Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

In the center of the city was Castle Plantagenet, close enough to the harbor – or rather, the Floatings, as it was called – that the towers and walls overlooked the water. The castle was named after the royal family of Atilta, though it was now the home of Gylain. It was a magnificent castle, reflecting the economic dominance that Atilta enjoyed at this time, as the hub of the world’s trade. Built of stone, with wooden supports on the inside, the entire structure was contained within a single, massive tower, stretching far below the ground to the dungeons, and far above it to the skies. Around this tower stood a set of square walls, and the space between the two was filled with barracks.

At the same time that Willard fought for the monastery, and that Admiral William Stuart laid out his plans aboard The King’s Arm , a lone figure gazed out the window of the highest room in the castle. It was a woman, an older woman, but one who was still in her prime. Her hair was dark, speckled with white, though from birth rather than age. The contrast between the two shades gave her an enchanting charm, but it was the enchantment of nature, of an eagle flying over a field of wheat, rather than one of man, of a structure of stone. Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes, as black as night but as soft as the stars. She was not shapely, in the vulgar sense, but her beauty seemed flawless nonetheless.

A voice called to her from within the tower; she did not turn her head to listen.

“Celestine, my love,” it said, “I have returned.”

Her eyes were as the stars. Yet a star is a peculiar thing: it can be either soft and pleasing as it twinkles in the night sky, or a flaming ball of gas, a spherical hell that burns and blazes with rage.

“Gylain, you wicked impostor, begone. You are not welcome here.” Her voice was firm and resolute, and any but the most deaf or the most stubborn, would have skulked away. Gylain, apparently, was either one or the other.

“Dear Celestine,” he sounded pleased, “Are there no allusions to the devil? You must be feeling well this evening, my love.”

Gylain approached her with a broad smile on his face, which was not altogether evil. In fact, it seemed an open, honest face.

“Your face will not deceive me, fool, for I know your ways,” Celestine said.

“As well as I know yours. Come, let us set aside our quarrels and have supper, will we not?”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because you made a wicked woman of my mother! Because you have cruelly put my father to death, and try everyday to do the same to my husband!”

“If it was good enough for David, it is good enough for me,” he laughed, with apparent sincerity. “Besides, can I be blamed for their insurrection?”

“You can be blamed for your own, and damnation is as bad once as twice.”

“True, true. You have convinced me of the errors of my ways. I repent.”

“Repentance is better shown than confessed.”

“I agree, and so I show it. Would you not love to be reunited with your husband, before this evening has faded into the wastelands of history?”

Celestine’s face pulsated at the thought, and her eyes twinkled once more.

“You would be well advised not to play with the love of a woman, Gylain,” she said. “For I will not tolerate your scoffings, your mockings, your lies any longer.”

“I assure you, Celestine: this is no lie. I am convinced of the evil of my ways, and before the sun has crossed into the underworld, I will have you reunited with your beloved husband.”

She turned and removed herself from the window sill, looking closely into his face as he spoke. Experience convinced her some cruel joke dwelt upon his tongue, yet his honest, almost naive, countenance equally convinced her that there was no joke. His face grew only more sincere as they shared a stare; his fierceness seemed to melt away: he was pure.

But then, the moment passed and he turned his head away to the door.

“Destiny,” he moaned, “I cannot go against its impulses, for it is not in my power to resist fate.”

He clapped his hands loudly and turned toward the only door, which led to the stairway.

It was thrown open from the outside, revealing several soldiers standing there with a man hanging limply in their arms. They marched in, throwing him onto the floor.

“Celestine, I give you your husband.”

Gylain said no more, neither laughing nor enjoying the scene. Then, without turning to watch her face in its emotional paradox – incensed at the wrongs done her lover, but joyous to see him nonetheless – Gylain strode from the room, followed by the soldiers. The door shut abruptly and left the two long-estranged lovers alone in the lofty tower.

“Alfonzo!” she cried, rushing toward him as he lay limply on the ground. “Death itself is worth this one moment of fellowship.”

“And it appears to be the price,” he returned. “But where are my thoughts? I have missed you, but my love has not diminished.”

“An odd way to express it,” laughing.

Alfonzo, badly beaten, had not the strength to raise himself; only with the help of his wife could lumber to the bed. She set about nursing him, comforting him in his pain. He watched her movements intently, smiling and sighing when their eyes would meet.

At last, he said heavily, “I do not know you, Celestine.”

“If time has separated our bodies, our minds are one. We will find our love again, in time.”

“You do not feel it either, then?”

“I feel its memories and its anticipations.”

“As do I. Perhaps it is better this way.”

“That we do not feel love?”

“That we know it without feeling it, for the road is easier for the blind man that knows it well, than for the blind man who merely feels his way along.”

Silence reigned for a moment, before Celestine continued.

“You are captured; can there be any hope?”

“The men are still free.”

“But can they act without a strong leader to hold them in when they are overzealous and to push them out when they are afraid?”

“No, for that is not their nature.”

“Then all is lost: Gylain has won.”

Alfonzo only smiled, “There is another.”

“Who can replace Alfonzo of Melborough?” and she caressed him. “Perhaps you do not realize the trouble you have caused Gylain. He does not say it, but I listen to his eyes and hear more than he says. I hear the guards talking: they fear the forest, speaking of a single man who kills a dozen men, of a monk who makes himself a devil, of the rebels who rain down from the sky. But without you, what will they fear?”

“Who is not afraid of the forest? You are mistaken, though, Celestine, for it is not me alone who strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

“Yet God is slow to anger.”

“I did not mean him, but the man who slew a dozen men.”

“Then, it was not you?”

“I am a fair swordsman, but a dozen men?”

“Who is he?”

“The king.”

Celestine fell off her stool, her face flushed with surprise.

“Yet the king does not know who he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has no idea that he is the king!”

Chapter 19

After Gylain left the room, he made his way down the stairs to his own quarters, which were directly below Celestine’s. They were the most secure in all the castle, for a man who gains power by a coup fears a coup himself.

The central tower was a castle within a castle, for it sat in the center of the outer walls. These walls were thick, housing barracks and storage rooms within, and defended by a moat without. Unlike other castles, no blacksmiths or other artisans were kept within the castle walls. Rather, Gylain relied upon the city for those things, and kept his stronghold purely military.