"Come hither, come hither, all ye nigh and long! We five of DeLoure bring pleasure and song!"
As the ovation echoed festively through the courtyard amphitheatre, Barclay threw his hands to the sky, waving his arms to the surge of applause. He was to the crowd as a conductor to an orchestra; with every moment, every gesture, and every word, Barclay controlled all. With hawk's eyes he watched the royal crowd before him, and a smug smile came to his face. He knew full well he had the audience in his hands.
"It is the greatest of honors," he continued grandly, "that my band of players, the Troupe DeLoure, shall play before our most beloved duke, Lord Beauregard."
Again the celebration flourished, and Barclay swiftly sank to his knees before the seated duke. Lord Beauregard, with a regal grin, chuckled heartily at this and gave a genial nod.
Snapping to his feet, Barclay announced, "And now, my players and I come to persuade the duke himself, by way of serenade, may he let us into his heart. We wish to be the court players, and trust our fates be placed in able hands…. Now without further ado, I introduce the players--my partners in trade--the Troupe DeLoure. Meet our dancer, Gabrielle!"
At his call, the treble cadence of a tambourine shimmered into the air, and in bounded a young, sensuous girl of seventeen. "Call me Bræa!" she giggled with childish glee, but her voice was briskly drowned by the crowd's clapping. Feeding off the peoples' reactions, Barclay called, "It would seem some here have already met my sister!"
Bræa blushed, the crowd cheered, and Barclay laughed all the more. Clearing his throat, he waved back and presented, "Sabrina!"
With an arrival of stark contrast to Bræa's energy, a dark, melancholy woman stepped forth, using her silky voice to harmonize as she brushed her fingertips across her harp. The crowd, roused by Bræa, gave even louder cries of approval. They received but a passing glare from Sabrina, and Barclay quickly added, "And her fiancé, our flutist, Elijah!"
The crowd hushed as a young man of auburn hair approached Sabrina and embraced her dramatically, pulling out his flute and waving nervously to the crowd. Elijah then returned to Sabrina's arms, and Barclay, seeing his anxiety, continued, "And lastly, our violinist, Lucius!"
Like a ghost, a silent, poised man stepped forth and bowed to the crowd.
With the players readied, Barclay turned to Lord Beauregard and spoke, "Now, let us win the duke's soul with the Nocturne Royale."
The room quickly fell to a hush as the players raised their instruments. The warm murmur of Lucius's violin was quick to enrapture the crowd, filling the air with its smooth, lyrical timbre. As Lucius stepped toward the duke, his instrument sang with a low, mournful melody. It was a siren's song, charming all who heard its heavenly breath. Barclay gazed upon his enchanted audience with a solemn face, and as the others joined in with Lucius, Barclay began to sing. It was a throaty, resonating voice, emanating from deep within. With his sister's ethereal voice harmonizing with his own, the effect was nothing less than divine. They sang of poverty and prosperity, of ambition and ardour, of anything and everything that reflected the lives of their witnesses. As Lucius's violin purred, Elijah's flute fluttered and Sabrina's harp cried. The song ebbed and flowed, rose and fell, and as it reached its climax, Barclay's voice reached its epoch. "On the Lord's wings, he flew to the sky…. To sing, to love, to die!"
And the DeLoure five dropped to the floor in practiced unison, bending respectfully before the duke. Their music faded away, left to echo in the minds of the audience, and the theatre fell to a stifling silence. All eyes were now upon the duke, watching for his approval. His deep, stern face assessed the players with his cold eyes, but his inner warmth soon melted everyone's doubts as he began to clap. His commendation was quick to spread, and in short time the entire theatre was clapping, cheering for the players. Barclay, still bowing, sucked in the audience's praise greedily.
"We have it now," he murmured, his voice dripping with pride. "It's time… time to live as we were destined."
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The halls of the duke's castle were filled with the din of celebration as the players were escorted through their new home. The crowd welcomed the players, who by the duke's decree had become the newest members of the sovereign abode. Congratulations filled the air with a fervour that the players couldn't fully receive, and high spirits inebriated all with joy and triumph. Every soul was joyous, save for one.
Elijah slumped from the crowd, leaning heavily against the stone wall. A deep, ragged breath did little to slow his nerves. Brushing a trembling hand through his sweaty hair, he watched the cheerful crowd with fearful eyes. "This is wrong..." he murmured to himself, brushing away tears that threatened to break free. "This... this can't be...." Cradling his face within his palms, Elijah swallowed anxiously.
"…Wasn't that lovely, Eli?"
He flinched at the call and winced as Bræa's face suddenly appeared two inches from his own. Elijah blinked into her bright, doe eyes.
"N-no, actually…. Bræa, t-that wasn't lovely."
As she cocked her head curiously, Bræa beamed merrily and cooed, "Why not, silly?"
Elijah frowned at her, his expression cutting through her own. "Don't you see?" he breathed. "Don't you understand what we're doing?"
He received but a brutally naïve gaze. With wondrous eyes Bræa looked upon him, and abruptly she cheered with an accent from her tambourine, "We're playing music!"
Elijah gulped solidly, rubbing his hands harshly against his forehead.
"That's exactly the point…" he groaned, and then snapped, "That's exactly the point! We're not just 'playing music,' why can't you bloody see that?!"
Bræa gasped, cringing like a hurt animal. Elijah kept his stare locked upon Bræa's reeling form, but slowly he learned of the silence from those around them. He looked forth to see all eyes watching as though he were insane. In the middle of them all was Barclay, scowling with rage.
"Is there a problem, Elijah?" came Barclay's voice, in a forced calm.
Bræa withdrew to her brother, who stepped forward to Elijah.
Elijah shook his head defensively and began, "Look, Barclay, this really isn't--"
"If you have a problem, report to me," commanded Barclay.
As Bræa, nearly breaking into tears, scurried into the crowd, Elijah narrowed his eyes upon his leader and whispered, "How can you stand the pressure? Barclay, this is the duke…. One mistake by any one of us, and he may kill us all."
"Come now," Barclay spoke in hushed tones, "Do you truly doubt our skills?"
"No, Barclay, no. It's the duke, I tell you; if something we do rubs him ill, he can do anything he pleases! Why must we step all the way to him? Did we really have to take our skills so far? It doesn't feel right…."
Barclay's glare stabbed through Elijah, and he growled, "Did living like peasants feel right, Elijah? You know as well as I the misery of hardly making enough money to pay taxes. If we pull this off, all those problems will disappear." Barclay leaned menacingly toward Elijah, threatening under his breath, "Understand this. If you have a problem with our new duty, leave. Shut your mouth, pack your instrument, and walk out that door. It's as simple as that. I refuse to let your fears destroy my dreams."
"…Come, come, love, let us go," came a soothing voice, and Elijah's face softened to look upon Sabrina. Her dusky, adoring eyes beckoned him forth, and Elijah and Barclay exchanged cutting stares before Elijah wordlessly departed with his beloved. As they left, Barclay continued to scowl, but he was quick to conceal his anger at the calling of, "What be all this commotion? Speak, I charge you!"
Spinning to the duke, Barclay gave a deep curtsy, his voice running forth as honey, "Deepest apologies, m'lord. It would appear that not all of DeLoure have as much faith as I."
Wary disbelief filled the duke's face. "Are you saying your troupe is falling apart?"
"Not so much falling apart, Lord Beauregard, as having some disputes of purpose, sire."
The duke snorted derisively, and with a tone darker than the shadows, he warned, "I shall not hear of such irresponsibility in my castle. If I see much more of this impertinence bubbling forth in this cauldron of conflict you call your troupe, I will see to it that the cauldron will be spilt with your blood. Choose loyalty or death, lest you wish to leave this instant to spare your lives."
Barclay's eyes narrowed with lusting ambition, and he looked squarely upon the duke.
"Don't you worry, dearest Beauregard. My intentions will be seen through, one way or another." The guarded gleam in his eyes was matched only by the corrupt glimmer of his sheathed dagger. "Trust me, sire…." he assured. "I will make sure of that."
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By sunrise, Elijah was dead.
It was Bræa's strident cries that awoke the castle to the tragedy. "He's dead, he's dead! Oh, the woe, the woe! Elijah killed himself!!"
She fell through the halls, screaming like a child awaking from a nightmare. Though her shouts awoke all, not a single soul would awaken from the nightmare in Elijah's room.
It held a thick fog of death, black and gloomy. Upon the bed lie a pile of blankets, soaked with crimson, concealing from the world the disaster that was Elijah. Only a furtive hand could be seen, hanging lifelessly from the sheets.
As the crowd collected around the dim doorway, the duke let forth his yells of disapproval.
"Move forth! Part, so I may see!" he roared, pushing servants rudely to find his place at the door. He rushed into the room, but the direct sense of morbid doom froze him in his tracks. In the room Barclay stood, his arms comforting a sobbing Bræa. Lucius stood in the corner with a silent stance, his grave face looking upon the scene.
"What happened here?" the duke demanded, moving toward Lucius. He received a complex expression in return, and Barclay spoke over Bræa's bawling, "Speaking to him will do you no good, sir. Lucius shall utter naught a word."
"He's mute?" the duke gasped, but Barclay wanted no digression.
"Elijah has died, m'lord. It would appear that he has committed suicide…."
The duke cast a skeptical glance to Barclay, who only returned the look with his own that said, "You don't believe me?" The duke frowned at this, but moved toward the unholy bed to inspect the extent of damage.
"...My sheets, my bed... they've been stained…" he murmured, and suddenly his eyes were caught by a shadowy individual in the darkness. As he focused, the duke found Sabrina, pale and devastated. She did nothing but stare upon her lover's still frame, her hollow face frozen in shock. The king watched her for a long moment, waiting for any reaction. When she gave none, however, he spun forth and headed for the door. "Servants!" he yelled. "Gather to clean this up, before it infects the castle with its stench!"
His statement broke Sabrina from her trance, and she immediately snapped to Barclay. "You said, Barclay, you said!"
The duke froze in the doorway, watching Sabrina step toward Barclay with a newfound intensity in her eyes. As Bræa drew away whimpering, Sabrina scathed, "He was my soul, Barclay. The love of my life, the tinder that started my heart aflame. We were of one body and mind, and I knew he held his reservations toward this endeavour... But even I failed to see this. You said.... You said everything would go just as planned. You promised me nothing would happen to him, to us."
"Sometimes," Barclay announced tersely, "things happen that cannot be stopped."
A heavy silence fell upon the room, and the duke, quickly becoming restless, turned to leave. However, Sabrina's voice made him halt with alarm.
"What did you do to him?" she whispered through her teeth, her voice monotone and sinister. "What did you say to him? What blades of ridicule and spite did you drive through him to bring this forth?"
"I said but the truth. He was simply too weak to understand."
The duke grimaced at this harsh statement, and Sabrina turned wide-eyed and gaping. "How dare you speak of him in such a manner, Barclay…. He was not weak; he was strong, stronger than you. At least he could see things for what they really were."
"A life of peasantry, he could not see that?"
"A life of humbleness, he saw that. He accepted what life gave him, and was happy for it."
Barclay shook his head and spoke, "Life bends to the strong, turns for the ambitious."
"And that makes death worth it?!"
"Death, Sabrina?" he mocked, laughing softly. "Wasn't that a truth of life all along?"
She huffed and spat, "Scorn me not with your twisted philosophies, your perverted beliefs…. I'll have no more of it."
With this she stormed off, brushing past the duke and racing from the room. This left the Beauregard's mind turning. He knew Barclay's reactions were not of mere happenstance, but actions wrought by ambition and power… and from Sabrina's harsh statements, he soon realized that maybe, just maybe, Barclay had too much ambition, wanted too much power. It took more than simple doubts to dream of suicide; quite possibly, Elijah hadn't killed himself. Quite possibly, it was another who wielded the death blade. Would Barclay stop at nothing for this newfound dream? This was too much for the duke's curiosity. He had to know.
"Barclay…" he spoke softly, "Come, would you have dinner with me? We must discuss many things."
________________________________________________
The tables were set, the food prepared, and the servants were willing to appease the duke's every whim. With its high ceilings, wide tables, and elaborate décor, the dining room was the epitome of prosperity. Everything was set for the duke's plot.
"My loyal artiste Barclay," the duke began modestly, "How has your troupe been holding together?"
Barclay looked over the elaborate foods set in front of him and spoke, "Well enough, sire. Why do you inquire?"
"Why, I'm but a curious supervisor, little more. I simply want to know…" the duke took a breath, trying to cover the suspicion in his voice, "Just what has transpired between you and your players?"
With full awareness to the duke's prodding, Barclay scoffed silently and replied, "In due time, you shall learn."
The duke absorbed this comment while stirring his soup, and then rose, walking slowly to the window.
"You know, we think very much alike, Barclay. We both believe in working hard for our goals…" Turning to Barclay, the duke added, "and we both are willing to do nigh anything to attain those goals. Do you not agree?"
"What do you mean to say?" Barclay announced defensively.
"Nothing of consequence. I am only musing.... Recently, there have been strings of peasant revolts against my kingdom. The obvious response to acts of this nature is to suppress the opposition. They are but simple peasants; of course, their deaths are unimportant. However, I have also been negotiating sensitive treaties with neighbouring manors. When they show signs of upheaval or opposition, I do not simply kill them off, as they are on the same level as I. It's a fact of life, Barclay, and I can only assume you believe the same?"
With a clatter of silverware, Barclay stood up sharply. "Are you accusing me of killing Elijah?"
"Heavens, no," the duke comforted, "Please, please, have a seat."
As Barclay warily returned to his chair, the duke turned about and walked slowly to the table. As he returned, he swallowed gravely. By Barclay's defensive attitude, there was little doubt in the duke's mind what killed Elijah. Now, he knew, the only trick was to find what was to be done.
The creaking of the doorway signalled the presence of Lucius, violin in hand. He cast a quick glance to his leader, but upon seeing the elaborate foods, he bowed and turned to leave.
"No, Lucius, stay," Barclay amicably spoke. "Play some music for us."
Lucius obeyed, and soon the room was filled with the soothing sounds of his violin. The duke hardly felt soothed, his mind rolling. Many questions flowed through his conscious. Do I let them die, leave them to their leader's vengeful hands? Do I simply dismiss them, cast them off to the depths of peasantry? Is execution the only choice? Such difficult choices brought only confusion to the duke, and he was left in a state of indecision. His mind drifted, trying to find an answer, but soon it drifted upon the music singing through the room.
"That…. He's playing the song you originally played, isn't he?" the duke murmured.
"Yes, sire. That is the Nocturne Royale. I wrote it for you, m'lord."
"Did you really?" the duke spoke breathlessly, "I'm honoured. What is the song about?"
Barclay turned toward Lucius's silent frame and spoke, "A man of peasantry who is working toward a better life. It's about the beauty of one's ambition, and the quality of life it can bring him."
The duke watched Lucius's graceful hands let forth the song of splendour, and listened to Barclay murmur lyrics from the song. "My God…" he murmured silently to himself. "It's all true."
A song written specifically for him, telling of wishful ambitions more of delusions than desires… Surely, Barclay would stop at nothing to retain his dream. How could this be remedied? Lord Beauregard sat in uncertainty. There had to be a way to stop Barclay from mindlessly killing again....
And at that, the duke decided there was but one thing to do. To protect the three, he had to eliminate the one. A sly smirk came upon the duke's face as his elaborate decision came to mind. Barclay is like the revolting peasants… he thought to himself. And like every one of them, I will make him fall.
________________________________________________
The night was cold, the winds sharp, and the moon shining bright upon the earth. It was a night heavy with anticipation as the duke paced before the comfort of his fire. Far off, he could hear the players practicing their songs, singing once more the Nocturne Royale. He was alone, though their music crowded his soul with thoughts of preparation and eagerness.
How should Barclay die? As far as the duke was concerned, the man was a threat--a threat not only to his fellow players but to the entire manor. The duke knew if Barclay were to kill his comrades in a fit of ambitious rage, he would soon find his dream destroyed… and God knew what could happen then. Barclay would only become unpredictable--mad, even. The duke knew he must act, before it was too late….
Unbeknownst to the duke, at that very moment Barclay was stepping firmly, vengefully toward his players' rooms.
________________________________________________
Bræa sat like an innocent child upon her bed, her virtuous voice echoing out her room's door to merge with Sabrina's harp and Lucius's violin. She rested her head upon a pillow of feathers, and the dying flames in her fireplace sent dancing flits of light across her slender body. She was as a sleeping angel on Earth, and she had not a care in the world.
"Bræa…" she heard a whispering. She sat forth slowly, gracefully, her voice falling to a soft hum. Glancing about the room, she saw no one. Blaming it on the wind, she rested back once more.
"Bræa…."
At this she jumped with a start, gulping with dismay through the cloak of darkness. Bræa curled into a gentle ball and murmured fearfully, "Who's there?" accenting her last syllable with a tambourine clap.
From the shadows came a deathly figure, and at once Bræa's eyes brightened at the sight of her brother.
"Barclay!" she exclaimed spryly. "You scared me, dear brother!"
His sudden hushes quickly brought her to silence, and as he walked into the light, she saw his eyes ablaze with fiendish ambition.
"Bræa, my lovely, lovely Bræa…. Do you know what time it is?"
From the fire's pale light she saw a flash of metal, and she gave a timid gasp as she saw his dagger.
"B-Barclay…" she murmured weakly. "I thought…."
"Thought what?" he cooed, his head cocked strangely, sadistically.
For ages she didn't reply, but finally she squeaked forth, "Elijah."
"Oh, your impressions of his death are surely wrong, Bræa. He shall not be the destruction of our Troupe…. Oh no. He was but the first, the wound before the death. I bid you, he is not the last."
Moving toward Bræa, he murmured, "Sister, it is time…."
________________________________________________
An hour passed silently. The duke had not moved. His eyes were locked upon the moon outside his window, his mind full of devious plans for the day following. "I shall blame him for blasphemy, defamation of the king," he thought to himself. "My guards shall make quick work of the man, and I shall retain the three others as my court players. Yes, that is how it shall be done."
Spinning about with a renewed sense of determination, he called forth, "Guards, come! I have pressing needs to speak of!"
At length he waited, but no reply came. Only the crackling embers of the fire graced in his ear, and he strained his eyes to see the shadowy doorway before him.
"...Guards?" he called cautiously.
Slowly, surely, a creak groaned from the entrance, and the duke jumped in surprise. As the door opened to its full extent, he saw a dark form enter the room. The face fell into the broken shafts of moonlight, and the duke roared, "Barclay! How dare you intrude upon my chambers!"
For a time, he received no response from Barclay. However, a slow voice soon breathed forth, "It is time for me… to take my leave, dearest Beauregard."
"What?!" the duke cried. "What about your players? What of the Troupe DeLoure's duty to me?"
Barclay let off a low laugh, a laugh of madness. "The Troupe DeLoure," he breathed, "will play for you no longer." As the duke wheezed in shock, Barclay whispered, "I have done… my duty. My plan is complete."
As Beauregard watched Barclay, he suddenly became aware of a dagger in Barclay's hand--and a thick coat of fresh blood upon it.
"You… you fiend! You've killed your players!!" the duke cried. "Guards, guards! Come, come now! Arrest this heathen!"
Though hurried footsteps headed toward the room, Barclay was already beginning to melt into the shadows. "No!" yelled the duke, enraged, "You cannot leave!"
He raced forth to stop Barclay, but before he could reach the doorway, Barclay slunk out and slammed the door behind him. With fear, the duke heard a grating of metal, and at once he threw himself against the door--only to stumble back in pain. The door had been jammed shut.
"No, no!" he screamed. "You murderer, you heathen, devil's incarnate!! I won't let you get away with this!!"
Nothing but silence responded to the duke, and in rage and confusion he pounded against the door. "Guards, stop that brute! Stop him! What have you done, Barclay?! Where--"
"Beauregard…."
The duke froze, his mouth gaping in disbelief. Was that a whispering? He turned, ever so slowly, to look back into his room. He couldn't have heard a voice…. But it had been clear as day, a silent calling from a young girl….
"Beauregard…." the ethereal voice called once more, and the duke knew what he'd heard. Clearly, it had been a single voice, one nature could not explain. It was Bræa's.
From the shadows emerged two bodies, pale as death itself. The duke's eyes bulged at the sight, staring upon the impossibilities of Bræa, Sabrina, and Lucius. "You are but ghosts, spirits!" he gasped, "Leave me, ghouls, leave me! I shall not be your plaything for insanity!!"
The ghastly frames moved in on the hapless duke, and he cried, "I could not have saved you! Go forth, leave me! You can not hurt me!!"
As the spectral Lucius moved still closer, Bræa whispered, "You… are an evil man…."
"You… you can not accuse me of that, foul spirit, simply because I--"
It was then that Lucius reached forth, and his phantom hands wrapped about the duke's throat, very much solid. The hands were cold, but as they tightened about the duke's throat, he realized harshly that the hands were very much alive.
"No, Beauregard…" Sabrina spoke, disgust in her voice. "Do you know what you have done to us?"
Lucius's hands tightened ever more, and the duke choked forth, "I-I took you in!"
"No!" Sabrina yelled furiously. "Do you know what you have done to the peasants?!"
The duke gave a heave, and Bræa whispered, "Taxes, murder, oppression…."
"What…. are…. you…. doing? Barclay… Elijah…." the duke moaned. A long moment passed where nothing moved, nothing stirred, but soon Sabrina's hollow voice explained, "My love died not from Barclay's hands. He died because he couldn't stand to face you. He died because he could not live with the knowledge that he would have to kill you. Barclay killed your guards... so we could come to you."
The duke watched in confusion, and Bræa whispered once more, "The peasants are in revolt, Beauregard. We are peasants. Not players… peasants."
It was then that everything came to the duke. It had been against him all along…. They had been players of his heart and mind, actors in their own intricate plans. No! his mind screamed. This can't be!!
"On the Lord's wings, he flew to the sky…." Came a horrific voice, from where the duke could not find. "To sing…" It was then that he realized it was the voice of Lucius. Lucius's condition, like everything else, had been a lie.
"To love…"
Everything, everything had been a trick. The Nocturne Royale was about him... about his doom.
"To die."
By these words fell Lord Beauregard.
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