The Masquerader (Chapter 2)

The room was dark with the noon sun struggling through the stained glass windows, painting the floor with reds and blues. Three richly carved chairs of black wood were on a platform with one looming above the others. That one was laden with a thin, white haired man staring through his spectacles, down his nose, outlined by light dyed green and yellow. Cold, white marble spread out in a plain underneath the shadows of the chairs and held a single man chained, to the place he stood. Light streaming on him as a purple spotlight from the circular window above.

“Camden Bartolv, do you admit to being guilty of treason?” The nasally voice echoed around as the chamber had been designed.

Camden glared at the white haired man and strained against his shackles. “You caught me in the act, man. Why waste your time with this?” The night and morning in the dungeon had done little to break him.
Sniffing regally, the man replied, “We are a fair government. We will give you a trial if you so wish.”
A scoff came from the back of the room. “Leave it my advisers to lie like the dogs they are. I would just admit to your crime, Bartolv. They make the last decision, and, lucky you, they all hate your guts.” This voice was the instrument of someone who knew how to use it to her advantage. She sounded powerful and wondrous. Her cold, mocking voice held the note of royalty.

“Queen,” the adviser replied tersely, “I didn't know you were aware of this ceremony.”

Ranael walked forward and sat beside her adviser in one of the two vacant chairs on either side of him. “How could I miss the death sentence of the man who would rather face the devil than me?” She smiled pleasantly as her eyes flashed, and she studied the prisoner with a seriousness that belayed her fake smile. “Why don't you just hang him here, Coron? Why prolong his death?”

“You bitch! Do you realize what you're doing to your people? While you sit in a throne of gold and furs they waste away in rags and grime!” Camden shouted in a fear he would never admit as much as true disgust. “You're worse than your father. At least he actually ruled.” He bit off a disdainful laugh, openly challenging her.

She raised an eyebrow coolly and waved toward Coron. “Please continue. I don't wish to trade insults with the swine.”

The adviser rolled his eyes and muttered between gritted teeth, “I must remind you that none of your advisers need your permission to do whatever they wish.”

Pleased by the annoyance emanating off of the man beside her, she nodded. “Of course. You hold all of the power. I am just the quiet puppet queen going back to her place with a slap on the wrist.”

Sighing, Coron began again, “Do you plead guilty, Camden Bartolv?”

“Happily,” the prisoner answered with venom. He did not however look at the adviser but the suddenly silent royalty in her rather modest, plain, brown dress.

Ranael chewed on her bottom lip and frowned. No longer was she queen but princess, sitting beside her father instead of one of the Terribles, her advisers.


“Bartolv, what do you plead to the charge of treason and treachery of the country of Maliel?” her father boomed in all of his glory, the glory he had taught her to wield.

The peasant standing below them, shackled and dirty with the grime of the dungeon, highlighted with the heavenly light, released an angry bark of laughter. His flaming green eyes, bright with hatred, cut into the king. “Must you ask? Do you think I believe you will give my fair trial? Kill me now, scum. Don't prolong my death. I am a traitor to the royal family of Lalreor. I admit it with pride. I dare you to catch the other men in my party.”

He smiled wolfishly and turned his gaze to Ranael. He studied her with eyes that quickly cooled at the sight of her until she squirmed. Finally he said quietly, gently, “My son finds you repulsive. He's about your age, maybe a few years older. I try to explain to him. I try to explain that you are no more than a girl and know no better than what you have lived, but he despises you. I would watch out when he comes of age, and you take the throne. He'll have more than just the injustice of his people to fuel his hatred. He'll have the need for revenge as well.” He frowned. “I wish I could tell him you were different.”


Ranael glanced up from her hands resting on her lap to Camden who was a reflection of his father with similar dusty brown hair and identical light green eyes that burned with the same proud rage. For a moment she felt doubt jump upon her, and she wondered if the Masquerader could save the most important man of Maliel, the last chance for her people.

“Execution room it is then.”

Ranael looked at Coron suddenly and shook her head. “Hanging.”

He had no chance in a room where he would slowly be killed in private, but the Masquerader could save him from a rope.

She smirked at Camden and saw his father in his eyes like a ghost haunting her every movement. “Like father like son.” she laughed mockingly and turned toward the Terrible. “Did you know his father's execution was the first hanging I went to?”

Camden lunged toward her and fought against the chains. “You killed my father,” he grunted.

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. I didn't even condemn him to death. I just watched.” She smiled maliciously and again focused on her adviser. “Does a hanging please you, Coron?”

His lips were pressed into a thin, white line. “I worry of him. If we don't put him in the public's sight there is no chance of rescue.”

“Than keep archers there but let the prisoner swing. A powerful example will be made of Camden Bartolv, leader of the rebels.” She rose quickly and asked breezily, “May I go tell the soldiers to prepare for a hanging? I fear we may have to rebuild the gallows. Ours have fallen into some disrepair.”

The Terrible frowned slightly and finally nodded his consent. “I suppose a hanging will be fine... I shall tell the army though.” He descended the stairs and called, “Guards! Take the prisoner away. Prepare him for execution at dawn.” He left the room with the too proud walk of Duritanians everywhere.

Ranael dawdled where she was and studied Camden's actions. Glancing at the two guards, she slowly formed a plan for dawn.

Camden, unaware of the queen's presence, fell limp in his keepers' arms and let them drag him to the dungeons. He found no hope in his situation. The people of Maliel would fall before they could even rise from the rubble the Empire had left in its wake.

. . .

The cool air of early morning left goosebumps on Camden's exposed forearms, and he stood without any of the fear he felt writhing inside him reflected upon his face. He glanced up at the balcony that held the queen and her ladies only to find it empty and smiled sardonically. With all of the bravado of yesterday, she couldn't watch his hanging. All humor soon faded, and he pressed his hands against his legs so they would stop shaking. He whispered a prayer his mother had recited before her death and closed his eyes against the rising sun that mocked him with the beautiful pinks and purples it painted across the sky.

Unbidden, another whispered plea came to his mind, another execution...


The king stood humble and strong. He had enough courage to raise his head a meet the gaze of all his hostile, former subjects as his two children stood, silently crying behind soldiers. He purposely avoided looking at the crumpled corpse of his headless wife, still leaking blood onto the gray stone of the square.

The sun was setting and a cool, summer's breeze lifted his hair from his brow, wet with perspiration. The first stars were blinking on as an old era was destroyed and closed.

Camden stood in the front row, hungrily awaiting the death of the man who had caused the death of his father. His mind was fogged with alcohol, but he felt an odd clarity at the reality of the situation. He stayed silent as the rest of the crowd jeered, burning the picture of the king in rags into his mind. His eyes strayed to the children, and he gave them no pity.

Let them cry as he had cried. Let them fall and beg as he had begged. Let them feel the hopelessness as he had felt it. Let them mourn as he had mourned, and let them feel it ten times worse.

Camden ripped his gaze from the offspring and focused on the center of his hatred once again as the Duritanian officer called for the soldiers to get ready. He heard the whispered instructions to Ranael, “Do better than me, my dove. Fight for your people.”

Then, to his surprise, the king turned his head to meet his eyes.

He straightened his shoulders and faced the swordsman who would run him through before Camden react. He raised his chin and revealed a pride once hidden by the demeaning rags that adorned his body, soft with luxury.

And the hard ring of blade against sheath filled the square with the high scream of the princess. Then there were only her crazed shouts as she struggled against a guard's arms.


Camden let his head fall back to catch a breath of wind and felt the slight warmth of the sliver of rising sun. He swallowed nervously and ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips. The large crowd rumbled below him, and Rostoloff with his barrel chest and jungle of red hair was visible in the front, silent in brooding despair.

Rostoloff had been told to do nothing, and he didn't like it. He had a bad feeling. The people were clueless. They laughed and were carefree, as if Camden was expendable. Many of the rebels hadn't even shown in fear, cowards. They didn't realize Camden was all that held Maliel up. Their country fell with him. He found too many Duritanians for his liking, making an execution a time for jubilation. Barbarians.

The archers stood stiffly at attention and occasionally pushed a rowdy peasant back with a cold expression and sharp kick. One soldier was amazingly still and scanned the rooftops for shadows. He was tense and ready.

A cloaked figure slipped through the crowd practically unnoticed, searching the shadows as well.

Coron mounted the gallows and stood beside Camden. He stayed silent for a long time before asking in a voice that barely filled the entire square, “Any last words, Camden Bartolv, betrayer of the Empire?”

His eyes flew open and held fire once more. His voice rang proudly throughout the square as he cried, “Don't give up, brothers! I am not the first death! I am not the only life that needs to be avenged!”

Slowly, Coron slipped the noose over the criminal's head and backed away. “May God deal with you for your own actions, Camden Bartolv. We Duritanians rid ourselves of your despicable pre-” A thwang filled the heavy air, and the adviser fell with an arrow in his back, silenced forever.

The square broke into chaos. Rostoloff frowned and studied Camden's face for a hint of surprise. They didn't approve of the man who wouldn't come out of the shadows to truly help his people. They tried to turn the rebels against him, but he had a large following.

Camden tensed and remained facing the front. If he was to be shot because the Masquerader needed to take the stage, he would see the arrow that took him. He fell through the trapdoor that someone had released and struggled against the rope tightening at every jerk of the leg.

Bows were released, and arrows filled the air.

Only one soldier was calm and aimed carefully though there were only shadows to aim at.

Camden fell from the severed rope. He would find a chamber that emptied out into the square.

The Masquerader appeared for an instant to create another wave of confusion and bowed mockingly to the archers. She disappeared as a wave of arrows fell yet again as Camden slipped into the crowd unnoticed and didn't appear again. The damage had been done.

The cloaked figure hurried from the scene.

The archers searched the shadows and quickly spread into the crowd, searching for both the Masquerader and the revolutionary leader.

Eventually the square cleared. The archers left for the castle empty handed, grimly silent and prepared for a flogging, and the peasants, buzzing with excitement and wonder, left to begin the day.

When no one was present, a shadow fell to the ground with the grace of a bird with a broken wing and struggled to rise. It staggered across the square and melted into an ally. Drops of crimson blood followed it into the dark as the last of the sun made it over the horizon.