Sword of Stone

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

“The death of Queen Jocelyn Basilias during the Wasting Year was a shock at first but was quickly forgotten, for she was a capricious, petty ruler and all knew the oft-absent king abhorred his queen.”

—History of the Gypsy King; Thomas Ulln

A

t dawn, the massive bells of the kirk tower rang out announcing the death of a royal. Citizens opened their doors and windows and gathered on the street, all asking, no doubt, what had come about in the night. Flath was standing on the balcony of what was once Jocelyn’s study. He watched people sleepily emerging from their cottages and start to mill about in the streets, slowly starting to migrate toward the massive new kirk still being built for Ak, the One God of the Beaynidans.

One of the first things Flath did as reigning king was pull down the temple that Baobh had erected to worship Pom-Ni, the god of the Goyors. The worship of the pagan god never really caught on in Sona Tuath, but none challenged the foreign queen who had viciously taken the throne and disposed of the royal family. Disposed of everyone except me, Flath bitterly thought.

Now the carcass of a Beaynidan kirk, barely complete enough to hold ceremonies, called all the inhabitants of the capital city of Sona Tuath right to its front doors to hear the news of what had befallen one of their rulers. He wondered how many would secretly be relieved to hear it was Queen Jocelyn who had died. Almost immediately he wondered how many would have wished it had been him, instead.

After Laura returned, Flath quickly left to bathe and dress for what was sure to be a tiresome day. The first thing he did was order a bird be sent to Yellow Island to inform King Umar that his only daughter had died in childbirth. He found himself wishing he could send a bird north to Màrrach to tell Rhiannon also. The Archigos had posted quite a few messenger birds to use as a quick way to relay messages over the vast span of country that separated the two nations. Sona Tuath, in turn, sent their birds to Ventra. He laughed a humorless chuckle. What would he say to Rhiannon in any case?

He looked again out toward the kirk; the sun was breaking through the weakening fog that had poured into the city during the early, pre-dawn. The city, with its thousands of houses, businesses, inns, and taverns, all lay out below the castle like an unfolding blanket of humanity. Three wide, steep roads wound up the cliffs to different entrances to the inner wall circling the castle on three sides. The castle was built right into the white cliffs overlooking the Bay of the Gods and out to the Carnaid Sea to the east. To the south, the ever-growing city spilled out from the shorelines, docks, and wharves. West of the city, was cottages and farmlands as far as the eye could see and to the north, lay the edge of the Alba Forest.

Bells continued to toll into the crisp, salty air, bringing Flath’s attention back to the present. The bell tower, the tallest structure in Sona Tuath besides the castle, was now glowing in the new sunlight. It’s unfinished narrow shadow spread out across Merchant’s Square like an accusing finger pointing at no one in particular. Flath straightened his rich blue jacket that had crisp white embroidery scrolling across cuff, hem, and pockets. He wore a white shirt that was fastened up to his throat with blue seashell buttons and lace that spilled from his cuffs. His pants were jet black, as were his shiny, knee-high boots. On the breast of this coat was sewn the Basilias crest: a gleaming white castle on rocky cliffs overlooking a scarlet sea, one tiny white gull floated on an invisible wind. He wondered why Baobh had not changed the crest when she took Sona Tuath. She had kept the Basilias crest but also adopted her own—a snarling purple dragon—that she flew under the white castle and red sea. Perhaps it might have been because she was of Basilias blood, after all. He still could not fathom that the bitter, vicious woman that had murdered his whole family had been his half-sister. When his head started to ache, he pushed the thought out of his mind.

He had shaved, and his hair was clean and plaited and tied with a black ribbon, and he wore the Beaynidan crown upon his yellow hair. The snake earring still dangled from his ear and his jeweled, panther-head sword still found its home on his hip.

His thoughts turned to the child he had sent from the castle only hours before. He had not thought of him until this very minute. He tried to determine what that meant about his character. The thought that the babe might actually be his was offending. The little nymph was more than likely with child when they wed. Why should he even entertain the thought that the boy was his? After all, Jocelyn was not a virgin when he bedded her, and the child’s arrival was too early.

No matter how many spirits he had drunk that night, he would never forget the frigidness of her body or the revulsion in her flat, green eyes. When he drunkenly questioned her about her lack of chastity she laughed at him and told him it was none of his business. He had been too drunk and disgusted to really care.

From the highest steeple the white flag of mourning was slowly raised, and right below it, the Queen's crest of a black falcon on a yellow background blew in the salty wind. Down below he could hear the faint sounds of mourning as some women of the castle spotted Jocelyn’s crest atop the bell tower. He had not thought any in the castle would be much put out by her death, but mayhap he did not know his young wife as well as he thought he had. Rhiannon had always stood between them. Jocelyn knew that and even though she never loved him—for he knew that to be fact—she could not possess him, and it drove her mad with jealousy. He wondered how long it would take for word to leak into Ventra about the Queen of Beaynid’s death. Would Rhiannon even care?

He pushed Rhiannon from his mind but strayed again to thoughts of Jocelyn’s son. Laura had told him she had left him with a relative for a few days until she could get away and take the child out of Sona Tuath. He had not questioned her about his whereabouts but was disconcertingly curious. Why do I care, he asked himself. He folded his arms across his chest. He did not even know what the wench, Jocelyn, was going to name the child. It did not matter; whatever family he ended up with would want to pick a name for their new son. He was glad that Jocelyn did not live to give the child the Basilias surname. If the child could not be stillborn, then this was the next best situation.

Flath sighed and roughly sat down on a chair just off the balcony. His head was pounding, and his hands were clammy. He had not slept in two nights and was exhausted. It seemed colder and brighter than it had but a few moments before. He sighed again trying to clear his head. Jocelyn’s body was now being preserved and prepared for the Mourning Procession and the ceremony and viewing afterward. Flath allowed Jocelyn’s ladies-in-waiting to select her dress, hose, shoes, and jewelry that she would be presented in; he did not care as long as he did not have to look upon her again.

Later that morning Queen Jocelyn Basilias’ ladies-in-waiting walked in front of the funeral procession as it finally made its way through the castle gates at noon. They were dressed in long gowns of plain white cloth with veils and head coverings to match and silently dropped flower petals to the cobbled street. Jocelyn was dressed in her most elegant gown of scarlet and cloth-of-gold, gold torques encrusted with diamonds circled her neck and ears, and her graceful, bejeweled Beaynidan crown sat atop her perfectly groomed hair, oiled so that it shone in the spring sunshine. Clear glass encapsulated the ornate coffin as it was carried down the steep road from the castle and onto one of the wide city streets toward the kirk in the middle of town.

Behind the wagon Flath ambled along, attempting to look stricken. He tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and forced his mind to think upon what was happening. He was glad that the pace was mercifully slow for in his exhausted state he could not walk any faster, in fact, he was praying to Ak that he would make it to the kirk. Even though the day was warm, he felt chilled, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back. He pulled his jacket tighter and fought off a shiver.

Behind Flath, Teo and the rest of the King’s Counsel walked, and behind them a few newly titled Lords and Ladies that had happened to be at court. Adam was not present, and the messenger that Flath had sent to Bell with the news of Jocelyn’s death wouldn’t reach him for days.

People poured into the street and followed the Queen’s procession as it slowly made its way to the chimes of the kirk. The bells would ring from sun up to sun down for the next nine days, as was the custom in Beaynid. Flath did not know how he would stand the thrum of the enormous bells for the rest of the day let alone more than a week. As the procession finally reached the stone kirk, six attendants stepped out of the shadows cast by the enormous shell of a building, whose completion still lay years ahead, and took Jocelyn’s casket inside. She was placed upon the altar, and Flath escorted to the High Seat in the balcony.

“Ye alright?” Teo whispered into his ear as Flath sat down.

“Fine,” he said shortly. He was annoyed with no one in particular, except Jocelyn maybe, his head was pounding, and he was suddenly so very thirsty.

“I am sorry Teo, I am just too weary to be burdened with this.” His old friend placed his thick hand upon Flath’s shoulder.

“’Tis alright, laddie, ‘tis to be expected.”

Finally, the Priest of Ak took his place on the altar. His billowing white robes were ornately embroidered with gold and scarlet thread, tiny gems had been sewn into the robe and winked in the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows. His headdress stood up erect, coming to point, and the gems encrusted within shown bright like tiny stars. He held a golden scepter with a rounded chunk of clear amber at the top. Jocelyn had brought him over from her homeland, Yellow Island. He was quite showy and very pompous as he looked down on everyone packed into the kirk. Flath could not stand the man, but grudgingly attended service when he was in Sona Tuath—which was not often of late. He was not brought up to worship Ak, or any other god. Leading the life of a gypsy did not lend itself to acts of religious devotion. Sure, he believed there were gods, and his family did mention one or two occasionally, but as far as showing loyal reverence, they never did.

The priest went on and on about the sanctity and greatness of the One God, Ak and then about his fiery wrath that was to be the fate of all nonbelievers. He praised the queen as a woman of kindness and righteousness and told of how she looked down on them now from the realm beyond the stars where she ruled with other kings and queens that had passed beyond before her. The priest’s jowly, accented words started running together as Flath’s eyes grew heavy and he slumped in his seat.

Finally, the priest stopped talking, and suddenly the kirk was drowning in a powerful chorus of voices and instruments. The otherworldly music would stir the heart of anyone listening, but Flath had no ear for music today. Slowly he got up from his seat, and he and his counsel descended from the balcony and took up a feather and a lit candle. They placed the soft, white feathers atop Jocelyn’s coffin to help her spirit ascend to the other world beyond the stars and placed the candle upon the opulent silver candle holders placed around her body.

Flath said no word to the priest, but quietly walked from the church and slowly climbed into the waiting carriage. Teo jumped in a few moments later, and the carriage started its trip back up to the castle.

“Yer sure yer okay, lad, ya look terrible?”

“Just a bit worn-out, I had a long night.”

Teo was quiet for a moment, then, “I’m sorry fer yer wee barin.”

Flath looked over at the stout, red-haired man not comprehending what he was talking about and then remembered the infant he had sent away. “Thank you, old friend.” Flath was far too exhausted to try and explain to Teo what he had done; he knew the older man would not approve. What was he supposed to have done? Raise the child as his own—his heir? No, he would not let that happen. He reasoned that the boy would be safe and happy in his new home, wherever Laura decided to leave him. The child would never know of his origin, and Flath would not have to wonder every day for the rest of his life if the boy was really his or not. Tis much better this way, he reasoned.

In time the bells halted their relentless cries over the city, and everyone went back to their regular duties. The King and Queen of Yellow Island had arrived five days after the bird was sent—their yellow and black standard blowing in the harsh wind. They were ill-prepared for the journey and in their haste to leave, they barely brought enough supplies for the trip to Sona Tuath let alone the sail home. They stayed for three more days—the queen sobbing as her only daughter was carried to the mausoleum. After the ship was restocked with provisions, the King and Queen boarded the North Star for home. The North Star was a small, shallow-hulled ship that was able to cut through even rough seas quickly. It had tall masts and what seemed like endless mountains of billowing white canvas.

Flath stood on the balcony that was off of his living quarters in the Tower of the King—the apartments that Baobh once inhabited. His headache had gotten worse, and he had to fight to keep his knees from buckling, but still, he watched the North Star dissolve into the shimmering red sea and finally disappear over the horizon. He looked out over the choppy waters and wondered if Baobh’s bones still lay on the rocky bottom of the sea. He hoped her body had been quickly consumed by the large, silver sharks that frequented the Bay of Gods. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter and remembered how, in the white-hot light of a bolt of lightning, he had seen her body fall into the sea and he could still hear the wailing of her abandoned son. He closed his eyes and pictured Rhiannon as she was that night. Her short hair was plastered to her face from the rain, her eyes fixed in disbelief that Baobh was finally dead as the tip of her great Venturien sword, smeared with blood, rested on the stone floor. She was the very image of an Archigos Warrioress and, even more: their empress.

Teo walked up beside Flath. “Ya need ta get some rest, lad. Ye don’t look sa good.”

Flath looked over at his friend and saw concern in his eyes. “I am fine, ‘tis been a long week.” As he said the words, he knew it was not true. He had been feeling increasingly weak and cold over the last week. His head pounded and made it difficult to see through the bright sunlight.

“Aye, it has, but ye look haggard and pale. I think I will call Laura ta have a look see.”

Flath shook his head, which sent the room spinning. “Laura has left to stay with family in the country for a while. She needed time to recover from caring for Jocelyn for so long.”

“Then I will bring another healer. Ye look bad.” The worry was quite apparent in his voice now.

Flath left the balcony and threw himself on a chair. “It might just be the start of a cold. I will be fine.” But as the words left this mouth, he knew they were a lie. He did not feel well at all.

Teo did not look convinced and took a seat next to him. “The wasting sickness still prowls through the city looking fer more ta devour. Look, even the Queen has fallen prey ta the sickness. Ye need ta let a healer look at ye.”

He looked over at Teo, and suddenly his vision blurred, and his friend’s voice echoed as if Flath were standing at the bottom of a well looking up at the red man. And then his world went black.

***

Flath crumpled to the carpeted floor like an abandoned marionette. Teo jumped up and took his friend’s face into his wide, calloused hands. As he had feared, Flath was burning with fever. He gave a loud curse as he dragged Flath into his sleeping chamber and hoisted the taller man into bed. Quickly he ran out of the room and flung open the wooden doors. A frightened valet looked up, startled at Teo’s sudden appearance.

“Get Ian up here now…and a healer!” Teo roared.

“Yes, my lord.” The boy turned and ran, disappearing down the long hallway.

It seemed to take Ian a moon’s journey to arrive, but the young man suddenly appeared at Teo’s side as he gasped for breath—it was a long run up all those stairs.

“My lord,” he breathed. “What has befallen the King?”

Teo turned and grabbed Ian’s arms, forcing the young man to look at him. Reluctantly Ian pulled his eyes from his king and gave Teo his attention.

“Listen ta me, lad. Ye must get down ta the mews and send birds with a message ta Rhiannon ta come quick wi her wee necklace.” Teo pushed Ian toward the door.

“Will the king die?”

“Not if she hurries.”