The best parts of this chapter are dedicated to LV3950. The worst parts are dedicated to LV3950's detestable library. Cheers.
…
Fastion watched the other Black Shields from the doorway. It had only taken a few minutes for him to be affected the last time and he scrutinized them for signs of betrayal.
"Is there a way to stop it?" Willis asked, touching the object the same way Fastion had, with one finger. "A way to snuff it out?"
"Such a pity it is so beautiful," someone whispered. Fastion peered through the torchlight. Had that been Tess?
"Those panels are made of glass – perhaps we could break it."
"If we break it we will be unable to study it."
"Do you see the colors?"
Fastion stepped into the gathered group, moving silently among them.
"Why would we keep something that makes us into traitors?" Donal murmured. Fastion clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, keeping one eye on the device and one on his brothers and sisters.
"Crush it and be done with it."
"We need to find a way to stop it without destroying it."
"Do you not remember what it did to us? The innocents we attacked? The king? It must be destroyed."
"The king needs to be made aware of it. It isn't affecting us now – keep it here until he returns."
Fastion lifted his head at a movement at the back of the room. Was that someone leaving?
"When the king returns…" someone whispered. "If the king returns."
"He will return. And when that happens, we need to be prepared."
Urgency rushed through Fastion's veins and he began pushing his way toward the doorway. Someone sneaking out. A spy.
"We can move it up to the main floor, perhaps to the throne room. It will wait for him there."
"He will remember the manner of his escape. He will try to sneak into the city."
"We will need to prepare the castle for his return. Any and all insurgents must be…"
"…the Rider. That boy who can see will…"
"…are the only ones who can…traitors are…"
"...whatever is necessary…to..."
The voices faded as Fastion ran down the hallway. He could barely see the shape of someone running ahead of him. Setting his jaw, he ran faster, drawing a knife from the belt around his thigh. The runner scrambled up the collapsed floor and the knife hissed through the air. It clattered harmlessly on the rocks and Fastion blinked. There was no one there, and the rocks were on fire. He shook his head, then looked again. Fire. His arm began to blaze.
He stared at the wooden door in front of his face.
"Are you all right, sir?"
Fastion turned. The Rider-Mender, Ben, had paused in his duties to watch him in concern. "I'm sorry, I thought you came here to see Mara. Is it your head?"
His head? That's right, he'd hurt his head. "Yes," Fastion admitted. "I'm afraid my mind is playing tricks on me." He offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes, knocked, and entered Mara's room.
She was a little ball beneath the bedcovers; only bits of her wild hair peeked out from beneath the blanket. This time, his smile curved his eyes as he knelt beside the bed and pulled the covers off of her face. She shifted slightly, but didn't wake. He wrapped a chunk of her hair around his fingers and concentrated on the freckles dusting her nose as he thought.
He had been in the room with the others. That much was certain. They were talking about…the device. What to do with it. What did they decide? Moving it to the throne room. Or did they decide to destroy it? And then…something…about the king. And traitors. There was…he was chasing someone….
"You're back," Mara murmured sleepily. Fastion hastily unwound the rope of hair from his hand and stood.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he apologized. "How are you feeling?"
She pulled herself up and stretched. "Decent." She smiled up at him, then threw a hand to her head. "Oh! Right! What happened? What did they decide to do?"
Decide?
She peered into his face. "Fastion? The device. What are you going to do about it?"
Fastion looked down. A knife was missing from his gear. He looked back at her. She watched him curiously. "Is something wrong?"
"I couldn't do it," he whispered.
"What?"
"I failed. Again. Mara –"
"What is it?"
He began pacing. "I was down there, and then I was here. Mara, I can't remember anything."
She pulled the covers back and stood, resting a hand on his arm to stop his agitated walking. "You aren't making any sense. Remember what?"
"I don't remember walking from there to here. I couldn't resist the device. It took control of me again. And the others – " He frowned.
"The others? You mean…?"
Somewhere, someone screamed.
…
Alton glanced at the Weapons as he stepped past. Their faces were unreadable, as usual, but he wondered what occupied their thoughts as of late. Their anxiety was particularly keen and seemed to triple the stress already permeating the castle. One could always find them at their old haunts – the king's chambers, outside the doors to his study, and here, at the throne room, as if they still had a king to defend.
The lord sighed and shook his head, then turned his attention to the small group of men gathered on the dais. Lord-Governors Coutre, Mirwell, and Penburn seemed to be in a heated argument, and Castellan Sperren waved his own staff around animatedly. As Alton neared, the topic of the discussion became obvious and he groaned.
"It is the duty of the castellan to assume the responsibilities of the king when he is absent," Sperren said, banging the end of his staff on the stone floor. "Stop this fruitless arguing now."
"And if the king is dead? Is it the duty of the castellan to take his crown?" Mirwell said from his seat on a dais step.
"We have no news of the king's status. The search parties departed mere hours ago."
"And it hasn't even been a day," Alton added. No one seemed to hear him.
"The king is gone, castellan. You are the lesser son of a lesser son. Will Sacoridia truly be placed in the hands of one such as you?" Coutre cooed, resting his narrowed eyes on Sperren's flushed face. "Come now."
"If anything of such importance is to be decided, all the governors must be gathered," Hendry Penburn stated, arms folded, eyes glinting. "Until all of us are here, keep your greedy eyes off the throne."
"Or until the king returns," Alton interjected. Still, he was ignored.
"It would take weeks for the governors to be gathered," Mirwell argued. "The country cannot wait that long for a new leader. No, this must be decided as quickly as possible. Here. Now."
"Do you really think the governors would simply vote on who will take Zachary's place? Do you not remember the last time a king passed on without an heir?" Coutre raised his chin. "My daughter –"
"My lord, may I remind you," Sperren said loftily, "that Lady Estora is not queen yet?"
"The laws of king and queen apply only after the wedding," Penburn added. "She has as much claim to the throne as the rest of us."
"As the king's future father-in-law –"
"You're more likely to die of old age than get the crown," Mirwell cut in with a wave of a hand. "Speaking of which, isn't it your naptime yet?"
Coutre scowled. "Learn some respect, pup. Remember who you speak to."
Timas Mirwell laughed outright. "Yes, right. How could I forget? You're the oily coot who tossed your blonde-haired baggage right beneath the king's feet."
"See here –"
"Excuse me!" Alton shouted. They all looked at him in surprise. He threw his arms into the air. "I'm sorry. Did I miss a message? Is King Zachary dead?" He cut into their midst, leveling each with a critical gaze. "How dare you debate something that isn't yours to take?"
"Stay out of this, Rider," Coutre snapped. Alton lifted his chin.
"It's Rider Lord Alton D'Yer, if you please."
"What right have you to censor us?" Mirwell demanded. He swept his gaze over Alton's green attire. "You aren't even lord-governor."
"Though I'm sure the king can't wait until you are," Coutre murmured. Alton turned to him.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That is interesting," Mirwell mused. "Zachary's pet Rider governing a province. How convenient. Soon he'll have Hillander, Coutre, and D'Yer under his foot."
Alton's lip curled and before the equally inflamed Lord Coutre could speak, he growled, "D'Yer Province will be governed as it always has been – by D'Yers. Not –" He stopped.
"Not…what? You won't heed the king's guidance? Where does your loyalty lie, then, if not with him?" Hendry watched him closely.
"Don't twist my words, Penburn," Alton snapped. "I don't have to prove my loyalty to any of you."
"If you did, then the D'Yer wall would be repaired." Mirwell scrutinized a fingernail. "What a pity."
Alton felt his face grow hot and he spun on the younger man. No decent counter came to mind, so his face grew hotter as he glared in wordless abhorrence. Sperren, who had watched the argument with increasing distress, waved his staff around again. "Cease this useless fighting at once. Protocol has been established. Until we receive word, I will –"
"You will do nothing. As the eldest here, it is my responsibility to take control." Coutre puffed out his skinny chest.
"I beg your pardon?" Penburn said in obvious astonishment. "I can't even comprehend what could have given you that idea."
"Step down, old man. Let someone less likely to have a stroke take the position."
"Don't get too cocky, Mirwell." Penburn turned to him. "We haven't forgotten the recent events involving a certain queen-to-be."
Timas jumped to his feet, infuriated. "I had nothing to do with that."
"And yet wasn't it one of your servants who told Rider G'ladheon where to go to see – err, something of interest to her?" Alton countered with a wicked smile. "I wonder where he could have gotten that information."
"How dare you," Timas hissed. "I am no traitor."
"You are your father's son."
Timas barely reached Alton's nose, but he was stronger than he looked. Feeling as though a brick had hit his face, Alton tripped back into Penburn. Disregarding the blood gushing from his split lip, the Rider launched himself on the young Mirwellian, all of his pent-up aggression exploding as they toppled down the dais steps.
He managed to land a few hits before hands grasped his waistcoat and lifted him into the air. Timas was similarly restrained, spitting curses through his bloody mouth.
"Enough!"
The voice, stronger than Alton had ever heard it, echoed in the throne room. He immediately sagged and was lowered onto his feet. Timas struggled vainly against the powerful arms of the Weapon that held him until he was finally released. He stumbled away, unbalanced, straightening his clothes and jerking a hand over his mouth.
Lady Estora, her brilliant features strained and angry, stood with a Weapon on either side. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded in an uncharacteristically harsh voice. Before anyone could answer, she swept on. "Look at yourselves. The king isn't gone a day and here you are, tussling like dogs over a bone. It's disgusting."
"Easy for you. You're two steps away from the crown," Mirwell retorted. Estora leveled her piercing gaze on him and he suddenly found a crack in the floor very interesting.
Estora looked down and shook her head briskly before looking at them again. In a softer voice, she continued, "It is Sacoridian law that in the event of the king's absence, the castellan will rule until his return. Can you not respect that?"
"Estora, consider your current position. You could –"
"Stop it," she snapped at her father. He stepped backwards in surprise. "Haven't you done enough already?"
His sagging jaw snapped shut. Mirwell sniggered and Penburn smirked, then seemed to remember himself and passed a hand over his face, pacing away from the group.
"Shame on you," Estora said. "Shame on all of you." With an imperious gesture at the Weapons, she turned and left the room, her father hurrying to catch up with her. Sniffing, Castellan Sperren exited through the king's door behind the throne.
"Here," Penburn mumbled, holding out a handkerchief. "I apologize for my words." Alton took it and pressed it against his mouth, ignoring Timas Mirwell's murderous glare.
"The same."
"I say, release me!" Lord Coutre's upraised voice drifted to them from the hallway. The three young men stared at the empty doorway. "Estora! No, Estora! Protect her!"
The king's door opened and a group of Weapons marched into the chamber, their faces stony.
"What's happening?" Penburn asked.
"You must come with us."
Timas Mirwell, closest to them, was seized. "Let me go, damn you!" he shouted, writhing in their grips as they dragged him out of the room. "Do you know who I am? How dare you treat me like this? I said, let me go!"
Penburn exchanged a dismayed look with Alton as he was also grabbed. His split lip forgotten, Alton backed away from the three Weapons that closed in on him, their swords drawn.
"Rider," one of them spat.
"Really!" Alton shouted as they charged him. He threw up his hands and they collided with an invisible wall. They composed themselves quickly, almost mechanically, and chased the Rider as he bolted through the king's door.
He passed a restrained Castellan Sperren, slipping just out of the reach of his captors. Gods, why was this happening again? He skidded to a stop when a line of Weapons appeared ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder. More Weapons. I'm going to die, he thought.
The recently arrived Weapons drew their swords and charged…right past him. He spun as the two groups fell into heated battle. He watched, horrified and entranced by the lethal grace with which they fought each other.
"My lord D'Yer," one of them shouted. "Run!"
Jolted out of his trance, Alton turned and ran. The castle had gone mad. Again.
…
"They're guarding it like they guard the king," Mara hissed. Fastion grunted in response. They stood in the shadows of the anteroom, peering down the collapsed floor at the only hallway leading to the device. Two Weapons stood at attention at the opening and two others soon appeared.
"Patrol," Fastion whispered, slipping back. Mara followed.
"What are you planning?" she asked.
"We go to the tombs," Fastion replied. "If the guards down there are still loyal, their numbers will be invaluable." He took one last glance over his shoulder before hurrying down the hallway.
Invaluable, indeed, Mara thought, hearing the murmuring voices of the patrol. She fell into step behind him
After a moment, she asked, "Why aren't you being controlled, like them?"
"I was."
"But not now. And before, when I grabbed the device, you didn't kill me. You saved me."
He was silent as he jogged. "Fire," he finally said.
"What does that mean?"
"I saw fire in my mind. My arm began burning and that is when I snapped back to reality." He didn't look, but he did reach one hand behind him. Mara took it, biting a smile, and allowed him to pull her along the hallway.
They entered a chapel and Fastion led her through a few anterooms to a curtained door. "No guards," he murmured to himself. Mara took his torch and watched him press a series of stones in the wall. He grabbed a heavy metal ring and pulled.
Two gleaming sword tips were against his neck in an instant. Mara smothered a gasp, but kept herself hidden on the other side of the open door.
"What is your business?" a voice growled.
"I seek Brienne Quinn."
"Brienne Quinn is a traitor. She and her followers have barricaded themselves in the Heroes Portal."
Mara stared at Fastion and his eyes moved toward her almost imperceptibly. "You cannot overcome her?"
"Those that are with her are many. What is your business with her?"
Careful… Mara thought.
"There are traitors aboveground as well," Fastion replied. "I came seeking assistance."
"We cannot help you now. I am sorry." The door swung shut and Mara heard sliding and clicking as it locked.
Mara leaned against the wall. "Wonderful." She sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead.
Rubbing his neck, Fastion wandered to her side. "Are you well? I would have left you in the Mending Wing, but –" He frowned. "Well."
She smiled. "I know. And don't worry, they won't hurt Ben – his ability is too valuable." She twisted her head to look at him. "Now what do we do?"
He returned her gaze. "Now I fear we are on our own."