The Four Gifts of the King

by R. Scott Rodin

  “Yes, you’re right, we must be gone. But there remains one task for me to do before I leave Seudomartus. Astrid, Dunston—you and Zedekai must leave immediately and ride for the Plain. I will join you before you reach the end of the Fungle Woods.”

  “Not again. You’re going on your own? Nonsense!” Dunston jutted out his chin.

  The king spoke, “Dunston, my faithful servant, thank you for your care of young Steward. But he is right. He must do this alone. Ride ahead as he instructed you.”

  Dunston and Astrid nodded, and, with Zedekai and the king’s warriors, the band was off, charging out along the cliffs and down the lakeshore to the path that led from Seudomartus into the heart of the Fungle Woods.

  Steward embraced Zanon and gave his blessing to all the gathered. “The Deep Peace of the king to you and to all of Seudomartus!” So saying, he mounted his horse and galloped off toward the city.

  Steward rode along the short road to the city. His only chance at completing his mission would be surprise and shock, so he unsheathed his sword and held it high as he rounded the corner and galloped headlong into the busy courtyard of Seudomartus.

  People shrieked and jumped out of his way, some screaming for the authorities. Horses spooked by the charging rider and overturned carts. Sparks flew as the shoes of Steward’s horse smashed against the stones of the courtyard. He passed the Halls of Wisdom and the Archives and soon was onto the promenade. He raced past an angry pedestrian, who darted out of his way just in time. Not far behind, a band of armed men were mounting up to give chase.

  Ahead of him, Steward could see the grand staircase to the Sacred Mount. He held his breath, sheathed his sword, then grabbed the reins as he and his horse started the long gallop up the stone steps. He urged his horse on, even as it slipped on the smooth granite and marble surfaces. Up and up they charged, through the angry onlookers and past the elite of the city.

  Finally, they crested the top of the Sacred Mount and fought their way past several men who had waited to seize them. Steward pressed his horse on, galloping across the open square, around the Temple of Temperance and, finally, to the row of majestic houses of the teachers of the Sacred Mount. Steward jumped from his horse, grabbed his satchel, and bolted through the door of the third house.

  As he stormed into the living quarters, a white-haired man looked up then ran for the door.

  “Brauchus! Wait, don’t run. It’s me, Steward of Aiden Glenn, Obed’s companion.”

  The man stopped short and turned back.

  “It cannot be. You died on Starr Hill, as did my dear student Obed. I don’t know who you are, but if you came to kill me, do it quickly, for I have little to live for anyway.”

  “Brauchus, I didn’t die on Starr Hill. The king saved me. I’ve seen him, and he has sent me back to Seudomartus with a gift for you. Please, I have only moments before they’ll be at your door.”

  Brauchus scowled, unconvinced. “Obed died because of your stories of the king. It appears I shall do the same.”

  “Brauchus, I know who you are. You were chosen by the king to lead the first campaign—The Calling—to recover the city just prior to the great distortion. Zanon did not name you, but I knew it all the same.”

  The old man’s face contorted, shame and guilt washed across it. “Yes, you are correct. The king counted on me, and I failed him. And now, I can hardly believe he exists at all.”

  Steward reached in his satchel and pulled the Transmitter from it. He placed it in Brauchus’s hands. “If you believe, even the slightest bit, you will hear his voice again.”

  Brauchus held the vessel up, turning it around in his hands and handling it like an old familiar friend. “I did believe once. But this place has extinguished every last ounce of faith from me.”

  “I don’t believe that. Obed was your best pupil, yet he believed. Before he died, he heard the king through this very vessel. Obed gave his life that I might complete my journey and return to give this gift to you. In his memory, and for the sake of the kingdom, Brauchus, you must believe!”

  Angry voices echoed outside.

  Please, Brauchus, please believe.

  The Transmitter began to glow, just a glimmer at first, but then it brightened into a radiance that filled the room and spilled out through the windows.

  “Brauchus, my old friend, I have missed you.” The king’s voice sounded from the Transmitter.

  “My king!” Brauchus fell to his knees and sobbed.

  A loud knock sounded at the door, followed by an angry voice. “Teacher Brauchus, we must search your house. We are looking for a fugitive. Please open the door or we must break it down.”

  Steward lifted Brauchus to his feet. “Brauchus, I must go, but know that Zanon, your young follower, is leading the second campaign. He needs your help. This is your time, this is your chance to complete your calling, this is…your salvation.”

  Brauchus looked up through his tears. “I will not fail the king again. Now run, Steward, down through my cellar and through the tunnel that leads under the back courtyard. It opens out beyond the garden, but from there you will be on your own. Run, and believe that we will bring the truth to Seudomartus.”

  As Steward ran for the cellar door, Brauchus called to him. “The Deep Peace of the king to you, young Steward!” Then the door to the teacher’s home came crashing in.

  Steward made his way through the damp cellar, struggling to see his way. The tunnel was dim, but the footing was firm, so Steward eased his way a step at a time.

  Dear Brauchus, I hope you’re all right.

  Ahead he saw a glow—the evening light from the edge of the courtyard. He emerged, looking for any sign of pursuers.

  Quiet.

  He relished the moment of peace. All he had with him was his sword and satchel. He worked his way around the edges of the garden until he could see the Fungle Woods across an open field.

  In moments, it would be dark. He waited. Then, with dusk concealing his movements, he wound his way down through the meadows along the southeastern edge of Blue Heron Lake and hurried into the Fungle Woods.

  chapter

  Twenty-Six

  Night fell on the small camp of ten warriors, Astrid, Dunston, and Zedekai. Dunston fidgeted, trying to sleep. Then a sound.

  Someone was in his tent. He shot up. “Who’s there? Show yourself, coward!”

  His tent flap fluttered in the breeze, and footsteps ran off into the woods.

  “Dunston, are you okay?” Astrid came running up outside his tent and looked in.

  “Yes, yes, just some prowler. Scared him off.”

  She came in and held a torch up to illumine the tent. “Did he take anything?”

  “No, no…wait, the scoundrel. My cane, it was right here!” Dunston scrambled to his feet and searched through his belongings.

  Zedekai ran in, breathless. “I chased them into the woods, but they disappeared in the darkness. What did they take?”

  Astrid sighed. “They stole my headscarf, my mom’s gift on my last birthday.”

  Zedekai huffed. “They stole my arm shield. Why would they take that and not my sword or satchel? It’s like they just wanted that one thing.”

  Astrid nodded. “They didn’t touch anything else of mine, either.”

  Dunston finished his searching. “Well, it appears all they wanted was my cane. Makes no sense. Nonetheless, in the morning I shall need to carve a new one.”

  Zedekai rubbed his chin. “An arm shield, a headscarf, and a cane. Not much of a robbery. Still, we must be on guard. They may be back.”

  chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  Steward trudged along in the last of the evening light, striking for the deepest part of the Fungle Woods. Petitzaros, Ascendia, Marikonia, and Seudomartus were all behind him.

  But his heart was heavy.

  Kildrachan Plain was miles away. Without his horse, he’d never make it by daybreak. He trudged on, and the night drew in around him.

  Wa
it. What was that?

  Footsteps.

  “Astrid? Dunston? Zedekai? Is that you? Quit playing games. We must ride on to the Plain. Come out now and show yourself.”

  No one responded. His heart rate quickened. He picked up his pace, and again he heard the sound of moving feet.

  Many of them. Just out of sight.

  At once, the air grew cool and hung heavy with mist.

  Something was stalking him. Sensing a menacing spirit, Steward stopped, turned, and drew his sword. The clouds parted momentarily, and the moon illuminated the area. In its somber glow, Steward watched as the woods behind him filled…with Phaedra.

  Twenty. Fifty. Maybe a hundred.

  He couldn’t tell for sure, but he was well outnumbered. He prepared to fight to the death.

  Out of the horde of hooded figures, one Phaedra emerged, walking in a line up to him. He studied Steward’s face, and Steward could smell the stench of death on his breath.

  “So, it is true. You have survived after all, young Steward. Well done.”

  Steward clenched his teeth. He’d like to shove the creature’s mockery back in his face.

  “And you have revisited the four lands of the kingdom, hoping to free them, isn’t that right? Isn’t that what the king told you? Well, well. How disappointing it must be for you to learn that forces are already moving that will bring an end to the king’s rule. Soon the kingdom will be back in the hands of the Phaedra’im, where it rightfully belongs. And what will you do then, Steward of Aiden Glenn?”

  Steward kept the edge of his sword between them. “Your confidence is poorly founded, good Phaedra.” The sarcasm felt good to him. “I will fight for the king to the death, as will all of his subjects.”

  “Are you certain? Have you not heard the reports coming from throughout the kingdom?” The Phaedra circled Steward, like a predator stalking his prey. “Well, let me enlighten you.”

  He turned and summoned a Phaedra from the assembled army.

  “Yes, now tell us what you have seen in Petitzaros just today.”

  The other Phaedra spoke. “I have just come from Petitzaros. I am pleased to report that Czartrevor has returned to his castle and even as we speak, his new chains are growing faster than his old ones. And the scoundrels from Remonant have been banished to the desert. All is back to normal, as we suspected it would be.”

  Lies. He knew better. He saw Trevor’s eyes. He would never go back.

  The lead Phaedra nodded. “Good, good. You see, young Steward, when left to themselves, the hearts of men will seek that which serves only them. That is what the king told you, is it not?”

  How did he know that? How could he possibly have heard?

  “Yes, he did. But I know what I saw at Petitzaros, and you are lying, as you always do.”

  The Phaedra said nothing. He pointed and another of the massed Phaedra came forward.

  “Tell us what you have observed in Ascendia today.”

  The hooded figure bowed. “Gladly. The crushers are being rebuilt, as they have been in the past. And Cassandra is leading the construction. Oh, yes, she has ordered ramp building to proceed at all cost. It is as it was before this little distraction.”

  More lies. He would not give in to their deception.

  A third figure was summoned to report.

  “I’m glad to report that Tristin’s old image has been restored, and he has resumed his place in the Light District. His house fills with merriment, while the Abner family has been humiliated and forced back to their squalor outside of the city. It seems their mongrel daughter—what was her name? Oh, yes, Claire. It appears she died for nothing.”

  “Liar! How dare you call her that!” Steward was ready to fight but the lead Phaedra raised his hand. Steward let down his guard and sneered.

  “What is it you want? Enough of these lies. If it’s a fight you want, then bring it on.”

  The lead Phaedra stepped back. “Oh, yes, Steward, it is a fight we want. But there is no need. The victory is already won.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Steward snapped back at him.

  The Phaedra spoke in a patronizing tone. “I mean just what I said. Consider Seudomartus. There, you thought you had such a cunning plan.”

  The Phaedra gave a sinister laugh. “Do you think we did not expect that the king would send you to rally the youth of the pathetic Starr Hill brood? We knew of your plan. Brauchus has already abandoned you and returned to his hatred of the king-myth. Ooh, how I love that term…king-myth.”

  No, don’t believe them. Lies, like always. But if it’s true…

  “And why should I believe you?”

  The Phaedra stopped his circling and came as close to Steward as the sword would allow. “Because we are all you have left now. The end of the king’s rule is here. And you have been so completely deceived by those you trusted.”

  Steward pushed the sword toward him, causing the Phaedra to take a step back. “I have been deceived only by the Phaedra, and I will not make that mistake again.”

  “Oh, my dear boy—and that is what you are after all, just a boy—the king will not fight with you or save you when the great battle begins. He has already retreated into his northern fortress, far north of where the two rivers merge to form the Golden River. He is there now, taking refuge while he sends you and your friends to the slaughter. Does that sound like a king worth fighting for…or dying for?”

  That can’t be true. The king is preparing to fight by their side. Steady, confidence.

  “I do not believe you.”

  “I am not asking you to believe me. But only believe your eyes.”

  The Phaedra backed away to reveal a small area of heavy mist hanging in the air. “Come, see your king for who he is.”

  Steward looked into the mist. Images and then faces appeared. Soon he could see the king and his mighty warriors. They were sitting around a large banquet table laughing and eating as if in celebration.

  Then Steward heard the king speaking. “Let the Phaedra have the lower kingdom. Young Steward served us well, diverting the attention of the Phaedra while we escaped to this fortress. Steward, Astrid, and Zedekai will die nobly, and we will live out our days in safety here in the north. It is a shame that they have to die to buy our escape, but after all, I am the king.” His words were followed by the laughter of the warriors and courtiers as they raised their glasses.

  “To the king!” they shouted. The words echoed as the images and voices faded into the fog.

  Steward remained staring into the mist.

  “This is a lie, a distortion. The king would never use us for his own safety. Why do you show me these false images?”

  The Phaedra raised a hand, his voice feigning innocence. “We show you only what is real. We do not make up these images any more than we distorted the Reflectors of Marikonia or put the love of wealth and power into the hearts of the people of Petitzaros or the passion for ramp building into Cassandra.”

  Again, he drew close to Steward. Steward sheathed his sword.

  That couldn’t be the king. He knew the king, he trusted the king. But his eyes saw, his ears heard. He fought every inkling of doubt, but it began to wear him down.

  The Phaedra smiled as the sword no longer kept him at bay. “You must understand, these are what are true in this kingdom. It is the desire to set them aside for some dreamy other kingdom that is the lie. And it is you, Steward, who is the voice of distortion. There is no kingdom, no other world. This is all there is. This is reality and nothing more. And it is your belief in the king’s lies that will mark the end of the king’s rule, as it will the lives of your companions.”

  Fear shot through his body. Anger boiled up in him.

  Steward lifted his sword again and shot back. “What do you mean by that?”

  The Phaedra backed away but continued. “When Astrid, Dunston, and the Black Knight reached Kildrachan Plain, there was a messy encounter waiting for them. It is a pity that their lives have been sacr
ificed for nothing.”

  “Now I know you are lying! Stop me if you can, but I am going to them, now! If I have to fight through all of you!”

  The Phaedra seemed unmoved. “Very well, but before such a battle, you may want to examine these.”

  He held out an object in his bony hand. Zedekai’s arm shield. Steward grabbed it, and blood smeared across his hand.

  “Zedekai. No, it can’t be.”

  Please, please don’t show me more.

  “And I believe this belonged to your little friend.” The Phaedra handed him a cane, broken in half.

  Steward held it, his hands trembling.

  Please, nothing more…

  The Phaedra came close. “And I believe this headscarf was from young Astrid. You were quite fond of her, I believe?”

  Steward touched the blood-soaked headscarf, and his strength failed him. He fell to his knees in grief.

  The massed Phaedra let out a roar of delight.

  That was it. They were dead. And the king? Were they right about that too? The lands, the defeat? Was it all true?

  The lead Phaedra stood over Steward, hissing now with a venom in his voice. “Get on your feet.”

  Steward rose, his mind still lost in his confusion and grief. Pain shot through his chest.

  Fear, despair, heartache.

  The Phaedra came up along his side. Steward felt every muscle in his body tighten.

  “And the time has now come to end this journey of yours.” He pulled his knife from its sheath and struck Steward across the face, sending him crashing to the ground. Blood flowed from his cheek as he lay sprawled on the cold earth. The clearing exploded with shouts and jeers from the horde of gathered Phaedra.

  The lead Phaedra drew close and placed his boot across Steward’s neck, pushing it against the ground. Steward was still stunned from the blow, and he fought to breathe as his blood mixed with the cold, black mud.

  “Where is your king now, Steward? Now, when you are about to die, where are his warriors? If he is so caring and powerful, why has he left you to die alone and forsaken? Don’t you see that this journey was all in vain? Your friends are dead. You have been used and discarded. Your whole life has been for nothing.” The Phaedra pressed his boot even harder onto Steward’s throat. “Are you ready to admit your failure and abandon your king?” He eased up enough to let Steward breathe.