Patchwall 6, CY 593
73—Four, three, two, One.
The next day, Prisantha casts a vision on the gemstones, and receives this result: Four are grateful, three are friends, two are trustworthy, and one is an ally.
-----
“Have I mentioned I cannot stand divinations,” Jespo says. “What on earth is that supposed to mean? That I have more friends than allies by a factor of three? That I cannot trust my friends in any event?”
“Well, hell, to me it means that once we free them only two of the four are likely to try and kill us, and one of ‘em will fight with us,” Heydricus says. “I like those odds.”
Prisantha presents the largest and most perfectly formed of the gemstones first, reasoning that it has a kingly appearance. But when Heydricus crushes the gem beneath the butt of his spear, a bright golden mist emerges from the thing, snaking outwards in long, lazy spirals and slowly taking the shape of a serpentine dragon, covered in scintillating golden scales. The creature has no arms or mouth, and its broad snake-like head is covered with a flowing silvery mane. Its eyes are large and soulful; a human’s eyes. The thing slowly turns upon itself, corkscrewing into the air and regarding the Liberators with an expression that feels like love.
“What are you?” Heydricus asks.
The thing shakes its head from side to side, and its mane whickers and whistles—a sound simultaneously reminiscent of the wind through trees, and bubbling water.
“Can you understand me?” Heydricus asks again.
For a second time, the thing shakes its head.
“I get it!” Prisantha says. “That’s its language!” She casts a tongues spell, and says, “What is your name?”
The thing’s soft sounds form a reply in her mind, “I am in gratitude for freedom.”
“Where do you come from?” she asks.
“Forever,” the thing replies with a smile in its eyes, and as the last rustle fades from the air, it has turned upon itself and vanished.
“I wonder if that is what he was stealing his immortality from?” Heydricus says once the entity is gone. He offered me, ‘true immortality, stolen from the gods themselves.’ Was that his secret? Was that a god?”
But Heydricus’s questions are left unanswered. The next gem destroyed frees Prince Thrommel, and the thick-headed fighter scowls at Heydricus, suspicious. When informed that it was a shapeshifter who placed him within the gem, not Heydricus, Thrommel demands to know how can he be sure that this Heydricus isn’t the shapeshifter?
“Because we’re the only ones who know you’ve died four times in as many months,” Prisantha says.
Thrommel blushes and grows quiet, nodding his agreement that yes, these are the true Liberators.
Belvor is freed next, and the king of Furyondy claims that he knew it was an impostor all along. When Piscean’s treachery is explained, Belvor sputters then calls for his head. When told that Heydricus left the head along with the rest of the corpse, Belvor pats him on the back.
“That’s my boy!” he laughs. “Always a step ahead of the old man!” Thrommel’s jealous and narrow gaze goes unnoticed.
The last entity freed is a thin and pale old man, long of beard and tooth. He bears a striking resemblance to Piscean, and introduces himself as Malae, younger brother to Ivid III, and Imperial Duke of Ferrond.
The man is questioned, and in all respects seems ignorant of the current date. He is told in broad terms about his brother’s failures, the intervening centuries, and how he has come to be free, here in the renovated capitol of the former Great Kingdom province of Tenhae.
“Would you like to go to Ferrond?” Prisantha asks pleasantly. “Unless you have other plans?”
-----
Prisantha squints at her crystal ball suspiciously. She has just failed to scry Lizst, in preparation for a teleport back to Chendl, King and Prince in hand. Gwendolyn has had no better luck with her scrying pool (and occasional foot bath), and when Jespo produces a battered and heavily scratched mirror from the sleeves of his robe, Gwendolyn rolls her eyes. But Jespo smiles a secret smile, and looks up at the group.
“I have him. He is in the sitting room off of the kitchens—the one with that wretched painting of the Veseve.”
Lizt is found where Jespo said he would be, not far from the wretched painting in question, and he frowns slightly when the Liberators teleport in, and more deeply when he sees Belvor.
“Milord, it is good to see you well,” Lizst says evenly.
“Lizt,” Belvor nods. “Where is Butrain?”
“Court is in session. He is on the throne, sir.”
“Trying it on for size, is he? He’ll find it warmer on the posterior than it looks. Order him off of it, and I shall prepare myself.”
Lizst bows slightly. “I must regretfully decline, my lord.”
Belvor stalks forward. “That’s sire to you, wizard.”
With nine sets of eyes staring hard at him, Lizst is nonplussed. “I am of the Four. I serve the throne, not the man. Milord.”
Belvor scowls. “You’re fired. We’ll see about Butrain.”
-----
As the Liberators of Tenh move toward the throne room, they pass small groups of knights, nobles and hangers-on, all of which grow silent as they realize who is amongst them. Everywhere are the marks of fighting; wounded men trying to take their ease, terrified noblewomen dashing to and fro, and everywhere the smell of blood and iron.
Belvor is furious, Thrommel bewildered, Jespo fretting, Prisantha determined and Gwendolyn magically disguised. “I am a wanted woman,” she reminds Prisantha.
Heydricus seems relaxed. “We’ve seen worse,” he cheerily reminds Lucius.
“Yeah. We can take them,” the rogue grimly agrees. “We can take them all.”
-----
In a spectacle reminiscent of Butrain’s days as a donkey, the heavy-set noble sits on the throne and addresses his court. He still wears his battlefield armor, and is soot-blackened and haggard. A long pageant of Northern nobility forms a line before him, one by one swearing oaths of fealty to their new king. The walls of the chamber have had their former decorations and battle-trophies removed, and Belvor’s honor guard has been replaced with grim looking Southern knights, all heavily armed and armored.
Lizst glides over to Butrain’s side, and whispers into his ear, but no herald is needed—the Liberators of Tenh are nearly as well known in the court of Furyondy as Belvor himself, and Thrommel’s presence is likewise marked by a buzz of shocked whispers as the courtiers all watch the drama unfold. Butrain signals to his men-at-arms, and a score of knights move toward the throne, hard-eyed to the man.
“Butrain, you scoundrel—what have you done?” Belvor booms in a kingly voice.
“I have crowned myself, Belvor. Did you not notice?”
“Furyondy . . .” Belvor begins.
“Required a king,” Butrain finishes. “A living king. I serve my nation, and her people.”
Belvor reaches for his sword, but Heydricus restrains him. “Easy, sire,” he says softly. “This is not the place. There is much harm that could be done here.” Heydricus rises to his full height, head and shoulders above everyone else in the room, and raises his arms.
“Lords and ladies of Furyondy,” he begins. “We have two kings but only one throne. It is a tragedy that blood has been spilled, and one that need not be repeated. We have returned with Belvor and his son—his heir. Prince Thrommel stands at the ready, and is promised in wedlock to the Lady Willip. What war has brought us, perhaps a wedding can mend. Furyondy, I propose that it is time that this marriage be made. Willip and Chendl! North and South! Let the younger and wiser heads rule!”
There is a moment of silence, then a lone voice from the rear of the hall says, “hear, hear!” Prisantha takes note, and begins to silently charm the influential Lords and Ladies of both the Southern and Northern factions.
“Hear, hear,” she says. “A marriage, and peace for Furyondy! Willip and Chendl!”
Within moments, her cry has been taken up, and the assembled crowd begins to shout their admiration for the plan. Butrain slumps deeper into the throne, and he begins to stroke his beard thoughtfully.
“Younger and wiser heads?” Prisantha whispers to Heydricus.
“I was improvising,” he snaps back.
As Butrain calculates, Lucius studies him coolly. A careful judge of men, the semi-repentant assassin tenses as he notices the new King reach a conclusion.
“It is true that I promised my daughter’s hand to young Thrommel in marriage,” Butrain says, as he stands. “I still believe, as I did then, that it is the right thing for our nation, and for our cause. To the wedding, I say yes. If, in fact, our groom is still willing.”
Thrommel’s mouth has dropped open. Promised in marriage? But no one asked him! The headstrong fighter looks set to panic—Prisantha realizes that while she has never seen Thrommel shrink from battle, the thought of marriage has completely unmanned him. Thrommel stands silent for a long moment.
“Say yes,” Heydricus whispers urgently.
“Don’t be a fool,” Jespo hisses.
“Say yes,” Prisantha suggests.
“Yes,” Thrommel says, a surprised look on his face.
The crowd cheers his statement, and a bewildered smile crosses his face as he realizes they are cheering him.
“Then we will have a wedding!” Belvor says. “Lord Seneschal, see to it—they are to be married this eve.” Butrain regards the crowd of assembled nobility. “But I will not abdicate,” he says, and the room grows silent.
