Fonorion twisted his sword, and the Prince shut up. “Kneel.” Fonorion flicked a glance at Jerrol still struggling on the floor with the Princess. The Prince took one look at Fonorion’s face and knelt. “Arms behind your back.” Fonorion circled him. He grabbed the Prince’s wrists and, dropping his sword, tied him up with a thin cord he unravelled from his waist. He tied the Prince’s hands to his feet just for thoroughness and stood watching Jerrol.
“Having fun?” he asked as he hauled the Princess off Jerrol.
Jerrol scowled, rubbing his sore face. He had long scratches down his cheek, slowly oozing blood. “Who would have known the Princess has more oomph than her husband,” Jerrol said in disgust. Fonorion tied her hands to the bedpost. She let her breath go as Fonorion glared her into silence. The threat of gagging was enough to make her obey.
They left the chamber. After a swift, low-voiced conversation, Fonorion reluctantly agreed to guard the Prince and he tied the doors shut while Jerrol hurried back towards the north tower where he knew the Prince originally had his rooms. A brilliant flash lit the corridors, and Jerrol peered over the bannister into the empty courtyard. A loud crash of thunder vibrated through the palace and grumbled off into the distance.
At the sound of voices, he stilled, blending into the shadows of the long gallery which led to the north tower. Servants’ voices? The voices faded as they moved away from him. He padded down corridors and up stairs, working his way through the warren of passages and rooms, relentless in his search.
He surprised a guard at the base of the north tower and struck immediately, crowding the man against the wall. The man sidestepped and whipped around. His wrist flicked, and Jerrol grunted as pain bloomed in his thigh. He staggered, and the man pressed his advantage, forcing him back down the corridor. An arrow buzzed past Jerrol’s ear and struck the guard in the throat, and the guard faltered; his sword slipped from his fingers as he collapsed to the ground, gurgling.
Birlerion appeared beside him. His face was grave as he saw the dagger protruding high on Jerrol’s left thigh. Glancing around, he eased Jerrol against the wall; bracing him, he pulled the blade out, staunching the wound with a folded piece of cloth he tugged out of his pocket. Jerrol trembled with the effort of remaining standing, waves of hot burning pain flashing through him.
“You should not be alone, Captain,” Birlerion murmured, pressing down hard against the wound.
“We need to find the King.” Jerrol closed his eyes against the deep ache in his leg and the concern in Birlerion’s eyes.
“We will,” Birlerion said, undoing his belt and cinching it tightly around the wound. “Ready?” He helped Jerrol stand, keeping a bracing arm around his back.
“The King must be in the north tower, in the Prince’s old rooms on the third floor.”
Birlerion supported him down the corridor. Peering up the stairwell, he wrapped Jerrol’s arm around his shoulder and with one arm around his waist he began climbing, tightening his grip as Jerrol stumbled and in the end carrying him up the last few flights.
He propped Jerrol against the wall and checked the corridor. “Can you stand?” he asked, and then he let go of him and disappeared down the hallway. Jerrol heard a clash of swords and the Sentinal was back, wrapping his arm around Jerrol’s waist. “The tower is down the end; it’s clear now.” He assisted Jerrol down the passageway. They were halfway down when a door opened, and Chancellor Isseran peered out.
He froze in shock at the sight of two armed men, and then he slammed his door shut as Jerrol raised a wavering sword.
Jerrol lurched for the door. Forcing it open, he fell into the room. Birlerion stepped over him and reached for Isseran as he spun his cloak around him. The cloth whipped out of Birlerion’s hand as he disappeared, leaving the Sentinal hissing in pain.
Jerrol grimaced as he heaved himself to his knees. “We’ll deal with him after; the King is more important.” Birlerion helped him up and dragged him down the corridor.
“Where did he go?” Jerrol asked.
“Not far. We need to get to the King before he does. It seems these Ascendants have discovered more of their ancestors’ skills.” Birlerion stopped speaking as he heard a knock at a door around the corner, followed by the door opening and closing, and the soft snick of a lock turning. Checking the corridor, he assisted Jerrol into the room to the left of the chamber and dropped him in a chair. Searching the room, he returned with a thicker towel and a thin scarf. He undid his belt and pressed the thick pad against Jerrol’s leg and tied it in place. Jerrol groaned, stuffing his hand in his mouth, his face pale.
Birlerion knelt beside him. “I don’t know your King; you make sure it’s him, and I’ll defend the door.”
With Birlerion’s assistance, Jerrol leant his ear against the door and listened. He didn’t recognise either of the voices. They were quite clear as they made no effort to lower their voices.
“He’s getting more difficult every day, how much longer we got to keep this up?” a voice was whining.
“Stop moaning, your job is easy; he sleeps most of the night,” replied a colder voice.
“You sure you’re giving him the right dosage? All he does is spout nonsense,” the whiny man continued.
“It’s what they said to give him; the next batch will be arriving next week. We’re almost out, and you know we don’t have enough to increase the dosage.” The man broke off with a gasp.
“Prepare the King. I need to move him.” Isseran’s harsh voice interrupted them.
Jerrol jerked the door open, and Birlerion followed, crowding the men in the antechamber. “Stop him,” Jerrol shouted, pointing at the squat man backing away, swirling his cloak around him.
