The Jester: Bonus Episode

"An Untimely Death"

Aug 28, 2024

The bird arrived at the palace cote sometime before dawn, and Mardans received a handwritten note from the king before he sat down to breakfast, which he did not eat. The note read simply, “Our brother has died. Please come.”

The Santinetta home lay just steps from the Palace Pens & Parchment, and despite the early hour, Mardans was able to access the king’s underground study within just a few minutes. Staring into the fire, Alfons did not look up when his half-brother entered, but he finally did when Mardans placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The king’s visage was haggard, his eyes red from weeping. He rose and enclosed Mardans in a hug, sobbing.

“How does this happen, Mardans?” Alfons asked. “He just turned thirty-six! He should have lived twice as long! Why is he taken away so soon?”

“Wiser heads than mine have no answers, brother,” Mardans replied. “But this I know, Lirens did not live in vain. He left a noble legacy for his family and Margonne. He will not be forgotten.”

Alfons nodded and broke the embrace. “Yes, we will keep his memory alive. We can do no less.” Sniffing, he stooped to the table before them and picked up a slip of paper, handing it to Mardans. “This just came. It provides more detail about what happened.”

Mardans read the few lines written in cramped handwriting: “Prince’s horse stumbled in a hole under the snow, threw Lirens onto rocks. Broken neck. Died instantly.” He sat down heavily, staring into the fire. “A riding accident,” he said dully, shaking his head. “The best rider among us, and one misstep takes his life! It doesn’t seem fair.”

The king brought him a cup of strong tea, and they sipped from their teacups in silence. Both were in shock, and neither knew how to react. They could not imagine life without him.

“Funny,” the king said softly into the silence, “he told me just last summer that he wanted to be buried on his estate rather than here in Palisade. It was just an offhand comment when someone mentioned the royal crypt under the palace. He said he preferred life up there.”

Mardans nodded. “He said something like that to me, too, the last time I visited him there. He showed me the meadow with the amazing view where he said he would be buried. I never dreamed that time would come so soon.” He put his empty cup and saucer on the table. “I will leave as soon as possible to help Bettina and Bodnar. Will you attend the funeral?”

“Of course!” the king said with some heat. “I was his brother before I became king. The whole kingdom will mourn for Prince Lirens Ankara.”

By noon, the Santinetta family was on the Angeva Road heading north to Bridgeton. Liandra and their nine-year-old son, Adonis, refused to be left at home. They left their two younger daughters in the care of Tiena and Dinae, and Mardans felt confident they would scarcely miss them. Aran had insisted on driving the family coach, freeing Mardans from that task and letting the Baron mourn his brother in the company of his wife and son.

In all, it took them six days to reach Lirens’ estate. The second night they stayed with Aran’s folks in Blayne, which was still eighty miles southwest of their destination. Over the next four days, they traveled slowly over narrow dirt roads, some of them poorly maintained. It was mid-winter, and in some places, especially as they climbed into the foothills, ice and snow covered long stretches of road. But as the sun cast long shadows to the east on the sixth day, the prince’s large stone house appeared out of the folds of the forested hills overlooking a wide valley.

A cry went up when the coach was spotted, and the black-clad members of the household turned out at the edge of the drive. Aran drew the weary horses to a stop. As Liandra hastily descended to the ground, Lirens’ widow, Bettina, rushed forward and flung herself on her sister-in-law, and they wept together. Lirens’ son, Bodnar, who had turned fourteen just a few months before, took a few uncertain steps toward the coach after his mother.

Seeing the boy’s hesitation, Mardans crossed to his nephew, putting a hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up, Bodnar?” he asked, concerned. The simple expression of compassion was all the boy needed to hear as he buried his face in his uncle’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Adonis ran up and hugged them both. The estate’s servants were also hugging one another and weeping, for despite his sometimes blunt demeanor, Lirens had been a friendly and fair man to all.

Bettina recovered the quickest, drying her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “Baron, Baroness, you are most welcome!” she said, her voice quavering but full of sincerity. “We are so lost without Lirens. We don’t know what to do, and we don’t want to do anything but think of him!” She broke down in tears again.

Liandra put her arms around her, saying, “We came to help, dear, so you don’t have to worry about anything. Mardans and Aran and your staff will take care of all the preparations. And I will take care of you and relieve you of your duties over the house so you can mourn as you need. We will get through this together, all right?” Bettina nodded and allowed herself to be led inside.

Aran had already taken down their luggage, and the house servants took them inside to rooms already prepared for the Santinettas. Mardans caught the eye of Lirens’ estate manager, an older gentleman with thinning gray hair, who came over.

“My lord,” he said with a slight bow. “My condolences to you and your family. I know you and the prince were close.”

“Thank you, Royce,” Mardans said. “So close many thought we were twins.” His lips twitched in a smile. “I was older by a month and never let him forget it.”

“I understand, sir,” Royce said. “My brother is a year my junior.”

“Tell me what happened,” Mardans said, walking with the manager up the steps to the house, an arm still around Bodnar and Adonis trailing a few steps behind.

“Of course, sir,” Royce said. “Come into the parlor where there’s a fire already burning. I’ll have drinks served, and we can speak until they call us for dinner. I will ask the prince’s huntsman, Teruel, to join us. He was with my lord when the accident occurred.”

A few minutes later, Mardans was settled into a comfortable chair near the parlor’s hearth with Bodnar and Adonis close by on a couch, sipping hot cider. Royce came in with a tall, thin man with straight black hair and skin the color of light copper. The latter wore a braid of gray, purple, and black entwined in his hair next to his right temple.

He bowed distinctively. “I am Teruel, lord. My spirit is crushed by the death of my prince. I will mourn to the end of my days.”

“As will I, Teruel of the Gray Wolves,” Mardans said, rising and returning the bow. “My brother spoke fondly of you and your skill and prowess in the hunt. Please be comforted. Sit. Speak of your lord and friend.”

The Gray Wolf sat on the rug before the hearth. “My prince wanted to ride early before the sun rose. This he did often, just enjoying the ride. If prey crossed our path, he would hunt, but it was not important. That day, he chose to ride up the valley into the high country. He said he wanted to see the view as the sun rose. It was cold, and snow had fallen early in the night. Snow covered the ridges, and in some places, there was a crust of ice. He urged his horse up a steep bank, but it put a hoof in some beast’s hole, I think, snapping its ankle. It reared and tumbled, and my prince was thrown back down the slope. When he landed, his head hit a boulder, and it broke his neck. I think he died in that moment. He was gone when I reached him.” He stopped speaking and bowed his head.

Mardans was silent for a long minute, staring into the fire but seeing nothing but the images Teruel’s story evoked. “Thank you, Teruel,” he said finally. “Take me there tomorrow. I wish to see the place.” The Gray Wolf nodded, rose, and took his leave.

Royce cleared his throat. “Teruel brought the prince’s body back, and the women prepared it for burial. The cold has preserved his body so far, and I expect it will until the king and his retinue arrive.”

“I have no wish to see my brother in death,” Mardans said with finality, “and I believe the king’s wishes will be the same. We want to remember him full of life, as he always was.”

“Very good, lord,” Royce said. “When do you think the king will arrive?”

“His party will travel slower,” Mardans answered, “but not considerably so. I expect them in three days. Perhaps a bird will tell us when our sisters will arrive. When the king comes, we will defer to his will on the prince’s burial.”

“Yes, lord,” Royce said. “We will have a busy three days.”

“Indeed, we will,” Mardans said. A moment later, word came from the kitchen that dinner was served.

The next morning dawned cold and clear. Mardans and Adonis walked out to the stable where Teruel waited for them, making final adjustments to the horses’ tack. As they reached the stable yard, a door slammed behind them, and Bodnar came running down the steps after them. Dressed to ride, he stopped before Teruel and bowed in the Gray Wolf manner.

“My apologies, Huntsman Teruel,” he said, his eyes red in his pale face. “But I would like to see the place where . . . where . . . my father fell.” He dropped his head to hide fresh tears.

Teruel touched the boy’s arm. “I will saddle your horse,” he said and stepped into the stable.

“You haven’t gone there yet?” Adonis asked.

“Adon—” Mardans began.

Bodnar sniffed loudly, running his arm under his nose. “No, it’s all right, uncle,” he said. “I’ve been avoiding it, but I think it’s time to see it.”

“Are you sure?” Mardans pressed.

“Yes, sir,” Bodnar insisted. “I need to see it.”

Mardans nodded. “If you decide at the last minute that it’s been a mistake, we will understand.”

“Thank you,” he answered, “but that won’t be necessary. I have to see the place.”

Teruel brought out a saddled horse, young and dark brown with a narrow white blaze down most of its nose, that seemed happy to see the boy and eager to be out. Bodnar patted his horse’s neck, muttering, “Good Dancer, good boy!” a name that made Mardans smile. Like an experienced horseman, which any son of Lirens would be, he checked the girth and all the tack, set a foot in the stirrup, and hauled himself into the saddle. Adonis quickly mounted his pony, and Mardans and Teruel followed suit, albeit more slowly.

Teruel led them along a well-beaten track that climbed steadily higher along the valley's west side. Its rim flattened as they approached but for a final, narrow ledge at the ridge’s top. Lirens had urged his mount to gain this height for the best views of the surrounding countryside when the accident occurred. Teruel stopped them short of the ridge in a shallow fold that had recently been partially filled with dirt and rocks.

No one dismounted but looked at the peaceful scene before them from their saddles. It did not look like a place of death but a pleasant approach to a magnificent overlook. A broad heap of stones dominated the draw.

“The prince’s horse was too heavy to move,” Teruel said, explaining the mound, “so we buried it where it lay. The stable hands and I carted loads of earth and rock here to cover him and keep scavengers from him.”

“Is that a grave marker?” Adonis asked, pointing at a wooden sign someone had pounded between the rocks. He and Bodnar walked their horses around the cairn to get a better view of what was inscribed on it. Bodnar read: