Wizard's Masquerade, page 29
But why else would the bells be ringing non-stop?
The door handle rattled, and the maid jumped out of the way just in time as the door flew open.
“Leyna, wake up!” wailed her mother, appearing in the doorway in her nightclothes. She brandished a swinging candle lantern and squinted around the room as if expecting to catch intruders. “Oh good, you’re already dressed.”
“Dear, it’s still dark out,” said Lord Saunders, appearing in the doorway, looking half asleep. “What’s going on?”
“He must be half deaf and then some,” complained Lady Saunders, giving Leyna a pained look as she gestured at her husband, “to not hear the bells, nor the first three times that I said we’re needed in the Great Hall.”
“Alright, alright,” said Lord Saunders, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll just get my night-robe.” He reappeared a moment later. “And, dear, have you seen my slippers—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—they’re next to the ottoman! Like I told you already—” She broke off with a cluck of her tongue. “I better go help him—dearies. We’ll meet you downstairs.”
The castle corridors had never been so busy with people at night. Nobles, servants and soldiers filtered into the Great Hall, wearing nightclothes and fearful expressions. The phrase ‘death knell’ echoed around them, but Leyna tried to block the chatter from her mind. She wouldn’t think about what the bells meant. It couldn’t happen, not when the king had sat on the throne only a few days ago, healthy and magnificent as the hall beamed with celebration.
The bells clanged, and her heart outstripped the knell’s rhythm as it pounded against her chest.
Inside the dim hall, service staff hurried to lower and light the chandeliers. Through the chaos of people, Leyna spotted Damian near the foot of the dais.
“They’ve been attacked!” a noblewoman wailed, brushing past them.
“Who’s been attacked?” asked Grace, but the woman was gone.
“Look, there’s Damian,” Leyna said, pulling Grace by the arm. The long-haired huskarl was in uniform and rubbed at his stubbled chin.
“Damian, what’s going on?” Leyna asked.
He beckoned them closer. “News arrived an hour ago—there’s been an attack on the king and queen at the Baxton estate.”
Grace gasped. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Yeah…” said Damian vaguely. “A lot of people are hurt.”
“What do you mean, a lot of people?”
“The attack targeted the entire court—not just the king.”
“What about Quinn?”
Damian shook his head. “I don’t know the specifics, but I reckon we’ll find out soon enough…the steward’s about to make an announcement.”
Leyna glanced at the empty dais. “Who brought the news?”
“A couple of castle guards who went with the court—Maurice and Firmin. They managed to make it back alive.”
“Alive?” Grace’s voice rose in volume. “Why would you say that? Why wouldn’t they come back alive?”
Leyna rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She locked eyes with Damian. “What happened to the king?”
“I can’t say, not until it’s confirmed.”
“But what about the bells…does that mean…?”
“Yes, I think so.”
They exchanged a long look.
“Leyna, I don’t understand,” said Grace. “What do the bells mean?”
“They mark death,” she whispered. “It means King Rutherford is dead.”
Grace paled.
The Great Hall echoed from the din as people speculated about what had happened, and Leyna and Grace split up to help the guards on duty who were struggling to contain the panic. Fear amplified what little information there was to be had, and stories ranged from the absurd to the ludicrous, with those who knew the least about the attack having the most to say on the subject.
“I heard everyone who went died,” proclaimed a maid. “Not a single soul survived. Can you imagine? The whole court—gone. Horses and all. Even the Baxtons.”
“Well, I heard it was the Kormendians,” boasted a young man wearing a kitchen apron. “Killed them all, they did.”
“And you heard that while scrubbing pans, did you?” said the butler, startling the kitchen hand. “I’ll remind you not to spread rumours, Thomas.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Other stories hinted at what might have been true:
“Apparently, the queen is still alive. Managed to hide under a carriage.”
“I pray you are right.” She rubbed her arms self-soothingly to stop the panic infecting her, but it was too late. Damian’s cryptic words had rattled her.
Was the king really dead? Who else was hurt? Hundreds of people had gone with the king and queen, including a large force of soldiers and half the Royal Guard…surely, that was enough to fend off an attack?
A man caught her attention, standing calm and still amongst the crowd with his eyes closed, his hands in the pockets of a navy nightgown with gold piping. It took her a moment to place him because his wavy hair was a tousled mess, and his diamond-shaped face was tipped to one side as if he were listening to the surrounding noise. She hastened towards him and tapped on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Lord Brighton?”
He startled.
“Huskarl Leyna! Are you alright?”
Despite looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, his bright-blue eyes were sharp as they searched her face.
“I’m fine, and you?” Despite the seriousness of the situation, hope flickered alight. There was a connection between them…
But Cornelius turned away.
“Yes, I’m well, thank you.” His voice and posture were stiff, and he seemed determined not to look at her.
The glimmer of hope died. They stood silently, side by side, as people moved about them. Would it be rude to walk away? Unable to stand the awkwardness, she cleared her throat. “I heard the court was attacked. Do you know anything about it?”
Cornelius scratched his nose. “No, I’m afraid I know nothing of the attack.”
She shuffled her weight onto her good leg. Why was he ignoring her? She opened her mouth to ask, but he pressed a finger to his lips, nodding towards the High Table.
Leyna followed his gaze. Seth stood beside the throne, his face pale as he gripped the ornate armrest, his knuckles white. The chamberlain sat in his usual chair, almost comical in a nightcap bearing a pom-pom. Several other officials looked equally flustered as they wiped sleep from their eyes.
The steward climbed the dais steps, his long cloak as dark as his face as he turned to address the audience. A herald called for silence, and the room quietened as people craned their necks to see him speak.
“I have received grave news concerning the king, borne by two brave guards who accompanied him on his travels. They have returned this night, injured and bearing terrible news that pains me now to share—”
Steward Marek’s voice cut off as if he needed a moment to collect himself. When he spoke again, anger laced his words. “My faithful subjects, I learn this night that after three days of travel, our king and his entourage reached the Baxton estate. No sooner did they arrive than a band of traitors viciously attacked them. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that because of this violence, our noble King Rutherford and his beloved wife, Her Majesty The Queen, are dead.”
A collective gasp swept through the hall, punctuated by screams. The steward raised his hands.
“Quiet down,” he ordered. “There is more.”
“There’s more?” moaned Grace, appearing beside her and clutching her sleeve.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she replied, not believing her own words. She glanced at Cornelius, but he’d vanished.
The steward looked around the room emotionlessly. “It causes me great sadness to disclose that the killers were merciless in their attack. Besides the guards bearing the news, there were no survivors.”
“No survivors?” asked Grace, her grip tightening on Leyna’s arm. “What does he mean, no survivors? What about Quinn?”
Leyna turned to Grace, at a loss for words as her friend’s face crumpled.
“Grace—”
“What about Quinn?” she choked, eyes shining with tears as she clutched onto Leyna for support.
“We don’t know anything for certain.”
Grace’s disbelief gave way and she burst into tears. Leyna pulled her close, and as her friend cried against her shoulder, she blinked away a tear of her own. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered if it, too, would come crashing down, just as the rest of her world had done.
This can’t be real. It’s not possible. A sharp pain flashed in her chest. What about Bancroft? He was one of the people who’d made life bearable after Tash died, who made her feel like she belonged at the castle. Could he really be gone, just like that? She wanted to find her parents, but was reluctant to let go of Grace.
The commotion settled enough that the steward continued.
“This treachery was not the result of mere bandits, but orchestrated by evil men seeking to topple the monarchy and destroy the peace of our kingdom. But we will not let them.” He held up a rolled up scroll for all to see.
“Our two brave soldiers gave testimony, from which we’ve compiled a list of traitors who are indisputably connected with the murders. Our forces will act swiftly to capture and punish them. They will be trialled, and those found guilty will face public execution. We will not stop until we have avenged those who have perished. Today, we have all lost someone we hold dear in this terrible massacre. May their souls rest in peace.”
A terrible weeping rose from the crowd as families contemplated the loss of their loved ones. The prince swayed as if he were about to collapse, unnoticed by the Royal Council members flocking around the stony-faced steward, who wordlessly handed the list of traitors to Captain Marton.
The captain took the parchment from him and scanned it with unmasked distaste before folding it away.
Grace also noticed Seth’s unsteadiness, and together, they hurried up the dais steps to him.
“Not the chair?” asked Grace, as they lowered Seth to the ground.
Leyna shook her head. “The ground’s the safest place for him in case he faints.” She knelt by the prince and brushed his curly hair back from his face. His skin was grey, his breathing shallow, and she hoped he wouldn’t lose consciousness. “Seth, can you hear me?” she coaxed.
Seth stared blankly into the distance and would not respond to any of their questions.
Marek’s harsh voice cracked through the hall like a whip, making them jump.
“My people, even as we mourn our beloved king and queen who lie slain with our kin, let your thoughts now turn to the future. As of this day, I am your lord regent, and as such, I will assume full powers effective immediately and rule until the heir apparent, Prince Seth Rutherford, comes of age. And as your lord regent, I promise to do all that is in my power to keep you safe and to vanquish evil from the land—no matter the cost.”
Crouched beside Seth, Leyna stared at the back of Marek’s dark cloak. He was not their king.
“How can he stand there and claim to be ruler when he’s just lost his son?” said Grace did dolefully.
Leyna’s thoughts echoed Grace’s. Did Marek grieve for his son? If he did, he did not show it. Was he being strong for their sake?
Steward Marek stalked to the throne and, without hesitation, sat down.
Uncomfortable silence filled the hall.
“The king is dead!” called the herald. “Long live the lord regent!”
The court echoed the words back, the effect diminished by the undercurrent of sobs.
Leyna’s voice was strained as she repeated the cry, and she wondered if things would ever be the same.
Chapter twenty-two
The Fallout
The church bells in Royad rang for hours on end until the sun came up, the muffled chimes mingling together to wake every citizen. When they finally ceased, the residual noise continued to echo in her ears. A blanket of mourning smothered the kingdom, bringing everything to a standstill. The tragedy was now being referred to as the Court Massacre, and the term was soon on everyone’s lips, like a bitter aftertaste that could not be washed away.
Leyna felt numb as she pulled on her uniform, unable to concentrate on her duties when the worst had happened—Bancroft was dead.
How had he died? Had he suffered? Not knowing the answers tormented her, and she spent her brief lunch break with her parents, speculating about his death. She soon regretted not having lunch in the Great Hall; amid their anguish and armed with too little information, she and her mother had descended into a fruitless argument on the circumstances of his death. In the same breath that she mourned him, Lady Saunders insisted Bancroft was alive, that he’d run away to save himself. While Leyna yearned for this to be true, white anger flashed at the suggestion that Bancroft would run away like a coward, and as her mother’s theories escalated, she’d snapped at her.
“You know better than to argue with your mother,” her father had said quietly, after her mother fled the room in tears. “She’s quite sensitive.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Leyna left the suite with a bowed head, feeling worse than when she’d entered and regretting denying her mother the small comfort that one of her dearest friends might still be alive.
A long-time friend of her father, Bancroft was like family, and was the glue that kept them together after Tash’s death. When they first arrived at the castle many years ago, they were a broken family; Lord Saunders was withdrawn, Lady Saunders frantic, and Leyna inconsolable and forlorn. Bancroft had changed all that; his support and good humour steered them into safer waters and helped them reconnect across a void they could not bridge themselves.
Leyna loved her parents, but Bancroft was the only one who had truly understood her—along with Sophie, who, while less adventurous than Tash, had become like an older sister. As a young girl, Leyna was shy around the castle folk, but Sophie’s warmth and Bancroft’s kindness had helped coax her out of her shell. The first time they’d met in the yards, Bancroft had conjured an illusion of a rabbit who hopped about around their feet. Seeing magic kindled a fire in her, and she soon set her sights on becoming a wizard and huskarl like Bancroft.
Years in the making, her dream had finally come true. But something was missing.
In light of the tragedy, the castle felt too big, the weight of her huskarlship suffocating. The Royal Guard was a beacon of hope for the court, simultaneously representing the last vestige of King Rutherford’s rule, and shepherding in a new era where a lord regent reigned. The banderole meant more than it ever had before—she could see it in the faces of those she passed. Everyone was looking to the huskarls to lead them through the crisis.
She longed for Bancroft’s guidance. The rules and protocols were one thing—Captain Marton left them in no doubt of their responsibilities—but Bancroft had been more approachable, his advice more practical and encouraging. Even Damian, Bancroft’s long-time friend and colleague, could not fill his shoes. The scruffy huskarl was blasé and performed his duties in a disinterested, lax manner, and while he was friendly, he showed little interest in mentoring Leyna and Grace more than was necessary.
No, Bancroft couldn’t be dead. She needed him too much. The two castle guards couldn’t be the only survivors. There had to be others. She just had to wait. Bancroft would return.
She clung to this belief until the second day, when the bodies began to arrive, recovered from the Baxton estate by Rosarian soldiers.
Leyna stood on the side of Royad’s main road as the soldiers passed, helping process the long line of wagons piled high with cloth-wrapped bodies. The deceased had been covered as much as circumstances allowed, but the discoloured blood stains on the large bundles were obvious. As wagon after wagon passed, nausea pushed her into a crouch. She gulped air, trying to settle her churning stomach as her life threatened to capsize.
She was not the only one to feel ill. Distressed wailing filled the air when a wagon bearing children arrived, and even Damian turned green at the sight of the small bodies.
Grace was anxious to hear news of Quinn, and they both waited impatiently for a list of the deceased to be released. The high death toll was distressing, with an early estimate of over five hundred people. She felt sorry for the chamberlain, who had been delegated the role of organising the logistics of the funerals by the steward.
“I don’t see why Marek doesn’t organise the funerals himself,” huffed Grace as they rode towards the once grassy park that had been converted to a burial site. Black bunting flags hung overhead, flittering like dark spectres in the breeze.
“That’s not really his role,” said Leyna. “He has a lot on his plate as lord regent.”
Grace crossed her arms. “I don’t see why you’re defending him.”
Leyna wasn’t sure either, except that Marek was their ruler, and they had to support him. The steward was not in Grace’s good books these days; he seemed unaffected by Quinn’s death, and this grated against Grace’s sensibility.
“How can he be so cold?” she complained. “He could at least pretend to be sad!”
With so many victims, a mass burial was organised. It was said that the state of the bodies, which were defiled by the traitors, demanded an urgency to the affair, and the funerals were held a day later—one for the king and queen, and one for everyone else, regardless of social status.
The funerals went for six hours. The mourning period lasted twelve days.
Leyna expected to view the bodies of King Rutherford and Queen Claire, but they arrived in closed coffins of solid mahogany, with the lids already sealed. Whispered murmurs travelled through the church, revealing that the bodies of the king and queen—like so many others—were mutilated. She was relieved that Seth did not have to see his parents that way.
They were several hours' ride from the sea, but the seagulls had found them, the white-bodied scavengers suspended above as they glided against the wind, seeking opportunities to descend on the corpses. Some bodies were difficult to identify, the faces open and bloodied, and some had not been possible to recover at all. Bancroft’s body was one of them.
