Crown Seeker

Hevel Tarish sat still in his chair, his reflection studying him from within the cold metal circlet in his hands. He stared deeply into it, unblinking, as though the answers to everything were held within that lump of iron and jewels. Flashes of light fell on his face, coming from outside, but he did not spare them a glance. He knew what he would see if he did – fire creeping from building to building, sweeping through the city of Auguer like a red flood. The white towers of the wall were all alight, each like an enormous torch illuminating the ruddy night. Hevel could already smell the stink of smoke and ash rising through the windows of Dunhall. Even the palace would not be spared the torch for much longer. Soon, everything he had ever loved would be reduced to ash. He accepted that. There was nothing to be done about it any longer. Hevel turned the cold metal in his hands, watching his reflection warp hideously from the movement. His mouth seemed for a moment to twist into a soundless wail of agony before returning to its normal shape. The lord of Auguer grimaced. Reflections could not be fooled by brave faces, it seemed. The door at the far end of the darkened hall burst open as though a battering ram had struck it. Lord Tarish did not even flinch at the sound, nor did he look up as footsteps approached his lonely chair. “My lord," a high-voiced man panted in greeting. Hevel caught a little movement out of the corner of his eye as the man bowed. He laughed. “There's little cause to stand on ceremony, here, Morem. The Crownseekers control Auguer, now. They will come here with swords and axes in their fists, not pretty words and bows." Hevel chuckled again. It echoed hollowly in his chest. “I fear that good manners may not count for much with them." Morem, the castellan of Dunhall, bristled. He was a tall man, with thin arms and an ample belly. “My lord, excuse me, but those filthy Snowbacks have not won yet! Your knights are battling the invaders with everything they have. They would sooner die than allow any harm to come to you." Hevel finally looked up from his lap at his castellan. “Then they will die," he said simply. A flicker passed across Morem's face, like an underground tremor. He held Hevel's gaze firmly, but he looked as though he would rather be looking anywhere else. “Do you disagree?" Hevel asked. “Not with you, my lord, never." The flicker passed through Morem again, stronger. “Only I beg that you show your servants the proper respect for their devotion to you." Hevel could see the man's true feelings, clear as crystal, now. He laughed again, though inside he felt like screaming. “Do I disgust you, Morem?" he asked. “Does your coward king shame you in our last few minutes on this earth?" Morem did not answer. His face suddenly crumpled, determination flaking away to show the desperation and fear underneath. “Why?" he asked in a choked voice. “Why must this happen? You never asked to be king, my lord. You fought against this every step of the way." “And yet the Crownseekers name me a Tyrant, still." Hevel looked back at the metal circlet lying in his lap. “In the end, it did not matter what I said and did. Maybe I could have been a king. But, here, in the end, I might as well be a pauper." His laughter boomed around the silent room. It was genuine, this time. “Let that stick in the craws of the Snowbacks! They came for a king but will walk away with the head of a commoner!" “They will not kill you, my lord!" Morem protested. Hevel held up a hand, cutting him off. His laughter died in his mouth. “I know, Morem. But say no more. For that is what I am most afraid of... what comes after this." A tremendous crack came from outside the windows, followed by a rumble that shook the floors of Dunhall. It sounded like a giant had grabbed a building and torn it in half. Morem shuddered. “The Crownseekers' siege engines," he explained thickly. “The Old City is in ruins, already." “And the rest of Auguer will soon follow." Hevel sighed heavily as he brushed his thumb across burnished metal. “Because of this. Because of me." The castellan had nothing to say to that. Another siege missile crashed outside the palace walls, but neither man said a word. At last, Morem broke the silence. “My lord. Don't you think you ought to... wear it?" His eyes darted to the metal circlet that Havel was caressing between his fingers. Hevel started and looked up at him, astounded. Morem seemed close to losing his nerve, but he pressed on. “It will hardly make a difference now, my lord. The Crownseekers are determined to paint you as a Tyrant, regardless. Do you not think it would send the right message to...?" The castellan stuttered to silence. Another boulder slammed into a building somewhere nearby with an earth-shaking boom. A gout of fire lit up the two men's faces, throwing them into murderous relief. The same light sparkled beautifully across the object which lay on Hevel's lap. “It is just that it is a fine crown, Your Grace," Morem said softly. Hevel looked down at it. His eyes traced sightlessly along the crown's curving lines, taking in the delicate gems inlaid upon the brow, dancing with light. His reflection peered out at him, still, from beneath it all – a hollow shell, out of place amid the finery. 'A crown for a king,' he thought, 'made by the finest craftsmen in the land. And now held by the one man who wants it the least in the entire world.' Hevel felt a burning coal sear through the numb indifference that held him captive. He gripped the cold edges of the crown so fiercely that his hands shook. The iron-tipped points pierced his palms, and blood ran freely down the pure metal, marring it. Morem gasped, but Hevel hardly heard it. “Your Grace?" he repeated in a deadly soft whisper. “So this little bauble makes me a king, does it? Do you take me for a Tyrant, too, like those filthy Crownseekers howling at our doors?" “My lord..." Morem began. But Hevel stood up, his sable cloak flaring, and Morem fell silent at once. “Here's what I think of this miserable hunk of iron!" He tossed the crown away across the room. It skipped musically across the flagstones, struck the wall, then flopped to the floor. “Go pick it up and put it on your own head, Morem, if it pleases you." Hevel slumped heavily back into his chair, breathing as hard as though he had run a mile. “But it shall never touch mine. Never. Not after... not after all that..." He was overcome with sudden grief and could not bear to finish. His shoulders shook with the weight of it. Morem opened his mouth, though Hevel never heard what he was going to say. The door crashed open once again. A multitude of men came pouring into the room. Their armor was black, but their cloaks were white – or had been, once. Most were splattered with mud, grime, and blood. One man stepped forward from the horde. He had an obsidian helmet held under his arm, which was painted with swan feathers. He was young, with long, golden hair, which he held tied back in a braid. His eyes held all the mercy of an executioner's axe. “Hevel Tarish," he said in a loud voice that rang through the room. “You stand accused as a Tyrant by the Good Goddess and the proud people of Calamere. You are hereby ordered to surrender yourself and your forces to captivity, and furthermore to relinquish all titles and powers you have unrightfully acquired." His eyes glittered. “Forthwith," he said slowly and clearly. Hevel just stared at him. His mind was blank and numb once again. Morem stalked forward, his eyes popping with outrage. “How dare you?" he roared. “You sack our city, kill our people, and you have the audacity to pretend at... at... procedure?! I demand that you and your murderous bandits leave Auguer at..." An arrow came whizzing out through the crowd of men and took Morem in the neck. He staggered, a horrible choking sound escaping his lips. His hands opened and closed on the empty air, while his eyes rolled madly in his head. Then he collapsed heavily to the ground. Blood seeped out beneath him, scurrying quickly across the flagstones. Hevel watched as his friend died in front of him. His soul was screaming, but his face remained blank. “Who fired that shot?" the golden-haired man asked. His voice was mild, as though he was asking simply out of curiosity. One of the men stepped forward, a bow in his hand. He wore his helmet, his face mostly hidden behind the caged bars of his visor. “I did, Lord Captain," he said in a flat voice. “Such insolence hurled at a man of the Crownseekers should not be tolerated. Death is a light sentence." There was a lengthy pause. “That was poorly done, Brother Crownseeker," the golden-haired man chided gently. “His punishment was not yours to decide. But your zeal for our mission is commendable, nonetheless." “Thank you, Lord Captain," the man murmured. “Forgive me. It shall not happen again." He stepped back into line. The captain of the Crownseekers turned his attention back to Hevel. He never once glanced at Morem, slumped motionless on the floor in a pool of blood. “Lord Tarish. Will you submit yourself to the judgement of the people and the Good Goddess?" Hevel drew himself up. Then he spit on the floor. “That's for your goddess," he said. “Your justice-blind harlot rutting with the dogs. You may write your empty words in the blood of innocents and call it gospel, but I know better. Auguer knows better." The captain's face tightened. “Heresy will only curse you further, Tyrant." He gestured to his men. “Seize him." A troop of Crownseekers, their stained white cloaks flapping about them, marched forward and seized Hevel. Seeing how many there were, the momentary spark of rebellion left him. He did not resist, even as his captors twisted his arms cruelly. “Recant, and perhaps the Good Goddess will forgive your foul tongue," their golden-haired leader said. “As well as your arrogance to lay claim to the Golden Throne." Bound hand and foot in the arms of enemy soldiers, the last of the fight went out of Hevel. His shoulders slumped and his flinty eyes went cold and dark. “So they were all just words in the end," he whispered to the floor. “A King or a Tyrant. Just a word." An ugly look crossed the Crownseeker captain's handsome face. “Get him out of my sight," he spat. “Bind him behind the wagons. He shall walk back to Eventyr." The troop of Crownseekers paraded out of the hall, pushing Hevel Tarish, former lord of Auguer, out before them. A soldier's boot struck the crown laying in the darkness and sent it skittering across the floor until it dashed against the wall. The precious stones set into it fell to the ground like tiny raindrops. No one noticed it. The sad heap of iron lay in the deepening darkness as the city burned around it.