by David Rice
hide in his palace and throw tantrums, or parties, depending upon the mood.”
Nialle accepted the glass and took a cautious sip. “That’s of little consequence to us.” “I think it is of great consequence. Most of the guards are gone from the walls. The rest aren’t too concerned about taking any risks since Lornen doesn’t pay them much.”
“Are you paying them now?” Koppinger smirked.
“What happened to the Kingdom’s riches?”
“Don’t disappoint me, Archivist. You know. You’ve seen. Most of it’s already spent. At Eastfork. Or on strange Halnnish weapons. On an army that only eats, and ships that are useless squatting in harbour. The rest has been thrown at the gnomes for favours.” “So, you’re here because you’re jealous of the gnomes?” Nialle teased.
Koppinger’s tone lowered for a moment. “Remember where I’ve grown up, Archivist. Dock folk aren’t baited easily.”
Nialle smirked back. “You grew up as a Baron. Not exactly dock folk.”
Koppinger grasped Nialle’s wrist before the archivist could take another drink. “Don’t— do that.”
Nialle tugged vainly against Koppinger’s harsh grip. “Do—what, exactly?”
“Judge what you haven’t lived. Although I imagine that is a historian’s true vocation when it comes down to it.”
Nialle winced at the insult and then absorbed its message. Their eyes found some common ground. Koppinger released his grip upon Nialle’s hand.
“My—apologies,” Nialle conceded. “You have us at a considerable disadvantage.”
Koppinger sat back. “Look. For the past fifteen cycles we’ve all been willing prisoners of Lornen’s dreams. It was good early on. Many made fortunes with the new trade but what good will that do us now? The drakes are awakened and we are in no position to resist them scattered as we are.”
The room nodded agreement. Koppinger warmed to their nascent approval. “You must see that the brat has reached too far. The Docks have always fed this city and this kingdom. Merchants have always shipped goods up and down the coast, and the King’s Roads.” Koppinger refilled his glass. “Since the boom, these docks are more crowded than ever. And since Port Lornen burned, and the brat pissed off the Rajala enough to blockade our harbour, well—” He took a long drink. “People follow food, Archivist. They don’t follow the One, or a title, or promises, if their bellies are empty and their children are dying.”
“And the people know it’s you who has kept us fed,” Nialle stated.
Koppinger nodded. “And I plan on keeping it that way.”
“What do the Rajala want? They haven’t attacked.”
“Not yet,” Koppinger replied. “They’re negotiating through me. Their priorities are different from ours.” He nodded to the group clustered around Grash-Houk and Ashak.
“The Rajala wanted their Seer?”
“With drakes in the world, they need him for his visions and counsel. Having him returned will resolve much.”
“So,” Nialle ventured. “You have already made a deal to lift the blockade?”
“Not—yet,” Koppinger replied evenly. “But this could be done very quickly.”
“You’ve had to make sacrifices?”
Koppinger took another sip. “Everyone has. Look at you. Consider the lowlands where they can’t even bring in their crops or fix their wagons because everyone’s been forced into the army. Look at what happened to the Blackthorn at Crossroads Abbey. We thought Lornen would save us from the plague. Yet he’s been far worse. His ambitions are the plague that threatens us now.”
“But the people still follow you,” Nialle stated. “And the Rajala recognize you as the leader to negotiate with rather than the King.”
Koppinger thumped his empty glass upon the thick planks of the table then smirked. “They have a different way of seeing power. More fluid. More practical.”
“Practical,” Nialle snorted. “Lornen’s army is elsewhere, Stigand’s clergy is loyal only to themselves, and the King’s money is exhausted. That’s a convenient set of circumstances.”
“Lornen’s problems are his own doing,” Koppinger added, then stood. “But our problems don’t have to continue.”
Nialle riveted Koppinger with a glance of pure skepticism. “And you’ll fix everything, will you? Who’s being ambitious now?”
Koppinger stood. “I’m born of the Docks and that makes me someone who faces the day head on. I’m not the next fool who’ll pretend to have all of the answers, and that’s not what our realm deserves anymore.”
Nialle’s stare continued. “Go on. What do you think our realm deserves?”
Koppinger let his gaze play across the room. “I’ve been contacted by friends who recognize that, to save the realm from Lornen, we need to take action.”
Nialle sat back. “And your plans are already in motion, I assume. So why are you here? We’re no army. Are you here for Gothert’s secrets? His money? For the Seer as a bargaining chip? Is that your game?”
Once again, Koppinger appeared slighted by Nialle’s cynicism. “Archivist, please. I am here for allies I can trust. The Kingdom’s going to bust itself into pieces if we don’t hold it together. It’s our responsibility to make sure these problems never occur again. We need to ensure that whoever succeeds Lornen, rules with better counsel.”
“That’s always been a problem, hasn’t it?” The Archivist poured a judgemental gaze upon Koppinger. “How does a realm instruct a King—or any Lord—to be virtuous?” Nialle asked. “Power intoxicates.”
Koppinger’s voice lowered. “We need to reform our traditions so they work more efficiently. We need to be sure that the will of the Dukes will better influence the will of the King.”
Nialle rubbed his eyes. “And who will control the will of the Dukes?”
Koppinger’s response was not immediate. “We’ll work that out.”
Nialle pressed onward. “You’ll need the support of every Duke, and you’ll never get it.”
Koppinger looked back to his Rajalan guests. “I have support enough.”
“The world’s changed too much already. People will see more change as another plague to fear.”
Koppinger scowled. “Change is coming. Either by our own doing, or the drakes.”
Nialle’s shoulders slumped momentarily. “You’re certain that Gothert has the money you need?”
“Gothert squirreled away a fortune,” Koppinger smirked. “He told me as much, cycles ago. All we need to do is have the old man tell us where it’s hidden. Yost can do that, can’t he?”
“Smart man,” Gerr cackled.
Gothert thumped against his bindings and hollered into his gag.
Nialle joined Koppinger in standing. “As thankful as we are for your subtle protections, I can’t go along with this. My work as Archivist is too important. History must also be trusted. I cannot ally myself with rebels.”
“Reformers, Archivist Nialle. Not Rebels. In your new histories, remember us that way.”
”New histories,” Nialle scoffed. “That’s the sound of poison in my ears.”
Koppinger’s voice found an edge. “I’d rather do this with you than without you, Nialle.”
Nialle stepped back and answered firmly. “There is no heir to the throne. Have you thought of that? The people won’t follow you or anyone else in enough numbers if traditions aren’t followed. And what will you do to obtain the blessings of the clergy if Stigand is opposed?”
“Traditions once dictated that the majority of the Orders were needed to bless a new monarch, isn’t that correct?”
Nialle rubbed his eyes again. “Centuries ago, when five Orders existed.”
Koppinger pointed at Yost. “It looks to me like The Order of the Yarrow is still represented.”
“Barely. And that only makes two Orders. We all know what Gow did to the Blackthorn.”
“Lornen ordered that,” Koppinger corrected. “Gow is just one of Lornen’s tools.”
�
�An enthusiastic one,” Nialle spat.
Koppinger shook his head. “We may need Gow before these seasons are through.”
Nialle stood. “By the One, I am not comfortable with your endless bargains.”
Koppinger smirked. “I’ve had a messenger arrive recently with some news that might cheer you all. Perhaps even change your mind, Nialle.” He gestured towards the darkness of the tunnel.
Into the light strode a bearded man dressed for travels in the wild, wearing an outdated courier’s tabard and bearing a bow and quiver. At his side was a large dog whose nose sniffed the air carefully and whose coat bristled with coiled energy.
The dog began wagging his tail and burst towards Father Yost where he was crouched over the still form of Muren.
“Vargas! Down!” the courier cried out. He followed his dog into the room then stopped abruptly.
His eyes spilled across the scene and then budded with tears. “That’s twice you’ve fooled me now. By the Banefather, how?” He rushed forward to calm his dog and knelt beside Yost.
“How is this possible?” the courier stammered. Something hard and sharp glittered in his stare as he looked about the room. His voice trembled with a richness of anger and love. “How is this fair? Where were the caregivers for everyone who cared for you?”
“Fair is rare. Fair is rare,” Ardir chimed sadly.
Balinor sat back on his heels, examined Yost’s fingers as they gently probed Muren’s skull. He addressed the gnome. “Who’s this? What’re you doing to him?”
Alain quietly approached until he could place a hand on Balinor’s shoulder. “Father Yost is healing the Starwatcher’s mind.”
Balinor swatted the hand away. “Leave him alone. You don’t have any idea what he’s been through, or what he’s done, do you?”
Alain seized Balinor’s wrist, and twisted. “Keep your temper and step away, sir.” Vargas spun and growled. Gerr drew a dagger and took a defensive stance.
Nialle’s sharp voice penetrated the tension. “Enough. Alain. Gerr. Stand Down.”
Gerr shrugged and lowered his dagger. Alain slowly released his grip. Vargas lowered his head to stare at them both, and silently showed his teeth.
Balinor rubbed his wrist once and stepped back. “Doesn’t matter what you try. Muren has a way of taking everyone’s best intentions and turning them to shit.”
Father Yost released his grip and stood shakily. “Your outburst is a hindrance,” he said. “I can do no more.”
“You think poking around in his head is going to help?” Balinor sneered. “He’s never even known what’s in there himself.”
Everyone’s eyes fell upon Muren. His troubled expression had softened. His eyes flickered without seeking the light. His mouth quivered.
Ardir wet Muren’s lips with a damp cloth.
“None of you have seen Muren the way I have.” Balinor struggled to keep his voice from shaking. “We were friends since we were young. On the way here, I passed the tower he grew up in. It’s the tower where his daughter ran to hide, and his Rajalan slave girl.”
“The Starwatcher had a daughter?” Nialle exclaimed.
“The girl, Raisha?” Ashak’s voice rose.
Balinor nodded.
Ashak’s voice trembled with pride. He took a step towards Balinor. “Raisha is no slave. She is a Scribe. A position of honour. A gift from my Rajdejmion to this friend of the Elves. To this rare Sparkweaver in your midst. Your lack of respect is dishonourable.”
Balinor responded with a hard glare. “He’s not much of a sparkweaver. Almost killed himself in a blast of fire but we saved him. Raisha and Helba saved him.” His glare softened as he regarded the helpless form of his old friend. “He turned himself in to Lornen thinking he was saving us by doing something noble. He hoped that he could protect everyone. Even me. Didn’t work out that way. All he was doing was running away. Again.”
“Courage is measured by intentions,” Yost scolded.
Balinor sneered as he brushed away a tear. “Whatever you call it, it wasn’t enough.. A fortnight back, on the way to the Crossroads, I passed the broken and burnt remains of the tower those girls hid in. I should’ve known better and never left them there. There were bones in the rubble. Both of the girls, I figured, but now I know that Kirsten got away. I don’t think Raisha was as lucky.”
Ashak’s voice quivered. “So Raisha is dead?” His gaze softened and he attempted to place a hand on Balinor’s shoulder.
Balinor withdrew from the gesture and continued his story while Ashak looked down on Muren and listened intently.
“Muren’s no hero. Raisha’s dead now because of him. And I watched others die, too. Good people who didn’t deserve it. Friends—" The edge in his voice quivered towards silence and then he leaned over Muren. “You ran and everyone suffered, Muren. Helba, Mac, Raisha, Kirsten. Yeah, even Kirsten. Your little girl who you ignored way too much. Now I think she’s deluded with the same wish you had, to visit Longwood. I can only bet how that’ll turn out. Didn’t you tell me that they’d kill her for being a half-elf? By the Banefather, we saved your ass again and again and for what? Run away from that.”
Grash-Houk’s sightless eyes gleamed. “The Starwatcher’s daughter had an elven mother?” With Ashak’s help, he staggered towards Muren until his own hands could rest upon the Starwatcher’s forehead.
Father Yost placed his hand atop the seer’s and leaned close. “I did feel one desire keenly. The Starwatcher seeks to make amends,” Yost said. “For his first parents, poor frontier folk burned by the Lifebane. For his adoptive parents who he failed when they needed him. And, yes, wonder of wonders, for an elven consort, no less. I have seen much that torments him still. He tortures himself over each of these losses. If he lost his daughter—”
Balinor grumbled and he turned away.
“Oh, oh, oh.” Ardir chanted while he held Muren steady. “His heart’s fate. Is it hating to wait or waiting to hate?”
Muren’s body began to spasm. Yost gently plucked the seer’s hand away and attempted to soothe Muren’s fit.
“We must go north,” Grash-Houk pronounced. “Meet the elder race. Meet the half-elven daughter. End the conflict. And we should bring the Starwatcher for he is the centre of all.”
Father Yost shook his head. “Muren can’t possibly go anywhere. He needs to heal here,” Father Yost tapped his own chest, “before he can safely be himself again.”
“He’s tried. We’ve all tried,” Balinor grumbled. “He doesn’t have the spine for it.”
Father Yost smiled calmly. “When he is nearest those who might heal him, he will awaken.”
“So why isn’t he waking up now?” Balinor jibed.
Father Yost looked away and paused before whispering, “He is afraid.”
“What’s new?”
“You have let your heart harden too much. He has suffered so much. And right now, more than anything, he is afraid of disappointing you.”
Balinor staggered away and slumped against a wall. Vargas trotted to his side, licked his hands and face, then sat upon his feet while keeping the whole room in view. Balinor fought to sit tall and his voice rose to a rumble once more. “Muren, you listening to me? It’s not me that you need to make amends with. It’s Kirsten. You’ve cost her everything, and you know what? She’ll probably still do anything to try to save you.”
Muren squirmed briefly in Ardir’s lap, his eyes clenching against sight.
“You can’t hide forever, Muren.” More tears spilled into his beard. “By the Banefather, you should’ve seen what they did to Helba, Muren. Helba, of all people. You want Kirsten to be next?”
Muren stiffened and was still.
“Anger does not heal,” Yost scolded.
“Still needed to be said.”
Yost leaned down to whisper in Muren’s ear. “Be calm. He will be back. My dreams have revealed much about our futures and you will make a difference yet.”
“Nonsense,” Balinor spat. He
pushed himself to his feet, patted Vargas on the head, and stomped into the shadows. “Goodbye, Muren.”
Gerr jumped to follow Balinor. “What if he’s a spy?”
“Manners, Gerr,” Koppinger raised his voice. “A spy? I don’t think this one’s capable of lying. Let him go. Let them all go.”
Grash-houk leaned on Ashak. “We gratefully accept your passage, Baron. I will speak well of you to all Rajdejmion.”
The Rajalan entourage surrounded their seer and guided him towards the tunnel. Ashak delayed long enough to embrace Alain. “We have endured much together. This makes us brothers.”
