The Coin of Kenvard

by Joseph R. Lallo

  He flicked his hood to shake the water from it. “What do they need me outside the archives for?” he grumbled. “There’s nothing worth taking. Just documents and the bits and pieces of our ‘history’ that no one cared enough to add to the royal collection.”

  The rain trickling down his face washed some of the grime from his forehead into his eyes. He was still rubbing them and cursing at the awful stinging sensation when he heard the odd clapping sound echo like a cracked whip.

  “Hmm? Who goes there?” he said, blinking madly and reaching for the grip of his cudgel.

  When his vision cleared, he didn’t spot anyone. Just the same soaking-wet, dismal gray stone of a forgotten corner of Ulvard’s capital. Even so.

  “Probably just a bit of stone falling,” he reasoned as he coaxed some more light out of his lantern.

  He trudged along his patrol route, lantern held high.

  Obviously, he was alone. The hour was ungodly, there were no homes in this part of the town, and the only place with doors still open was a lackluster tavern with watered-down ale. He peered down the cobbled street. It was empty, and it had been for the last few hours. No one could be here, because he would have spotted them minutes ago coming down one street or another. But things still didn’t feel right.

  “It’s ghosts,” he grumbled. “Here I thought the last guy was a drunk. Seeing things when he said he saw the Alliance banners flying again over the door. It’s ghosts. Playing tricks on us. Convincing a poor workingman he’s seeing and hearing things that aren’t there.”

  The watchman stopped and peered at the sheltered entryway he’d left behind when he finished his short patrol circuit. A trio of wet footprints led to the door to the archives. And the door was ajar.

  He gritted his teeth and slipped his cudgel free. “Blasted thieves trying to get me tossed from the job before I get my pay,” he barked. “Who goes there!”

  He rushed to the door and threw it open.

  The wet footprints led deeper into the darkened archives. He raced after them. Wall after wall of shelves with sturdy chests and crates stored assorted items too valuable to dispose of but not impressive enough to display. He followed the trail, weaving deeper until a figure became visible at the end of a narrow passage between shelves. He was illuminated by a dim amber light, too steady and constant to be a lantern or candle. In one hand, he held a bit of enameled blue armor. In the other, he held the source of the light, a bit of glowing crystal.

  “Whatever you’ve got, drop it! In the name of the king and queen!” the watchman ordered.

  Whoever the thief was, he was unconcerned by the threat. He simply tugged open a bag and dropped the bit of armor inside. It vanished through the opening of the bag and failed to bulge the rest of the pouch, as though the satchel remained empty despite what the watchman had seen.

  “I block the way. You will not leave with what you’ve taken!”

  Now the figure looked to him. The watchman’s mind took a moment or two to comprehend what he was looking upon. He had forgotten his brandy, and thus he hadn’t been drinking, so he had little reason to be imagining what stood before him. It had to be real. But it made no sense.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to grapple with it for long. The crystal rose high, a flicker of purple spread into a swirling portal, and the thief stepped away. Another soft clap flashed arcane power through the aisle. The force of it disrupted the contents of the shelves and dazzled the watchman. When his vision cleared, the thief was gone.

  He stepped forward to investigate. The opened crates were all military garb for high-ranking officials of the former Alliance Army. Generals. There was no telling which he’d been rummaging through or what had been taken, just that it was a piece of equipment.

  “What’s going on here!”

  The watchman jumped and turned. A robed man, his head hidden beneath a cavernous and drenched hood, stood behind him. The watchman recognized the outfit as one of the curators of the archives. If he was here so late at night, he wasn’t one of the senior curators, but any one of them would gladly relieve him of duty for failing to prevent whatever had just happened from happening.

  “There was a… I saw a…”

  “Out with it!” the man snapped.

  “I saw King Deacon steal something and vanish!” the watchman yelped.

  “The king. Of Kenvard.”

  “Yes. He came and there was a clap of magic and he was gone. He stole something!”

  The curator’s hand disappeared under the hood to palm his face. “Why do they send the drunkards to the archives? First the banners and now this.”

  “I saw what I saw, sir.”

  “I am not going to go to my superior and tell him that the king of our sister nation came and left without a trace to steal—what? A random buckler from dress armor? I am going to have to catalogue everything and… listen to me. I have no interest in dealing with this now. Your shift ends at dawn, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You get outside, and you make sure no other ‘rogue royals’ show up to steal anything. Tomorrow I’ll go through this. If I find something missing, we’ll be discussing it.” He turned to pace away. “You’d best come up with a better story by then, or else I would suggest you make yourself scarce.”

  The watchman tightened his fist around the lamp and trudged out to the cobblestone street again. He lingered for a moment or two, considering actually completing his shift. But he’d been all but dismissed already. If he was going to be thrown out on the street for being unlucky enough to see yet another of the ghostly events that seemed to plague this place, he was at least going to take advantage of the rest of the night to down some watery ale and figure out where he could hide out for a few weeks after he was blamed for the theft.

  “This is what I get for looking for honest work,” he grumbled, marching away.

  Chapter 6

  Days later, Desmeres blinked at the point of light ahead. After squinting his way through the darkness for so long, his mind wasn’t immediately willing to interpret the sparkling light in the distance as anything other than his imagination. Mott, on the other hand, lacked any imagination whatsoever, and thus was fully able to embrace it as reality. As such, he coiled his tail around Desmeres’s wrist and sprinted for the distant ember of sunlight. Thus, Desmeres’s triumphant return to his birthplace came not in a proud emergence from the cave, but in an undignified slide into the smooth basin of the currently dormant falls.

  Mott disentangled himself from Desmeres and hopped to his many feet. He sniffed the air and glared at the people around the end of the basin. Unsatisfied with what he found, he chattered at Desmeres.

  “How many times do I need to tell you? Those noises you are making don’t mean anything to me,” he growled. “But if you are looking for Azriel, unless things have changed, you’ll find her in the crystal arena. It’s on the north end of town, you can’t miss it.”

  The abomination tapped gleefully around him, then flapped his wings and launched from the basin. A flurry of exclamations in different languages rang out as the absurd accumulation of disparate parts screeched by them. A rope ladder slapped down against the side of the basin, and one of two yellow-robed youths around the rim climbed down to meet him.

  “Welcome, traveler. This must seem very strange to you, to find something like this here,” the wind apprentice began. “You have reached—”

  “The Belly of the Beast. Entwell Num Garastra. I am well aware; this is a return, not a discovery. I request a room in Warrior’s Side, a hot meal, a warm bath, and an audience with the elder and as many of the masters as can be mustered. As soon as possible, and in that order.”

  “Of course, of course. Welcome home, traveler.” The apprentice called to the other at the rim. “A returning warrior! Prepare a place for him!”

  When it became clear that Desmeres did not require any immediate aid, the apprentice took a step away and muttered some arc
ane words under his breath. A gust of wind, guided with poor precision by the aspiring wind mage’s will, plucked the yellow-robed man from the basin. He clumsily set down beside his fellow lookout and, between the two of them, helped to haul the rope ladder up while Desmeres held on tightly.

  Desmeres felt a strange warmth in his chest at hearing such a symphony of dialects above him and found himself strangely moved by the sight of Entwell opening out before him. He’d never fancied himself nostalgic, but this was his home of many decades, and the place that had given him the skills and drive to make of himself what he had.

  “When were you last here?” asked one apprentice.

  “When did you leave?” asked the other.

  The questions flowed continuously as they led him to the southern half of the village. This was, after all, a place dedicated to learning. Newcomers were a rare chance to inject new teachings, or simply fresh news of the outside. They interrogated him over things as innocuous as how his jacket was made to as complex as the precise nature of the enchantment that animated his hand. He didn’t bother to answer any of their questions. There would be time for that later. The journey through the mountain hadn’t been an easy one. He was in no shape to be racing back to the entrance before the falls began again. So he would be staying here for months. More than enough time for them to learn their fill of the decades he’d been away. But there was one point he felt worth making before they left him to his privacy.

  “That thing that came through with me? I assume it went into the crystal arena. If it comes out again, keep an eye on it. It helped me navigate the cave, but I get the distinct impression it is about as faithful as a stray cat.”

  #

  Myranda shielded her eyes against the wind. She’d gotten little sleep in the last few days, and Myn had gotten even less. The stylus of the messenger pads hadn’t stopped moving, with accounts of unusual happenings pouring in at all hours of the night. Most were of no concern, easily explained away. Some were strange and possibly related, but harmless. So far there had been nothing truly dangerous. But from the moment she became aware of the possibility that history was repeating itself, Myranda knew that it was only a matter of time before she would have to make a trip to the Tresson border.

  The sun was just beginning to break through the clouds when she reached the stretch of land separating Kenvard from its neighbor to the south. Decades of battle and spilled blood had scarred the land terribly. A proper battle had not been fought in years, but flora and fauna had yet to reclaim the worst of the damage. A small contingent of soldiers stood at attention along the border. One among them was distinct. A great green dragon towered over the soldiers. A rider in unique armor that matched the shade of the dragon’s scales was astride the beast. At the first glimpse of the dragon and rider, Myn showed something besides tireless vigilance in her expression for the first time in days. The dragon mount waiting patiently at the border was Garr, and Myn was very happy to see him.

  “Keep to our side of the border, Myn,” Myranda said. “The soldiers will be tense. We don’t need to give them a reason to take up arms.”

  Myn dropped down to the field and trotted the last few hundred yards. She heeded Myranda’s request and held her ground on the north side of a clearly marked point on the side of the road. As she fidgeted and shifted in place, eyes bright and fixed upon Garr, Myranda stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty,” said Grustim, Garr’s Rider. “You needn’t have come personally.”

  “Speed was important and I wouldn’t have asked Myn to carry anyone but me. I grant you and your troops permission to cross the border for the purposes of this discussion.”

  Grustim gave a respectful salute and climbed from Garr’s back. The dragon stepped across the border and took his place beside Myn. She practically fell atop him, curling her neck and tail against his.

  “What has happened?” Myranda asked.

  Grustim pulled an official proclamation from his satchel and handed it to her.

  “From King Aamuul. We have withdrawn the bulk of our soldiers from the border. Six of our watch posts have reported seeing troops massing to the north. Initially, alarms were raised, fearful that hostilities might have resumed without clear cause. Three of the watch posts subsequently spotted Tresson soldiers meeting the northern troops in battle, despite the fact that no sizable forces had been dispatched. In one case, the flag of the contingent was one of a long-disbanded battalion. We suspect magic.”

  “It isn’t magic. At least not directly. We have had flashes of our history replaying itself as well. No hint of mystic influence precedes or follows them. Has any blood been shed?”

  “No fresh blood, but in the case of one of the battles that recurred entirely on our side of the border, black blood from the fallen nearmen lingered. And an outpost we had withdrawn from, on your side of the border, was destroyed.”

  “I give you my assurance that this is not our doing. We are seeking answers, and we shall share them as soon as we have anything. Tell me, is there anything else unexplained that you can share?”

  “Minor events. Unconfirmed. In the Southern Wastes, a traveling merchant who had died six years ago was spotted. The owner of a small rakka plantation believed some sort of wild brute armed with a scythe was attempting to enter his home, but it vanished without a trace. A harvest celebration briefly coalesced and vanished in a field outside the capital.”

  “No one has been hurt yet… Good. I will be instructing any and all of my soldiers to withdraw from any ground that was hotly contested during the war. It is my advice that Tressor do the same. You have my word as a sovereign that I have ordered my troops to stand down.”

  “I will deliver the message personally. You should be made aware that Dragon Riders have been dispatched to keep watch over the border.”

  “I will do my best to ensure Vulcrest and Ulvard clear the border as well. I will not see hostilities begin again.”

  #

  Some hours later, Desmeres felt a measure more like himself. A hearty meal of bread and stew filled his belly. He’d washed way the grime of the cave, and a few moments with a gaggle of white mages had taken care of his minor injuries. In that time, he observed what had become of his old home. In most ways, it was staggeringly unchanged. The faces in Warrior’s Side were new, but with the lingering familiarity that suggested they were the children of people he’d known. He’d nearly forgotten how thriving and varied this place was. The air buzzed with fairies. Stout dwarves and lithe elves walked the village in roughly equal numbers. But there were some differences. And chief among them was the preponderance of apprentices. A gray-clad young dwarf woman came to the door.

  “Desmeres Lumineblade?” she asked. “The newcomer?”

  “Not new, but recently returned,” he corrected.

  “The elder will see you now. We have gathered the masters, as you have requested.”

  “So quickly?”

  “Yes. We’ve been expecting newcomers for some time now,” she said. “My name is Grimma Shattershale, by the way. Gray apprentice.” She led the way.

  “Why, may I ask, have you been expecting newcomers?”

  “There have been some events here. The elder will inform you of them, no doubt. But suffice to say, we have a vague awareness of some events of tremendous importance that have transpired in the world beyond the mountain, and thus the conclusion of the Perpetual War. It would stand to reason that the absence of war would mean renewed interest in the Cave of the Beast.”

  “The people of the three kingdoms have got their hands full untying themselves after the war. I suspect they’ll need another few years to sort themselves out. And that’s assuming something truly horrific hasn’t been happening since I entered the cave.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “If Deacon found whom I think he found, it may be an inevitability.”

  The elder’s hut loomed ahead, and from the look of the audience that had asse
mbled, the village was expecting something significant to come of this meeting. Wizards and warriors alike had assembled around the circular courtyard with the hut at its center. They kept the courtyard itself clear. As a former resident, Desmeres didn’t need to be told why. The highest masters tended to punctuate their points of view rather energetically with whatever mystic flourish they found appropriate. It could be harrowing for those too close or unprepared.

  Grimma remained at the edge of the courtyard as he approached the door. If Desmeres had been a mystic, he would have been humbled and awed by those waiting for him within the hut. He was barely a novice in the world of magic, and he could feel the hairs on his arm stand up in the presence of such potent wizards.

  A dragon, barely the size of a large dog, stood in stately judgment. He was draped in a charred red sash. He, at least, was familiar to Desmeres from his time here. It was Solomon. Beside him, a yellow-robed fairy fluttered with crossed arms and a smug expression. If she had been the wind master when Desmeres was last here, he didn’t remember her. The blue-robed woman beside her could have been confused for a human, but something in the flow of her hair and the shimmer of her skin and leggings suggested her present form was not her natural one. Desmeres very much suspected she was a creature of the sea. The dwarven earth master gave Desmeres a particularly harsh look, but all looked to the elder to begin the proceedings.

  The stately woman with wizened features gazed upon Desmeres from her chair. It was too simple to be called a throne, but the air of dignity and wisdom of the elder herself elevated it to her station. She measured Desmeres, thin lips turned down in a subtle frown.

  “Desmeres Lumineblade. Welcome home,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “As I recall, you were already quite adept at your chosen specialty.” She turned aside to an attentive young man at her right hand. “Has he achieved full mastery?”