A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 1 (Part 2 of 3)

“Time to place your wagers, lads.”

Nervous laughter dribbled along the wall.  Imlon shuddered.

“Two nobles on the Ninth Legion!” 

“Hold your tongue!” cried a blue-cloaked sergeant, instantly stymieing the few cheers that had gone up.  “Godswings, this could be civil war!”

Some legionaries scoffed, but a great rumble from below silenced them.  By the light of the beacons blazing below Imlon saw the hulking doors of the Great and the Inner Gates being hauled open and heard the faint clanking of chains as the portcullis on each was hoisted up.  Most of the Ship and Rose stayed back, but one single knight, a miniscule glimpse of steel and steed, trotted slowly and deliberately into the fortress.

“By the Lights, he’s bold.”

“You would be if you had three legions.”

“Then where in the ‘byss are they?”

The rider far below had paused a moment, as if to deliberately prolong the bristling tension that stifled the air.  Another knight cantered to his side, paused a moment, and galloped away up the main street.

Imlon did not wait to see the rest of the knights enter: he had already turned, forcing his way back through the soldiers as a single thought seized his limbs.  His reason wailed at him and a ripple of terror rolled down his spine as he remembered his guards, but then, miraculously, he was past the deserted street and into the narrow alleyways that laced through Crown’s.  If he hurried, he would beat Isendrin’s herald to the Pinnacle.

The king had him.  The king had his brother.  He’d have to prepare a bag and somehow secure a wagon to get himself out of the fortress at a moment’s notice.  He had been a prisoner in his own chambers, but – Imlon tripped, scratching his thumb on the cobbles - but now it would be a dungeon, or the noose.  He had to get out.  There was nothing to leave behind.  He had to get out.  He had...

“Hey, you watch yourself!”

Imlon clattered into a torch-lighting attendant.  He had emerged back onto the main road, close to the Pinnacle.  Officers and officials were gathered nearby in these higher reaches of the fortress, but their attention was distracted as Isendrin’s herald flew past, a helmeted rider in a fabulous blue-gold surcoat, his grey hunter draped in the same colours.  The astronomer followed.

As he climbed, a dark view across endless miles of open country dotted with clusters of light opened up over the tiled roofs of the fortress stores and mess halls.  He turned the last corner into Pinnacle Court.  Two high halls, capped with belltowers, stood on either flank of the courtyard, dwarfed by the mighty keep at the far end draped in thick red banners, emblazoned with the King’s complex heraldry: rivers, a chalice and a spear, a crown and wings.  Darkness shrouded the top half of the keep, but a sea of braziers turned the courtyard into a cauldron.

Imlon crept into the arcade of one of the flanking halls, hiding amongst the groups of servants, dignitaries and clerks, whispering to one another.

“This will be war.  The west will not stand for it!”

“Don’t be absurd, he’s here of his own will.  He must have a bargain in mind.”

“Bargains are made from a safe distance, not in the lion’s jaw.”

Imlon watched as Isendrin’s herald dismounted, handed his horse to a groom and walked towards the keep alongside a royal attendant.  The crowd began to disperse – but then the doors of the keep burst open.

“Kneel for his Majesty, Agostes, King of Emmares, Duke of the Blueway!”

On command, Imlon’s knees buckled.  As one the entire assembly of Pinnacle Court dropped to one knee with a heavy rustle of cloth and creaking of leather.  King Agostes, armoured and crowned, stormed from the keep, his courtiers, guards and retainers hurrying in his wake.  Isendrin’s herald stopped, recoiled in astonishment, but knelt as the monarch approached.

“Where is Lord Held?” said Agostes, his deep, hoarse voice struggling to be noble as the crowd began to rise.  “Where is Isendrin?”

The herald removed his helmet – Imlon recognised Caius, Isendrin’s squire – and knelt, visibly moving with each breath.  Something inaudible was said.

“He may not have secrecy!” said the king, spreading his mail-clad arms.  “My lords of Emmares, trusted subjects, come forward, come closer!  Your master shall have no privacy, squire, you shall speak his words to us all.  Come forward, I implore you!”

Imlon had hardly been able to rise from his knees for shaking, and as those gathered in the arcades moved forward, he had to force himself to walk with them.  He should have run back to his chambers, not into the beast’s den.  Agostes knew his face.

“Speak, squire,” said Agostes, as his guards fanned out to cover the crowd.

“Lord General Held bids you welcome, majesty.  He regrets that he is unable to meet you in person...”

The king snorted.

“...but the needs of his knights after a long march compel him to see to their welfare.  With night falling he does not wish to disturb you.”

“And a fine job he has done of that.  Will Lord Held lodge in his quarters?”

“No, your Majesty.  He intends to find lodging in the lower wards.”

Imlon tried to keep his head down, but could not: the king was nodding, running a hand over his stubbled chin.  His complexion was mottled purple with tired rage.

“If I may, Majesty?”

The squire Caius’s request took the King by surprise, wrinkles creasing up his forehead.

“You may.”

“Lord Held requests an audience with your majesty tomorrow, as early as you permit.”

Imlon gasped for breath.  There was no time.  He had to get out.

“As he wishes!” cried Agostes, raising his voice to the whole courtyard.  “First council will be delayed until noon.  Lord Held will have a public audience in the throne room.  Bring this knight his horse.”

A groom appeared leading Caius’s horse, the trotting of its hooves stark against the silence of the crowd.  Caius mounted and the people parted for him.  Agostes’s words missed Imlon’s ears, going straight to the heart.

“Go and tell my Lord Isendrin, good squire, that he shall answer to me on the morrow.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

In a flash, Caius was gone, the noise of his horse smothered by the dark.  Agostes marched back to the keep with his retinue, sharing urgent words with a courtier.  The doors were heaved shut.

Immediately the noise and hustle of urgent life returned to Pinnacle Court.  Councillors and well-connected men dashed around Imlon, eager to take stock with their allies, as the astronomer drifted away.  There was a bench by the wall of one of the halls, facing away from the courtyard and the chattering crowd.  He collapsed into it, passing a hand through his hair again and again, scratching his thin beard.  At the slightest breath of wind he fiddled with his cloak, adjusting the moon-and-star brooch repeatedly.  It hardly felt like summer; he should have brought his thicker cloak, should have brought his cap, the one he hated wearing amongst the soldiers.  He laughed under his breath.

A great, horrible chill shook his body and he slumped against the wall then lurched forward as he struck his head on the stone.  He clasped at the pain and his hair, creeping with cold sweat.  Anger forced him up and he fled from Pinnacle Court, purposefully taking his hands from the pulsing bruise on his skull, raising his posture and striding forward, determined not to look faint.  Damn the guards at his door, or how he would return to his chambers unseen.  He only needed a place to sit, rest, and take some food, as he realised he was famished.  Then he could think. 

He had to get out.

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