Chapter 19: A Matter of Time
For the first time in forever, the Duke of Weselton was having a good day. He stood at the bow of his personal galleon, his long jacket fluttering in the early-morning breeze as he surveyed the scene before him with his hands clasped behind his back.
The Imperial docks of Athero lay in ruins. The sounds of burning wood and crumbling hulls carried across the water, black oil fires and acrid gunpowder smoke still emanating from the wretched half-submerged husks that remained of the Southern Isles fleet. A column of ash and smoke rose high into the air above the harbour, casting a dark shadow over the capital city in the light of the rising sun. The twin gunships Stalwart and Indomitable peeled off from their final pass of the coast, the lion of Weselton flying proudly from their sails as they moved to take defensive positions around the Duke's own vessel.
King Mathias cannot hope to challenge our blockade now.
The Duke allowed himself an indulgent smirk. He turned from the prow and strutted down the stairs to the deck, making his way to the stern of the ship. His steward waited by the door to his quarters.
"Gilbert!"
"Yes, Your Grace!" The portly man hastily drew himself up to his full, albeit unimpressive height.
"Do you have the announcement of terms ready?" the Duke asked.
"Right here, Your Grace." The steward pulled a thick roll of parchment from the folds of his coat.
The Duke nodded in satisfaction.
"I'm sending you ashore with four soldiers to deliver that message to the King," he stated, making a sweeping gesture toward the mainland. "Ready yourself for departure!"
Gilbert shivered nervously. "M-me, Your Grace?" he stammered. "Isn't there anyone more… qualified?"
The Duke's moustache twitched in annoyance. "Don't be daft, Gilbert, you're my steward! Making proclamations is half your job description!"
The man swallowed. "Will you send more men to rescue me if I'm captured?" he asked in a tiny voice.
"No, of course not!" the Duke scoffed. "And that's exactly why you're perfect for the task. Anyone with half a brain would realize that trying to use you for leverage is a complete waste of their time! You're in no danger at all."
The steward's meek reply was cut off by the approach of a uniformed officer from the stairs to the deck above.
"Your Grace, the rowboat is ready for launch," the man reported with a salute. "The men await your orders."
"Excellent, set ashore at once." The Duke's voice shook with glee. "I only wish I could see the look on that bastard king's face when he realizes I've got him trussed like a chicken!"
The officer bowed, moving to guide Gilbert by the small of his back. The steward gave one last piteous look to his sovereign before he was lead down the deck to join the black-clad soldiers at the rowboat winch. Watching as the small wooden vessel was lowered over the side of the hull, the Duke grinned.
Everything is going to plan.
Admiral Joseph of the Southern Isles Imperial Navy was not having a good day. He walked through the halls of the royal castle flanked by two of the King's personal guard, struggling to hold his straight posture as mental scenes of burning ships and screaming men blotted out his senses. His right arm still hung in its sling; with his left, he held a bag of crushed ice to a long gash across his cheek. His grey-blonde hair was darkened by ash, his once-pristine overcoat billowing in burnt tatters around his waist.
The Imperial docks were lost. The sailors had been so busy preparing to launch their own attack that when the gunships struck, they had no chance to react. The official casualty reports were still in progress and Joseph dreaded receiving them. He saw enough men blown to pieces by cannon fire and exploding ammunition caches with his own eyes. Never in his life had he felt so utterly helpless.
The guards stopped by a set of ornate double doors. One of them pulled open the left-hand door, gesturing inside.
"The King awaits your presence, Your Highness."
He pushed past the guard without a word. His eldest brother sat facing away from him toward his massive desk, his head supported in his hands as he propped them up by his elbows. Papers lay strewn about the carpeted floor as if a cyclone had flown through the room, but the desktop itself was bare. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Mathias rose.
"How did this happen, Joseph?" The King's words were slow, quiet. He hadn't turned. Joseph remained silent.
"How did this happen!" Mathias screamed as he threw his chair aside with a crash, whirling to face his brother with his face twisted in a furious snarl. "How can it be that in one night I lose both my entire Imperial navy and my most valuable asset!"
Joseph met his brother's glare with steel of his own.
"We were overzealous," he replied icily. "Unprepared. So damn preoccupied with your plan to trounce Weselton that we didn't even consider that they might have plans of their own!"
"Watch. Your. Tongue," Mathias spat venomously.
"No, brother, I have held my tongue for long enough!" Joseph's voice rose with his anger and frustration. "You are letting your obsession with the Snow Queen lead the Southern Isles to ruin! Don't you see? If you hadn't ordered the assassination of the King of Arendelle, the sorcerer prince would never have come to the Southern Isles and the Scimitar White might have been there to defend against those gunships, instead of at the bottom of the sea! Hell, if you hadn't ordered the fleet prepared in such haste yesterday, we might have had the men to fend off Weselton's attack without her! But no. Instead, you were blinded by your own arrogance and lust for power, and now I'm an admiral without a navy up against the entirety of Weselton's navy at our damn doorstep!"
It was only after his own breathing had calmed somewhat that Joseph realized he had gone too far. His brother's face was a mask of pure rage, his eyes bugging out under a forehead pulsing with thick, raised veins. Joseph's eyes widened as Mathias raised a fist above his head, his fingers clenched so tightly that his whole body shook with exertion. With a bellow that filled the study, the King slammed his fist down onto his desk, sending a single splintering crack through the dense hardwood. He stood there with his knuckles embedded in the counter for a long moment as his body heaved with rapid breaths.
"Under any other circumstances, I would have you flogged if not executed for speaking to your sovereign in that manner," Mathias finally growled. His bloodshot eyes rose to meet Joseph's gaze. Suddenly, his shoulders sagged. "But this isn't about me anymore, Joseph. My daughter has gone missing."
"What?" Joseph's brow furrowed in surprise.
Mathias straightened up again, absently nursing his bruised hand. All of a sudden, the King looked very tired, indeed.
"In the chaos following Weselton's attack, both Hans and the Arendellian prisoners managed to escape the castle. The guards report that they were working together and… that my daughter was with them. Two men even claim that she was actively aiding Prince Thomas."
"Are you saying that your own daughter is committing treason?" Joseph asked haltingly. His brother winced visibly under the weight of the words.
"We… must not dismiss the possibility." Mathias's eyes had turned downcast. He took a deep breath. "I need Princess Iona found, Admiral. This is the task I have summoned you for. Everything else can wait, we've lost too much time already. Luckily, they can't have left the mainland with Weselton controlling the bay. Rally your men and search every town from here to the south coast. Turn the whole continent upside-down if you have to." The King's voice held none of the furious energy from before.
"At once, Your Majesty." Joseph turned swiftly to leave. He was halfway to the door when Mathias spoke again.
"And brother, if you see that traitor Hans, kill him. I won't make the mistake of mercy twice." A hint of the rage had returned.
"Understood," Joseph intoned. He stepped out of the royal study, carefully closing the door behind him. Frustration still burned like hot embers in his chest, but nonetheless he let out a small sigh of relief after the confrontation.
No rest for the wicked, he thought wearily as he started back down the hallway.
Curled up on a hard stone floor, Thomas stared at his distorted reflection shining back from the blade of Sir Gingivere's sword. His gaze was met with his own weary eyes, his grey irises the colour of cold ash in the feeble light of the cellar. His hair draped limply over the right side of his face, stained with dirt and flecks of blood. The red lines of a dozen tiny cuts and scratches marred his brow and cheeks, and the blonde fuzz of several days' worth of stubble peeked out from a jawline splotched with a nasty purple bruise.
They had trudged through sparse deciduous woods for the entire night. As Hans had promised, they reached the outskirts of a town by the name of Evan's Bluff just as the sky began to lighten. It had been early enough that the streets were mostly empty, but the Arendellians had nonetheless erred on the side of caution and stayed in the trees while Hans snuck into town to find his "contact." Just as Thomas was becoming convinced that the ex-prince had abandoned them, Hans had returned with a bundle of plainclothes for the Arendellian guards to replace their conspicuous prison clothes with. After disposing of the rags under a log, they had entered the town one by one with Hans's instructions to find an establishment named the Twisted Vine.
The establishment in question was a winery on the north side of town surrounded by acres of grape fields, currently barren due to the season. The elderly owner had lead each of them downstairs to the storage cellar without so much as a word. Under other circumstances, Thomas would have thought twice before allowing himself to be led underground by a stranger, but by that point the fatigue from a full day spent awake had finally caught up with him. He collapsed to the floor in a daze the moment he reached the basement. Sleep had pulled him swiftly into its dark embrace.
He didn't know how long it was before he came to. He awoke stiff and aching. The cellar was dark and damp, with sandstone walls covered with racks upon racks of wooden wine barrels. Roderick and two of the guards were laid out on the floor asleep, their jackets serving as makeshift pillows and blankets. The other two greeted the prince with nods from their positions near the stairway. Iona and Hans were nowhere to be seen.
It was then that the gravity of the situation hit Thomas anew. He had escaped King Mathias by the skin of his teeth thanks to the help of a Princess of the Southern Isles and… Hans. Hans, the man whom he had sailed across an entire ocean to bring to justice—no, to kill—was the very same man who personally broke Captain Roderick and his men out of the dungeons and secured the group a place of refuge. He was the very same man who had personally retrieved Sir Gingivere's sword and returned it.
And yet, Hans was the man who orchestrated the attack on his parents.
Thomas lowered the sword to the ground and held his head in his hands. A short three days ago, he knew exactly what he needed to do. Reach the Southern Isles. Avenge his father. Everything had been clear and simple. Now, everything was a jumbled mess of mistakes and mystery. Nothing made sense.
Thomas closed his eyes. His fingers found the hilt of the sword again. The familiar cold of the ice was calming.
I wish Mother were here. She would know what to do. He felt tears well behind his eyelids. He never should have left Arendelle. He should have stayed and helped his mother. For all I know, she could be dead because of me.
Queen Elsa is not dead.
Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, the sword clattering to the ground from his startled fingers. "Who said that?" he whispered, his eyes darting frantically around the room.
"Your Highness, are you alright?" asked Terese in a cautious voice. The guard moved to crouch down beside the prince, her hazel eyes tinged with worry.
"I'm alright, sorry." Thomas managed a weak smile. "Just… remembered a bad dream."
Terese looked at him for a moment before she nodded sadly. "You've been through so much these past several days, Your Highness. You have no need to apologize. We are here for you if you need us."
"Thanks, Terese." Thomas rubbed his arm awkwardly. He waited until the guard had returned to her spot by the stairs.
On top of everything else, I'm hearing voices now? Fantastic! he mused sourly. Nonetheless, it only took a few moments before his curiosity won out.
Hello? he tried to think as loudly as he could. He was answered only with deafening silence. He glanced back to the sword of ice laying on the floor.
This is ridiculous.
Slowly, he moved to grasp the handle again. He closed his eyes
Hello?
Something pushed at his awareness, the barest shadow of a wisp. Then a familiar voice sounded in his mind.
The sword has not melted. Your mother lives, Master Thomas.
Thomas almost dropped the sword again. He gripped the hilt with renewed strength.
Sir Gingivere? he called hesitantly. Is that you?
I am here.
Thomas laughed out loud as fresh tears of relief streamed down his face. The laughter died on his lips, however, as the guilt of his actions returned in full force.
Sir Gingivere… I thought I killed you. I'm so sorry.
I am the one who should apologize, Master Thomas. The words echoed in his mind like the voice of a man at the bottom of a well. I felt your conviction and anger on the beach back in Arendelle. After you destroyed that warship, I realized that it had turned into something worse, but by then it was much too late. There was a short pause as a sense of confusion flared in Thomas's mind. Where are we now, exactly?
We're in the cellar of a winery.
Are you safe? The voice sounded like it was coming from much farther away.
Thomas nodded, though he knew Sir Gingivere couldn't see. For now. They locked me up in the castle, but I escaped.
Good. The voice was barely intelligible now.
Sir Gingivere… Hans was the one who helped break me out. What do I do?
Something echoed faintly, but he couldn't make out the words.
Sir Gingivere?
Thomas waited for a long time, but the voice was gone. He exhaled and held the sword in front of him, examining the length of the translucent blade with new eyes. Sir Gingivere was right. The magic that kept the sword frozen was not his own.
Mother is alive. Mother is alive! He repeated the words to himself, holding onto them like the truth would slip away if he dared let it go.
The sound of thin wooden boards creaking under someone's weight broke him from his thoughts. He looked up to find Iona descending the stairs. She wore the same travel pants and boots from the previous night, but the top half of her evening dress had been replaced with a close-fitting green tunic underneath a dark brown peacoat that seemed a few sizes too large for her. The princess smiled sheepishly as she noticed Thomas's gaze.
"Uncle Hans found me a change of clothes. He said it would make me harder to recognize if I get spotted."
Thomas gritted his teeth. He couldn't stand being in the dark any longer, and Iona's cordial tone had struck a nerve.
"Iona, if Hans is your uncle, then who is your father?" he asked bluntly.
Iona looked at him with a thoughtful expression for a few breaths. She moved to sit beside him on the cellar floor.
"King Mathias is my father," she said quietly, her eyes focused on the opposite wall. "You're not the only heir to a throne in this basement." She smiled dryly.
Thomas gaped. "You're the crown princess?" A thousand questions whirled in his mind as his mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "Why are you doing this?" he finally managed to articulate.
Iona fixed him with a hard stare. "I stand by what I said, Thomas. My father is a bad man. He ordered the death of your father simply so he could frame Weselton and goad the Snow Queen into winning a war for him. When that plan failed and you came to his doorstep instead, he decided he would use you for the same purpose. I couldn't let that happen."
Thomas clenched his jaw. "I came to the Southern Isles because a captured assassin told me Hans was responsible for planning the attack on my parents," he stated stiffly. "When I was in the dungeon, King Mathias told me Hans was acting on his own. Now Hans is the one hiding us from the King's men. It just doesn't make any sense! I want to know the truth, Iona. All of it."
"I don't think I have the whole story either, but I will tell you what I know," Iona began slowly. "First of all, if my father told you he had nothing to do with the attack, he was lying through his teeth. Assassinating King Henrik was my father's idea from the start." She hesitated before she continued. "However, as Spymaster, Hans was definitely the one who sorted out the logistics of the plan. Uncle Hans is… a very convincing actor. The few times I overheard him discussing it, he never seemed to be anything more than blasé about his involvement, but I honestly believe he didn't want to go through with the plan. I don't know my uncle too well, but I do know he never wanted to go back to Arendelle. My father forced his hand for sure. And as for why my uncle is helping you now, well…" Iona laughed humorlessly. "When you showed up at the harbour it was clear that Hans's plan to frame Weselton had failed horribly. My father doesn't forgive mistakes. My uncle was facing execution."
Thomas was silent for a while.
"I think that explains some things," he said eventually. He looked into Iona's glimmering green eyes. "But why are you helping me, Iona? What you're doing, it's treason, isn't it? Am I worth that?"
"This isn't just about you, Thomas. You're a bit young for me, anyway." The princess let out a genuine laugh this time as Thomas's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Her expression quickly became serious again. "My father is playing with fire. He thinks he can contain you, control you, or failing that use you to control your mother. He doesn't understand that people are unpredictable. The people of the Southern Isles are my future subjects. I have a duty to them, and I can't sit back and let them suffer an eternal winter because of my father's mistakes."
Thomas stiffened. "My mother would never use her powers to harm your people!" he hissed.
Iona tilted her head. "No? You certainly know her better than I do, so that's a relief to hear. You must agree that you haven't set the best precedent yourself, though." Thomas flinched when the princess placed her hand on top of his. Iona sighed. "We want the same thing, Thomas," she said in a softer tone. "I'll help you get back to your mother, I promise."
Thomas nodded slowly. He glanced toward the stairs out of the cellar.
"Where is Hans now? How long are we going to be stuck down here?"
"Hans is doing Spymaster things and gathering information for us in the town," Iona replied with a shrug. "Well, ex-Spymaster things, I suppose. He's been gone a couple hours already, so he should be back soon. We'll decide what to do next from there."
The princess rose and began ascending the stairs. Thomas watched her until the heels of her boots rose out of sight above the ceiling.
"You know, I don't know what to make of her."
Thomas whirled to find Roderick had sat up and was regarding him with a lopsided smile.
"You heard everything, didn't you?" the prince chuckled.
"Well, I was trying to sleep but voices seem to carry down here." The Captain of the Guard's expression turned serious. "I don't trust her, Your Highness. She's not telling the whole story. Needless to say, I trust Hans much less, but it seems his skills are invaluable to us in this pretty fiasco we've found ourselves in." At that, Roderick grimaced.
Thomas leaned in. "So, what do we do?" he asked in a low voice.
Roderick scratched the stubble on his chin. "We go along with her plan for now. As the princess said, we seem to want the same thing for the moment." The Captain's worried gaze swept over the prince, lingering on his shoulder and thigh. "Besides, you're in no condition to be outrunning soldiers at the moment, Highness. You need to rest."
Before Thomas could reply, heavy footsteps sounded from the floor above. Worn boots descended the stairs to the cellar as Hans hurried into view. The man was panting heavily, his hair slick with sweat.
"I've got bad news," Hans announced between breaths. "It seems like the King's sent every last soldier in the army and the navy to hunt us down. You can thank Iona for that. A squad is already searching the town. They'll reach our side soon. We have to move, now."
Roderick and the other guards had already risen to standing.
"What's the plan, then?" the Captain asked rapidly. "Where can we go to stay hidden?"
A sly smile crept across the ex-Spymaster's face. "I'm better at this game than my brother. He's probably already searched Athero thoroughly before moving on to the other towns. He'll never expect us to go back, so that's exactly where we will go."
"Seriously?" Thomas blurted. "Your plan is to take us back to where we just escaped from?"
"Yes, it is." Hans made a gesture of opening his palms toward the prince. Thomas scowled.
"We can't keep running forever," Roderick acquiesced. "This plan of yours is risky, but if it works, we'll be in a good position to launch our escape back to Arendelle."
"Come on! We have to go!" called Iona's frantic voice from upstairs.
The Captain glanced to Thomas apologetically. "On your feet, Your Highness."
Thomas clenched his teeth against the screaming pain from his wounds as Roderick helped him to his feet. He clutched onto his mentor's shoulders as the guards began to file up the stairs.
Here we go again.
As the rays of the afternoon sun bathed the city of Athero in a blanket of gold, the Duke of Weselton finally lost his patience.
"What in God's name is taking them so long?" he exclaimed explosively. He paced the deck of his galleon, shiphands stumbling to stay out of their sovereign's way as his sharp-toed boots paced an erratic path across the polished planks.
Eventually the Duke's wandering feet lead him to a spot beside the towering form of Commander Leon. The military leader had been transferred to the Duke's vessel from the Indomitable shortly after she had pulled into formation early in the morning. To his credit, the man had maintained the same impassive attitude despite the Duke's own mood visibly plummeting throughout the course of the day.
"Have some patience, Your Grace," the Commander said in a gruff voice. "The men were given strict instructions to return by sunset. If they don't, well, you were the one who said they were expendable. We can try a different tactic."
"Don't talk to me about patience, Commander," the Duke grumbled. "I've been waiting for this moment for years! Finally, the King of the Southern Isles will be forced to bow before me."
"Maybe Mathias has a bad back," Leon quipped with a chuckle.
The Duke scowled. Before he could form a retort, however, there came a shout from behind him.
"Rowboat sighted!"
The Duke darted to the officer who had given the report, yanking the spyglass from the man's hands. Ignoring the man's yelp of surprise, he put the instrument to his eye and squinted across the bay. He found the familiar shape of the rowboat bobbing on light swells about halfway across the water. He returned the spyglass to the officer with a rough shove.
The boat drew closer with agonizing slowness. When the deckhands finally pulled the smaller vessel level with the deck on its twin winches, the Duke roughly hoisted his steward on board by the collar of his jacket.
"What happened? Did King Mathias agree to the terms? Report, damn you!"
"P-please put me down, Your Grace. I'm having trouble breathing," Gilbert wheezed. The Duke released his hold, sending the steward stumbling backward until he was caught by two soldiers before he fell back into the rowboat. Gilbert took a moment to catch his breath, cringing under his sovereign's intense stare.
"King Mathias was… otherwise occupied, Your Grace," he finally stated in a small voice. "He wouldn't grant us audience. Soldiers barred us from entering the city all the way up until we returned."
"You what? Otherwise occupied!" The Duke began pacing in front of the rowboat. "What could possibly be more pressing at the moment than this literal naval blockade?" He swept his arm violently toward the gunships sitting in the water around them, shooting Commander Leon a look of wild frustration. The Commander stepped forward slowly.
"Your Grace, if I may. If you would just be a little more… well, if you would be willing to wait a little longer, I'm sure the King will come around soon enough. We have enough ships to keep this blockade up indefinitely. We can send half of them back to Weselton to resupply and start a rotation. Once the pain of being completely cut off from trade truly starts, you can be sure Mathias will come crawling on his hands and knees." The military man gave a wide, toothy grin. The corner of the Duke's mouth twitched with a hint of a smile.
"I do like the sound of that. Very well. Gilbert, you may return to your regular duties."
The steward bowed hurriedly before scurrying off down the deck. The Duke took one last look toward the still-smouldering ruins of the Imperial docks before making for his personal quarters. He'd been standing for the whole day and his joints creaked painfully. As much as the Duke hated to admit it, his age was certainly catching up to him.
No matter, he thought to himself. Once I succeed in bringing the Southern Isles to its knees, I will go down in the annals of history.
He had almost made it up the final set of stairs to the rear quarterdeck when a shout rang out from high above.
"Ship on the horizon!"
Immediately, dozens of boots sounded on the deck as sailors rushed to their stations. The Duke squinted toward the source of the report far up the mainmast in the crow's nest. He followed the direction of the distant officer's spyglass, shielding his eyes from the setting sun as he scoured the horizon. A dark, angular fleck rose above the water to the north.
"What is it?" he heard Commander Leon call tensely.
"Looks like a frigate, sir!" came the swift reply.
"A straggler from the Southern Isles fleet?"
"I don't think so. Her sails fly the crocus, sir!"
The Duke felt the blood drain from his face.
No, no, no. Not now!
"A ship from Arendelle?" he heard the Commander say. "What business does Arendelle have in the Southern Isles?"
He felt himself walking back down the deck as if his feet had a mind of their own. His hands clenched into tight fists within their pristine white gloves. By the time he drew next to the Commander, his face was a grim mask of determination.
"Whatever business Arendelle has, it can wait," the Duke stated in a raised voice for everyone in proximity to hear. "The blockade stands! No ship gets in or out of Athero, without exception!" He turned to address Commander Leon. "Get back to the Indomitable and intercept that frigate," he ordered in a quiet tone. "Inform them of the blockade and give them my ultimatum. Do not let that ship pass."
"Of course, Your Grace," the large man answered with a hard smile. "Consider it done."