For over an hour, Jameson had pushed his horse to near-breaking until he stood within view of the castle wall. Without his troops, much of Jameson's months-long plan had grown moot. He had managed before he left to send messengers to the nearby villages so that the people there could prepare for any potential unrest. Other than that precaution, Jameson had not engaged in any planning, more determined to reach his father than to do so with amazing execution. All of the recruitment, all of the scheming, all of the caution – Jameson fought the fury that grew from knowledge of the futility of his struggles. If he had discern aright about Aylee Hembry, the struggles were not just futile, but likely counterproductive. Counterproductive for his political purposes, and destructive to his personal well-being.

At the moment, though, Jameson had to proceed that he held privileged information that only a few could claim as knowledge, and that the knowledge gave him power over Paulus Maximus. At least, if Aylee Hembry had not handed every necessary fact directly to Jameson’s greatest enemy.

Paulus Maximus, most trusted advisor to Lord James, Duke of Wilmington, had engaged in the vilest of treacheries. Whenever he had read stories as a child, Jameson had always wondered why the advisors and counselors so often proved guilty of betrayal, but after his own personal experience, he realized that only the trusted could prove guilty of betrayal. If anyone else had tried to manipulate James Wilmington, that person would have failed. If anyone else had conspired against Jameson besides Itchy, that man would also have failed.

Fortunately, Paulus had not counted on the wisdom of James and the intelligence of James's son. Before he had fled the city, Jameson had sat in conference with his father, considering how to move forward should James die. Though older than most men, James had continued in good health until recent days, and Jameson had expected him to live another decade at least.

Jameson had entered the room prepared to discuss wills and stipulations, but his father's pallor had arrested him. After sidling to the bed, Jameson had held a hand above his father's mouth to check for the inspiration and exhalation of air.

“I am not dead, son,” James had snickered, but the action sent him into a coughing fit.

“Thank the gods,” Jameson stammered.

“Or god,” James chuckled again. “You are too quick to bury me.”

“No, father. I wish you a few more decades before you hand me the throne out of boredom. You should not die before your time.”

“You are very gracious, my boy­[,” James wheezed, “please help me sit a little higher.”

Jameson stepped in close, and when he leaned down to raise his father's shoulder, his father spoke to him in the lowest of voices. “This death is not naturally wrought,” he claimed, and Jameson stepped back to look at him before leaning him up against his pillows.

“Then, how?” Jameson wondered, glancing around the room for prying ears.

“Poison, my son. It is in my food. Several days ago, my sickness had rendered me too weak to eat, so I did not consume my meal. The next morning, I noted a lack of headache, lessened pains in my joints, a thinner wax on my tongue. In order to test my hypothesis, I gave a very small portion of meat to one of the hounds who visited me in my convalescence. Your friend Itchy confirmed to me that the same night, the dog lay crying for several hours before he finally stood to his feet, vomited, and then lay down to sleep for the rest of the night.”

After drawing a deep breath, Jameson asked the only question he could think of at the moment. “Well, what do we do about it? Shall I call the guards to arrest someone?”

James shook his head, the action obviously costing him pain. “No, my son. Maximus has stood and reigned in my chamber for more than two months now, and he has made deals with many of the other nobles and advisors. If you went against him now, bloodshed would result in amounts I am not willing to sanction. I do have a plan, though.”

Eager, Jameson prompted his father to continue.

“First of all, I believe that Maximus has kept me alive for two reasons. Number one, if I die, he has no guarantee of power. At some point, his coalition will wield enough power to declare itself as governing, but for now, Maximus and his cronies must rely on my name.”

“And number two?” Jameson wondered.

“I still have an heir. Should something happen to me, you would come to power in a mere matter of weeks – on your twenty-fifth birthday. Maximus will not risk fighting you for power, because too many would honor you out of respect for my name.”

“I still don't understand what I am to do.”

“Well, though Maximus currently needs me to bolster his claim on power, he does not need you, and I fear that he will soon begin to concoct methods to ensure your demise.”

Jameson stood to his feet, pacing a circle beside the bed. “He would kill me? But he has requested that I leave the capital and go on a journey to educate myself on the workings of a kingdom.”

“He thinks to lure you out, kill you, then blame your death on some outside force. Instead, we should offer an alternate explanation for your death. Perhaps a higher force or unhappy coincidence.”

“For my death?” Jameson could not believe his ears.

“Your death, Jameson. I appealed to the chemist who makes my healings for a potion that I had inquired after, one that masks life and mimics death. You've heard mention of it in fables, but there are such herbs in truth. I have known the chemist for decades, and he holds great loyalty to me, so he complied easily. Now, you must first dispose of my dinner, then drink this potion with this liquid. Within moments, you will collapse into the appearance of death.”

“How will such a sudden death be explained?”

James's eye twinkled with mischief. “I will provide the explanation. You ate my dinner, every bite. Maximus will find the scenario believable, and once he has sent you to your funeral, you can flee the city without suspicion. You must gather troops to march on the capital as soon as possible, most likely a couple of months at most. By that time, I believe Maximus will be nearing the acquisition of his power, and I will become obsolete. You must be sure to stand ready by then.”

Again, Jameson seated himself by his father's bed, this time resting his chin on his hand. “And Maximus will not kill you?”

“He will not for at least two months. In just over two months, he will preside over the Ceremony of the Wood, and most will accept that as proof of his total authority. Come back to me tomorrow and prepare yourself to die.” James smirked, and Jameson just shook his head. His father's plan seemed feasible, but it also seemed crazy. Still, Jameson trusted his father with every ounce of his being. After visiting Itchy and setting up his few conditions, Jameson had returned to his father's chamber and died. Maximus had not suspected any treachery or deceit. Ironic, Jameson thought, considering his modus operandi. The master of treachery should have seen its approach from several leagues away.

Now the time for the plan's culmination had arrived, and Jameson stood in the Duke's private courtyard, a sizable expanse that lay adjacent to James's chambers. Jameson had gathered his forces, but had felt forced to leave them behind under current circumstances. Though he had met with his father just over a mere two months before, Jameson ached to behold the man once again, to know for certain that James lived, and most of all, to ascertain the older man's condition after so much time without his stalwart advocate.

“I did not realize the eternity of two months,” he lamented to himself.

He coveted his troops. He missed his closest friend. If Itchy had remained faithful, the man would now stand by Jameson's side, prepared to battle to the death. Jameson prayed that his troops would move fast, but he felt no confidence that they would reach him. He needed his best friend. Well, he could not have him, tied to a guard as he stood, so Jameson had to go forward alone. Without his friend who had proven false and without the woman who had proven worse.

When he thought of Aylee Hembry, the memory pushed him forward. He did not wish to consider all the ramifications of his new-found and hard-won knowledge. If it had given him greater security, he might have found a way to feel thankful for the pain, but it did not. Even if he created a habit of investigating his friends with greater diligence, he could not feel confident that he would divine the truth. Surely Aylee knew that truth. Surely, she had planted the insecurity in his head by expounding on her own false fears – false like everything else about her. When once one was found guilty of deception, he realized, treachery tainted every subsequent action, painting it in uncertainty.

The one person Jameson felt confident could guide him in truth lay debilitated on the other side of the little wooden door. If he could only consult his father, the son felt certain that everything would reveal itself. Just another reason to make haste.

When he reached into his pouch, he easily found the small brass key, but he simply stared at it, unable to move a muscle. Though the early morning air chilled his bones, he stood as one of the statues that adorned the royal garden. The man who would have stared down any battle felt suddenly impotent to view the potential death of his father. But if I fail to move forward, I just might be the cause of it. He pulled his hand free from the pouch, stepped to the door, and turned the key.

+++++++++++++++++

After having observed patiently while his great scheme moved forward, Paulus had finally grown tired of waiting on his missing military commander. Days had turned into weeks, and the young man had failed to apprehend the “errant noble” who had so diligently worked against Paulus's anti-James campaign. Now the promised final week had drawn to a close with no progress from the worthless “leader” of his troops. Well, Maximus would make progress. Certainly more than the young Master Lorne, and even more than the Duke himself. What had finally pushed Maximus over the edge had stemmed from his sovereign's refusal to court progress, to increase his influence – to overthrow the nearby fiefdoms and establish himself as a monarch in truth. Instead, James wanted to wait. Wait for permission, wait for an invitation. How long should a well-established ruler wait to increase his land and elevate his influence?

Once Maximus established himself as ruler, he would use his experience within James's realm as a model for dealing with the surrounding fiefs. He could set thieves and criminals loose in the region then swoop in with his own troops to reestablish order. Within a year, he would possess double his current terrain.

The errant noble would find his end as easily after James's demise as before, and once James died, his name would become obsolete, and so would the young noble's purpose. Almost every noble within the region had thrown his support behind Maximus, and though he had initially desired to gain the approval of the peasants by “defending” them from the Duke, such a mandate now seemed unimportant. The soldiers followed the nobles - the nobles paid their men well – and the soldiers would suppress any discontent among the general populace. Even Malchus had said as much, and Paulus began to think that his commander possessed a certain wisdom in his impatience.

Maximus had imagined the ultimate demise of his rival several times over the past few months, and he began to sense an unexpected thrill that filled him as he shut the door to the Duke's chamber. Grabbing a nearby pillow, he glided noiselessly over to the bed where lay the immobile form of his sovereign. He stared down at the face, impressed that even in the man's life-stealing sickness, he bore a powerful countenance. Without ceremony, Paulus placed the pillow gently on the face of the man who had up until then prevented his ultimate ascension to power.

Pressing down, Paulus leaned upon the pillow, forcing it firmly over the man's face to cover every possible inlet for air. He felt a marked surprise when the near-corpse threw its arms and legs outward, but he did not worry overmuch. Such death throes often proved violent and intense. When the corpse wrapped its arms around Maximus and lifted him off the ground, the high counselor began to suspect that his plan would not go off as easily as he had expected.

James, sleeping soundly in his bed, had not heard the door to his room as it creaked open. He had not noticed the movement of the pillow as it lifted from beside his head, or even as it lay softly over his face. When he noticed the tight constriction of his chest as it pulled against the empty vacuum that should have provided breath, James knew instantly that the time had come. He did not quail. Instead, he drew on his newly-recovered strength and threw its entirety into removing the hands that threatened to squeeze the life out of him.

Once his own hands found their purchase, James lifted his enemy off the ground before throwing him away from the bed and lunging to his feet. James soon encountered the face that he had expected every night for the previous week. Fortunately, the face wore an expression of abject terror, a look that brought a boisterous laugh to James's lips.

“You were too ill to move!” Maximus stuttered.

“I was,” James agreed, still grinning, “until I stopped consuming the poison you had lavished so generously into my food.”

“You...” Maximus could think of nothing to say, shocked as he felt by the unexpected hitch in his plan. Still, he had planned too long to allow such an obstacle to prevent his success. His mind began to spin with possible ways to salvage his scheme.

Finally, he sidled to the door, throwing it open with a shout. As long as he stood alone with James, Maximus would not find a way to triumph since James stood half a foot taller. For Maximus, strength lay in manipulating others to accomplish his purposes, so he bellowed into the great hall for reinforcements. Most of the men would not have lifted a finger against the Duke, but Maximus had spent the last few weeks portraying the Duke as near death, weak, and out of his mind. He had done so “in secret,” taking each man into his confidence so that the soldier would not repeat the story. Such confidence also ensured that each soldier thought himself privy to the high counselor and to information that no one else possessed.

Now Maximus played into a belief he had fostered, that Lord James had lost his mind.

“It is the Duke!” Maximus bellowed. “He is in the madness of death!”

Superstition and fear mingled in the minds of the soldiers, and they each beheld in the Duke the madness spoken of by their leader of the past few weeks. Though their mindlessness worked against him, James could not blame the soldiers entirely. Smarter men than they had fallen victim to the manipulations of Paulus Maximus, James himself included.

James, who had stood poised for battle against Maximus, raised himself up to a more noble stance, adopting his most benevolent expression in hopes that his men would respond to him. Still, in preparation for attack, he took up post wedged beside a small outcropping of stone formed from a decorative arch. From that position, he need only defend two sides, and only one soldier at a time could engage him. If he met a better soldier than he, though, the position would prove detrimental.

Seeing his change in demeanor, Maximus scrambled to contain the situation.

“Someone restrain him,” he screeched. “He's reaching for that sword on the wall! Don't let him have it.” Maximus needed to maintain a frenzy in order to hold on to the upper hand, and the men responded immediately. Several rushed to remove the imaginary sword from the hand of James, and to avoid them, James scurried out of the way. The sudden movement shocked the nervous soldiers into even more motion, and the situation quickly escalated into a near melee.

When Jameson pressed open the door to his father's chamber, the ruckus had surged to a high grade of mayhem. He stepped into the room, condensing himself into the smallest possible space against the wall, and tried to take in the meaning of the commotion. Near the main door, he spied Maximus, standing in a posture very similar to Jameson's own. He wore the appearance of a trapped animal, but he did not flee. Jameson could only assume that the traitor planned to somehow turn the half-dozen men against their sovereign.

Peering around the room, his eyes sought the one sight that would offer him ultimate relief. Finally, Jameson spied him – his father – dodging errant soldiers, as alive and spry as ever. Jameson's heart soared. Chester Hembry, at least, had spoken true. With renewed strength, Jameson surged in among the troops, resorting to fists and feet as much as possible rather than swords. He made his way to his father's side and felt gratified to see the old twinkle had returned to James's eye.

As soon as the soldiers saw Jameson, their panic rose to near hysteria. If they had feared the throes of death in a flesh and blood man, a ghost returned from the dead sent them into a frenzy.

“The earl has returned to drag his father with him into the grave,” Maximus roared, and Jameson swiveled to see the triumphant face of Paulus Maximus where he stood on a small dais, raised above his soldiers.

Though Jameson would have rushed the counselor at once, the soldiers swarmed between them, pinning him between their mass and the outer door. Most of the men had not yet drown their swords, and Jameson decided to forgo Maximus and instead to make his way across the stone floor to where his father stood, still beside the bed. Since he could not use his sword, Jameson grabbed a wooden candlestand that sat near him on a table by the wall. Wielding it with only enough force to injure, he fought his way to his father's side.

“You have excellent timing,” James bellowed, shouting to be heard over the ruckus in the room.

“I received some news from an unexpected source, Father, and rushed here as soon as I could.”

“You are woefully understaffed,” his father deadpanned.

Even though his father made the comment in jest, the words stung Jameson. He should have arrived with at least one other. “I mobilized the troops before I came, but it takes a bit longer to mobilize a small army than for me to cover the distance alone.

“Well, we shall just have to hold them off for a while then,” James shrugged, taking up position at his son's back. “Try to avoid bestowing a death blow if you can.”

“The task would prove easier if they would return the favor,” Jameson complained, but he refrained from drawing his sword.

After several minutes of fighting, half of the soldiers lay unconscious, strewn upon the ground under their brethren's feet. James began to worry that the unconscious men would suffer serious injury if the battle continued.

“Father,” Jameson panted, beginning to lose his strength, “I believe we should try to reach Maximus. He is by the door, and we could drag him out away from the soldiers to deal with him.”

“Let us reach him,” James agreed, “but we know not what lies beyond that door. We will have to deal with him here.”

They threw several punches and lunges before sliding between the bed and the wall. Once safely ensconced in the small space, the soldiers could barely reach them, but the men adjusted quickly. They gathered at the posts and began to pull the bed away from the wall.

“Ready?” James shouted, and Jameson offered a terse nod.

“One,” Jameson began, “two, three!” The father and son pressed their backs against the wall and shoved the bed away from them with all their strength. When it slid with a lurch into the crowd of men, several of them fell, legs bent unnaturally, under the edge of the bed. Moans instantly filled the air, and Jameson sighed in frustration.

“This will soon come to an end,” James comforted as he battered away a sword with the sheath of his own. The pair had reached within a yard of Paulus Maximus, and distracted, James swung around to face his betrayer. Unprepared, Jameson found himself swept to the side and closed in on all sides. When he turned back to his father, James had lunged to grab Maximus by the throat.

“Defend your ruler!” Maximus bellowed, but the end cut off with a squeak as James's fingers found purchase.

Jameson realized the weakness in James's plan almost as soon as his father moved. In focusing all his attention on his enemy, he had left his back exposed. Several swords raised at once, hesitating as if uncertain whether they could go through with attacking such a man.

Noting their hesitation, Jameson hollered a command, praying that the shock would immobilize them long enough to allow him to step in front of the raised swords. “Stop!” he insisted, and the swords halted in unison. “Do not strike your sovereign!”

From his side, a soldier offered an unexpected lunge of the sword, and Jameson's heart dropped when his father cried out. The moment he heard the voice, he knew that James had lost his grip.

“He is a ghost!” Maximus insisted. “He will lead you to the gates of death!”

Jameson felt more than saw his father go to his knees, and anguish gripped his throat. Though everything within him wanted to rush to his father and assess his condition, he forced himself to fight, lest the men inflict even more damage. He battled to his father's side, taking up position between him and the soldiers. Several of the unconscious men had recovered, and their anger from the attack bestowed new energy in them. With his father down and Maximus out of reach, Jameson began to fear that he would not leave the chamber alive.

When a crash sounded across the room, he could not spare a glance to determine its source. The noise in the room more than doubled in an instant, and after a minute, Jameson spared a glance across the room, watching in amazement as another three of the soldiers attacking him fell to the ground. He found himself forced to bring his eyes back to the man standing directly in front of him, the last soldier standing and a particularly talented fighter. Jameson feared that in a moment he would need to wield his sword in truth. Angling away from the dais, Jameson lurched backwards to garner some space between himself and his attacker. In the same motion, he raised his sword and used it to parry a blow leveled at his throat.

“I do not wish to harm you,” Jameson urged his current combatant. “If you will lower your weapon, I will cause you no harm.”

“And I am to take the word of a ghost, a demon unleashed to drag me to hell? You decimated my hometown in your unearthly purpose.”

Again, Jameson deflected a strike, this time aimed at his middle. He noted the relative silence of the rest of the room, but he could not take the time to ascertain its cause

“I have not raised a sword against your village or any other,” he pleaded. “Did I burst into the room with my weapon drawn? Did I strike my enemy as if to kill? Please, man, use some sense. I could have killed twenty men in the time that I have fought, yet I have not battled in fact until now.”

Even as Jameson spoke, the man continued to rain blows upon the “ghost” before him, and Jameson knew at once that he would find himself forced to fight in earnest. With renewed vigor, he began a barrage of strikes, aimed aggressively so as to roundly defeat the man before him. He released his instincts, allowing his mind to access that part of his training intended to kill the enemy. Finally, Jameson saw his opening, and he danced into position where he could fell the blow, lowering his weapon with a force that sent the other man to his knees. Rather than get back up, the man scrambled to a seat on the opposite wall, apparently too frightened to continue.

When the space before Jameson cleared, the state of the room made no sense.

Along one wall, every enemy soldier stood bound and gagged, and a pile of weapons scattered on the floor in front of them. One of Jameson's troops from camp stood guard over the bound soldiers, and several other men attended to the wounded strewn about the floor. Were the soldiers fighting each other? Were they for Jameson or against him?

From behind him, a voice issued a command, and Jameson found himself shuffling back to his father’s bed, his back against the frame and his sword raised.

“Why are you here, Itchy?”

The taller friend, having just tied the last soldier who had fought Jameson, held up his hands in surrender. “Jameson, you need no sword against me. Let us care for your father.”

“Get back!” Jameson hissed, swinging his sword from side to side lest someone get any ideas to approach the bed. Time would soon run out for James if Jameson could not finish the battle.

“Master,” began Itchy, and several of the unbound soldiers found themselves paying rapt attention. Was Itchy somehow a servant? Their commander indentured?

“You will not kill my father!” Jameson, all benevolence transformed into protective rage, lunged toward his erstwhile friend, and Itchy barely had time to raise his own sword. “Whatever Aylee has convinced you of, surely you can’t imagine yourself equal to fight me.”

“I don’t want to fight you, friend.”

“Because I’m such a ‘competent fighter’?” Jameson taunted, beginning a sequence of strikes, and Itchy struggled to deflect the blows. “You will see my competence.”

“Master, you are more than competent. You are one of the best fighters in the troop. I just beg you to stop fighting me!”

Having made his way to the edge of the room, Itchy let himself appear cornered by Jameson’s tempest of sword strokes, and once the distance to the wall diminished, Itchy found himself calming while his plan unfolded as he had hoped. Under no circumstances would he harm his friend.

With a premeditated lunge, Itchy reached to the hem of the heavy, velvet tapestry that lined one side of the room. He swung it to catch the descending sword, wrenching the cloth to the side and watching his friend stumble with the momentum. In an instant, Itchy had wrapped his friend up, immovable, in his longer arms.

“Stop fighting me, Jameson. I mean you no harm.”

Jameson suddenly held sympathy for his memory of Aylee, as he had refused to release her that day in the barnyard. “Let me go, or I will send you to the firing squad.”

“You will not, friend. I will let you go when you agree to hear me out. You discredit yourself in front of your men saying such things.”

Growling, Jameson capitulated, ceasing to struggle against the grip that restrained him.

“Let me go, and I will listen.”

“Drop your sword, and I will talk.”

Jameson conceded, and the sharp metal clanged against the floor. Itchy kicked the sword away as the troop, mouths open, gawked at their two most respected leaders where they grappled like young boys. Once one of the unbound soldiers picked up the sword, Itchy release Jameson’s arms, and the shorter friend spun to peer up at his companion with a furious glare.

“I came to aid you, master. I brought your soldiers. You can see that while yours stand free, those who have not been with you these months are bound until we can assess them. I am here to protect you – not to betray you.”

For almost a minute, the two men just stared at each other, Itchy assessing the expressions on Jameson’s face for sincerity and acceptance.

“You have conspired with Aylee Hembry,” Jameson leveled stubbornly, watching his friend’s face for signs of guilt and reading guilt there.

“The only thing I’ve conspired with Aylee about,” Itchy insisted, “is to request that she never kiss me again, a request she happily agreed to since she has no reason to act as such. And since you can’t find her out right now, might I suggest we save your father…”

Typical Itchy levelheadedness, Jameson furrowed his brow, his rage dissipated. Suddenly, he spun back to his father’s slumped form where it leaned against the wall. Though the motion required Jameson to leave his back exposed, he could not care. Instead, he knelt before his father, and several other soldiers followed his motion. When a group of the men had lifted James, laying him out atop the covers of his bed, Jameson’s imagined suspicions began to fade with the very real dilemma before him. Blood seeped from James’s side, and his eyes had closed in an expression laced with pain. Jameson leaned over his father's side.

“Is he...” Jameson could not complete the thought.

“He lives,” one of the troop insisted as he dabbed a wet cloth upon his sovereign's brow. “The wound is not deep, but I fear it has entered some vital part. A healer must perform surgery to ensure that he does not bleed on the inside.”

Heartbroken, Jameson lay his brow upon his father's bed. “Please, Father,” he begged, “do not leave me now – I need time to prepare to rule. I have no one else.”

At the thought of the obstacles that had stacked against them, Jameson suddenly remembered the greatest obstacle, and he jerked his head up to peer around the room. Maximus had disappeared. Jameson growled in frustration, but he could not take the time to mourn just yet. He needed to pour every ounce of energy into his father's care.

“I need an emissary,” insisted the man who had informed Jameson of his father's condition. He spoke in a low voice so that no one more than a couple of feet from him could hear. “You have a staff of healers who can offer me crucial aid, but I am afraid that the soldiers will attack if one of us ventures past these doors.”

Desperation welled within Jameson, and he turned to the men lined against the wall.

“Please,” he peered into the eyes of the men, “I realize that Maximus has filled your head with lies, but you see that your sovereign was not ill. He was poisoned by Maximus himself and only recovered when he refrained from eating the tainted food.”

One of the soldiers gestured manically, and the guard removed his gag.

“I have heard the tales of your misdeeds! I saw you, laid out on the bier and carried to the grave!”

“I cannot speak to your first point, for my assertions that I know the miscreant who has proceeded thus can hardly be believed on my word,” Jameson admitted. “But your latter point lay as part of our strategy to wrest power back from our enemy! Look, your sovereign lies there now, blood seeping from his side. Have you no pity? You see where I have been battered and bruised and scraped in my battles with you, how the blood trickles from my temple. You must realize that ghosts do not bleed!”

Finally, one of the men stepped forward. When Jameson looked closely, he recognized his final attacker, he who had battled so valiantly. The guard removed the man's gag.

“You all can see the truth in his words,” the soldier agreed. “Ghosts do not bleed, and my long observation of Lord Capigan affirms that he is worthy of our respect. Lord Jameson, you have my sword.” Apparently, the man served as leader of some sort, because once he had stepped forward, several of the others moved to stand even with him.

Appreciating his valor, Jameson stepped forward himself and unbound the lead soldier. “What is thy name, sir?”

“Daxon,” the young man offered proudly.

“Well, friend Daxon, would you kindly fetch for me the castle healers so that they can tend my father.”

“An honor, sir.” Daxon offered a slight bow before gesturing to two of the men who now stood unbound beside him. The three men rushed from the room, and Jameson returned to his father's side, relieved.

“If you would, sir,” began the man who had taken over James's care, “please press this cloth into your father's side. I must assess his condition, but we need to stem the flow of blood.”

Determined to remain steady, Jameson forced himself to infuse the new calm in the room. Just a matter of time, he reasoned, before the healers arrived and could perform the steps necessary to ensure the Duke's healing. When a commotion arose in the hallway, Jameson forced himself to ignore it. It did not fade, however, and his father's attendant stepped back to take over pressing the wound.

“Your father's heart beats strong, and every other test can wait. I am afraid your talents might need use elsewhere.”

Though Jameson loathed the idea of leaving his father, he understood the importance of maintaining the room's peace. For a moment, he considered enlisting the help of some of the other men, but he began to mistrust himself again. Had he chosen poorly? Had he, once again, entrusted a vital mission into the hands of someone unworthy? Just before he threw open the door, he unsheathed his sword.

When the door flew open, Jameson pulled himself up mid-lunge. Not that he would not have enjoyed plunging his sword into the heart of the man who entered, but he hardly felt justified in doing so when the man could not even reach the floor, much less his weapon. Behind Maximus, Jameson turned with amazement to look in the eyes of his once-friend, Itchy.

“Very good, men,” Itchy grinned. “I see my hounds found him soon enough?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed one of the soldiers. “By the time we reached the front entrance, the rest of the men had finished the job here, and Maximus had fled. I set several of your best hounds loose, as instructed, and I sense that the High Counselor might need a healer after the way I found him, hanging from a tree with hounds biting at his heels and legs.”

As if the man had called them, several healers filed into the chamber, but they did not move toward the fallen counselor. Instead, they rushed to the Duke's bedside and began a frantic flurry of activity.

“Vacate the room,” Jameson ordered, and the dozen or so troops from each group made their way to the door. “Keep the bound men isolated – in the study – but unbind them. I will need to debrief to determine their responsibility in this.”

With his father's well-being removed from his hands, Jameson felt his strength falter. He had pressed forward through so many impediments that he had reached the end of his fortitude, and he stumbled where he stood.

Itchy quickly slid his arm under his friend's shoulders, lifting him back to his feet.

“What has happened?” he begged the room at large. “I arrived just as you all had dispatched the other soldiers.”

One of the men the camp stepped forward, and the man's somber expression brought fear clenching into Itchy's stomach.

“It is the Duke,” the man explained.

Only then were Itchy’s eyes drawn to the pale form lying motionless on the bed. “Is he-” Itchy could not continue.

“He is wounded,” the man related. “He fought valiantly against the traitor's forces but received a serious strike just before your troops arrived.”

When Jameson registered the words, he glanced up at the soldier’s eyes, noting that the man had directed the words to Itchy rather than to his sovereign. “Your troops?” Jess wondered.

“Well, in truth, sir, they are your troops, but I believe the young man referred to the fact that I led the men here.” Itchy set his friend down upon a comfortable chair in one corner and pulled up a wooden seat to sit on himself. “Please, tell me. How is your father?”

“He was stabbed in the side,” Jameson managed weakly, “and they must perform surgery to stem the flow of blood.”

Itchy stared at the floor, deeply pained for his friend. “I will remain here with you, then, and send one of the men to inform the troops that they may return home. Shall I retain a contingent beyond those here to help us maintain order?”

Shaking himself, Jameson breathed deeply before answering in his normal voice. “Yes, a small contingent. Ask for volunteers, and allow the others to return to their home towns. Promise them remuneration for their service, such as it was.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “Please explain to me, Itchy, how you come here, and like this.”

“Well, I started out after you almost immediately. Your guard accompanied me, as his duty required, and we arrived, I believe, less than half an hour after you.”

Before Jameson could inquire farther, one of the healers stepped over to the pair. “We are about to begin the surgery, and we must ask that you vacate the chamber.”

Itchy stood first, offering his hand to help his friend to his feet. Instead, Jameson rose without aid. “I believe I am fine, Itchy. Merely tired and solemn. Would you walk with me?”

“Of course, my friend. You must know that I will always act as your support.”

“But I have functioned under the impression,” Jameson paused, hesitant to continue. “Forgive me. I know now that I have somehow misjudged you, but I had believed you in conspiracy with Aylee Hembry.”

“You mentioned that…What exactly were we conspiring?”

“I did not know,” Jameson huffed an insecure laugh. “I only suspected.”

“And that explains our guards,” Itchy chuckled. “I had thought the guards a repayment for your jealousy, though I should have known that you would never prove so small-minded.”

“Jealousy?” Jameson scoffed incredulously.

“The kiss,” Itchy insisted. “I mean, I know that it seems a rather petty reason for placing us under guard, but you have never acted particularly level-headed in regards to her.”

“But I would never, Itchy. For anyone, but especially you. Only the direst of considerations would cause me to place you under a guard.”

Itchy shook his head, stunned at the implication of mistrust. “What exactly did you suspect me of?” he inhaled. “How could you think something so vile of me?”

“Would you believe that I feared Aylee had enticed you? Seduced you into betraying me? It is why I was so quick to forgive you.”

“Aylee, seduce me? She is not capable.”

“Is she not?” Jameson wondered, honestly surprised. “She seduced me.”

“She is yours, master, and therefore not mine. And I would not call what happened between you seduction, sire,” Itchy teased, and though Jameson could not smile, he managed to appear less miserable. “But for you to suspect me, to imagine me so easy to persuade against you. Master, how could you believe it? Have you no more faith in my intelligence and ability beyond that?”

“It was Aylee,” he moaned, as if her name spoke enough explanation. When Jameson placed his head in his hands, Itchy relented.

“Nevermind, my friend,” he retreated. “You have struggled these months; I know it. Whatever you have considered, I am sure you possessed good reason.”

When the realization hit Jameson, he nearly lurched to his feet. “But if what you say is true, then Aylee – ”

“I did not conspire with Aylee, and Aylee did not conspire with me,” Itchy finished the thought.

Before Jameson could ask any more, light flashed into the corridor from the door at the end of the room. All other thought fled his mind as he rushed down to meet the healer.

“We have finished,” the man informed them. “If you would like to come in, you may stay with him as long as you wish.”

Jameson entered the room as quietly as he could, sidling over to one of the healers who stood apart from the others. “How did he fare?” Jameson begged almost noiselessly.

“Well, the surgery proved much easier than we had hoped. The wound did not seem to bleed as much as one would expect, and we believe that the reason might lie in how he was poisoned.”

“How he was poisoned?” demanded Itchy.

“We have observed your father for the past few months,” the healer addressed Jameson, “and while we had not understood the reasons for his fading, when examined in a new light, we have found several observations that offer an explanation. His symptoms did not resemble any known illness, but when we considered poisoning, we came up with a rather surprising possibility.”

“Continue, man!” Itchy commanded, and the healer leveled him an impatient look. “What poison.”

“Well, technically a poison in conjunction with a venom.”

“Venom?”

“The liquid collected from a rare species of insect, sometimes used for those with bleeding spells. It causes the blood to thicken, slowly killing its victim by freezing his blood in his veins.”

Jameson shuddered. “Yet, you say that the venom protected him from his wound?”

“I believe it did. In fact, I am considering using your father's procedure as a precedent for future surgeries. If I can find a way to deliver the venom to the site of the wound-”

“You said we can see him,” Itchy interrupted.

“You may. He awoke once during surgery, but passed out soon after from the pain. He will remember little when he awakes, so there is no great danger of trauma -”

“Thank you, sir,” Itchy nodded before grabbing Jameson by the elbow and leading him back to his father. “That man would talk until you and I are both in our elder state,” he mumbled before opening the door.

The contrast between the light and the darkness blinded Jameson for a moment, but as his eyes grew accustomed, he slid a chair up beside his father's bed and stared at his slumbering face. Now that the wound no longer pained him, his expression had relaxed, and Jameson's shoulders melted into a comparable posture. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, exhaustion and relief overwhelming him. It was finally over.

Laughing at himself, Jameson recognized the irony of the thought. He would need to accomplish much over the next few weeks while his father lay immobilized: incarcerate Maximus, find Malchus, interrogate the advisers and nobles to ascertain their loyalties, inspire the troops. In other words, Jameson would need to prepare the region for the return of its sovereign. Until he had accomplished his one main task, everything else would fall to the background. When James returned to work, he must find everything ready for him.