The King's Blood (25 page)

Ciara leaned down and checked on Aldrin. He was breathing heavily and there were tears streaming down his face. "Are you all right?" she whispered.

He nodded, his teeth clenched as he fought off a wave of nausea. Ciara stepped forward and said flatly, "Oh, my hero."

Casamir stopped his revelry and came forward, his hand swooping around her hip pulling her body close to him. Cursing Chase's inability to remember lines, she shut her eyes tight and brushed her lips against Bartrone's whiskery blonde cheek.
 

As the crowd cheered, he dropped his hold upon her, and while the rage faded from her eyesight she saw a smear of black paint left on Casamir's cheek. Humphrey was gently nudging Aldrin with his boot while working hard on a chicken leg he got from gods knew where. Ciara turned to check on the boy, when Casamir grabbed her hand and shouted so loud half the kingdom could hear, "And that is the tale of Casamir and the Elves!"

Then, still holding the girl hostage, he took a deep bow forcing her to join in. Humphrey turned to look at the clapping crowd and curtsied. The lords and ladies scrambled out of their chairs, giving the man who spent most of the play pointing out the plot holes a standing ovation.

Aldrin managed to stagger to his feet and leaned upon his wizard staff wheezing.

"Encore!" someone started near the head table.

"Yes, Encore!"
 

"Encore! Encore!" it was picked up by everyone gathered around the tables.

Ciara finally broke free of Bartone's hold and turned to Aldrin who looked her in the eye and pleaded, "Sweet pantheon, no."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
arciano clapped appreciatively as the Gaulian in tin sheets paraded about, now on his third tale of Casamir's exploits. He had yet to bring up the Dragon and how the great man actually slayed it, but that suited the general just fine. He had heard that tale so often as a child it was partly embedded on his eyelids when he drifted to sleep; how the Dragon Slayer saved the previous Empire from the Last Dragon and earned his place amongst the gods. It was as much a myth to entertain as a way for parents to encourage their children to eat all their vegetables or the Last Dragon will crunch your bones.

He tipped back in his chair, feeling the frosty approach of midnight as the hero and his trusty sidekick took to arguing over a chicken bone, both claiming it was the "key for the blue door." The general pushed his chair back and rose, trying to stifle a yawn.
 

Surprisingly, he sincerely thanked the Baron for an interesting night, and turned to remove himself for the evening as every soldier rose to attention. Casamir and Humptery (as he was known to the Aravingions) paused, the "key" clattering to the floor to be gobbled up by a patient hound. Marciano raised his hand, "Please, friends, continue your celebrations. I fear a General's work is never done."

The soldiers laughed appropriately and returned to their seats and mead. Only Gian disinterred himself from a half finished goblet of weak ale to follow in his General's wake. Marciano shook his head; that boy was going to wind up with an ulcer by age 36 if he kept this abstaining lifestyle up.

Marciano walked quickly, leaving the great hall behind as he made his way to the stables. He never felt comfortable unless he checked on the state of his horse before bed. "Not such a terrible showing," the General muttered back to his lieutenant.
 

Gian grumbled something noncommittal.

"I must say, the child they had portraying the elf lord was very much into his part. I'd fear to face him on a battlefield one day," Marciano chuckled to himself, "when he finally grows enough to be able to lift a real sword."

Gian, still nipping at his master's heels, bypassed a set of servants dragging a bucket to mop up someone's overabundant celebrating. "I did not believe it for one moment. If his evil plan was to use the girl's blood for a spell, why not simply slit her throat from the start and cast it?"

Marciano shook his head, "It's the suspension of belief, Gian. There would be no story if he'd destroyed the kidnapped girl before the heroes could save her."
 

Gian grumbled again, knowing this was an argument he couldn't win with his superior.
 

The General turned to glance back at the only man in all of Arda who said his prayers by thanking the gods for not actually existing, and plowed right into a girl dashing head long through the halls. She tumbled back on her legs, crying out in surprise. Marciano's head whipped forward to discover it was the performer of the night, the woman whose blood logically should have been spilt the moment she entered the great hall.

Her face was still painted dark and instinctively he looked down at his own armor to find some matte smudge marks upon the obsidian. Extending his arm he said, "Excuse me, my lady."

The girl froze, her eyes darting to the hand sheathed in blackened metal and then back up to his warm brown gaze. Carefully, like someone trying to calm a crazed animal, she placed her hand in his and let his might raise her to her feet.
 

"I'm so sorry, I didn't expect anyone to be in the hall. The Casamir needs me," she babbled, trying very hard to not look behind her.

Marciano's eyes flickered to the boy cowering behind in the shadows, his ears loose and shifting until one covered his nose. All the piss and vinegar was burnt upon the stage it seemed. Bowing to the young lady, the General stood to one side and said, "The show must go on."

She glanced behind her, grabbed the boys hand and, without looking back at the General, raced to the Great Hall. Marciano watched her retreating form as did Gian, who admitted, "She may have been a major plot hole, but at least she has a nice figure."

"Indeed," the General agreed, as he glanced at his gauntlet. "Gian..."

"Yes, Sir!" the man snapped to attention, anything approaching a base thought banished to the deepest reaches of his mind.
 

"I want you to trail after that girl and her companions."

"Sir?" he didn't like to question his superior officer's commands, bad for the entrails, but trailing a horde of wandering bards the night before a march seemed a complete waste of his talents. There were possible spies hiding amongst the lords and ladies that were so liquored up it would take almost none of his seducing skills to extract a confession.

"I'm uncertain, but my gut believes she's obscuring something. It could be nothing, but it's smart to leave no stone unturned."

"Unless it's got a scorpion underneath it," Gian muttered. The General slowly folded his arms and glared down upon his lieutenant. "I mean, Sir, yes Sir!" Gian saluted and slipped into the shadows, following back into the great hall.

Marciano unfolded his arms and looked back at the hand he used to lift the painted girl to her feet. The hand that was smudge free. Shaking off his instincts as something to keep the boy busy, the General marched back out to the stables humming the song of Casamir under his breath.

A gaggle of red robes waddled down the back corridors of the castle, being shooed by a harried woman who gained a good decade trying to get this impromptu party off the ground and now had to helplessly watch it tip right back over. Judging by the occasional sound of shattering glass and cries of "Hold my mead, I gotta try this!" she knew she was in for a long night.

But the red robes didn't mind; it'd been a spectacular night for them. A few of the Lords, before taking their pants off and joining the conga line, inquired about having the historians work one of their parties. Perhaps one for the young Marquess' naming day. If the clown is busy.

Aldrin kept running his hands through the dried paint, cracking it off and shedding a trail of toxic breadcrumbs. Bartone wouldn't shut his still flapping mouth, declaring himself the keynote speaker of the night and still glancing wistfully at the promise of a fourth encore. But Ciara's gaze met his and he backed down immediately.

After suffering a near heart attack from running nose first into the soldiers roaming the hall, she gripped Aldrin's hand tight and burst in upon Casamir just as he was hoisting the head of Miqueso (whose gaze turned men into cheese) upon the Basilisk, creating a shockwave of stone cheese. As the hall broke into wild hysterics while the latest round of wine kicked in, Ciara grabbed the hero's hand and pulled his ear to her mouth.

"We need to leave."

"Nonsense," he shook her off and rose to the applause, still waving the head of cabbage around as if it could turn someone into anything other than an unpleasant person to travel beside.
 

But she wasn't about to risk her hide for a man's swelling ego, "Lord and Ladies," she called to the horde, "I regretfully must request the leave of Sir Casamir. There are far flung adventures that require his aid." The crowd booed, not wanting to give up their new toy. "Unless, of course, you wish to pay to keep him for another hour?"

The eyes shifted to the Baron, who --being a man that rose to his height by not wasting a coin unless objectively necessary-- hobbled to his feet and exclaimed, "A final round of applause for the traveling bards!"

Bartrone reluctantly bowed deeply, like a master thespian exiting from the last production while Pajamas waved his final stolen chicken leg about proudly. Ciara clapped, made a small curtsey and shoved the two out the door.

Once the stage lights faded, Bartrone spun on the girl foolish enough to step on his toes, "How dare you insert yourself into matters you cannot comprehend?" His mouth foamed a bit as he inched deep into Ciara's personal space. A threatening hand began to rise.

But she felt strength rising from the deep pool of "being in the right," "And how dare you threaten the lives of every single person in the caravan to feed your vanity."

As she loudly whispered her threat, the other red robes appeared, along with one of the bearded men who seemed to have gotten himself a bit lost. Bartrone glanced at his fellows, generally amiable men he'd spent over 15 years of his life working and living with. But make no mistake, if an opportunity ever presented itself, he'd toss every single one of them under the carriage and he knew they'd do the same.

That was how their academic community survived, always working together to keep everyone else from getting on top of you. "You walk a very dangerous path, gel," Bartrone said, his voice dropping out of the honeyed range it spent over three hours gallivanting in.

Ciara blinked, sensing the hand still floating on the periphery. But Aldrin piped up, "She's right. We best get out of here before any of them soldiers wise up to what was under their noses."

Bartrone still glared upon her, but the hand lowered. Ciara sighed, grateful for the help from the "graduate student," but despising the fact she needed it. Chase broke free from the mass of robes and handed a single hand whittled rose to the four players, a tear in his eye.
 

"Forgive my brother," Chance said, "He always loved the theater."

Hustling without running, the mob made their way back towards what they thought would be the gate out but found only bored soldiers and a very barred door. These men were blessedly not dressed in the black of the Empire, but the much more muddled greys of a man who couldn't be bothered to come up with a uniform's color scheme. The Baron's men sniffed the air and said "'s closed so no 'uncloths' get in. Servants go out through the East entrance."

So the horde shifted, trying to follow the vague point of a man in the middle of the moonless night, stumbling amongst the twists and turns of a castle they'd seen only glimpses of from a wagon that picked everyone up in the town square.
 

"He said it was east, right?"

"How can you tell which east is east?"

"By that big shiny star, of course."

"That's the light for the midden, you person of questionable intelligence."

"How can you tell in this dark?"

"It's a cloudy night, there are no stars."

While Chase and Chance, the scouts for the group, led them about in circles, Aldrin slipped back to Ciara who was bringing up the rear. More black paint crunched off his fingers that he wiped across his pants and then his chin, leaving a wide smudge. The boy must have been a personal demon to the King's laundress.