The Forgotten King

encoded into the message.” He looked up at Clifford. “I am wrong to have doubted. But listen, I will read it for us all to hear.”

Blaine, I have been captured, along with Vahan Lee, who is truly loyal to Atilta. I am with Celestine, and we are safe at present. Yet you need not fear for us, but for Lord Milada; for I know you care more about my safety than do I. Casper was true to the cause, though Montague tried to condemn him before me, and – as you have tested your own men – the traitors must be with Lord Milada, within his own castle’s wall. Yet this is why I write: our friend Willard is no mere forest man, but Willarinus, returned to us at last. Take joy, Blaine, for once more there is a King of Atilta.

—Signed, Alfonzo of Melborough

There was silence for a time, broken at length by Willard.

“I do not see how it can be true. Alfonzo must be wrong.”

“I have seen it in your face,” Clifford answered, “For I knew you as a child.”

“Yes, and Alfonzo has his own proofs. Yet I have no such memories, and it will take more than one man to convince me. If another recognized me, I would believe. That you saw Willarinus in me, after you were told, is not enough.”

“Then we will have a second opinion,” Clifford said.

There was an old maid sitting on a log a few yards from them, enjoying the feel of the earth beneath her feet. Clifford called to her to come, in a loud voice as she was mostly deaf. She was withered with the burdens of age, her step short and slow. Nevertheless, Blaine and Clifford lowered their heads in reverence as she came.

“This is Heiden,” Clifford said, “Nurse to the last three generations of Plantagenets. She was Willarinus’ nurse, just as Alfonzo was his tutor. If they both recognize Willard,” but he did not finish.

The old woman stepped forward slowly. She raised her frail hands to feel Willard’s face, moving the tough skin and thick beard to get a glimpse of what was veiled behind all the dirt, the years, and the pain which it had seen. She looked long and hard at him, going back in her head through memories of years gone by, going back to the memories of Willarinus as a child.

Then she fell to her knees without warning, lowered her shriveled face to the ground, and said in a high, clear voice, “Long live the king.”

The others joined her, first Blaine and Clifford, than Ivona, and finally the woodsmen around them. All those on the ground below the city stopped and knelt, joining in the chorus to the true King of Atilta, Willard Plantagenet.

Willard could do nothing but stand and listen to them, almost unable to understand what it was they were saying. He did not look like a king. His black hair was long and uncut; though it was clean and combed, it fell wildly around his head and onto his shoulders. His beard reached his chest, and seemed like that of an old philosopher, not a king. Beneath these things, though, he was a noble looking man.

“Friends,” he said, “If fate calls, then I will answer. Gylain must be overthrown, and freedom restored. Let us prepare for the battle.”

There was something different in his voice, something that had come out before only when he was in an impossible situation – when he defeated the bandits, when he fought Montague, when he battled the Elite Guards. There was something in his voice that dwelt there in the shadows all along, only coming out when the end seemed near: power and authority. This was the fate for which he had been waiting. This was the purpose for which he had been summoned from the forest. His time had come.

“Perhaps I know a way to rescue them,” began Clifford. “You see, the Queen of Saxony is coming to Eden in a few weeks.”

Chapter 25

In the central tower of Castle Plantagenet, at ground level, was the Great Hall. Far above were Gylain’s quarters and far below the dungeon. Due to the circular nature of the tower, the room itself was also circular. Yet it was much larger than the other portions of the tower, for it tapered off as it grew higher and lower.

The Great Hall was used as both the dining hall and the throne room. The throne sat on a platform on the wall opposite the gate, and the remainder of the room was furnished with oak tables. The ceiling rose two hundred feet, spiraling to a point; three chandeliers hung down and a hallway wrapped around the top, with windows overlooking the room below. Behind the throne was an anteroom: Gylain’s private closet, connected directly to his quarters – he could come or go without passing through the crowd. It was only large enough for its function, equipped with a simple chair and a long mirror. Gylain sat on the chair with his head lowered to the floor.

“Destiny,” he muttered to himself, “Why must I be the wicked despot? What a foul hand fate has fed me. But then again, how much better is that given to any other? And how can I reject what is mine, when I have no choice in the matter?”

He raised his head and leaned back, sighing, “All of life is pain, for there is no hope, no purpose. What is today is gone tomorrow, and forgotten forever. Pain is all that is left, to prod us with its pangs and lure us with the promise of its absence. Is it not pain that motivates us? To inflict it on others and remove it from ourselves? Are not emotions judged by their contrast to pain, and the human perception started from pain upwards? Woe to us, that it is so. Yet I wish that my road had been another, for inflicting pain – the elixir of life – is not enjoyable. To see children standing hopelessly beside their parent’s shriveled bodies is poignant to the heart. But to have caused it is worse. To see parents, broken and forlorn, beside their children’s corpses is painful to the morals. But to have done it yourself brings a cold shiver to the heart.

“But whom do I mean to fool? If it were not me, then fate would have some other minion. And no matter what position a man is in, he is still the cause of pain. The rich man who sits in his palace – while at its gate an entire family starves – is he not guilty of active murder, more than just passive? And the nobleman who in his gluttony eats until he is sick, does he not sin by taking food from a hungry child? No, I am not so shamed on the pages of the Book of Life, for every man is a concentration of sin, and fate merely dilutes it with power and wealth, that it can be spread about more easily. Guilt is guilt and sin sin. Does it matter if it is passive or active? And death is still death, in spite of the means by which it comes, or the life that lived before it.”

Gylain brushed his hand over his face and brought it to his chin, where he played with his beard and looked at the wall. His face was a windless day.

“Fate must be obeyed, and certain things are to be done, but woe to them by whom they come about .”

As he spoke, his fists clenched and his face grew into a storm. He arose and strode to the mirror that graced the opposing wall, looking deeply at himself.

“If it was not for me to give my soul to God, than how was it mine to keep it from him? If some are saved by grace, than by what are others condemned? How is it that while all humanity is held precariously over a lake of fire, only a few are plucked from it and taken to paradise? As he says, revenge is God’s; for he would keep the best things from us. Fate and destiny? Salvation and condemnation? Hate and love? Are they not the same thing: different in persons, same in essence? But what difference does it make, for we all have pain and the devil has us all.”

Gylain struck at the mirror in his exasperation and fled the room, entering the Great Hall. It was being prepared for the opulent feast which would greet the Queen of Saxony, Cybele. Her arrival was expected at any time during the next week, though the exact date was unknown.

Jonathan Montague was just entering the throne room to consult with his lord. His face was as emotionless as ever, his spirit as evil. Gylain grimaced.

“What a wretch,” he mumbled, “For he actually enjoys the wicked which he does.”

“Hail, my lord,” and Montague bowed on his left knee before the throne.

“What is it? Speak quickly.”

“Of course, my lord,” returned Montague, “I am beginning to raise the defenses of the castle in preparation for the queen’s visit. Would you have us transfer Alfonzo and Celestine to the basement dungeons?”

“I understand your fears, Montague. For the situation on the mainland is precarious for us: France would gladly be our enemy and only Saxony prevents them. If the rebels capture the queen, France would be with them in an instant. Yet it is not so simple: the rebels have not the power.”

“Have I not heard from your very mouth that the king has rejoined their ranks? He wields much power and influence, both here and in Europe.”

“You fool, the king is dead, his head cut clean from his filthy body. The king that I speak of is his son: young