by David Rice
Lornen’s glare was withering. “Where is our Southern Squadron?” Lornen growled.
“Not seen since the loss of Port Lornen, Your Majesty.”
Lornen shouted an oath that made even Kinth blush. “A hundred gold pieces for the first to give me some welcome news.”
The squattest of the lords attempted a grin, and in a mouse-like voice said, “Baron Koppinger’s doing a fine job keeping the Docks as happy as they’ve been in years. Though, those Rajala might change that.”
Lornen did not smile. “He must’ve lowered the price of whores.” He picked a single silver piece from his pocket, one he kept for tipping his entertainments, and flicked it at the lord.
“Thank you,” he replied dryly. “I feel much more relieved. Now, what of this theft?”
Brakkit spoke again, his eyes cast down and his voice soft. “Your Majesty. The Regent often made deposits with the Merchants’ Guild to safeguard the Treasury’s reserves—”
“Are the gnomes leaving with that, too?”
“Not exactly, Your Majesty. However, they might have information that will help us.”
Lornen’s eyes brightened but his tone remained sharp. “So, someone knows where Gothert’s squirrelled away my gold?”
Brakkit hiccupped and wiped his mouth in embarrassment. “Not exactly, Your Majesty. But we have a lead—”
“WHERE IS MY GOLD?” Lornen’s anger drowned out all thought.
The thinnest and tallest of the lords chose this moment to be heard. “The Regent’s reserves may have been on a ship sent to Port Lornen, Your Majesty—just before the port burned.”
Lornen’s mouth opened and closed as he gathered thought from amid the shreds of his temper. When he spoke, it was cold and precise. “And no one has considered mentioning this until now? How do you know this to be true?”
The thin man bowed lower. “I am Lord Theal, the Harbourmaster for Duke Koppinger. I hear and see a great deal about comings and goings.”
Lornen puzzled over this new information. “So. If a ship departed with the gold that Graniteside now requires to survive, it would be your responsibility?”
Theal paled and his voice poorly disguised the offence he felt. “Your Majesty—when the ship departed, it would have been under lawful orders from the Regent. And word of its contents only reached me recently.”
“Which ship? Which Captain?”
“Most likely a Royal Courier, Your Majesty,” Theal replied. “Most likely The Ocean Steed under a Captain Nellitt.”
“And where’s this scoundrel Nellitt now? Where’s his crew?” Lornen struck back impatiently.
“Lost, Your Majesty. Never returned.” Theal looked away.
“I see. Lost is convenient when you carry a fortune.” Lornen rubbed his lower lip. “Go. All of you except Brakkit.”
The Lords hesitated.
Lornen waved his hand and smiled cheerily. “I—thank you. Go. You have given me much to consider.”
Brakkit remained kneeling while his comrades skittered away. After a long pause, he risked a few words, “Your will, Your Majesty?”
Lornen smiled and untied from his belt a small leather pouch that jingled in his hand. “You know of the King’s Heroes?”
Brakkit’s face lost all colour. “Everyone has heard of them, Your Majesty.”
Lornen’s smile deepened. “You’re a merchant, Brakkit, so I know where your loyalties lie.” He tossed the pouch of gold to the ground. “Find out more about that missing courier and you’ll get a second payment. Who are Nellitt’s friends? He must’ve talked to someone before he disappeared.”
Brakkit stared at the pouch like a starving rat might stare at cheese. His hand grabbed the gold and made it vanish without a second thought.
Lornen chuckled. “You are a good man, Brakkit.” He watched with some amusement as the lord stumbled to his feet and bowed awkwardly. “Go,” Lornen encouraged. “I am finished with you for now.”
Lord Brakkit tightened his cloak once more, bowed again, and exited as if his feet were aflame.
Lornen wheeled away to sit heavily upon his throne. If the money Gothert had stolen could be recovered then he could surely pay the Rajala to leave, continue trading for their ore, and continue arming his best soldiers with swords and mail capable of balancing any fight against the elves. Even more importantly, his own smiths could manufacture copies of the rifles and cannon the gnomes had provided. Rifles to strike down elven bowmen, and cannon to destroy anything that stood in his way. Even a drake could not possibly stand against cannon fire, could it? Old monsters were no match for ingenuity. Lornen chuckled briefly. Then he remembered Father Stigand who had once again refused to obey His Royal summons. He had to be careful with that one for the Order of the Amaranth was gaining influence. Why had he gone along with Stigand’s suggestions to destroy the Order of the Blackthorn? He hadn’t realized that rivalries, even in the church, could be invaluable. They did much to keep the ambitious away from his throne. However, with the Blackthorn gone, who would keep Stigand’s ambition
in check?
***
Outside the audience chambers, Theal waited for the witless Brakkit to shuffle by before emerging from the shadows.
So that was Lornen’s gambit? Use Brakkit to investigate these latest loose ends? Theal reached into his pocket and ran his fingers across an eye patch. He’d allow Brakkit to do the digging. That was the wisest course. Then he’d bury Brakkit in the hole.
III
“What masks will we wear today?” Father Yost whispered to himself.
Yost appreciated the High Father’s love of argument. Stigand was accustomed to winning through a withering style of rhetorical fencing. But Yost had trained under the High Father of the Order of the Yarrow, and His Order was dedicated to defending a precise record of the past. The Yarrow held all accountable through the strength of facts and the edge of logic.
Throughout their continuing debates, Father Yost came to discover many truths regarding High Father Stigand. For instance, the Master of the Amaranth enjoyed imposing his whims upon others. He was often late for meetings, then occasionally revelled in being surprisingly early. Stigand’s unpredictability extended the nervousness of his rivals, and this gave Stigand the advantage in arguments. Much like his rival, King Lornen, Stigand truly believed that his whims magnified his power. Yet there was a singular commitment that Stigand kept with rigorous loyalty: his regular meetings with Father Yost, the Yarrow’s only surviving member, and the keeper of its secrets.
And, once again, like the impinging clacks of a Halnnish clock, Stigand’s steps approached the Abbey outbuilding where Yost had been gently imprisoned for a season. Imprisoned, and milked like a poppy for bits of a mental discipline not meant for whims to control. Yost took a final moment to breath deeply and focus his concentration. His resistance had to be reshaped into something innocent, something that appeared scattered by age and that he was trying to reassemble as helpfully as possible. Stigand was an enthusiastic student, and this made Yost’s illusion easier.
Throughout history, many sages claimed that the demands of survival alter a person forever. However, Father Yost held a contrary view. He liked to believe that moments of significant crisis reveal who someone truly is behind their masks. Danger did not change a person, it allowed a person to discover who they are. Despite this fondly defended principle, Yost knew he would rely upon many masks to survive on this day.
Masks were powerful. Stigand always relied upon his smile to break the ice.
“How are we today, Father Yost?”
Yost let his eyes slowly meander towards the High Father and then squint against the gleam of his smile. “Still here?” Yost’s voice offered.
“Oh, yes.” Stigand’s eyes fluttered. “You were about to show me how to do more with our talents for examining memory.”
Stigand’s eyes always fluttered when he was inventing another lie.
Yost allowed a soft smile to drift into view. “O
h. Yes,” Yost agreed. “Memories.”
Stigand waited for Yost to continue and then sighed despite his forgiving grin. “You were going to teach me how you access the memories of others? To sooth them?”
Yost nodded wide-eyed and then let the fire of returning knowledge kindle in his gaze.
“Sometimes memories need to be soothed, and sometimes they need to be returned.” Yost’s voice grew in strength and certainty. He held his palms gently apart and motioned for Stigand to lean closer. “I’ll explain the technique as I practice on you. Then you can practice on me.”
Stigand’s eyes sparkled while his voice feigned concern. “Will it be safe?”
“Of course,” Yost replied. “This is an ancient art that I have performed countless times.”
The High Father let Yost’s fingers press lightly against his temples. “Go ahead.”
“This cannot be rushed.” Yost’s breathing slowed. “Calm,” he instructed. “Breathe with me. Deeply. Quietly. Count your exhalations to four. Then count again.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Stigand uttered, his voice dropping with each breath.
“Mmmm hmmm,” Yost echoed. “You are the wind in a sail with the endless horizon beckoning.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Stigand murmured. His weight slumped against the chair.
Yost’s fingertips tingled and warmed as Stigand’s experiences invaded his own. Surges of unpleasantness splashed across his inner vision.
“Deeper,” the Father of the Yarrow urged in the calmest of tones.
Stigand’s eyes rolled back as he sunk further. There it was. Stigand’s memories of rumours and reports. Yost’s friends had escaped. They were hiding in the ancient foundations of the city. The Order of the Yarrow knew those passages well. He no longer had to fear for their safety.
Yost’s smirk widened. Over many fortnights and many conversations, the bait had been carefully prepared, and now it had been taken. “High Father,” Yost instructed with the rhythm of a pendulum, “look upon this room and see that I am unconscious and at death’s door. I could remain in my deathless sleep for a cycle or longer. Your only hope to learn more from me will be to ensure my careful, gradual recovery without any interference. No one understands this better than you.”
Stigand’s only response was to stare at the bed, panic slowly growing in his eyes.
Yost raised his voice to reach the brother who had been waiting patiently outside.
“Brother? Please help me with Father Stigand. Something’s wrong.”
The Brother opened the door and his eyes widened when he saw the corpulent shape of his superior teetering against the frail form of Father Yost. He rushed forward to wrap his arms around Stigand then huffed and strained while trying to lift him onto Yost’s bed.
“Let me help you,” Father Yost offered. He reached out and touched the Brother’s temples. “You shall lay down here and sleep.” Yost’s compelling whisper pierced the brother’s resistance. “You will sleep, eat, void, and nothing more. This is the One’s will.”
A second Brother arrived.
“Can you help us?” Yost asked gently. “Your brother needs to be repositioned in bed. Father Stigand is most concerned about his well being.”
“Of course.” The brother rushed to their sides.
***
High Father Stigand was soon awake and fretting over the inert figure in Yost’s bed.
“Poor fellow cannot be disturbed.” Stigand’s commanding voice echoed through the open door and across the courtyard. He rubbed his temple in annoyance and then pointed at another of the Amaranth’s Brothers standing nearby. “Escort our visitor to the docks then return immediately.”
The Brother bowed. “Anything, High Father.”
Yost flashed a humble grin. “You are so kind to show me the way.”
“As the High-Father commands. The pleasure is mine.”
Father Yost warmed inside. He would soon be free of this contest between Stigand and Lornen. Free enough to change the realm entirely. Something brooding in his own dreams,
distant yet everpresent, compelled him to do so.
IV
Grumm stirred the stew a second time so that its aroma filled the glade. “Yeh gotta eat sumthin’. Keep yer strength up.”
Kirsten turned her head away from the fire, gripped her knees and curled into more of a ball. “I said I’m not hungry and I meant it.”
Olaf sniffed the air and licked his lips. “If she’s not wanting that—”
Grumm glared at the gnome. When he replied, it was to Kirsten, and more gently than before. “One advantage of the winter. I can let it freeze in the pot and warm it for you later.”
Kirsten appreciated Grumm’s loyalty. She was hungry, and yet her stomach was twisted in a knot of anxiety that she could not untie.
Plax dropped down beside Kirsten. “You’ve been too quiet since picking up that sword. The weave can do much harm that we can’t easily see.”
Kirsten attempted to push herself away but her cold aching bones would not comply. Her three companions watched her carefully. She rolled her eyes and began to speak. Once she started, the words came rolling out like soft thunder.
“I shouldn’t be here.” Her voice hardened. “I should head back home. I need to be helping my Papa.” She brushed moisture from her eyes.
“We’re all a long way from home,” Grumm offered. “We’ll get back there.”
Olaf nodded. Plax grunted an oath.
Kirsten’s voice bubbled up harsh and loud. “They’re all dead. Or as good as dead.”
Grumm straightened. “We didn’t know.”
Plax cleared his throat. “You told me your Papa might still be alive.”
Kirsten found enough strength in anger to stand and flail her fists through the air. “Maybe. Maybe not. If he is, fat lot of good I’m doing him now. Fat lot of good I can do at
all.”
Olaf pointed at Kirsten’s scabbard where Fahde glowed faintly white. “You wrecked those goblins that came for us. You knew what to do with that sword.”
Kirsten’s arms dropped to her sides. “You need to understand. I’m dangerous to everyone.” She looked up and shouted to the sky. “I got Rebel killed. I got Helba killed. I got
Raisha killed. And probably my Papa, too.”
“Not dangerous to us,” Olaf stated. “You saved us.”
Kirsten ripped the pendant from her neck but could not make herself throw it away. A spray of tears flowed down her cheeks and stopped. “You need to stop believing in me or you’ll
get yourselves killed, too.
Grumm stepped closer. “I thought we’ve already been through all this an’ you were fine?”
Kirsten pushed herself away. “There’s voices and dreams that don’t let me sleep. I think I’m going crazy.”
Grumm stepped forward and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “We’ve seen the Drakes of First Dawning and lived. Who wouldn’t be a little crazy?”
Kirsten’s jaw stuck out. “I don’t want this. I just want my Papa back. Just want my own life back. A simple life.”
Plax added. “You’ve said before, if Longwood trains you then you can get your Papa back.”
Kirsten shook her head.
Plax scoffed. “You don’t know what you are throwing away. If I could take that sword and prove myself to my father, by the Banefather—”
“Watch yer tongue, boy,” Grumm interrupted.
“Take it then.” Kirsten unbuckled her scabbard and tossed the Fahde upon the snow.
Olaf gasped. Grumm straightened and stuck out his beard. Plax wavered and then stepped back.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Plax hissed. “Pick it up. No one else can.”
Kirsten’s fiery gaze riveted her companions one by one. “My whole life, everyone’s been telling me what I can and can’t do. Who I am. How it’s so special to be so cursed and so alone.”
She dropped her mother’s pendant into the snow beside the sword. “I’m done
with all of it.”
Grumm attempted to sound fatherly. “Kirsten, you can’t just—”
“I have to, Grumm! Before I get all of you killed, too.” Kirsten whirled and stomped away through the trees.
Olaf whistled gently. “I’d hate to see her on a bad day.”
Plax sighed. “I’ll track her.”
Grumm held out his hand. “No. Leave her be.”
“Are you kidding?” Plax picked up the pendant and stuffed it in his pocket. “We can’t leave the sword here.”
Grumm drew upon one of his father’s axioms. “The feistier the temper, the sooner it burns down.”
Olaf nodded. Plax scowled.
