Chapter 5:
Epilogue
Hiro stared mutely at the highly polished floor. It was due to Milo that he was here at all. Ever since the attack, he hadn't been able to feel anything. He still didn't, he just… existed.
The king seemed nearly comatose, but then Hiro heard him mutter, "Never meant for him to die. Didn't want him at that feast… but to die… never meant that."
For the first time since the incident, Hiro felt some spark of interest stir in him, and he raised his head to gaze at his liege lord. King Drake looked shockingly bad; exhausted, run-down, flushed, drunken, weak… and old. He looked old, most of all.
"Oh, what is it?" The king's voice was barely audible. "Send them away… my head hurts. Oh gods, yes, he'd angered me, given me bad counsel, but still… to die…"
Milo took a firm step forward, all of the raw power in his bearing intensely focused. "Your Grace, I would not trouble you were it not a matter of some import. As it happens, a very serious affair has been purposely overlooked and I am attempting to rectify this mistake."
Baron Vyrun, who had also been present all the while, leant forward from his chair, saying, "Steps are already being taken, of course, to prevent any future drunken brawling in the streets. It was very regrettable."
One of Milo's black, expressive, eye-brows rose fractionally. "Drunken braw… ah." From his tone of voice, it was clear that something had just occurred to him. His face smoothed as he replied, "I take it that this matter, has… already been brought to the crown's attention." There was slightly suggestive note in his voice, and Baron Vyrun suddenly looked alert. It was clear that there was some important understanding passing between the two of them, but Hiro couldn't seem to find it in himself to care. Milo's heavy face had become expressionless, his tone soft and dangerous. "And this is what passes for justice in Thornwood?"
Baron Vyrun scowled, to himself, seemingly, and then said, "Temporary measures are being taken to insure that no other such tragedies shall occur. At the moment," his gaze slid to Hiro and then back to Milo, "the throne is considering brief confinement to be desirable insofar as the eventual outcome is concerned. And yes, Sir Lupo was good enough to let us know that the regrettable incident had indeed occurred."
"Ah," said Milo in a tone, light and bantering. "I see. Very interesting. Very gratifying to know."
"And how is my old friend, the priest?" The Baron's tone was carefully exaggerated.
"As he is so often, my dear Baron. His soul is in another, more spiritual realm entirely." Milo paused momentarily, scratching his cheek. "He's keeping a vigil on Sir Tristain. Sir Tristain's hip is broken, and it appears that some fever has set in, but we're all very confident that this is only a… temporary measure." He bowed, rather floridly. "Thank you for your time."
The priest in training turned and strolled nonchalantly out the door, and Hiro followed him mutely. After turning down a few corridors, Milo suddenly stopped, and turned to Hiro, a rueful grin on his face. "Well, now that all the prices have been set… The Baron has very good nerve, I'll grant him that." Milo studied Hiro for a few moments, his grin slowly fading. "Still, I suppose this is all for the best."
--
Dirt crunched beneath Mephisto's heel as he ground to an impatient halt, stroking his chin. The message had come through this morning, and so Mephisto knew that he had won. Still, things had a curious way of turning sometimes and… truth to tell, the victory didn't matter to him as much as he had thought it would.
Crouching down, Mephisto drank deep from his water-skin. Thornwood had been the logical place to start; he knew the kingdom, he had known it for slightly over 100 years. But it hadn't meant as much to him to triumph over King Drake as it would have meant had he out-thought dead King James.
Thornwood was now in the palm of his hand, in a subtle, unseen way. None knew that he, in truth, was behind the eventual rise of a new dynasty. All he had to do was to close his fist.
This made him better than his mother who could only use open war to achieve her aims, better than Warderer, better than anybody. He had succeeded at what he wanted. Thornwood was his… so long as he closed his fist.
Slowly Mephisto rose to his feet, his gaze drawn to his silent traveling companion. He hadn't bothered himself over the reason that his friend had wanted Sir Mortred out of the way, he had merely recognized such as the price of success. Now he wondered. Perhaps someday he would ask Baron Vyrun what he had feared from Thornwood's premier knight. Well, Mephisto's aid would be a two-edged sword.
Mephisto would move on to other conquests, but he would keep his hand wrapped around the heart of Thornwood. And to insure that there were no treacheries, Sir Mortred the Sleeping Sword would be returned to court. And in the meantime… The world was open before him, ripe with possibilities.
Nonetheless, there were just two questions that nagged at Mephisto as he watched Sir Mortred march off in the direction of Thornwood Castle. Why didn't this victory taste half so sweet as it should? And why now, of all times, did his thoughts turn to his mother?