Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1 (42 page)

“Me either,” he replied, lifting a cup of goat’s milk. “Here’s to Kanesbury. May she always be safe, secure and prosperous.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dooley replied, likewise raising his cup and drinking, eagerly looking forward to Len’s tour of the Blue Citadel. He couldn’t have asked for a more eager guide and unwitting accomplice to assist him in his mission.

CHAPTER 27

The War Council

Dooley’s heart pounded as he turned the corner on the stone staircase and casually ascended the remaining steps, anxiously facing a long corridor before him. He had said goodbye to Len Harold moments ago at the opening reception in the lower chamber, insisting that he wanted to leave Morrenwood before noon. Len understood and wished him a safe journey back to Kanesbury, watching Dooley wade through a crowd of chattering dignitaries and aides and then slip out the doorway. What Len hadn’t seen immediately afterward was Dooley casually making for the staircase leading up to the council chambers instead of exiting the Citadel as he had claimed. The war council would convene in less than two hours.

As Dooley walked down the corridor, two men approached and quickly passed by in whispered conversation. They hardly noticed him as they descended the stairs, fully engaged in talks about several tiny nations tucked away in the Northern Mountains. Dooley politely nodded as they swept by, relieved they had essentially ignored him. He kept his nerves in check as he continued down the corridor lit with flickering oil lamps affixed to the walls by several windows cut high into the stonework on his right.

Behind the long wall to his left was the chamber where King Justin would hold the war council. Len Harold had brought him here two days ago as part of his tour of the Blue Citadel. He acted considerably impressed as Len walked him through the chamber accessible through either of two large oak doors at each end of the corridor. Though this was an unrestricted section of the Citadel, Dooley was told that members of the King’s Guard would be stationed outside the doors and in the vicinity while the council was in session.

On the wall to his right, directly below the line of high windows, hung four enormous tapestries suspended by silken cords. Each wall hanging combined to create one vast depiction of the Blue Citadel and the surrounding hills and woodland, the frothy ribbon of the Edelin River cutting a graceful swath through it all. What caught Dooley’s attention most was that each tapestry illustrated one season. The brilliant greens and yellows of a fresh spring accented the far end of the hallway, while a languid summer day and vibrant autumn foliage designated the two middle sections. The frosty blue, white and gray hues of a blustery winter stared down upon Dooley to his immediate right, inducing a momentary shiver upon glancing at that chilly quarter of the landscape.

He hurried past the huge display toward the door at the far end of the corridor. He cautiously looked about, weaving back and forth in slow, stealthy arcs to make sure nobody else was around. Hearing neither voices nor footsteps and seeing no approaching shadows, he opened the door with a trembling hand and stepped inside the chamber, now awash with light from a crackling blaze in a huge fireplace against the long back wall across the room. Several elegantly carved oak support posts were scattered about. He knew there wouldn’t be much time before this chamber and the adjacent corridor were flooded with people, so he either had to act now and act fast or promptly leave and tell Farnsworth that this ridiculous idea never had a chance. Dooley swallowed hard, determined to prove himself a success once and for all.

He scurried to the far end of the chamber past a long table adorned with candles, drinking glasses and bowls of fresh fruit. A secondary fireplace warmly burned at this end, its hearth and stone edges blackened with soot. Dooley looked up at the web of broad wooden rafters above, hidden among thick shadows and partially obscured by a slew of small tapestries and autumn garland suspended from the high ceiling. He had discreetly examined this hiding spot when Len escorted him through the chamber two days ago, knowing it was the only realistic place he could conceal himself from wandering eyes.

After one last glance, Dooley hoisted himself on top of the fireplace, using some protruding stones as footholds. When he stood on top of the mantel, he glanced down at the long table, soon to be occupied by some of the most influential people in the kingdom and throughout Laparia. He suddenly felt lightheaded, though he couldn’t tell whether it was due to the height at which he stood or because of the extraordinary gathering that was about to take place. He cleared his mind and concentrated on a large beam a few feet off one side of the fireplace that extended from the wall to a support post. He inched his way across to the edge of the mantel and made a short leap to reach the wooden beam. He locked his arms around it and hauled himself up to the top, crouching on his knees to keep from hitting his head on another beam slanting down just above him.

But the difficult part was over and Dooley relied on his tree climbing abilities as a young boy to take him farther into the web of rafters. After a short series of acrobatic maneuvers, he wormed his way onto another large beam near one corner of the long back wall, completely out of view of anyone who would be seated at the table. He rested on the wide piece of oak, his back slightly inclined and his legs fully extended. He didn’t have any fears about falling off, but extended an arm through one of the open designs carved into an adjoining piece of woodwork to anchor himself just in case. As an added precaution, he flipped the hood of his coat down over his head so that less of his skin would be exposed. The darkness of his clothes blended in seamlessly with the shadows.

For the next hour, Dooley closed his eyes from time to time, happy to rest awhile after sampling some of the rich and varied foods at the reception downstairs. He listened to the snapping flames from the fireplaces below. The rising heat soothed him and he found it easy to keep his heavy eyelids closed for longer stretches of time. At one point he was roused awake when several members of the kitchen staff entered through a small door near the larger fireplace carrying metal pitchers of water, wine and honey ale which they distributed along the table. He could clearly hear the monotonous chatter of the workers, though it soon bored him and he happily closed his eyelids once again, drunk with sleep, telling himself that he would wait for the real talk to begin before actually paying attention.

As the heat and crackle of flames combined with the murmur of voices wafting through the rafters, Dooley easily succumbed to a deep and dreamy sleep, a faint smile forming on his lips as his body relaxed into the wooden beam as if it were a mattress stuffed with feathers and straw. He heard neither the kitchen staff leaving shortly afterward nor the dignitaries later entering the chamber in small groups through both doors along the corridor. They eagerly took their seats and greeted a smiling King Justin who welcomed them to the final stage of the summit.

“We are gathered together at last,” King Justin said, sitting at the center chair of the table, his back to the fireplace. He clasped his hands together, a thin smile beneath his ice blue eyes and cropped silvery hair as he looked about the room. He wore a light gray woolen shirt underneath a vest of autumn colors. He glanced past his son, Prince Gregory, seated to his right, and stared at a pair of empty chairs next to him. “Well,
almost
all of us,” the King added, referring to the emissaries from Montavia who had not yet arrived, while at the same time thinking about his granddaughter lost somewhere in the wild. He had dispatched a search team to look for Megan after Samuel returned alone, but the princess’ trail had disappeared. But to get through this war council, he and Prince Gregory, Megan’s father, put her plight temporarily out of mind, a nearly impossible task if ever there was one. But they would have to try as great matters were at stake. “The absence of the Montavian representatives troubles me,” King Justin continued. “I sent out scouts yesterday, but no word has returned. We’ll proceed and hope they arrive soon.”

“In their stead,” Prince Gregory said, “I have invited one of the captains from King Rowan’s guard.” He pointed out a Montavian soldier seated across the table. “He and a company of his men have been training with some of Arrondale’s finest.” The prince exhibited many of his father’s facial features, and though his hair was long and brown, his eyes were as blue as the King’s.

The other representatives were dismayed that King Rowan’s envoys had been delayed, knowing that Arrondale had a cordial relationship with its neighbor to the east. A gentleman, nearly the same age as King Justin, leaned back in his chair at one end of the table to the King’s left, quietly contemplating what the absence might mean. His large frame was wrapped in dark blue robes embroidered with faint designs of silver and white. A pair of deep, dark eyes nearly matched his unruly mess of thick, black hair. He furrowed his brow in deep contemplation.

“Tolapari, you look lost in thought,” the King remarked, eyeing his old friend and advisor. “Though that is hardly unusual for a wizard. Is there anything you wish to say?”

“Not quite yet, Justin,” he softly said, offering a smile as he lightly tapped a finger to his chin. “In the meantime, shall we proceed with the tale of war and chaos down south that is Rhiál and Maranac? There are some in this room who have not heard the entire story, and it will give your scribes a delightful challenge to record the full account for posterity.” He indicated with amusement the two royal scribes seated at the opposite end of the table, dipping quills into ink bottles and scribbling the official documentation of the war council on parchment sheets.

“That’s as good a place to start as any,” King Justin replied, pouring some wine into a drinking glass in preparation for a long discussion. He glanced at the nearly two dozen emissaries and their aides seated at the table, representatives of the various kingdoms and nations in Laparia. Several minor officials sat on additional benches and chairs placed along the chamber walls.

King Justin then introduced Lamar, an emissary from the kingdom of Rhiál who sat two chairs away on his left. Between them sat a pale, worried looking man named Nedry, one of King Justin’s top advisors. Rhiál was tucked away in the lower reaches of the Ridloe Mountains in the southeast and bordered the western shore of Lake LaShear, a long, narrow lake stretching north to south. On the opposite side of the lake lay the kingdom of Maranac, slightly larger and more populated than its neighbor.

Several decades ago the two nations had been one, but a political war had erupted into a bloody affair, splitting the kingdom nearly in half to the present day. And though that particular war had ended long ago, most of its citizens dreamed of a day when the two kingdoms would reunite in peace despite a signed treaty of separation and the forgotten designs of long-dead politicians. But a current war now brewing between the two kingdoms left many on both sides of Lake LaShear yearning for the functional yet soulless peace they had grown used to over the passing years.

“Thank you, King Justin, for inviting me here,” Lamar stated graciously, smiling beneath a mop of iron gray hair. “Since Rhiál has been at war for six months with our neighbor, Maranac, I’ll speak briefly of the history that preceded this disaster so everyone is clear on the facts. After which, maybe we can devise a solution to end the madness before it spreads. Without assistance, Rhiál might not last into next spring.”

“I look forward to your account,” said a man sitting directly across the table. He had traveled from Linden, one of several small nations wedged among the towering peaks of the Northern Mountains near Kargoth. “Linden and my neighbors survive under Vellan’s iron fist, rebelling against him occasionally, but not yet at war. But how did Rhiál become embroiled in your current conflict?”

Lamar’s countenance was grim. “Simple. King Drogin of Maranac attacked us,” he said. “Drogin received the royal title ten days into this year before even the first efalia blossoms of spring had a chance to bloom. His brother, King Hamil, had been assassinated seven days earlier, and what a tragic loss it was. Hamil was a good and honorable man, quite unlike his sibling.”

“The newly crowned King Drogin invaded your kingdom without provocation?”

“Yes. About a month later,” replied Lamar. “The first attacks were near the southern tip of Lake LaShear. That area contains some of our richest farmland. The strikes were designed to disrupt the spring planting and to test our resistance.”

“But why would King Drogin do such a thing?” asked a curious Len Harold.

“Because Drogin blames Rhiál for the assassination of his younger brother.”

Len furrowed his brow. “
Younger
brother? How did King Hamil earn the crown if he was Drogin’s younger sibling?” Others in the room were just as mystified.

“It seems that many here are not familiar with the politics of Maranac,” King Justin remarked. “The ascension of Hamil to the throne before Drogin has always intrigued me. Perhaps you can enlighten us with more details.”

Lamar helped himself to some red grapes from a nearby fruit bowl, munching on a few as he told his story. “Hamil’s coronation before that of his older brother of two years is at the center of the current conflict. You see, Drogin, who was rightfully first in line for the throne, was an ardent supporter of reunification of our two nations. Even throughout his youth, I’ve been told, he was always curious about the history of Maranac and how it broke apart sixty-five years ago after a dreary, three-year conflict. When the peace treaty was signed that year in 677, our new kingdom on the lake’s west side was called Rhiál, borrowing the name of the village where our new monarch had been born.