Chapter Four

The Longdocks, Aldar

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius 247 A.C.

Early Morning

A cool ocean breeze blew across the four figures as they stood near the end of the long wooden dock, washing them in the salty scent of the azure water that lapped below the planks beneath their feet.

Three of the figures—two young men and a young woman—all stared to the west, watching with great interest the three masted, orange sailed ship that had entered the Bay of Sildé. The ship glided between two of the islands that marked the western edge of the caldera that contained the bay. All three of the figures were dressed in purple and black regalia, with gold embroidered edges and the swooping gryphon of House DeCarren atop their hearts, and in the middle of the violet cloaks worn by all three that rustled in the wind.

The fourth figure, a tall man with short cropped blond hair who wore full plate armour beneath a purple tabard, alternated his gaze between the three in front of him, the approaching vessel, and the dock behind them, never settling on any location for long. The ship was still several leagues out from the dock, but the four knew it was the one for which they waited.

None but the Eno’Kalian delegation would dare to fly those colours within this harbour, after all.

Though the ship was too far out for any of them to make out the details, they knew the vibrant orange sails would each bear the crossed spears and blazing sun emblem of Emperor Darren Ungalt II of Eno’Kalia, declaring their allegiance brazenly for all to see. They were here to sign a peace and trade agreement with the King of Cedirc, after all, so why would they not fly their nations colours with pride? They had come to these waters invited, under the protection of the King, and so would be guaranteed safety in this normally unwelcoming bay. Such was the agreement made between the two sovereigns for this signing, and so the three standing at the edge of the dock had been sent to greet them, as a symbol of that safety.

Rolan DeCarren watched the ship approach with more than a little consternation as his wavy black hair fluttered in the breeze. Though he agreed that the treaty was not only needed, but would prove beneficial to both signatory nations, he was keenly aware that tensions still ran high in the port city of Aldar.

Situated atop of a within the basalt cliffs of the Great Caldera that housed the Bay of Sildé, Aldar was the primary port of trade and commerce for all southern Cedirc. The only port that could claim to rival it was Carvel, on the northern shores of the Strait of Haran, more than a hundred leagues north and east of Aldar. What gave Aldar the edge over its northern cousin was its location at the mouth of the River Elan, which flowed not only through the inland capitol of Caras, but from Sable and other quarries and mines along the base of the Rampart Mountains. Shipments of cut marble from the capitol and limestone, granite, and precious gems from Sable passed through Aldar daily.

Its position on the River Elan also made it the logical port of call for any foreigners headed to the capitol, since they could sail right up the river all the way to Caras.

The eldest son of Alfred DeCarren shifted his gaze away from the still distant ship, eyes moving towards the island int he middle of the bay. He imagined for a moment that he could see the ruins of Tercress City, the former capitol of Cedirc in the days before the Cataclysm had obliterated it and much of the surrounding area, sticking out above the azure waves that swept around the island. And perhaps he could, he mused. Many of the locals he had talked to in the days since their arrival here in Aldar had told him that the ruins lay just beneath the surface of the water, visible on calm days if one was brave enough to attempt reaching the barren, lifeless, black stone that was the Tercress Isles.

Certainly, the ruins could not be too far down in the depths of the bay, if the lone column that had been placed upon the island known as Polderian’s Watch that split the River Elan in twine atop the caldera’s cliffs before the water plummeted down the Falls of Remembrance was authentic, and he had no reason to believe it was not.

They had visited the Watch the day before, crossing the bridge over the River Elan to the vaguely eye-shaped island that housed the monument, the waters of the river speeding below them as they began their surge over the lip of the caldera to plummet hundreds of feet to join the waters of the bay below. Rolan had head the tales of the pitchstone column that the locals had erected to honour the citizens of Tercress City who had perished in almost an instant on the dark day of the Cataclysm. More than that, he knew the history of his country, having spent countless hours being tutored in them by Malute and many scholars and historians in Gryphon’s Roost almost since before he could talk. His siblings had received the same education, with his parents being of the mindset that in order to be competent rulers, one had to know the past to better be able to avoid the mistakes and pitfalls in the future.

As he had stood atop the jutting stone outcrop of Polderian’s Watch, staring out across the bay, his breath had been taken away by the magnificent beauty of the sparkling waters of the caldera, and he had attempted to envision what it may have looked like two and a half centuries earlier, in the days leading up to the Cataclysm.

And here again, he tried picturing in his mind’s eye the mountain that had once stood where he now did.

“It’s hard to believe that this used to all be a mountain,” his sister’s soft voice broke through his thoughts, telling him that, as per usual, he and his twin were thinking the same thing.

“I keep trying to picture it,” he agreed, glancing back at her briefly before returning is regard to the bay, “Two and a half centuries ago, where we now stand would have been thousands of tonnes of rock and stone. It’s difficult to imagine.”

“Even harder to imagine that they actually used the heat of the volcano to warm the city,” Elenor agreed, “I can’t even begin to fathom knowingly living on the slopes of a volcano.”

“Especially the capitol,” Rolan replied, “To have the seat of power built on a volcano…”

“It seems so foolish,” Elenor added, finishing his thought for him. She shuddered, “To actually live atop an active volcano.

Rolan nodded his agreement, not bothering to reply as he again tried picturing the towering mountain that had once stood here.

Instead of the Bay of Sildé, spreading out hundreds of feet below him, and stretching several leagues across in a rough circle, there had been a large mountain, or so he had been taught, it’s base spreading the same length and breadth the bay now occupied. The namesake of the bay now in its place, Mount Sildé had loomed large over the landscape, marking the westernmost point of the southern peninsula of Cedirc. Onto its slopes had been built Tercress City, the capitol carved from the black and grey pitchstone, granite, and basalt of the mountain slopes—the same stones that now comprised the high cliffs of caldera that encircled the bay. It had been the seat of power for the Tyrant-King Polderian, who would end up being the only member of his family to hold the title of King, his reign of fear and terror cut dramatically short.

Beyond that, Rolan had trouble even comprehending that the people putting up with such a person on the throne; it made little sense to him. But, he supposed, that was why the Archonte Rebellion had begun. He also could not imagine a mountain standing tall where the waters of the bay now lay.

It had been a truly different time.

“It was not foolish. It was to show their strength and power,” the other DeCarren prince, Steffan, spoke up after a few moments silence, “And it’s not like they thought there was any true risk involved.”

The two elder DeCarren’s regarded their brother as he spoke.

“How so?” Elenor asked.

“It’s like the historians say,” Steffan replied, a hint of surprise in his voice, “Tercress City had been built on the slopes of the highest peak of Mount Sildé, which had long been dormant. There had been no sign of activity from it for centuries before the cities construction even began!”

“There are records of many eruptions throughout the city’s life,” Elenor reminded her younger brother, “Mount Sildé was certainly active, brother.”

“The northern and southern peaks, yes,” Steffan retorted, “But not the central, highest peak. Yes, eruptions happened frequently on the lower peaks, but the flows from those did not threaten the city. No, there was no apparent danger to Tercress City, so far as they knew. But the perception of having your seat of power on an actual volcano… That cannot be understated.”

Rolan found himself nodding as his younger brother talked; what Steffan was saying made sense. He thought he could somewhat remember their teachers saying as much to him and Elenor several years before, but nothing more than vague recollections came to him now.

“Of course, in the days and months before the Cataclysm, there were more quakes and tremors recorded,” Steffan went on, assuming a lecturing tone when he realized that neither of his siblings were going to interrupt him. “But records indicate that they thought either the northern or southern peak was going to have a larger eruption. Some scholars even noted that smoke had been seen to rise from the central peak, though, of course, most of those accounts come from survivors and cannot be verified through official records.”

“It’s odd that Polderian would have ignored those signs, though,” Elenor opined, “By all accounts, the Tyrant-King was a cautious man.”

“Cowardly is a better word, “Rolan interjected scornfully, “Hiding in his city while he sent his son to quell the archontes.”

“Like Father sent us to meet the Eno’Kalians?” Steffan asked innocently, arching an eyebrow at his older brother while fighting to keep a smile off his face.

Rolan gave him an incredulous look, before realizing his younger brother was baiting him; Elenor and Steffan shared a laugh at their older sibling’s expense.

“I am not sure ‘cowardly’ is the right word to describe Polderian,” Steffan said, serious once more, “But, yes, he was cautious, Elenor. And I think you touched on why the signs were ignored, brother.”

“The Archonte Rebellion,” Rolan stated, nodding as he followed the thread of his brother’s logic, grateful for the distraction from the Eno’Kalian’s impending arrival.

“A great distraction, to be sure,” Elenor agreed.

“Why pay attention to minor tremors and quakes when half the kingdom has risen against you?” Steffan asked rhetorically. “I am certain that, had they thought there was any true danger to the Tyrant-King and his court, things would have played out differently.”

Again, Rolan could not disagree with his brother’s logic, for Tyrant-King’s reign had come to an abrupt end when Mount Sildé had simply exploded. It was not too big of a stretch to assume they had simply been distracted, considering that Polderian had been dealing with civil war at the time.

In fact, it had only been the day after the army of Polderian had marched out of Tercress City to meet the combined armies of the archontes on the verdant Arcosian Plain to the east of the capitol, in the hopes of snuffing out the rebellion, that the volcano had erupted in violent, spectacular fashion.

Rolan could not begin to imagine the horror and panic that must have taken hold of the residents of Tercress City as the eruption began. Some scholars claimed that their deaths would have been near instant, an explosion wrought of flame and pent-up gases from below, like miners sparking a pocket of hot gas with an errant swing of a pick. Others held that lava had flowed through the streets of the city first, with buildings crumbling all around the fleeing citizens. How any could possibly claim to know such things was beyond the young prince of Cedirc, however—none who had been in the city at the time of the eruption had survived, after all.

Witnesses from nearby Arcos had claimed that the mountain was there one moment, looming on the horizon as it always had. As the ground had begun to shake all around them, the mountain seemed to disappear, replaced by a large plume of smoke and dust, red lightning crackling throughout the plume as it rose higher and higher into the sky. Immediately after, debris had begun to fall from the heavens, flung for leagues around by the violent power of the volcanic eruption, killing hundreds of Arcosians and destroying as many buildings in their fiery descent. But even worse had been the thousands of bodies, some whole, others in pieces, that rained down, burnt beyond recognition. First person accounts detailed the horrendous smell of burnt flesh and hair that lingered for weeks as the city was cleaned up.

On the Arcosian Plain, the battling armies of the Polderian Royalists and the Archonte Rebels had both been knocked to the ground, their numbers decimated by the falling debris. The survivors of both sides had scattered and fled, all thoughts of continuing the battle knocked out of them by the violent eruption. Besides, it was known that the Tyrant-King had remained safe in Tercress as the battle raged, with his forces being led by his son and heir, Rogel, who was presumed dead following the battle.

A thick plume of ash, smoke, and steam had continued to rise from the newly formed caldera, blocking out the sun and moons for weeks following the event that came to be known as the Cataclysm of Tercress. As it gradually settled, covering the the previously lush grasslands in a thick layer of soot, the landscape of Cedirc was changed, and to this day had not recovered. The Arcosian Plains that spread to the east of Mount Sildé and Tercress City had become a barren land, largely devoid of life thanks to the suffocating layer of dust and ash that eventually gave rise to its new name: the Ashlands.

Rolan and his siblings had glimpsed the Ashlands through the carriage windows on their journey down from Caras. Their caravan had traveled along the main track on the southern bank of the River Elan, where the rolling hills of the Tovar Grasslands remained lush and green, contrasting the black and grey landscape of the Ashlands that was only broken by the occasional pockets of thin grass that did their best to survive in an inhospitable environment. It had been a sobering sight for the elder son of Alfred DeCarren, it being the first time he had laid eyes upon any of the devastation wrought by the Cataclysm.

It was one thing to read or be lectured about such events, it was quite another to see their effects firsthand.

“Without the Cataclysm, Polderian’s line would have held strong,” Steffan continued after another long moment of silence.

“You do not think that the Archonte Rebellion would have been successful?” Elenor asked, genuine doubt in her voice.

Steffan gave her a suffering look, “You think that Mencanus and Tovar would have prevailed? With the Trekon army moving up from behind to catch the archonte army between theirs and Polderians?”

“It’s possible,” Rolan said, hiding his disquiet at the reminder that House Trekon, who oversaw the running of Aldar, had once been staunch supporters of the Tyrant-King, “The ilvarri were supporting them, remember.”

“In a minor way,” Steffan said dismissively, waving a hand, “The ilvarri refused to leave their forests, and only harried the Trekon crossing. The numbers supported the Royalists, not the rebels, and Polderian would have ultimately prevailed.”

“We cannot know for sure what would have happened,” Rolan replied, winking at Elenor as he did.

Steffan bristled, and opened his mouth to argue the point, but a crash from behind interrupted his forthcoming response. All three spun about, hands reflexively moving to grasp the hilts of the weapons they all wore belted on their hips.

Lorrik Vanders, the Talon Captain who had accompanied them and was never found far from them on this trip, had his two handed sword fully drawn already. The prince’s eyes scanned the distant docks of Aldar as distant shouts and curses rang out across the water, quickly finding the spot where dust rose from below a crane closer to shore. A rope swung from the crane, no longer attached to anything.

Dozens of dockworkers scurried about, dragging others free of the load that had fallen from the crane. From their distant vantage point, Rolan could see under the dock and could see, too, that some of the wares that had been either in the process of being loaded or offloaded had broken through some of the planks of the dock, sticking out the bottom amidst splintered timbers. It looked to be a load of ore, though he could not be certain

He noted that two of the guards that, like Lorrik, were ever present on their journey were headed towards the disturbance. No doubt they wanted to see how they could help as the angry shouting and cursing continued echoing across the waters of the bay.

Lorrik sheathed his sword behind his shoulder, scowling as he turned about to face his charges. Rolan gave him a nod, knowing the captain would want to see what had happened for himself, and more than a little curious as well. The blond-haired man gave a quick salute and spun on his heels, heavy boots thumping on the wooden planks as he began marching down the long dock to the site of the disturbance.

Behind the commotion, the large mouth of the cavern that housed the lowest level of Aldar yawned wide, supported here and there by large, carved basalt columns. Known as Quayside, the docks of the port had been partially built under the cliffs of the caldera, the stone removed to allow ships to berth within the cliff that contained the city. Warehouses filled the cast space, as did a multitude of taverns, inns, brothels, and many other businesses that thrived with the constant influx of travelers, merchants, and shiphands that made their way in and out of the city each day. Multiple large arches, spanning hundreds of feet in length, connected the columns that had been left during the excavation of Quayside, marking the entrance to the underground district from the outside area known as the Longdocks, stretching for a league to the south of where Rolan now stood.

Above Quayside, and likewise carved straight into the rocky edifice, were the dwellings of Aldar’s residents, with gently sloping paths winding their way back and forth between the dozens of layers of black and grey houses that protruded from the stone. It was, at least to his perceptions, a clever use of the environment, allowing thousands of people to live atop one another without the need for sprawling roadways. In the distance, over the shouting of dockhands and the cries of the many ocean birds that flew around them, the faint sound of picks hitting stone could be heard as new buildings were carved. Aldar was ever expanding, after all, though one looking solely from the top of the cliffs would not know that.

Rolan returned his gaze to the Eno’Kalian ship, seeing that it was still some distance out, looking to be roughly in line with the Tercress Isles. Part of him dreaded the ship docking, while another part was excited, glad to have a chance to prove himself to his father.

Though nearing a quarter century of life, Roland’s experience outside the capitol had been few and far between. That did not mean he did not have experience dealing with people; far from it, in fact. Alfred encouraged all his children to go and walk among the people of Caras whenever they could, so they would not feel removed from the common folk. He and his siblings thus frequented many taverns in the city below Gryphon’s Roost and had many friends among the noble houses. He often walked through the market as well, buying wares he did not need, just to give back to the people. He enjoyed interacting with the people, and they with him.

At least in Caras.

Here, it seemed, it was a different matter.

Though the people of Aldar recognized Alfred as their King, there was a definite sense of removal from the throne that was palpable. Alfred spent most of his time in Caras and the surrounding area, after all, and left the day-to-day running of Aldar to the High Lord Elboreth Trekon, and so it was to Elboreth that the citizenry turned to whenever they had need of anything, and to Elboreth that the city owed its success to. He was the King’s representative here, yes, but he was also the highest power the people of Aldar had to deal with daily, so far removed from the capitol as they were.

Oh, Rolan and his siblings had received a warm enough welcome upon their arrival—from Elboreth and his household, at least. His eldest son Winston and Rolan’s younger brother Steffan were good friends, after all. But the people of Aldar had largely shied away from he and his siblings, and it had taken Rolan the better part of a day to figure out why. It went further than the separation of the city from Caras and the Talon Throne, but at the same time was a much simpler reason, and all the more frustrating for his inability to do anything to fix it.

The people of Aldar were not used to the DeCarren children’s complexion.

All three of the DeCarren siblings had inherited some of their father’s unique skin tone, though thankfully not as obvious as was Alfred’s. But still, having skin the colour of a rose was not common by any means, and though the people of Caras had gotten used to that particular trait of his family, the people of Aldar, aside from some noble families, had not.

The stares and whispered conversations had discomfited him at first, until he had fully realized what was causing them. Though word of Alfred’s complexion had spread through the kingdom and most of the world, hearing of it and seeing it were two completely different things. Like Rolan’s own inability to comprehend that a mountain had once stood tall and proud where the Bay of Sildé now lay, the people of Aldar had never seen people with rose coloured skin, in spite of having heard stories of the DeCarren’s all their lives. And even though word had long since spread throughout the city by now, many denizens still could not help but point and stare, if they were lucky, or simply turn and head a different way completely.

The latter was likely caused as much by the reason for their presence in the port city as it was their skin colour, Rolan knew. Elboreth had been quite frank with them upon their arrival several nights previous: the King’s decision to forge a treaty with the Eno’Kalians was not a popular one.

The port city had suffered as a direct result of the long trade war with the island nation. Sabotage on both sides had been frequent for decades, with shipments being delayed, stopped, or lost completely before they could reach the safety of the bay, or as soon as the past the semi circle of islands that marked the edge of Cedirc’s waters. Eno’Kalia had, of course, denied any wrong-doing on their part, but after the betrayal of Cedirc by the island nation at the end of the Ilvarri War, few believed them. All the Aldarians saw was damage to their beloved city’s people, and less coin in their own pockets from trade. There had been an overall increase in shipments coming into and out of the city in recent years, an influx that Elboreth had attributed to the very negotiations that the people disapproved so vehemently of, but the anger still lay close to the surface, simmering.

It was for that reason that Elboreth had insisted that Rolan and his siblings have an escort comprised of the men and women of his own House Guard at all times while within the city. Rolan had protested—in Caras, they walked freely, without need for an armed escort—but Elboreth would not brook any debate. He had further argued that the purple cloaks with the golden swooping gryphon would not get the same respect and deference here that they did in Caras, and just from the glares that he had received upon their arrival to the city, when they had made straight for the High Lord’s estate, Rolan had not been able to argue the point. He had staunchly refused to have his men and women remove the gryphon though, but instead agreed that an equal number of Trekon guards, green cloaks emblazoned in silver with the roaring bear sigil of House Trekon, would accompany them at all timed. And, in spite of himself, Rolan had to admit the citizenry had become far more receptive of them with the Trekon escort present.

He did not have to like it, but he knew he had to accept it.

And so, he watched the approach of the Eno’Kalian vessel with more than a little trepidation. If the presence of he and his siblings with their odd coloured skin had elicited such a response from the people of Aldar, after all, how would they react when the hated Eno’Kalians themselves arrived.

Rolan was worried, yes, but could not deny the thrill excitement that coursed through his being at the thought of the trust his father had placed in him. Alfred could have sent someone far more experienced, but instead had trusted his eldest son to represent him at this momentous occasion.

Thus, he would not let his concerns overwhelm him.

He would not shirk from his duties.

He would not fail his King.

He could not.

Rolan glanced to his right, and found Elenor staring back at him, concern evident in her hazel-brown eyes. She offered a supportive smile as she absently brushed a stray strand of auburn hair from her face.

He was unsurprised to see that his ever perceptive twin had known his feelings.

They had always thought alike, and, more to the point, they had discussed this all at length in the days since they had arrived, when the energy of the city had become apparent. Whenever anything went wrong in the city, no matter how minor, if the direct cause was not known, it’s blame was thrown at the feet of their hated rivals across the sea.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

They fought over two decades of prejudice with this treaty, he well knew, and old rivalries did not always go quietly away.

He shifted his regard to his left side, towards his black haired younger brother, Steffan, who stood only an inch shy of Rolan’s own six feet. Aside from the slight difference in height—which Rolan assumed would not last much longer—the two brothers were almost identical in appearance. It had long been whispered in the streets of Caras that Rolan and Steffan must be the true twins of the Royal Family, not Rolan and Elenor, though in truth Steffan was four years their junior.

Both DeCarren princes had the black hair, prominent eyebrows and chin of their father, while Elenor had the softer features of their mother. Aside from their difference in height and skin tone, they were the spitting image of Alfred as he had looked at their ages.

But their similarities stopped at the skin.

Where Rolan had the same calm, rational, seemingly detached way of looking at events the way their father did, Steffan did not. The elder son was able to separate his emotional responses from the logic of a given situation. Before and after, he would let himself feel them, but during any stressful situation he was able to methodically see and consider all sides of the argument. His father had taught him that, and he had taken it to heart. Emotions clouded your judgment, after all, and that could be catastrophic in delicate situations, such as the forthcoming arrival and treaty with the Eno’Kalians. He, like his father, did not let anger at past mistakes and confrontations blind him to all the benefits the treaty would offer both nations if they succeeded in finalizing and ratifying it.

Steffan, on the other had, often let his emotions guide him. While this was not an inherently bad thing, it made him rather unpredictable in any stressful situation where his emotions were heightened. This was not to say that he always made different or errant decisions when he lost his cool, but their difference in natures often led to disagreements between the twins and their younger brother.

And Rolan was very concerned it would do so again today; Steffan had been very vocal about his dislike of the Eno’Kalian’s since the start of the trip.

While the youngest son of Alfred DeCarren could see the logic behind the treaty, he did not see it as necessary. The energy in Aldar had not done anything to temper that attitude in the least. The inclination of the local populace to blame the Eno’Kalians for any and all misfortunes that may occur had only served to inflame Steffan’s mistrust of the foreigners. He had, however, promised to cordially greet the dignitaries with his siblings.

Begrudgingly.

They were here as representatives of their father the King, after all, and in spite of his personal feelings, Steffan would do his best to ensure the treaty went through. He had promised as much to Rolan the night before, when they and Elenor had sat down to discuss the Eno’Kalians imminent arrival.

Steffan’s jaw was clenched tight as he watched the orange sailed ship draw closer, dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Noticing his brother’s attention, he gave Rolan a curt nod. Rolan responded in kind, offering his younger brother a slight smile that was not reciprocated.

Suppressing a sigh, Rolan turned his regard back to the bay.

He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

The thumping of hard soled boots on the wooden planks of the dock preceded Lorrik’s return a few minutes later. The clean shaved Talon saluted as the three DeCarrens turned to regard him.

“A rope on the loading crane snapped,” the captain reported.

Rolan nodded; that much had been evident from here. The captain’s next words were equally unsurprising, but unwanted nonetheless.

“They are blaming the Eno’Kalians.”

“And they have not yet even docked,” Elenor said resignedly, clearly as unsurprised as Rolan.

Lorrik shrugged, spreading his gauntleted hands wide before him in a helpless gesture, “You know their sentiments, my lady.”

“The sight of their sails in the harbour is undoubtedly enough to foist the blame on them,” Rolan agreed, shaking his head slowly.

“Not that it is undeserved,” Steffan muttered, loudly enough for them to hear him.

Rolan shot his younger brother a glare; Steffan met that gaze, shrugging his shoulders, but did not saw any more. Knowing he would have to be content with that gesture, Rolan returned his attention to Lorrik, “Everything is under control now?”

“As much as it can be, my lord.”

Rolan nodded; like Steffan’s apathy, it would have to do for now.

“Were any injured?” he asked, looking past the captain and up the dock to where a crowd still milled about the site of the disturbance.

“A few were knocked off their feet, but all had gotten back up by the time I left. The dock was damaged, though the dockmaster assured me it would be repaired by the end of the day,” the Talon continued with a small grin, “He did curse his luck that it would happen when your royal selves were present and sends his apologies for the disruption.”

“No apology is needed.”

“Are, my lord. I told him that already,” Lorrik’s smile widened, “He didn’t seem properly assured though. The poor man was sweating as I left.

Rolan glanced back to the bay, considering.

The ship bearing the delegation looked to be at least a league out from the dock still, and it’s progress would be slower now, he knew. The sails had been taken down, and he could just make out the sweeps of oars that were now propelling the vessel forward. He judged that it would be at least half a bell before they reached the dock, and longer still until they were ready to disembark.

On top of that, the High Lord still had not arrived. Elboreth had agreed that as leader of Aldar he should be present when the foreigners arrived—not least of which because their arrival was likely to cause a stir amongst the people. And yet there was no sign of him that Rolan could see; perhaps the Trekon men that had been stationed at the foot of the dock knew where he was.

This gave him the perfect excuse to inquire about the High Lord’s whereabouts, and he clearly had plenty of time to assuage the dockmaster’s concerns and return before the Eno’Kalian’s disembarked, he decided as he returned his regard to Lorrik.

“I’d best go put his fears to rest, then.”

“Deepest apologies, m’lord Prince, sir,” the balding, grey haired old man said as Lorrik escorted him the last few steps to where the prince waited with his guards, arms crossed.

Rolan had tried to assure the escorting Trekon guards that they could wait at the foot of the pier, as they had since he and his siblings had arrived, but they had staunchly insisted. Finally, Rolan had relented, taking two of the Trekon guardsmen with him while the rest waited at the foot of the pier with his siblings.

“High Lord’s orders, sir,” the captain of the Trekon contingent, a many with a bald pate and a bushy black mustache named Ilnos had replied firmly.

The prince had not argued further after that, seeing the stubborn set of the Trekon man’s chin. Beyond that, one look to their accompanying Talons had told him that he would receive no support from them in this particular matter, either. So, he had relented, acquiescing to the green cloaked men’s accompaniment, and had done so again when Lorrik had insisted on going ahead to retrieve the dockmaster from the crowd milling around the site of the incident rather than letting Rolan approach himself. Rolan had rolled his eyes at this last precaution; he knew that Lorrik was responsible for he and his sibling’s protection, but there was such a thing as too protective, and he felt the captain had crossed that line here.

Still, he had known that he would not win that argument either, and so had not even tried to countermand the captain’s orders, settling back on his heels and crossing his arms across his chest as he waited, watching Lorrik disappear into the throng before reappearing with the short man he had presumed to be the dockmaster in tow.

“Not necessary, Dockmaster…? Rolan let the question hand in the air, letting his arms fall to his sides, and trying to hide his irritation at the Trekon men.

“Uh… Payter, sir. Arlen Payter,” the bald man dipped a bow, sweat dripping down his brow as he did. As he straightened, he wiped his eyes with the back of a dirty, equally sweaty hand, wiping it on his grimy clothes after. Rolan noticed that though dirty, the clothes were of fine quality, telling him that in spite of his current state, the dockmaster usually did not do the labour himself. Clearly in spite of his state of dress, Payter was not afraid to jump in and help when needed, which spoke volumes of the man to the prince.

“No apology is needed, nor desired, Dockmaster Payter,” Rolan reiterated to the clearly nervous man, smiling at him. “Accidents happen.”

“Thank ye,” Arlen dipped another hasty bow, “It’s just that we know who yerself is here to welcome, and, well, some o’the lads are a mite nervous. It’ll be fixed by days end, don’t ye doubt, sir.”

“It’s fine, really. I just wanted to make sure none were hurt,” Rolan assured him, not immediately understanding why the man was so unnerved. Surely incidents like this were not uncommon, with dozens of ships or more loading or offloading materials and goods each day, after all.

Then he noted where the man’s gaze lingered: Rolan had rested one of his hands casually on the hilt of his silver enameled sword he wore belted at his hip, and the dockmaster’s eyes were staring hard at it. Rolan realized that Payter had not met his eyes, either, instead looking everywhere except at the prince’s rose-coloured face.

His skin.

Heaving a sigh, Rolan slowly brought his hand up between himself and the dockmaster, slowly turning it about so the sweaty man could see both sides; Arlen flinched back a step at the motion, and had the good grace to look embarrassed at the clearly unconscious movement.

“It is nothing to be afraid of, Arlen,” he said in a carefully calm voice, not letting his annoyance show as he noted that more than a few of the nearby dockhands had stopped their work and were watching the conversation with more than a passing interest.

“O-of course not, sir,” Payter bowed for the third time, dry wringing his hands in front of him. “No offense intended, lord prince,” the man stood straight again, but would still no meet his eyes, or even look at Rolan’s face.

“None taken,” Rolan said after a long moment as the man began fidgeting some more, “I know my… complexion… is not something you are used to seeing around here. But I assure you, I am just as human as you are.”

“As you say, sire.”

Suppressing another sigh, Rolan glanced aside to Lorrik, seeing that the captain’s lips had formed a thin line as he stared at the dockmaster from behind the shorter man. Noting the regard of the prince, the captain rolled his eyes, eliciting a small grin that Roland quickly suppressed, not wanting Arlen Payter to think he was mocking him.

“Return to your work, Dockmaster,” Rolan said at length, not seeing any point to continuing this conversation any longer; he clearly was not going to change the man’s mind at this time.

Payton gave a final quick, jerky bow and spun to hurry off, clearly relieved to be away from the prince, who was no longer certain if it was his station or his appearance that had so unnerved the man. Rolan watched the dockmaster scurry back to his work, shouting at the men and women in his employ to get back to work. The majority of the onlookers went back to their work, but others continued staring at the prince, and he saw with no small amount of discomfort the mistrust in many of them.

“I had hoped to spare you that, sire,” Lorrik’s voice drew his attention back to the captain, who had moved closer to him.

“I figured that much out for myself, Captain,” Rolan gave him a weary smile, “You have my thanks for that.”

“If only you would learn to head my advice.”

That elicited a chuckle from Roland, who looked over the crowd again. Most had turned their attention from them, but he saw many whispered conversations and glances stolen his way.

“They’ll get used to it, my lord,” Lorrik said in a more serious tone, seeing Rolan’s continued disappointment at the crowd’s reaction to him.

The prince could see by the expression on the blond man’s face that the captain did not fully believe the words even as he spoke them, but he was grateful to Lorrik for them nonetheless. He clapped the Talon on the shoulder before, with another look over the crowd, he spun about and began making his way back to where his brother and sister waited, having watched the interaction with interest from behind the Trekon guards.

“The people of Caras are so used to our appearance that it is easy to forget we do indeed look so difference,” Rolan admitted to the captain as they walked, the crowd parting before them.

“Aye, if they knew you, it would be different,” his friend agreed.

“It is a jarring difference,” Rolan continued, glancing at their escort, “I am not used to needing guards to walk the streets.”

Lorrik was silent for a moment before replying, “I wish it were different, my prince.”

“We do not get out here often enough,” it was a statement, not a question, one the prince corrected almost immediately, “We do not get out of Caras enough.”

“Not in over a decade,” Lorrik confirmed, glancing at the prince, clearly choosing his next words carefully, “Not since…”

“My mother,” Roland finished for him.

Lorrik nodded.

“We’ll need to see that that changes, going forward. The people should see their King.”

“And princes.”

“Yes, and their princes. And we should see them, too. Too long have we let House Trekon handle things here,” Rolan sighed deeply, “We have become too far removed from the people outside Caras.”

“Yes, sire.”

Though Lorrik’s easy agreement with his statement stung, Roland was grateful for the captain’s candor. He did not need someone who was afraid to correct or argue him.

“We will do better,” he promised, eying the people around them.

They walked the remainder of the distance back to his siblings in relative silence, the sounds of the busy docks washing over them as Rolan considered how out of touch he and—even more concerningly—his father truly were with the kingdom at large.

He knew that his father and mother had traveled the length and breadth of Cedirc in the years following the end of the Second Ilvarri War, doing their utmost to make their presence keenly felt after the decades of attrition suffered by the common folk due to the prolonged war. Though he could not remember them himself, he knew that he and Elenor had accompanied them as babes on many such journeys, but the tours had stopped when Denise had fallen ill following the birth of Steffan, some twenty-one years earlier. Alfred had become ever more protective of his children and ailing wife after that, not wanting them to travel outside the castle at all.

Once the twins had come of age, Alfred had relented, allowing them to travel about the city below Gryphon’s Roost freely, agreeing that the people should be able to know their prince and princess. Likewise, when Steffan had reached his sixteenth year, he had been permitted to wander the streets of Caras at his leisure. But Alfred had not relented in restricting their exploration to within the confines of Caras’’ walls, and the King himself had not left the castle since Denise’s death in 241 A.C..

Six years.

It had been six years since his father had last left the Roost.

It was truly no wonder, then, that there was some mistrust directed towards Alfred DeCarren by the people. No matter that he had delivered them from even more suffering by putting an end to the Ilvarri War, returning scarred both mentally and physically from the conflict in and around the borders of Shetna Forrest in central Cedirc. It was a war that had not only claimed tens of thousands of Cedircian lives, but the lives of Alfred’s father and grandfather as well, putting him on the Feathered Throne at the relatively young age of twenty-two. In the minds of the people, all of that was already ancient history. One may as well speak of the rule of the Tyrant-King as of the Ilvarri War. Their reaction to both would be the same.

It was Eno’Kalia who was responsible for their current suffering, in their minds, and their King was trying to make peace with them!

Rolan found he could understand the mistrust and thinly veiled hostility they had encountered in Aldar better as he approached his siblings. He did not like it in the least, but it made more sense to him than it had a few minutes ago.

Arlen Payter had just caught him by surprise, that was all. He would be careful to not let such happen again, he decided as he passed between his siblings, ignoring their questioning expressions as he noted that the Eno’Kalian ship was approaching the dock, its long oars steering it in.

As he neared the end of the dock where his siblings waited, a man dressed in Trekon green, the roaring bear gleaming silver in metallic embroidery on his chest, ran up to him, sweat running down his face as he tried to catch his breath before speaking. Rolan and Lorrik stopped in front of the panting man.

“Pardon, my prince,” the man bowed hastily, finding his voice as his breathing steadied, “But I come from High Lord Trekon.”

“He is on his way?” Rolan had been wondering at the man’s absence; Elboreth had assured him that he would be present to greet the Eno’Kalians, after all, and had not yet arrived.

The dark-haired man brushed sweat from his forehead with a sleeve as he lowered his eyes, “I’m afraid not. Something urgent came up that the High Lord had to attend to immediately.”

“What could be more important than greeting our guests to his city?” Rolan asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into his tone before he could catch it.

The runner flinched at his tone, and bowed again, “I’m sorry, Prince Rolan, but the High Lord did not tell me why, only to send his regrets and assurances that he would arrive as soon as he was able.”

“Of course,” Rolan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes as he did to calm himself. He opened them and focused on the messenger, “Thank you, you may tell your lord that we will look forward to his arrival.”

With another bow, the messenger hurried off, picking his way through the crowd towards the path to the upper city. Rolan watched him go, considering this development.

“I hope the Eno’Kalians do not see this as a slight,” Lorrik said softly as he moved closer to the prince, eyes following the messenger as he left.

“As do I, my friend,” Rolan replied in just as soft a voice, shaking his head. He sighed again, meeting the captain’s eyes.

“It’ll be fine,” Lorrik assured him.

“How can you be so certain?”

“You’re your father’s son!” Lorrik said as he clapped him on the shoulder.

Rolan nodded, grateful for the support. He turned and continued on his way towards his siblings, slowing his paces as Lorrik added from behind, “And if not, it’s only your father’s legacy that will be lost!”

Rolan turned a scowl on the captain, who laughed.

“It was only a joke, my Prince.”

“Not a good one.”

“Maybe not to you,” Lorrik replied with a shrug, winking at him.

Rolan could not hold his scowl in the face of Lorrik’s grin and felt his own lips curling upwards.

“We should return to the others,” Lorrik nodded towards Rolan’s siblings.

Following the captain’s gaze, Rolan saw that Elenor and Steffan were watching him, Elenor’s expression one of concern, Steffan’s one of annoyance. Rolan nodded and set of, Lorrik falling in behind him, closing the last few dozen steps between them and his siblings. He did not meet either of their inquiring looks, instead stepping between them onto the dock.

“He didn’t trust you,” Steffan accused with his usual lack of tact, halting Rolan in his tracks as soon as he had walked past him.

“No, I don’t think that he did,” Rolan admitted with a wry chuckle as he turned to regard his siblings.

“Because of how you look, or because you are our father’s son?”

“Likely both,” the elder prince replied simply, “That is why we must earn their trust.”

“We should already have it.”

“Careful, brother,” Rolan kept his voice calm in the wake of Steffan’s heated response, “What have we done to have earned it?”

“Our father has ruled Cedirc for decades!”

“From Caras,” Rolan met Steffan’s heated gaze evenly, “He has made no effort to visit Aldar in over a decade, leaving its governance to High Lord Trekon. This is our first visit, and we have been of age for ten years—or at least Elenor and myself have been. Can you truly blame them for having misgivings?”

“Yes,” Steffan was quick to reply, “Father is still their king.”

“Who has abandoned them, at least in their minds,” Rolan was just as quick to point out, anticipating his brother’s response. He put up a hand to forestall Steffan’s next retort as he continued, “I love Father too, Steffan, and know he cares for all the people of Cedirc, be they from Caras, Aldar, Talis, or even far off Jagd. But he has been absent from all but Caras for too long. We must earn their trust back.”

“And how do we do that?” Steffan demanded, voice rising in anger.

Rolan felt his own temper rising at his obstinate younger brother’s willful ignorance. They had gone over much of this the night before with the High Lord, after all. Elboreth had been very blunt and candid with his assessment of the prevailing Aldarian perception of Alfred DeCarren. Rolan had not liked hearing it, but had appreciated the High Lord’s honesty and candor, regardless of his own feelings on the matter. He still did, for Elboreth’s words had helped him understand Payter’s point of view better.

Understanding that perception did not make him like it—far from it—but all they could do was prove their intentions through their actions in their time in the port city. They had agreed on as much the night before, and Rolan opened his mouth to remind Steffan of that yet again but did not get the chance as his sister chose that moment to speak up.

“We do so by showing them that we do, in fact, have their best interests at heart. By working with the High Lord to show that the Crown supports both him and the people of Aldar, and hears their complaints,” Elenor, ever the mediator between her two brothers, said in her soft voice. Her brown eyes flitted to the bay momentarily, “And by showing them that the Eno’Kalians can be trusted.”

Rolan ignored Steffan’s responding snort at Elenor’s words, instead flashing his sister a grateful smile. His own response would not have been as delicately worded, and in truth would likely have put Steffan’s hackles up even further.

They could not afford that now, with the delegation’s arrival imminent.

More importantly, her intervention allowed him to calm his own mind once more. Steffan’s words should not have gotten such a rise out of the First Prince. Clearly, his encounter with the Aldarian dockmaster had bothered him more than he had realized.

Closing his eyes, Rolan inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the salty sea air, letting it and the sound of water lapping at the posts of the dock sooth him. Gulls cried overhead as they searched for scraps from the early morning catch, and the shouts of dozens of hawkers crying their wares further into Quayside competed with the bird’s shrill cries. Underneath it all was the rumbling of the nearby Falls of Remembrance as the water fell hundreds of feet to collide with the waters of the bay only a couple hundred feet away, a constant sound anywhere in Quayside.

The deep bellow of a horn cut through the cacophony of sounds, the single note holding for several seconds before dying off.

Rolan opened his eyes and followed his sibling’s regards to the far end of the dock they had stood upon earlier.

The Eno’Kalian vessel had at long last reached the end of the dock.

It was time to greet the delegates.

* * *

Emerald eyes, narrowed into slits, tracked the three DeCarren siblings as they and their retinue began making their way back down the dock to where the orange sailed ship waited for them.

Crouched in the shadows atop the black roof of one of the inns carved into the pitchstone cavern that housed Quayside, the assassin considered his next move. He was pleased to see that Aldar’s High Lord was missing from the group, as he had planned.

He had watched with satisfaction as the Trekon runner had hurried up to the elder prince, knowing the news they would have been bearing, or at least some version of it. The man did not really care what excuse Rolan had been given for the High Lord’s absence. The details were not important. The only thing that mattered here was that the High Lord had been detained.

He liked it when events happened according to plan.

After the previous night’s escapades in Caras, he was doubly pleased with this.

Oh, he had succeeded in stabbing—and, more importantly, in killing—the King, all right, but it had certainly not gone according to plan. He had been supposed to enter and exit without anyone being any the wiser until the next day, once he was long gone.

The assassin had not expected to be leaping from a window to escape the fiery wrath of an angry magi, nor praying to deities who he could normally care less about that he had still held onto enough vita to escape a grisly death on the castle roof.

That blasted warrior on the cursed gryphon had come to close to capturing him, as well.

Death would have been preferable to that.

But that was behind him now, and though he would have preferred to have a chance to rest after the night’s unexpected exertions, the next stage of his mission had to be carried out.

He had found his way into the guardhouse at the city gates easy enough, even tired as he was. None of the soldiers within had known of his presence until it was too late, and shortly after entering the building, he had left, secreting away in the shadows, leaving five cooling Trekon bodies behind. After his misadventure at Gryphon’s Roost, he had felt immense satisfaction when the murder of the five guardsmen had gone as expected.

No complications.

He liked that.

He was also pleased to note the tension of the crowd below. In the few hours he had been within the city, he had heard many disgruntled whispers surrounding the treaty with the Eno’Kalians, and more than one voice raised in anger that the foreigners would be allowed to pass through their city. And as he had watched the incident at the docks, hearing the curses leveled towards the still approaching foreign vessel, a new plan had begun to form in his mind.

Before, he had planned to follow the delegation through the city, waiting for the opportune moment to strike and kill one or all of them. He was certain the death of even one delegate would unravel all of Alfred’s efforts in a heartbeat. Truth be told, he was more certain of that than he was that Alfred’s own death would end the talks.

Rolan was his father’s son, after all.

But as he watched the dark glances being shot towards the vessel docked half a league out, at the tip of one of the aptly named long-docks, the assassin knew he could use the crowd to do his work for him. They were close to a riot. He could feel it in the air, see it on the faces of those forced to welcome their rivals with open arms. No, it would not take much to set it off. A whisper here, a shout there, and chaos would reign. And even in the face of armed and trained soldiers, an angry mob could do great damage.

If not one of the delegates, surely one of the DeCarren’s will be killed, the assassin thought, not an unpleasant notion.

And even if the delegates were not killed outright, the hostility show towards them upon their arrival could end the treaty then and there as well.

And if not…

The assassin’s eyes flicked to the north, where he could just make out the first of two rocky breakwaters that separated the long-docks from the choppy waters at the foot of the falls, finding the channel between the two.

Rolan was stubborn, but the assassin was nothing if not tenacious.

If the riot failed, he was certain he knew what the DeCarrens and their guests would do next.

More importantly, he already knew how he would work that to his advantage, should it come to that.

No matter what, he knew he would not fail.

Lips curling into a smile that did not reach his emerald eyes, the assassin stood to go about his business.

Yes, before the day was done, there would be at least one more death in the city. There was only one unknown, one question that the assassin could not be sure of, but it was one that did not bother him in the slightest, for he was certain the outcome would remain the same regardless.

The question was simple: would it be a foreign noble or a royal heir who died?

He looked forward to finding out.