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[Rough Draft] Chapter 86: A Path of Resentment

 

The moment Nicholas opened his eyes, he knew it was in the tomb of kings. His numerous visits to his mother’s coffin after her death had ingrained the memorable and quiet smell of death into his very existence. He sat up slowly, confused by the absence of a torch.

“Beaumont? Where are you? I can’t see a thing.”

The Second Prince’s voice echoed serenely off the shadows as a dim light flickered in the distance. Sliding down from his mother’s coffin with care, Nicholas touched the dagger at his waist for comfort as he called out and searched for his companion.

“Damn it, you ungrateful giant. Where have you gone off to—” A sudden weight against his foot sent the prince toppling blindly against the floor. He let his body roll forward, following the momentum of his fall as Beaumont had taught him, and quickly found his feet. Although, judging by the pain in his shoulder and knee, he had done a less than stellar job. Nicholas felt a moment of gratitude for the darkness that had covered his blunder until he remembered that it had caused him to fall initially. The Crown Prince pressed a hand to his chest with a drawn-out sigh, trying to quiet the uncomfortable clamor of fear that obscured his sense of hearing.

His right foot found the bump that had sent him tumbling, a somewhat large and flexible object that curled around his boot. Muttering again about the lack of light, Nicholas reached out his hand to identify the hurdle and then scampered back in fright.

The grating of a heavy door sliding open behind Nicholas preceded the sudden red glow that illuminated a woman’s body laid out upon the tomb floor.

Nicholas knew he was dreaming when he saw Eleanora’s expressionless amber eyes staring towards the dome ceiling above them with an almost puzzled expression. Were it not for the dagger in her chest and the trail of scarlet that stained her golden dress, he might have thought the queen to be deep in thought. The dagger’s hilt pulled his gaze back with a sudden jolt of recognition. Nicholas reached towards his belt, only to confirm his dagger’s sheath was empty.

‘But—how? No. This is just a dream! It’s not real.’

The Second Prince crawled towards Eleanora’s body nonetheless. The quiet agony of regret and grief tore through him with a sharp, familiar sting that stole the air from his lungs and throat. After a moment of struggle between denial and despair, Nicholas folded her hands silently. His small fingers curled around her strong hands, calloused from the sword and bow she had clung to so strongly despite his protests.

‘What good did they do you in the end, Elly? What good—did I do you….’

“Forgive me, my Queen.” Nicholas’s trembling fingers dragged across her pale skin and gently closed her eyes. He caressed her, then leaned in to give his unyielding wife one final kiss goodbye before stumbling to his feet.

“Your Majesty.”

The familiar voice of his Knight Captain turned the Crown Prince towards the stairs that led up to the tomb’s entrance. Nicholas did not question when the ceiling grew lower and his legs longer, making the climb relatively short by comparison. He had no time for such thoughts when he stood beside Beaumont to face the horrific sight before him.

Pillars of smoke and fire curled from nearly every orifice of the three royal palaces and house of ministry. No matter where the Crown Prince’s panicked hazel-blue eyes turned, fire and desolation met his gaze. The burned corpses of his knights littered the path in front of the Tomb of Kings. Through the gaping hole in the fortress wall behind the royal cemetery, a path of destruction had burned its way through the capital leaving only a smoking, hollowed-out trail of rubble and death.

“Was this what you wanted, brother?”

The strength in his knees almost gave out when Nicholas turned to face the ghostly image of Tristan, walking through a path of smoke that coiled around the First Prince’s glittering black armor and cape.

“N-no. It can’t be—“ Nicholas stuttered as his feet inched painfully back towards the safety of the tombs. “Beaumont! Kill him!”

“I cannot.”

The Second Prince whipped his gaze towards the Knight Captain in disbelief. “Yes, you can! You’re the only one capable of stopping him! Do it! I command you as your—”

The glowing violet eyes that turned in his direction froze Nicholas’s heart and sent it skittering into a bottomless abyss of fear.

“You were never my King.”

With those parting words, Beaumont turned and walked away. Nicholas watched in helpless terror as the recently appointed Commander of Lafeara’s forces strode towards the hole in the fortress wall to face the advancing army of fire witches alone. It was then the Crown Prince noticed, with an odd sense of understanding and reluctant acceptance, that his old friend no longer carried his prized dragon sword.

“Alone at last,” Tristan remarked with evident sarcasm.

The Second Prince swallowed down the cold lump of fear in his throat as he watched his bastard of a brother remove his shiny helmet.

“I will only ask this once,” Tristan said in a low but commanding tone as he tossed his helmet to the ground. “Where is Eleanora?”

The crown upon Nicholas’s head had never felt heavier, or his life more worthless, than when he stood at the top of the staircase that led to his mother’s final resting place and Eleanora’s still warm corpse.

“You—razed my city, burned my palaces, slaughtered thousands of innocent people—just to get back the bride you abandoned two years ago!?” The mocking incredulity in Nicholas’s voice echoed with a tinge of madness. “Is this what you wanted?” He swung his empty hands wildly towards the dark clouds that rained ash down upon the desolate city. “Is that the future that you and Eleanora dreamed about together?”

“Stop talking and get out of my way,” Tristan snarled as he strode forward.

Nicholas flinched and retreated. His eyes darted nervously from the First Prince’s amber eyes to the sheathed sword at Tristan’s side and then up towards the floating dark wisps of gaseous cores that continually sprayed glowing amber sparks against the bastard prince’s armor.

The moment Tristan moved within striking distance, Nicholas’s remaining strength and courage evaporated beneath the intense heat that radiated from the First Prince’s body. An unmanly squeak slipped past the Second Prince’s bruised, dry lips as he crumpled to the ground, only to be ignored as Tristan strode down into the tomb.

In the agonizing moments of silence that followed, Nicholas clutched the dry, brittle dirt and shale between his fingers and waited. His brother’s savage, heart-broken cry vibrated through the tomb, startling a wary pack of crows that lingered on the broken gate rails. A second and then third final broken wail followed, each more dangerous than the last.

The bitterness Nicholas had carried all his life slowly cracked and gave way to a numb acceptance as a twisted sense of victory filled his empty chest. His bruised lips cracked into a twisted smile as chortle broke free, followed by a deep, high-pitched kneeing laughter that echoed in his ears like the dying cry of an insane man.

The Second Prince blinked through his tears as his brother’s shadow fell over him. He offered Tristan one last defiant smile before he whispered out hoarsely, “This wasn’t what I wanted. But at least I’ll die knowing you couldn’t have her or Lafeara.”

The burning eyes that gazed down at Nicholas were not the eyes of a man. The wings that ripped free from his brother’s armor cracked through the wall of the tomb beside them and stretched to block out what little sunlight remained over this cursed city. In their darkness, only Tristan’s eyes held meaning as they loomed in towards the doomed king.

“May our path’s never cross again, brother. Killing you once is not enough. If I see you again, I will slaughter you and all you hold dear a thousand times over until the flames of hell below will feel but a sweet reprieve for your tortured soul.”

The molten blade of fire that pierced Nicholas’s chest cut through his babbling thoughts. A radiating cold numbness brought with it a moment of stark clarity as the Second Prince watched his flesh boil. His scalding, golden crown dripped down his forehead and blinded his left eye. In the moment of excruciating pain that followed, the demon that had once been his brother pulled Nicholas into a final embrace and whispered….

“Long live the King.”

***

A cry of desperation ripped Nicholas from the bedsheets and his nightmare, which until that moment had felt so vivid and familiar. His steward crashed through the side door and promptly tripped over his robe and slippers just as Beaumont entered from the hallway.

“Your Majesty?” the knight captain murmured hesitantly as he glanced towards the clumsy servant, who hastily rightened himself with a painful wince.

“A dream. A Nightmare—” Nicholas panted as he pressed a hand towards the pain that still lingered in his chest. “It’s nothing. You may go.”

“Are you certain?” Beaumont pressed.

The Crown Prince looked up into his friend’s bright violet eyes and felt a quiver of uncertainty run down his spine. “Nathan, leave us.”

The steward bobbed an awkward bow and hobbled back through the open side door with a hand pressed against his back.

Beaumont shut the door behind him and moved to the foot of the bed, where he gazed down at the trembling prince with his usual neutral, stony expression.

“Captain, if I—asked you to swear an oath of fealty to me—”

A glimmer of discomfort flickered across the giant’s empty expression as the Crown Prince continued.

“—after the coronation. When I am king.”

“I told you from the beginning that I would serve you until I found my true purpose,” Beaumont replied with the same emotionless finality he always used to express those words.

“I know,” Nicholas replied with a defeated sigh. He rubbed the stiff muscles in his neck and glanced towards the bedroom window where the thin silver light of dawn could be seen upon the horizon. “Then would you—promise to never leave my side?”

The weak stupidity of those words hit his conscious like a ton of bricks. Nicholas cringed and flipped over onto his side with a dismissive wave. “Nevermind—forget I said anything. I need sleep to clear my head.”

“Then rest well, your Majesty,” Beaumont replied and moved quietly towards the bedroom door.

“Beaumont—I do want to be a good king.”

The knight captain paused with one hand on the door handle. “It is your actions, not your words which shall determine the integrity of your reign, your Majesty.”

“Do you believe in me? That I will become a great king—and a good father too?”

“Only time will tell, your Majesty. I believe it is best to take these things one day at a time.”

Nicholas snorted, then drew in a breath and sighed as he closed his eyes. “Yes. One day at a time. I have a lot of work ahead of me if I want to keep Lafeara a free and independent kingdom for my future son and heir.”

The soft click of the door closing and the gentle flicker of the candle in the stone aperture beside the window lulled the restless Crown Prince back into the arms of a dreamless sleep.

***

The cold light of morning cast a frigid glow over the white stone walls of Peony palace. Percy drew in a steady breath and exhaled. Although he could barely detect the ghost of his breath in the breeze, the Earl couldn’t quite shake the cold that clung to his lungs and bones like a warning omen.

After a brief word with the knight’s on guard at the palace gate, he returned to the carriage where Lady Kirsi and Lieutenant Declan waited in silence.

“How did it go?” Kirsi’s ice-blue eyes swept up from the pale blue fan she had been playing with. “Will the Crown Prince grant us an audience?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Percy replied and leaned his shoulder against the carriage frame. “It’s likely he’ll refuse to see us until after the coronation.”

“When his crown and kingship are safely secured.”

The Earl returned the Duchess’s skeptical smile and then turned to glance at Declan, now dressed in the armor of a knight of Bastiallano. “How are you holding up?”

The knight turned slowly, one arm pressed protectively against his fractured rib, and offered a stiff nod. “I’ll live.”

“He should be resting,” Kirsi muttered with audible impatience.

“He’ll have plenty of time to rest after he tells the King—the Crown Prince, what he witnessed.”

“Will it change anything?”

‘If Nicholas’s inability to act in retaliation to the church’s corruption will not move you, his refusal to save Lady Hana surely will.’

“Perhaps,” Percy replied vaguely as he turned to face the palace, then adjusted his ceremonial cape. “Today will mark the beginning of Nicholas’s reign as King. While he might feel compelled to show a certain level of generosity and forgiveness to the Pope, he cannot completely reject the opinions of his nobles and especially those of the covens.”

The Earl turned as Captain Silas dismounted and approached the Duchess carriage. He wondered not for the first time at Kirsi’s sudden ability to communicate without speaking to her knights. When he saw that she meant to disembark, Percy stepped forward to offer his hand with a polite smile.

To the Earl’s surprise, Kirsi accepted his gesture, though she quickly let go the moment her heels touched the paved courtyard. The silver and white gown she wore seemed to absorb the cold sunlight that caressed the pearls woven into her ash-brown curls. The little makeup she wore gave her pale skin and facial features a stern and unapproachable look. His gaze was drawn to the delicate shape of her nose and pale pink lips that barely moved unless she spoke.

“The coronation begins in two hours,” Kirsi muttered tensely as she repeatedly dragged her fan against her palm. The stiff leaves and guard closed together with a soft clink that made Percy suspect they were made of metal rather than bone or wood. “You and I are required to attend. Perhaps we could use the opportunity to find out where Hana is being kept.”

“She will be heavily guarded, and my magic is limited upon holy ground. We would be exposed—and likely fail.”

Kirsi’s cold, angry gaze turned towards him as her lips pressed together in silent frustration. “Then—what about sending a message?”

“A messenger is just as likely to meet resistance—”

“Not a man. What about a bird? It is not uncommon for one to get stuck in the rafters of the cathedral.”

Percy raised his brows and then pondered her suggestion. “It would have to be one small enough to escape notice.”

“A starling or a finch then?”

The Earl tilted his head and slowly nodded. “The message would have to be short, so the paper is small enough to disguise against the bird’s leg.”

The Duchess’s unreadable gaze remained locked on him, and Percy felt a tinge of unease that he had somehow displeased her—until Kirsi reached out suddenly to take his hand.

“Then will you send this to Hana? She will know what it means.”

The Earl looked down as the tiny scrap of paper Kirsi held pressed against his palm. He raised the folded message to his eyes, pried it open with a fingernail, and squinted to read the tiny, almost indecipherable word.

Wait.

Percy held back a sigh as he presented her with a smile and nod of understanding before tucking the minuscule note inside his pocket watch for safekeeping. ‘All this effort for a single word? Nevermind. If it makes Kirsi happy, I suppose I’ll just have to make it happen.’

“Percy, the steward,” Kirsi whispered as she stepped away from him.

The Earl turned and blinked in surprise at the sight of Nicholas’s steward rushing towards them in his court attire.

“Earl Hawthorne! Your Grace!” Nathan gushed out with one deep bow after the other. “If you would follow me.”

“His Majesty will see us?” Kirsi murmured, her tone equal to the surprise upon Percy’s face.

“Certainly, your Grace. Although his time is extremely limited. Please.”

“Then we have one other important guest his Majesty should see,” Percy replied and then returned to the carriage where he found Declan dozing off in the corner. The Earl sighed as he dragged the confused knight through the door and kept him on his feet. Kirsi moved up quickly to support the lieutenant’s other side, and the trio made their way up the palace steps after the anxious steward.

‘Let us hope for the sake of Lafeara’s future that this fool of a king plays his character according to my expectations. Only with Kirsi firmly on our side can the Covens hope to take and hold this kingdom from mortals and witch alike.’