Sir Fredric Jorensen, recently knighted for capturing the fearsome Dark Elf of Syron, was sitting in his brother’s spacious bedchamber, elbows propped on his knees, waiting for his brother to wake up. Keeping in mind how drunk Malgrid had gotten yesterday, he was not going to awaken any time soon. Fredric sighed, trying to hold down his impatience and frustration. He would wait as long as it took. Malgrid owed him an explanation. Drunk or sober, you didn’t throw such words lightly.
The knight glanced at the clock; it was almost ten. He wondered whether he should wake Malgrid and decided not to, for the servant’s sake. Malgrid must have been ridiculously harsh with his servants. The way that poor fellow’s eyes widened in fear as he begged Fredric not to enter the bedchamber… Fredric thought his brother was with a woman, but it turned out he wasn’t; he just hated to be bothered while he slept. Malgrid always liked to play royalty and order servants around, but not to such extent. His manners must have become worse since he was appointed the governor.
The thought of the appointment completed the circle, and once again brought the question up: Was there any truth to what Malgrid had said? The way it matched Fredric’s own gnawing doubts, there had to be.
“Don’t get too proud, brother. Your knighthood is no more deserved than my governorship.”
Everyone seemed to silently agree that Malgrid was not the best choice for the governor—everyone except Malgrid himself, Fredric thought. But yesterday, in a bout of drunken honesty, his brother had admitted that even he understood he was not qualified for the position. That alone would have shocked Fredric enough; paired with the phrase about the knighthood, it had left him reeling.
“What? What do you mean?” he’d demanded, grabbing his brother’s arm, but Malgrid was too drunk to explain.
Fredric remembered the battle very well; he had replayed it in his mind many times, too. He knew he had given his all to the fight and nearly lost his life—twice, actually. Once was when the elf had first attacked and Fredric was overwhelmed by the sheer force of it; the enemy was incredibly strong and excellent with the blade. The second time was when Fredric had slipped. The elf was quick to lunge; Fredric was still amazed that he’d somehow managed to be even quicker and dodge the blow. He was exhausted when he had at last knocked the enemy down, pressed his sword arm to the ground with his knee and held the blade to his throat. The elf was panting as well, glaring at him with those hateful red eyes. He accepted his defeat and surrendered… but, somehow, Fredric couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the elf had something else up his sleeve. Something he chose not to use for some reason.
There was no other weapon found on him, and he was wounded. While being shackled, with daggers held to his neck and heart, he made no attempt to resist or break free. With time, Fredric almost convinced himself that his nagging doubt was unfounded. Almost.
And now Malgrid’s statement. Did he know something Fredric didn’t?
His brother’s terrified shriek jerked Fredric out of his thoughts. The knight jumped to his feet, ready to fend off an attack… but there wasn’t one. No one was here, only him and Malgrid, who was now awake, staring at him with a crazy look on his face, panting.
“Goodness, Malgrid! It’s only me. What on earth?”
His brother sat up and brought a shaking hand to his forehead.
“Darn it, Fredric. Don’t you ever do this again. Who let you in? Cheldor? I’ll have his head for it.”
Fredric stared back in disbelief. Malgrid was never the bravest, but this?
“Calm down, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, trying not to show how disgusted he was with his brother’s cowardice. Then it dawned on him, as some other recent changes in Malgrid’s behavior came to mind, too. “Have you received threats?”
Malgrid muttered something unintelligible and reached for the carafe on the night stand.
“Who is threatening you?” Fredric pressed on. “Have you reported it? Does it have something to do with being the governor?”
“There you go, already made up a story.” Malgrid seemed to pull himself together after he drank from the carafe, not bothering to pour a glass. He was still very pale, though. “No one’s threatening me. I just had a bad dream. What are you doing here, anyway?”
Fredric wasn’t convinced. “It didn’t look like you were having a bad dream. Malgrid, if something is going on, I need to know it. If it’s a matter of honor and you can’t share the specifics—”
“I told you, I’m fine!” Malgrid cut off, frowning. “I asked you why you’re here. What do you want?”
“Very well, have it your way. I’m here to demand an explanation.” Fredric looked him straight in the eye. “Why did you say yesterday that my knighthood is undeserved?”
Malgrid blinked, and Fredric thought he saw a flash of fear again.
“I said that?”
“Yes.”
Malgrid rubbed his forehead, averting his eyes. “My, I didn’t realize I was that drunk… I don’t even remember. I hope you haven’t gotten all insulted.”
“Insulted, no. Not yet, anyway. But I want to know what grounds you have for such an accusation.”
“Accusation? Seriously, Fredric, are you going to hold me responsible for something I’d blurted out while drunk? Something I don’t remember saying? I have no idea why I’d say such a thing!”
Fredric was not buying it. “I do understand that your judgment was clouded. There is, however, the saying that drunkenness reveals what soberness conceals. I think this is exactly what happened in this case.”
“Now you sound like you are accusing me. Of what? Of being jealous or something? You know it is not so. You know how proud I am of you capturing that creature and being knighted for it, I’ve been bragging all over the place! You even told me to stop, didn’t you?”
The knight wouldn’t relent. “Don’t try to change the subject.”
His brother sighed. “Look, if you want an apology, I gladly offer it, even though I have no memory of saying that stupid thing.”
“I don’t want an apology, I want the truth. You know something. Tell me what it is.”
Malgrid threw up his hands. “Fredric, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about!”
“Fine. I’ll go to the elf and ask him. Write me a pass to the Dormigan Prison.”
That made Malgrid freeze with his mouth open.
“Are you insane?” he asked after a considerable pause.
Fredric shrugged. “There’s nothing insane about it. I want to see the captive, and, as the governor, you have the authority to give me permission. If you have nothing to hide, you have no reason to refuse.”
He could tell Malgrid was desperately trying to come up with one.
“But—but you can’t walk in the Dormigan just like that, just because you want to. It’s the royal prison: the king is aware of each inmate and personally interested in everything that concerns them. No visitors are allowed, unless by a special permission, and if I give you one, the king will want to know why. What I am going to tell him?”
“You’ll tell him the truth. Or I will. If you refuse to issue me a pass, I’ll go to him and ask for one.”
Malgrid clutched his forehead. “Why, why, why do you have to be such a pain?” he moaned. “You know what the king can be like, you don’t want to get him involved!”
“Tell me what you know, and I won’t.”
“I know nothing! How many times should I repeat that?”
“Then give me that pass.”
Shaking his head, Malgrid rose from the bed. “Stubborn as ever, aren’t you?” he muttered, grabbing his robe.
“When it comes to honor and truth, you know I will not rest until—”
“I know. Trust me, I do.”
Fredric said nothing as his brother walked to the small desk in the corner, sat down, and picked up a quill. He watched Malgrid write a short letter, seal it, write another one, place the first letter inside, and seal the package.
“Here. Give this to Captain Torren, the warden.”
“Who is the other letter for?” Fredric asked. “The one you enclosed?”
Malgrid frowned, clearly annoyed. “None of your business, but since I can bet you’ll suspect some conspiracy, I will tell you that it’s also for Torren. For his paperwork. There’s a procedure that must be followed.”
Fredric took the letter. “Thanks, Malgrid. Still, you would have made things easier for us both if you just told me.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” his brother said through clenched teeth. “You’re paranoid. You catch a glimpse of something that you think threatens your precious honor, and there’s no stopping you, no convincing, no reasoning. Fine; go see for yourself. Don’t be surprised, though, if the elf refuses to speak to you or tells you a bunch of lies. You’re not exactly the person he’d feel like confiding in.”
***
It was with a heavy heart that Sir Fredric rode to the Dormigan Prison. He didn’t think it would come to that; he still couldn’t believe Malgrid would rather have him waste a whole day on this trip instead of just telling the truth. Was it possible that his brother had taken his enemies’ side? No, no, he told himself, pushing the thought away. Malgrid can be called many things, but traitor is not one of them. He wouldn’t do this to me.
Fredric crossed a bridge and pulled on the reins, stopping the horse at the sight of a man sprawled on the side of the road, lying on his back, his left hand clutching his bloodied side. He was alive, panting in pain. He had no weapon; his purse strings were cut.
“Robbery,” Fredric muttered. “No road is safe anymore, it appears.”
The knight dismounted and rushed to the wounded man.
“Hang in there, I’ll help you. Who did this to you?” he asked, kneeling.
“Two fellows… didn’t see their faces, they had masks… they took my money… horse… everything. Don’t touch me, it hurts!” the man cried out as Fredric tried to remove his hand from the wound.
“I must see the wound and try to stop the bleeding. Come on, now, let me do it. Your pressing on it like that is probably making it hurt more.”
A twig snapped behind him. Fredric pretended not to notice, knowing exactly what it meant. The robbers were not gone; they were now using their first victim as bait. They must have been hiding under the bridge when he’d passed.
He knew when they’d pounce on him, too. Years of training, numerous battles, and a shadow appearing on the left helped him to time and place his strike perfectly. Moving with the stunning speed he was known and praised for among fellow warriors, Fredric leapt to his feet and whirled around, swinging the blade. The attacker dropped his heavy wooden club and fell. He was a large man, wearing no armor—and no mask.
Fredric took a battle stance, ready to deal with the other one, but the road was clear. He heard a noise from the back. The knight pivoted, sword raised. The wounded man, up on his feet and no longer in pain, lunged at him with a dagger. Some sort of amulet shone bright red through his shirt, the dagger starting to flicker red as well. Fredric would prefer not to kill the man, he had a few questions to ask of him, but with magic involved, one had to be even quicker than blade against blade. He had no choice. The knight dodged and ran the sword through the man’s heart.
The man collapsed, this time bleeding for real; the red glow slowly faded. Fredric checked the surroundings, wondering whether it was a random robbery attempt or an assignment, targeting specifically him. The more he thought, the clearer it became that it could easily be the latter. The two did not want to kill him, while most highway robbers would. The first one had a sword, yet he was trying to use the club; he obviously meant to knock Fredric unconscious. The second had charged with the dagger in such a way that wouldn’t deliver a lethal wound, either. It wasn’t a clumsy blow; it was a blow meant to distract, causing minor pain. At this point, there was no telling what the magic was supposed to do, but Fredric had ways to find out.
He bent down, picked up the dagger, unbuttoned the man’s shirt, and took the amulet.
Someone did not want him to make it to the Dormigan and see the elf. Or participate in the Jewel Quest. Or both.
***