Page 67 of Reign

Red huffed a laugh. “Don’t tempt me into swimming a wizard.”

Godwin smirked, clearly amused by the idea of determining Fletcher’s magical abilities by binding his limbs, tossing him in water, and seeing if he floated or drowned.

Mother once told me of the ways King James advised his lords to test suspected magical folk. He suggested they strip and search the accused for cursed marks—moles, warts, anything unsightly—or prick their skin with needles to see if they reacted appropriately to pain. He even recommended torture until a confession was forced from their lips. But Mother said the only thing those trials proved was how cruel man becomes when faced with the unknown.

“I do hope you’re speaking in jest,” I said, deeply concerned for my friend.

But before he could confirm, a sudden burst of daylight flooded the dimness of the smithy—the tent flap flinging open to reveal a backlit figure.

“Good morrow,” Fitzroy said, his arrival swiftly ending our conversation.

He didn’t appear in his usual pristine manner, though the ruggedness suited him better. His beard was unkempt, and he wore a simple outfit—a maroon long coat over a plain tunic and breeches, with no rings or necklaces. In that modest attire, I could have mistaken him for a commoner.

The working men stood to their feet, bowing their heads to His Highness. I followed suit, swearing my allegiance, as if I had any other choice.

“Could I borrow Smith?” Fitzroy asked Red.

Red nodded. “He’s all yours.”

I followed Fitzroy through the encampment and into his tent. He picked up a wine bottle, poured himself a glass, and offered me one—but I declined.

“I don’t like to admit it, but you’re right,” Fitzroy said, swirling the wine in his goblet. “We cannot win without magic.”

I nodded, secretly pleased to hear him acknowledge he was wrong.

“I’ve been corresponding with my father,” he continued. “I told him plainly about the devastation of the invasion he ordered—the men’s exhaustion and their hopelessness. His response was one of indifference.”

He pointed toward a piece of parchment on his desk.

“I cannot read,” I reminded him, feeling embarrassed.

Fitzroy tutted, setting down his goblet and raising his palms. “In godsped tou crafa thee’ll hedan, taechen pis wifmann sche oe radan.” In good speed my demand you will heed, teach this woman how to read.

Lowering his hands, he tapped on the parchment. “Try now.”

I stared at what had always been meaningless swirls of ink—only now did I see letters forming words that I understood. For the first time, I was reading the language of men.

“How?” I whispered, quaking and confused. “How’s that possible?”

Fitzroy mimed locking his mouth with a key.

“Shut it and read,” he instructed.

Obediently, I picked up the letter and read:

Dear Fitzroy,

I understand your concerns regarding Regina and her forces, but I cannot condone the use of magic. My kingship is reliant on the devotion of my subjects, and I have gained their trust through our unified enemy: all things magical. I am disappointed to learn that the invasion was unsuccessful. But find solace in the knowledge that the fallen men did not die in vain. The news of their sacrifice has caused outrage across the realm, strengthening our unity through our hatred for Regina. It may feel like a defeat right now, yet in time these losses will make us victorious.

I have asked the lords in my Order to send more soldiers, weapons, and provisions to Cambas. These reinforcements should bolster morale while I write a treaty astute enough to pacify Regina, until I find the right moment to take her head.

In the meantime, prevent the war from spreading inland, and remain steadfast on the path I have laid toward defeating our common enemy.

May the gods bless you.

Regards,

King James Belfour