Once Upon a Midnight

5

Raven Castle

“MY LORD DUKE!” The breathless servant skidded to a halt before Duke Borlis in his private chamber and bowed low. “The messenger from Dovenbyre has arrived!”

The duke, seated on a velvet chair drawn up before an ornate gilded table, continued to glare into the murky crystal ball before him—the crystal ball that showed him nothing, absolutely nothing, of what he wished to see.

“The man says it is urgent,” the servant continued rapidly, his hands clasped before him. “He must speak with you and begs you to admit him to—”

“Send him in, you fool!” The duke frowned after the man as he spun around and raced back into the hall. Idiots. Idiots and incompetents, that’s what I’m surrounded by, Duke Borlis thought angrily as he shoved back his chair. He began to pace back and forth across the chamber, a muscle twitching in his neck as he tried to contain his impatience. He’d been waiting forever, it seemed, for Mortimer to die, for his chance at last—and for confirmation of what he had suspected for months to be true—that Mortimer’s legitimate son and sole heir to the throne was living right under his nose in the home of Sir Blubbery-Dud Henry.

It would be simple to grab the boy and slit his throat. There was no need to rush—still, his blood was racing hot and quick in his veins, pumping wildly through his heart. Now that it was so close, he could not wait. All that he’d dreamed of, all that he’d yearned for, was now within his reach.

He only needed to hear those words—

He wheeled around as the messenger, filthy with travel, his gaunt, homely face red and half frozen, staggered into the room. The man glanced once, longingly, at the fire blazing heartily in the hearth, then settled his gaze rigidly upon the duke.

“My lord, I rode as fast as humanly possible. I have come straight from Dovenbyre—”

“Don’t waste words, you imbecile, just tell me,” the duke snapped. “Is my cousin dead or not?”

“He is dead, my lord.”

Ah. Borlis caught his breath. At last. At last. He closed his eyes, picturing the castle at Dovenbyre, so much grander, more splendid, more luxurious than his own Raven Castle. He pictured himself seated upon the high king’s throne, ruling over all of Grithain. With all the riches of the land in his coffers. And all of the soldiers under his command.

His way was almost clear, except . . .

“The boy.” Borlis spat the words. “What have you heard about the boy?”

“It is as you thought, my lord duke. Your spy managed to get word to me the moment the news spread through the castle. The prince indeed is in your own realm. The boy known as Gilroyd, younger son of Sir Henry, is in fact the true son of King Mortimer. Dovenbyre is sending an army to retrieve him, so that he can attend the high king’s funeral and so that the coronation can take place as soon as possible. Sir Henry himself is to ride at the head of the troops that bring the boy back to Dovenbyre.”

“Exactly as I prophesied, my lord duke.” The duke’s counselor, Kilvorn, a crafty old magician of druid ancestry, fairly purred. He rose from his deep tufted chair in the darkened corner of the room and paced quickly toward his master. “All goes according to my plan. The troops of the high king will be too late. Sir Henry is away—there is nothing to stop us from seizing the boy this very day—”

“Yes, sir—there is. I . . . I have more news, and it is troublesome, my lord.” The messenger’s voice quivered.

Both the duke and Kilvorn glared at him, and the man began to quake. He was covered with mud, exhausted, and now he was weak with fear. This duke was not one to greet ill news with composure.

“Speak, then!” the duke bit out. “Be quick about it, or I’ll have your tongue.”

“A troop of soldiers has entered Urbagran.” The man’s words tumbled out in a frightened rush. “I caught a glimpse of them—they rode full speed, like creatures flying from the depths of hell. Twenty men, well armed and astride horses larger, stronger than any I’ve ever seen. A wolf-hound bounded alongside them. I doubled back to an inn along their route and questioned the owner. He told me he recognized the leader, a fearsome warrior named Dagnur, who is . . . he is . . .”

“He is who?” The duke shouted, stamping toward the man in rage. “Speak or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon for a fortnight.”

“He is the chief lieutenant of Duke Conor of Wor-thane,” the messenger babbled, his lips quivering.

“Conor?” The duke stared at the man, then suddenly chuckled. He turned to the old soldier standing with feet apart near the window. The old soldier nodded at him.

“Conor of Wor-thane is dead,” the duke said smugly. “He is no longer a threat. Isn’t that right, Carien?”

“He is dead, my lord duke. Hacked to bits, and left for the wolves,” the old soldier replied with satisfaction.

The duke turned back toward the messenger and waved a hand dismissively. “Conor’s pathetic little troop will be dealt with. Without him, they are no threat to me. He is the only one who might have had a better claim than I to the soon-to-be-empty throne. If you have nothing more to report, you may go.”

The messenger bowed low and fled the chamber as if his cloak were on fire, and the duke addressed his counselor. “So, Conor had a troop behind him. We will find them and dispose of them as we did their leader. They have twenty men, we shall send forty.”

“It took five to one to slay Conor of Wor-thane,” the counselor pointed out thoughtfully, stroking his scraggly gray beard.

“But few men of our age are known to be as fierce a fighter as Conor. I daresay being twice outnumbered will be sufficient to defeat them. And I need the rest of my troops to gather for the coming larger battle.”

The duke spun around and began pacing the rich chamber, with its carpet of rushes and its golden sconces and velvet chairs. “I want the boy taken today—now. There is no longer any reason to wait.”

He glanced at the old soldier. “See to it. Find him. Now.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Carien nodded and stalked from the room, the jeweled handle of his sword glinting in the sunlight that poured through the castle windows.

“If you please, my lord, may I ask . . . what then?” The black-eyed counselor gave a cough. “Will you hold the prince until the arrival of King Plodius?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I will kill him immediately and move my army toward Dovenbyre at once.”

“You would be wise, my lord, to honor your agreement with King Plodius. Seize the boy, but keep him alive until the ball. Then, with Plodius’s men and your own people gathered as witnesses that very night, have the boy publicly abdicate the throne to you. So what if Plodius gets all of Urbagran and the southern tip of Dovenbyre for his help? As high king, you can afford to part with some land. The strength of his army combined with yours will assure your capture of the throne, and that is the true goal—”