Sword of Stone

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONE

A chill crept from the red waters

Boney fingers around dry throats

Blackness stopped the rhythmic beating

Morbid piles of death reached the sun

No one was safe

Those in wooden shacks or stone houses

Gave their last breath just the same

— Wasting Year; Rubi Jep

Clouds slithered over a full moon blocking the pale light, but he did not slow his horse. He pushed the animal harder as they careened down the road to Sona Tuath. The creature was lathered, and his breaths came in harsh grunts as sharp hooves cut through hardened dirt. The cold air turned to a soft mist, and then a lazy, May rain started to turn the road into mud. Rain dripped off his blond hair and down his neck, sending a shiver down his ridged spine.

Finally, the lights of Castle Sona Tuath came into view, and he pulled his horse to an abrupt stop at the rise of the hill. Giant torches burned across the battlements and he could see the shadowy figures of the Castle Guard as they stood at their posts in the rain. In the darkness, the castle looked like a monster that was tumbling from the womb of the mountain from which it had been carved. His horse sidestepped and pulled at the reins as the rain began to fall harder. He could not tell if it was the rain or the haunting vision of Sona Tuath that chilled his bones. It still was not home to him.

A flash of lightning tore through a black sky, illuminating the entire castle. He could see lights burning high up in the Tower of Roses—the Queen’s Tower. He knew it was time to move on and quickly led his horse to the city’s main gate. When the young guard saw that his king had returned, he promptly yelled for the gate to be opened. Flath galloped his mount through the slick cobbled streets of the city and up the long, curvy road to the castle gate. He was admitted without trouble, hurried to the courtyard and handed his mount to a stable boy. He entered through the back, startling a dozing servant and then rushed through the large kitchen. The cooks were busily starting to bake the morning’s bread. His stomach growled at the wafting aroma, but he did not tarry. He raced through the long corridors of Castle Sona Tuath, water dripping from the hem of his coat only to be soaked up by the thick rugs under his muddy boots. The smell of grease hung in the air—this part of the castle housed the servant’s quarters, where expensive, aromatic candles were not burned. Sputtering candlelight led him to a narrow stairwell which he quickly climbed, taking two or three stairs at a time.

Flath Basilias entered the queen’s apartments to find it aglow with light. Unlike below, the scent of lavender and honey permeated the huge sitting area. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting were standing near the mouth of the fireplace, their slight figures and frilly dresses casting monster-like shadows on the wall. They looked up when he entered, and for a few moments, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire.

One of the girls finally approached him, peering deep into his dark face as if assessing whether or not to let him enter. “Your Highness,” she gasped and dipped into a deep curtsy which sent the others doing likewise as if they were all connected by an invisible string.

Flath took a deep breath, fighting exasperation. “You may all leave now. The Queen will not need you tonight.” His voice was hoarse and colder than he intended. However, he did not care what his wife’s ladies-in-waiting thought of him. In a flurry of skirts and hushed words, the girls left the queen’s chambers.

Flath opened the doors to Jocelyn’s bedchamber and walked in slowly, not knowing what to expect and feeling more than a little apprehensive. The windows were closed tight, and an angry fire raged in a large fireplace. Candles and torches lit up every corner of the room, bathing it in reddish, glowing light. The heavy drapes on Jocelyn’s bed stood open, and he could see the girl lying motionless amongst dozens of pillows. Flath removed his cloak and threw it onto an ornately carved wooden chair in the corner. Water still dripped from his hair onto his red and white overtunic.

Laura Felden looked up as he entered. “Sire, what took you so long to arrive?” she asked sternly.

He smiled at her. “The rain has made the roads treacherous, Surgeon Felden. One wrong step and my poor mount could have broken a leg … or worse.”

She shook her head and turned back to Jocelyn, who moaned softly. Laura mopped her brow with a cloth and pointed to a stack of clean linens, “Bring those to me, Janice,” Her young assistant jumped to the task. Flath walked over to the fire and warmed his hands. He took a deep, breath and watched as the flames licked the blackened stone. Jocelyn cried out weakly, her thin voice drowning in the thick draperies of her bed.

He turned to Janice, “you may leave now,” he said evenly. Laura looked up but held her tongue until the girl was gone.

“I need help, my lord. Unless you plan on helping me pull this babe from her royal womb!” she scolded.

Flath came closer and looked down at his wife as she lay naked and shivering. Her face was shiny with sweat and as pale as the moon. Pieces of her brown hair stuck to her cheek and neck. Her huge belly moved, and she groaned as if the child would tear itself from her body at any moment. Flath had a feeling of unease and resisted the impulse to step back. Laura looked up at Flath and leaned in closer. “She’s too weak to birth this babe, and I do not think she will live through the night. I am sorry,” she finished in almost a whisper. “The babe must live if it tosses and turns so much in her belly.” It was a question as much as a statement.

“Aye, as much as I can tell.” Flath looked back at Jocelyn and felt a stab of guilt. He had no love for the girl; their marriage had been one of diplomatic necessity. However, it pained him to see her suffer so. Her life would be over at ten and six—she had barely begun to live—yet he could not force himself to feel sorrow. He wished he could summon something more than fleeting guilt. He was disgusted with his lack of concern for his young wife.

He walked over to the window and opened the shutter to stare out into the night. He found his mind wandering to thoughts of Rhiannon Kossi—the dark-haired Empress of Ventra—a nation of fierce warriors far to the north. He wondered what she was doing at that moment.

“Your Majesty!” Laura exclaimed, and Flath turned around. Jocelyn began to twitch, just a shiver at first, but then her limbs and head began to shake violently. The queen gasped for breath, and her eyes opened to show nothing but white. Flath ran to the bed, feeling utterly helpless. He knew the girl was dying. Suddenly the convulsions stopped, and Jocelyn lay motionless. “By the gods,” Laura whispered, then quickly grabbed a small cutting tool. “Flath! Go to the cauldron and bring me the towels soaking in the water.” The surgeon dropped his title and used his first name. He thought it was to get his attention. He had not realized he had frozen and was just staring at the dead girl. “Go on now,” she gently prodded. “And wring them out first,” she called after his retreating figure.

Flath plunged his hands into the hot water, dimly aware of the pain, suddenly overcome with fear for the infant’s fate. Quickly he wrung out the towels and obediently brought them back to the surgeon. He gasped at the sight of the red flap of Jocelyn’s belly lying open, blood soaking into bed linens. Laura gently cut through the glistening purple skin that cocooned the tiny child. Without taking her eyes from her work, she reached a hand out, and Flath gave her one of the towels, which she used to promptly dab the blood away from her long, straight slice. Quickly she dropped her cutting tool and parted the slimy blood-engorged skin to reveal a shriveled purple babe. Gently she lifted the infant from his mother’s body. Laura turned the babe over then stuck her finger in the silent little mouth and dug out red mucus letting the child take its first breath. It whimpered but did not cry vigorously.

Sweat began to bead at Flath’s brow and run down his back. He wanted to take a deep breath, but the air was heavy with blood and the dull smell of spilled innards, mixed with the heady aroma of the scented candles. Flath’s stomach turned, and he fought not to vomit. He had seen so much worse on the battlefield, why was this thing so disturbing to him? He did not love this woman or her son, why should he care?

Laura took the rest of the towels Flath was holding and gently wiped the child free from its birth fluids. The boy started to cry louder, and the surgeon wrapped him tightly in a small blanket, slowly rocking him in her arms until he quieted. Suddenly, Laura turned toward him, “King Basilias, may I present to you, your son, the High Prince of Sona Tuath.” She handed the bundle to Flath and, not knowing what else to do, he took the child.

He refused to look at Jocelyn’s son, but stood dumbly looking into Laura’s plump face. “This child is not mine,” he said coolly. Laura ignored him, turned back to Jocelyn’s body and started to put her belly back in some semblance of normalcy, at least to the unobservant viewer.

“I am sorry for the loss of your queen, Your Highness.” She finally said in an even voice, not turning from her task. Flath knew the surgeon did not like Jocelyn. However, she did sound sincere in an odd way. Perhaps, at a death, surgeons always felt a certain amount of regret or loss. Flath suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the middle-aged woman.

Flath wiped the sweat from his brow still holding Jocelyn’s son in his other arm. “This is not my son, and I will not keep him here.” Flath raised his voice and tried to sound commanding and confident. His stomach tightened, and his mouth went painfully dry.

Laura finished with Jocelyn’s body, then turned to Flath, wiping her hands and arms with the last remaining clean towel. “’Tis not my place to say, sire, but whose child is it then?” He did not mistake the sarcastic tone in her voice. She is going to be difficult, he thought.

“I have no clue, woman! The girl was pregnant when I took her to wife.” Flath was indignant and quickly handed the sleeping child back to Laura.

“And you can prove this, your highness?” Laura narrowed her eyes at him. He suddenly felt squeamish then cursed himself.

“I cannot. However, it was not time for the child to come. Her time was still a month off.” He was pleased with himself for presenting a good argument and almost smiled.

“The boy is tiny; very tiny. He could have been born early.” Laura tried to reason with him. Again, he wanted to take a deep breath but could not because of the thick stink of the room.

“Jocelyn is tiny. She could not have had a large babe.” He tried to keep the desperation from his voice. What if Laura would not take the child away? What would he do if she would not play her part? His fear gave way to anger. How could she refuse her king? Laura was silent. “Damn it, woman! I know this is not my son. You know it too. I have heard the rumors, though it has not been widespread, but a hushed word here, a sly knowing smile there. She was not a virgin when I bedded her on our wedding night!”

“Not being a virgin and being with child are two different things, sire,” Laura said quietly. Her naturally happy face wore the effects of fatigue and sorrow.

He studied her face in the candlelight. She seemed to have more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth than she did when they had first taken Sona Tuath. He had made her First Surgeon in the castle when her husband had died a month after the war was over. The woman’s wiry brown hair was more veined with gray than it had been. She had lost the rosy color in her cheeks, and she even looked like she had lost some of her plumpness. He hoped she was not ill. He had not spent that much time in Sona Tuath, making every excuse he could to get away from Jocelyn. The wasting sickness had taken plenty of people in Sona Tuath, and he knew she must have cared for many that had died of the illness. Suddenly he had the absurd feeling to take the child away from her. Despite the thickness of the air, he took a deep breath, almost choking, telling himself he did not care what happened to the child. It would be easier if it did die. If he were a worse man, he would just order the child killed, but he knew he could never do such a thing and felt sick that it even crossed his mind.