Phillip Masterson, Duke of Upper and Lower Milton, close friend to His Majesty the King, languished in a cell at the very top of Offdom Tower.
He had a vague memory of Smythe’s guards carrying him to the tower, dumping him onto the floor of the cell, and departing, locking the door behind them. Phillip had finally managed to fight his way out of his drug-induced nightmare, only to find himself in a waking nightmare.
According to Queen Mary, Offdom Tower had been constructed on the palace grounds during the reign of Queen Esther of Travia to protect the royal family from attack by Rosian dragons. The walls were built of stone blocks strengthened by magical constructs intended to defend against dragon magic and their fiery breath. The builders had added a reservoir containing water at the top of the tower to be used to put out fires. Should dragons attack the palace, the royal family would flee into the tower through an underground passage.
“Crawling with rats,” Mary had told him. “Personally, I would prefer taking my chances with the dragons.”
Offdom Tower had never been needed to escape dragons, and it occurred to someone that it would make an excellent prison. They had added locks and magical constructs, and its first prisoner—King Frederick—had spent years here, eventually dying in this very cell.
Phillip thought a great deal about King Frederick. The king had been well treated while he was in the tower, and so was Phillip. He had been here a week and he had received three meals a day, accompanied by wine, tea, or coffee. The guards lit a fire in the small grate to ward off the chill. The room was furnished with a bed, two comfortable chairs, and a desk with pen, ink, and paper. The guards brought him books to read and the daily newspaper, albeit late. He was permitted a sponge bath. He was not, however, allowed to shave because, they told him, they did not trust him with a razor. One of the Guundaran orderlies came in every morning to act as barber.
Phillip took little comfort in these amenities, which were similar to those provided to King Frederick.
“Since I am clearly intended for the same fate,” Phillip remarked somberly.
He had taken to talking to himself, just to hear a voice. He had tried to talk to the guards, if only to discuss the weather, but they were apparently under orders to not talk to him, for they maintained a silence as stony as the walls.
Phillip was forced to rely on the Haever Gazette for information. He had only this morning read the news that the queen had been killed by a bomb planted by the Rosians. Phillip knew the truth. He recollected bits of conversation between Thomas and Smythe, and he knew the colonel was the person responsible for the queen’s death.
Phillip read another story claiming the Princess Sophia was involved, for she had dined with the queen the night she was murdered, and that a warrant had been issued for her arrest. He would have laughed aloud at the absurdity of the notion, if he had not been consumed with worry over Sophia’s fate.
He thought bitterly that only last week this same Gazette had praised Princess Sophia for her charity work among the poor and talked about how all of Freya was eager for the upcoming nuptials between the princess and His Highness, Thomas Stanford. Now the paper featured a lurid illustration portraying Sophia, wrapped in a Rosian flag, with snakes for hair, holding sizzling bombs in her hands.
He read that arrest warrants had also been issued for Sir Henry Wallace and the Countess de Marjolaine, who had been seen fleeing the palace shortly after the explosion.
Phillip could not fathom how anyone could believe such lies. Henry Wallace was a dangerous man, but only to his enemies. The Countess de Marjolaine was a popular villain with the Freyan public, for she was reputed to be the Rosian spymaster. But Phillip knew her to be a staunch monarchist, loyal to her own king. She would have never sanctioned the assassination of an anointed ruler.
The Gazette assured the terrified public that the police were searching for these dastardly miscreants. A later edition stated that the countess was presumed to have fled back to Rosia and she had taken the princess with her. They had no news on Wallace, who had apparently gone into hiding.
“At least Sophia is safe,” Phillip said, relieved.
The rest of the news was devoted to talk of imminent war, with stories of thousands of loyal Freyan men rushing to join the military, while Rosians were being rounded up and imprisoned.
Phillip threw the paper to the floor in disgust and lay down on his bed to worry about his own predicament. He was surprised to hear the key rattle in the lock and the guards removing the magical constructs.
He jumped to his feet, thinking Smythe had sent his henchmen to beat him or drug him again, or finish him off. Instead, though, when the door slowly creaked open, he was amazed to see it was Thomas who entered.
Phillip sighed in relief and went to greet his friend. The two shook hands and then embraced. Neither could speak for several moments. Neither knew where to begin.
“How are you feeling?” Thomas asked, studying Phillip’s bruised and battered face.
“I am quite recovered,” said Phillip, trying to give a reassuring smile, though he was shocked by his friend’s physical appearance.
Thomas was pale and unshaven. His eyes were red, and the lids red-rimmed. His hair was unkempt, and his coat unbuttoned despite the chill. Phillip had not known Thomas when he had been trapped in the Estaran fortress, but he guessed he must have looked very much then as he did now—under siege, surrounded by the enemy, dropping from fatigue, but afraid to fall asleep.
Thomas cast a bleak glance around the tower room.
“I am so sorry, Pip.”
“My incarceration is not your fault,” said Phillip, trying to be cheerful. “I have only myself to blame. If I had been working for Sir Henry when I was captured, he would have chastised me most severely. I let down my guard, you see. Smythe’s bully boys took me unaware.”
Thomas’s gaze lingered on Phillip’s face, on the bruises that had changed from purple to gruesome shades of green and yellow, and on the cuts on his eyebrow and lip. He clenched his fist, not to strike, but as though to hold fast to his sanity.
“They say every man has his breaking point. I have reached mine,” Thomas said. “I cannot decide whether to kill him or myself.”
Phillip was alarmed. “My friend, don’t say such things, even in jest! And keep your voice down. The guards can hear.”
“Let his lackeys hear me!” Thomas said recklessly. “I don’t give a damn. He knows.”
“Smythe?” Phillip asked as he drew Thomas away from the door and led him to the far end of the chamber. Phillip brought over two chairs and placed them in front of the grate.
Thomas turned to face his friend, his eyes fevered and a hectic flush on his cheeks. “These past few nights, I have been visited by a dread specter. The thing leers at me and holds out a skeletal hand to offer poison, knives, pistols. A drop for his drink, a bullet for his head … Or is the poison, the bullet for me?”
Thomas shuddered, sank down in a chair, and lowered his head in his hands. Phillip drew up his chair beside him, not knowing what to say and thinking it might be better that he should allow his friend to talk.
Thomas raised his head. “If we were enemies on the field of battle and Smythe was aiming his rifle at me, I would kill him without hesitation. He has beaten and imprisoned you. He threatens to torture and kill my family. He is a threat to my people, who look to me to protect them. He assassinated a queen and makes a puppet of me and yet I shrink from killing him.”
Thomas laughed bitterly and restlessly jumped to his feet. He began to pace back and forth, his booted feet ringing on the stone floor with each step.
“Perhaps I am what he calls me—a weak, cowardly fool.”
Phillip let his friend walk for a few moments, to work off his frustration and anger. When Thomas’s steps started to slow, Phillip said quietly, “Tell me you are not serious about taking your own life.”
Thomas stopped and stared at the walls. He glanced at Phillip and faintly smiled. “No, thank God. There was a moment that first night after he had told me what he plotted.…”
Thomas paused, then shook his head. “But only a moment. I came to my senses. I will not kill myself, but as to killing him, I am not so certain. My soul would be damned to hell, but I would sell my soul if I thought I could rid the world of this monster. Have you ever wondered why God sanctions the taking of a life in battle, yet harshly condemns murder?”
Phillip did not like his friend’s dangerous and desperate mood. “Leave that argument for theologians and philosophers, Thomas. You know you cannot find it in your heart to murder this man or any man, no matter how richly he deserves it. Stealing a life is shameful, ignoble, and despicable. Murder is an act of cowardice, not of bravery.”
Thomas flung himself back into the chair, and gradually the hectic flush faded. He regarded Phillip with something of his old spirit and the faint ghost of a smile. “I have missed you, Pip! Just when I most need your advice and counsel, you manage to get yourself locked up in a tower.”
Thomas saw the newspaper bordered in black lying on the floor. His expression grew somber, reflective.
“Queen Mary came to visit me the night she died. She asked me why I wanted to be king. Sir Richard had told me to flatter her, to charm her, and I could almost hear my mother’s voice advising the same. But when Her Majesty looked at me, she looked at me, Pip. I knew she would see through the banalities and the platitudes. I told her the truth: that I didn’t want to be king. But if God saw fit to place me on the throne, I would strive my utmost to do my duty to my people. My answer pleased her, and she gave me this ring.”
Thomas pulled back the lace that covered his hand to reveal a ring made of gold with black diamonds and blue sapphires set in intricate patterns, like a mosaic.
“The ring of King James,” said Phillip. “Queen Mary would not bestow that ring on you if she did not esteem you and trust you.”
“I know,” said Thomas softly. He covered the ring with his hand. “I liked her honesty and bluntness, Pip. I wish I could have come to know her. I think we would have been good friends. There was much she could have taught me.”
“That paper is a week old,” said Phillip, glad to change the depressing subject. “What has happened in the interim?”
“The Accession Council met and named me king,” said Thomas carelessly. “Smythe managed the proceedings. Sir Richard Wallace rose from his sick bed, where he was recovering from a bullet wound inflicted by Smythe, to provide a signed testimonial swearing that he was present the night the queen made me her heir. The Royal Physician gave his testimony to the effect that the queen had only months left to live, and her lawyers testified that she had made her wishes known in a document, though it seems no one can find it.”
Thomas laughed bitterly again. “You should have seen Smythe’s face when he heard the news that she was dying. If he had known, he needn’t have gone to all the trouble of killing her.”
“What about her half brother, Hugh Fitzroy, and her sister, Elinor? Did they contest your ascension to the throne? Both have claims, though not as strong as yours.”
“Which is why Smythe sent armed guards to keep them locked up in their own homes,” said Thomas. “He produced forged documents at the Accession Council stating that both swore their fealty to me.”
“The man is thorough, I’ll give him credit for that,” said Phillip. “He has thought of everything. So the council agreed? We can now refer to Your Highness as, ‘His Majesty’?”
“The vote was unanimous, as was the vote in the House of Nobles,” said Thomas. “They could not very well dispute the queen’s final wishes or disregard the fact that I am the legitimate heir to King James. After they made me king, the House’s next order of business was to advocate that we go to war with Rosia. They named Smythe Chancellor of War.”
Phillip stared at him, incredulous, and too sickened to speak.
“You can hardly blame them for wanting a loyal son of Freya to keep an eye on me,” Thomas continued. “I am young and inexperienced. I am a foreigner, known to be a friend to Rosia, and I am engaged to a Rosian princess.”
“Good God!” Phillip murmured.
“And now I am as much a prisoner in the palace as you are in this tower,” Thomas concluded. “Smythe is present at all my meetings. He speaks for me, makes decisions for me, reads my correspondence, dictates what I am to write, screens my servants. He places guards outside my door at night, ostensibly for my own protection, of course. He finally permitted me to come visit you, but I believe he made that concession only to remind me of the extent of his power over me. You will not be surprised to hear that my time is limited and his toady, Corporal Jennings, is waiting for me outside the door.”
“I do not think God would object if you did murder him,” said Phillip. “Are we going to war?”
“Not at the moment,” said Thomas, faintly smiling. “I was able to delay that decision, at least. I may be inexperienced, but I know that our nation cannot go to war without my sanction. I spoke before the House, talked affectingly of the loss of life, the expense which our country can ill afford, and the fact that we had no evidence that it was the Rosians who had killed the queen. I said I wanted time to consider the matter and I suggested that the House refer the matter to committee.”
“Well done!” said Phillip, regarding Thomas with admiration. “How did Smythe take it?”
“He was furious. He blustered and threatened, but there wasn’t much he could do. I am king, after all.”
“Speaking of Your Majesty, I read in the newspaper that the engagement to Sophia has been broken.”
“The one good thing Smythe did for all of us,” said Thomas. “He is currently seeking another princess for me to marry.”
“At least Sophia managed to escape Freya along with the countess—”
Phillip stopped talking, dismayed by Thomas’s darkening expression. “What is wrong?”
“Sophia did not escape,” said Thomas. “The countess left Rosia the night the queen was assassinated, but by some mischance, she did not take Sophia with her.”
“Where is she?” Phillip asked, alarmed.
“I have no idea. I know she is safe only because Smythe is still hunting for her. I have reason to believe that Kate is with her. The two fled the palace together.”
“Kate?” Phillip repeated, startled and not entirely pleased. “I am not certain whether that knowledge fills me with confidence or dread. How did Kate come to be in the palace?”
“You know as much as I do, my friend.”
A fist hammered on the door.
Thomas rose to his feet. “That will be Corporal Jennings. I would gladly let him beat on the door until he breaks his hand, but I must leave. Dignitaries are due to arrive to attend Her Majesty’s funeral, King Ullr of Guundar among them. Smythe has insisted I must be on hand to welcome him. The countess once warned me about King Ullr. She believes him to be intent on ruling the world. Do you know of this man?”
“The countess is right. King Ullr is not to be trusted,” Phillip said promptly. “He is ruthless in his drive to increase Guundar’s influence in the world. He will welcome a war between Freya and Rosia. As our troops march out the front door, Ullr will order his forces to march in through the back. You must be extremely wary of him, Thomas.”
“I know the Countess de Marjolaine does not trust him either,” said Thomas. “But Smythe seems to admire him. He tells me I should look upon King Ullr as an example of a strong ruler.”
“Ullr is a clever, devious man, and he has spies in your court,” said Phillip. “Beware especially of Baron Rupert Grimm. He is one of Ullr’s best.”
Phillip paused, looking thoughtful. “Ullr detested Sir Henry and he undoubtedly knows about his downfall. Note that he has taken the first opportunity to pay a visit just when Henry has disappeared. Which reminds me: Do you know what has become of him?”
“Smythe is hunting for him, as well. I believe Wallace is alive, simply because Smythe has not gloated over his death.”
Phillip seemed relieved. “Henry will find a way to help you.”
Thomas grimaced. “Sir Richard said the same thing. I am not so sure. Wallace has no love for me.”
“Henry is a loyal Freyan and he loved Queen Mary,” said Phillip. “He will find some way to contact you. When he does, accept his help. Meanwhile, there is one way you can find out what King Ullr is plotting.”
Phillip detained Thomas, resting his hand on his arm. He said softly, “You speak Guundaran, don’t you?”
Thomas nodded. “I served with Guundaran mercenaries during the war. I understand the language better than I speak it, but I do well enough.”
“Invite Ullr to be your guest in the palace. Put him on the third level in the suite of rooms known as the Godfrey Suite for the famous painting of King Godfrey that hangs on the wall of the main chamber.”
Thomas was puzzled. “Why those rooms in particular?”
Phillip lowered his voice. “The painting was commissioned by Sir Henry, and is very special. Behind the wall on which the painting hangs is a secret alcove. The painting covers holes concealed by magic in the wall. Anyone standing in that alcove can see and hear everything that is being said in that room.”
Thomas drew back from him. “You are saying I should spy on King Ullr.”
“Ullr will have his agents spying on you, Thomas,” said Phillip. “This is war, my friend. The king comes here for one reason. He smells blood and the scent of weakness. You are alone, surrounded by enemies with no one you can trust. I know what it is to be a spy. I spied on you, after all. I know it is sordid and dishonorable—”
“Which is why you stopped being a spy and confessed to me what you had done,” said Thomas. “Now you are asking me to do the same.”
Phillip regarded his friend with sympathy. “I am sorry, my friend. But you need to know what is going on between Ullr and Smythe!”
The fist banged on the door again, this time harder.
“I will think about it,” said Thomas in a tone which meant he never would even consider it.
Phillip understood his friend’s disgust. Spying on another was shameful, dishonorable. Yet, as he said, this was war. “If you change your mind, go to the servants’ closet near the Godfrey Suite where the servants store brooms and mops. One wall has three coat hooks on it. This wall is a secret door. The key to opening the door are three words, spoken aloud in this order, ‘Albert, Godfrey, Mary.’ The door leads to the alcove and the painting.”
Thomas nodded, though he seemed to have been only half listening.
“I will free you from this prison, Pip. I don’t yet know how, but I will do it. You have my word.”
“I am not your first concern,” said Phillip. “Concentrate on finding a way to free our people. God go with you, my friend.”
The two shook hands. Thomas rapped on the door and it swung open. He walked out and the door closed after him. Phillip heard the keys rattle and a voice chanting magic, replacing the warding spells on the door.
Phillip paced the chamber around and around, worried, helpless, frustrated. He remembered as a little boy capturing a sparrow and putting it into a cage. The bird had repeatedly flung itself against the bars of the cage until his mother had told him it would bash itself to death if he did not set it free.
He walked until he wore himself out and then he lay down on the bed and stared at the stone walls.