Gilkrist’s letter onto the clutter of maps and parchments, pinched his brow and shut his eyes as he took a long, deep breath. After a moment, he pulled his hand down over his face, covering his mouth, and stared across the desk at Squire Blatchford—who was becoming more confused and nervous with each passing second. He patted the letter. “When did His Lordship give you this?”
“Last night, Your Majesty, at the stables, just as he left for Igornell.”
“That’s what he told you? That he was going to Igornell?”
“Pardon? Well no, I suppose he didn’t say that, Your Majesty, I just thought—he only told me to stable his horse—I mean the whole castle was abuzz with—I mean him being made Knight Commander—and Lady Isla …” Horror washed over the boy’s face. “He did say there wasn’t going to be a big day. I wasn’t sure what he …” He swallowed nervously and glanced at Sir Brock, who stood to one side with his hands behind his back. “Have I—Have I done something wrong, Your Majesty?”
“No.” King Vashean folded his hands and rested his forehead against his thumbs. “Sir Gilkrist, however, has … taken off.”
Sir Brock frowned with disbelief and Squire Blatchford’s face went flush with bewilderment as they both said together. “Taken off?”
“Indeed. But not in the way you think. He’s been having trouble with—” He paused, scratching at the rash on his knuckles as he sorted for the right words. “He’s been having trouble with matters of his estate, and as such has found himself in a rather desperate situation which he must oversee personally. He has resigned from his position.”
Sir Brock hung his head.
King Vashean sighed. “We had a lot riding on him. He was the right choice for many reasons. He and Lord Magnis were already cousins, but marrying Lady Isla would have made them brothers-in-law; thus it would have been only natural for him to take charge of the Igornell men. Not to mention he’d been Dame Tanith’s squire in the Koddish War. He was the ideal candidate.”
“He was a bit young though,” said Sir Brock. “A fair number of those Igornell knights are twice his age.”
“Yes, there was that. But—” King Vashean squeezed his fist on the desk. “I just wished he’d come and spoken to me first. Alas, it cannot be helped. Send for Sir Kranmer. We’ll need an experienced lord to take his place.”
Sir Brock bowed then marched out of the room.
King Vashean pressed his fingertips together, watching the young squire from across the desk. A pleasing thought came into his mind and he could hardly resist a smile as he stood up from his seat. “You’ve been snubbed, Squire Blatchford, out of an opportunity to demonstrate your valour. You were to ride to war as the Knight Commander’s squire.” He put his hands on his hips. “How would you like to be my squire instead?”
The squire blushed. “I—I should like nothing better than—” He dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “Your Majesty, there could be no higher honour.”
“Then we, King Vashean of Akoss, commission you into our service.” King Vashean drew his sword and tapped the young man on either shoulder. “Rise thee, Blatchford, Squire to the king.”
Squire Blatchford stood up, face beaming.
“Now,” said King Vashean, “my first order is this: Concerning all this business regarding Sir Gilkrist, you are sworn to secrecy. So far as you know, he has ridden to Igornell to take Lady Isla’s hand.”
“I shall speak nothing of it, my king.”
“Secondly, you shall find the seneschal. You know who she is?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Tell her I have … an unusual request.”
King Vashean followed a pair of Lord Kendrick’s lavender-clad men-at-arms down the dark steps into the bowels of Castle Klomm. Their torches rustled and flickered in the drafty corridors, causing the damp ridges of crude rock to glisten and the king’s gold circlet and jewelled signet ring to glitter with regal prognostication.
They came to a studded wooden door with a barred window, which one of the guards opened with jingling keys. From there they descended two more sets of stars and came to a long dark hallway lined with prison cells from which dozens of malevolent eyes leered through the iron bars. They were the Knights of Woz—murderers, thugs, and rapists all, redeemed from the hangman’s noose by Olgris himself to replenish the nefarious order which had three years ago been all but obliterated by the late Queen Volarena. So far, only two among them were true knights—the young Dame Selinéra Ov Telíza, and Volarena’s champion, the Knight of the Briar Rose. What deeds they must have done or what foul oaths or blasphemies they must have uttered to gain the confidence of the count, he did not know.
There was a moment of heavy silence, like the calm before the storm as the king and his guards passed between the crowded cells. Then a deafening roar exploded from the prisoners. Jeers and curses blasted his ears. Dirty hands reached and pointed from the bars.
“Zusmak!” screamed the guards, “Zusmak pislik!” They shoved the men further back into their cells, clubbing at protruding heads and fingers. It did little to quell their uproar, but King Vashean set his jaw and strode manfully through their midst, unperturbed by their commotion.
The men-at-arms ushered him through another door at the end of the hall and quickly shut it behind him, drowning out the noise. Here was another corridor like the first, only the cells were much smaller and instead of iron bars there were heavy wooden doors. At the end of the hall, a freckle-faced woman in a grey surcoat and lavender sash leaned on a crutch beside a table laden with a single candle—and breakfast for two.
“Your Majesty—”
“Seneschal Isolde.” He held up his hand. “Please, don’t try and bow. I don’t want you to fall over.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She looked uncertainly at the door beside her as he situated himself at the table. He sniffed his steaming breakfast plate. “This smells excellent, thank you.” He glanced up at the pair of dark eyes peering down from the little barred window in the heavy door.
“What is zis?” asked the heavily accented voice.
“Good morning Olgris—This is your breakfast.” He filled a cup from a pitcher of milk, “fried ham and potatoes, boiled eggs, pancakes with fresh berries and cream, toast and marmalade—”
The eyes disappeared back into the cell. “I’m not hungry,”
“After two days of water and stale bread, I’m not sure I believe you. Bring him out, if you please.”
Isolde drew in a breath. “Your Majesty, are you sure about this?”
“I am, yes. Now let’s have him out of there.”
Isolde nodded reluctantly and the two men-at-arms released Olgris from his cell and set him in the chair across from the king. Stripped of the knight’s surcoat, he was dressed in prisoner’s rags, which, in combination with his sallow, dirt-smudged skin and bone-white hair, gave him the appearance of having clawed his way out of the grave—an effect which was all the more unsettling three years after his supposed execution.
King Vashean stared at Olgris across the table as the count wiggled his tongue under his lip. “Seneschal, how is he supposed to eat like that? Unchain him.”
“What—Your Majesty—”
“Go on. Unchain him.”
Olgris grinned up at her and held out his manacled hands. When the men had unchained him, he rubbed his wrists, chuckling, and reached for a piece of toast—which he devoured in two greedy bites. “So,” he began, munching noisily, “to what do I owe ze pleasure?”
King Vashean delicately pressed the side of his fork through a boiled egg. “I have questions for you.”
The count looked horrified. “What—Zis? Zis is an interrogation? Hah! Aha ha!” Olgris slurped back his cup of milk then held up his hands. “Alright. You’ve got me. I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just don’t make take anot’er bite!”
But the king only smiled as he carved himself a modest forkful of ham. “Are you saying you’d rather a more traditional interrogation? Because Dame Tanith is soon to arrive. You can either talk to me over a nice breakfast or to her while she’s … clipping your toenails.”
Olgris shifted uncomfortably and sucked his teeth. “What do you want to know?”
“I’d like to know about your master, who he is and what he wants.”
“He is a wizard, an alchemist … as you can probably imagine.”
“I heard he’s the Grand Mage, Zhildok Nasár.”
The count skewered a wedge of potato on his fork. “And who told you zat?”
“The Knight of the Briar Rose, Dame Selinéra Ov Telíza.”
Olgris snickered as he dissected a pancake. “Knight ov ze Briar Rose—You’re seriously going to trust ze word of zat man? He might be ze most extraordinary swordsman in my country, but I zink nobody knows whose side he’s on. I mean, he was Volarena’s champion. I killed Volarena. Instead ov avenging her, he joins wit’ me. You know?”
“You don’t think he joined with you to sabotage your plans?”
“Sabotage my plans? Ha-ha! He killed ze Duke ov Klomm! Him! And more ov ze city’s knights zan any ov ze rest ov my men put toget’er.” King Vashean lowered his eyes, wondering if such a thing was not an act of mercy. Who knew what abuses Lord Hammond might have suffered if he had been taken alive? Lord Kendrick had expressed this very fear for his brother numerous times in the past few days.
“And I tell you what else,” said the count, “Zat man put a bunch ov nuns in a church and stood outside to listen to zem screaming as it burned. Aha ha! He could have just cut zeir zroats!”
King Vashean set down his fork and crossed his thick arms across his chest as Olgris continued to laugh.
“Anyway, I would not put too much stock in what ze Knight ov ze Briar Rose says. As vor ze ot’er one—what did you say her name was?”
“Dame Selinéra Ov Telíza.”
The count’s fork clinked on his plate as he shovelled the pancake into his mouth “Mmph, I do’ eve’ kno’ who za’ ith.”
“Really? She was blown up on the southern bridge. Are you telling me you had knights leading the charge that you’ve never met, or even heard of?”
Olgris finished off his cup of milk. “I’m not zat good wit’ names.”
“Like Zhildok Nasár?”
Olgris chuckled, ignoring the question. “I might recognize ze girl iv I saw her. Perhaps iv you brought her down here it might jog my memory.”
“Not likely.”
“Your choice. However, as I’m not vamiliar wit’ zis woman I cannot attest to her trustwort’iness. But iv zey are bot’ saying ze same zing, isn’t zat, um—how do you say—verbatim? I would be suspicious.”
“You seem awfully intent on discrediting your own knights,” said the king.
“Well, it just seems strange zat my subordinates presume to know ze identity ov my master, when he only ever revered to himself as ze Alchemist.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know who your master is?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know his name, and zat you should not trust anyone who claims to.”
“So then you deny that the man behind the Siege of Klomm was Zhildok Nasár, the Grand Mage of Caragol?”
At this point a denial from Olgris would almost certainly be a lie, a lie intended to throw him off the scent, but which in reality would greatly reassure him of the Grand Mage’s involvement. King Vashean squeezed his fist on the table.
“No.” Olgris slumped back in his chair and sucked the cream off his fingers. “No, it is him, ze Grand Mage.”
King Vashean frowned. “But you just said—”
“And you just said I could talk to you now, or Dame Tanit’ when she arrives. I changed my mind. So what? I don’t want to be tortured by zat woman. No—Please! Don’t cut! Don’t cut! Don’t-don’t-don’t-don’t—” The count burst out laughing, giggling madly himself as he stabbed at his plate.
King Vashean was not amused. He shifted his jaw back and forth and glanced up at Isolde, who looked on in disgust. At last, the count’s laughter trailed off into a sigh. “Yes, it was ze Grand Mage. Zis whole zing is because zat witch—you know, zat Kerstin woman—stole his spellbook.” Olgris wiped his eye, grinning. “Zat’s what he wants. Ze girl, and ze spellbook.”
The king leaned forward over the table. “You’ll sign a written confession, naming Zhildok Nasár as the primary instigator?”
“Do you have a pen?”
“Ink and parchment,” barked Isolde, “Now!”
King Vashean held up his hand. “Wait.” He leaned back in his chair. “No.”
Olgris freely disclosing his master’s identity was the last thing he had expected. A confession by long-dead regicide would be worthless as evidence and cast suspicion on any allegations against the Grand Mage. It was already causing him to question everything he’d heard so far. If he went after the wrong man, if he made one wrong step, the consequences could be disastrous.
But there were other questions. He must pry further.
“What about Hinkle,” asked the king, “how does she fit into this?”
“Who?”
“The witch’s niece. Did Zhildok have her kidnapped to ransom her for the spellbook?”
“I don’t know anyt’ing about zat.”
“Really? Alright then.” King Vashean snatched away the count’s breakfast. “We’ll see if Dame Tanith can get it out of you when she gets here.”
“What? I’m telling ze trut’! I don’t even anyt’ing about a girl being kidnapped!”
King Vashean shoved the plate into the hands of the nearest man-at-arms and sent the seneschal a nod. “Lock him up.”
Olgris sucked his teeth as the two young men snatched him by the arms and dragged him back into his cell. “Elimi Kaldir,” he snarled, and spit on the floor.
King Vashean swept out of the isolation corridor and back through the hall of jeering prisoners. But their insults fell on deaf ears. He was deep in thought. Hinkle vanishing into thin air on the night they took back the castle, after the role she had played, could not be a coincidence. Stranger still, from Sir Gilkrist’s account, it resembled too much the disappearance of his sister. He had hoped to learn something about it from the count, but Olgris had only succeeded in casting a shadow of doubt on everything he knew already.
And of course, the one woman who seemed to have all the answers kept turning up right under his nose only to slip away again into the shadows. He’d had her before once. He could have questioned her, learned everything he wished to know. But because of mercy, he had set her free. Now, merely catching a glimpse of her was like trying to snatch a fistful of smoke.