CHAPTER 19: The Hunt for the Princess - Part 1

  At midnight, messengers on swift and surefooted steeds dashed forth from Renfru Palace. They bore letters sealed with still-warm wax, embossed with an orange peony pierced by a pair of arrows, the emblem of Isofea. The guard around the palace was doubled, and tracking groups were formed to hunt down a pair of fugitives.

  Several high nobles accompanying King Ordofel were left wondering as their private chambers were knocked upon. Royal guards insisted on escorting them to the greathall of the palace without further explanation. Most could only grab their cloaks to cover their nightwear.

  On their way, whispers about the assassination of Ordofel began to circulate. The absence of any feast in the greathall only heightened their suspicions. They started to gossip about Ordofel's death, passing the news in the manner gossips should be imparted, by whispers.

  Their murmurs ceased when the guards opened the door and Isfan entered. His nose protruded between chubby cheeks, thick rings adorning his plump fingers. The folds of his neck hung like the necklaces he wore.

  “Your Lordships,” Isfan spoke from the podium, “I am confident that you are all aware of the grievous news concerning the passing of our esteemed monarch, Ordofel van Jofiter. Regrettably, I must confirm the authenticity of this sorrowful information.” He paused, allowing the nobles to process their confusion.

  “We have just lost Delforn and Nifara, and now this!”

  “Should Terzion become aware, it is certain they will take advantage of our vulnerability.”

  “As for the peace proposal from Arvane, what are our deliberations on the matter?”

  And of course, the most pressing question, though not openly voiced, “Who shall be designated as the successor to the throne?”

  An elderly duke stepped out from the crowd and cleared his throat before speaking. “Prince Isfan, may I inquire about the circumstances leading to the passing of our monarch?”

  Isfan smiled, having anticipated this question. “Our beloved King was assassinated.” And without allowing the audience time to ponder, he added, “Unfortunately, I must convey that the orchestrator of this assassination is an emissary from Arvane, Princess Revionne Ilvamar.”

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  Pairs of astonished eyes exchanged glances, then fixated on Isfan for an explanation. He relished moments like this, when people turned to him for answers.

  “It is indeed startling. Nevertheless, a thorough investigation has been conducted and the findings duly confirmed. I am currently exerting every effort to apprehend those responsible.”

  He could imagine the doubt within them, which they dared not express, yet evident in their gazes.

  It is inconceivable that Princess Revionne is the mastermind. Considering any strategy or counterstrategy, it still unlikely that the Crown Princess of Arvane was behind this. Yet, in an incident of this magnitude, someone had to take the blame.

  However, Isfan, driven by the ambition to single-handedly resolve this incident and bolster his prestige in the impending succession, could not possibly accuse his own high nobles. Such an accusation would only weaken his support. Therefore, the blame must fall upon Revionne Ilvamar.

  They understood this simple rationale, yet no one dared to oppose the man who might become the future King. Why bother? Better to remain silent than to have their heads roll.

  Isfan smiled. With no one voicing objections, a tacit agreement was reached among them that Revionne was the perpetrator.

  “I am gratified to note that there are no objections among Your Lordships. Presently, my personal guards are in the process of escorting the Princess from her pavilion. Her confession will be conveyed to you in due course.”

  ***

  A soldier pounded on the door of Revionne's pavilion in the eastern part of the palace. “Princess Revionne, we are messengers of Prince Isfan. Please open the door!”

  His intention was not peaceful – evident from his arrival with dozens of fully-armed and armored soldiers surrounding the pavilion. “Princess! We will force entry if you do not open the door.”

  “Mermaid tits! – pardon my choice of expression, Admiral,” Keane said, he was one of the four captains of Revionne's escort ships.

  She, Keane, the three other captains, and her two attendants hid behind a line of cypress trees. Some allies within the Isofean court had leaked Isfan's plans, and now they were observing to confirm it.

  “We are to return to Arvane. Avoid potential conflict.” Revionne strode off without waiting for Keane and the others to finish their bows. Keane hurried to clear the path for their group.

  She walked across the garden not as a fugitive, but as someone with rightful authority and intention. She wore riding boots as a precaution, her steps uniform like a metronome, as she had been taught since childhood.

  “That hornswoggle Isfan! I’ll gouge out his heart and stuff it in his mouth!” Keane said. His steps were wide, body leaning forward, cutlass tapping against his thigh – this was how he walked when angry. Keane had been her comrade since their time at the war academy.

  “Marquis Keane,” Igmar said, “Please mind your choice of language in the presence of the Princess.”

  “You! Are you Igmar or his twin? Know your place! You are merely bodyguards. We must get the Admiral back to the ship, no matter what. Are you ready to sacrifice yourselves? I will kill you myself if you show even a hint of cowardice!”

  Ignaz and Igmar were twins, her attendants since childhood. Their loyalty, like that of Keane and the other captains, was beyond question. All her escorts were chosen from among the most loyal.

  Most palace guards dared not look at her directly, let alone stop her. However, one group pretended to inquire about her business to halt them.