Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

At length, Alfonzo whispered, “Have you slept well?”

“As well as I could,” she answered, “Yet I dreamed of nothing but you, and the fate to which you are predestined.”

“Do not fear, for either of us. What pains can death bring that we have not already felt?”

“None, perhaps. But who can tell?”

He laughed silently and smiled in his simple fashion. Though he was not naive – he had seen too much of the beasts of the earth – he often seemed as if he was, as if he did not understand.

“No one can know anything without a doubt, so we must have faith in every matter, in one thing or another. Did I know you continued to love me while I was exiled to the forest? Did I know you were faithful while you were imprisoned by Gylain? No, yet I had faith; and it has been shown true. Therefore, I must also have faith for the future – faith that God will arrange our paths. For if not God, than in whom do we put our faith?”

“Am I not too old for faith?” she asked, a muted sigh covering her features. “I am old now, but when was my youth? I have had faith, but for what result? Perhaps fate is but an illusion.”

“Am I an illusion, Celestine?”

“No: you are love, my love. But I am tempted to feel bitter, for throughout these years I have been strong: for you rather than for myself. Now that you are here I am allowed weakness. I am allowed to put my fate into the hands of a being I can see and feel. So let me indulge in it. After so much faith, it is a pleasure to wallow in doubt. It is refreshing to say, ‘this cannot be.’ After so much strength I desire only weakness.”

“And what of me?” he answered. “For I, too, have been strong. Yet I am not allowed the pleasures of weakness. The burden still weighs upon my shoulders and upon my conscience. I must remain strong, for there is no one for me to relinquish myself to. Would you desert me now? Would you abandon our dreams for the pleasures of failure?”

“Are you not a man and I a woman? Are you not the general and I the soldier? Strength is the curse of authority, but weakness is the poor man’s gift. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they will inherit the kingdom of God.” Celestine fell silent for a moment, but Alfonzo waited for her to continue, which she did. “I am a woman – a help mate and a being created to weakness. Yet in my youth, I thought that was my curse, and I hated it. I rebelled against it. But now I know that weakness is victory. Weakness is yielding to fate, and fate will have its way regardless of what I do.” She paused. “Yet I am yours, and I will be as you would have me be. I will be strong.”

They rose from the table on which they had slept and began to wake the others.

“We must hold council,” they said, “The toils of the future will overshadow those of the past.”

Within fifteen minutes the party was collected around the long table that ran down the center of the room. The room itself was dim, for the only light seemed to ooze through the stone walls and cast a fresh, greenish light about the room, without emanating from any certain source. The Admiral took one side of the table, with Meredith and Clifford at either hand; while on the other end Alfonzo sat with his wife on his right and Blaine on his left. Between the two ends sat Lorenzo, with Ivona at his side, facing the statue that graced the far wall. To their right sat the Fardys, and across from them sat Willard and Horatio. Next to Blaine sat his brother, Barnes, across from Lorenzo, and between him and Willard were Osbert and the venerable Vahan Lee.

Monsieur Lee was the first to speak, but his words seemed to fall out of him involuntarily, and even as he spoke his face held a grimace, as if he embarrassed himself. “Never was there a truer Atiltian than myself,” he began rather loudly, for his voice echoed in the silence. “So I do not fear that I can speak freely without being thought a spy, or a representative of any interests other than those of this fair island.”

“You need not begin every speech with a disclaimer, friend,” Alfonzo interrupted, “For it would do nothing to lessen our anger if you were speak offensively. Especially when you are already known to be an agent of the French monarch. This council is the place for you to give your master’s terms, so do not be overcome with silence.”

Vahan’sface caught fire as Alfonzo spoke and he became intensely interested with the area around his feet. The others were silent for a moment. It was the blond Fardy who was the first to speak. “Patience is refuted,” he said, “For I judged you wrongly, and may I be slapped.”

“With pleasure,” his brown brother answered, and he raised his hand in preparation of doing so.

“Why am I so patient?” The blond Fardy raised his hands in exasperation. “I spoke with poetic license, and in that I cannot be condemned.”

“Poetic license?” the brown brother shook his head in shame. “What patience, indeed, if we have allowed Gylain to control poetry with a license. What tyranny are we to expect next? Regulations on the purchase of spirits and liquor?”

“There are none as patient as my brothers,” the black Fardy said, “But perhaps you have become overly patient with ignorance?”

“It is a quality I carefully cultivate,” the brown Fardy smiled, “Lest your merits be considered less than my own.”

The Admiral stood and silenced the three with a wave of his hand. “I am becoming impatient of your patience, my friends. But what were you saying? I have never heard such a ramble, except from the mouth of old Clifford himself.”

“Indeed, that was a superlative ramble,” Clifford bowed his head in respect, “A ramblest , as I say. You know, when I myself was but a mere lad of forty-seven—”

“Enough, there,” the Admiral cried, “Every moment that is spent in foolishness is a moment that is bought with the blood of our countrymen. We have news as well, Alfonzo. Gylain seeks the Holy Graal, and sends Nicholas Montague to retrieve it.”

“Indeed?” Alfonzo returned. “Then perhaps the advantage is ours once more.” He turned to Vahan. “We will have to send a group of rangers to stop him, but we do not have enough to spare as large a force as he has. Would your king send soldiers to aid them against Montague, Vahan?”

“A brilliant idea, Alfonzo,” cried Vahan Lee, with an uncharacteristic strength of purpose when a return to France was mentioned. “I will have them for you; I will leave at once,” and he jumped up from his seat as if to set off that very moment.

“Wait, dear friend,” laughed Alfonzo, “There are others who must go with you and we have yet to decide who they will be.”

“Yes, of course,” and Vahan sat down slowly, the color remaining on his cheeks.

There was a brief silence, but Ivona took the chance to speak. “I will go with those who seek the Graal,” she said. “I will go to find the blood of my savior.” Her emerald eyes shone oddly in the dim room, and as she looked around the table there were none to meet her gaze. She was terrible to the eye, yet not from power, or evil, or madness. It was her beauty that made her great and her spirit that made her strong. The only one who could stand the siege of her eyes was Horatio. As she looked at him, her lips curled into a simple smile and she laughed with her characteristic, regulated mirth.

Celestine joined Ivona in her laugh – though silently to herself – and turned to face Alfonzo. “I have found my youth,” she whispered, “And my faith is returned.”

Alfonzo nodded and said to the council, “You will go, Ivona, for your purity will aid in the quest. William tells me it is also for your father that the graal is sought, and that fate only provided the directions. Let it be you who finds his cure, lest failure leave you broken. Who will go with her?” He looked to Willard.