Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny: The Simon Blackfyre epic fantasy trilogy, #1

By A. J. Callen

What if a young slave possessed the mythic age-old power to help save the world from demonic tyranny and destruction?

Simon Blackfyre has no memory or recollection of where he was born and who he really is.

The King and Queen of Miradora have died under strange circumstances. A new ruler must be chosen but Simon has never heard of "The Rites of Succession".

Trapped in the lowest caste of society he couldn't care less until the powerful Lord Lionsbury and his giant friend, Mr. Byrch, arrive unannounced at the Pumberton's farm in the sleepy town of Grimsby where Simon's dark and perilous adventure begins.

After a dangerous trek to Farrhaven to undergo strenuous training, Simon is chosen as a protector of the Evermere family by the wise and compassionate Holy Seer, Lady Zaphora Murik of Wraithburn.

Marcus, the eldest Evermere brother, is a contender to the throne in competition against three other young nobles including the arrogant and ruthless Callor Tiberion who believes that he alone is entitled to wear the crown no matter how it is won.

Simon survives a potentially deadly initiation rite which reveals the return of a mysterious demonic race, the Choldath, hell-bent on exacting ancient revenge on the people of Miradora and all kingdoms of the earth.

Simon and his new friends, including Rachel, come under increasing attacks at Farrhaven both from within and without as their enemies test their defenses and their loyalties.

Simon's thrilling odyssey continues through a brutal maze of supernatural deceptions, bloody betrayals, and heartbreaking loss until he finds the courage to stand and fight for what is right and true while sinister forces gather in preparation for a war that will decide the final destiny of the world.

Journey deeper with our reluctant hero and his friends as they discover the frightening and magical world of SIMON BLACKFYRE AND THE STORMS OF DESTINY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. J. Callen
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9780993878411

Book preview

SIMON BLACKFYRE

SIMON BLACKFYRE

and the STORMS OF DESTINY

A. J. Callen

Copyright Notice

© A. J. Callen.

All rights reserved worldwide.

No part of this book may be reproduced

or copied without the written permission

of the Author.

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This book is a work of fiction.

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Characters and events are the products

of the author’s imagination.

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Any similarity to persons living or dead

is purely coincidental.

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Special Thanks to Annie Jenkins for her patience,

encouragement, and superb editing skills.

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You can contact her at: https://www.just-copyeditors.com

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Cover by pixelhead productions based on

original book design by Ira @rebecacovers

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ISBN: 978-0-9938784-1-1

Contents

1. Gimcrackery and Blatherskites

2. Misgivings

3. Tarts and Trotters

4. A Mysterious Woman

5. An Unexpected Visitor

6. An Imposing Intruder

7. Skullduggery and Secrets

8. Wonders to Behold

9. Unanswered Questions

10. A Fearful Message

11. Are You Worthy?

12. Daggers and Demons

13. Hawks and Stones

14. Something in the Trees

15. Ropes and Quills

16. A Merry Band

17. The Rising Storm

18. New Friends and Foe

19. Crossing the Bridge

20. A Sage Encounter

21. Missteps and Blunders

22. Pencils and Books

23. Wooden Swords

24. Danger in the Shadows

25. Trials and Tests

26. A Traitor's Promise

27. Myths and Monsters

28. Forest of Sorrow

29. Accusations and Lies

30. Speak These Words

31. Vengeance from the Abyss

32. Your Deepest Desire

33. Fables and Stories

34. Who Can You Trust?

Afterword

Chapter 1

Gimcrackery and Blatherskites

Simon Blackfyre hated magic and always would. Of that much, he was certain in life, though he could not say exactly why, since—to his recollection at least—he’d never encountered anyone or anything remotely magical.

Simon brushed back his long, lank hair, tucking a single greasy strand behind his ear.

Bloody, fool-born codswallop, all of it!

He sniffed and leaned into his work. And if such forbidding powers did exist—which he didn’t believe for even a moment—then he wanted nothing at all to do with any of it.

Already weary from listening to such gibbering nonsense for weeks now, there was, unfortunately, nothing he could say to stop the superstitious old fools of Grimsby from whispering and blathering on as if they knew something more about the world’s cruel workings… which he, for some reason, did not.

Harlick Pumberton swatted Simon across the back of his head. Stop your daydreaming, boy, and watch what you’re doing. Look! It’s spilling right over the rim.

Yes, Mister Pumberton. Sorry, sir.

Simon took a deep breath and focused on stirring in steady, circular paddle strokes. He’d risen even earlier than usual to begin his chores, hoping they’d help him forget another night of uneasy, fretful dreams. If I could have but one sound night’s sleep, I know I’d feel myself again.

What’s wrong with you lately, Simon? Keep your mind on your work. Faster now and watch your hands or they’ll end up with the rest of the lard.

Harlick wiped his greasy fingers on his streaked beard as he watched Simon stirring the vat in the rendering shack; the yellowed fat bubbled up and filled the air with its greasy fumes. And see you get your hair cut after supper, boy. Get any of that in the mix, and I’ll chop it all off for you.

Yes sir. I’ll get it all cut, sir. Simon glanced out the open window at the half-rotten rooftop of the barn, its loose and cracked timbers hanging and swinging from the frame; black, scavenging birds picked over the carcass of a dead feral cat down near the haystack.

Oh. Mister Pumberton, sir. I was… I was wondering what you made of all this strange talk going around town?

Harlick scratched the pimple on the side of his stubby nose.

"Gimcrackery and blatherskites, my boy. All of it. Gossiping old biddies and drunken, superstitious neighbors with not enough work or common sense to occupy their idle hands. I’m surprised you ask. Don’t you believe a word about foul water and dead livestock being the demon’s work.

Sloth and poor animal husbandry skills are what’s to blame. Sloth and cluelessness, that’s what. Aye. Harlick smoothed back the sparse, drooping strands of his oily brown hair.

Simon stayed quiet, as if mulling things over.

You hear me, lad? Harlick asked.

Simon squinted through the steam, finally relieved to hear he was not alone in his beliefs. Thank you, sir. I won’t be losing any more sleep over it then.

Harlick patted his puffy hand on Simon’s back.

Now, that’s the spirit, lad. Trust me when I say any so-called strange goings-on near the eastern frontier are nothing more than thieves and brigands, all spouting the same old peasant stories… The same ones, mind you, that I heard when I was a lad. Those Darguza savages are just trying to scare the bejesus out of respectable people so they can carry on their shenanigans like the murdering nomads that they are.

He pointed at the vat. The other way now.

Simon tensed his lean shoulder and stirred the thick, fuming slop in the opposite direction. Well… when our new King is crowned, he’ll make the land safe for all of us, won’t he, Mister Pumberton?

Now don’t you count on it, boy. Noble families are all the bloody same—and worse if they get a whiff they might be sittin’ their fat arses on the throne. Isn’t one of them ever done anything to help an honest merchant trying to make a living for himself and his family.

He yawned, squishing a bloodsucking stable fly onto his cheek with his palm. He held up his red-smeared hand.

See that, lad? Just like that little bugger. Looks like a harmless housefly, it does, until it takes a piece out of you when you’re not looking. None of them will be happy until they draw the last drop from you and me both, mark my words.

Simon’s arms strained, the sinewy muscles cording in his neck. He was thirsty as always, but it wasn’t yet time. There’d be no slacking in this place—at least, not if he wanted his supper and a fresh bed of hay in the barn.

Harlick waddled over to the work table and picked up a ladle.

That’s the thing, Simon, see? Doesn’t matter if you’re born a sickly pup whelped into this world along with all your whining, mithering brothers and sisters. It shouldn’t prevent you breaking away from the scavenging class and rising up through the ranks of the gentry. A drippings merchant with my vast mercantile ambitions shouldn’t be limited to the provincial backwaters, isn’t that right?

Simon swallowed and wet his lips together, the stench of boiling fat starting to water his eyes. Yes sir, Mister Pumberton.

Harlick examined the ladle, dropped it onto the tabletop, and picked up another.

"A hard-working man gets fed up watching lesser men grow and prosper, but I promised Missus Pumberton… and I’m determined to advance our family’s position in Grimsby this year by any means I can afford.

I’ve great plans for expanding Pumberton’s Lard, Tallow and Drippings across all the civilized regions of this kingdom. How does that sound, my boy? Now, wouldn’t you like to be overseeing my renderings shacks in Sharnwick and Pirn instead of forever stirring that pot here in Grimsby?

Simon lifted the paddle and checked the thickness of the lard dripping off its end. That would be a sight better than my life so far.

Yes sir, Mister Pumberton. I would like that very much. Mister Krechfield was never so kind. I would love to oversee your renderings shacks, sir, Mister Pumberton.

Harlick cleared his throat and spat a gob of thick green sputum into the boiling lard.

"A worthless, drunken bugger without ambition. How could he ever improve your lot in life as a lowly stablehand? That’s the difference between a lazy fat codpiece like Krechfield and me, see?

"I can spot potential when I see it, boy, and that’s why I didn’t quibble with that bastard Weezgout—though he’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. A man should be able to trade and sell his own property without some slimy cutpurse lining his own pockets in the bargain just because it’s the King’s law."

It doesn’t seem fair, sir. It’s not—

Harlick jabbed the ladle at Simon’s chest.

Shut up, lad…I didn’t ask you. Anyway, bloody highway robbery is what it is. I’m telling you; an honest man finally scrimps, saves, and trades enough to buy what he needs to free himself from the back-breaking, thankless drudgery of his profession and yet still has to pay a lowly, good-for-nothing parasite like Plotmir Weezgout.

He wiped the ladle across the front of his filthy apron.

Well, I’m only glad I waited until the head price dropped as low as it did. This Kingdom needs a prosperous merchant class, but the new King will never have one if the King’s Council keeps taxing us to death. I promise you that much. Now, keep stirring; don’t be letting it sit.

Simon lowered his head. Be thankful for that much. I’ll never see that cruel bastard Weezgout again if I prove my worth here. I am grateful to you, Mister Pumberton. You will not be disappointed, sir.

He plunged the paddle back into the vat and continued stirring in the same direction, bending his shoulder into his labors.

The royally-sanctioned traders always got their pound of flesh and, at the final bartered price of nineteen gold sovereigns—one for each year of Simon’s miserable life—it seemed too steep to many. But Mr. Pumberton was willing to pay it so he could travel to other towns in search of profitable trading partners and customers.

You’re a quick study, boy, when you keep your mind on your work. Harlick dipped the ladle into the steaming vat. With the proper introductions and invitations, I might very well soon be coming to terms with the King’s Council in Avidene to supply the royal kitchen and chandler with all their larding needs. What do you think of that, then?

I’ll tell you what I think! I think both you laggards should do more working and less gossiping like a pair of old women, if you want to impress anyone in Avidene.

The shrill tones of a woman’s voice pierced the air as Rimilda, Harlick’s younger wife, bustled in through the open door; her hair was tied back, and she carried two cups of black tea. Handing one to her husband, she wiped her plump, red hand on the stained white linen apron, across the top of her mountainous bosom.

You too, Simon. You’ll be no use at all to us if we work you to death.

She offered him the second cup.

Thank you, ma’am. Simon sipped his tea, enjoying the warmth and sweet touch of honey. Unaccustomed to receiving such small, kind comforts, he was grateful to the Pumbertons for their great generosity.

That’s what I was just saying, Rimilda, my love. Am I not a good master, Simon? I don’t whip you to within an inch of your life like others do. I value the gold spent and time needed to make sure you’re trained properly. How else can I be certain that you’ll continue performing your duties for many years to come?

Simon nodded. You are a good master, Mister Pumberton, and a wise one. It’s a waste of gold to break a slave until he’s no good to anyone.

Exactly, my boy. What good, I ask you, does it benefit a man of humble means to destroy the very thing he worked so hard to buy in the first place?

Rimilda blew her nose into an old piece of cheesecloth. So, where’s Baxley then?

Simon winced and rubbed the spot on his bruised thigh where the young master had struck him with a pebble from his wood sling the day before.

What’s wrong? Rimilda stuffed the cloth back down her cleavage. Are you hurt already?

It’s nothing, ma’am. Thank you again for the tea.

Baxley had better not be lallygagging about with any of those little Truntings or Queazle shites. Rimilda sucked in the larding vapors hard, through flared nostrils. I wouldn’t trust either one of those flibbertigibbets farther than I could spit.

She leaned forward and spat into the boiling pig’s lard.

They fill our poor son’s head with so much rot about demons hiding underground ready to snatch him away in his sleep that our poor little lamb can barely sleep at night.

He’s supposed to run errands in town, Harlick said, slurping on his warm tea. Go fetch him, Simon, and tell him his father wants a word. He untied his filthy apron and hung it on a peg.

The familiar worry and uncertainty gripped Simon’s chest, making his brand burn anew with cold fear. He breathed deeply, wiping the dewy sweat from his brow.

Yes sir, Mister Pumberton.

And I want you to go with him to Grimsby, so he doesn’t go getting into any mischief. The neighbors love to gossip and tell lies now we’re proud owners of such a fine slave boy. He squeezed his wife’s fleshy buttock. And there’s no need to hurry back. Is there, my love? He winked at Rimilda.

She smiled, revealing a fresh, blackened space from her latest missing tooth before glancing over at the rumpled old corner bed strewn with its frayed sheets and sacks. And put the latch on the door, Simon. We don’t want any riffraff arriving unannounced. She rubbed at her husband’s hairy belly.

I’ve got big plans for you, boy, Harlick said, squeezing tight on Simon’s wrist until it hurt. Because I know you’re not one of those fool slaves who thinks he can run away, are you? He tapped the side of his eye. Potential, see, lad? That’s what I’ve got an eye for and I don’t want to be seeing yours hanging from a tree. Not unless I have to.

No, sir. You can depend on me, Mister Pumberton. Simon lowered his gaze.

Work hard, do all he asks without complaint, and pray this master keeps his word. He might even pair me with a good, strong woman if he can afford to buy another. What more can someone like me expect from this life?

Simon had sure seen enough of the wretched hanging trees to haunt the rest of his days; familiar faces, friends and enemies alike, had all proved willing to risk the agony of a slow and tortuous death rather than spend another day alive in this hope-forsaken, godforsaken world.

Simon downed the rest of his tea in one gulp and coughed as he stepped briskly toward the open door.

Chapter 2

Misgivings

After completing their morning intimacies to Lady Omarosa’s flushed and breathless satisfaction, Niclas respectfully asked to take his leave so he might renew his vigor after another unsettling night of troubled dreams.

A brisk walk around the grounds to help clear my thoughts and I’ll be better for it.

Tarsilla’s long black hair shimmered in the breaking dawn. She relaxed her supple legs and stretched. Oh, come back to bed, Niclas.

I would enjoy nothing more, yet I fear I could not leave your side, my kind and gracious lady. And I do have my final appointment with the Governor that duty obliges I must keep. Much to my chagrin, as you know, my lady.

What, that drunken boor, without an acre of entitled land to his name? Could the King’s Council not have appointed a more refined and wealthier baron than Viator Zonaras?

He is loyal to the Crown and competent in his duties, my lady. I do wish I could say the same of many others.

That’s because our late King preferred the company of fawning sycophants instead of strong warriors willing to do what is necessary to advance our Kingdom’s power. It’s common knowledge he’s descended from the Darguza herdsmen without a single drop of noble blood coursing through his veins.

But many with noble names do arise from humble origins, my lady.

A shrewd, confident noble woman, Tarsilla narrowed her moss-green eyes. She reclined her graceful body and curled the end of her hair around long, cool fingers. But not you and I, my sweet Lord of Delcarden. We are purebloods, as was my poor husband Ardusin, all descendants from the Age of Heroes. We share the same noble history as the five warrior patriarchs and when our one true King is crowned, it will be the only measure of worthiness in his eyes.

Niclas poured a crystal goblet of water. All may show their worth when the moment arises, my lady. We can never tell until we are tested by destiny.

"You always were an idealist. Maybe that’s what attracted me to you, that and your ... other persuasive talents." She arched a finely-plucked brow and picked a grape from the silver bowl, examining it for blemishes.

But no, dear Niclas, the rest, like Zonaras, will be no better than freemen or slaves when our next King sits upon his rightful throne.

She flicked the grape away then chose another. Please do eat something before you go. The serving girls will have the morning table set by now. She held a hand mirror and examined her face as though searching for some traitorous fault that might have appeared silently overnight.

You are too pale, my handsome lord, and Sucaria is not dreary Avidene. You should have far more color in your cheeks after so many fortnights in our splendid Kardi sun.

Niclas bowed and—not wishing to discuss further a subject that so easily incensed a still grieving widow—took his leave. I shall return before the Governor’s feast this evening. Good day, my lady.

Niclas stood on the main floor terrace eating soft cheese and a chunk of fresh, warm bread. The unruffled Rhobinian Sea nudged calm, breaking waves against the shore while Lady Tarsilla Sandruni of Omarosa’s shipping vessels bobbed high and low on the placid surf, their lanterns blinking sleepily in the early morning fog.

When this haze lifts, it will be another good day for sailing.

Niclas sipped freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice from a silver cup. He was already finding the rising sun decidedly uncomfortable, yet seeking shade under the lofty cypress and palms offered little relief. He thought better of his invigorating walk, for the air was already wet with sulfurous heat seeming to rise up from the earth’s forge to embrace its kindred fires that streamed down from the anvil of the sun.

Too much sun boils a man’s reason like an overcooked potato and I cannot afford to be soft of mind or body, Niclas thought.

Though Tarsilla was a most exquisite, gracious, and seductive woman beyond compare, Niclas sensed he might soon be overstaying his welcome in her bed, though her daily amorous demands seemed to bely his suspicion.

What was it, then? Can I even find a word to describe it?

He could not, and it was precisely because of this growing unease that he longed to wake in his own bed, surrounded by the familiar walls and cedar hedge pathways of his ancestral manor, Delcarden; the tranquil Kardi island air of late exhaled a stale, lifeless quality with a hint of something sickly-sweet coming in on the humid wind.

Had it not been for the occasional piloting of Tarsilla’s single mast vessel around the island, Niclas would have been hard pressed to find any other enjoyable activity—with the exception of her Ladyship’s most stimulating company, naturally—with which to engage himself outside of his official Council duties. Reflecting at such moments, he often regretted not departing weeks ago when the last ship had sailed for home.

At sea, Niclas could forget the problems waiting for him the moment he docked at the pier, for he did not count himself among the visiting nobles and foreigners who flocked to Kardi’s capitol of Sucaria to enjoy the tropical heat and rejuvenating springs.

Everywhere, the dense vegetation and trees rose tall like vast canopies, trapping the humid, vaporous air and making it, at times, difficult to breathe. Was it so strange, then, that some might be driven to madness or murder… or simply disappear in such an unhealthy atmosphere, thick with fawning and insidious flattery?

Your carriage is waiting, Lord.

Hadar, her Ladyship’s eldest servant, bowed, her wizened hands folded in front of her white tunic. Allow me to show you to the door.

Thank you, Hadar, but I’ll wager you’ve more important things to do. I know my way.

As you wish, Lord.

Walking down the long marble hall past statues, gilded framed portraits, and mounted swords toward the two cleanly-dressed slaves at the front door, Niclas could not help but reminisce about the opulence of his own family estate as it had been during his childhood. It was gone now, as was his family, never to return.

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Governor Viator Zonaras, his plump cheeks already a shade too red, finished his second glass and motioned to the serving boy to refill it afresh. Are you certain, Lord Delcarden? I do find it never too early in the day to enjoy a fine Kardian brandy.

Niclas raised his hand from the terrace table overlooking the sea. No, thank you. I will enjoy both your hospitality and your brandy at your fine banquet this evening.

Of course, of course, and my wife will be overjoyed, but if you should change your mind… The Governor pulled another leg from the roast peacock. "Though I have said it before, it bears repeating. Whatever Kardi has to offer is yours to enjoy.

It is the least we can do to show our gratitude to an esteemed member of the King's Council, and the ruling Triumvirate no less, for sacrificing so much of his valuable time. Though, in hindsight, our sense of urgency was falsely conjured.

He offered an obsequious bow, displaying the beaded sweat on his thinly-matted pate. And for that, I hope you will accept my deepest, humblest apology. I did not want to send that petition to Avidene but you know how vexing superstitious freemen and peasants can be, and certain nobles who should know better, for that matter.

None can fault your good name for upholding the duties of high office. My final report to the Council will include mention of your exemplary and loyal assistance during my enquiry. Your personal attaché, Sir Nechtan Razmig, has been most helpful.

You are most kind, my lord, and I will be certain to convey your high praise to Sir Razmig once he returns from his special errands in the eastern plantations. Know that we live only to serve the Council and our future King; although we have the utmost respect for the Holy Seer, do you not find it strange that her Holiness should invoke such an arcane ritual as the Rites of Succession after all these centuries?

Niclas gazed toward the north where distant Avidene lay many leagues across the sea. I cannot deny it is a perplexing turn of events. The Council was preparing to vote—as is our right—when I returned, yet we must bow in reverence to her wisdom.

Certainly, my lord, but am I to understand that slaves are also chosen along with the offspring of nobles and freemen?

Apparently so. I am looking forward to reading Lord Rabek’s first report from Farrhaven when I return.

The Governor coughed and wiped his mouth. Astonishing. Simply astonishing. Did you ever think we would live to see the day when a slave was called upon to choose the next King of Miradora?

And I have no doubt there are many more astonishing things we shall see, should we live long enough. There is a sacred reason for the Holy Seer’s choice after these many centuries. Perhaps she sees something approaching on the horizon that we do not espy?

If you say so, my lord. Many a storm lies in wait to trap the unwary fool who does not first augur his destiny in the heavens before starting his journey. Let us pray, then, it is concluded quickly and our new King duly and safely crowned.

The Governor sipped his brandy. So, you will be leaving us shortly to deliver your report to the Council? I understand Captain Grenfall will be returning to Avidene in less than a fortnight.

Fresh worries and doubts crowded into Niclas’s already apprehensive thoughts; he would have to return to Avidene before the last frost of autumn, and although he had been anxious to depart weeks prior, he was not eager to do so now.

He gazed out across the sea. The thought of returning to his manor estate, near empty save for loyal Trumak and a few remaining freed servants, shackled his heart with a weight of chain that was often near impossible to carry. Strong drink could lift the burden but only for a few, short, squandered hours.

And then there’d be Juliana Caerhope to face, herself demanding and deserving of a proper account of Niclas’s reckless, inconsiderate actions.

She is entitled to more than the letter Trumak delivered, though I am certain she would prefer to throw both the letter and me into the fire.

Lord Delcarden? The Governor, his cheeks stuffed and puffed like a grotesque chipmunk, swallowed a mouthful of dry chewed pheasant. I say, are you planning a return voyage?

Forgive me. I am always taken by this most spectacular view of the sea. Niclas turned back to his anxious host. I must admit, Governor, that I am enjoying the pleasurable sailing weather, though too much sun does not suit my inclination. I will be giving it considerable thought in the coming days and notify you when I have made my decision.

"Of course, of course, and before the sad day of your departure, might I assume we are both agreed as to the general, shall we say, thrust of your report to the Council?"

To the extent that I may discuss it with you, I have found nothing out of the ordinary that cannot be explained by the reasons I have thus written.

Governor Zonaras burped and wiped his greasy lips on a folded napkin. Oh, I’m so relieved to hear that. When I first read the petition, I knew there was not a single name on that parchment that could not be explained as one poor soul or another fleeing either bad debts, bad blood, or bad company, any of which may have proved their calamitous undoing. Is that not true, your Lordship?

Are you not forgetting the bad water too, Lord Governor?

The Governor coughed hard as though a small pheasant bone might have found lodging in his overgorged throat. He grabbed a cup of water and gulped it down.

No, no, absolutely not, but that is a completely different matter altogether and not a part of the petition. Baerwald Flax was a drunken lout who knew the old, unused wells had turned foul months ago. The notice was proclaimed by the town crier for the benefit of every illiterate freeman and posted in the square for all to see—as required by the law, I might add.

Never fear, Lord Governor; that, too, shall be noted in my report.

And will you also make a mention, my lord, since it bears repeating, that Kardi, as the largest island in the Rhobinian Sea, has many different provinces and diverse peoples, yet even the poorest among us can draw clean water from our many wells… so, as to the clay-brained idiocy of fools, I am absolved of all responsibility.

Calm yourself, Lord Governor. Poor irrigation canals and overflowing manure run-off ditches are not the Council’s concern unless it should affect a significant proportion of our citizens. So, that was an unfortunate incident and nothing more.

The Governor’s wide, puffy smile reached almost from ear to ear. Exactly, and to think this would have been a preventable misfortune had those lazy sod tillers nailed the skull and crossbones within the prescribed period, vexes me to no end. He sipped at his brandy.

So, you will be certain to include in your report that I ordered the freemen tiller responsible to be heavily fined and publicly flogged before your arrival, exactly as our dearest friend, Lady Tarsilla Sandruni of Omarosa, has attested.

A small smirk rose by the corner of the Governor’s flabby mouth. So, as I was saying, my lord, as to the thrust of your intentions on our fair isle, would you not agree to the reasons I have given?

Niclas would have liked nothing more than to slap that lecherous leer right off the Governor’s visage with the back of his hand, but that would, undoubtedly, beget another petition of complaint. The faster he was finished with Count Borodin, the better.

Consider it a courtesy of rank that I do not bloody your fat lip, rendering it as red as the cherries in your bowl.

Niclas plucked up a cherry by its stem.

It would appear so, considering the sworn testimony attesting to each person’s character. Missing thieves, prostitutes, and slaves do not engender much concern within the King's Council. Our citizens depend upon us to deal with more important matters that require our attention and resources until our sovereign is chosen.

Precisely, and that is exactly what I told Count Borodin, but would that bloody foreigner listen to reason?

The Governor tossed the pheasant bone onto the tabletop and snapped his oily fingers for more brandy. And here you are, my lord, honoring a peace treaty between our great and glorious Kingdom of Miradora and that heathen Salak pigsty, but where is the Count to testify on behalf of his own petition? Where is he, my lord, I ask you?

I have received message that he is to return to Kardi from Salak by the next waning of the moon.

The Governor sipped his third brandy.

Well, it rather makes you wonder, does it not? Why would the petition’s author not be present when he was in such earnest for you, and you alone, to arrive in the first place? He expressly asked for the presence of your noble personage, yet skulks away like a scoundrel in the night before you even arrive.

Niclas leaned closer. What are you insinuating?

The Governor ran his stubby fingers down his gold-embroidered sleeves as though trying to straighten the fabric. "Nothing at this point, except to say that we must be on guard against those foreign provocateurs seeking to spread unrest among our content and obedient serving class, and so looking to destroy our cherished institutions and way of life.

Though I have no say in the matter, I am not happy to see the Varza delegation here either. Those greedy bloodsuckers have been stirring up all kinds of mischief in the borderlands, have they not, my lord?

That is not our present concern, Governor. Niclas exhaled and turned the ruby insignia ring on his finger. Count Borodin will give me a clear account of the reasons for his absence, yet as to requesting my presence, there is but one answer. Lord Algar Caerhope of Maydestone is too old for such a long voyage and Lord Ronas Tiberion of Coranthium is not responsible for honoring the treaties between our kingdom and others.

Yes, yes, our enviable rule of law and crown. Leave the Holy Seer and her monks to fend for our mortal souls, I say, while we battle to protect everything else of a more, shall we say, substantial nature. The Governor raised his glass. "To the true protectors of the realm, we who serve the Kingdom selflessly and ask nothing more except that we may still prove worthy and find favor in the