LXXXII
One hundred and seventy-two ayes to one hundred and fifty-eight nays; the motion had won by a mere fourteen votes. Despite everything, all the effort they'd poured into this inquest— the documents and testimony they'd fought to provide— their first win had been narrow and without comfort.
But, they didn't have time to dwell on the near miss.
Every soul in the Curia packed into the front hall, each body squeezed for sweat, their heads tightly paving like cobbles under the colossus of the entrance.
James stood at the front, beside King William and the two dukes. The shoving affected even them. Like pulses of waves, the king's higher guards did their best to impede the crowd's ripples.
The sharp vibrations of the shouting and clambering pulsated in James' ears, the chaos piercing through his flesh from every angle. They demanded the Curia's guards open the doors, the armoured doorkeepers lingering opposite and waiting for the keys.
Harrison grabbed James' shoulder, raising his voice to be heard. "The moment these doors open, Ankaid messengers will gallop day and night to inform King Fabian. In comparison, our building army will be slow. Your brother will be expecting you, Prince Julian."
James nodded, curt. He'd known this. "What's his army like?"
"Intel is uncertain," Harrison admitted. "His forces outnumber ours. He spends much more than we do. We will need both the Gods and luck on our side. Get praying."
James pondered for a moment, before leaning towards Harrison's ear. "Didn't he spread his men across the north?"
Harrison laughed, remembering. "That he did. I guess his fate will be determined by how evil he is. How fitting."
In a way, it was.
James had thought about it a lot in the last few days: what kind of man his brother was today.
Fully visiting such an idea after the notion had been banished for so long was never going to reap anything positive.
He'd sat on his bed, staring at the wall, chest tight, and had never managed to reach a conclusion.
The feelings had been murky and brown inside him and despite the overwhelming swell of excessive emotion, he hadn't been able to untangle a single one.
The only opportunity James had to reach a verdict and sort out his feelings was by facing Fabian once again. Face to face, James would look at him and ask him the one question that had hung over every interaction of James' life since.
Why?
James would get the closure he needed and then he would be fixed; the irreconcilable conflict of his mind that ground and gnashed like ill-fitting cogs would be made harmonious.
"Make way for the key!" a voice called, repeating in insistence.
The crowd parted, vibrating in excitement, as the lone guard tightly pushed through the cracks. King William took this as an opportunity to reaffirm the plan.
"It takes three days to get to Arkingham Palace," he bellowed, his low baritone seeping into the air.
"We will get there in two! We will build our army according to our path so each man must carry the supplies of three!
Abandon any thoughts of rest and pleasures for our discomfort will save the lives of thousands!
" The king punched his fist up. "For Prince Julian! "
"For Prince Julian!" the voices of hundreds called back.
James accepted the flat words that swept past his ears, unfeeling to the assault of support.
As they stood, itching forward to leave, the key being turned, James finally felt a calm acceptance settle. He no longer denied his fate. This was it, now.
The doors dragged open. The flash of sharp sunlight burst from the widening crack and sliced over their heads, a blinding assault stinging their squinting eyes. Some covered their faces against it but they pushed on regardless, bodies pouring out of the door and into the fresh city air.
James' head throbbed, his vision heaving over the white blurs that his eyes had not yet adjusted to. Before he could worry about getting swept away, men rushing past him like a river, Alex was at his side, firmly gripping his bicep. An anchor.
James appreciated it.
"Where's Thomas?" he shouted.
"Beyond us," Alex called back. "The men are fetching supplies from the Drykas post! Here, I'll guide you."
With Alex pulling him along, James could focus on lightly blinking to build up his tolerance to the light, despite the darkness they'd become used to in the Curia. King William and the higher nobles looked back for them. They stood to the side.
"From now on there will only be chaos," King William was saying. "Time is just as much our enemy as the Ankaid house. Phillip, I'm trusting you to punish dissenters and deserters."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
Unexpectedly, Duke Straton bowed. "Your Majesty, please allow me to help you. I may not be of Drykas affiliation, but I can collect some men from here: the capital."
"Duke Straton," Harrison said, "this is entirely unnecessary—"
"No." Duke Straton was adamant. He glanced James' way, eyes creased in regret. "I must do this. I have a moral responsibility to."
James' throat became dry. He averted his gaze, staring off to the ground with a tense body.
"Make way!" a voice sliced through.
A soldier, already dressed in blue uniform and armour, hurried desperately, fighting against the current of the crowd like a floundering drowning boy. His desperation cut through the shouts of all others.
Without propriety, the man reached them and cried; "King Godfrey is dead!"
James whipped his head around to witness the paling of Duke Straton's face, his eyes widened in horror.
"Dead?" King William interjected.
"Died yesterday," the soldier spat out, wheezing through his helmet. "Princes Edric and Wulfwynn are still suspected dead, Prince Tristyn gave up succession long ago and now Prince Arthfael has vanished too. Only Prince Maurice remains."
The words dropped James' stomach.
Only Prince Maurice remained.
"Say it isn't true," Duke Chamberlain demanded, tensing. "Prince Maurice is the only heir? Then—"
"Shit!" Duke Straton cursed, his shoulders stiffening and fists clenched. His feet shuffled, a wall of rage slapping him in the face and hardening him. His nephew's murderer was the sole candidate available to replace the fresh corpse of the Theos king.
The cold that captured James began to sizzle into something hotter, his face burning with indignation. Riley's blood still lingered in the deep crevices under his nails as tangible as the feeling of pressing the pulsing gaping wound in the man's chest. He still felt it.
James loathed Prince Maurice so absolutely, so unexpectedly, that the severe injustice that not even the divine had remedied stang like he'd been stabbed in the heart himself.
Riley had been an unbearable and provocative cunt, even in the best of times, but he hadn't deserved the savage fate that betrayed him.
"Prince Arthfael has vanished you say?" King William asked. "Is he dead?"
"The timing would be too convenient," Harrison interjected. "Vanished when? Yesterday?" The messenger nodded. "I give it fifty-fifty. Prince Arthfael is smart. It could equally be a retreat."
Prince Arthfael. It was a familiar name. He'd been the youngest of the six Theos princes but also the only brother alive yet to abdicate his right to the crown. He was Prince Maurice's last obstacle.
A brave man, considering what he was up against.
"Your Majesty," Duke Straton said. "I want to help..."
"You should go," King William affirmed. "Go. We will proceed without you."
Duke Straton bowed low and quick. "I am so very sorry. I truly pray for your success."
The duke's departure was unfortunate but they had no time to fret over the loss of their ally, as imperiling as it was. He was needed in the capital.
On their short rush to the Drykas post, their blue soldiers swept through the streets like a flash flood, the tight crowds of the capital's workers and citizens forcibly splintering to the side of their path.
They stood, watching in interest and worry; women pushed their children behind their legs and men retrieved their weapons, hands stilling on swords nervously.
The people didn't know what was happening.
King William had prepared in advance, their post stacked with more weapons and armour than they had soldiers.
Hundreds of men had been waiting on standby and they frantically piled all the supplies into wagons, fastening light protection onto their bodies as they did so.
Stableboys were almost trampled as they weaved through the disorder to ready the horses.
King William, Harrison and Duke Chamberlain all fought to steer some resemblance of order to the scene, each task snapping past so quickly that attempting to follow was unfeasible.
As James waited on the sidelines, Alex having disappeared some moments prior, a few soldiers approached him with black clothing and armour, the colours starkly different to the rest of their troops.
"Prince Julian. You are not from the Drykas house and so these were prepared for you especially." The man bucked his head in a bow, hands too full to salute. "It will be an honour to fight alongside you."
James didn't even attempt a smile. He nodded and spread out his arms, allowing the soldiers to lift the breastplate over his head. A large black hooded cape was draped over his shoulders, covering his protective guards. Pteruges were secured over his kilt and his shins were padded with plates.
With each added item, James' body became heavier and, with the sun scorching overhead, his new garments were cooking and choking him alive.
Although the reality of the situation had already long settled in, when James caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window, the glass mimicking a warrior, James found himself unable to look away.
The echo appeared as lifeless as James felt and it stared at him in sympathy.
It was the only still sight amongst the blurs of havoc— it alone remained solid and consistent. The pity began to feel repulsive.
"James!"
James brushed off the paws of the men who were kitting him and snatched the helmet straight from their hands.
Thomas waved his hand over the heads of the crowd, gesturing him over to the other side of the courtyard.
The bodies that inevitably smashed into him as he pushed through came away more battered than him, his armour solid against their bruising skin.
Even so, the muttered apologies were given to him and he remained silent. Because, that was the way it went.
"Thomas—"
Before James knew what was happening, the light stature of a shorter man knocked into his front and arms were flung around his abdomen. He tensed, alarmed by the contact and Thomas quickly pulled the physical threat away by their shoulders.
"Fletcher, be careful with yourself!"
"James," Fletcher whined, looking up at him, close to tears.
James relaxed, scanning the scholar head to toe. "You're awake."
Awake but not well. Fletcher's head was wrapped in layers of bandages, one eye covered entirely. The other, visible, one was sunken and weary, a dark tired smudge underlining it.
"He shouldn't even be here," Thomas scolded, keeping a firm hand on Fletcher's shoulder. "His injuries might get worse."
"I ran away from the doctors," Fletcher readily admitted to James. "I heard it's official now. You have to come back alive," he then insisted, pointing. "Don't you dare die out there. Any of you."
James smiled tentatively but didn't make a promise he couldn't guarantee. In war, there was no logic or fairness that dictated one's survival. His father had lived through enough of them to swear by it. Chance, and chance alone, was what ruled.
"Don't ever forget: that man on that throne is not your brother.
You must kill anyone that gets in your way," Fletcher demanded, his fire promptly dampening.
"You warned me not to come the first time and I didn't listen.
Look what happened. So, this time, I'll choose to stay behind.
And, I'm sorry for not heeding your advice earlier. "
Thomas snorted. "'Choose'? You don't have a choice."
Fletcher glared up at the knight and grumbled under his breath, much to the other man's amusement. James watched the interaction with a panging fondness.
It was moments like these, that he'd suffered witness to, that had stung him with regret the night he'd tried to run away. They were moments that strung invisible fibres and thickened a bond between people, the emotions shared and relished.
In the wild, James had achieved in shrugging off his tethers but he'd ended up with a gaping hole in his chest, his connections to others broken off also. It had been unexpected; a sudden jolt of black, quiet coldness. He'd found himself standing alone in a silent field, empty.
After having experienced human bonds one last time, he couldn't bear the thought of losing them so absolutely ever again. James knew himself well; it wasn't a wound that could be healed and forgotten a third time.
"We'll come back," James said, promising the younger man, swearing on the names of the very Gods that damned them. "Me, Alex, Thomas, all three of us. We will come back."
Fletcher's smile was brighter than the sun.
"You have to tell me everything, okay?"
"It's a deal," James vowed, gently patting the scholar's head, careful not to dislodge the tangle of bandages.
Alex was right. James wasn't a man that let the world simply happen to him. No, he was a man who grabbed it by the horns, beat it down, and forced it to submit to his will. If James wanted something, he would make it happen.
Even if it meant betraying his only family.
A loose soldier staggered by them and Thomas pulled Fletcher away with his quick reflexes, blocking the collision with his side.
"Watch where you're going, idiot," Thomas snapped. "Are you alright, Fletch?"
Fletcher wriggled his way out of Thomas' grip, stepping on his foot. Thomas winced, grunting in pain in surprise. Fletcher stilled.
James said nothing.
"Did he hurt you?" Fletcher asked, a sudden surge of agitation striking him. "I'll go give the bastard a piece of my mind."
Thomas smiled. "I was just caught by surprise."
"Where are you hurt?"
Thomas looked at James, eyes pleading for help. They both knew what was going to happen. It was a difficult decision to make but James ultimately shook his head, silently watching the situation unfold.
"It's your leg isn't it?" Fletcher quickly deduced. Thomas was unable to stand without favouring it. "But, that soldier didn't even hit your leg..." It clicked. "This... wasn't from saving me... was it?"
"James!" Alex called, pumelling through to meet them.
James gripped Eris, immediately put on edge. Fear and plight were marring Alex's handsome face, his shoulders heaving with each breath. He didn't even greet Fletcher in his anxious flurry.
"Alex."
"More bad news. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for w—"
"Queen Marigold escaped."
James' lips parted. The news was yet another slap in the face. "What?"
"Some of Duke Straton's men ended up believing her and they set her free. She's gone."
"Gone," James echoed, face twisting in dismay. "What the fuck do you mean 'gone'? Tell them to hunt her down!"
"It's been days," Alex said. His chin was turned down and his eyes lifted hesitantly. He delivered this message nervously. James knew why. They both knew why.
"I kept her alive because you asked me to," James grated out. "I would've killed her back then."
Alex flicked his gaze down, unable to argue.
Marigold was a risk. Yet another risk to add to the list that James really didn't need— one he didn't have the time nor luxury to deal with. That woman may have claimed her baby wasn't Fabian's but James hadn't believed that bitch from the beginning.
"Shit!" James cried, pulling on his hair and kicking the ground. "Stupid fucking shit!"
Fate was damning them. As if leading an army to his own brother's throat wasn't difficult enough for him, the Gods couldn't help but kick him in the face whilst he crawled.
"I'm sorry," Alex said. "I really am. I'm sorry, James."
How many more apologies was James going to receive? One after the other, those useless words had been spat his way and Alex was the last person he'd wanted to be insulted by. Such a sentiment meant nothing to him.
"You're not allowed to say that to me," James asserted. "Not before and not now. You already know what your actions have done. So don't you dare ever try to rub that disgusting guilt off on me ever again. I won't tolerate it."
Alex nodded and clenched his jaw shut.
James glared up at the sky as if his pure hatred could tear it down. How was this fair?
"We need to find out who released her," Thomas declared. "We can still find her."
"We don't have the time," James cut in. "We must proceed as planned."
"But James—"
"But nothing! We will continue. Take Fletcher back to the infirmary and return to your duties."
"You should get checked too," Fletcher tried, worrying over Thomas. "If you're injured—"
"I'm not," Thomas insisted. He dragged Fletcher away, pushing through the crowds.
Alex remained, standing there uselessly, not even kitted up as he should be.
"I heard about Prince Maurice." Alex grimaced. "What do we do?"
"Nothing," James repeated. "Alex, we will do absolutely nothing. Not until we steal the power to do so. We've already lost one noble over the issue; Duke Straton can no longer assist us. And, with Fabian, I must be the one to inflict the fatal blow."
It was the one thing King William had insisted on. Perhaps the act was supposed to appease the Gods with clumsy delineations of divine revenge and justice: a wrong for a wrong. Not only was it karmically fitting but the Gods may just forgive them.
Even if They didn't, James' soul was already soiled with the blood of hundreds— both those who died at his own hand and those who had died as a result of his unforgivable avoidance. James could never hope to be cleaner; no one else was more fitting to slay the Ankaid King than himself.
His hands tightened around his helmet as he stared at his dark, warped reflection in it. It no longer looked back. The face twisted and unrecognisable.
He would be the one to do it.