The death of Edgar, though relevant to the plot that follows, is often omitted from standard editions. The style is decidedly inconsistent with later Edgar chapters, and it undermines much of the carefully-laid foreshadowing of Book I. Moreover, it bears mentioning that Sir Joshua — clearly an important figure in the context of the passage — is not seen in sibsequent [sic] chapters. All of the above indicates that this scene is from an early unfinished draft.
Editor's Note: The above "editor's note" has been included, verbatim, as it was found in the original text. As of this new collection, no "standard editions" of this particular work have been found; they are likely an invention of the author or authors.
Ϡ Captain Edgar | Outer Yard of Fort Londe, the night of the attack
A great tremor came from behind, towards the inner keep — and, looking there, Captain Edgar's hope was renewed.
From the clouded remains of the west tower, a brilliant flying star! The Archangel Marutia, cradling a star in her arms!
He squinted.
Wait. Not a star, but...
"It is Her Majesty!" he cried. He shouted it at the top of his voice, pitched it across the yard for all the men to hear. "It is Her Majesty! It's the Queen, Sir Joshua, no mistaking it! Tell the men — she watches over us now!"
The
old young middle-ag tall knight, clad half in plate and half in his nightshirt, leaped forward with a wordless
whoop of joy. His fauld nearly slipped from his waist. The soldiers nearby did much the same, and embraced each other heartily. With renewed strength they ran across the yard, so far as they held it, to spread the good news. It had been a tortuous night, full of blood and toil, but here at last was a sign of reprieve. The Queen and her angel had come to save them.
With his free hand Edgar clasped his old medallion, felt its worn features even through his leather gauntlet. A token from the past Queen to his thrice-great-grandfather, it never left the chain around his neck. Tonight he wore it over his armor, out of haste and necessity, but now he beamed with pride at the sight of it.
We're not dead yet. So long as Her Majesty is here...
Then the captain heard a loud
hum, and collapsed to the ground. There was a terrible, crushing weight on his midsection. No pain, just —
pressure! Crushing his very organs! He pushed himself up, and saw every one of his soldiers, lying dead — punctured through the middle by javelins. No,
arrows.
There was one inside him as well; he could wrap his hands around the shaft.
Why didn't I notice? What—?
When did...? How did...?
In the sky, the angel's light had moved onward.
It passed over the fort, over the royal demesne, and disappeared along the horizon.
He saw ... green. "Y-you?"
"I indeed."
And Captain Edgar died.
Sir Bredbeddle? Perhaps too intimidating
"bredbiddle" is not "badass"
Review, maybe change to Lancer Ornstein, in gold.
Ϡ Enchantress Urganda | The Ivory Manse, three nights after the attack
"Fret not," she said. "Her Majesty can be controlled directly, if need be. All relevant persons have been instructed in that. But though our new queen is a greedy, gluttonous, lustful, proud, power-hungry creature of evil, she knows her place well enough to behave.
Without our direct intervention, that is. Besides! How will she learn to be a proper monarch if she isn't allowed to fill the role herself, in her own way?"
The Chamberlain's man seemed dissatisfied with this answer, but he was trained well enough not to press the matter. Instead he broached another topic — the Warlock. "He has been with us from the onset of the revolution, and since then he has proven to be suspicious! Very suspicious!" The steward's nose tensed with excitement. "The Lord
(Lady?) Chamberlain expresses great concern over his presence!"
Urganda sighed. "This self-proclaimed Warlock is hardly a problem to us. Allow me to approach him first."
The Warlock was, in fact, an enormous problem. At the present, she had no idea how to approach him.
"Very well." Again, a dissatisfied rumble from the depths of his sinuses.
These northerners put on such airs, she thought,
it's a wonder they don't lift off the ground whenever they speak. Urganda gave an idle stirring to the medallion in its mixture, and said nothing. And the Chamberlain's man said nothing. The two stood in unfinished silence, listening to the metal disc sizzle. "Is there anything else," she said at last, "which wants my attention? If not, then I don't see much use..."
The steward adjusted his lenses, politely rubbed his nose, and repositioned his feet. His eyes flitted upward, then down at his feet. He coughed a few times. Urganda wondered whether the man might actually be ill — or whether he knew too much. There was guilt in the shadows of his eyes, in his half-starts and coughs.
"Just speak plainly," Urganda said. "Whatever weighs on your mind, I had best know it. For everybody's sake."
He nodded gratefully, though he still hesitated one last time before speaking. "I, on ... merely my own behalf, would like to know. Of the Queen, and what is to be done ... to her." Somehow he made the capital letter audible.
"Ah,
the Queen." The witch nodded knowingly. She set aside the copper basin, and stepped away from the table.
Through the window, the Moon was a bright pale-gold. Even in exile, the Queen shone her mighty emblem for all the world to see.
On the night of the coup, Urganda had placed more than a dozen sealing circles in the Inner Keep's west tower. Every entrance and exit, including the windows and archer-holes, bore a sign against the interference of Heaven.
Tawelc, for silence.
Dallin, against prying eyes. An inverted
Lleuad, to counteract the Moon's influence.
Hundeb, to contain the ritual. Somehow, the angel's eyes and ears had pierced every one of them. She burst through the oaken doors, wings aflame, and stole the Queen's soul as it was about to dissipate in the darkness. The tower wall crumbled beneath the force of Marutia's strike, leaving her free to escape with the conspirators' most dangerous enemy.
The greatest witch of the South acknowledged, without malice, that she had been beaten.
Love, she thought.
Strengthened by emotion, a pact runs deeper than any laid enchantment. And it was love burning in that angel's eyes — love, moved to anger.
"I believe the Queen to be somewhere in the old forest," she replied. "Perhaps her soul is being guarded by the Fay. Perhaps the angel has found refuge in the ruins there, or by the Sacred Fire. My most powerful agents are seeking her, and I soon expect results." Urganda regarded the Chamberlain's man with a tired smile. "And that is all that I trust you to know. I will be speaking with your master soon, I imagine."
For once, the nosy official did not seem to object. He bowed low, bade her a good night, and exited quietly.
________________________________________________________
Ϡ Some time later, though not too long...
The silence lasted only long enough for Urganda to dry and store the magic medallion.
Outside, the hall echoed with the tread of soldiers' boots — and a good deal of shuffling, besides.
My own activities notwithstanding, it's the dead of night! She stuck her head out the door to find a small crowd of castle domestics, flanked by a handful of guardsmen. They tramped past her chambers with no sense of anyone beyond themselves. Only a few of the servants met her eyes, and then only for a moment. They seemed to fear her more than the guards, or whatever awaited them at the end of their march.
Urganda couldn't say which irked her most — the possibility that the Lord Chamberlain had acted without bothering to hear her sought-after advice, the likelihood that he
had heard it and acted rashly, or the noise.
The man who runs the castle and city. Hmph. He isn't giving much thought to the castle-folk and city-folk. The sorceress hoped that he knew what he was doing.
Behind the crowd, seemingly late to the caravan, was a girl in the company of a lone guardsman.
They seemed in no hurry to catch up, however. Urganda saw her chance, and seized it.
"You there," she called. The soldiers glanced back at her, before realizing that their lone peer was the asked-for man. "Let me see that servant with you. Bring her hither, please."
The guard hesitated a moment, looked back at his charge, then obeyed as if it were the most natural thing to disobey the Lord Chamberlain. Though it
was quite natural to avoid crossing an enchantress. Urganda took the wench gently by the arm, and drew her inside the room. "My thanks," she said, and shut the door.
She shot an eye up towards the stone idol on her worktable — an ugly, crudely-made thing. At her silent command, it whispered to her in a voice that only she could hear:
"Catherine the Fair Child. One-and-twenty years. Taster of royal victuals. Doubtful, doubtful! In love — or tragically on the verge."
Urganda made note of it all. Taking pains not to upset the girl, who was already as stiff as a board, she offered one of the open seats. To show that she meant no harm, she sat down first.
"Please relax," she said. "Whatever they had planned for you, I have no interest in letting it happen. You are safe here — and now the Lord Chamberlain himself is the only person for whom I'll open my door. And even then," she smirked, "I'll only open it a crack. So ... do sit down, Catherine. We ought to talk. About your position, and everything that has happened in these past few days." The enchantress rested her head on her hand, and looked Cathy up and down. For a peasant
and a person in love, she didn't look hopelessly slow-witted.
Perhaps she would offer the information that seemed to elude the Chamberlain's men.
Spoiler
