The King's Pursuit Read online

  Sir Greyson looks around at his men. He cannot tell who is who, for they all wear the same armor, none more decorative than another, but he knows them all by name. This is what makes Sir Greyson a great leader. He knows the names of his men. He knows their families. He knows their habits and which ones prefer falling asleep after a hand of cards and who prefers to eat their supper and retire early. He knows which ones have wives and how many children they have and what sorts of stories they enjoy telling the most. He is a commander who cares. And they are men he can trust.

  “Yes, sire,” he says. “I trust my men implicitly.”

  King Willis blows out a breath. He looks at the king’s guard standing before him. He looks at Sir Greyson.

  “No one has seen them, Your Majesty,” Sir Greyson says.

  “No one has seen them,” King Willis says. He adds a laugh to the end of it, though it is not a laugh that carries merriment. “They are being given asylum.”

  Asylum, dear reader, is protection offered to one on the run.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Greyson says. “Perhaps they are. We questioned everyone in each kingdom.”

  “As far as Guardia,” King Willis says. “Do you believe the children of Fairendale could have traveled so far as all that in so little time?”

  “With help, perhaps,” Sir Greyson says.

  “And who, I ask, might help children such as these?” King Willis says, though it is, perhaps, quite a silly question. Many people would help children in danger.

  Sir Greyson does not answer such a silly question. He merely waits for the king to speak again. He is thinking, this moment, of the itch crawling around his beard. He longs to scratch it, but he is a disciplined man, and he has disciplined men to lead. What would his men think of their captain if they were expected to remain perfectly still in the presence of their king when he, their leader, took even a moment to scratch a persistent itch? That would not be authority. It would not be integrity. It would not be honor.

  A leader who demands something of his men must be ready to sacrifice the same. This is precisely why Sir Greyson has never married, truth be told. When one says the vows to become a king’s guard, there is a clause that says a man must be ready to forsake his family for the good of the kingdom. Sir Greyson does not know if he could do what some of his men have done. He does not know if he could round up children who were his. And, aside from all that, no one in the village seemed the least bit interested in the captain of the guard. There had been a woman once, but it was so long ago Sir Greyson could hardly remember what it was like being loved. He saw her every now and again, breezing about the village, her fiery hair gripping the wind as it had the day they had parted. He has not seen her since the roundup, the day her daughter disappeared.

  “You,” King Willis says. Sir Greyson flinches, as if woken from a sleep. He is exhausted from his travels, you see. That is the reason his attention wanders. “Must search them all again.”

  Sir Greyson does not say anything for a breath. Two. Three. Fifteen. And then he says, “If I may,” which, in the kingdom of Fairendale, is like a code of sorts. Code for “I would like to speak candidly, please.”

  “Very well,” King Willis says.

  “I fear that some will question the peace between our kingdoms if we travel to our neighbors again,” Sir Greyson says. “A second questioning could very well tell them we do not trust them.”

  King Willis waves his hand, dismissing this observation of Sir Greyson’s, as if it is merely a small concern, though Sir Greyson knows better. The relations between the kingdoms and Fairendale have been tenuous since King Sebastien took all their men and killed them in a battle that benefited only him. The women and children left in the other kingdoms, at the time, could do nothing against King Sebastien’s magic. The Great Battle is a story every child in Fairendale is told, and one cannot always know whether a story is true. But what if it is? What if the kingdoms, which bear men once more, should attack Fairendale tomorrow because of King Sebastien’s cruelty all those years ago? King Willis does not have magic, and Prince Virgil is only a boy without magic. No one knows that, of course. Sir Greyson is not, in fact, supposed to know it.

  They do not want war, do they?

  “We do not trust the other kingdoms,” King Willis says. “Interrogate them again.”

  Sir Greyson clears his throat, as if about to speak again, but King Willis turns an eye his way. His look is dark and challenging. Sir Greyson straightens his back.

  Will he be able to do this for the king, knowing what might happen?

  Of course he will. Sir Greyson is a man of duty, after all. He will do as his king commands.

  “As you wish, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

  “Question every man, woman and child you find in all the kingdoms of the realm,” King Willis says. “Search their houses and their woods and their wastelands. The children could be hiding anywhere. They must be found.”

  “We shall begin with home,” Sir Greyson says. His men need and deserve a break. And they had not yet questioned the people of Fairendale, for the people’s wounds were too raw when the soldiers rode away on horseback. They had lost their children. They had lost friends as well. He does not hold any illusions that the people will be more helpful now than they were then. But at least his men will have tried. At least they will be home.

  “The farthest lands,” King Willis says. “You shall start with the farthest lands.”

  “We have not searched our own lands as thoroughly as we searched the distant ones,” Sir Greyson says. “The best place to hide is here.”

  He does not know if this is what the children have done, of course, but he does know that his men will not be traveling for seven days and seven nights without rest yet again. There will be a mutiny, at best.

  King Willis stares at Sir Greyson for a time. And then he smiles, a small, delighted smile. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, you are correct. You will search every inch of Fairendale and the Weeping Woods. That is where they shall be found. I am sure of it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Greyson says. His head dips in a half-bow.

  “They shall be found!” King Willis roars.

  The guard, then, erupts, as is expected when a king gives what sounds like a battle cry, as this one does. Sir Greyson nods to the man on the end, and they begin their filing out in neat, clean lines. Sir Greyson stands tall until the last man has left the hall. Then he bows to his king, his face to the scarlet rug that travels the length of the room.

  “That is all,” King Willis says. Sir Greyson marches out.

  When he is gone, King Willis shifts in his golden chair, attempting to find a position more comfortable than the one he assumed when his guard stood before him. Flesh squeezes out at every chance it gets. Prince Virgil keeps his eyes on his father’s face.

  “I had almost forgotten you were here,” King Willis says. Prince Virgil tries not to feel hurt at these words.

  Garth holds a glass of water for King Willis. The king snatches it from the boy and drinks a long gulp and then hands the half-empty cup back to Garth.

  “Some sweet rolls for the prince and me,” the king says. Garth scurries out to do his bidding, not wanting, perhaps, to stay a minute longer in the room that smells like sweaty men who have not bathed in a week. Prince Virgil would like to go, too, but he cannot. His father has just ordered sweet rolls for him, which means the king would like his son to stay.

  As it so happens, Prince Virgil loves sweet rolls. He is never one to pass up an opportunity to eat one or several. Sweet rolls, in the kingdom of Fairendale, are much like what I believe you call donuts in your kingdom. They are fried morsels of bread resembling a target with the bulls-eye cut out, covered in a sugary frosting that dissolves in one’s mouth. Prince Virgil, I suspect, likes them as much as any child today likes a donut on occasion. Not all the time, of course. Sweet rolls are known to steal teeth.

  So Prince Virgil waits, and while he waits, the king talks. He talks long, wit
h waving arms and wiggling eyebrows, but after a time, Prince Virgil merely ceases to listen, hearing, instead, a drone such as what a bee might make if right beside one’s ear.

  “Well, son?” the king says, at long last.

  Prince Virgil has just been wondering how long it takes for Cook to make sweet rolls. He has not heard what his father asked him. He stares at his father, trying to work his way back to the words at the beginning. His father said the children could be hiding in other kingdoms, but it was far more likely that they were hiding in the woods. That was the last clear thing Prince Virgil heard. And so he says, “Yes, father,” somewhat woodenly.

  “I will send out a decree then,” King Willis says. “The prince has approved.”

  Prince Virgil feels a lurch in his stomach. What exactly is it he has approved? The death of the village children? He does not remember his father mentioning a decree. It must have been buried in all the words that buzzed about in his ears and then flew right back out.

  “A decree,” Prince Virgil says, hoping that his father will repeat himself, as he so often does.

  “Yes,” King Willis says. “Yes, I think it will work. A decree to the other kingdoms.” King Willis stares off in the distance. Prince Virgil watches his father’s mouth moving, but no sound comes out for a moment. Then King Willis says, “Something like, if any child has entered your kingdom in the last two weeks—perhaps a month, to be safe—you must send them back to Fairendale. They are fugitives, not innocents.” The king’s dark eyes lose their marble look. He turns to his son. “Meanwhile, our men can search closer to home.”

  Prince Willis does not ask how his father could command other kingdoms to do any of what he bids them, for he does not want to know, in truth. A stinging relief clots in his eyes. At least he has not unknowingly killed someone. At least the children are still safe. At least his friends...

  Where are the sweet rolls? When can he leave this smelly room? He would like to sit on his balcony, in the open air, away from his father, please. “It is a good idea, Father,” he says, as if his agreement might pass the time faster.

  “You show good judgement, my son,” King Willis says, though Prince Willis is unsure how he shows good judgement by merely agreeing with his father. King Willis, you see, believes that good judgement means agreeing with those in charge. And because he is the one in charge, that, of course, means agreeing with his plans. We know that agreeing with another is not always the mark of good judgment. Good judgment is more than agreement. But that is not a lesson easily taught, especially not for one such as King Willis.

  Prince Virgil nods his head, wishing those sweet rolls would come, and Garth walks in, carrying a plate heaped with them, two more empty plates tucked beneath his arm.

  “Two for the boy,” King Willis says.

  Prince Virgil is slightly disappointed. There must be at least a dozen on the tray. Why can he not have more?

  “We must not rot your teeth,” King Willis says. He takes a great, massive bite of one that does not resemble a target with the hole cut out, for this one has cherry filling in its middle. The filling drips down his chin, but he does not seem to notice. Garth wipes it away, and King Willis finishes six sweet rolls before Prince Virgil has finished his two. When he is done, when there has been no other talking for several minutes, Prince Virgil takes leave of his father.

  “Good-bye, father,” he says.

  King Willis does not seem to hear him. “Sweet rolls anytime you want,” he is murmuring between mouthfuls. “What a lovely life.”

  What a lovely life indeed.

  Prince Virgil turns to leave, the sweet taste of the treat turning sour in his mouth.

  THE message comes through a knock on the door, each home’s door meticulously tapped in the same precisely precise way. Come tonight. To the fountain. The passageway beneath the land.

  They used to use candles. Back when Prince Wendell was set to inherit the throne, they lit candles to communicate with a man they hoped would become a good king who would reign forever. It was always the same message. Come tonight. To the fountain. The passageway beneath the land.

  Prince Wendell would watch from his window, where he could see all the houses of the village, for it was never the same house that carried the message. That, after all, would appear suspicious. It happened at different times as well, if, perhaps, the prince was late getting to his window or was watching early one day. The villagers would watch from their windows, too, for the answer that came in light and darkness and the spaces between.

  And then there came a night when the answer never flickered. One home after another sent out its message, but Prince Wendell never made it to his window. He was gone. Banished. Forever lost. The people of the village met in their regular meeting place, but their prince never came.

  The next day, they learned that King Sebastien had banished his kind son for the very favor they were asking him the night before. Helping the people. Providing new blankets. Giving them an extra loaf of bread of two.

  And so they had stopped using candles, for they had been discovered. The little girl, Clarion, had told of their call. But she had not told of their place.

  The villagers are resourceful and imaginative and wise in a way the kingdom did not anticipate. They found another way, thanks to Arthur. Though the night guards know about the candlelight, they do not know about the knocks. The village people have not used the knocks in many years, but she knows, now, that it is time.

  They will recognize her knock, of course. And because the village has grown dark in these days after the roundup of its children, no one will see her moving to every door. And because the night will yet grow darker still, no one will see the villagers steal away to the hiding place they have managed to keep secret all these years.

  Tonight, the message is delivered in three long taps, a breath, five quick taps, another breath, two taps, breath, five taps, breath, one tap more.

  They know what it means, the ones who are listening.

  And this, dear reader, is what lifts some of them from their beds. It is what slides past the grief and begins to bloom into something akin to hope.

  It is what sends Death away from their doorways for another time or another place or another day.

  Miraculous taps.

  THERE are some who do not feel as hopeful as those villagers, however, for they have not heard the taps, and even if they had, they would not know what the stirrings mean.

  The children down deep in the bowels of the castle, have grown tired of the darkness. Children are not known to like darkness anyway, but it is always made better when a loving mother or father is near. Though there is a prophet or two or five for every child in this dungeon, though the prophets’ arms wrap around the children and keep them warm as their blankets once did, there is not a single mother or father here. And this is what dampens the children’s eyes tonight.

  They are afraid, dear reader. They are afraid of the infinite blackness. They are afraid that they will never again see light. They are afraid that they will never again see their parents.

  They are trapped in a place that could easily be forgotten. They do not know how many days it has been. They do not know one hour from another. Sometimes they wake and there is a bit of bread waiting for them. Sometimes they can hear the footsteps that belong to the one tasked with delivering them their water for the day. Sometimes, when the door far, far above them opens, they have the faintest glimpse of the light they miss almost as much as they miss their parents. Or perhaps it is only their imagination.

  The prophetess, truth be told, has never liked the dark, either, but she is fully grown. So it is her voice that cuts through their silent weeping. “It will not be forever, children,” she says.

  But she knows, of course, that children cannot always sense the passage of time as those with more years can. She knows that it has been eight days since they were locked in a dark dungeon, but she knows that to children, eight days can feel like a whole lifetime.
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br />   “But what if it is?” a voice cries out. It is young. Perhaps seven? Younger? Aleen cannot tell. Such a shame that this young child has come to live in a place so dark and damp. If there were light in this dungeon, the children would see Aleen’s wild black plaits bouncing as she shakes her head. Such a shame.

  “We know it will not be,” another voice says. A man. Confident. Gentle. Aleen thinks, perhaps, she has heard this voice before, but without the light, without the face, she cannot know for sure. It has been more than one hundred years, after all, since she was that girl.

  “Remember,” the man says. “We can See.”

  “You can see in the dark?” another voice asks. A child, older. Perhaps eleven.

  “No, child,” the man’s voice says. “We can See the future.”

  “Who are you?” Aleen says. “I believe the children would like to know your name, sir.”

  The man shifts. She hears him moving toward her. She is sure he has a child draped around him, for every prophet here does.

  “I am called Yerin,” he says.

  “That is a funny name,” another child says. Aleen smiles, but of course no one sees.

  “Yes. It is,” Yerin says.

  “Tell us what you See, Yerin,” Aleen says. She asks, because she cannot See right now. There is only black for her, and that has made her believe that she will be in this dungeon longer than the others, perhaps. Or that there is something dangerous she must do. Or that she will die. Prophets See black when Death draws near.

  There was a time, before she came to this castle, when she could See a whole year into the future, where most prophets See only a few months at most, but her Seeing vanished when they took the book the Old Man gave her. It was a diary of sorts, some three thousand pages. She did not think much of it back when the man who walked her down these stairs had taken it gently from her hands. She would not have been able to read it in this dungeon’s dark, after all.