Chapter 53
“What is the backup plan?” Lane asked Ian as they remounted the horses the following morning.
They had spent the night in the forest behind the castle.
Having arrived at the city after dark, they had made their way into the trees where Ian led them to the entrance of the secret tunnel, which led to the eastern hall inside the castle walls.
But the tunnel had been deliberately caved in.
Gareth had known about—or discovered—its existence and taken action to prevent anyone from using it.
By then, the main road had been filled with the soldiers returning from the shore, so Ian and Lane had found a secluded spot in the woods to sleep away the delirious activity they had sustained. Ian had woken up aching and sore but mildly refreshed.
“There is no backup plan,” Ian replied to Lane’s question. His voice sounded strangely cheerful to his own ears. He did have a backup plan, it just was not a very good one.
The forest trail ahead of them opened up to the farmlands that surrounded the capital city.
“I am merely a man, returning to my home,” Ian continued, sitting taller.
He kept his gaze on the white walls of the castle, rising above the familiar buildings of the city.
A vision sprang to Ian’s mind, unbidden, of those walls no longer white but red with blood. “What are they going to do? Stop me?”
“Merely a man,” Lane repeated, “who happens to be a prince.”
“Then it is time I start to act like one,” Ian replied.
He did not turn around to see Lane’s reaction, but he was sure he could hear the man smiling.
“I have seen how Gareth speaks to a crowd,” Ian said, his voice returning to its more serious tone. “The way he can sway their opinion with his own twisted truths.”
“And the people of Iseldis have even more reason to trust you,” Lane said.
Ian nodded. “Let us hope they still feel that way.”
As they neared the city, Ian kept Rowena on the main road. He threw back his hood, baring his face to the morning chill. This was his home. These were his people. He was hiding no longer.
At first, no one noticed the dusty traveler, but as he rode through the outer market, he began to catch a few stares. In such a crowded space, it was customary for a rider to dismount. So, towering above everyone, Ian felt eyes turn on him.
Because of this, the first stares were more like glares.
Then, the whispers started. “Is that Prince Ian?”
He kept his gaze ahead, gently guiding Rowena through the crowd.
“No, it could not be,” another voice said to his right.
“That is his horse.”
“It is him,” someone shouted. “I spoke with him once, last harvestreign festival.”
Ian was glad to be recognized. Glad that he had spent his life here among these people, close enough that they knew him by sight.
By the time he rode under the arch that separated the marketplace from the next neighborhood of shops, a small crowd had gathered behind him, following his journey, their interest piqued. Rowena moved slowly enough that they could keep up with him.
The whispers had turned into shouts. “Prince Ian is back!” Doors opened, and people stepped from shops and homes, joining in the crowd.
Ian’s heart raced, but he kept his eyes on the castle ahead and held Rowena back to a slow pace. Gareth could draw a crowd, but so could he.
By the time he had reached the far side of the city and moved out onto the green hill that rose up to the castle, it felt as if half the people in the city were walking behind him. That was good. He needed this to be a public stand.
Up ahead, the castle gates were closed. Ian had never seen the gates closed in full daylight before.
Rowena trotted up the hill, happy to be home after so many sevennights away.
Two guards stood outside the gate. Ian could not make out their expressions from a distance, but the way they stood, gripping their pikes in front of him, showed him that they were afraid of the approaching crowd.
When he was ten paces from the closed gates, Ian drew Rowena to a stop. He said nothing, merely staring at the gate as though he expected it to open.
The guards shifted uncomfortably.
Ian nudged Rowena another step forward. She complied, tossing her head as though she knew this whole thing was beneath her.
Above him, on the castle walls, other castle guards began to gather.
“Well, get on with it,” Ian said loudly, after another painfully long silence. “Open the gate.”
“We cannot,” one of the guards said.
“You cannot?” Ian repeated the man’s words, throwing them back at him with a confused sneer.
“The king has ordered the gates to remain closed for the safety of the people of Iseldis,” the same guard explained.
“My father has awoken?” Ian asked, feigning ignorance and exaggerating the hopefulness in his voice.
“The order came from King Gareth,” the guard replied.
“As Crown Prince of Iseldis, I order you to open the gate.” Ian emphasized every word of his title.
The two guards looked at each other. The first guard, the one who had done all of the talking, looked back at Ian. “We also have orders not to open the gate for you, because you are a . . .” The man had the good sense to finish his sentence as the muttering from the crowd increased.
“Because I am your sovereign in the event that my father is indisposed?” Ian lifted his chin, opening his throat so that his words could ring out loud and clear over the people behind him.
The first guard looked down. “We are simply following orders, Your Highness.”
Ian felt his chest rise with hope as the guard used his title for the first time.
The silent guard tilted his head up, looking for any sort of reinforcement from over the battlements, though Ian doubted he could see anything from that angle.
Sliding from Rowena’s back, Ian handed her reins to Lane and walked the final few steps to the gate.
The guards immediately used their pikes to bar his progress forward. “I am sorry, my lord,” the first guard muttered.
Ian reached through the weapons and pounded his fist against the door.
“In the name of your crown prince and acting sovereign, open the gates!” he yelled.
The two guards kept their pikes in place, neither of them looking at Ian.
Ian pounded on the gate again.
The sound of several sets of armored footsteps came from the battlements above, and both guards looked relieved.
“What is all this about?” shouted a familiar voice.
Ian stepped back several paces until he could see the face of General Zimri peering down through one of the open windows in the walkway above the gate.
“It is I,” Ian yelled. “Ian Sirilian, acting sovereign of Iseldis, and I demand entry into my home.”
Zimri’s frightened expression relaxed into a scoff when he saw Ian standing below him. “Ian Sirilian,” Zimri bellowed in the same voice he used to shout orders to his men. “Traitor to the crown.”
“Why is the gate closed, Zimri?” Ian asked, wanting to quickly distract the people behind him.
“For the safety of the people,” Zimri replied. “Because we are a kingdom at war.”
Ian let the words hang in the air for a moment, listening as the crowd stirred behind him. “The people of Iseldis are outside the castle walls,” Ian yelled back up at Zimri, turning his head so that his voice carried to the crowd. “How does this closed gate keep them safe?”
The growing murmur behind Ian told him that his words had hit their intended target.
“Open the gate!” The voice from the crowd sounded suspiciously like Lane.
Ian nodded his head, ever so subtly, pleased that Lane knew exactly what he was doing and how to support him.
“Open the gate!” Ian did not recognize the second voice, but the speaker had barely finished when others joined in.
“Open the gate!”
Ian nodded again. He felt, rather than saw, the crowd closing in behind him.
Zimri stepped back from the opening in the stone wall. He turned to the guard standing at his right, giving him an order Ian could not hear.
Ian watched as the guard quickly passed down the order to the other men standing above the gate.
He saw the way they straightened themselves, moving along the upper wall and aligning their formation with each opening in the battlement.
He saw the second line of guards pair up behind them.
Though no weapons were visible—yet—Ian knew that Zimri had called the archers to be at the ready.
Ian also knew that Zimri would not fire on his own people.
The archers were not looking at the dissonant crowd. They were looking at him.
“The people will be safe,” Zimri said, speaking over Ian to the people behind him. “Gareth, our king, has promised it.”
“What good are promises when the gates are closed?” Ian replied, filling his voice with righteous indignation. He would not let the show of archers dissuade him. He was swaying the people to his side. “My father never closed the gates. King Frederich would never shut out his own people.”
Another familiar voice yelled from directly behind Ian, but this was a woman’s voice. “Gareth is not our king!”
Ian turned slightly, not wanting to take his attention from the enemy in front of him, but unable to place the voice immediately.
“Frederich is our king!” Mistress Cedrice yelled loudly, stepping up to Ian.
She turned back to the crowd, positioning herself uncomfortably close to him, almost as though she was intentionally standing between him and the archers.
Yelling over his shoulder, she continued to speak to the crowd.
“Ian is our prince! Ian is our king in Frederich’s illness! Ian is our king!”
Ian put his hands on the older woman’s shoulders, physically moving her to the side so she could not act as his living shield.
He could see the anger—and fear—growing on Zimri’s face as the man looked out over the crowd.
The people were nodding, murmuring their assent, agreeing with Mistress Cedrice.
She was well-known and loved throughout the city. Of course they were listening to her.
And Zimri saw it.
“I stand with King Ian!” another voice yelled from deeper in the crowd.
Startled at the title of “King” placed before his name, Ian turned quickly to see Peter Cabril push through the crowd to join him. As Lord Cabril was another well-respected member of the city, the people parted easily to let him pass. A few of them even took up his cheer. “I stand with King Ian!”
As Lord Cabril approached Ian, he dropped to one knee, placing his hand over his heart. It was a gesture that Ian had witnessed his entire life when the people of Iseldis approached his father. It was a gesture one only made to their king.
Stunned and humbled, Ian reached forward to help the older man stand. His heart pounded in his chest, momentarily blocking the growing noise of the crowd.
Peter accepted his help but managed to stand in such a way that he was also placing himself between Ian and the archers on the wall.
“What in all of the Majis histories are you doing?” Mistress Cedrice spoke into his ear.
“Claiming my birthright,” Ian said. He gently, but firmly, pushed Peter to the side. He did not want to see the man harmed on his account.
Peter resisted his push. “Can you claim it without throwing your life away?”
“Open the gates for King Ian!” Mistress Cedrice yelled over Ian’s shoulder, stoking the crowd.
“Open the gates!” They took up her cheer.
“Let’s get you out of—” Peter bent over, his words cut off by a violent, rattling cough.
Alarmed, Ian reached out to support the man’s shoulders.
Still coughing, Peter leaned his weight against Ian. Mistress Cedrice pushed against Ian’s other side, forcing him to step away from the main gate.
The crowd parted as Ian, supporting the still-coughing Peter, was pushed down the hill by Mistress Cedrice.
When they were safely protected behind a wall of people, Peter stood up tall, breathing normally.
“What are you thinking!” Mistress Cedrice yelled, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “You are going to get yourself killed. That isn’t why I called you here. You should have come straight to my shop, in secret, you dolt!”
“We are out of time!” Ian quietly yelled back. “Gareth is going to kill . . . You called for me?”
“Ashlin has made progress with the tapestry,” Mistress Cedrice replied. “Did the messenger not reach you in Lockwood last night?”
“I have not been in Lockwood for three days,” Ian replied.
“The needle worked!” Mistress Cedrice clasped her hands together in excitement. “She’s been at the castle day and night stitching away, and she uncovered new information about the magic!”
Ian stood up taller, his heart racing for a different reason as he felt a suspicious glimmer of hope. “What is it?” he said. “Where is she?”
“Stuck in the castle,” Peter replied. “Gareth closed all the gates last night after he returned from the shore and has not let anyone in or out.”
Ian looked over his shoulder at the castle. “What is he planning?” He said the words out loud, but not loudly enough for anyone to hear them.
The crowd was still focused on the gate, yelling at Zimri to open it, though several of them were watching Ian, Peter, and Cedrice as well. Lane was slowly making his way toward them, leading both horses behind him.
Ian turned back to his older companions. “I need to get inside. He is going to kill my father, if he hasn’t already.”
“The old tunnel?” Peter asked.
Ian did not ask how the man knew about a secret that only the royal family was supposed to know. He no longer questioned how River’s Talon knew anything. “I already checked. Gareth discovered it and had the end caved in.”
Peter looked to Mistress Cedrice.
She looked to Ian.
Ian turned fully around, staring back up at the castle.
Peter must have sensed his desire to just walk right back up to the gate and bang it open with his fists, because he felt two hands on his arm, holding him back.
Ian was not actually going to knock the gate down, but they did not know that. Peter and the seamstress had literally just seen him try to do that.
For an old man, Peter had a surprisingly strong grip.
Ian sighed. It was his own home. There had to be another way inside.
He turned back around.
It was not Peter Cabril who held his arms tightly.