Jonathan Rogers: The Secret of the Swamp King

Darrow now turned his attention to Aidan. He stalked toward the head table, unmindful of the potatoes and peas that stuck to the bottom of his boots with each step. Standing on the planks of the overturned table, he towered over Aidan. “I am Darrow of Tambluff!” he thundered.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aidan answered, looking down at his boots. His father had taught him never to make eye contact with an aggressive bear; it seemed fitting advice at this moment.

Darrow leaned even closer, and Aidan could feel his hot breath on his forehead. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” bellowed the king.

Aidan raised his eyes to look into his king’s, and he was startled by what he saw. Darrow’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. White showed all around the black pupils. Darrow saw the horror in Aidan’s face. “How dare you look me in the eye?” he shouted, even though he was only inches away. “I am your king!”

Aidan wasn’t sure where to look. He couldn’t please the king by looking down; he couldn’t please him by looking him in the eye. He fixed his eyes on Darrow’s chin. “Yes, Sire. You are my king. I have never once forgotten.”

King Darrow snorted. “You have forgotten many things, boy. You have forgotten every kindness I ever showed to you and your family. You have forgotten what you were when I brought you to Tambluff: a shepherd boy, the son of a father whose standing in the realm isn’t what it used to be.”

Darrow’s low, contemptuous chuckle was interrupted by the clear voice of Prince Steren. “No, Father.” Darrow wheeled around to face his son. But Steren wasn’t cowed by his father’s rage. “You are the one who has forgotten. Aidan’s bravery saved your realm from the Pyrthen Empire. Is this your thanks for Aidan’s service?”

“Quiet, you insolent pup!” spluttered Darrow. “You may be too foolish to see what this boy is doing, but I’m not.” He shot a quick, scornful look at Aidan. “He wants to be king. From the day he got here, he’s done everything he could to steal away the loyalty of my noblemen.”

Aidan could feel hot resentment gather in a knot at his Adam’s apple. But it wasn’t only resentment he felt. He also felt the heartbreak and disappointment of injured love. No one in Corenwald was more devoted to King Darrow than Aidan was.

Darrow continued. “He has wheedled his way into your good graces, too, Steren, with his pretended friendship.”

“Pretended?” yelped the prince. “How can you even say-”

Darrow raised his hand for silence. He was speaking more softly now. His rage seemed to have spent itself. “Quiet, Son. You must see. It’s not my throne that’s in danger. It’s yours. I’ll live out my days as high king of Corenwald.” Darrow gestured toward Aidan behind him. “There’s not much this schemer can do about that. But someday I will die. And do you think he’ll just sit by and let you receive the crown of Corenwald without a fight?”

Darrow put a hand on either of Steren’s shoulders. “You are a good and trusting soul. Too good. Too trusting.”

The king turned and faced Aidan, who was too bewildered to speak. “I, too, have trusted too much.” He spoke without emotion as he addressed Aidan. “I brought you into the bosom of my family. It would have been better to embrace a rattlesnake. At least a rattlesnake’s venom works quickly. Yours is a slow poison.”

Aidan had withstood Darrow’s rage bravely. But this quiet insult was more than he could bear. He stood straight, his eyes fixed on Darrow’s beard. But big tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Darrow was unmoved. He spoke to Aidan with a steely evenness. “Save your tears, boy. A crocodile can cry too. But that doesn’t mean it won’t eat a man alive.”

The king reached into a pouch that hung at his side and pulled out a piece of folded palmetto paper with a broken wax seal. Without prelude or explanation he began to read it: Your Majesty-

I write to warn you: Your most dangerous enemy dwells under your roof. Beware the youngest son of Errol.

He has convinced himself that he is the Wilderking of ancient prophecy-the rightful occupant of your throne. His every action is calculated to convince your courtiers of the same. His claim to have killed a panther with a stone is a claim on the throne of Corenwald-a blatant reference to the Wilderking Chant: With a stone he shall quell the panther fell, Watch for the Wilderking! He claims friendship with feechiefolk as part of a scheme to build a legend in keeping with the Wilderking prophecy.

At the mention of feechiefolk, Steren gasped, remembering his own run-in with Dobro Turtlebane the day before. But Darrow paid him no attention and kept reading the last paragraph of the letter. Your Majesty, it pains me to accuse a fellow Corenwalder of treason. But it pains me more to think that my king would be nurturing a traitor under his own roof.

Yours sincerely, A loyal subject

All the color drained from Aidan’s face as the king read. It was a lie, of course, but it contained just enough truth to make it hard to answer. Yes, he had come to believe that he was destined to be the Wilderking, but that realization had been thrust upon him. He had never wanted such a destiny, had certainly never schemed to put himself in that position. Yes, he claimed to have killed a panther; yes, he claimed to know feechiefolk. But never had he shown (or even felt) anything less than perfect loyalty to the House of Darrow. He stood mute under the glare of his king.

Darrow turned to the assembled courtiers. “See?” he said, gesturing at Aidan with one hand and waving the letter in the other. “He doesn’t even deny it.”

For the first time since Darrow’s outburst, one of the noblemen spoke. “Your Majesty,” said Lord Aethelbert cautiously, “these are very serious accusations. An anonymous letter is not the same thing as evidence.”

Darrow fixed Aethelbert with a withering glare. “Ah yes, Aethelbert. On the boy’s side, are you?” He looked around the trophy room at the other noblemen. “Does anyone else wish to throw in his lot with these two traitors?”

The room remained silent. No one else was willing to take on the king when he was in this irrational frame of mind. Aidan looked imploringly from face to face, but no one, not even Steren, would meet his gaze.

Finally Aidan spoke. His voice was choked with emotion. “I have only ever loved you, my king.” Darrow gazed blankly at him. Aidan tried again. “Your Majesty, I have desired only to serve you and your house.” Darrow looked away, staring into the distance as if he had heard nothing.

“Command me, my king.” Aidan’s tone was plaintive. “How can I prove my loyalty to you?”

King Darrow still stared into the distance, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he mulled his options. Aethelbert was right. He didn’t have hard evidence against the boy, even if he was sure of his guilt. Still, evidence or no evidence, he couldn’t afford to have the boy at his court any longer. He believed what he had said to Steren: Even if the boy weren’t a threat to Darrow’s own kingship, he was a serious threat to his hopes for Steren. And yet he couldn’t have the boy killed or banished. The Four and Twenty Nobles would never let him get away with that. Maybe he could use the boy’s professed loyalty against him.

At last the king turned to Aidan. “I suppose you’ve noticed I suffer bouts of melancholy.”

Aidan just listened, choosing not to acknowledge how obvious the king’s depressive episodes had become.

“My medics and chemists have tried everything that might offer me some relief,” continued the king. “But nothing seems to help. There is one last treatment-a certain cure-but they lack the only ingredient.”