Felderon threw the velvet drapery apart, and blinding light poured into the stygian room. He cast his gaze on the pile of unopened letters marked with his father's seal. Ah, Father, you did try, didn't you? Or at least, so the old man would tell himself when his armies slaughtered his own son in the wake of his military ambition.

Clutching the envelopes, he broke one seal after another, scattering the crimson wax fragments all over the table. He scanned the intelligence with a feverish eye, catching gists and scraps of sentences, and finally, cobbling together an explanation for this heinous breach of peace against an allied kingdom.

Rapidly, the story came together. His father was displeased with his proposal in behalf of his fifth son. He'd wanted the match for the third and favored prince. Kings and Fair Promises. It was my mirror! My debt! You thieving—! He bit off the final insult. Why did he care? He had flung the King of Renada's favor at the wind when he might have claimed it himself. He'd done it because he was wretched, covered in shame. How could he waltz in to the Palace to meet his bride in the throes of torment from his first glance into the dark mirror.

He took up the final letter and read.

It is clear to me that you want no part in this venture, and therefore, I release you both from responsibility, but also from its promise. Should you raise your until now silent voice to object, I warn you, I cannot be turned. This war be on my own conscious. At least, I will have five sons who shall be Kings!

Felderon's heart thumped against his ribcage. His father was at war with an imbecile king--made imbecile the ice-blue mirror Felderon had given him. And so evil had come upon not only Renada, but his own home and kingdom. What have I done?

The trumpets blared again and he turned his gaze on the beautiful woman collapsed in a heap upon the floor. He had to get out! Had to do something! The letters! He swept them into his purse. Then, in a glance, he surveyed the room. He'd leave most of his belongings. But the mirror. He couldn't leave it. Felderon plucked the dark mirror up from the floor, stowed it in his belt, and strode toward the door. On the threshold he glanced backward at Cylene, sprawled helpless on the ground, raven black curls hiding her face.

Hauling her would cripple him! Stopping the war with her on his hands would be impossible. He stared down at his hands and his throat tightened and he staggered backward.

Red blood oozed out from under his fingernails, seeped from between the creases of his palms. He blinked again. An illusion! And yet, not an illusion. He was a butcher all the same! There would be more blood on his hands than the past seven Kings of the Chalbeamss combined! Not one, but two kingdoms' blood! Cylene was only one more...

His throat tightened and his pulse raced. He could have left her one week ago, but now...

Kneeling down, he shook her bodily, but she was silent--not even a moan. He slung her arm up over his shoulder and hauled her weight onto his back, then he packed only the letters and his purse and rushed onto the landing outside the room.

He scanned the tavern below--vacant! Chairs stood up upon the long tavern tables. Of course they had fled. "Many thanks for your hospitality!" he muttered.

* * *

Fortunately, Cylene had a slight figure, but even a small woman became heavy after a mile or two. He wasn't used to running. He'd found the inn stables as abandoned as the tavern below his rooms. Of course they'd taken Serge. Blast!

In such an emergency almost anyone could justify the theft, but it left him no option but to leave the road and venture into the vineyards, using the seasonal foliage for screening. He wasn't alone. Late fleeing peasants dashed through the grapevines, women with babes, farmers carrying hackneyed attempts at weaponry—spades, hoes or shovels.

A little girl, perhaps six-years-old, stumbled over her long apron, bawling at the top of her lungs, "Don't leave me Papa! Wait!"

For a moment, Felderon paused, frozen at the sight. Then his legs took control, running toward the child, automatic and unthinking.

“Papa! Wait!”

He embraced the child. What am I doing? “Shhh! It’s all right! Don’t be afraid!”

At once, the girl’s father stopped, paused, mouth twisted in fear. Turning again, the miscreant charged toward them, tore the child from Felderon's grasp. Tears streaming and voice shaking, he shushed, "Shh. Shh. I've got you, Lottie. Don't fret."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Felderon's stomach turned and heaved. Grimacing, he swallowed back the acid in his throat.

The vineyard had turned to a maze. Men and women. Children. White-knuckle fisting their pitiable lives. If they only knew...they would run from themselves!

He had to get through to the south--over the hills. A couple of days journey if he could get clear of the advancing troops. Most of those fleeing were heading towards the eastern shores. Those who had no boat, fled up the hills. It would be safer if they could just reach the mountain border, escaping into the Illusion Pass.

Something crackled and dark pillowed around him. Acrid odor assaulted his lungs and Prince Felderon paused, straining his eyes in the vineyard shade. Smoke! Fire was burning the vines and spreading rapidly. Refugees halted and reversed course, fleeing downwind. Between the smoke and the tide of frantic runners, he had no choice.

No boat. No raft. He could scarcely swim. And the ocean was Felderon's safest refuge.

* * *

Cold air drifted through the vents of the rocky cavern, raising goose flesh all over Felderon's sweat-soaked back and neck.

Cylene shivered beneath his coat. The night was upon them and temperatures would be dropping with the sun.

At once, a faint thumping sound came from the deep interior of the cavern, repeating at regular intervals.

"Do you hear that?"

Thump.

Cylene cocked her head. "What?"

Thump.

"That."

Thump.

"Uh-oh."

Deep from within the gloom of the cavern, something stirred—or someone.

Gradually, a slight, stooped figure emerged from the darkness.

Felderon stared at the unlikely old man, walking by aid of a staff, or perhaps it was only a walking stick. He was shabbily dressed, and he was mulling something in his mouth, as though he were just finishing a meal.

"Confound me--the old goat lives back in there." Felderon whispered in Cylene's ear.

"Shhhh. He'll hear you."

The old man stopped a little bit apart and stared, his keen black eyes observing. "I don't get many visitors, certainly not of your sort."

"We don't mean to intrude. I'll be honest. You'll be getting more. Hundreds of refugees are filling the shores with nowhere to go. A siege is upon us!"

"Only the Chalbeams have the navy for such endeavors. Dare they break the Three Kingdom Covenant?"

"They dare," Cylene said.

"The Chalbeams are ambitious," the old man said. "But Renada's king is strong."

"It appears," Felderon whispered, "the king's strength is a cracked facade."

The old man's face sharpened to an inconvenience. "You are of the Chalbeams, are you not? Your accent is of the south."

Felderon's froze and his reply fell woodenly from his lips. "I have no country."

The wrinkles of the old man's wisened face deepened into a curve, not quite a smile. "Ahh. No country. No country--but that won't do. Such a fine man--you must have a home, and if not, a new home will have you."

"I've no occasion for warming my feet at home and hearth now. War has come, and I am bound by oath to find the Sage of the Sun."

"Ahhh. The Sage of the Sun...the Sage of the Sun...He is among the Chalbeams in the south. How will you go if the siege is upon us, as you say?"

"Up river—if I can escape the inland armies."

"You can go upriver from here--far upriver. This cavern turns underground, and connects to the catacombs beneath below the capital, mingling with an underground tributary to the Della River. It is the best possible course for you.

Felderon hesitated. "I have never heard of such a course."

A shadow crossed the old man's face, and in the darkness, it was impossible to see him smile, but Felderon could hear it. "It is a well kept secret."

"Why should it be secret, old man?"

"The nature of a cave is to be secretive. And I have but protected it's nature."

"Well,” Felderon considered. “I cannot pay you any tolls now, but I can promise you with an oath to send you payment when I reach my destination. Who are you?"

The old man hesitated. "I will not ask you for payment if you will not ask me my name."

"Bollucks! Then you intend to extort your payment along the way!”

"So cynical young man! Can I not do a good turn? Come with me. There is no one who knows these tunnels like I know them. If you go without my help, you will never make it through alive."

Felderon shifted. He did not trust the old man, but there was nowhere else to go. “Cylene, I cannot ask you to go with me.”

Cylene ground her teeth. "If you're going to find the Sage of the Sun, I am coming with you."

"Reconsider!”

The tendon in Cylene's neck tightened. "What else am I supposed to do? What can be worse than what I have already seen in the mirror?"

Felderon sighed. "You make a fair point."

“Old men have no time for wasting," the old hermit said. "Either come with me, or be on your own way. I have my own business with the Sage of the Sun.”

Felderon set his jaw and climbed to his feet. He thrust out his hand for Cylene, who reached out and clasped it. “We have seen the darkness, and this cave is no more a nightmare than that.”

* * *

Without light, there was little but the sound of condensation dripping from stalactite columns, the muffled crash of the ocean surf through the vents in the cavern, and the steady thump, thump, thump of the old man's stick as he stalked into the gloom. Then the thump stopped, and Felderon gasped as something hard smacked him in the sternum.

"Your stick, young man. You will stumble in the dark without it," came the voice of the old man. "Give this staff to the woman." He placed another staff into his palm.

"Ah," Felderon muttered. "Thanks."

The cave descended at a gradual decline, cave walls closing in, close, oppressive. But the floor of the cave was marvelously free of loose gravel. The old hermit might be strange, even sinister, but he had tended his path. Who was he? And what did he want from Felderon? It was possible, even probable, he was a robber. Felderon must look like a fine goose to pluck. Cylene was no better, but he was only an old man--and however shifty, he could not be worse than his father's army and navy combined.