Amusing, is it not, what a simple disguise can do? Rolin all but ran down the hall. Buckets of willpower were required to maintain the semblance of composure he held. That and his amusement were all that separated him from killing each and every Aegimari affiliate on the island. No part of him wanted to break world order when he saved Namara from her cell. He would do it, though. Let it all rot if sparing them all meant a world without her. Mother would not appreciate that sentiment. She loved each and every one of her children; even those who had been chosen by the Spectrum or the Void. Life had equal value in her eyes.
Rolin saw things differently, even as one of her direct children. A life without Namara was lesser; even more so was the life of one who wanted to take her away.
Focus, Wintertide. Focus.
All signs indicated that they would not be ready for him. They had suppressed her, likely with Indigo Hues, and he couldn’t sense any high concentration of Nether in the area. He could feel her through their Fatethread. Forbidden, intimate, and most importantly at this time, unidentifiable. The Thread allowed him to feel her presence and location at the barest of minimums. One could send flares of emotions, memories, or even bits of thought to the other through the Thread.
The Thread had shown them that others could think in different ways. Namara thought in sensations and pictures, associating them with words and events that she was portraying to herself. Rolin thought in words, an inner monologue of sorts.
Her outburst at this discovery stuck with him to this day. I have to listen to you drone on and on when I’m with you. Must I when we’re apart as well? He felt himself smile from ear to ear. Yes, focusing on her was necessary. It kept Rolin in check. They had been Threaded more than twenty years now. That would not end today.
The Thread was the reason he had found her. She had been abducted from her palace in Solrusia. The audacity of it all enraged him like little else could. Aegimar thought they had been quite secretive and, truthfully, they had. Without the Thread, Rolin might have eaten up the bait which would have set him, and Namara’s kingdom, against the Maras of Mithrock. Without the Thread, he wouldn’t have felt the worry and concepts of haste which had pulsed in his head whilst he was hundreds of miles away in the Autumn Isles. They had been too far apart for direct thoughts to come through, so he had waited.
The familiar came for him from Theron, their steward in the Ebonhold, stating that Namara had been taken. Solrusia was doing well despite the fact that their queen had been kidnapped from under their nose by unknown forces. Rolin’s response, in which he stated that he would get her back without issue, had supposedly done wonders to keep them calm. As calm as they could be, at least. There would still be the typical opportunist to deal with when they made it back home. Some criminals will have been emboldened. All were quaternary at most on his list of concerns.
The news had forced Rolin’s conferences with the Dwarven faction of the Autumn Isles to come to an abrupt end. Luckily, the dwarves were much more amenable to such slights. The elves would have scheduled a day and a half dedicated to letting him know how terribly insulted they were. Rolin was a king, he was a mortal god; Namara was a Disciple to another god. It would not do to explain what emergency had occurred. It would do to let them think on what could possibly require a god to step away as quickly as Rolin had without showing them how thoroughly he had been undermined.
Rolin and his Lunemorians acquired a smaller boat. Theirs would not do. It would simply signal to Aegimar that they knew, that Rolin was coming, that he was angry enough to meet them on their own ground.
That he was livid enough to kill them all.
All of these rang true. Rolin didn’t want them to know it, though.
Whilst many of his people sailed back to Solrusia in his warship, The Mother’s Ire, they had acquired a small sailboat. To most, a sailboat would be no good. To one whose divine jurisdiction covered the wind and the water, it mattered not. Two of his men, Turo and Ajak, had sailed with him across the Sea of Storms in order to follow the presence in his head. Like the breeze and the waves, a few storms outside of their regular season proved not to be an issue. Such was the power of an Icebinder.
After a couple of stops to throw off any potential followers, the Aegimari eventually made their way toward Commonwealth. The island which had never, officially, been taken by an outside force. Other Wintertides begged to differ.
Turo and Ajak were still waiting on their little boat. Rolin, who had been a hairy beast of a man for most of his life, had completely shaved his head and most of his beard, leaving a thick mustache atop his lips. So long as he kept his power suppressed to the point where the entirety of his eyes refrained from turning blue, he looked like any other Mithrocki. Whiter than Wintertide, he was, though he was Wintertide.
Rolin continued walking down the long columns of white stone that made up this hallway. Doors lay equally spread out on each side, though none of them held Namara. He was getting closer. The presence in his head grew more thorough with each step he took. Soldiers passed him wearing the same uniform that he had recently acquired from an unlucky lad who had refused to give it up. Silvery dust, he was now. Frozen and shattered into shimmery, glimmering bits; though not before his uniform had been taken from him. A plain golden coat with a few star-shaped badges on the chest to reflect the minor rank of Officer, fine black breeches which had been well taken care of, and a white cotton shirt which seemed to serve the purpose of being too warm for no purpose.
They gave a quick salute, left fist to the heart, and Rolin reciprocated the act with his right hand instead. They nodded and moved on. The Corporals had tried to give him the wrong salute, likely an attempt to see if they could either catch an undisciplined private, or an intruder, who was mentally checked out. The presence continued to coalesce in his mind, to become more real, the closer Rolin got. He was close. So close. He had to be careful to not send anything through the Thread. Any overwhelming emotion could cause a physical reaction that someone watching her might catch. They hadn’t considered the Thread. That was his biggest advantage over them. He couldn’t give it up.
He reached the door. There were no wards or traps that he could feel out, but it was tough when it came to the Arcane. Sage magics could easily search out other sage magics, but that was not the same for the Void or the Arcane. They could only search themselves out. Despite the difficulty, Rolin still checked the door for signs of Ether. He sprinkled bits of Aether on to the white stone in order to search out any resistance that might be found in the door.
Are you in there, Namara?
He waited for her to return one of her sensations. He waited for feelings of affirmation, love, haste, those which made Namara herself.
There was nothing. Her presence was still on the other side of the door, but she gave no signal. Something was wrong.
Rolin opened the white painted door. Namara sat in the corner of the room. Her void-black skin was pale, sweat dripping all over her body like a river current. Her head was slumped over and her eyes closed, though her breathing seemed steady. The room itself was pure white, like the hallway, with no decorations on its walls or ceiling. No rug on the floor. Nothing. It was as cold in there as one could expect a room of stone to be. There was one torch which lay lit in its holster. The flame should have kept the room heated. Magics were being used to keep the room chilly; just enough to be uncomfortable. There were no guards. There was nothing here whatsoever. Nothing save his everything.
Rolin ran over to her and cupped her beautiful face. Namara opened her silver eyes. She was awake, but she didn’t move much. She did not really move at all. He could feel and hear her pulse, her wonderful heartbeat. Bards could not sing sweeter sounds. She didn’t look at him though. She looked at nothing. Her eyes stared ahead, but they didn’t seem to take him in.
Namara sent no emotion through the thread. Namara uttered no words.
Rolin mustered up some Aether and sent an Indication throughout her body. She was not sick. Her vitals were excellent. What had they done to her?
What had they done?!
A feminine laugh came from behind Rolin. He turned to see two Commanders of Aegimar. The strongest man and woman that the organization could provide. Jevil and Anara. Betrayal would have pierced his heart if not for the overwhelming fury that now possessed him.
Light returned to Namara’s eyes for a moment, but it fled just as quickly.
It mattered not.
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“The High King has ridden out to join the battle! Remain calm! His eminence’s presence will strike fear into the hearts of the rebels!” The High Crier Abner Fawn had been nigh-on screaming this message for an hour and then some. While words were supposedly motivational, they were more so a warning to those who would flee in the night. Despite this, it seemed that the High Crier truly believed in the king. The king who would not ride out into battle until the rebels had supposedly split; the king who had allowed the Maran rebels to isolate Bainarithe out of cowardice despite their man advantage.
The queen, Terra Brineheart, sat beside her children. Arol, The Mother bless his heart, was so tense that he might truly believe his mother would let him attack anyone who breached the Great Hall. Little Svana didn’t really grasp the severity of the situation outside of their walls. How could she? She had seen four brief winters and no more. The child was likely more aware of her dolls than the lives of their men being wasted outside of the walls. The baby Andrius, named out of spite and of love, was bundled up and cooing in her arms. There were others in the hall where the Mithrocki throne resided: servants, cooks, handmaidens, the three Wardens Regis had left behind, and more. None of them mattered as much to her as they had the day before. Her beloved servants were now fodder, bodies she would happily throw at the enemy to keep ehr children safe. Regis likely hadn’t cared a lick for them either. Nevertheless, they seemed to be relieved each and every time the High Crier yelled out his words of motivation. They believed in the High King’s chances of success. The High Queen did not.
Regis will only strike fear into the hearts of any maidens or wenches who find themselves on the battlefield. Regis was no soldier; he was hardly a king. He had been something, once, before his heirs had been born. A king. A king above kings. She had seen him off, the duty of the High Queen, and watched him struggle to climb atop his horse. The High King Regis could hardly be regarded above his own mount. Nonetheless, the time to think pettily was at an end. Regis would likely die on the front lines. She was the High Queen of Mithrock and she was a mother. Strength was required of her; strength and patience.
What happened with the Marans? There was one person in the entirety of the Maran faction she could depend on to show her a modicum of sympathy rather than the way to the butcher’s block. If Alanna has fallen…
Shaking her head of such downcast thoughts, Terra looked to her children. She stretched her hand out to Arol. Her firstborn was still a boy, no matter what he thought, yet he was wound so tightly she thought he might pop. A quick survey of the room showed that the servants, even the High Crier, were watching her every move. Some had even flinched when her hand left her side. Tighter than a flies arse stretched over a barrel, indeed.
“My Prince, come here,” she lovingly beckoned. Calm, she had to sound so even if she could not be. The servants and guards knew what might happen if the rebels managed to break through either gate, North or West. Every one of them had likely experienced a nightmare or two in their lifetime about this exact ordeal. Pillage, rape, fire, a dozen different ways to die. She would not let her children feel that kind of fright. Not right now.
That fear had reached her eldest, false bravery manifesting in response to an emotion the headstrong child had likely not understood. “No,” he said far too coldly for a boy of seven, “I have to be ready.”
“Ready for what, my child? A thump to the head?” Alyn Mara had promised no harm was to come to her children. Alanna Alden had promised the same, and Terra trusted her much more than she did the usurper. Her wand floated from the small latch on the hip of her dress and into her hand. “I have my Weavings. Lord Maxon has his blade and Earthforged armor. Children will not die whilst we live.” Sighs of relief filled the throne room as she took the hand of her Arol and looked to the young Haydon Maxon.
At fourteen years of age, Haydon was more skilled with the blade than any man she had ever known save Andrew. Even across the room, he seemed a statue of good Earthforged steel. He did not wear his helm; he was smart enough to know that wearing the full suit would do even more to worry the room’s occupants. He was a handsome lad with a hard face and silver-blonde hair that he kept tied back in a neat braid. The guard’s sad green eyes met hers as he nodded and placed his gauntleted hand on the grip of his sheathed blade. Haydon’s eyes had not always been so morose. He knew far too much for a lad of his age; the fault lying with herself and his old Lord Captain. Nonetheless, he was wed to loyalty and she trusted him to help keep her children safe more than anyone else in the capital.
With her children in her arms and the mood lifted a bit, Terra turned her thoughts to the battle raging outside the city gates. The battle that should have been raging. She listened closely for the destruction of siege machines; the battle cries of soldiers, Sages, the Reagans’ colossi, the wyverns of House Declan. Anything. Never in her life had she wanted to hear the sounds of war more than she did now. Nothing. There was nothing. She would find more in the time-lost Void than her ears did now.
The High Queen nearly jumped off of her husband’s throne when the doors to the great hall were pushed open with incredible force. One standing guard had been thrown onto his rear as the strong alder wood slammed into him. His head whiplashed off of the floor, but the man entering gave not one care. Not at the moment, at least. Jerad Kingsor, the Lord Captain of the High King’s Wardens, was the second-to-last person she wanted to see. The only man she wanted to see less was her husband; how would the men take it if he had gone to the front lines and promptly left?
The presence of the Southlander could only mean that her husband was dead. Terra could mourn for the man he was later. There had been plenty of that over the past few years. She had to continue to be the High Queen now, and the High Queen had two contingency plans in the scenario where Regis died. There were a multitude of factors she needed clarity on before deciding which plan was the way to go. She needed to know how many men they had lost, how many Marans had fallen, what lords and ladies still stood, if any had defected to her husband, if any had gone over to the usurper, if anyone around them could be used as a hostage-
“We have won!” roared the Lord Captain.
Oh. Wondrous, Terra thought to herself as thundering screams of joy filled the throne room. Servants latched onto one another, tears of relief streaming down their cheeks. The castle guards helped their fallen brother-in-arms up from the floor. Little Arol also had water welling up in his eyes, the first Terra had seen since he was a babe. Her eldest wrapped both siblings up in his arms. He held Andrius gently and Svana tightly. A good ruler. He will be a good ruler.
Wait.
Her thoughts turned to her husband. Giving her children each one kiss on the forehead, she stood calmly. It would not do to seem panicked. A queen could never be seen so.
With a restrained effort, the queen glided over to Jerad as the doors he had come through were blown off its hinges; its great wooden parts exploding into so many little splinters. In an instant Terra had her wand in hand. She drew from her inner source of Aether. The stone before her jutted upwards, creating an imperfect wall of earth that stood nearly seven feet tall. Thuds and snaps of wood confirmed that the earth stopped the splinters from carving her and her children up. The servants were not so lucky.
To both sides, cupbearers, handmaidens, cooks and servers were sliced up as the wood entered or passed through them. Some met quick deaths as larger shanks passed through their heads and necks. Others did not die immediately, though they surely would. The cries of men, women, and children filled the room as blood pooled onto the floor. Abner Fawn was no longer yelling. His whimpers were quiet, as though he didn’t want his last cries to be heard. Guilt panged in Terra’s heart for a moment. She could have created a wall large enough to protect most of them, but that would have taken up more of her Aether. Aether she might need to protect her children. She was a queen and a mother. She needed to be harder than steel.
She tuned out the screams of pain and cries for help as she scanned the room. Her Wardens were flocking to her. Their Earthforged steel had stood strong in the face of the wooden explosion. Jerad had survived and was limping toward her. Haydon had donned his helm, blood streaming down his cheek. Smaller splinters had found his left eye. It would be useless now. Terra was not capable enough to remove those small bits with Weavings and the only physician in the room might have been dead.
Without the same regard for himself, Haydon allowed Jerad to pull the largest splinter out. Not even a complaint escaped his lips. Only a grunt. This poor boy had lost his childhood, mentor, and now his eye because of her. Terra would spend her life making it up to him when this was all over, but she needed to have a life at the end of this in order to honor that thought.
Her children huddled behind her, she dissipated the wall and allowed her two guards to stand at her front. The dust from the explosion began to clear, the makings of a hunched over body beginning to appear. Only a man in Earthforged steel could have survived such force, and even then he’d be closer to dead than not. The dust finally let up and she saw Regis. The High King was gasping for air, his golden Earthforged plate blood soaked, a fervent look having taken a hold of his brown eyes.
A blood curdling scream escaped his lips “LAERNA! SHE IS HERE-“ was all he could cry before a knife gently passed into his scalp, out from his chin, and into the floor.
Shock took hold of Terra. Just a few moments prior she had almost dared thinking of coronation preparations for Arol. There would be no coronation if Laerna Brakos was here. The Pryde dynasty and its four-hundred year stint would die on a dark note, as most did. Dynasties ended when the sins of their leaders caught up to them. Regis’s misdeeds and their culminations were right here in this throne room. My son might not ever rule a house, let alone an empire.
“You could’ve stopped him, Terra. Had you been enough, you could have stopped him.” It was a melodious voice that spoke. One which sounded simply pleasant to the ear. Laerna Brakos had been a pleasant woman once. Radiant, to be honest. Genius as well. Regis had ruined her, though it was difficult to not be impressed by the woman garbed in black. She even hid her face, though her eyes were visible through a horizontal slit. Mirth. Mirth and satisfaction filled those void-black eyes to the brim.
“I do not feel much better having killed him. He took two from me. It’s not fair that I could only kill him once. Meaningfully, anyway.” The black eyed woman moved not an inch whilst she surveyed the room. Surveyed her dirty work. She grimaced. “It was foul of you to put the servants in here. They didn’t have anything to do with this. That’s Regis for you. Pulling each and every person around into his awful fucking messes.” She let out a short hark of a laugh. “I can already feel how much better the world is without him.”
Lost in thought, Terra didn’t realize Arol had slid the knife out from her belt. Her son was rushing toward the monster who had killed his father. It mattered not that she had been a monster of Regis’s making. The child knew not of his father’s transgressions.
The crown prince of Mithrock screamed. Shrill notes of vengeance consumed the room, stomping out what had become a cacophony of dying whispers and promises from dying parents to their dying children that things would be okay.
I have to stop him. Even if I have to hurt him, I have to. Terra had no time. The Queen of the Night had pulled out another blade, her pitch black eyes locked onto the boy before her. She would add Arol to the butcher’s bill. She’d tack on anyone named Pryde if she could.
Terra drew on her Aether, motioned her wand and began to think of as many uses of her Weavings as she could. Her efforts wouldn’t touch Laerna. She knew that. Alanna Alden once said that she herself was incapable of standing against the Dark Eyed Queen. Terra’s Weavings had to stop Arol. She couldn’t use Wind. It would send Arol right into the woman. She didn’t have time to bring the ceiling down safely, and she could not find any spots to put a wall. He was too far away for Terra to be accurate. The gap had been closed too quickly.
More ideas. She needed more. She needed one. She needed something. She could have someone shoot him with an arrow. If they aimed for his ankle or calf, he might live.
She needed to be steel. She needed to save her son and heir.
As she began to speak, Jerad’s body flickered. It was a quick thing. Almost instantaneous. He dropped his knife on the ground and flickered again. He was gone. In his place was Arol, who was still screaming though he had stopped running. Terra had never seen Jerad do this but it mattered not. She needed to act quickly. She grabbed her eldest child and once again there was a flicker. It was the knife Jerad had left on the ground. Again, that which had flickered was now gone. The High Commander now stood where the knife had been.
“Your Grace!” the knight screamed out. “Haydon! Huddle together right now! With the children!” There wasn’t a moment to waste. Both Terra and Haydon reacted without question. High Queen and guard both wrapped their arms around the children.
There was no sense or indication of what had occurred. One moment they had been in the throne room, the next they had been on a ship.
Terra took it all in. They were in the cove underneath the castle. The moonlight did not show much. It looked as though they were in a pitch black cavern save a couple stalactites which poked down from the unseen ceiling of the cove. She swayed a bit though not of her own volition. They were on the deck of a ship. The ship meant to take them to Venroth should the need to flee arise. Whatever Jared had done in order to save Arol, he had done to bring them here in the span of a second.
Terra looked to her knights. They were hers now, in truth. They had been the moment Regis was murdered. Their Oath would transfer to whomever the laws of Mithrock deemed its ruler. With Arol not being of his majority, she was the Queen Regent and the rightful ruler of Mithrock.
“Captain! It’s time for you to be off! Straight to Venroth, just as we agreed!” Jerad shouted toward a man up some stairs and near the ship’s wheel. His captain’s coat was brown, woolen, and quite dirty. It had been recently cleaned yet still showed stains of drink and blood. His black beard was untrimmed and bald head shining even in the night. Despite his uncouth appearance, his dark green eyes seemed genuine. Jerad had been put in charge of this particular arrangement. If he felt a smuggler was their best chance of making it to Venroth alive, then so be it.
The captain responded in a high mood, “Aye, Lord Captain. Straight North to King Jarlam.” His jovial tones deemed him clearly ignorant of the dire situations above them, though he must have been aware. Why else would the Queen and her crying children be here? She looked around and saw that the crew was simply getting to work. No one wasted a hair of a movement. They had been told that their arrival might have been abrupt. How else could they not have been in awe when they appeared from thin air?
“My Queen.” Terra snapped out of reverie and looked to Jerad, a solemn glare planted upon his face. His eyes were resigned, lips thin. The Lord Captain was even trembling a bit.
“You surely do not mean to go back, Jerad?” She needed him to guide Arol. Haydon was of great quality, but he was fourteen. He deserved to experience a bit of his fleeting adolescence once they were in exile. She couldn’t take more from the boy.
“I am the only one who can hold her off. She really is one of those Disciples.” His pause sat for a moment. Terra understood. Any pause he took was a moment longer that he lived. She intended to keep him alive either way.
“Come with us, Lord Captain. My children will need you. You have taught Arol since he could hold a small blade. Haydon needs his teacher. We cannot… we cannot lose you too.” Tears welled up in her cheeks, but they did not fall. Steel. I am steel.
Jerad looked to Arol. His screaming had subsided, though tears and sobs took its place. The boy would end up like Haydon; harder than a lad his age should ever be. Jerald placed his large, gauntleted hands on the boy's shoulder and gave him a quick shake.
“You need to be ready. Our armies won the battle. We forced the Marans to retreat. They will come back when they learn that Brakos has forced you out of your home. They will rule your kingdom.” Never in Terra’s life had she seen tears fall from a single Warden, let alone Jerad Kingsor. Some fell now though his voice stood strong. “It will take many years. It will be hard. But that throne is yours! Mithrock is yours! You will need to be ready to take it back!”
Arol’s sobs subsided. He wiped his snot and tears onto his sleeve. “I will be,” the crown prince replied. Anger, strength, and a coldness could be found in his demeanor. Terra was equal parts proud and furious. Pride for her son’s strength; fury toward Laerna for murdering the child within him.
Jerad flickered and was gone. Goodbyes would be redundant here. Arol looked upwards, likely thinking of the death that awaited his mentor. The crown prince turned around and grabbed at his mother’s sleeve.
“Mother,” he said, “let us have them show us our cabin.” No hint of his understandable distress could be heard now. Her son was steeled more so than she ever had been.
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The captain, a smuggler who’s name turned out to be Maron, showed them to their rooms and kindly tried to comfort the children. Arol ignored him. Svana, with Terra’s permission, sat on the man’s shoulders. Andrius had fallen asleep.
As the former royal family went down the stairs and toward the cabins, Terra turned and looked once more at the empire they were leaving behind.
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“All hail the High King! Hail House Mara!”
Jubilation filled the Great Hall of the Bainarathian Keep. Three days had passed since Alanna Alden’s betrayal, and two since the absence of Alden forces had caused the Marans to retreat from the battle outside the realm’s capital. Lord Harley, Alanna’s heir, had not seemed to mind that only his sister was to blame for how the whole situation played out. No matter what anyone said, whether it be an oath of no hostilities or promises of retaliation should Harley leave, he had left, and with him went the entirety of their house’s forces.
That betrayal among other things made it difficult for Haryn to enjoy his father’s victory. House Alden had been staunch allies to every royal house to rule the Mithrocki provinces. For each and every legend who managed to usurp the throne, there was a legendary Alden beside them. Samaryn Mara had Absolom Alden. Theodore Reagan had Yusuf Alden when he had claimed the throne and Mariana Alden when he crushed a Ranidorian rebellion. Even the leader of that rebellion, Bharnam Yhorn, had Temerius Alden as his most trusted adviser!
Alyn Mara had Elias Stormrite, though Haryn was unsure whether or not bastards counted. They likely did. Three hundred years down the road, some historian would likely dub him Elias Alden and all would likely agree that had always been his name. The Crown Prince could hear the bastard talking; likely with individuals who had not known he existed until a few days ago.
They were both seated on the high dais, Haryn to the right of his father and Elias to the left. Rows upon rows of feasting tables lined the hall in front of them. Smells of hams, beaten potatoes, ale, and wine permeated throughout the hall. Small orange orbs of Aether floated in the air above the tables, lighting and heating the celebration. The work of his father’s Sages, they were truly a sight to behold. Having Vulcans and Lightsmiths available for such menial work was even more impressive.
Servants walked by with great haste. They carried trays of pies, small glazed cakes, and lemon squares. For the second time in his seventeen years, the Crown Prince had no appetite. When he looked at these servants, he saw those they’d found when they had taken the castle the night prior. Corpses upon corpses bundled together, nearly every inch of the hall covered in death and debris. Someone had destroyed the hall’s great doors and, in doing so, killed everyone in the throne room. The doors had been promptly replaced as preparations for the feast were underway. Strong alder wood doors with metal hinges stood tall in what had momentarily been an empty frame.
The fact that someone killed Regis and his servants bothered him as much if not more than the sheer number of dead they had found. It had to be a Sage. Only Weavings could turn a door into a weapon like that. Where was the murderer? Was it one of their own, or was there someone outside of their faction who also wanted Regis dead? Would that person stop at Regis, or did they have disdain for anyone who sat on the Mithrocki Throne?
There were so many possibilities to ponder, each accentuating Haryn’s paranoia more than the last. Paranoia had been the death of many dynasties all over the world. Haryn couldn’t give in when he had only been the Crown Prince for half a day. Maybe eating would be a fine distraction, or listening to the folks around him. Anything but thinking, really.
Haryn could hear the bastard boasting about how he had outmaneuvered the Great Phoenix. From what Haryn could gather, it sounded more so like a cowardly back stab than a great feat.
Elias was managing to make Alanna Alden sound like beggar’s change despite the fact she had taken on six enemies at once and killed five. Don Poe. Leann Poe. Miles Declan. Logan Reagan. Haleigh Faelor. Four heirs to great houses and one of their siblings. There had been no sign of Don. He had likely been disintegrated by Alanna’s Lightning. Leann had been found with a scorched hole through her chest. Miles and Logan’s necks had been burnt to crisps. Haleigh’s head was found two hundred paces from her body, the remainder of her neck charred.
No matter how Haryn felt about the mockery of a great warrior, he was glad Alanna was dead. There would not have been much his father could have been able to do if the woman lived to put Gabryan Mara on the throne. Besides, he could respect greatness, but he did not have to like her for it. Haryn had enjoyed Haleigh and Don. The others he had been indifferent toward, but they were his subjects and it angered him to see them taken from the world by the Would-Be-Queen.
“My Prince?” A soft voice roused him from his thoughts. Looking up, he noticed that the Lady Juniper Faelor stood before him. Elderly and plump, the High Lady of Ranidor seemed as silently angry with the world as she had when news of her daughter reached her. Haryn could not see her husband near. To look at him was even worse. Where Juniper had turned her daughter’s death into anger and passion, Boras Ridelos-Faelor had been broken. Tears were never far from his cheeks and his words were hardly more than murmurs. Conversations with him were impossible to hold and he more oft than not excused himself once pleasantries were exchanged. Haryn could understand, though. House Ridelos were bannermen to House Alden. The man had likely made the journey to see Alanna born, blessed her as a baby and even kissed her forehead. There weren’t enough thrones in the world worth going through what Boras was.
Juniper, on the other hand, at least had a semblance of composure. Sure, her brown eyes had a tinge of anger to them. Her stark white hair, normally in an unnaturally neat bun, was a bit disheveled, but she was still there. The way she was meeting his eyes, the High Lady must have been talking and was likely expecting some sort of answer.
Honesty would always go the longest way with subjects, or so Alyn Mara had always said. Well, men had fought and died to make the man the High King. Some of his advice had to be good.
“In all honesty, my High Lady, I was deep in thought and didn’t hear a word you said. I am sorry.”
“Oh, tis not a worry in the slightest, my Prince. Might I ask what you were thinking on?”
“I was just thinking on the war.”
“The war is over, my Prince.”
“It was my first. I pray it is my only. I-“ He cut himself off. There was no need to go in that direction. Not tonight, not during the eve which signaled the revival of the Maran dynasty.
“It’s okay, Haryn. I can hear it.” Some might have minded being referred to so informally in this setting, but he did not. Haleigh had been his friend and her mother knew that.
“I am just, I am so sorry. I wish she was still here. I hate that our rise to power resulted in her death-“
“Child,” Juniper replied curtly. She reached for his left hand and cupped it in both of hers. Her grip was tough, much like the woman herself. “Never was Haleigh’s death your fault. Nor was it your father’s. It wasn’t your rise to power. It wasn’t your rebellion. Alanna Alden killed my Haleigh and the bitch lies within the dirt, her ashes spread along the wind and away from the graves of her homeland.” She grew quiet so others would not hear, but her intensity rose while her words descended into a whisper. “I know my daughter. She took on her duty for you. I’ve no doubt she was thinking of her duty when she stuck her dagger into the Great Phoenix. I pray you won’t take offense to this, my Prince, but I’ll not have you treat my daughter as a victim. She died a hero. She died fighting for her prince, and I would rather hear you talk about her as such.”
A hero. Aye, that she is. “They will sing songs of her bravery, my Lady. From Nya Norr to Ranidor, I swear they will.”
The High Lady of Ranidor strengthened her grip on his hands for a short moment and gave him a smile. She looked up to Haryn’s father and gave a deep curtsy. “Blessings upon you, my prince. May your father’s reign last two dozen summers.”
“The Mother bless you, my Lady. Thank you for helping my son see the way of things.” Haryn flinched. Alyn Mara had a way of sneaking into a conversation that was uncanny for a man with so much to tend to.
Haryn’s father looked every bit a king. His blonde hair ran long and was worn down to his shoulders. His beard was thick, his eyes gray, and a few scars ran along his cheeks and forehead. Trophies from the war, he called them, as well as a reminder of what it took to earn back their throne. Haryn was often told he looked like his father, though he had no real beard to speak of. Only small patches could grow upon his cheeks and a bit on his chin. He’d like to have one some day, though.
Alyn Mara extended his hand out to his subject and she kissed the knuckle to his middle finger. With a dismissive nod, the High Lady Juniper went back into the throngs of tables and merriment.
Haryn’s father tapped him on the shoulder, bending down from his high seat to whisper. “I was frightened you’d make a scene for a moment, but I think you handled that well. Always listen to your subjects, even when it’s hard to hear what they have to say. Especially when it’s hard. I think House Faelor will fight for House Mara so long as Juniper’s will is well remembered, thanks to you.” Rare praise that was. His father only handed it out when it was deserved.
“I did not really do much, father.”
“You are right. You only did a little, but tis easy to forget to even do just a little. A little can be all that someone needs. When the world is unfair or unkind, a small gesture can mean more to someone than the world at that time.”
Haryn simply nodded. “Thank you, father.”
“Of course, my son. I’m proud of the man you’re becoming. I don’t want you to forget that, even though I forget to say it.” They both laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. Haryn hoped there would be more laughs. More praise. More things to be proud of. If anyone could bring about a Mithrock with those things, it would be him and his father.
“ELIAS! COME AND DIE, YOU TRAITOROUS CUNT!”
The jubilation subsided. Laughter faded. The only sound heard was the rustling of bodies as the feast’s attendants looked to find the man who had said the words. Folks sat down at the tables in order to prevent being mistaken as the perpetrator. Those who could not find space on a bench found it on the floor. A few moments of silence passed before the man made his way to the center of the hall. Not a man, Haryn realized. A boy. One younger than himself.
One with golden eyes.
Haryn froze in his spot. This boy had the golden eyes of House Alden.
Murmurs filled the hall as the subjects at the tables came to the same realization. The murmurs began to turn into shouts and the King raised his hand. Silence followed. Haryn looked to every corner of the hall. Each and every archer had their arrows aimed at the boy. The spheres of Aether had disappeared, a sign that the Sages were preparing to fight.
The King spoke. “Eustace Alden. Why are you here?”
“I want Elias,” he said quietly. “I want him dead!” he yelled. “HE BETRAYED MY SISTER, ALYN!”
Limerick Reagan stood up. He had been sitting right next to where Eustace had begun screaming. His red hair could be recognized from leagues away. His face was equally scarlet with anger. “Your cunt sister betrayed her king, killed my son! She deserves what she got!”
That was all it took.
Silver erupted in all directions, every bit of it stemming from where Eustacw stood. Heat filled the room, and the silver licked upwards from wherever it landed. Flames. The man created silver flames just has his sister had silver lightning. He turned his eyes back to Eustace. Where bodies had surrounded him, not one remained. Only ash. Arrows were loosed. They burned away before they reached their target. Sages shot Light, Fire, and Air toward the boy. Walls of flames stopped them in their place before reaching Alanna Alden’s youngest brother.
Haryn’s father screamed for the man to be seized. Men-at-arms and Sages readied themselves. All of the nobility in the room began to walk toward the doors to the hall. Before anyone could leave, a wide wall of sterling flame erupted from the ground just before the doors and grew until it reached the ceiling. Eustace said nothing. He merely looked at them as though they were foolish for thinking they would be allowed to leave.
Pandemonium ensued.
Flames zipped around the room, killing anyone Eustace could catch. He defended himself in one on one combat while simultaneously allowing the flames to roam in an almost random fashion. The scents of hams and desserts and ale were replaced by those of burning skin and ash. Heat continued to rise, smoke filled the hall, and Haryn could feel his sweat mixing with his tears. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
His father had put his hand on Haryn’s shoulder. The King was looking to Elias as well. “Stay up here. I’ll see if I can talk to him.”
“Father, please. No!”
“My people are dying down there. I cannot stand by.”
“Father, no-“
The King’s eyes became fierce. “Elias. Keep my son up here. If he leaves the dais, then you will die.”
Elias’s voice cracked as he responded, “Yes, my King!” The bastard grabbed onto Haryn and held him with a much stronger grip than Haryn would have figured. Streaks of white floated across Elias’s hands. Infusion Kova.
Haryn had to break free. He had to stop his father. This was foolishness.
- - - -
Alyn heaved himself over the dais and onto the stairs. Never in his life had he ever wanted to kick himself for never furthering his training in Sageweavings. It mattered not. That was not a tool he had. This Alden boy was murdering his subjects. Those he had sworn to keep safe just this morning. Those who had placed a crown upon his head and called him sire. They had called him King.
He could not let anger take over. It was difficult. The heat made it harder. But he stayed calm. Eustace Alden was a boy of twelve. He was grieving. The boy had lost his mother, father, and two eldest siblings in the span of a couple years. His mind would be delicate at best. Cries began to die down. The flames seemed to as well. Eustace was responding to Alyn’s approach.
“EUSTACE!” he screamed. Not antagonistic, but loud enough to boom over the noise and catch the lad’s attention. The flames calmed a tad. They receded, shrinking in size before returning to the boy. They settled along his arm, a lattice tattoo appearing in their place as they faded. Eustace’s eyes were glazed over, but some sentience returned to them. He looked around the room, a bit of confusion appearing upon his face. Alyn did not look around. He could not. Ferocity was being forged in the depths of his soul. If he looked at the horrid amounts of ash that surely littered the room, the lives that had been taken, there would be no tempering it.
He put his hands out. “Lad. I have no weapons. None. I just want to talk with you.”
“I did not, I. I did not. I, Alyn. I. I. I only mean to hurt Limerick.” Eustace put his hands up to his head. He began to mutter. Sobs racked his body. He bent over and screamed into the ground, scratching his scalp and face as he roared in pain. This boy’s soul had been so horribly tortured. Had Alanna known that his would happen? Did she realize her brother’s mind would break and decided to give her their Mark anyway?
It mattered not. Alanna was dead. He was not here to save his little brother.
Alyn eventually made it to Eustace. He knelt down, his good silk breaches being dirtied by the ashes of his followers. I must temper it. I must. He is a child in grief. “Eustace. You need to leave. Go home. Go back to Harley. Please, lad.”
The sobbing ended. It was gone nearly as quick as it had come about. The lad looked up to him. His eyes glazed over again. Insanity had him. Alyn needed to tread carefully.
“I cannot, Alyn. I cannot.”
“Why not, lad? I am the High King. I will let you leave. You have killed enough. You don’t have to hurt anymore. Just go.”
“Elias is there. I killed everyone in here, but I just came for him.”
Horror reached in to the depths of Alyn’s soul, replacing the ferocity that had nearly spilled over.
“They all died for nothing if Elias lives, Alyn.” Alyn finally looked around the room.
No one. There was no one. The door had not been opened. The boy had not stopped the flames for him. There had simply been no one else to burn. Hundreds of guests had come to this evening feast. High Lords. Heirs. Merchants. The most powerful servants of his kingdom. None had survived. He had promised to protect them so long as he was their King.
His promise had lasted less than twelve hours.
Eustace stood up and walked toward the high dais. Only Haryn and Elias remained. They were the only two left in this throne room other than Eustace and himself. He had failed. He had united the entire kingdom just so he could fail them in less than a day.
Alyn reached his hand out, grabbing Eustace’s forearm. He had no more room to grieve for the child. No more room for empathy. Mourning and despair filled him to the brim.
“Let me go.” The boy’s voice was cold, lacking any emotion. It would have chilled Alyn to the core if he’d had any room for it.
“I will not.”
“I just want Elias.”
“You will not have him.”
Flecks of silver began to coalesce around the two. They took longer to form than they had previously. Heat began to rise. Alyn had already decided to die here. No good King could live after allowing his subjects to die like that. He would do his best to end the boy.
“FATHER, STOP!”
The flames disappeared before they could fully form. Eustace looked up to the high dais. Haryn stood at the top of the stairs, the Mithrocki Throne looming behind him. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he met Eustace’s eyes. What was he doing? Surely he wasn’t thinking of giving Elias up?
“If we give you Elias, will you leave us? Will you leave us be until the end of time?”
Eustace thought for a moment longer than Alyn had expected he would. How could Haryn offer up the man who had helped them put down Alanna’s betrayal? What kind of leaders would they be if they gave in to their enemies' wishes like that?
The same kind of men who can’t maintain their oath for more than a day.
Eustace replied, his tones much more jovial. “Of course, Haryn. It’s that easy.”
It isn’t about the kind of leader I can be anymore.
“Father. Let go of him.”
It’s about the kind of king Haryn can be.
“Father. Please.”
He can still be great, even if I cannot.
“Alyn. Let me go.”
I’ll NOT let my son ruin himself just to save me!
“Eustace.” Alyn’s word quivered. He was afraid, but there was no other choice to make. “Eustace. I’m the one who told Elias to kill your sister.”
Sterling flames enveloped Alyn Mara immediately. He embraced death knowing that his son could no longer make a choice which he could not have lived with.
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“Bloody lords and their stupid, forging requests!” Curses and a tirade exploded from Terince. Marilyn nearly fell out of her horse as she winced. Very rarely did her mentor resort to such language, especially within earshot of other people. It wasn’t very becoming of a Cleric. Not one bit. Marilyn’s tan gelding, Ides, nearly stopped, but continued on when he realized that she had righted herself more quickly than one might expect.
Such a good lad. If only Terince could compose himself so.
That wasn’t particularly fair. Terince had already ended his outburst and was on to brooding silently. The Cleric was a normally mild mannered, thoughtful, slow to yell, and quick to shame Marilyn when she exhibited the opposites of those qualities.
She could recall a time where an oath she had picked up from Ben and his teacher had her sleeping in stables for a week, living off the land for her dinner. Mother forsaken men and their Mother forsaken words. She had known thirteen birthdays at the time. Four had passed since and small bits of anger still swelled within her when that week came to mind. Scents of hay and horse dung still caused an involuntary squinting of her eyes now and again.
I will put you in the stables when I see you next, Ben. Just you wait. Ides snorted. She couldn’t tell whether he thought she was being silly or if he was providing support to his rider. She decided to think it was the latter.
Having finally taken total control of her gelding, Marilyn turned to her mentor. “Are you going to talk about it?” Prodding was often necessary with this introverted man, even more so when his bald head was so red that it’d give Prairie tomatoes a run for their money, or when his brown eyes could bore holes through bark.
“Soon. Ride tall and proud. Like a Cleric.”
She could do that. Straightening her back, squaring her shoulders, and looking ahead, she rode on.
Absolom’s Hearth was not the standard for what most folks might consider a backwater village. It had every little characteristic one might think of when thinking of an isolated mountain town.
One road ran through the Hearth and had homes on each side before it ended right in front of the Mayor’s mansion. The mansion was only considered as such thanks to the other homes. Mayor Janus’s home had the same pointed, thatch roof that was present in the rest of the village houses. On the other hand, within it were three bedrooms and a kitchen with a window so big that one could watch him have dinner if they so chose. There had been no need for a third bedroom. Janus’s niece, Dorene, was his only living relative. Marilyn had only seen the girl once. A brief moment, that had been. The village Mystic, a tightly wound Solrusian woman named Natalia, had picked the child up for some tutelage in her profession. Marilyn had seen the Mystic instructing her student over the properties of turmeric.
The roadside homes had a kitchen and a bedroom. That was it. It mattered not how many belonged to a family. Their kitchens served as dining rooms, living rooms, washrooms. Marilyn shuttered at the lack of privacy and suddenly felt quite thankful that Terince always spent coin on separate sleeping arrangements- save when she was sleeping in a stable.
There were no fenced in backyards in the Hearth. The grasses behind both rows of homes held an army of clotheslines and wash buckets. Today was laundry day. Parents screamed at their children to go play anywhere else, as though that would work. Parents also yelled at one another for slacking off. Plenty of clothes needed to be laundered, for every one of age in the Hearth was a parent. Everyone! Marilyn had never seen anything like it!
The kids were odd as well. Not because they were backwater dwellers, but there was a crop of ten or so who were all the same age. Not only had they all known twelve winters, but they had all been born within the same two month period. The children had excitedly told her this with very little prompt, as most children did, before being scurried off by their parents with forced apologies to the Clerics.
Other than that, the kids were normal. That was what made them so odd. They were normal whereas their parents were a bunch of sad sacks. The adults seemed fine when around the children, but Marilyn could see it. Their movements, their apprehension when speaking, the constant lowering of their eyes, all of it. That might be normal in the slums of a rougher city where food, safety, and purpose might be scarce. It was not normal in a backwater village.
Marilyn had expected pride, stubborn attitudes, even a bit of haggling when renting a room. She had found hushed and contrite responses, quick subservience, and bedding rates that were too fair. The Mystic seemed to have a bit of fire, but that was it. One adult out of nearly forty or so. Even the Mayor had a backbone of jelly.
Janus and Terince had spoken with one another for not even three minutes. That left them enough time for Janus to make his request, Terince to deny it, Janus to plead for a moment or two, and Terince to deny it gain. Clerics protected the average person from monsters that they couldn’t deal with on their own. If there was something in this area which Janus believed to be dangerous enough to warrant a Cleric, it would take a meek man to back down after two quick denials. Either that, or Janus’s request had been so ridiculous that Terince hadn’t gone through the proper procedure and had shut the mayor down quickly.
She had only seen that happen once, when a lord down in the South had requested that they take down a bandit camp that had been terrorizing merchants and travelers along one of the main roads outside of the city. Clerics didn’t take jobs to kill humans. Since the dawn of the order, those who took these jobs on were found and executed; their names struck from most records, only to be spoken around young trainees in order to scare them out of ever doing such a thing.
Lords could do as they pleased. If they wanted to set bounties on whoever they perceived as a criminal, let them. It may be a barbarous method used by those who struggle to keep the peace by normal means, but it was their right. They would not use huntsmen for the act. Not even those assigned to their lands. Huntsmen served the people of the land, not a lord and definitely not a mayor.
They rode through the warm, muggy morning silently. They kept their mouths shut after the homes on the side of the westbound road disappeared, as they reached the crossroad which took them either to the Wall or the shore; even as they turned toward the Wall and plenty of time had passed for Marilyn to make as many possible assumptions regarding the negotiations as she could.
Hours later, once the Wall was in sight and Marilyn had thought through dozens of different scenarios, including one where she considered riding back to make sure the Mayor was alive, he spoke up. The All-Forsaken man spoke up. He did so quietly.
“He asked me to hunt down voidlings. Nightseers.”
Mari sat on that for a bit. Maybe she should have waited a bit longer.
“Nightseers haven’t been around for centuries,” she said, but even she could feel the uncertainty in her voice. Everyone knew what Laerna Brakos claimed she was. Nightseer. Dark Eyed Queen. She had left Mithrock alone for a decade and a half, but rumors involving her battles in the Frontier had made their way to the west. Dread fleets. Fjallborn subjugation. Whole ships of pirates murdered only to rise from the dead and join her side. Even the two remaining Chieftains had apparently been avoiding her. Others said she had killed Clarissa Le Noy and Gwondoya Akimba and that the entirety of their fleets had sworn fealty to her.
“Bah, of course they haven’t. It matters not if they were. We do not kill humans as our job. Even if the Nightseers were here, even if every bloody rumor about Laerna Brakos was true, it wouldn’t matter. Nightseers are human, lass. Just as the Sages are.” Marilyn understood. It was the principle of the matter. Even if Nightseers were running amok on the coast, it wasn’t their job. That was under the scope of other Aegimary divisions.
“Will you send a message to Winthrop, then?”
“Aye. Maybe the Aegimari can get the right of this. I feel for the mayor, I do. The history of that All-forsaken village is downright dreadful and he’s trying to break free of it, but someone out there is trying to pull them back into the dark times. The only thing stopping us from helping him is that it’s obviously a someone and not a something.” Cold calmness made up his voice. Terince wanted to help, but there was nothing to do about human conflicts when you belonged to this particular order.
“I cannot let you send that message, I’m afraid.” Cold and melodic. Frighteningly beautiful. Both Clerics turned their horses around, throwing knives ready in one hand. Marilyn’s other hand went to her unstrung alder bow, Terince’s to his Sosin long-knife.
Goosebumps sprung up from their arms as the woman spoke again. “I am thankful you came, though you are not who I was hoping for.” Marilyn felt herself shiver. The woman wore a black, hooded cloak from her head to her knees. Well worn black boots went up to the calves of fine black breeches. Noting her average height, Marilyn could see nothing else of her save her wand and stance. Sure, confident, not an inch of hesitation. This woman had been in many fights.
The man to her side was even more frightening. He was garbed similarly, though his tree trunk arms wouldn’t have been contained by any cloak. His sheer black doublet was visible through a part in the cloak. Like the woman, Marilyn could not see his face, but he did have a lengthy gray beard.
There’s no way-
The cloaked woman spoke up again. “Is a Cleric named Ben traveling with you? Bianca Rosamund? Perhaps a large, brusque commoner named Abraham?”
Marilyn yelled back in surprise, “What could you possibly-“
“Lass.” Terince sat atop his black gelding, ready to strike at either enemy in an instant. By the Mother, they felt like enemies. “You’ll not find any information about them from us. Now, turn around and walk away. There’s no need for us to fight. You’ll have the whole order on your backs if anything happens to us.”
Clerics wouldn’t take a job to kill a person. But if someone was directly attacking the order, that would be a different matter.
“Good,” was all the cloaked woman said as a thin fragment of purple energy shot through the air and cut through Terince’s neck. He hadn’t the time to throw his knife.
Marilyn screamed. Fright, sadness, desperation, anger all flooded from her throat and into the world. She charged the woman and quickly fell from her horse and into the ground. She tried to stand, but her legs would not allow her to. Her chest felt warm and she could see her life-blood forming a pool upon the ground. The warm liquid ran across her cheek. How?
The cloaked woman appeared before her, kneeling down, her black boots stained with Marilyn’s blood. Wisps of purple were fading from the tip of her wand.
“You did nothing wrong, Cleric.
“I do what I must to protect my loved one. You were a bump in the road, but you did not deserve to die.
“Your one fault is that you were weaker than me; for when the lines of morals go gray, those with strength are those who get to choose what is right.” Regret lined the murderer’s words. How dare she feel upset?
How? How did this happen?
Marilyn died more confused than afraid.
- - - -
Marilyn continued toward the coast. Her horse had taken a moment to get used to her again. It had been frightened, and understandably so. The air felt cold now. Warmth did not reach her. It mattered not. Nothing mattered, really. It’s not like she had a say in how things could go. She could think her own thoughts, though she couldn’t even do that privately. She mourned for Terince, wishing she could join him.
Marilyn wanted to set a goal, anything. Anything to escape this cold, nihilistic existence she had been provided. A new life where she couldn’t choose what she did. Not one bit. She would kill. She would lure. Her skill set would be used against those she wanted to protect. Something as will-driven as a goal was useless, as she had none left to her.
She wished to weep for so many things. The life she had lost, the love she’d never know, the parents and sisters she’d never see again, the family Terince had left behind. All of it and more, but she couldn’t weep.
“If you want to cry,” the keeper spoke up, her melodic chords warmer than when they’d first met, “all you have to do is ask.”