Chapter 12 The Loyalists

The tunnel was narrow and dark, the walls slick with moisture, the floor uneven with stone and debris. Edward led the way, his hand on his knife, his senses alert for any sign of danger. Behind him, Torren and the other loyalists followed in single file, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth that covered the floor. The tunnel sloped downward, descending into the heart of the island, and Edward could feel the weight of the stone above him, the centuries of accumulated earth and rock pressing down like the hand of history. He thought of his father, who had sought this same crown, who had died trying to find it, and he felt a surge of determination that tightened his chest. After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened into a vast cavern, and Edward stopped breathing. The cavern was enormous, a natural cathedral carved from the living rock, its ceiling lost in darkness, its walls adorned with crystalline formations that caught the light of their lamps and scattered it into rainbow patterns. And in the center of the cavern, on a pedestal of white marble, sat the Crown of Saint Edmund. It was even more beautiful than Edward had imagined, the gold gleaming in the diffused light, the stones blazing with colors that seemed to shift and change as he watched. It was a crown fit for a king, a crown that spoke of power and justice and the sacred bond between ruler and ruled. Edward walked toward it, his heart hammering, his hands trembling. He could feel the crown calling to him, a pull that was both physical and spiritual, as if the artifact itself recognized him as its rightful owner. And then a voice spoke from the darkness. You are too late, bastard. Edward turned, his knife raised, and saw a figure emerge from the shadows. It was a man, tall and lean, dressed in black armor that bore the symbol of the Black Rose. He carried a sword at his side, and his face was cold and cruel, his eyes devoid of mercy. Corbin, Edward said. Richard's man. Richard's man, Corbin agreed. And now, Aldric's. The Order has eyes everywhere, Edward. We knew you were coming. We have been waiting. Waiting for what? For you to bring us the crown, Corbin said. Your grandfather's crown. The key to the western throne. We cannot take it by force, for it chooses its owner. But you... you can bring it to us, and then we can decide who deserves it. I will never give it to you. Corbin smiled, a thin, cruel smile. Then you will die here, and your friends will die with you, and the crown will remain where it is, waiting for someone worthy. And worthiness is a rare thing, Edward. Are you truly worthy? Edward did not answer. He stood between Corbin and the crown, his knife ready, his heart racing. Behind him, the loyalists had taken up positions, their weapons drawn, their faces set in determination. You have company, Corbin said. Four more of my men, waiting outside. When they hear the fighting, they will come in. And you will all die. Edward looked at Torren, at the loyalists, at the faces of the men and women who had risked everything to follow him. He thought of his father, who had died protecting his mother. He thought of his mother, who had died giving him life. He thought of the crown, and the truth it held, and the destiny that had been thrust upon him. Then he made his choice. I will draw him out, he said. You take the crown and run. Get it to the ship. I will hold Corbin here. No, Torren said. We fight together. There are too many of them, Edward said. If we all stay, we all die. If I stay, you have a chance. Go. Torren hesitated, then nodded. We will not forget what you have done. Go, Edward said. The loyalists retreated into the tunnel, their footsteps fading into silence. Edward stood alone with Corbin, two men separated by blood and circumstance, bound by the same destiny. Tell me, Corbin said, drawing his sword. Did you really think you could defeat me? I have fought in a hundred battles. I have killed a hundred men. What can you, a farmer's bastard, do against me? I can fight for what is right, Edward said. Corbin laughed. Right. How quaint. He charged. The loyalists were not easy to find. They had spent years in hiding, scattered across the islands, living in fear of discovery and death. But Catherine's list was accurate, and Edward and Lyra, guided by Catherine's knowledge of the islands, managed to locate seven of the men and women listed, each one a veteran of King Edmund's army, each one a survivor of the purge that had followed the assassination. The journey to find them was perilous. They traveled by night, avoiding the main roads and the patrols of Aldric's soldiers, moving through forests and across mountains, sleeping in caves and barns, eating whatever they could find or scavenge. Edward grew thin and weak, his face hollowed by hunger and exhaustion, but his spirit remained unbroken. He thought of his father, who had died without ever knowing that his son would one day claim a throne. He thought of his mother, whose name had been erased from history, whose sacrifice had allowed him to live. He thought of the crown, and the truth it held, and the destiny that had been thrust upon him. The last name on Catherine's list belonged to a man named Torren, and they found him not hiding but working, mending nets on a gray beach for a fisherman who paid him in soup. He was past fifty, missing two fingers to frostbite, and when Lyra spoke Queen Isabella's name he put down his knife and wooden needle very carefully, as if they might otherwise betray him. They swore their oaths that night in the ruin of a shepherd's bothy, seven hands laid one upon another over a fire of peat, while rain drummed the collapsed roof. Edward counted their arms like a man counting his teeth: three swords of varying temper, a hunting bow with eleven arrows, a billhook, and his own knife. It was not an army. It was barely a skirmish. But Torren, warming his ruined hands, mentioned that in his smuggling days he had run brandy through sea caves beneath the old island—the kind of caves no king's soldier ever bothered to map—and Edward looked up from the flames and asked him to say that part again. The Loyalists - Continued