A Game of Votes – Part II
Lady Feorynne listened to her footsteps echo as she walked down the dark, stone staircase. She never imagined she would be following anonymous messages offering support, but she was not born to a powerful House, and if she was to ever wear the crown, she knew she would need support.
Her eyes were adjusting to the flickering dark, and she could hear voices murmuring as she sensed an end to the torch-lit staircase. Emerging to a large, dimly lit room, she found herself in the company of a motley knot of men, muttering and pointing at one another. She recognized a few of them as lesser lords with claims to the White Throne: there was Lord Lindsen Gratham, who looked smaller than she remembered, Lord Richard the Sanctum, known for his rigid zealotry, Lord Richard the Parrier, in full plate armor, and a few others that she could not place. They all looked up when she entered the room.
“And who is this now,” a dark gentleman asked accusingly, “another nobody? I am sure I am in the wrong place!”
Lady Feorynne had been insulted before, and the barb found no mark in her pride, but her trepidation had quickly given way to confusion in the face of the greeting. “I beg your pardon,” she began, “but did one of you ask to meet me here?”
Lord Richard the Parrier threw up his arms. “What is happening? I am supposed to having a duel with The Trumpet!”
Half of the men began arguing again, while the other half muttered to no one in particular. Lady Feorynne cut in, “My lords, please! Goodly men, who sent for you? Why are each of you here?”
The arguing died down, and now the men were overly chivalrous, each inviting someone else to explain. Finally, Lord Lindsen spoke up, “It would seem we all received anonymous messages with empty promises. Mine had the sigil of a fox.” The men all nodded in agreement.
“Are you all lords of the Redlands seeking the White Throne?” Again, the men nodded. Lady Feorynne was surprised at the comfort she found in this response. Some of these men were much better known than she, yet here they were, scrounging about forgotten vaults and chasing ghosts, just like her. This feeling lasted only a few moments, however, before there was an abrupt clanking that echoed down the twisting staircase behind her, followed by a distant roaring growing rapidly louder. Realization unfolded across Lady Feorynne’s face. “It’s a trap!”
The group frantically moved toward the opening to the stairwell, but they were met with a blast of water surging down the stairs that hit them cold, knocking most of them to the ground. The room was filling up fast, and panic was setting in faster. Lord Gratham began flailing against the torrent, half running, half swimming, all the while shouting, “No! No! No! No!” Lord Richard the Sanctum was shouting something about the gods. Others were splashing in circles, or simply standing in wet clothes and blinking, as if reality had not yet sunk in for them.
Lady Feorynne was scanning the room, trying to think, while her heart pounded against her rib cage. She pictured The Trumpet with his flimsy claim to the throne and his smug smirk, and it infuriated her that she was going to drown here unknown while he floated along on an undeserved armada. At that moment, she spotted a large chest pressed sadly against the far wall, and she began plowing towards it with intensity of purpose.
She tried to pull the top open, but found it locked tight. The water was rising quickly. She began smashing at the latch with her fists until they bled, but still it would not budge. She felt a cold hand on her shoulder and gasped. It was Lord Richard the Parrier, holding out an axe for her to take. “Good luck,” he said, giving her a brave smile. She looked at the heavy armor covering his body. He would never get it off in time.
~~~~~~~~~~
Roderick Eiles was the type of man who took up space. It was not just his bodily excess, as his stomach pushed its way against his loose robes and his cheeks tumbled outward from his face, but the way he spread himself out, stretching his arms to envelop any chair he sat in, or in this particular case, his red chaise, as he lounged on one side, sipping wine and munching on dates. He was not being supportive of his adopted daughter, Meagen.
“You weren’t there, father. You didn’t see how his men were treating those women. You didn’t see what he let them do.”
“I know The Trumpet is a provocative person, but I asked you to get information and report, not put a scar on his arm.”
“I was aiming for something lower.”
Roderick shook his head, “You know our House Words: We take no side.”
“Is that what you tell our allies? Listen to me, father. We both know The Trumpet will be a disaster for the Redlands. We can’t just let him do whatever he pleases.”
“He will be dealt with, my dear, but in a way that most benefits our House. Be patient. Right now he is more dangerous than he looks, and I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
“I can handle myself.”
There was a knock at the door. Lord Roderick put down his wine and his dismissive tone, looking at Meagen seriously. “I am expecting news from my other Foxes. I am afraid we must end here, but understand me. I will take down The Trumpet for you, but I will do it my way. You just have to promise me that you will stay away from him and leave this to me.”
Meagen answered him defiantly, “You take care of him as you see fit, but I will not make you promises I cannot keep.” With that, she left the room.
Roderick picked his wine back up and swirled it thoughtfully, sighing softly to himself, “Poor Trumpet.”
A man and a woman entered, dressed in black. Roderick greeted them expectantly, “Come, my little Foxes! Tell me.”
“It is done, my lord. We barred the doors and opened the sluices, just like you said. We waited until the screaming stopped.”
“Excellent! Eight fewer ‘kings’ to deal with!”
The two shuffled uneasily, “Actually, father, only seven. Lord Jon Kassick did not show his face. In fact, he sent you a raven.”
One of them handed Roderick a strip of paper, on which it was written:
Dearest Roderick,
I regret that I shall not be able to attend your secret meeting for support.
However, you are more than welcome to dine with me at Columnbust
should you and your Foxes wish to hear my plans for Amerikos.
Jon Kassick, Rightful Lord of Columnbust
“That cunning son of a bitch,” Roderick remarked, putting down the message and turning to his confidantes, “I may have underestimated this Kassick. Marta, I want you to go Columnbust and see what you can learn about him. Hemmar, I want you and my other Foxes to plant a whisper and let it grow. I want everyone in the realm to say that The Trumpet drowned those people, not us. He took the air out of the room. He is cutting out the weakest lords. Do you understand? I want every minstrel singing about him. I want the other lords to be afraid of him. I want them begging for our support. All the whispers in the realm should either be questions about The Hill’s vanishing ravens or awe at the strength of The Trumpet.”
Hemmar let out a grin. “But we take no side.”
“Indeed. That is why I also want you to send a message from me to The Trumpet apologizing for Meagen’s behavior. I want to assure him that our House takes no side and we will not hinder his path to the throne.”
“Meagen is not going to like that.”
“I must do what I think is best for our House, the Redlands, and the realm. In that order. Now go.” Hemmar and Marta filed out of the room, leaving Roderick to his indulgences.
~~~~~ To Be Continued ~~~~~