Chapter 54. By Order of the Crown
"HALT!"
Sael's descent slowed. Not because of the command itself—he'd been planning to land gently regardless—but because there was something to be said for not startling men with weapons. Around him, Ilsa, Orion, and Robin drifted downward in the invisible cradle of his magic, their feet dangling several meters above the plaza cobblestones.
He looked down and the reception was... extensive.
Two dozen soldiers had formed a semicircle beneath them, and every single one had a weapon raised. Crossbows, mostly, bolts gleaming in the morning light. But there were also rifles—newer models, by the look of them, probably from the capital's armories—and a handful of mages stood slightly apart from the regular soldiers, their hands already glowing with half-formed spells. The Mages of State, then. They were easy to pick out even without the magic crackling between their fingers. Blue military coats, elegantly cut and buttoned to the throat. Black boots polished to a mirror shine. White gloves. And those caps—soft, round things that sat tilted on their heads.
Sael noted, with mild interest, that their uniforms were considerably more sophisticated than the last time he'd seen them. Someone had been investing in the kingdom's mage corps.
"Identify yourselves!" the same voice bellowed. The speaker was a captain of some sort, judging by the insignia on his shoulder. Royal guard. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he hadn't drawn it. "By order of the Crown, you will identify yourselves immediately!"
Sael continued his descent at the same measured pace.
"Master?" Orion's voice came from somewhere to his left, pitched low. "Should we be worried?"
"I don't believe so."
"They have a lot of crossbows."
"They do."
"Pointed at us."
"Yes."
"And rifles."
"Also yes."
Orion was quiet for a moment. "Just checking."
Their feet touched the cobblestones.
The soldiers didn't lower their weapons. If anything, the semicircle tightened, men shifting their weight, fingers adjusting on triggers and bowstrings. The captain stepped forward with his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared, one hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
Sael took a moment to study the faces around him.
This was strange.
Some of these men wore the crimson and gold of the royal guard, yes. But others—perhaps a third of them—wore the familiar blue and silver of House Eryndor. Ducal soldiers. Men who had been stationed here for years and had seen Sael come and go through this very castle at least once. Some had even nodded respectfully to him just yesterday morning.
Now they stood with crossbows leveled at his chest, their expressions blank.
One of them, a man with a gray-streaked beard, wouldn't meet his eyes.
Sael found this somewhat rude, if he was being honest with himself. Not the weapons, necessarily; those were at least impersonal. But the refusal to acknowledge recognition felt like a small betrayal. They knew him. They knew Ilsa. And yet here they stood, pretending otherwise.
Oh well.
"I am Sael of Hel," he said, keeping his voice pleasant. "This is Ilsa Eryndor, daughter of Duke Richter Eryndor. This is Orion, my apprentice."
He paused, glancing at the fox still blinking sleep from his eyes, ears flattened against his skull in obvious alarm at the wall of weapons.
"And this is Robin."
The name hung there, and Sael realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had no idea what came after it. Robin... something. Surely the Feytouched had family names? He filed this away for later. It seemed like the sort of thing one should know about one's companions.
"And this," he added, lifting the chicken in his arms slightly for visibility, "is a chicken."
Oz didn't react.
And the soldiers didn't move, crossbows still leveled and unwavering. The captain's jaw had tightened further at Sael's name, and several of the Mages of State had exchanged glances.
Sael waited, but nothing happened.
"I notice," he said eventually, "that you're still pointing weapons at us."
The captain's throat worked. "Sir. I have orders."
"Orders to point weapons at the daughter of your duke?"
"Orders to secure the plaza, sir. No one enters the castle."
"We weren't planning to enter the castle. We were planning to land in the plaza, which we've now done." Sael kept his tone conversational. "Although I confess I'm curious what exactly—"
"And you, sir." The captain cut him off. "You specifically, sir. Sael the Great."
"Yes?"
"You are to be... arrested. Upon arrival."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Sael wasn't entirely sure he'd heard correctly. The words had been clear enough, spoken in plain Common, and yet they refused to arrange themselves into coherent meaning in his mind.
Perhaps he had misunderstood? It happened often, to be honest. One could hear words and interpret them another way entirely, based on context, and this particular context seemed propitious for translating everything into threats. He'd learned that from an old librarian named Berthold a few centuries ago, a scholar fascinated by the quirks of human perception under duress. Bless his heart.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Could you repeat that?"
"You are to be arrested, sir. Upon arrival. Those are my orders."
"Arrested?" Orion's voice cracked on the word. "On what grounds?"
"That information wasn't provided to me."
"You can't just arrest someone without grounds! That's not how—there are laws—"
"Orion." Sael raised a hand. The boy fell silent, though his face had flushed an impressive shade of red.
Ilsa had gone very still beside him. Whatever sleepiness had lingered from their descent was gone now; she stood straight-backed, her chin lifted, looking for all the world like the duke's daughter she was. Her eyes swept the line of soldiers, and when they landed on one of the ducal guards—the gray-bearded man who still wouldn't meet anyone's gaze—something flickered across her face.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"Velren."
The man flinched at his name.
"Look at me."
Slowly, the guard's eyes rose. There was genuine misery in them, Sael noted. This was not a man comfortable with his current position.
"My lady, I—"
"Whose orders?"
"My lady, please understand, we had no choice—"
"Whose. Orders."
The plaza had gone quiet. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. Ilsa's voice hadn't risen—if anything, it had dropped, becoming something cold and utterly unlike the warm young woman who had hugged Sael just hours ago.
Velren swallowed visibly.
"The King, my lady."
Another silence.
"King Cedric."
Sael let the silence stretch for a moment. Then another.
"May I ask," he said, "what precisely I'm being arrested for?"
The captain's expression flickered, not quite in discomfort, but something adjacent to it. "I wasn't given that information, sir."
"You weren't given the charges?"
"No, sir."
"Hmm."
Sael considered this. It was an unusual way to conduct an arrest. In his experience—which was admittedly limited, as he had never been arrested before—there was typically some explanation involved, as the boy Orion had mentioned. But perhaps procedures had changed since the last time he'd paid attention to such things. It had been a while.
"And the King," he said. "Where might I find His Majesty at this particular moment?"
Behind the line of soldiers, the castle's main gate groaned and figures began to emerge.
The first two were soldiers. Royal guard, by their uniforms, but not like the ones already in the plaza. Their armor was darker than standard issue, trimmed with silver. They descended the stone steps with their hands nowhere near their weapons, eyes half-lidded, like they were out for a morning stroll. One of them yawned.
And behind them came the women. Seven of them, filing out of the gate in a loose formation. They wore uniforms—matching gray dresses, high-collared, practical in cut. The kind of thing household staff might wear. Servants, perhaps, or attendants of some sort.
Except servants didn't typically carry weapons.
The first woman held a scythe. The blade curved past her shoulder, nearly as tall as she was. Sael looked looked at it for a while, trying to work out how one would even swing the thing without hitting yourself in the back of the head. He gave up. Behind her came a woman with a longsword. Then one with a mace. Twin daggers. A spear. A rapier. And finally—
Ah. Ororo.
Sael recognized her immediately. The dark hair pulled back from her face, the amber eyes, and now she had a greatsword at her side. The leader of the Furies. She was looking at him now the same way she had looked at him then. Professional and just as unreadable.
So the others were Furies as well, he realized. That explained the weapons, he supposed.
The procession continued down the stairs. The soldiers first, then the Furies in their servant-gray uniforms, spreading out to flank the path. Creating a corridor. And then, finally, the last two figures emerged from the gate.
The first was Richter.
He looked... diminished, somehow. He walked stiffly, his shoulders held at an angle that suggested tension rather than posture. His face was neutral and he wore his formal attire, the ducal sigil prominent on his chest.
Beside Ilsa, Sael heard a sharp intake of breath.
The second figure was shorter than Richter by nearly a head. Young—barely more than a boy, really. Blond hair, styled in a way that looked deliberately messy. Sael wondered if that was fashionable now. His own hair had always just done whatever it wanted, so he'd never paid much attention to these things. The boy wore fine clothes, greens and golds, and a thin circlet rested on his brow. Oh, and he wore a crown.
It sat on his head at a slight angle, as if it had been placed there hastily. It was gold, studded with emeralds. Too large for his head, Sael noted.