As Chester made his way through the darkening woods, a sudden memory stirred him, and he paused to reconsider his route. He had lied to Aylee, and he wished to remedy his offense. When he had first begun his journey with Jess and the troops, Chester had felt like a child, and his untruth to Aylee had shown the immaturity of a child. Why would he lie to her about her comb? Why even avoid keeping his promise and delivering it to their parents? Now that Chester had lived through so many difficult experiences, he realized that he had grown into an adult, or at least more of one than when he left. He would turn seventeen in only a few weeks, and he felt prepared to leave his childishness behind him.

With little inconvenience to himself, Chester returned to the spot where he had thrown Aylee's comb. In the month or so since he had passed, the bushes had grown a little, though he could easily spot the general area where he had aimed it. He studied it for several minutes, moving aside a branch here and a twig there. Finally, he spied a gleam of metal on the forest floor and, brushing past a few leaves, he retrieved his sister's comb. After he delivered it to his parents, he would return to Aylee and offer his sincerest apologies, begging her forgiveness.

Malchus watched the young man in all his proceedings and deliberation. No doubt the youth had some definite intention with his little maneuverings. As Malchus had neared his home town, his insecurity had returned, and he had dawdled through the last half-mile of forest. The youth just offered Malchus another excuse to delay a task he dreaded. When once he had shown his face in Bennigton, for the sole purpose of thuggery, Malchus would not find himself able to return, at least not for years to come.

“Hallo, there!” he hailed the youth, curious as to the young man's purpose.

When Chester turned, his heart stopped. He could run fast, and could potentially outmaneuver a horse at dodging through the trees, but he could not know for sure that he would face the need. The look on the face of Malchus Lorne did not register as comprehension, but more as curiosity, and Chester would not enlighten the criminal before him if he could help it.

In truth, Malchus could determine only a base familiarity with the face before him. With their close proximity to Bennigton, Malchus felt sure the youth hailed from the town as well, or at least from the marsh. He had probably seen the young man around the village for a decade or more, and perhaps a growth spurt had elongated his features so as to make them unrecognizable to Malchus.

“What is it you are doing?” Malchus demanded.

Forcing himself to appear unconcerned, Chester shrugged in indifference. “Nothing, sir. I just noticed the sun gleaming off this thing and wondered what it was.”

Malchus let the untruth pass, not wishing to spook the youth into running away. “On a little adventure in the woods, searching for treasure, eh? Do you hail from Bennigton?”

Chester could not divine whether a truth would serve better than a lie or vice versa, but he had lately determined to try honesty when possible, so he answered truthfully. “I do.”

“May I see your treasure?” Malchus queried. Perhaps he might distract himself for a while by interrogating and intimidating a hapless young man who probably needed some correction, after all.

Though he did not like the idea of complying, Chester knew that he would have to give Malchus the comb or take the opportunity to run. Running still did not seem advantageous, so he handed the lustrous silver over to the bully on his steed.

“You see, young man, you can tell by my clothing that I do not need your little silver trinket, so you did not refuse when I asked it of you,” Malchus began superciliously. “That shows some intelligence behind your furrowed brow, I must say.”

“Everyone thinks they can be my teacher,” Chester mumbled, a much less willing pupil with this instructor than with the last.

For a moment, Malchus looked as if he would hand the comb back to Chester, and Chester stood poised to take it and retreat. He should not have handed the comb over so easily, and he wished he had fled in the first moment he had seen his sister's attacker. In truth, part of Chester wanted to attack the man himself, but another part recognized how unequal the match at the moment and shied away from confrontation.

Suddenly, Malchus adopted an expression of intense inquisitiveness, rubbing his thumb over the beads that adorned the top of the comb. He jumped down off of his horse, not taking his eyes off of the comb, and sauntered forward. Suddenly wary, Chester stepped back, ever prepared to run. He really wanted to retrieve the comb, though, so he stayed.

“Such a unique comb,” Malchus murmured. “I imagine that there is not another like it within a hundred leagues.” He continued to press forward, though always in a casual swagger rather than a rush to approach. Finally, Chester could no longer inch backward without drawing attention to his evasion, so he determined to run.

From the moment Malchus had dismounted from his horse, he had contrived to corner the young man, though he had intentionally avoided showing his aggression. He reached a tenable position just as the youth lifted his foot in obvious preparation to flee. Before that could happen, Malchus clasped him by the collar, lifting him off the ground in a burst of fury.

He had not recognized the youth from the town of Bennigton. No, Malchus had seen that in him that favored his sister.

“You are not going anywhere, Master Hembry,” Malchus glared. “Your presence here will save me a lot of the awkwardness I would have encountered if I had entered the village for one of your siblings or your mother.”

Malchus lowered Chester to the ground, transferring his grip to the young man's arm. When he said “mother” Chester's chest constricted, and his fear evolved into a relief that he had encountered the ruffian before one of the other Hembry's had suffered his fate.

“She was wearing this, you know? That day in the alley. I'm surprised she didn't bury it in a graveyard, as much as she wished that day had never happened. It did not have to happen as it did, though.” As Malchus spoke, he grabbed a rope from a hook on his horse and began to unwind it. Chester twisted and struggled in his assailant’s hand, but he could not wrench himself free. “You may as well stop fighting, young Hembry. You have seen how I treat those who resist me.”

“Yes, and they usually manage to get away,” Chester spat in an uncharacteristic fit of temper. He cringed back almost instantly, certain he would receive a blow for his insolence.

Instead, Malchus grinned rabidly. “I see that it is an inherited madness, this sharp tongue. You might learn to temper it if you wish to avoid future suffering.”

“Suffering is not the worst fate. Conceding to men like you is the worst fate, and my sister knows that.”

“You are a brave young man, Master Hembry,” Malchus allowed as he slowly wound the rope around Chester's chest and arms. “I have no great desire to see you suffer other than as punishment for your sister, so you can count on mere captivity. You are only the bait by which I will hook both her and her dear, affectionate nobleman.”

Malchus spoke with such cool calculation that Chester shivered through the heat of his stress. If Chester let Malchus draw Aylee in, Malchus held some fate for her that would render death preferable. No doubt her evasion of him so many times had only increased his determination – had probably given him time to plan worse tortures. To Chester, the recognition of the evil in the eyes of his captor made him determined that another plan, though painful, could only prove preferable to that fate planned by Malchus. Chester would either escape, whatever the cost, or die in the effort. He would not watch himself used as a pawn in the destruction of his sister, not to mention Jess, to whom Chester owed too much to enumerate.

“To think that you have rescued me from that which I most dreaded. See, if I entered our town, then I risked exposure to all of our neighbors. I just might want to return there someday.”

“As if everyone doesn't already know what a lout you are,” Chester muttered, and Malchus chuckled.

“Well, the difference is, they think I'm a mindless lout. I just don't want them to know that I have a brain.”

“More like you don't have a soul,” Chester pronounced just as Malchus secured the end of the rope around Chester.

“Now, young Hembry, you will follow beside my horse until such time as I command, or I will hoist you up in a most undignified fashion.”

To Chester, the threat seemed comical. As if one would call dignified his walking beside a horse, trussed into a coil of rope. If Malchus had thought Chester compliant, though, Malchus had not understood the Hembry family at all. Not a one in the bunch would answer to that description, though Aylee could manage it if she respected the authority in question.

As soon as Malchus turned to secure the rope to his horse, Chester rushed him from behind, slamming the larger man against the rigid muscles of the stallion. For a moment, Malchus stumbled, stunned at an unexpected blow, but he recovered quickly. Chester had not yet regained enough balance to jerk himself free from the hand that restrained him, and Malchus smiled when he recognized the rope in his hand. With a sudden movement, he yanked Chester back toward him, raising his fist to strike the young man across the face. One of the rings acquired from Maximus landed squarely upon Chester's jaw and, not only did it split his cheek wide open, it knocked him virtually senseless. Unable to render further resistance, Chester succumbed to unconsciousness.

For the next few days, Chester faded in and out of awareness, and during the times he awoke, he could sense the fire of infection as it ravaged his open flesh. Had he possessed his usual faculties and resources, Chester could have repaired the damage in a few moments' time, but he lay shackled to a bed in the back chambers of some sort of court. He heard enough in his delirium to conclude that he now lay in the court of Duke Wilmington, the once-just ruler over the nearby principalities. How the Duke had so reversed his character, Chester could not divine. Once, Duke Wilmington had spread benevolence and freedom to all those under his authority, but of late, he had set his soldiers upon innocent men, rendering them hungry and battered.

During one of his more lucid moments, Chester analyzed his manacles, curious to see if he could manage to remove them. They consisted of bedsheets, stripped and tied into simple knots. Apparently, no one expected Chester to recover with any strength. If the infection in his cheek spread throughout his body, he might lose his strength, but at the moment, he retained more than he would have expected. As the blow to his skull mended, Chester found his mind returning to normal by the third day. Whenever someone entered the room, he feigned unconsciousness, though the doctor noted on the third day that Chester's pupil dilated in response to the candle he held overhead.

“Do you suggest a guard, then?” Malchus inquired. He had sent a messenger with news of Chester's convalescence and captivity to find the nobleman's camp, but he had no guarantee the man would find the enemy. Certainly, they had failed to do so for over a month. Malchus's fail-safe plan would dispatch a messenger to the Hembry's the following day, but Malchus still recoiled from such exposure. As the week drew to a close, Maximus put more pressure on Malchus to produce the young nobleman, and Malchus knew that doing so would earn him higher favor than forcing Maximus's hand in regard to the Duke. Throw in that Malchus wanted more than anything to punish Aylee, and he desired the outcome as much as the high counselor could. Killing Duke Wilmington would prove merely a consolation for his missed opportunity.

The doctor shook his head at Malchus, turning to lift Chester's eyelids once again. “Even if he regains consciousness, that gash on his cheek has developed an infection, and he will find himself too weak for any real resistance. An occasional checking-in should suffice.”

Malchus glared at the bed, skeptical of any uncontrolled variable, but he did not doubt the doctor. From what Malchus could see, the boy's face had swollen significantly, and it almost glowed with a red fire from within.

For Chester, the idea of a guard had nearly caused him to reveal himself by his reaction of panic. A moment of self-control paid off, though, because when the doctor and Malchus had removed from the room, Chester remained alone. Over the next hour, he managed to break the flimsy cloth strips on both of his hands, then sitting up, he reached down to untie his feet. He took several minutes to recover his equilibrium, what with the shock to his head from the blow and his weakened constitution due to infection, but he managed to find himself in a functional state of strength within a quarter-hour after freeing his wrists. Chester would need all of his stealth and training to escape unnoticed, because he could not rely on speed or agility. In his current state, he possessed neither.

Fortunately for him, the sparse stone of the grand hall stood lined by plush and plentiful draperies. The cover allowed Chester to slip undetected behind the dais where the high counselor held session. Even with the concealment, though, he dare not move along the front of the hall. No breeze stirred the air in the room, and any movement would have attracted attention from those waiting to address the man sitting in the chair. When he heard the man speak, Chester recognized a voice that had visited him on his first night of convalescence, one that had spoken of schemes and conspiracies that Chester did not understand. The man had not seemed of particularly high character, though of some high position, and Chester had to wonder if he did not hold the responsibility for the Duke's new policies. Whatever the case, the sinister calculation in the man's voice shed light on Malchus and his corrupt tendencies.

Chester listened with a dawning nausea to the insidious advice and rulings that the man handed down, subtly stripping the needy of self-reliance or freedom in exchange for a pittance of what they came in with. Though he had never met the man, Chester despised him. After a while, Chester risked sitting to the floor, concerned that the effort of standing might sap him of strength he would need to escape. His new position gave him a view of several men's boots – soldiers no doubt – as well as a small section of the wall on the east side of the room. On it, he spied one side of an enormous portrait, and the man depicted on it wore a small circlet of gold on his head. Chester had landed as prisoner in the actual castle of the Duke, and such a revelation heightened his anxiety. At some point, he might find himself forced to resist the power behind a throne.

Eventually, Chester's nervousness succumbed to boredom as the minutes stretched into a half-hour, and Chester found himself dozing. When a clattering erupted in the back of the hall, he jerked to attention and came back to himself. A soldier made his way to the front, and Chester heard the voice of Malchus bark an order to the man. Though Chester could not see the man's face, he recognized the attire that had characterize the men who had traveled with Malchus.

“To the back, Kirk,” commanded Malchus, and a moment later two pairs of feet stood a mere yard from Chester's hiding place.

“I have not located the camp, sir,” the man called Kirk explained to Malchus. “Though we have scoured the forest, we have not caught sight of him or his troops. Would you like me to proceed to our second destination?”

For a moment, Malchus said nothing, but finally he acquiesced. “It is my last chance, and though the high counselor has shown me favor, he could remove it just as easily on a whim of anger if I fail to help him realize his original plan.”

“Then the Duke will live?” Kirk queried.

“So it seems, though I don't understand how the plan of the high counselor is any sounder than mine, though I enjoy playing Lord Capigan. The Duke has already ceased to regain consciousness, and with the real heir dead, the Duke's death would prove more beneficial than dragging on his life.”

Chester held his breath as he listened to the unexpected news unfolding. No wonder the Duke's policies had so suddenly changed, not to mention those he sent as emissaries of business. The impending death of a ruler should have traveled as news throughout the kingdom, but no one Chester had encountered in the last few weeks had heard anything of it. Perhaps the death of Lord Capigan had forced the high counselor to conceal the truth lest some foreign commander try to wrest the throne from its rightful place. What would prove its rightful place, though, if the Duke had no heir?

Suddenly, Chester understood everything. The lingering illness of the Duke, the cunning of the high counselor, the pronouncement of injustice in the name of the government: this high counselor had plotted every aspect of the unrest that had enveloped the region. As long as the Duke lived, the high counselor could reign under the auspices of his master. If the Duke died suddenly, then the counselor would find himself embroiled in a battle for the throne.

“Only one more day do I have to wait, though. If this noble who crusades for the Duke does not show himself by tomorrow, the Duke will die and Maximus will ascend to power. I am happy with either outcome, and Maximus will eventually see how accurate my predictions, whatever happens.”

“So, shall I go forward with the girl's family?”

“Just as planned, Kirk. I have to keep my word to the high counselor regardless of whether or not I agree with his course.”

Chester could not move, so overcome did the news make him. The girl! Would Malchus attack even more of Aylee’s family? Chester had hoped that his captivity would buy the rest of the family peace. Even though Chester did not hold the ability in his heart to wish someone dead, anything short of death for Malchus Lorne would bring the boy deep satisfaction. Going after the Hembry family because Aylee had spurned him. And such treachery, too, to kill a good and generous ruler! Though Chester ached to move, he could not risk exposure, so despite the fire that the words of Malchus had lit under him, Chester would follow the course with the highest promise of success – the course of patience. For another hour, Maximus sat in counsel, offering his pronouncements for whatever business presented itself. Finally, the doors shut, and all other seekers found themselves turned away.

Once Maximus and Malchus removed to chamber – no doubt to conspire about something - Chester turned back the way he had come. To continue forward would force him past the chamber doors, and Chester could not risk that the two men in conference would see him. Instead, he slipped into the corridor which contained the entrance to Chester’s convalescent quarters. Beyond that room lay some sort of study, and Chester crept inside in search of a window that would facilitate his escape. Non large enough would open, so he turned back toward the hallway. On the right side of the room, he encountered a small enclave, and lining the enclave, he noticed small portraits painted of several men and women, each adorned by an identical circlet to the one he had observed in the great hall. Perhaps, he reasoned, the kings had miniatures made of the great paintings put on display for the public.

On the left side of the display, the portraits bore marked signs of age: cracked and peeling paint, faded colors, dated clothing. As he moved down the line, he found that the portraits grew fresher and more modern. The ultimate painting portrayed a handsome middle-aged man, his beard in the fashion of the day, and his eyes of a pleasant piercing grey. Chester felt as if he had beheld those eyes before, but he knew he could not have. Of that he held no doubt since he had never traveled within five leagues of Capigan until now.

Chester's eyes suddenly caught sight of a discrepancy in the bright red cloth that served as contrast to the dimly colored portraits, a rumpled lump underneath the portrait of what Chester denominated as Lord James. When Chester moved aside the cloth, his jaw dropped in absolute astonishment. The death of Lord Capigan indeed! Lord Capigan, or Jess to his new-made friends, lived in great health and capacity within the triangle forest of Banda. No wonder Jess had championed so vehemently for the Duke!

As he processed his new information, Chester began to comprehend the significance of his discovery. For one, Chester had just spent over a month under the tutelage of the heir to the throne. For another, that man had clearly marked Aylee Hembry, Chester's sister, as his potential life companion. To watch her demeanor with the man, Aylee had no idea the consequence and honor such a distinction offered her. Most importantly, the revelation opened to Chester the elevated level of risk endured by anyone who knew the man's true identity.

Processing all the new information added to the disorientation of Chester's brain that infection had already rendered befuddled. If he did not make it out from the castle grounds in the next quarter-hour, he would likely fall back into unconsciousness. His only hope lay in finding a horse that could carry him where he needed to go.

The next room stood enclosed by a heavy wooden door, but the door lay slightly ajar, and Chester heard nothing when he listened. Behind him, a faint chatter seemed poised to enter the hall, and Chester pressed into the door to await any potential discovery. After several minutes, no one had walked into the narrow passageway, and Chester prepared to return to the corridor.

When he heard a raspy cough behind him, he started to reach for the dagger that would have wedged in his belt under normal circumstances, but someone had, of course, removed it during his convalescence, so he just turned gently to take in the rest of the room.

A grandfatherly man lay, completely unmoving, atop a grand bedstead, and after watching for several seconds, the man coughed again. Apparently, the man was ill and must rest. When Chester stepped closer, he covered his mouth with both hands to cover his gasp of shock – Duke James Wilmington of Capigan lay, unmoving, under a mound of luxurious coverlets.

Despite his sense of awe, Chester did not let himself ponder long, instead heading toward a set of double doors that seemed to lead out into a courtyard. He made it approximately halfway to the doors when the cough turned into more of a hiss, and Chester wrenched his head around to see if he were discovered.

Instead, the figure on the bed had raised his head and now waved madly for Chester to make his way back to the bed. Chester imagined that the man could have raised a hue and cry if he had desired, so Chester moved back toward him and soon found his collar gripped by the desperate hands of the man.

“Who are you?” the man grunted.

“Ch-chester Hembry, sire. Of Bennigton.”

“Why are you here, and injured?”

Chester considered lying, but he imagined he was either caught or not, and the barely functional man did not seem a physical threat – even in Chester’s weakened state. “I was a prisoner of Malchus Lorne and Paulus Maximus. I am fleeing for my life.”

For a moment, the man on the bed did not move, but he slowly unclenched his hand and let Chester stand.

“I fear the land is in upheaval?”

“It is, those two men causing trouble. Jess is helping fix people, though, and I need to get back to him to save my sister.”

“Jess?”

“Well, Jameson, I guess, since he’s got a picture here, but he goes by Jess.”

The man on the bed seemed near tears, but he pulled himself together to offer some news for the younger man. “You are returning to him.”

Chester just nodded.

“I need you to take him a message from me.”

Chester nodded again.

“Tell him, moonflower is ripe. The seasons are about to change. Per servitium regula.”

“Moonflower is ripe, the seasons are about to change, per sev - ”

“Per servitium regula.”

“Per servitum regula. Got it.”

Both men seemed drained by the exchange, and when James lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, Chester hurried to the door. He did not have long.

Fortunately, the castle did not have extensive grounds. After trudging down a narrow outdoor corridor, Chester struck out over a shallow hill that hid him from view of all but the very top of the castle. Every moment, he expected a hue and cry to arise concerning the escape of the comatose prisoner. So far, he had heard nothing, and he quickly recognized a sort of stable before him on the left. Unfortunately, it contained dogs, so Chester hurried past it to avoid the enthusiastic barking that the canines would no doubt undertake at his presence. Just past the kennel, Chester could see another, taller building, and once he passed behind it, he recognized the unmistakable scent of horses. He moved to the side of the building, hoping to find an untethered horse that he could acquire for his purposes. With Lord Capigan as his advocate, Chester did not worry that anyone would accuse him of stealing. That is, if Jess ever returned to his home.

A more mature mare stood next to a young-looking stallion. Both wore bridles hooked to the hitching post by their reins. While the stallion would no doubt prove faster, the mare would prove steadier, and in Chester's current state, he needed complacency rather than speed. Inside of half an hour after he had fled the great hall, Chester made his egress from the castle grounds. With any luck, he would reach the camp before nightfall.