Unforgivable Weakness

The tower’s interior greeted them with cold and gloom. The small, almost empty chamber stood in stark contrast to the rest of the palace. Compared to the vast halls where gold flowed along the walls and the polished marble floors were mirror-bright, this place felt more like a forgotten storeroom. The stone walls were thick and roughly hewn; time had stained them a rust-red, and in places the surface had flaked away, exposing ancient masonry. The ceiling vanished into dense shadow, only wooden roof arching loomed overhead, sullen, as though bent under the unbearable weight of centuries. There was almost no furniture. Only, in the far corner, a disorderly heap of wooden crates piled without any logic. Narrow arrow slits let in little light, casting thin bands across the uneven flagstones, scored with cracks and pocked with pits. Those timid rays only emphasized the thickness of the gloom inside, powerless to drive it back. But the exhausted people were grateful even for that. The tower filled with the murmur of anxious voices. Peasants in patched caftans, servants in torn livery—all of them pressed into the narrow space. A sergeant tried to restore order, his hoarse voice swallowed by the general din. Few listened. People sank down wherever they found a scrap of room, huddling together for warmth and comfort. Someone prayed aloud; someone whispered the names of loved ones left beyond the walls. An elderly cook untied a bundle and began handing out bread. Its crumbs fell to the floor and were snatched up at once by children with their dirty fingers. A young peasant woman with an infant in her arms sat by an arrow slit, rocking the child and peering into the narrow opening. She hummed something softly. Terrified concubines, clutching bundles of belongings to their chests, huddled by the far wall. Servants spread whatever they could on the stone—armfuls of straw, their cloaks—trying to fashion makeshift beds for them. Leran tried to look out through the narrow slit, pressing his forehead to the cold stone, but he couldn’t make out anything clearly. The palace was wrapped in dense coils of smoke. The stench of burning seeped even here, catching in his throat. He was utterly exhausted. The image of the wrecked guest hall still stood before his eyes, as if it had wrung the last of his strength from him, burned into memory, destined, no doubt, to return in nightmares. In all his years working for a charitable foundation, he had seen many people struck by death and destruction—refugees from torched villages, wounded soldiers, orphaned children. He had heard countless terrible stories about lost families and ruined homes, but he had never before witnessed anything like it with his eyes. Listening to stories was one thing, but meeting horror face-to-face was another. In the shadow by the wall sat Danik, his head bowed over his knees, his bound hands wrapped around them. The ropes cut roughly into his wrists, leaving red marks on his skin. Leran had met the boy a few years earlier on a noisy market square. He’d been hurrying home after grueling negotiations and had nearly stumbled over a boy wearing a slave’s collar who darted out under his feet to gather apples scattered across filthy cobblestones. The shopkeeper—a fat, red-faced brute in a greasy apron—had cursed the child so foully that Leran had wanted to cover his ears. The boy had shrunk in fear, as if trying to become smaller, invisible, and, mumbling faltering apologies in a trembling voice, had stumbled away on shaking legs. Leran’s conscience hadn’t let him walk away. He bought the boy from the stunned shopkeeper, who didn’t even grasp at first what was happening, took him to his housekeeper, and she found him a place in the palace kitchens. Leran visited Danik more than once in the years that followed, bringing gifts—sweets, new clothes, a picture book. The boy settled in, blossomed before their eyes; the local cooks and maids adored him, always praising what a kind, hardworking, and eager-to-help lad he was becoming. How had those traitors clouded his head? What false promises had lured him into joining them? What poison had they poured into his young soul? There would’ve to be a long, thorough talk when all this was over. Still, Leran was sincerely glad he’d chosen to go after Kalven and had intervened in time. Otherwise Danik would be lying now on the cold marble floor of the hall among the other unfortunates—servants, guards, courtiers—whose bodies had frozen into unnatural poses. Leran shuddered again. No, he’d had enough of death. The Emperor’s death was enough. To think: only a couple of days ago they had been calmly drinking fragrant tea in the Emperor’s private chambers, discussing the latest political news and plans for the future. The Emperor had been in excellent spirits—lively, joking, saying that at last things in the realm were beginning to improve. And now he was gone. Bitterness rose again, flooding Leran’s heart, threatening to swallow everything. Leran checked himself. Not now. This wasn’t the time for grief and despair. He clenched his fists until it hurt, forcing himself to focus. The best thing he could do for the Emperor was to save those the Emperor had loved. He turned to Beatrice. The unfortunate woman, who had lost everything in a single day, sat on a rough wooden crate like a lifeless doll. Her once-luxurious dress was smeared with soot; her hair was disheveled and tangled, yet she seemed not to notice. Her tears had long since run dry. Only a detached, empty expression remained on her pale, waxen face. She didn’t see the servants bustling around her nor react to their worried voices as if her soul had already left her body, leaving behind only a hollow shell. Leran approached slowly and sank to his knees before her, careful not to startle her with a sudden movement. He gently touched her icy hands and tried to catch her absent gaze. “Your Highness,” he called her our quietly but firmly, “I understand how unbearably painful it’s for you to remember all this right now. But I need to know. Did anyone else in the family survive? Please, try to recall where everyone was before the attack.” A tortured expression, twisted with pain, slowly surfaced on Beatrice’s face. She closed her eyes; her fingers clutched at the fabric of her dress. But she spoke haltingly, in broken phrases: “As I said… Eleanor and Arianna should be in Sidore…” Her voice shook. “They left three days ago… Prince Emil and little Lucille… the servants swore they’d hide them in the north wing, in the secret rooms… Prince Edward’s at home…” She faltered, swallowed. “The advisers went home after the evening session… Gods, if only they’d stayed. Maybe…” “Prince Edward?” Leran jolted, his heart hammering. “Where’s he now, you said?” “In his summer palace,” Beatrice replied, blinking as if trying to return to the present. “In the green grove, five miles west of the capital… where else’d he be?” But then, as if she suddenly understood the true meaning of Leran’s question, she fell silent. Her eyes widened in horror, her mouth parted, and she covered it with a trembling hand. Her face contorted with a new surge of despair. “You think they… and him too…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Oh heavens… merciful heavens… They’ll go after him, won’t they? They won’t leave anyone…” Leran didn’t listen further. He rose abruptly, muttered a hurried, “Please forgive me,” and strode toward the guards. They moved through the tower, hauling heavy crates toward the narrow stairwell. Wood groaned under their calloused hands; dust billowed in thick clouds, settling on sweaty faces. They worked quickly, silently, exchanging only short commands. The crates were piled one atop another, forming an improvised barricade. Kalven Thorne (Leran now knew his name from the way subordinates addressed him, since the man himself had never deigned to introduce himself) was dragging old, dust-caked crates out of a back storeroom together with the sergeant. They used their swords to pry off the nailed-down lids with a crack of splintering wood, checking the contents with a kind of baffling enthusiasm. After wrenching free another lid, the sergeant whistled and leaned back, wiping his brow. “Would you look at this!” There was a note of unexpected excitement in his voice. Leran, already standing beside them, reflexively glanced into the crate. In the dim torchlight he saw neat cylindrical bundles wrapped in oiled cloth. Old, judging by the state of the box, but perhaps still usable. The sergeant went on, sounding almost boyishly pleased, “If it hasn’t all gone damp, then… Ah, if only we had a cannon. A big one!” Kalven gave a low chuckle. Leran stared at them both, genuinely unable to understand how anyone could be amused in a situation like this. “We can rig the stairs with powder,” Kalven said, business-like now, holding one bundle up to the light. “If it gets truly bad, we’ll bring the staircase down. Cut off the way.” The sergeant lifted his brows. “And trap ourselves in here? For good? That’s…” “We’re unlikely to get out on our own anyway,” Thorne interrupted calmly, setting the bundle back. “Better to wait for help behind a collapsed staircase than to be shooting it out from behind a few rotten barrels.” Leran couldn’t take it. Something inside him flared and broke free. He took a sharp step forward. His voice came out rough, nearly aggressive. “You promised you’d see to saving the Emperor’s family once we reached the tower!” he practically spat. Their calm, unshakable composure had begun to enrage him. “Or have you forgotten?” They both turned to him as if only now noticing he was there. The sergeant flicked Leran a quick look, then turned away again, rummaging through crates. Kalven, meanwhile, straightened slowly to his full height, squaring his shoulders. Even in battered uniform he looked imposing. He wiped his hands on his trousers, almost deliberately, never taking his direct, assessing gaze off Leran. There was no anger nor irritation in his gray eyes, but when he spoke, there was a clear edge of irony in his voice. “And of course you’ve another brilliant plan. One for me to carry out.” He paused, folding his arms across his chest. “Go on, then. I’m listening, sir. Enlighten a simple soldier.” Heat rushed to Leran’s face, his fingers clenching into fists. He wanted to shout something sharp, to remind them about rank and the chain of command… then stopped himself. Calm, he repeated to himself through clenched teeth. Behave with dignity. Don’t take the bait. You must be an example, not sink to their level. Quarreling won’t help anyone. He drew a deep breath, forcing his emotions under control. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier: “It’s worse than I thought. Prince Edward’s at the summer palace. Several miles west. The traitors won’t stop at taking the main palace. They’ll go there next. They won’t leave the heir alive.” Kalven narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what do you propose?” “What do I propose?” Leran barely held back from raising his voice. “We must ride there at once and warn Prince Edward if it isn’t too late. Every minute counts!” Kalven shook his head. “We have too few people as it is,” he said, still calm. “To split up now’s madness. Plain suicide. We won’t last an hour if we waste our strength.” “The Emperor’s family is worth more than everyone here put together!” Leran flared up, his voice sharp with indignation now. “And you’ve forgotten that your primary duty is to protect them. Not to hide in towers. To protect them!” The air between them tightened again to breaking. Kalven planted his hand on the hilt of his sword, wedged into a crack between the floor stones, and kept silent for a moment. Leran braced for another barrage of barbed questions, but Kalven, slowly, as if weighing each word, said: “Fine. Suppose…” He rubbed his chin. “While the palace hasn’t been sealed in a tight ring yet, I can slip out with two or three men. If the stables haven’t been wrecked, we’ll take horses and go there.” He lifted his gaze to Leran. “And then what? You do understand that even if Prince Edward’s alive and well, we won’t be able to come back with help. He doesn’t have his army. No personal guard at the summer palace. Just guards like us, maybe ten men at best.” Leran froze, thrown. He hadn’t thought that far. “But… we could gather people…” he began uncertainly. “Loyal people, loyal to the Crown…” “Who?” Kalven cut in sharply, steel in his voice. “Peasants with pitchforks and sticks against the imperial army?” “Within a hundred miles of here,” the sergeant chimed in, rising from his crouch by the crate, a crooked smirk on his lips. “The only ones who can handle a weapon at all are bandits.” He snorted, as if remembering something amusing. “And their leader’s in the dungeon.” Leran whirled on him. “The bandits’ leader is in the dungeon? Here? In the tower?” “Well, yeah. Seems so,” the sergeant answered, suddenly uneasy, clearly not expecting that reaction. He scratched the back of his head, frowning. “If he hasn’t died yet. They dragged him in about three weeks ago. Wanted to hang him, but kept putting it off. He’s down on the lower level, in the farthest cell.” Leran’s thoughts scattered again, but this time they began to come together into a plan. A mad, desperate plan that might work. Bandits. Men accustomed to fighting and violence, men who knew the land. If they could be persuaded, bribed… His heart beat faster. It was a chance. A ghost of a chance. Kalven, squinting, watched Leran closely for a moment, studying every change in his face. He seemed to read Leran’s thoughts, and what he saw displeased him. “I don’t know what you have in mind, sir,” he said, stepping closer, his voice hardening, “but don’t you dare get mixed up with them. Those people are dangerous. They know no honor, no loyalty. They’ll cut your throat the moment it suits them.” Leran, already lost in his feverish thoughts, snapped back to the present. “Do your job, Commander Thorne!” he almost shouted. “If everything’s decided, why’re you still standing here? Time’s running out. Every minute counts!” He didn’t understand why he grew angry around this man again and again. Truly, his father hadn’t preached at him as much in his entire life as this soldier had in a single day. Kalven muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward his men with heavy steps. Leran exhaled, trying to steady his pounding heart. He needed to act. Now. Immediately. “Sergeant,” he said to the stocky man still standing by the crates. “Forgive me, I don’t know your name.” “Gregor,” the man grunted. “Sergeant Gregor,” Leran nodded. “Detail two of your men to me. I need to go after the children while there’s still time. Prince Emil and little Lucille are somewhere in the north wing. We have to find them.” Gregor scowled at him. He fell silent for a few seconds, weighing the request, then let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t like any of this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But you’re in command here, sir, not me.” He turned to the group of guards. “You two!” he barked, pointing at a young red-haired lad and an older, gray-bearded warrior. “Escort him. Keep your eyes open and make sure you come back alive.” They quickly brushed the dust from their hands and grabbed their weapons: one took a spear; the other, a sword and a torch, and they hurried over. The redhead looked nervous, his eyes darting from side to side. The gray-bearded man was calmer, but there was wariness in his gaze as well. “Ready, sir,” the older man said curtly. “Here, take this too. Might come in handy,” Sergeant Gregor added, drawing a small dagger from his belt, in a plain, worn leather sheath. “Thank you,” Leran said shortly, taking it. The metal felt cold even through the sheath, and the sensation steadied him. He tucked it carefully into the folds of his clothing, making sure he could reach it quickly if needed. “Let’s go,” he threw over his shoulder to the two guards, already squeezing past the half-built barricades toward the exit. They went down a narrow stone staircase, its steps worn smooth by centuries. The palace still lay in a heavy, crushing silence. Only their footsteps rang through the corridors, and the torch in the gray-bearded guard’s hand crackled, throwing trembling shadows across the walls. Leran swallowed hard one last time and headed decisively toward the narrow descent leading to the dungeons. The stone steps fell away into darkness, and damp, stale air rose to meet them. The young red-haired guard tried to object, hesitantly. “Sir, but… the north wing’s the other way. Why’re we—” “I’m well aware of where the north wing lies,” Leran said evenly. “You’ll refrain from questions. Follow.” The lad fell silent, but his face showed plain unease. The gray-bearded guard only nodded and followed, holding the torch higher. They descended into the dungeons. It was colder here. The air was heavy and damp, smelling of mold and something sour. The torch cut through the darkness, revealing a narrow corridor lined with massive wooden doors banded in iron. There was no one in the dungeons—no guards at their posts, no prisoners behind bars—only a frightening emptiness and silence. Every cell stood wide open, as if someone had released the inmates in a hurry… or they had slipped away on their own in the chaos. But in the very last cell, at the far end of the corridor, Leran did indeed spot a man sitting on the cold stone floor. He moved closer, motioning his guards to halt, and peered through the bars. A middle-aged man sat with his legs folded, eyes closed, as if in deep meditation. Dark-haired, with a thick, slightly unkempt beard and unremarkable features. His clothes were simple, worn, patched in places. Leran couldn’t help but feel a flicker of surprise. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the leader of the bloodthirsty bandits who terrorized the region. The man looked more like a market trader, worn out after a long day. Leran straightened his posture, schooling his features into calm. “You there,” he called, his voice level. “Do you hear me?” Only then did the man open his eyes and lift his gaze to Leran. His mouth stretched into a broad, almost welcoming smile, showing yellowed teeth. A chill slid down Leran’s spine. Now he understood what it meant to be pierced by a look. The man’s eyes—icy, pale grey, almost whitish—stood out unnaturally on that unremarkable face, boring into him as though they meant to see what lay beneath the skin. The effect was wrong, unnatural. With a thick northern accent, drawing out the vowels, the man answered almost tenderly: “My dear sir,” he inclined his head in something like a bow, “I can hear there’s been quite the merriment upstairs. Shouting, running about… Has something happened?” “A minor disturbance, nothing more,” Leran replied, keeping his tone controlled. “But you and your men have been presented with an opportunity to earn the Crown’s clemency. Help put down the traitors, and you may leave this place free.” The man’s smile widened further. Without breaking that dreadful, penetrating stare, he answered in the same genial, almost delighted tone, “Oh, how generous. Of course, my dear sir. I’m at your service. We’re all at your service.” “And the reward?” Leran asked, still trying to keep his tone formal. “You and your men, of course, will want to know what you’ll receive for your service.” The man lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug, and his smile widened further, though it seemed there was nowhere left for it to grow. “Oh, we’ll come to an agreement, my precious sir. I’m a simple man. Undemanding.” Leran was still unsettled. This man deeply frightened him on an instinctive level. Everything in him screamed that he was facing danger, that he ought to run. But to retreat now would be folly. “Find the keys to this cell,” he ordered curtly, not taking his eyes off the prisoner. They hesitated, exchanged glances, but obeyed. The gray-bearded guard handed the torch to the redhead and began checking the hooks on the wall near the dungeon entrance. A minute later he found a ring of rusted keys and, trying them one by one, finally worked the massive lock open with a loud clank. When the heavy door creaked open, Leran’s hand went to the hilt of the dagger hidden in the folds of his clothing. But the prisoner, still smiling broadly, rose smoothly to his feet and simply stepped out of the cell. He didn’t so much as glance at the armed guards. He set off first toward the stairs leading out of the undercroft, as though he were the master of the palace and Leran merely a guest. Leran, shaking himself out of his stupor, hurried after him, careful not to fall behind. They had barely taken a few steps after climbing the narrow stone stair when the palace shuddered with a dreadful crash. The walls trembled, fine dust and flecks of plaster sifting down from the ceiling. The young red-haired guard, pale as linen, ran to the nearest narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard, pressed his face to the glass, and cried out, voice tight with alarm: “The assault has begun! They’re battering down the gates!” The bandit leader stopped in the middle of the corridor, tilting his head slightly as though listening. The same broad, friendly smile still played on his lips, but his icy eyes remained utterly cold, emotionless. He turned back to Leran and said calmly, almost offhandedly, in that same heavy accent: “There’s no need to see me out, my precious sir. I’ll find my way.” He gave a slight bow, and before anyone could react, he turned smoothly and slipped into the darkness of a side corridor, dissolving into it like a ghost. Not a sound of footsteps followed. “Bastard!” the red-haired guard shouted, wrenching himself away from the window. “Stop ri—” Still clutching the torch, he sprang after the bandit, but Leran caught him. “Leave it,” the man said sharply. “Forget him. We need the north wing. The children. Now. Run.” Another, harder blow shook the palace, and they heard the crack of splintering wood. Time had run out.