Capital City of Gremelda
Royal Palace Private Audience Chamber
Queen Clarissa watched her husband pace the room. His frustration was evident in his every step. The king had chosen to keep her in the dark regarding the plot to assassinate their family, only revealing it when Earl Ashford was arrested. It was clear that he hadn’t anticipated just how far-reaching the consequences of that decision would be.
Clarissa did not have more than a passing familiarity with Earl Ashford, his father being their only connection. But she knew the Lord Marshal, and she had a hard time seeing his son being involved in treason.
“What were you thinking, Frederick? How could you have let this happen? The Lord Marshal is in the field right now, fighting to save our son—and what will he return to? The news that you had his own killed.”
Frederick ran his hands through his hair. “He wasn’t supposed to die today! I planned to send him back to the dungeon until his father returned, after declaring him guilty. He’s the one who chose to fight—him and that cursed wife of his.”
“Yes, his cursed wife—a countess in her own right. She also just happens to be the daughter of a former Councilmen, and Count to one of the fastest-growing counties in the kingdom.” Clarissa deadpanned.
Continuing to pace, Frederick tried and failed to burn off his frustration. “He attempted to have us all killed, Clarissa. An example had to be made.”
Clarissa scoffed. “Are you even sure he was guilty? It’s been less than two weeks since his arrest. The Inquisition must have had every agent in the kingdom working on this to finish their investigation so quickly.” Biting sarcasm lacing her question.
Frederick sank into a chair, burying his head in his hands. “They are still investigating.”
Clarissa sat quietly, letting him stew in the oppressive silence of his confession.
“What were our losses today, Frederick? An Earl, two countesses, and a Baron? Quite the butcher’s bill for an uncertainty.”
*****
County Wycliffe
Q stood on the veranda, watching for the return of his grandfather’s carriage. He knew the trip to and from Gremelda took time, but after his mother’s departure and a week of waiting, he had no more patience left to give.
Soft hands took him by the shoulders. “I know you are worried, I am to my dear. But waiting out here for hours on end will not bring them home any faster.” His grandmother kissed the top of his head and continued, “Why don’t you come help me in the garden? I planted your mother’s favorite flowers. With a little care, and a bit of magic, we might just have them blooming for their return.”
Q did not want to go to the garden, but when he turned to look at her, he could see the concern pinching his grandmother’s lips. The worry lines marring her normally smooth brow. Nodding, he followed her into the house and out to her private garden. Taking a deep breath, the smell of flowers, pollen, and freshly turned earth enveloped him.
The midnight veil was easy to spot. Reminiscent of a rose, its velvety petals were a deep, obsidian black that seemed to reflect the light around it. Running through each of the petals were delicate, shimmering veins of gold. The flower’s scent was a heady blend of earth and spice. At night, the golden veins appear to glow faintly, giving the flower an ethereal, almost otherworldly appearance. At present, the buds were just starting to form. Deep green stems giving way to small buds of inky blackness.
Grandmother knelt beside him. Her long graceful fingers cupping a bud and caressing the stem. She began to sing, a soft, delicate song. The words told a story about the early spring sun gifting its warmth to start the new year’s growth.
Q let himself relax for what felt like the first time in days. Listening to her voice as she used her Gift to summon water and to feed energy into the fragile roots. As he watched, new growth was formed, with the buds swelling in size and beauty.
An unknown amount of time passed there in the garden, giving them a moment of peace before it was shattered by a maid bursting through the garden’s door.
“My lady! The Count’s carriage approaches.”
Q leapt to his feet and took off through the house. Nadine stayed kneeling in the dirt. She could feel the shift of the winds and knew they brought with them ill tidings. Cutting off the flow of her gift, she watched as the midnight veil—moments from full bloom—began to wither, its petals beginning to fall.
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The Countess took one last deep breath and slowly rose to her feet.
*****
Death was a private affair in the Kingdom of Rivenna. Usually kept to close friends and family.
Not that it would have mattered after being branded traitors by the King. It would have been political suicide for anyone outside the family to attend the memorial for Q’s parents.
A few days later, a small service was held for Julian and Katherine Ashford. Only a trio of devastated parents and one orphaned boy in attendance. Henry, the boy's grandfather, having returned from the north the night before—wearied by the journey yet resolute to be there.
Tradition held that lighting a floating lantern for the deceased would help guide their souls to the stars.
Q carried two unlit lanterns across the field and up the hill behind the estate. When he reached the top, he cradled them against his chest, as if holding on too tightly would break their fragile construction. His grandfather, Ed, knelt beside him and gently asked, "Shall I light them?"
Q nodded wordlessly, and with a flick of Ed’s fingers, the lanterns ignited with a soft, flickering glow.
Taking a deep breath, Q stepped forward. He raised a lantern in each hand high into the air. He released them slowly, letting them rest against his finger tips until at first one, and then the other began to lift away. The small bit of light and warmth they provided, leaving him as cold and empty on the outside as he currently felt inside.
He remained standing there—in the dark, his arms raised high over head for a long time as he watched the lights ascended into the night sky. When he finally lowered his hands and spoke, his voice high with the pitch of youth, broke. “Why did they have to die?”
The trio behind him remained silent and no one answered for nearly a minute. Each of them considering the question in their own right, and trying to figure out the best way to answer the boy.
Finally, Henry replied, “Because, son, even Kings make mistakes. But rest assured, I will find out how this happened.”
The boy watched the twin lanterns spin in the wind, calling forth the recent memory of dancing in the rain as his mother spun him through the random wheat field.
Clenching his fists and clamping down on the memory, Q couldn’t resist the thought, Then maybe he doesn’t deserve to be King,
Even in the privacy of his own mind, the thought felt wrong. Q knew it was not a sentiment his father would approve of, let alone his mother. But anger was something other than the feeling of pain he’d been carrying around since his grandfather’s carriage returned, and he welcomed the change.
*****
Capital City of Gremelda
Royal Palace Council Chambers
A tension hung in the air as the council gathered for today’s meeting. This being the first since the Lord Marshal returned from saving the prince.
After arriving at the capital and learning of his son’s death, Henry immediately departed for County Wycliffe to attend the vigil for his son and daughter-in-law. He left the next day, returning to his men in the north and completing his mission to return them home. It was an act of deference on his part, giving him additional time away from the palace and the man who’d ordered his son’s death.
Being there now stoked the fire in his core, which had been burning since he’d learned of his son’s arrest. The notion that anyone in his family could be guilty of treason was absurd. Arriving in the city only to discover he was too late had been devastating.
Upon learning the whole story, including Katherine’s death, his thoughts immediately turned to Quentin. He my responsibility now. Thinking of his son, he mentally added to his promise , I’ll do better, Julian. And stars save anyone who means to do him harm.
As the minutes ticked by and the king still did not appear, Henry drummed his fingers on the table, an unusual display of impatience for the normally stoic marshal.
Henry was unsurprised when a servant entered the room and hurried over the Duke Alistair. Knowing what the servant’s presence meant, it brought a smirk to Henry’s lips seeing the man. He rose from the table before the servant could leave.
O no, you don’t get to miss this. I want you to hear this, and to spread it around the castle gossip mill. Slowly, Henry reached up and removed the brooch that designated him as the Lord Marshal from his chest. He placed it down on the table with a thump.
As he turned to leave, the Duke called, “What are you doing, Lord Marshal? We need to discuss this sickness rampaging through the kingdom. Mages are dying and our healers are unable to combat it. We are more vulnerable than ever, and Alden could attack us at any moment.”
Without turning, Marquess Henry Ashford replied, “I’m not a mage, and should refrain from their affairs, as has been pointed out repeatedly in this very room, time and time again. If the king chooses to attend the next meeting, please inform him that he will need to find a new Lord Marshal. Whomever the king chooses sounds like they are going to have their hands full.” With those parting words, he continued walking and did not stop until he mounted his horse and was miles away from the capital city of Gremelda.