EQUINOX
Zachary was not, in Estora’s opinion, an impulsive
man. If he was, he wouldn’t have lasted long as a king. His
brother, Amilton, had been the complete opposite, giving in to his
every urge. It cost him the throne. King Amigast had passed over
him in favor of Zachary. Amilton’s impulses then led him to plot
against his brother, which resulted in his being exiled and,
ultimately, killed.
Estora appreciated
Zachary’s thoughtful demeanor, though he was, perhaps, a little too
driven to work, so she was surprised and delighted when he canceled
all his afternoon appointments and invited her for an outing. Of
course, it wasn’t just her, but several courtiers, her father, and
Richmont. And then of course, there were the Weapons, the
falconers, and several servants. Guards cleared the street before
them. Estora waved to the people who watched and cheered as the
king and his companions rode by.
Estora did not know
what inspired Zachary’s sudden desire to leave work behind for an
afternoon of recreation for he rarely spoke intimately to her about
his feelings, an inclination she hoped would change once they
married. For the time being she was content to ride beside him and
assume it was just the promise of spring calling him from his dark,
stone walls. She’d certainly had enough of winter’s cold austerity
herself.
She gave her future
husband a sidelong glance as he sat astride his stallion. Presently
he was far off in his own thoughts and where they might lead she
could not guess. The wind rippled through his hair and there was
the hint of a smile all too quickly gone.
He must have sensed
her gaze for he turned to look at her. “What is it, my
lady?”
“I was wondering
where your thoughts were traveling.”
“Far beyond the
horizon,” he said. “Too many places to recount.” He fell silent
again, back to brooding.
They entered a
poorer section of the lower city. Wellwishers still stopped along
the street to wave, but they were fewer, shabbier. Others skulked
in doorways or shadowed closes glowering at the king’s party as it
passed. The Weapons were always alert, but Estora sensed just the
slightest change in their posture.
“Hey, where’s
my falcon, King?” some man in stained
clothes called out. Zachary shook his head when the guards started
to move toward the man. Another king would have had him jailed and
beaten for insolence. An old woman spat in the path of the king’s
party. She was merely escorted out of the street by the
guards.
“The lower city
should be swept clean of this filth,” Richmont
muttered.
“What would you have
done with them?” Zachary asked. His tone was deceptively
mild.
“Force them out of
the city. Force them to work.”
“Most of them did
not ask for poverty,” Zachary said, as though to himself. Estora,
who rode right next to him heard, but she did not think anyone else
had, certainly not Richmont who was muttering and complaining to
her father. Richmont, whom she’d never been fond of, had gotten
only more boorish since the betrothal. He had already declared his
intent to stay in her service after the wedding. She would have to
talk to her father about finding him something else to
do.
The Winding Way
curved past an inn with a disreputable air about it. The stench of
old ale flowed to her all the way out into the street. Her father
was pushing his horse up next to hers and appeared intent to speak
to her, but something whined through the air and cut him off, and
suddenly he was not there. His horse was, but he was
not.
“Father?”
Cries shattered the
air and everyone around her whirled into motion.
“Father?” she cried, turning in her saddle, but she
could not see him. The Weapons were reigning their mounts around to
surround her and Zachary.
Zachary slammed his
horse into hers and the force almost knocked her from the
saddle.
“What
is—”
Even as the Weapons
surged toward Zachary, he stood in his stirrups, blocking her. She
couldn’t see what was happening. But she heard that whine again,
and this time, the thud of impact.
Galen’s body shuddered when he loosed the first
arrow, and he swore when it flew off course into some old courtier
who had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He
had only moments before the Weapons threw themselves in front of
his intended target, but as if he were still the great archer in
his prime under the pressure of battle, he’d already nocked the
second arrow. He must hold steady this time. He must not
miss.
Faster than the
Weapons could move, he drew the bowstring with an inhalation and
marked his prey. Unbelievably the king rose in his stirrups to
shield the lady beside him, rising above those who would protect
him, as if to present a target Galen could not miss. He exhaled,
loosed the arrow.
He watched it soar
on its deadly path, his hopes, his vengeance, all riding on the air
currents that stroked the shaft and fletching, the fletching he’d
plucked from a goose himself and painstakingly glued to the shaft.
He watched the arrow singing its way to the very end, its impact
home. His tremors had not betrayed him, his aim proved
true.
It had all come full
circle, all his planning and waiting. He could rest now. Joyful and
exhausted, with success and vengeance his, he could now join his
wife and son in the heavens. He sank to the attic floor and
whispered a short prayer, then drew the vial of poison to his
lips.