Chapter VI

“I won’t have it, do you hear me? I refuse to listen to such impudence!” Willawyn, High Lord of Pretava paced angrily about his chamber. “Oh, I know he’s not the man I was at his age, but by the god’s toes, these aren’t the times we used to live in either!” His face was livid, a red vein throbbed at his temple. “And you of all people, Fyndaln. I never would have expected such disloyalty from you! After all the years!” He sputtered and couldn’t seem to get the words from his lips.

Although Fyndaln was more than twice the age of the High Lord, he appeared to be a man of barely middle years. Slender, small of stature, he stood serenely and let Willawyn vent his rage. He favored his mother’s people rather than his father’s and more than half resembled the Elves of Ventra Jalum. His eyes were blue, rather than the more common deep purple or black of the elves, but his silver hair, his stature, and especially the point to his ears, marked him as of elvish blood.

Calmly he listened to the tirade, his face giving no clue to the thoughts behind those bright eyes.

“If you think I could believe my own son capable of what you’re accusing him of... Why, the idea’s preposterous! If it had come from anyone but you, they’d be in irons this minute on the way to the deepest dungeon cell I could find.” He paused to see what effect his words were having. Dissatisfied with the result he bellowed, “Treason, Fyn! We are talking about high Treason!”

Looking into the face of his friend of sixty years, Fyndaln sighed inaudibly. He had known this would not be easy, but thought his evidence so irrefutable that Willawyn would have to listen. Once again, he had underestimated the depth of human emotion which so often clouded human reason.

“Well, say something Fyn, say something to convince me not to have you imprisoned for treason.” The High Lord’s voice had turned soft now, almost pleading.

“My Lord, Will, believe me when I say that this is very painful for me too. I too had high hopes for Balizar. I stood watch outside this very chamber the night he was conceived, and again when he was born.” His words were spoken in the slightly sing song way that was particular to the Elven, when speaking a tongue of man.

“I promise you, the evidence I have is conclusive. There is no doubt that your son is willing to see you dead in order to sit on your throne, and is unwilling to wait any longer for you to abdicate in his favor. Will, I believe your life to be in danger.” Fyndaln set a sheaf of papers on the table. “These dispatches were confiscated from a messenger on the Bazcal border. They bear your son’s own seal and are clearly marked for the Ferunda tower in Bazcal. Although left unsigned, the wording leaves no doubt as to who is to be assassinated.”

“I don’t care if you intercepted a million messengers with all the seals of my entire family, I can’t believe this of my own flesh. Perhaps it was one of his courtiers, wishing a place at Balizar’s court higher than the one he currently holds in mine.” Slowly, he shifted through the papers, pausing once to reread a part. He looked up at the half elf, sorrow deep within his old eyes.

“I’m sorry my dear friend, this is not proof of my son’s involvement. It may be that someone close to him has stolen his personal seal and is seeking to depose me for their own reasons.” He rang a bell set in an alcove. “Fyn, I know you will understand that what I must do now is for your own safety, as well as the safety of my family. I fear it would be imprudent to allow you to continue to appear at court, suspecting my son of a plot to have me assassinated.”

Two of Will’s personal guard appeared, summoned by the bell.

“Please take Al’Fyndaln to the west tower and lock him in. I want guards posted outside the door and window. He is to communicate with no one. I will arrange to have his meals brought to him by my escribar, Lysalla. He is to be allowed no other visitors besides Lysalla or myself.”

Stunned, the two guards looked at each other and at Fyn. Finally, at an impatient gesture from the High Lord, they formed a guard on either side and escorted Fyn from the room.

“Please, Will, listen to me...”

His words were lost as the guards took hold of his arms and disappeared down the corridor.

In the west tower there were several well appointed rooms, with locks on the outside of the doors and bars on the solitary window of each. Once, these rooms were used to house foreign dignitaries and royal personages whose stay in the palace was somewhat less than voluntary. Although they hadn’t been used for that purpose in at least fifty years, they were kept ready and used, on occasion, by one or another of the younger courtiers for assignations of a romantic nature.

The room to which Fyndaln was escorted faced south, toward the Sunorra Desert. It was comfortably furnished with a large bed and several chairs, as well as a small table near a stone fireplace. Although the bed linen was a bit musty, it was certainly serviceable. Hardly a prison cell, except for the locked door and the window bars.

“I’m sorry Al’Fyndaln,” said the sergeant of the guard as he escorted him into the cell.

“No, don’t be.” He replied, “I understand.”

“Well I don’t,” exclaimed the guard, “What did you say or do to make him turn against you like that? Why, you are the one that practically handed him the very throne he sits.”

“Hardly that,” answered Fyndaln. “I wasn’t the only one responsible to putting Willawyn on Pretava’s throne.” He reflected for a moment. “No, not the only one at all. Sergeant, what’s your name?”

“Dayl” replied the guard.

“Dayl, would you get a message to Lord Rondollo for me? I know it’s against the High Lord’s orders. If you’re caught, you could be charged with treason, but maybe, just maybe you will be saving Willawyn’s life.”

Dayl shook his head, backing away from the door. “Me go against the High Lord’s orders?”

“I understand, Dayl,” said Fyn. Something in his manner made the sergeant pause.

“Alright, I’ll do it sir. I trust you, even if the old Lord’s eyes have been blinded. I can sense real loyalty when I see it, and I see it in you.”

The normally subdued half-elf could have kissed him. Quickly he sent for parchment and quill and wrote a message to the Lord of the Sunorra Desert briefly describing the situation. He signed, and sealed it with his ring, handing it to Dayl.

“Upon your life, and mine, see that this does not fall into any hands but Rondollo’s, do you understand. Our lives will be forfeit if we are discovered in this.”

“I understand” said Dayl. “I’ll leave now and report. Once I’ve checked in, I’m free for the week. I’ll deliver this and try to have an answer back by weeks end next.”

“Thank you Dayl. You are doing the right thing.”

The elf turned and sat on the edge of the bed, testing its softness. “Not too bad” he murmured, as he bent to remove his boots. He lay down full length on the bed to wait.

High Lord Willawyn took the papers Fyndaln had given him and secreted them beneath a loose stone in the fireplace of his private bedchamber. Even his wife of forty-five years, the Lady Marjika, had never found anything he had hidden there. He would have to do something about this plot to eliminate him. Although he failed to believe that his own son could be involved in such a scheme, he was not so foolish as to think, there wouldn’t be any attempt on his life, Ferunda or other. His spies informed him that there was a group of young nobles, anxious to see Balizar replace him on the Pretava’s Throne.

Balizar. How could he have sired such a son? Pampered all his life as the Heir to Pretava’s throne, he had, nonetheless been trained as a Lord should be. To his father’s chagrin, Balizar had never taken to sword or bow. He was capable of a fairly good seat on his galla beast, acquired mostly through falconing forays into the desert with his circle of equally pampered and perpetually fawning friends. They were mostly sons of lesser Manor Lords and diplomats seeking favors.

Willawyn had tried, without success, to interest his son in the affairs important to governing wisely. Unfortunately, to say that Balizar was not the man his father was, is an understatement. He was interested only in the pleasure the power of rule could bring. Will was truly concerned for the future of Pretava with Balizar as her High Lord.

It had been a different world when he’d inherited the throne over fifty years ago. His father, killed by a Bazc arrow, had left him a land torn by war. The Bazcal nation had invaded the eastern borders of Pretava into the Sunorra Desert, overrunning the lands controlled by the Desert Lord Rondollo. It had taken nearly five years to push them back and establish the peace that they had enjoyed for the last fifty years. Will had seen only nineteen summers when he took up the Royal Standard and led his people to war. With the aid of Rondollo, the Lord of the desert, Fyndaln of the elves and the Lords of WingSweep and DragonSwan, they were able win out against the odds. The cost had been high, and the scars were long in healing, but now, fifty years after the last battle had been fought, the war was a rapidly fading memory.

The new generation of young lords and nobles had never known a time when peace was not the rule. They didn’t seem to realize how quickly that peace could be taken from them. He and Rondollo were the only two Lords left besides Fyn, to remember. He was approaching his seventy fifth year, and he was tired. Born a warrior, perhaps it was time to let a man born of peace replace him. He just didn’t think that the egocentric, spoiled, Balizar was that man.

With a chill of foreboding, he sent for the captain of his personal guard. When he arrived, Willawyn told him of the plot uncovered to assassinate him. Numayn’s reaction was to suggest that perhaps Will should have one of the old Lord’s sons called to court, someone that could be trusted, someone who could infiltrate the circle that constantly surrounded Balizar. The name that came immediately to mind was Lord Mykal of DragonSwan.

Willawyn knew and respected Mykal, son of his friend Jaym. Since Lord Jaym had died only six months ago, Mykal was very new as DragonSwan’s Lord and might welcome a chance to come to court for the winter and benefit by the High Lord’s knowledge of management. It would appear a very natural course and would allow Mykal to play the part of the new Lord looking to curry favor from the next ruler. Will liked the idea, and instructed Numayn as captain of his personal guard to send an escort to DragonSwan and return with Mykal as soon after change as was practical.

Satisfied with this plan, Will found he was actually looking forward to having his old friend’s son for the winter. Why couldn’t he have sired one like that? Oh well, he supposed, the Gods have their reasons and even the High Lord, Ruler of Pretava, was not consulted in their planning. With a sigh, he sent for his escribar to give orders that a suite of rooms be made ready for the Lord of DragonSwan and his retinue. He also wanted to fill Lysalla in on what was to be done about Fyndaln. He hoped devoutly that Mykal would be able to get to the bottom of things. Perhaps, he thought wistfully, he might even be a good influence on Balizar. Maybe they could make a ruler of him yet.

Lysalla entered the room quietly. Finding Will dozing in a chair, she moved over to a seat by the window. Looking out over the courtyard, she couldn’t help thinking how different things could have been. She had started life as the bastard daughter of a maidservant. By the time she had seen ten summers, Lysalla was no stranger to hard work. It seemed almost a miracle that had brought her to the attention of Lady Nimue of the Tower. Although she had never exhibited signs of Krys Talent, she was taken from her place in the kitchens and taught to read and write. It was only when she was almost fifteen it was explained the High Lord was in need of an escribar and didn’t want a Krys witch as part of his immediate household. Lysalla was suggested as a likely candidate and Will had her tested. Her lack of talent proven to his satisfaction, she was installed in the castle.

She sat now watching the man who had become like a father to her in the last ten years. Patiently, she waited for him to wake naturally. At nearly seventy-five he was still a strong and vital man, but the running of even the most peaceful country took its toll and he napped often. She was very fond of him and only wished there were some way to bring him and his son closer. She knew he was dreadfully disappointed in the young man destined to take his place. True, Balizar was spoiled, but she could see behind the facade and knew in her heart that there was a good and kind man in him.

“How may I serve m’Lord,” she said as Will emerged from his doze.

“Oh, Lysalla, good. There are several things we must attend to.” He instructed her to write a letter to Mykal to be delivered by the escort sent to bring him to the castle. That done, he talked to her about Fyn.

“I want you to prepare his meals personally and deliver them directly to his hand, Lysalla. I really wish I could keep his presence in the tower a secret. I’m afraid in a place like this, those kind of secrets are hard kept. At any rate, I want it kept close for as long as possible. Maybe when Lord Mykal arrives, we can sort this all out and Fyn can return to court, or to his own people if he chooses not to forgive me.”

Lysalla couldn’t believe what the High Lord was saying. Balizar involved in a plot to kill his father, Al’Fyndaln in the West tower for treason? By the Gods, what was happening around here?

“I cannot believe that Al’Fyndaln would commit treason any more than I can believe Balizar would have you killed!” she exclaimed, astonished.

“I know. Nor can I. What else could I have done? If I hadn’t sent Fyn to the tower, it would have been Balizar I sent. I just don’t know what to do but keep them both safe from each other for the time being. It will be easier to explain Fyn’s disappearance, at least for a while, than to try to pry my son away from his ‘friends’ and risk a very real incident here in the castle.”

“I suppose you’re right, m’Lord, but Al’Fyndaln has been your closest advisor ever since you’ve been High Lord.”

“Yes and even before that,” he nodded. “But Lyssy, Balizar is my only son and Pretava’s Heir. I must give him every chance.” He called her by the nickname she had used when she had first come to the castle. He was the only one to use it still, upon occasion.

“I understand my Lord,” she said quietly. I will see to Al’Fyndaln’s meals personally and try to keep my purpose secret as long as I can.”

“Thank you, Lyssy, that’s all I can ask.” He moved over to the window. “Please go call in Marjika for me, I think she should be aware of what’s going on. She’d never believe a tale of Fyn running off somewhere, no matter what the emergency, without saying goodbye to her and the girls.”

“I’ll send her in right away.” She nodded and left the room.

Alone, Willawyn, High Lord of Pretava, sat at his table, his head in his hands. And to think, he thought the difficult part was in winning the war and the Throne! He would give a week’s sleep to be preparing for battle right now instead of dealing with all this intrigue. Raising his eyes to the sky outside the window he muttered, “what next?”

©2005 by Trish Reynolds