Neither Formosis nor Désira could be found. It had been days since anyone had seen either of them in Palisade, and the king, the prince, and Captain Arius agreed that they had fled the city once news of Dinae’s rescue reached them. The lone dissenter, Mardans suspected the siblings were hiding somewhere close, reluctant to concede defeat. After all, in all likelihood, one of them still possessed Margonne’s dagger.
He and Lirens had spent most of their Sunday questioning the ruffians and guards taken into custody the night before. Though questioned rigorously, the ruffians knew nothing, all telling the same story: Spear’s henchmen had visited a few taverns, offering sizable sums to hotheads and brawlers for a night’s fighting. Most of them had no idea who Spear worked for. They assumed he led a gang.
After consulting with the king, Prince Lirens offered a deal to the ones who had not surrendered: three years of hard labor constructing roads on the western plains or two years of military service. All but one chose military service. By the next morning, they were already en route to their new vocations. Those who had surrendered earlier were fined the normal amount for disturbing the peace, and if they could not pay, they would spend thirty days in jail.
The guards, recent hires to Formosis’ expanding security force, were a different story. Despite Spear’s death in a fair duel, they remained strangely loyal to him, unwilling to say anything further about Formosis’ plans or Margonne’s dagger. Most of them gave the questioner sullen glares, responding only with curses.
But a couple of them said more than they meant to say, and their words helped to explain the guards’ loyalty. Not all was peaceful among Formosis’ underlings. Two factions emerged after Spear arrived, one supporting him and the other following Prytan Verus, the longtime captain of Formosis’ guard. A survivor in the sometimes violent business of guarding aristocrats, Captain Verus was older and reserved, always counseling patience and caution. The Tilantas had relied on him for years to keep various family members safe. Knowing he would temper the young man’s aggressive tendencies, Amandes had specifically selected him to captain Formosis’ detail.
For the past few months, Formosis had listened to the aggressive Spear more frequently, and his orders became more violent and reckless, appealing to the younger toughs the Tanjari-trained warrior had recruited and paid well. Spear’s men soon outnumbered Verus’ by more than three times, and Formosis started using them for “outside work.” The captain’s half-dozen stayed close as personal bodyguards to him and Désira.
While the news was intriguing and answered a few questions, it got the prince and Mardans nowhere. If they knew, none of the guards would say where Formosis or Désira were. The imagined information bonanza had evaporated into wisps of smoke.
A palace page knocked on the door of Captain Arius’ office, where they had retired once they had questioned the last of Spear’s guards. Once inside, the boy bowed to the prince, handed him a note, and left. Lirens perused it quickly, eyebrows rising.
“We are summoned to the Throne Room,” he told the others, rising from his chair. “It seems the king will receive an esteemed guest or two soon, and Alfons wants us there as witnesses.”
They reached the grand hall in just a few minutes, entering by its front doors. Only a handful of people mingled there, a few minor nobles speaking in low tones to each other, and a functionary or two scurried through on palace business. A few guards stood unmoving beside the doors and at various places about the cavernous room, and a secretary sat at a small desk near the dais, quill in hand and vellum before him, awaiting ink.
Upon entering, Mardans noted that the massive onyx throne was gone, replaced by an imposing, carved chair, resplendent with gold covering every surface. King Alfons sat in it, head bowed. He looked up and beckoned them forward as soon as he noticed their presence.
“Lirens, stand here to my right,” he said, pointing to a spot, “and you two stand on the bottom steps there below him by rank. We need to treat this visit formally. No one will speak but me. No questions. We will treat this with all solemnity.”
“Yes, lord,” they said, nearly in unison.
They had been in position for just a half-minute when the doors opened, and two men stepped through, one old and frail and the other, young and robust, a half-step behind. Mardans knew them at once.
“Your Majesty,” a chamberlain cried out in formal tones, “Steward and Duke Amandes Tilanta and his son and heir, Amancuse, approach.”
It had been many years since Mardans had seen either of them, but they were much as he remembered, despite being older. The two looked little alike, though their voices and gestures betrayed their close relationship. Amandes was pale and thin, seeming even more so than usual because of his health’s steady decline, and his hair had thinned and turned white with age. His firstborn, Amancuse, ruddy in complexion, was a man in his prime, an inch shorter than his father but broad and heavily muscled. His short, dark hair, darker than his sister’s, had a natural curl that endowed him with a youthful appearance, though he had already entered his third decade. They both wore formal garb in the House Tilanta colors: royal purple, silver or light gray, and white.
They stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed low.
“Good morning, cousins,” Alfons said, smiling. “I hope you are well.”
Amandes cleared his throat, saying with a slight rasp, “Thank you, sire. I’ve been better, but I have strength for today.”
“I am glad of that,” the king replied.
The Steward nodded. “I have just turned sixty years old, lord, but I feel a decade older and more worn. I fear my remaining days are short.”
“I pray you have many years ahead of you,” the king said, concern covering his features. “Should I have a chair fetched for you?”
The steward shook his head vigorously. “No, no, sire,” he said. “I must stand on my feet when I say what I must say to you. In fact, I should kneel in all subjection to you, for I am deeply ashamed.”
“There is no need for kneeling,” Alfons said. “We are all men here, interested in peace and goodwill. Tell me what troubles you, cousin.”
“Six years ago, sire,” Amandes said, his voice slow, as if he were remembering a speech he had prepared, “I apologized profusely to your father for the shameful actions of my son, Formosis, upon the announcement of your engagement to our fair Queen Constans. And now the same son—and I expect my daughter too—has again forced me to apologize, to bow in abject disgrace before you. Those two are forever troubling my old age with their schemes. They have been a keen disappointment to me. It relieves me that their mother did not live to see them come to this.”
Alfons sighed, looking in pity upon the older man. “I’m sorry to say our investigation has left little doubt that they have indeed done immoral and seditious things, which has placed them under the king’s justice. And now they have fled or hidden themselves, ignoring or despising my summons to appear before me. Have you been made aware of the charges against them?”
“Yes, sire,” his steward said, voice shaking, attempting to contain his emotions. He continued haltingly, “Theft, kidnapping, murder, and treason. I can barely say the words! That any of my children would think to do such things is beyond my comprehension. We taught them better! But as their father, I am responsible.”
“No, Lord Tilanta,” the king contended gently. “By our law, guilt rests entirely on the perpetrators, as you well know. They are adults. They made their choices apart from you, your instruction, your expectations. Each individual must bear the consequences of his or her behavior. Sadly, we must bear the pain those acts cause.”
Tears rolled down Amandes’ lined cheeks, and he did nothing to stop them. The king stood and walked down the steps, offering his handkerchief to the old man. The kind gesture made him weep even more. Alfons pulled him down to sit on the next-to-the-bottom step, and the king sat beside him, an arm around Amandes’ shoulders, which were shaking in grief.
“I suspect you came here to abdicate in favor of Amancuse,” Alfons said in a soft voice, “but if that is so, I will not accept it. I will not punish you for what your younger son and daughter have done. It is enough for me to see your sorrow and reproach. It is clearly genuine. I know and appreciate your loyalty to the kingdom, my father, and now to me, and Amancuse follows your example. I am grieved that Désira and Formosis have chosen rebellion.”
The king took a deep breath and continued. “When they are apprehended, they will be brought back here and confined to new quarters. If they confess, the penalty of the law is clear. If they do not, they will receive a fair trial before a panel of their noble peers drawn by lot. I will recuse myself since I have overseen the investigation, as will Lirens for his part. Is that acceptable?”
Amandes nodded, having recovered a little. “More than fair, lord king. Many in your place would respond with vengeance.”
Alfons stood, and Amancuse stepped forward to help his father do the same. “That is not my way,” the king said, looking sincerely into Amandes’ eyes. “But, regrettably, justice, which I seek, seems little more compassionate. We all wish we had never been forced to tread this path, but we have. So, we must follow it to its end and resolve it as best we can. For conscience’s sake and the kingdom’s sake, we can do nothing less.”
The steward, who had aged another decade before their eyes, and a much-sobered Amancuse bowed again to their king. The older man said, “Thank you, sire, for your understanding and mercy. With your leave, we will return home.”
“Go in peace, cousins,” the king answered.
They turned and walked slowly from the Throne Room.
A note:
As king, Alfons was the nation’s chief justice and should have presided over any treason trial. By recusing himself, he ceded considerable power in the name of fairness. He changed the trial procedure to resemble a military tribunal, appointing three noblemen, chosen by lot, to judge the case. The kingdom had a form of trial by jury, used in civil and criminal trials among commoners, but most members of the peerage disparaged it for themselves, considering it inferior to traditional methods. Alfons failed to mention that, by law, both Désira and Formosis could request a trial by combat, but since Prince Lirens was the king’s champion, no one was likely to request it.