Chapter 5 Moonflowers
Of course the other side of it is the potential for such good food. — Prince Eater #34
Once beyond the walls of the castle, Jon stayed cautiously in the center of the pedestrian bridge spanning the gorefish moat and then ran across the archery field and the field beyond that, and into the woods.
Unlike other countries on Terra Saint Edmunds where colonists from Earth had taken advantage of the similarity of the two planets by importing an onslaught of plants from Earth, Midhe Nuae’s vegetation remained chiefly native species. Some of the exceptions that flourished were roses, primroses, leather flowers, daylilies, and, most importantly to Jon, moonflowers.
When Jon reached his destination, he swept the brush and tall grasses to one side to be able to examine the ground underneath them, always taking care not to disturb any of the dangerous plants, such as carnivorous ferns which would use their small sharp thorns to attach to flesh so that the fiddlehead could devour it, or the blood umbrella vine that would suffocate the unwary to provide its seeds with fresh, organic nutrients. That done, he focused on gathering moonflowers. The task lasted a couple of hours and at one point he increasingly felt a strong sensation of someone watching him. He stood, and turned in a circle scrutinizing the brush and tall grasses. Seeing nothing, he completed his task and headed home.
He was within sight of the archery field when Ava Most Revered and Magi Soldiers ambushed him.
A rope flung from horseback pinned Jon’s arms to his side, preventing him from drawing his short sword, and a quick jerk dropped him to the ground where he was dragged in a circle by laughing Magi Soldiers. The bag over his shoulder split open under the force of the abuse and dozens of moonflower plantlets scattered over the field. Jon got his left arm free, but the rope slipped to his neck when he tried to rise. Although the Magi Soldiers seemed happily willing to strangle him, the Commander of the Magi Soldiers thundered, “Halt. This isn’t according to tradition.”
A squat, bald-headed man with bulging eyes outlined by heavy eyelashes, he treated his soldiers harshly and was proud that his reputation reflected that. He professed to be fair and objective at all times. His subordinates agreed publicly, but never in private.
“Keep going,” Ava Most Revered demanded.
“Belay that order,” the Commander of the Magi Soldiers yelled. “This will be done according to our laws. No other way. Loosen the rope.”
As the two soldiers released the rope around Jon’s neck the Most Revered strode into the center of the field of torture, kicked Jon brutally in the ribs, and said, “You are a complete fool, Prince Jon.”
Jon struggled to rise but could only manage to climb to his knees. The Magi Soldiers moved the rope from his neck to around his arms and chest and then added a second which they held taunt in the opposite direction, restricting his movement and forcing him to maintain that same position, unable to rise, for several long minutes despite his growing weakness. Ava Most Revered finally leaned down, captured his chin, and forced his face upward. “You. You were to be the Holy Prince. Reginald and Ethan had to go. It’s my good fortune that they both went at the same time. They were too headstrong. Too self-determined. But you. You would have been perfect. Kind. Gentle. Tender. You could have been drugged, twisted, and manipulated, just like your father. It was all settled. You sorry, sorry idiot. By tomorrow you will be dead, and I’ll have to figure out how to get beyond Gunnar to Seán. Gunnar won’t do. I planned so much for my son and he’s turned out to be a disappointment. Seán is a child, so I don’t know yet how easy he’ll be to control, but he’s the Last Prince so I’ll have to make do with him.” She spat into Jon’s face, stomped back to her horse, and ordered the Magi Soldiers, “Take him to Holy King Harrison. Dead would be expedient.”
By the time they towed him into the throne room, Jon had to be held upright. His right arm and leg were broken, and an open gash bled down the length of his left arm.
Even with the serious wounds inflicted on him, the resemblance between Jon and Harrison was obvious. Although only nearing 40, the king’s blond hair was thin and mottled with gray, his clear blue eyes were smudged and cloudy, and his once tall, lean build bent by the combined weight of the horns on his back and the muscular stoop of a Prince Eater. Because of his awkward gait, he seldom attempted to walk even short distances without servants to maintain his balance.
In his anger at Jon, however, Harrison’s muscles bulged in the manner of a raging beast and he strode unaided to his son. In an uncharacteristic display of brutality, he slapped Jon so violently with the back of his hand that the royal diamonds in Harrison’s rings gouged open Jon’s right cheek.
The king loomed over his son screaming incomprehensibly until Princes Gunnar and Seán threw themselves between their father and brother. Gunnar seized the king’s arms while Seán caught Jon as he collapsed. Holy King Harrison broke from Gunnar’s grasp and stormed to the exit where he was intercepted by the Grays Commander who brought a detail of Grays racing behind him. The mammoth soldier took one of the king’s arms and dragged him away.
As Holy King Harrison and the Grays Commander moved down the hall the other Grays and the Kings Guards tightened into formation around the King. Most of the servants who passed by did so with eyes cast down, but any who stopped to gawk at the king’s tears were threatened by the two groups of soldiers. When several priests scurried up, the Grays drew their swords.
“This is Holy King Harrison’s personal residence,” the Grays Commander warned from where he stood at the king’s side. “You will leave.”
“I...we...just…” a mage stammered.
The Grays Commander dropped his arm from Harrison to slide his longsword from its scabbard. He moved toward the mage. She glanced at her comrades, dipped her head respectfully, and acknowledged, “Of course. Of course. We were merely concerned about His Majesty’s well-being. That must have been such a difficult situation for him.” The mage retreated several steps, and then she and the other priests turned and ran in fear.
“Gil,” Holy King Harrison said, holding out an arm. The Grays Commander returned his longsword to its scabbard and came rapidly to the king’s side.
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“Gil,” the king repeated, as his voice broke, and torrents of tears released over his cheeks. He moved to brush them away with one hand and then rubbed his fingertips slowly on the scar marring his face – left there years ago when the lash of a whip cut into him while he defended Gil. He drew in a breath and whispered sadly, “Gil, I killed my own son.”
Gil Braeford swung one arm under Harrison’s knees, laced the other between the poisonous horns on Harrison’s back, and lifted him in his arms. Ignoring the rope of blood welling up on his upper limb from where one of the horns scraped through his skin, he took Harrison to the king’s apartments and placed him carefully on a specially designed lounging sofa. Once Harrison was settled, Gil ordered two glasses of brandy from one of the nearby servants, tugged over an upholstered chair, and savored the liquor as he sat next to Harrison. Occasionally, when the king heaved a particularly wrenching sob, Gil would reach over to rest a calming hand on his arm. Once Harrison had calmed enough to speak, Gil handed him the second glass of brandy and the two friends schemed quietly.
Grateful for the Grays seeing to the king, Gunnar supported Jon’s shoulders while Seán lifted Jon’s feet. The two young brothers bore their siblings between them to a sitting room a few meters down the hall. Magi Soldiers had stepped forward to prevent Jon’s removal from the throne room, but the Kings Guards surrounded the princes with their swords drawn, pushed back the Magi Soldiers, and escorted the princes to safety. Once in the sitting room, three members of the Kings Guards assisted Seán in placing Jon on a long couch.
“I think Jon might be dying,” Prince Gunnar said from the door. “I’ll run for the healer myself.”
One of the Kings Guards pulled off his own jacket and shirt, and then ripped the shirt into long strips. He pinched Jon’s cheek together, wrapped the cloth under Jon’s chin and over Jon’s head several times, and then twisted the ends so that they could be bound around Jon’s nose and ear to stabilize the bandage.
While the guard tended to Jon’s face, another guard pulled off his shirt and ripped it into long lengths. He removed Jon’s short sword from its scabbard and wrapped the blade with the cloth. As Jon screamed, two of the Kings Guards straightened his leg as best they could and bound the sword against it to create a makeshift splint.
Afterward, Sean sat next to his brother with one hand on Jon’s chest and kept repeating, “You’ll be all right, Jon. You’ll be okay.”
Seán wondered what was taking Gunnar such an unusually long time to return since one of the royal healers was always available for the royal family. His worry was eased temporarily by a rap on the door. A Kings Guard answered then stepped into the hallway. Prince Seán could only hear muted voices, but the guard waved at his comrades, and all three quit the room. The towering Grays Commander entered. He shoved Seán callously to one side, and then hurled Jon over his shoulder and hauled him to the stable.
The Gray ignored Jon’s visceral shrieks of pain and pleas for mercy as he flung Jon belly first across his stallion.
“Why?” Jon asked with difficulty, his face pressed against the side of the Gray's horse. “Why are you doing this? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You ran from the Ritual,” the Gray accused. “The king loves all of his sons, but he can’t allow them to be cowards.”
“The Ritual is shit,” Jon refuted. “but I didn’t run from it.”
The Grays Commander swung onto his stallion behind Jon, and as they left the stables, said, “You did. The Most Revered witnessed it.”
“I was gathering flowers,” Jon argued, barely able to form the painful words by using one hand to hold his damaged cheek and jaw. “We’re going to plant a garden.”
“A garden? Who the hell needs a flower garden?”
“We love flowers.”
“You and some housemaid? What’s her name? Is she pregnant? I can save your child, even though I can’t do more for you.”
“Do more for me? You’re killing me.”
“No, Prince Jon. I know that your pain is excruciating right now, but for this to work, people have to see me taking you out for execution.”
“Exe…execution?” Jon objected, his voice deteriorating as the blood-soaked bandage holding his face together slipped.
“No, they have to think that I have. Tell me about the housemaid. Is she carrying your child?”
“No, A…A…Alec. I…we’re…... Reggie…and Ethan…r…dead, we don’t know…what to do.”
“Preparing to get through the Ritual is the only thing you should have been doing. Now, it’s too late. Be quiet.”
“It isn…isn’t…plea…please. Put me down. Plessss…I’ll crawl back.”
The Gray stopped the horse, leaned sideways, and seized Jon’s thrashing leg to stop its motion. “You’re making this worse for yourself. Be still. I’m trying to get you to safety before the Old Hag finds out.”
As he straightened in his saddle, two grooms holding pitchforks and a housemaid with an iron fireplace stoker blocked his path toward the road. The housemaid glanced at her companions, and then demanded loudly, “Leave him with us. Prince Jon is a good person, always kind and considerate to everyone. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this by the likes of you or anyone else. Not even the Holy King or the Most Revered.”
“That’s right,” one of the grooms agreed angrily.
“Stand aside,” The Grays Commander ordered.
“You aren’t taking him,” the groom holding the pitchfork insisted. He raised the mucking tool higher and stepped forward.
“I’m the only hope he has now,” the Grays Commander clarified. He set the horse’s reins down to slide his longsword from its scabbard. Despite it being designed to be held by two hands, his size allowed him to brandish it in the air with only one. He pointed it across the yard to a troop of Magi Soldiers running their way. “They’re the ones who will kill him. Those soldiers are the same ones who did this to him.”
The three defenders considered the soldiers and whispered to each other urgently. They nodded and raced with determination toward the soldiers shouting the battle cry, “For Prince Jon!”
From the doors of the castle, the gates of the stables, the fields and gardens, grooms, gardeners, footmen, housemaids, and servants of all types and ranks charged after the first three, shouting, “For Prince Jon! For the life of the prince!”
Despite Jon’s screams, the Grays Commander pressed the stallion into a gallop down the drive and onto the roadway.
Prince Seán stood on the castle steps watching the Grays Commander ride off. He listened to Jon’s cries fade in the distance, and as Prince Gunnar and the healer walked up behind him, Prince Seán vowed, “I swear by all that is right and divine, I will see Gil Braeford dead.”
By the time the horse stopped a second time, Jon had been upside down for so long he was close to death. He slipped in and out of consciousness, weakened from the broken bones, bleeding lacerations, and unrelenting, unbearable pain. Jon felt the Grays Commander dismount, take him by the shirt and belt, and lug him to the ground. He screamed at the pain engulfing him.
The Gray leaned over where Jon sprawled on the ground, bending down to within half a meter of Jon’s face. “Don’t keep screaming. It makes it easier for them to find you and feed you to those beasts to be devoured. I won’t be able to stop them.”
The Gray climbed back onto his horse, rode in a wide circle around Prince Jon, and then spurred his mount into a gallop. He gave no indication that he’d even heard Jon begging him not to leave him there.
©2022 Vera S. Scott