Colonel Jonathan Smythe stood in the middle of a lavishly decorated room in the Freyan royal palace and took a moment to revel in the knowledge that his plot had succeeded. The queen—that spawn of the Evil One—was dead. Once he was coroneted, Prince Thomas Stanford would be king of Freya and Smythe was one step closer to achieving his goal: ruling Freya himself.
For now, he had to make certain Stanford knew who was in charge. Thomas would soon be king, but it was Smythe who held the crown. Thomas should feel gratitude to the man who had put him on the throne.
And if he refused the crown, if he was too squeamish to put it on his head just because it had a little blood on it, Smythe had made contingency plans, and he waited with some curiosity to see what Thomas would do. He did not know, because he did not know the young man well. Most of what he knew about Thomas came from his mother, Constanza, and she was a doting fool.
Smythe was the commander of the prince’s small army, whose mission was to serve as escort, taking the prince to Freya when he succeeded to the throne. He knew Thomas had been an officer in the Estaran army and that, according to his mother, he had served with distinction in the war against the Bottom Dwellers. Thomas himself rarely spoke of the war and evinced no interest in military matters. He left all decisions regarding his army to his colonel.
This arrangement had suited Smythe well. He had taken advantage of the prince’s disinterest to plot the invasion of Freya.
He did have to give Thomas grudging credit for the fact that, while shocked and shaken by the terrible events of this night, Thomas maintained his composure, even though he had just discovered the commander of his army was in truth a violent revolutionary who had murdered the queen, while his best friend, Phillip Masterson, lay bloodied and beaten at his feet.
Yet Thomas had strength enough to rise from the side of his unconscious friend to confront Smythe.
“What do you want from me?”
“Ah, now we get to the nub of the matter, sir,” Smythe replied. “When I undertook this command at the behest of your mother and the members of the Faithful, I believed I was doing God’s work. Together we would remove the last surviving member of a profligate, corrupt family from the throne and restore Freya to her rightful position as a power in the world. I believed in you and in your cause. And then I came to know you.”
Or perhaps Smythe had come to know himself.
He was an ambitious man, hungry for power, and frustrated to know that as the eldest son of a strict, God-fearing and impoverished Fundamentalist minister, he would be forced to live on scraps of power tossed to him by his “betters.” He could not understand how Thomas, given the gift of royal birth by the hand of God, could so lightly toss it aside, as he might toss aside a soiled handkerchief.
God had placed Smythe in the position of being able to pick up that handkerchief and tuck it into his own pocket. God had brought him to the attention of Sir Richard Wallace, a member of the Faithful, a secret organization devoted to restoring the Stanford family to the throne.
Richard had recommended Smythe to Thomas’s parents, who had hired him to raise and train the army that was to support and protect their son. God had seen fit to drop a mast on Queen Mary’s son, the heir to the throne, and inflict diphtheria on his little child, thus clearing the way for Thomas. Admittedly, Smythe had helped God along a little by assassinating the queen, but he believed the Scriptures, which said the Lord helps those who help themselves.
“You are a man of honor and strong principle,” Smythe told Thomas. “I have been told these are excellent qualities in a king. Sadly, you are also a fool who doesn’t have the wit to know what to do with the power I was going to give you.”
Smythe’s plan had been for his armies to seize control of Freya with as little disruption as possible. The revolution would happen and few would be aware of it, and those who tried to resist would be silenced. When Freya was under Smythe’s control, he would permit Thomas to enter and hand him the keys to the kingdom.
Unfortunately, Thomas, who had turned out to be more energetic and resourceful than Smythe had expected, had foiled this plan by traveling to Freya in secret to meet with the queen. Queen Mary, acting with confounding good sense, had been going to name him the heir to the throne and make her announcement public. Thomas would have been able to enter the kingdom in peace, without need for Smythe or his revolution.
Smythe had been forced to act swiftly to regain control of the situation.
“I do know what to do with power, Your Highness,” Smythe informed him. “I have plans for Freya and her people. For years, I watched a feeble queen and her lackwit councilors, such as Sir Richard, beggar my country, groveling before godless infidels such as King Renaud. I could no longer stand idly by and watch my country sink into the stew of corruption.
“But then, I thought, who will pay heed to me and my ideas? Who am I? A man of low birth. A common soldier, as your lady mother delights in reminding me. The meanest beggar on the street would pay no heed to me. Your Highness speaks, and kings jump to do your bidding.”
Thomas regarded him with contempt.
“I see what you are planning, Smythe, and I would sooner dance with the devil. You might as well put a bullet in my head now, for I will not be a party to this deranged scheme of yours.”
“I will not harm you, sir,” Smythe was careful to assure him. “You are the true and rightful king. I need you, and I hope you will eventually realize that you need me. We will make a good team. But in case you don’t come to your senses, I am holding His Grace as surety for your good behavior, as well as your mother and father, who are now prisoners in Bheldem. They will remain safe so long as you do what you are bidden. Your first test will come with the dawn.”
Smythe had rehearsed that speech many times during the long watches of the night in that wretched fortress in Bheldem. Thomas would see that he had no choice. The enemy had him surrounded on all sides. He would have to make an unconditional surrender.
He went on to tell Thomas a great deal more, explaining his plan to him, how he intended to blame the Rosians for the death of the queen and implicate Princess Sophia in the plot.
“You will start a war!” Thomas protested, horrified.
“Such is my intent,” said Smythe.
All had gone according to plan thus far. His plot to kill the queen with a green-beam gun had succeeded. A few minor problems had arisen, but Smythe had dealt with those swiftly and effectively. He had been quick to take advantage of God-given opportunities. Learning that Princess Sophia of Rosia had been dining with the queen this night, he had sent his soldiers under command of Corporal Jennings to find the princess, place her under arrest.
Smythe’s only regret was giving way to his temper and shooting Sir Richard Wallace, an influential member of the House of Nobles and a leader in the Faithful. That had been a mistake, but he had lost patience with the old fool. Too late, Smythe had remembered he would need the support of the Faithful and the House of Nobles in days to come and Richard could provide it. At least, he hadn’t killed him; only winged him. Smythe was confident he could frighten Richard into keeping his mouth shut and doing what he was told.
Thomas cast a glance toward the door to the balcony that was standing wide open. The thought came to Smythe that the young man might be contemplating jumping off the balcony to his death.
“One of you, shut those doors,” he ordered. “His Highness finds the sound of gunfire distressing.”
As the soldiers did his bidding, Smythe walked over to Thomas and placed his hand on his shoulder. No man was supposed to touch the person of the king; Smythe not only touched him, he tightened his grip.
“Make up your mind to accept God’s will and this trial will be easier for you. You will be king, Your Highness, for as long as I say you will be king.”
Thomas regarded him with a look of contempt and struck his hand aside.
Smythe shrugged. “At least Your Highness has the wit to act like a king.”
He turned to his soldiers and gestured to Phillip, who was starting to regain consciousness. “Take His Grace to Offdom Tower and lock him in a cell. Do not worry, Your Highness,” he added as the guards picked up Phillip and hauled him away. “So long as you behave, His Grace will be well treated.”
He fancied he could see Thomas sink beneath his words, crushed and humbled. Thomas disdained to answer him and Smythe again saw him glance toward the balcony door.
Why the devil does he keep looking that direction? Smythe wondered.
He recalled that Thomas had been standing outside on that balcony when he had entered the room. Thomas had left the balcony to confront him and the door remained open behind him. Smythe had been preoccupied with more important matters and had paid little heed. A chill wind was blowing into the room. Leaving the door standing wide open made no sense—unless Thomas had left it open for a reason.
Smythe walked outside to investigate. As he passed Thomas, he thought he noted a crack in the king’s calm demeanor.
The balcony was not large, and Smythe was soon satisfied that no one was lurking in the darkness. He walked to the stone rail and peered down to the ground below.
The palace walls shone with faint white radiance that came from the magical constructs placed into the stone. The magical constructs lit the night with a pale glow, like moonlight. The only people he could see in the garden were his troops, wearing the uniforms of the palace guard.
He looked to either side. Every room on this level had its own balcony that overlooked the palace gardens. The adjacent balcony was not ten feet away. The balcony appeared deserted, its glass windows dark. He was about to go back inside when he heard the clock in the room behind him chime midnight and he could faintly hear a clock in the room next door chime the hour.
Someone standing on that balcony could have overheard his conversation with Thomas.
“Who was in that room?” Smythe asked one of the soldiers.
“His Highness was there with Sir Richard, sir,” the soldier answered. “We brought them both to this room on your orders.”
Smythe was struck by a sudden unwelcome thought. He had never before been inside the palace, but he had studied the layout extensively in order to deploy his men. He recalled that Sir Richard had brought Thomas to the Rose Room, which contained a secret passage. Sir Richard had chosen that room for that very reason, for he had smuggled Thomas through the secret passage into the palace to meet with the queen.
Smythe walked over to confront the wounded man.
“Sir Richard, is that room known as the Rose Room?”
Richard lay back in his chair, his hand pressed over the bullet hole in his arm. His face was white and haggard, but he rallied enough to glare at Smythe. “Go to the devil.”
“You two, keep watch on His Highness,” Smythe ordered. “He is not to leave this room.”
Drawing his pistol, Smythe flung open the door and walked out into the hallway. His sudden appearance startled the guards.
“Where is Corporal Jennings?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said one. “We haven’t seen him since he posted us here. He said he had orders to search for the princess.”
“Did you see anyone come out of that room?” Smythe demanded, gesturing.
The guard blinked. “What room, sir?”
“That room!”
Smythe pointed at the door to the Rose Room, only no door was there, which meant no room was there. But the room that didn’t exist had a balcony. He had not imagined that.
“Illusion magic,” he stated. “There is a door. The magic tricks your mind into thinking there isn’t. Concentrate your thoughts and you will see through the illusion.”
The moment he spoke the words, he broke the spell and had the satisfaction of seeing the magic shimmer and ripple like the surface of a pond when a stone hits the water. The door to the Rose Room appeared. The soldier gave an audible gasp of astonishment.
“I know of only one person who is adept at casting illusion magic,” Smythe said grimly. “I believe we have found the Princess Sophia.”
He looked back and saw Thomas tending to Sir Richard’s gunshot wound and pointedly ignoring Smythe. The prince could not fool him, however. Smythe fancied he saw Thomas smile and he guessed the reason why.
“The princess was hiding on the balcony of the Rose Room, wasn’t she, sir? That was why you left the door open, so she could hear us.”
“On the contrary, sir,” Thomas returned coolly. “I left the door open to rid this room of the foul stench.”
He looked pointedly at Smythe.