Rain started falling just before dawn. The soft patter on the roof of the barracks should have been soothing, a welcome relief, a gift from Maribor to finally douse the night fires, but Chancellor Percy Braga saw it as just one more thing to deal with. The barracks had become the new council chambers, with what remained of the heart and soul of the kingdom squeezed into two narrow rooms. Braga would eventually commandeer a nobleman’s house in the city, possibly even move into Mares Cathedral, though Saldur might balk. For now he needed to be on the scene.
The scene was the smoldering ruin of the castle keep. The fire had burned longer than anyone would have thought. All that straw. Braga had heard those three words all night, but it was all that aged oak that kept the fire going. Bucket brigades did nothing but prevent the fire from spreading to the outbuildings. The keep was unassailable, as if a dragon had taken up residence, refusing to be moved. The place had burned all night, black walls with glowing eyes and a deep throaty roar.
So much had to be done and now they would do it in mud thanks to rain that had come too late. The sheer enormity of the problems aligned against him was overwhelming. He took a breath and exhaled and then took another. He shouldn’t have to remind himself to breathe. The world was changing. The sun would shine again, perhaps brighter than before. He just needed to get through this.
Braga sat at the woefully small table, a size that suited the small number of attendees. Of the original twelve council members only Lord Valin, Marshall Ecton, the Chamberlain Julius, and Bishop Saldur survived to reconvene. Buried under a pile of military blankets, struggling to endure the morning chill, which was worsened by the rain, Braga sat at the head of the table feeling more exhausted and cold than he could ever recall. No one suggested starting a fire.
Braga waited on the death tally. In the chaos, no one knew who died and who might have survived, and he needed to have that list. The delay was agony, but he had to know before proceeding. At least one name wouldn’t be on the list. The princess had been spared, carried to safety by that boy—Richard Hilfred’s son.
Everyone had ash on them somewhere. The whole of Essendon Castle was one big lump of charcoal and everyone looked like miners recently out of the hole.
“I’d like to send scouts up the East March Road,” Valin insisted with steel in his voice that Braga couldn’t have imagined before. The old warrior had always struck him as a doddering steward, keeping the seat warm for the next Marquis of Asper, but the man was alive now, his eyes bright and his voice deep. “We’re sitting here blind and deaf. I have known Exeter since he was a pup, and that lad was no fool. He may have commanders and an army on the march. Even though the man is dead, his forces could still pose a risk. We need to know where they are, their numbers and makeup.”
“Actually, I think we have a more pressing issue directly before us,” Bishop Saldur said. The elderly cleric was a mess. Wet with rain, his thin hair melted to his skull, and the soot on his face bled down from his forehead in tears of black. He looked like a corpse found floating in a river. “Before we start down any path, we need to decide who will take the helm of this kingdom. With the royal family dead, it is—”
“The princess survived,” Valin pointed out a little too quickly and loudly for Braga’s taste. The old man had been a mouse at all previous meetings, yet now he discovered his voice.
“Of course, of course, but she’s twelve,” the bishop said in his affable, warm tone while patting Valin’s hand, which the marquis withdrew. No one likes to have a corpse touch them no matter how friendly he sounds. “She can’t rule. Maybe someday, but not now. We need to designate a regent until she comes of age.”
“Lord Valin is the ranking nobleman,” Ecton spoke up. “And he’s a descendant of the charter. Clearly you should be—”
“The law states that the chancellor shall act as steward until the next king is crowned,” Chamberlain Julius declared. “This is indisputable. Lord Braga is a brother to the king.”
“Through marriage only,” Ecton replied.
“Lord Chancellor?” Wylin appeared in the doorway, where people had been coming and going all morning. Wylin was acting captain, now that Lawrence had been officially pronounced dead—found partially crushed by a fallen timber in what used to be the drawing room. Wylin was dripping wet and filthier than all of them. His hands and arms black up to his elbows.
“What is it?” Braga asked.
“We have an early tally on the dead, my lord. And, my lord”—he paused, looking at each of their faces—“things may not be as dire as we had thought. We have not found the king among the wreckage.”
“Are you certain?” Saldur asked. “Surely you have—he’s probably burned recognition.”
“No, Your Grace. I do not believe so. We’ve found”—he hesitated—“the fire did little to the king’s bedchamber or the chapel. Queen Ann still lies on her bed undisturbed. She likely succumbed to the smoke while sleeping, but the king was not there. Nor have we found the prince. The scribe is in the stable, writing up the official tally. He’ll have it to you directly, but I thought you’d like to know about the king right away.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Lieu—ah, Captain.”
“Such hopeful news,” Saldur said with a beaming smile.
“What does this mean? Where could the king be?” Lord Valin asked. “Did Exeter’s men abduct him?”
“Looks like we can suspend all this talk about picking a new ruler.” The chancellor stood, slipping out from most of the blankets but keeping one over his shoulders. “Excuse me, as I have a chaos to order.” He squeezed out of the barracks.
Wagons filled with stacked bodies were rolling through the courtyard recently turned to mud. He stood under the barracks porch eaves to survey the disaster he’d been granted.
The sound of horns drew Braga’s attention.
“The king! The king!”
Horses entered the gate. King Amrath trotted in alongside Count Pickering. Behind them came the prince and the Pickering boys all sodden with rain, all eyes staring up at the blackened castle. Those in the barracks rushed out with smiles brimming on their faces.
“You’re alive!” Braga shouted. “And the boys…”
“Caught them on the road this morning,” Leo explained, his voice detached, his eyes unable to leave the ruins of the castle. “They slipped out to go hunting.”
Amrath said nothing as he dismounted in front of the chancellor, rain dripping from his beard. “What’s happened, Percy? Where’s Ann and Arista?”
At that moment, given the choice, Braga would have traded places with the Hilfred boy rather than have to be the one to answer that question.