Chapter Sixty-Five: Long Live the King

“How can the men believe in their King if he does not even believe in himself?”

—Dalan Kelethar, Thirteenth General of the Legion

The guards wound open the gates as quickly as they could once they saw the injured King, and closed them just as fast. They lifted him onto a stretcher and rushed him to an inn which had been refurbished into a medical station, pushing past the injured soldiers in the queue, shouting for the healers and medics. Aedon stared upwards the whole time, breathing with deep, shuddering breaths. Sweat continued to form on his forehead, mixing with blood and grime, trickling down the side of his face.

Alend found himself waiting outside with Gilfred while the soldiers continued to set up defenses for the first wall. There weren’t many left by now; most of them had died when the Apocalypse Knights had torn through Wall Norn. Almost half the city was gone now, deep into the tunnels beneath Uldan Keep to the western wilderlands.

“How is the Princess?” Alend asked.

Gilfred sighed. He looked haggard, drawing shallow breaths, wincing each time he did. The Slazaad must have cracked more ribs than Alend had originally thought.

“She’s not doing well,” the Kingsblade replied. “Merrill and Evaine are looking after her. She’s definitely gone into shock; she won’t eat anything, and she refuses to evacuate until she knows her father is okay.”

News of Aedon’s injury had spread like wildfire, and everywhere around them, people waited to hear of the outcome. Would there be a new High King of Faengard? Perhaps a new royal family, even? After all, there were no male heirs to the throne left.

But there were no male heirs from any of the families. The Lachesses were down to their last member, a girl, and of the Thorens, Cinnamin was also a girl. Alend’s name, although cleared, would be tainted for a long time to come, and Ein was not a true Thoren.

Gilfred is the most suitable candidate for the throne now, Alend realized.

“I told him we should have retreated,” Gilfred continued. “I told him. He’s a stubborn fool.”

“That’s just what he is,” Alend sighed. “I can’t say I feel too sorry for him, considering everything he’s done to me.”

“About that,” the Kingsblade said, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I was the reason you were captured and thrown into the dungeons.”

“Even if I’d managed to speak to the King alone, I’m sure the same thing would have happened. Ein would have ended up on that journey anyway, and I would have been locked up. You’re forgiven, Gilfred. I wouldn’t have expected you to know better.”

The fires had died down a little. The houses in Norn were of greater quality in general, made from stone bricks rather than wood, holding less fuel to burn. The clouds remained thick and heavy across the sky, smothering the land. Sitting with their backs to the side of the building, staring into the night, he remembered when he’d first taken on Gilfred as his apprentice, teaching him the way of the Kingsblade. Now here he was, sixteen years later, a man in his own right.

The door opened beside them and one of the medics emerged. She fixed Alend with a disdainful look.

“The High King wishes to see you,” she said.

Alend stood up and followed her into the inn. A group of high-ranking Captains and Sergeants were gathered outside the door to one of the rooms, alongside the three remaining Kingsblades. Of all the faces, he didn’t recognize a single one. A lot had changed since he’d been one of the King’s knights.

“Through this door,” she continued, opening it for him. Alend nodded and entered, Gilfred not far behind.

Aedon lay as pale as the sheets he slept upon, eyes vacant and staring. His breath was ragged like an old man, his chins wobbling in time with the rise and fall of his chest. He shifted slightly as Alend entered the room.

“How’s he doing?” Alend asked.

“Not well,” the medic replied. “Most of the bones in his chest have been crushed, and several of his ribs have punctured vital organs. We’ve done what we can, but most of it is internal bleeding, and even then it was a challenge for the Songweavers to repair him. We fear he’s lost too much blood already—”

“Thank you,” the King suddenly said, gesturing to the medic. “Please leave us now.”

She shook her head as she backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving the three alone. Aedon exhaled.

“A waste of time,” he spoke faintly, eyeing the door. “Everyone knows I won’t live. Even myself.”

“Why did you do it?” Gilfred asked. “Why did you try to fight Hrongar? He would be more than a match for even a Kingsblade, let alone a man with no special powers.”

“Gilfred, Gilfred,” Aedon said. He closed his eyes, and for a moment Alend thought he would not be opening them again. “Illia’s death opened my eyes, Gilfred. I’m not too proud of what I’ve become, the things I’ve done, the decisions I’ve made. I’ve grown too steeped in my own fears, kept my mind too closed to be a good King, and now this has happened.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “Faengard needs a better King. My son and daughter are too young and inexperienced, and Alend’s reputation has been soiled through my own doing. I think you are the best man for the job.”

Gilfred blinked. Alend studied the Kingsblade’s expression, his own thoughts spinning.

Aedon came to the same conclusion that I did.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gilfred said. “I’m not a person who can take charge of an entire nation.”

“You can take charge of an army,” Aedon continued. “I’ve seen you do it. You will learn, Gilfred. There will be people to help you along the way.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Gilfred shook his head. “I don’t want to become King, Aedon. I’m a Kingsblade. I protect Kings, and I failed to do my job. By all rights, I should be executed.”

Aedon chuckled, an action that seemed to bring him great pain. “You are the King Faengard deserves,” he continued, “and I am in the way. My time is over. When I pass, you will take on the mantle of the High King.”

Gilfred smiled wryly. “You know commands hold no power after you die. You’ll need Celianna to give them.”

Aedon ignored him and looked to Alend. “And you, my dear friend. I am so sorry. Even after everything I’ve done to you, you still came to me in my time of need. You truly are something else.”

“I didn’t come to save you,” Alend said. “I just don’t want you getting off the hook too easily by killing yourself. You had me hiding for sixteen years, Aedon. That’s almost half my life. I found a wife, raised a family with her, always with the fear that I would be discovered. Not a day passed when someone knocked on my door that I would prepare to flee, in case it was you.”

“And I am sorry for that,” Aedon murmured. “I would like to blame Illia or the Forsaken One, but that would be running away from the truth. I allowed my position to blind me, Alend. I fell into the age-old trap of paranoia. But if it means anything to you, please accept my apology.”

“I’ll acknowledge it, Aedon. But I’m not accepting it.”

Aedon smiled dimly. “Ah. Harsh as usual. But I’ll settle for that.” He reached out his hand. “That was a great battle back there, with the Slazaad and the Apocalypse Knight. For a moment, I almost felt like I was young again. Almost.”

“It was a battle that could have been avoided,” Gilfred said.

“It was a good battle,” Aedon said again. “Gilfred, pass me my spear, please. I think the White Women are here for me.”

Gilfred picked up the King’s lance from his bedside and placed it into his outstretched hand. Alend looked around. The room had grown colder, and he could see faint silvery wisps out of the corners of his eyes.

So this was how it would end. Out of Edric and Aedon, he would be the only one who still lived to remember those golden days.

“You fool,” he murmured.

Aedon held the lance tight. “Take care of Celianna,” he said to Gilfred, and Alend felt the power of the command displace the air. “Remember what I said. You are already a man of the people, Gilfred. Take the final step and lead them.”

“I can’t,” Gilfred closed his eyes. “I can’t, Aedon. I don’t want to, and I don’t think I can.”

“You can. You must show strength, and lead the other city-states against Al’Ashar.” Aedon’s gaze became blank as he stared at a spot far away in the distance. “They are beckoning to me now, Cenedria’s Women… and Willard, so tall and strong. Illia as well… oh, Illia, how beautiful you are…”

He didn’t say anything more. Alend and Gilfred waited for a long time in the silence of the room before they finally accepted that the King was dead.

#

Gilfred, Alend, Merrill and Evaine were halfway through the estates when the horn blew again. Alend stopped and looked back across the city to where the innermost wall was, the soldiers already lined up and ready to fight. The Captains had accepted the fact that they were going to lose Adem, so they’d only stationed units at the key choke points along the district. The remainder of the forces had fallen back to the keep.

There was only one Slazaad left and it was at the gates now, ramming its head again and again into fractured wood. The Celadons were all but dead, as were the Bloodmanes. The biggest threats that remained were the two Apocalypse Knights, Hrongar and Saidon, and they’d left all the Kingsblades but Gilfred to hold them.

“We’ve lost,” Alend said.

“Of course we’ve lost,” Gilfred muttered. “There’s no way we can win this battle. They outnumber us five to one, even if we have fire and salt.”

“That’s not what I mean,” the former Kingsblade said, “though that’s also true. I’m talking about the men, Gilfred. Look at them.”

Gilfred turned around and squinted into the distance, studying the positions where the soldiers had been placed. The Captains had them hiding in the houses, around the corners of streets, at bridges and other natural chokepoints in the district. They stood still in clusters of a dozen or so, silent and forlorn, heads lowered in dejection.

“The fight hasn’t even begun, and they’ve been defeated. Look at them and tell me they have the drive to win.”

Gilfred couldn’t do it. Even the mere sight of them made him depressed. “They can’t be blamed,” he said. “Who would dream of victory in the face of such odds?”

“If you don’t dream of victory, how can you achieve it?” Alend asked. “Word has spread, Gilfred. The King is dead, and though he was not the best ruler, he made the city function. Without him, the soldiers no longer know who they fight for.”

An image of Celianna flashed through Gilfred’s mind. Her gaze had been dull and lifeless, like the gazes of the men he saw now. They’d tried to keep his death secret, tried in vain. All it had taken was one pair of loose lips for the word to spread. There couldn’t have been a worse time.

Take on the mantle of the High King.

Gilfred shook his head. It wouldn’t make a difference either way; those men were as good as gone.

But even as he thought that, he wanted to go back and join them. He should not be alive as a Kingsblade, not if the King was dead.

Protect her.

As tightly as the Vow bound him, Celianna was also of the Uldan blood. Gilfred was hers as much as he was the King’s. He had to protect her doubly so, now that she was the last of the Uldans.

The gate shattered as the final Slazaad broke through, unleashing a flood of Worgals. Gilfred turned his back to the city and ran.

#

The soldiers rushed into the Keep with a newfound sense of urgency, taking their posts along the walls. They were no longer focused on fighting back and winning; at this stage in the battle, their mission was to buy as much time as possible for the remainder of the city’s populace to escape. The majority of them had entered the tunnels by now and would be deep below the ground under the Royal Road.

Celianna stood in the entrance hall, absentmindedly staring at the room Aedon lay in. Most of the lords had either evacuated already, or were stealing as much treasure from the Vault as they could. Vultures, she thought. That’s what they are. They were probably fighting for his property now, over his dead body.

She wished she were older and wiser. Without Aeos, the general consensus would be that a new family was needed to take over the throne. That family would rise from the Silent Council, and she would probably be forced to marry them—to enter a loveless bond with a man who wanted nothing more than Aedon’s wealth and the Uldan prestige.

Come back quickly, brother.

She found herself outside by the moat, watching the Songweavers weave their magic. They’d been working for several days now, lacing the water with all the salt they’d amassed over the last few weeks. To the relicts, it may as well have been a pool of acid. Celianna should have been helping them, but she didn’t have the spirit to sing. She felt dark and terrible, like the pitch skies above.

Mother and father are gone.

She still couldn’t bring herself to believe it. All she could see was the madness in Illia’s eyes as she fell over the edge of the wall, crunching hideously against the ground, the half-scream escaping her lips. The red and white mess on the pavement, the tangle of broken bones and oozing blood. The overwhelming silence, even as Celianna had screamed at the top of her lungs. Any moment now, she expected wake up to the darkness of her room, her body drenched in sweat. Gilfred or one of the servants would tend to her, and she’d go back to sleep again knowing everything was well.

But no matter how hard she pinched herself, she didn’t wake up. No matter how hard she wanted to cry, no tears came to her eyes. No matter how much time passed, the night did not end.

Voices rang by the outer wall of the Keep. It was almost time to shut the gates; anyone who didn’t make it inside would be locked out. Soldiers and stragglers raced across the bridge to the other side of the moat. Celianna waited beside the guards, watching. Waiting. Any time now. Any time now, Gilfred would come. She wouldn’t be able to live anymore if she lost him too. She’d already lost her entire family. Surely the gods wouldn’t be so cruel as to take her best friend as well.

A glimmer of gold flashed in the night.

Celianna rushed towards him, unable to stop herself. He gave a cry of surprise as she tackled his chest, seeking warmth in the gap where the breastplate had been removed. His cry turned into a pained yowl as something shifted beneath his skin. Horrified, the Princess broke away.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, but Gilfred returned her apology with a pained smile.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Your Highness,” he said, gingerly touching his ribs. Alend, Merrill and Evaine tumbled through the portcullis after him, scattering around the other side of the bridge. “Unfortunately, I bring ill tidings.”

“What’s happened?”

“Wall Adem has fallen, and the Worgals will be here shortly. We must finish evacuating the people.”

Gods, already? “We can’t,” Celianna said. “We have to protect Mother Aedrasil. She’s our final hope.”

Gilfred sighed. “We’re doing our best, Your Highness. But we cannot hold the relicts back forever.”

We have to let Aedrasil die. That was what he was saying. Aeos, Ein and the rest of the company that had left for Raginrok… they won’t be returning.

The city was all but vacant. Preparations had already been made.

“Why are you asking me for?” she said suddenly. “You’re in a better position to make that decision than I am.”

A look of what might have been fear crossed Gilfred’s face. He swallowed and nodded.

“Let us leave, then. Men! Lower the gates!”

The soldiers obeyed and began winding in the bridge, closing the portcullis at the same time. It felt like a lifetime before it finally slid shut, closing them off from the burning city forever. The city that had been her home. Aldoran and its proud trees of twilight, the trees she would never see again.

“I suppose they didn’t make it after all,” she murmured. They weren’t dead. They just hadn’t made it back in time. Aeos would be coming back. He had to be coming back.

“The relicts will be here soon,” Gilfred said. “You should get going.”

“What about you?”

Gilfred looked back at the men stationed on the walls. “I must stay, at least for a while. I am the last Kingsblade left, and everyone will be looking to me for guidance.” The last Kingsblade. That makes him the highest ranking general in the Legion.

“If you’re staying, then I’m staying too.”

“Fool!” Gilfred snapped. “Don’t be like your father! Can’t you do as you’re told, for once?”

Celianna stepped back, shocked. Gilfred shook his head almost immediately. “Celianna, I’m sorry—”

“Is that really what you think of me?” she asked. “A stubborn child?”

“No! That’s—”

A guard suddenly appeared beside them, panting. “Lord Leonhart! Another party has just arrived outside the moat, and they’re requesting to be let in.”

Lord Leonhart. I’ve never heard him addressed like that before. Celianna gave Gilfred an uncertain look as he fixed his eyes upon the sky.

The Leonharts were Kings as well, once.

“If we lower the gates now, we might not raise them in time,” he said.

“Let them in,” she replied. “We can’t shut our walls on people in need. We simply can’t.”

Gilfred bit his lip. Someone on the ramparts shouted. There were multiple people crying out, pointing outside the keep. Celianna heard bits and pieces of it and held her breath.

It can’t be. She didn’t dare trust her ears.

“My Lord,” the guard continued, looking to where the soldiers were yelling. “I think we should let them in. Apparently, one of those people is the Prince.”