. In the center of the room stood a dozen figures, many of them foreign dignitaries that Kit had met the night before, but only a few of them stood out to him, one of them being Rogo half-herian, his advisor. 

   Next to the short man was Queen Ynar dressed in a dark blue gown with her golden hair hanging about her shoulders in spirals, and beside her was the General who lent his horse the night before. The Spokesmen were there as well, though talking to others. 

   Kit and Rusk moved around the head table and approached the group, catching the eye of a few of them and quickly bringing the entire party to silence. Rogo and Queen Ynar turned around and both smiled amiably when they saw who was approaching. 

   “My Lord,” said Rogo with a quick step forward as he reached out for Kit’s hand. 

   Kit offered it and the little man took his hand in both of his, then pressed his forehead to the back of Kit’s bandaged palm. “I am overjoyed to see you well, such was our worry the whole night through.” 

   Kit thanked the man though he found it odd that Rogo was acting as though he hadn’t come and visited him to give a report on the evening but a couple hours before. Perhaps there was some acting that must be done, parts to play that Kit was not privy to. He trusted Rogo and let it slide. 

   “I was not worried,” said Queen Ynar, extending a downturned hand for Kit to take. When he kissed it she smiled and gave a little laugh. “Your lips are rather bruised, my lord.”

   Kit smiled and stepped back a bit, trying to get a grasp of all the nobles who were there. 

   “Ishon was murdered,” one of the Scaland Lords said. He was a tall man dressed in a plum coat and trousers, with curious pointed shoes Kit had never seen the likes of. He spoke somewhat accusingly. “Whoever gave us all the poison surely must have been in league with the assassin and with that bear of a man. Borneld was his name?” 

   Kit nodded. Word had spread it seemed. It was very likely that many of these men and women knew more about what was going on than he did. He could imagine how deep the conspiracy ran. 

   “I wished only for a banquet of peace and cordiality,” said Kit, trying to form his words into the eloquent speech Rogo had been training him in. “I was naive, I can see that.” He glanced at Rusk out of the corner of his eye and allowed a quick little smile before addressing the group once more. “I would ask you all humbly for forgiveness for the failure of last night. I invited you into my kingdom and my city, and I failed your safety.” 

   Kit bowed his head, giving them a moment to see his remorse, counting the seconds in his head. Rogo had said something like that would be needed, to keep the peace among those there and to show them that none of the harm had come from Raelle, and Kit would need to get ahead of those accusations before they began. 

   “Your wounds clearly show us your lack of involvement,” said the Queen, her voice a welcome sound that gave Kit the space to lift his head once more. 

   There were a few affirmative comments throughout the group, though most were low and unintelligible. 

   One man stepped forward, dressed in black and wearing heavy gloves though it was quite warm even though it was early morning. He had oily black hair, the kind that shadows were made of, and smiled with thin lips and yellow teeth, given a small bow that reminded Kit of a rat somehow. 

   “This does not bode well for the peace between the Northern Alliance and the Kingdom of Raelle,” said the man. “Our Steward is dead.” 

   Kit’s headache throbbed and he found he couldn’t remember the man’s name and wondered if he ever knew it. “The Plains have a steward because they have no king or parliament,” said Kit. “And they do not have those things because they are under my rule, within the boundaries of Raelle. 

   The man’s wide lipless smile remained but his dark eyes flashed. “We have declared independence,” he said. 

   “Declared?” repeated Kit. “Declared to whom? I found out in secret, not from any advance coalition your people sent down. Have you stolen my armies as you have stolen my land?” 

   The man took two steps forward and raised a finger, jabbing it close to Kit’s chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Kit could see his and the Queen’s knights moving closer from the edges of the room, spears at the ready and hands on swords. 

   “You have stolen this entire kingdom!” shouted the man. “And now you have killed my father!” Then he stepped closer and put his finger in the center of Kit’s chest, looking down from a long narrow nose. “Say what you will about ignorance in the manner of my father’s death, but know one thing, usurper; the north will march on Raelle, and we will return the kingdom to the state it once was. And you won’t fare so well.” 

   Kit didn’t wait for the man to turn around but lifted his left hand quick and in a fist, smacking it into the man’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Pain burned in Kit’s fingers and all the way up his arm, but he grinned as the son of Ishon stumbled backward and then fell to his bottom, holding his bleeding nose with one hand. 

   “Go home,” Kit ordered, keeping his voice calm. “Return to the north and tell my armies that I will give no quarter to deserters, and that their families remain here, their home remains here, and they would be serving a pact of foolishness if they turn upon us. Go!” 

   The man flung blood from his hand onto the floor, then stood and scrambled away, a small group of guards following after him, men bearing the symbol of the Plains alliance. 

   “So it’s war, then?” asked one of the Scaland Lords. He did not sound pleased. 

   “I will stop it,” Kit promised, though he had no idea how. 

   “You do not seem in any fit condition for such a venture,” said a woman, one of the emissaries from the Southern Eyes. “You are a bit less than whole it seems.” 

   “Ask that traitor,” Kit quipped, nodding his head toward the departing Plainsman. He sighed and leveled his tone. “The Citadel is secure, our soldiers have seen to that, and I would invite you all to a council meeting to discuss unions among us. I have no desire to form conglomerates or dissolve kingdom boundaries, that was never my intention. I only wished to meet with each of you to show what a new front our Kingdom has and to ensure our peace remains.” 

   “I could foresee such an extension if the plains farming is opened up to the rest of us. It is the most fertile land from sea to sea, and you hoard it all, keeping every bean and every goat for yourselves.” The man who spoke was old and gray and must have been an advisor to one of the rulers for he wore no golden crown or circlet. 

   “Go take the north,” said Kit with a bit more mockery in his tone than he meant. “Take back the goats and the beans and build an army of enhanced soldiers. You must get past their army of enhanced first.” 

   “So you admit you have lost them?” said the man. 

   Kit nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “Would you like to sit and discuss more over a meal and around a table?” he asked. “I would stand in this room of rubble all day, but I admit I might find more pleasure should I recline and gather my wits with a meal. 

   “Upon the noon hour?” asked Queen Ynar, her voice pleasant and in control, and Kit wished she had spoken earlier. 

   “Yes,” came the reply from many in the room, and those who did not speak did not dissent, and Kit thought that was something. 

   “My lady,” Kit said with a touch to the Queen’s elbow. “A moment, please?” 

   She nodded and her smile held a bit more than neutral kindness. 

  “The terrace garden?” Kit asked, extending his hand that way. 

   Queen Ynar nodded and they walked out of the banquet hall, the wounded monk following. 

Chapter 39. 

   They walked to a bench among a group of cherry trees, the fruit well pruned and growing large and pink on the branches, bees flew happily about and small hummingbirds flitted through the leaves. Kit felt a wave of relief as he sat down, the Queen sitting opposite him and the Monk sitting down on the grass adjacent to the two of them. 

   “You know the lengths of your sword,” said the Queen after looking about quickly to ensure they were alone. “I thought you would take my head off on a number of occasions, standing just in that courtyard there, but you never once came close to even clipping me.” She pointed to the edge of the garden that overlooked the larger courtyard of the citadel. 

   “I was in a blur,” Kit admitted. “I’m not sure I could do it again.” 

   “How did you not succumb to the poison?” Rusk asked the Queen. 

   “I am Veclian,” she said with pride. “It is forbidden for us to have fermented or spirited drinks. I was saved through avoidance.” 

   Rusk smiled. “There are not many Veclians here anymore, the druids have run you all out.” 

   “So I have been told,” she said. 

   Before Kit could speak, the monk was asking another question. “To what do you attribute your salvation last night?” he asked. 

   She looked long at the monk, then at Kit, a sweet smile growing across her features. “Your King is the greatest swordsman I have seen, and his sword is perhaps the most dangerous I have been so close to.” 

   Kit smiled, a small feeling of glowing on his face. The feeling vanished as the woman continued. 

   “But I know we were saved by the Light of Eidon, the radiance filmed me with such strength and I could see the same in your king.” She turned to Kit and smiled wide, a pleasant smile that held no mockery or malice and Kit understood that she truly believed what she said. 

   “The Light of Eidon,” Rusk repeated, speaking the words with reverence. “I know some of the Veclian Tradition,” he said, “but I am afraid not enough. I serve Olereon.” 

   “Born of the water,” said the Queen kindly. 

   Kit sighed and stood, leaving the crutch behind, and began walking away. 

   “My King, have I offended you?” came the Queen’s question. 

   Kit paused and looked back over his shoulder. She did look splendid in her dress with the morning light adding an aura to her golden curls. “You have each other to talk to,” he said. “I would only get in the way.” 

   He said no more and turned again, walking to the edge of the balcony and looking over. Cleaners were getting the last of the debris, and the carpenters who were outside the royal wing’s doors were gone. Kit felt like taking a bath, changing his bandages, putting on a soft robe, and sleeping for another day. He couldn’t reconcile how Queen Ynar had taken the goma and sild the same as he had, yet she didn’t seem to have any side effects. She wasn’t as wounded, of course, there were no arrow holes that he was aware of, but still, she hardly seemed injured at all and he clearly had seen blood on her the night before. 

   And Rusk, though not in the fight, had been all but declared dead several weeks back at the hands of one of the largest most brutal men in the kingdom, and there he sat, breathing easily with all of his teeth and both of his eyes and hands and feet that worked as they should. Had he grown new teeth?

   Kit sighed and began to shuffle off toward the royal wing, knowing he would have to take another staircase down and trying not to think about the pain. Perhaps there was something powerful in these people of religion, in their gods and their rituals and the magic that they claimed wasn’t magic, only the power of the divine. Was it their faith that was healing those two, even though they were from different orders? Or were they just built of a different breed, a divergent path of humans that Kit had not descended from? 

   He couldn’t know, and though he realized the best way to learn was to talk with them, he found the idea hard to swallow in the moment. The first thing on his mind was a bath. It would be bad enough having the council in a few hours. He could hold out for religion another day.