CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The grand hall of King's Court, once a bastion of royal splendor, now echoed with the sharp tones of discord under Lord Aldrich's iron-fisted rule.
Tapestries depicting the Ring's storied victories hung askew, their colors dulled by neglect and the smoke from hastily lit braziers that warded off the unseasonable chill seeping through the stone walls.
Aldrich sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the arm of the throne-like chair he had claimed as his own.
His face, sharp and angular like a hawk's, was framed by a neatly trimmed beard streaked with silver, a calculated affectation to convey wisdom and authority.
But beneath the veneer, his mind churned with calculations, weaving threads of alliance and betrayal to secure his grasp on the power he had seized.
Moving into King's Court, to the seat of kings and queens, had been a calculated move. To show the people that they were the rulers now. Not just in name, but in actions, too. It was the Aldrich coat of arms that now hung off the flagpoles.
The Council of Protectors—his euphemism for the cabal of nobles who had orchestrated the coup—had convened at his summons, but the air simmered with tension rather than unity. Seven lords and ladies filled the seats around the table.
"We were promised swift victory," Varis growled, breaking the uneasy silence as Aldrich called the meeting to order.
His fist slammed the table, rattling goblets of mulled wine.
"Yet here we sit, weeks into this 'stabilization,' and the peasants grow bolder by the day.
Effigies burned in Barrowford, taxes unpaid in the western holds— and now whispers of loyalist gatherings in the shadows.
Where is the iron fist you vowed, Aldrich?
Or do you intend to let the rabble undo us all? "
Aldrich's eyes flicked to Varis, a flash of irritation hidden behind a mask of calm.
He had anticipated pushback; alliances forged in greed were fragile as autumn ice.
But Varis's open challenge stung, especially with the others nodding in agreement.
Lady Elowen leaned forward, her voice silky but edged with venom.
"Indeed, my lord. The queen's guard dogs still bark from their cells in Larkridge, and we've no word on the princeling's fate.
If Guwayne lives, he could rally the remnants of the Silver or worse, summon aid from abroad.
We demand action—raze the villages if need be, root out the dissenters. Your caution borders on cowardice."
The room erupted in a chorus of assent, lords pounding the table and voices overlapping in a cacophony of demands.
"Send the mercenaries to crush them!" one shouted.
"Double the garrisons!" another added. Aldrich raised a hand, his voice cutting through the din like a whip's crack.
"Enough! You forget yourselves. This council exists by my design, and the throne will be mine—ours—only if we maintain order. Rash action invites rebellion; precision ensures victory. The queen will be banished to the Wilds at dawn, isolated and forgotten. As for the prince, I have news.” A smile spread over his features.
He had wanted to reveal what he had discovered about Guwayne as his coup de grace, but he would have to deliver it now to quell the dissent.
All eyes were on his and there was silence in the room apart from Garrick’s heavy breathing.
“I have had word that the princeling fled aboard a ship. The Dawnbreaker . Under, ahem, questioning, the captain revealed that in a storm, the prince fell overboard. He swears no one could have survived it. We need to worry no more about him."
There was a murmuring of assent, but the reaction was not what he had hoped.
Varis snorted, leaning back with crossed arms. "The death of the child changes nothing.
You've hoarded the treasury while our lands suffer from these.
.. anomalies. Beasts breaching the Shield unchecked, fields turning to ash without flame.
If you won't act, perhaps another should lead.
" The threat hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.
Aldrich's jaw tightened; he could ill afford a mutiny now.
He met Varis's gaze with a steely one of his own.
"Question me again, Varis, and you'll find your eastern keeps garrisoned by my men. We proceed as planned—consolidate power, divide the spoils. You say you wanted victory. Look around. Look where we are. This is victory…”
“With you on the throne,” Varis snarled.
Aldrich took a deep breath. Nothing has changed; you just grow impatient. We have achieved so much. Together. That is how we will continue. Together. And that way we will all benefit. Everyone one of us.” He made a point of looking into the eyes of everyone in the room. “Dismissed."
The nobles filed out grudgingly, murmurs trailing them like smoke.
Aldrich remained seated, his mind racing.
The dissension was spreading like rot in timber; he had underestimated the cabal's impatience.
Garrick had been quiet in the meeting, but that had worried him more.
And Elowen. There was something about her he had never fully trusted.
She was the kind of women who would whisper words of encouragement in your ear while stabbing you in the back.
Varis, with his private armies, posed the greatest threat.
Aldrich would need to deal with him soon—perhaps a convenient accident in the Wilds.
But first, other matters pressed. He gestured to a shadowed alcove, where his most trusted servant, a wiry man named Silas, emerged like a ghost.
"Ensure Varis's messengers are intercepted," Aldrich whispered. "And prepare the raven for the north. I must confer with our... ally."
Silas nodded silently and vanished into the corridors.
Aldrich rose, pacing to the arched window overlooking the courtyard.
Below, guards patrolled in doubled shifts, their torches flickering against the encroaching dusk.
The kingdom teetered, yes, but it was his to command.
The coup had been masterful: Proudlock's betrayal had removed Thorgrin, the shepherd-king whose druidic pretensions had offended the old bloodlines.
Gwendolyn's capture had silenced the court.
People still claimed they loved their queen, but memories fade.
It was Guwayne's escape that had gnawed at him most—a loose thread that could unravel everything. If the boy lived, he could become a symbol, a rallying cry for the dispossessed. Now he was dead it opened the pathway to success, to glory and riches. Why couldn’t these fools understand that?
They were focusing on the small things that didn't matter.
He had led them to where they were today.
They had to trust him. Or he would snuff them out, like he had so many others. Proudlock, for instance.
Aldrich retreated to his private chambers, a suite once belonging to the royal family, now adorned with his family's banners. “Fools,” he muttered, lighting a candle and reaching for his quill and parchment.
The door opened behind him.
“Know your place!” he barked, “Knock before you enter the king’s chambers or I’ll make sure you have nothing to knock with.”
“The king’s chamber?” A mocking deep voice growled behind him, making him spin round in his chair. Aldrich’s stomach clenched at the sight of Khan Vargul’s massive frame in the doorway. He stood up, desperately trying to retain his composure, not to show any weakness.
“What the hell are you doing here!” he hissed. “Close the door. You could ruin everything…” He stopped himself from calling the warlord an idiot.
Vargul's face split into a smile, revealing large, discolored teeth. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and surveyed the chamber and its contents with an appraising eye. "Thought I'd have a look at the spoils for myself."
“If people see you here and recognize you…”
"Relax. You whine and worry like a child." He turned his huge head back to Aldrich and stepped up to him, looking down on the lord. "My hordes grow restless. They want action."
Aldrich suppressed a grimace. "Patience, I was just penning you a message.” He indicated the blank parchment behind him.
Vargul’s eyes didn’t move from his own. “The realm stabilizes.
Your payment ships north as we speak—gold from the royal vaults, and the first consignment of captives from the dissenting villages. "
Vargul’s laugh was a guttural bark. "Gold and slaves? Bah! You promised lands. My warriors tire of snow and scraps. The clans murmur of betrayal. Send more—weapons, horses—or I march south myself and take what I want." He looked around the room again.
The threat was veiled but clear. Aldrich's fingers balled into fists. "You overstep. Our pact holds: aid in the coup, and you claim the northern marches once the throne is secure. But haste invites failure. The Shield weakens, beasts roam—"
"Ah, the beasts," Vargul interrupted, his eyes gleaming with sly amusement.
"Your disturbances. My shamans whisper of older things stirring.
Fractures in the ice, shadows that hunger.
But I know more than you think, Aldrich.
My scouts range far. They speak of a boy—a princeling—set ashore on distant isles, alive and scheming.
Guwayne, yes? The heir you claimed lost. If he rallies forces. .."
Aldrich's blood ran cold, his composure cracking for the first time that day. How could Vargul know? "Lies," Aldrich hissed, though doubt gnawed at him. "The prince is dead. Stolk, the captain of the vessel he was on, saw him go into the water. No man could have survived. Your spies deceive you."
Vargul leaned closer, his face inches from Aldrich’s.
"Deceive? Or see what you blind nobles ignore?
The boy lives—I smell it in the winds. Send tribute, or I share this 'knowledge' with your rivals.
Varis, perhaps? He hungers for your seat.
Double the gold, and include maps of the southern passes.
My hordes could... assist in quelling your peasant uprisings. For a price."
He turned and strode out the door, slamming it behind him, cutting off Aldrich’s retort.
He pounded his fist on the desk, the candle flame guttering.
Vargul’s threats were a dagger at his throat.
What if what he said about Guwayne was true?
It couldn’t be. How could he know what his own scouts and spies could not?
Stolk had revealed all before he had perished under the rack. His men had ways of extracting truth.
But what if he had been mistaken...? Not only would that mean the prince was still alive, still a thorn in his side, but it would also make him look a fool. It could fracture the cabal further, embolden Varis to strike.
And Vargul’s demands... the treasury bled already from bribing guards and mercenaries. If the barbarian turned, his horde could sweep south, turning ally to invader. Aldrich paced, his mind a whirlwind. He must verify Vargul’s claims.
A knock at the door shattered his reverie.
He spun round again. “Who this time?” he snarled.
Silas entered, his face pale, clutching a sheaf of parchments sealed with wax from various holds.
"My lord, urgent missives from the outlying lords.
The disturbances... they worsen. They talk of other things, too… "
“Give them here!” Aldrich snatched the parchments, ripping off the seals without looking at them.
His face hardened as he scanned the hurriedly scrawled sentences in the candlelight.
The reports painted a tapestry of chaos: In the western fields, crops withered overnight, ground splitting into fissures that belched acrid smoke, glowing with unnatural violet light.
Villagers fled as crystalline beasts emerged from the rifts, slaughtering livestock and vanishing like mist. In the east, tremors shook ancient fortresses, walls crumbling without siege, while winds howled with voices that drove men mad, whispering of unmaking and shadows.
One missive from a border keep described a storm that rained shards of ice like daggers, embedding in earth and flesh alike, spreading a crystalline plague that turned living things to statues.
"What sorcery is this?" Aldrich muttered, crumpling a parchment. The Shield's breaches had allowed beasts before, but these phenomena defied explanation. The nobles would blame him, the peasants see it as divine wrath against the usurpers. If uncontrolled, it could ignite full rebellion.
Silas shifted uneasily.
"Get out!" Aldrich snapped, and Silas raced out, shutting the door, leaving Aldrich alone, his brow furrowed with concern. He stepped to the window, his eyes narrowed, the pressure coiling like a serpent in his chest. His plans, so meticulously laid, now broken under the weight of internal strife, Vargul’s greed and now these inexplicable horrors.
He must act swiftly, crush the dissent, verify the boy's fate, and appease the barbarian before the horde forgot who was really in charge and ransacked the whole realm.
He looked back at the parchments behind him, wondering if forces beyond his ken were aligning against him.
Was something greater happening, and this whole coup was merely a sideshow?
Whatever it was, he felt that it was gathering pace, and he was standing at its epicenter, his grip on power slipping like sand through clenched fists.