Dorn stared up at the painting hanging above his desk.
In it, an ark floated above a golden meadow, where the grass would have been barely up to his waist. The wind rustled it while the ship cast a long shadow. It was smaller than Dorn’s prime ark, Thorteya, likely only half its length and barely a third of its width.
It wasn’t the depiction’s focal point, however.
A manor overlooked the field. It was his Dorn’s and Casselda’s before he departed Thorteya, his home planet and the name his prime ark inherited. They had not spent long there, but his memories of those days were more vivid than the painting itself. He was tempted to take it down.
How long had they known? A hundred years ago, Dorn had heard their promises and optimism that Kefoine would become humanity’s new home. He had suspected that the next communication would be the last and that they would tell him their arrival date. At that time, all the people on Thorteya—as well as from its ally planets—would move to Kefoine, fleeing the conflict ravaging their home system.
But the Originators would not come.
He breathed out and planted two feet on the desk before him. For the good of his people, Dorn had to accept that the seven Ark kingdoms were now separated from the rest of humanity. Casselda was safe, even though he would never see her again. The remaining of his children, who were still in the home system, were safe. The seven Ark kingdoms on Kefoine could even die, but the home system would still have peace. That would have been enough for most people.
But Dorn was not most people.
He felt a stab deeper than any knife could penetrate. Was it the time wasted securing Kefoine, the lives lost in pushing the Kefis back, or his hopes vanishing? He thought for a brief moment that he had lost everything.
Except for her.
In the darkness of his study, Dorn reached out through the Thorteyan prime Ark. Like a snake slithering through the lens of an infinite tunnel, he meandered his way through the hull of the generation ship, traveling faster with his mind than any person could by foot. He passed a hundred rooms, a thousand patrons, guards, and servants. It did not take long to find his advisor reciting orders to a servant carrying a food tray, likely to one of the visiting officers’ quarters.
He waited for the servant to leave before speaking. “Florence,” he said, “I need you down here. Something’s come up.”
Anyone else in the study would have thought the navigator was talking to himself, but it was very much intentional. Though not as quickly, Dorn’s voice permeated the hull and weaved through it like his mind did. His words were delayed a few seconds, but a section of the wall Florence stood next to vibrated to match Dorn’s voice. The result was a collection of metallic hums that formed words.
Florence did not jump; by now, he was used to it. He nodded and began his ascent to the study.
Dorn could have followed him the entire way, but instead, he dropped the connection and opened the long drawer beneath his feet. A single parchment had been rolled up there, this one not as dusty as the devices surrounding it. When he unfolded the paper on the desk, the continents of Kefoine stared back at him. Thorteya was the center of this map, with the other six Ark kingdoms surrounding it.
Scrawled throughout the map were a series of black X’s denoting the kingdom’s various Arks. Most were behind the kingdom’s walls, most resting in their Docks, derelict and dead. Dorn shivered at the thought of how many Arks had come with them to Kefoine and how many were left now. There were too few to make an impact, yet too few to be noticed.
Footsteps creaked outside the door. Dorn attuned and snapped the door open.
“And what could your Guidance possibly request at this hour?” Florence’s hands were joined in his robes. There were no bags under his eyes, even though it was far past midnight. Did the man ever sleep? Dorn was convinced that some crossbreeding mutation between the Ark kingdoms had made the advisor nocturnal.
“Sit,” Dorn said. “Do you have a list of all our visitors?”
Florence pursed his lips but then nodded. “I have that, though some have come and gone and are still going now. Whether it is current or not, I do not know. Is this for provisions? The guests accompanying us to the Seat are well attended to; you do not need to look into that. However, they are getting restless. They will pack up as soon as the last council meeting concludes, meaning the manifest must be updated.” Florence often voiced his concerns when he was nervous.
“It will be fine,” Dorn said, reassuring him. “Can you bring me it?” Florence nodded, put his hands behind his back, and did not move. The man also had a brilliant memory. “Very well. How many navigators are in our kingdom whose ships are outside our walls?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Before Dorn finished speaking, Florence turned his eyes up and began the count in his head. “Seven, your Guidance. I suspect they’re all sleeping. Should I wake them?”
Dorn nodded, two hands making a tent supporting his chin as he rocked in the chair. “Do it, but don’t tell any servants to help you. And try not to be seen yourself.”
Florence blinked for a second, deeper than usual. The advisor was no stranger to odd requests, but he was not a young lad full of stamina either, and the name ship was the tallest standing ark on Kefoine.
“Tell them to meet me at the top,” Dorn continued, “and make sure they take the service routes.” He sifted through the parchment rolls on his desk, found one, and handed it to Florence. “If they don’t know the ways, tell them. I’ll keep most doors closed to obscure their movements.”
Florence took the scroll. “As you command, your Guidance. Please give me a few minutes to reach them by myself.” He did not ask anything more.
Dorn nodded and opened the door for the advisor before getting up and looking at the painting. Slowly, he fumbled with the bolts locking the glass in place. Placing the pane on the desk, he curled the painting delicately in his two hands, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
He took one last look at his dark quarters before opening a service staircase door and walking up it.
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A breeze whipped Dorn’s hair as he studied his kingdom below. Fires blazed atop guard towers on the walls, casting the lookout’s shadows over rooftops. Sharpshooters occupied the tallest points, looking down the streets. There were at least ten in his view alone, maybe fifteen. He wondered if Afananti eyes—though only half strong through breeding with Thorteyans—could see him through the darkness without torchlight.
The seven navigators came almost as one, forming a line. Dorn recognized their heights and features more than their faces, and no commander could be expected to know the names of all underneath them. From their stares into the darkness, they had not climbed this high in Thorteya before.
“I’m going to make this quick,” Dorn began, “and we don’t have a lot of time. Raise your hands if you’ve ever flown your arks into battle before.”
Of the seven navigators, two raised their hands.
Two? It was less than Dorn hoped but more than he expected; most of the ships outside the walls were not military vessels.
“And how many have fired their guns?” he asked.
The hands of the two still held, but another joined them.
“And out of all of you,” Dorn continued, “how many have flown across Kefoine?”
All of the hands rose at once.
Pulling the military arks away from his kingdom would have been too obvious, unsafe, and slow. On the other hand, trade vessels traveled across Kefoine daily. Their navigators would know the land better than anyone.
Bowing his head, Dorn started. “None of you will be going home tonight; none of us will. I don’t even know the next time you will see Thorteya again. You will not be able to tell your family where you’re going, your friends, or your colleagues beyond those you see now.”
He waited for any murmurs to start but there were none; traders were used to being away from home, often leaving at the last minute with no words to anyone other than a marking in a ledger. Even that, however, would be too much of an indication.
Dorn continued. “I will go farther than I ever have and won’t take Thorteya with me. It may not be farther than you have traveled before, but I will lean on you for directions. And for much more than that, too.”
This time, the implication brought the murmurs. Since docking Thorteya and building the kingdom around it, the furthest that Dorn had ventured was the Seat. He could reach that Ark without breaking his attunement to Thorteya. If he ventured further than the Seat, he would forever sever the connection with Thorteya.
Yet, that did not mean that Thorteya would be without a navigator.
“Florence will prepare horses for you,” Dorn said, “but only one. Take none of your belongings. Tell no one where you are going. I predict that word will spread by morning, but hopefully, it will take them weeks to know where we are going.”
No one spoke, but the question hung loudly in the air, so Dorn addressed it. “Our home system has made peace and has exiled us. We are not bound by them anymore, regardless of what the edicts say. We can do as we please. I will start by bringing us the victory that would have saved us a long time ago. Only after that will this world be ours.”
The rest of the plan came out in spews, some calculated and some improvised. Dorn questioned his delivery almost as much as his audience: seven trading vessels being ordered to fly beyond Thorteya’s reach. Was he doing the right thing? There would be no time for thinking now; if he waited to sleep, his duties would catch up to him in the morning, and by then, he would have thought the idea no different from a fool’s aspirations.
There was no better time to leave than now.
After Florence led the navigators to the stables, Dorn made his way down the service entrances and between floors, opening and closing doors to block off access from the guards. He made sure to block the entrances where the patrols were heading. Their footsteps were loud in his head, and an eye in every floor, every door, and every corner of the Ark had told him that he had not been seen.
Reaching his quarters, he stepped down the hallway, passing the closed doors that marked where his closest advisers slept. Letters under the door would do for them, but not for the next person.
Gila Thorteya’s hair was soft in his hand, down to her waist, and draped along the sheets. It was as dark as her mother’s.
“Your life is going to change after today,” was all Dorn could say. Then, “I don’t know if I will ever come back, but you will not need me. You have your mother’s strength in you, and I hope you will meet her one day.” He cupped her cheek, feeling the cold through his palms. “Before the Landing, our home system told us that our names would be carved in stone and live on forever, but they did not say that we would be the ones holding the chisels.” He reached over and kissed Gila gently on the cheek. He did not remember the last time he had done that. “Take care of this place for me.”
He took the service route to the bottom floor and found Florence waiting in the stables with the other navigators. Clad in dark riding wear, they lifted their hoods as Dorn took his gelding to the front of the pack.
When he led the gallop out of the kingdom, he did not look back.