The Celestial Palace’s numerous inhabitants knew better than to disturb their lord when he sought sanctuary in the library. So Lord Minus was startled when a shadow fell over his desk.
He removed his spectacles, rubbed his tired eyes, and looked up to find Sir Bryant Walden and a man he did not recognize before him. Not giving the stranger a second thought, the he regarded Sir Walden warily. For as long as Bryant Walden had held the position of High Commander, he had never barged into Minus’s place of refuge for anything short of an emergency.
His heart skipped a beat when he thought of all the things that could be going wrong in Rydah at that very moment. The Thief Guild that called the capital home had been quiet as of late, which made Magnes Minus more than a little uneasy. Every now and then, a small fleet of Thanatan ships would pillage Capricon’s coasts, but the ogres hadn’t made any trouble in years, and human pirates were seldom foolhardy enough to openly defy Rydah’s defenses.
The rebels, on the other hand…
Port Town’s Renegades were growing more dangerous by the day, according to Mayor Beryl. Rydah’s Renegades had always been a secretive lot, an underground movement more concerned with waging a war of threats and propaganda than one with weapons. But with the Renegade Leader Domacles Herronin taking overt action against North Port, might the Renegades of Rydah be on the verge of attempting something similar?
“What is it, my friend?” he asked Sir Bryant, rising quickly to his feet. In his mind, he saw riots in the streets, the walls of the Celestial Palace bathed in blood and flame. “Is everything all right?”
Sir Bryant gave the Lord of Capricon a reassuring smile. “Everything is fine, milord. I am sorry to disturb you, but we have been honored by the arrival of a most unexpected guest.”
Minus looked away from the Knight to gaze upon the gentleman beside him. He was certain had never seen the man in his life. And yet there was something familiar about the stranger. Although he wore the clothes of an ordinary traveler, he detected something noble in the younger man’s face and posture. He wore his light hair tied back in a thong and met the lord’s stare with supreme confidence, as though he were regarding someone lesser than himself.
It was in those eyes, the bluest of blues and positioned between a sharp but regal nose, that Lord Minus recognized the stranger for who he was.
“It cannot be,” Minus whispered, his eyes widening in surprise even as his mouth drew up into a great grin. “Prince Eliot, we are indeed honored by your presence!”
Magnes Minus hurried around the desk and genuflected, all the while wanting to sweep the boy up into a big hug. Eliot Borrom had been five years old when he had last graced the Celestial Palace with his presence. During his stay, Magnes and Corrine Minus, who had never conceived children of their own, had come to think of little Eliot as their own. He had maintained regular correspondences with the prince for many years after his return to Superius.
With joy in his heart, Lord Minus welcomed Eliot Borrom, the Crown Prince of Superius, back to the island. He knew he must resist the urge to embrace him, for the prince was a boy no more. Looking into that face, which had gained the handsomeness of maturity without losing the charm of youth, Magnes Minus felt his own years catch up with him all at once.
Sir Walden cleared his throat, and Lord Minus felt his face flush. He had been staring at the prince for a long period of silence, and Prince Eliot was regarding him with an odd expression, perhaps embarrassed by his host’s reaction.
“My apologies,” Lord Minus said, “but by the gods’ light, it is good to see you again. To what do we owe this wonderful surprise?”
His blue eyes narrowing, Prince Eliot spoke for the first time since entering the library. “I do apologize for not writing ahead to tell you of my coming. However, I could not risk sending word, lest the Renegades learn of it and make an attempt on my life. In case you have forgotten, Lord Minus, we are in the midst of war.”
Not knowing quite how to take the prince’s last words, Lord Minus simply smiled, thinking Eliot was trying to make a joke. While it was true that the rebels’ influence was escalating, King Edward Borrom III, Eliot’s own father, was always the first to refer to the political unrest as an actual war.
But Prince Eliot was not smiling.
“Forgive my rudeness,” Lord Minus said, eager to change the subject. “You must be tired after your long voyage. Do you hunger? I am sure Lady Corrine would love for you to join us at breakfast—”
“I am not here on holiday,” the prince stated. “For the moment I require only a room and absolute privacy”
“Of course, my prince.” Lord Minus made another bow, trying to ignore the sting of Eliot’s rejection. He reminded himself that Eliot Borrom was no longer an affectionate child, content to spend hours with the doting Lord and Lady of Capricon. Still, the prince’s aloofness hurt him.
“As for why I am here,” Eliot continued, “suffice it to say my father is not pleased with how things are progressing in Capricon. Nowhere are the rebels more bold and unruly than they are on your island. I was sent to evaluate the situation and take control as I see fit.”
Magnes Minus was at a loss for words. What, exactly, was Prince Eliot proposing? Sir Bryant Walden—indeed, most all of the Knights of Superius in Capricon—had long expressed their desire to march against the rebels in order to wipe them out. But their orders, straight from the King of Superius himself, prohibited them from taking action against the Renegades.
How could King Edward be upset with the Lord of Capricon’s conservative efforts to thwart the rebellion when the king himself had ordained that approach? Had the king drastically altered his approach to dealing with the rebels? Was he, the Lord of Capricon, to become a scapegoat, taking the blame for not stopping the rebels from the start?
“Of…of course, my prince,” Minus said at last.
“I will have a full report on the recent activities of Capricon’s Renegades brought to my room in exactly two hours,” the prince ordered. “I trust you can set aside your leisure activities long enough to fulfill your responsibilities as the governor of this province?”
“Of course,” Minus repeated numbly.
“Then I require nothing more of you…for now,” Eliot said. “Seneschal, take me to my room.”
Lord Minus stood rooted in front of his desk as Sir Walden led the prince away. The High Commander glanced back only once, regarding Minus with an uneasy look, before he and Eliot exited the library. Minus stood motionless for many minutes after they were out of sight, wondering where he had gone wrong, how he could have possibly displeased the king, a man known for his patience and wisdom.
And he mourned the loss of the Eliot Borrom he had known—and feared the man he had become.
* * *
Eliot Borrom dismissed the seneschal without a word, slamming the door behind him and jerking the bolt into place. He considered using his secret talent to further secure the door but decided against it. He was confident Lord Minus would follow his orders implicitly.
The Crown Prince of Superius was accustomed to being obeyed without question and without failure.
During Eliot’s audience with the Lord of Capricon, one of the palace’s chamberlains had brought the small leather bag, which was the prince’s only luggage, to his room. Sparing not a glance at the luxurious accommodations, Eliot walked over to the wardrobe on which his bag rested.
He untied the drawstrings and thrust a hand into the bag, fishing around until he felt a cool, smooth surface. An expression of distaste contorted his handsome face when he pulled out the mirror. He would never get used to the way the taint of magic made his skin crawl.
Eliot stared into the mirror for several long minutes, focusing on his reflection’s bright blue eyes and silently sending his call through the talisman. A few minutes passed before the surface rippled, and the prince watched as his face was slowly replaced by the visage of a goblin.
The soldier’s far-set eyes betrayed equal mea
sures of devotion and fear.
“N’Pruelta, it is an unexpected pleasure to see you again.” The goblin lowered his eyes deferentially as he spoke.
Eliot could not suppress a wry chuckle at the word “n’Pruelta,” which meant “my prince” in the goblin tongue. Indeed, Eliot Borrom had come to be the prince—the master—of men and goblins alike. There were quite a few differences between the two races, Eliot allowed, and yet both made worthy sycophants.
“Drekk’t,” Eliot greeted, intentionally leaving off the goblin’s rank. He had learned long ago that the best way to retain power was to strip everyone else of theirs.
After an uncomfortable pause, Drekk’t asked, “How can I serve you, n’Pruelta?”
The way the goblin squirmed under his gaze made Eliot smile; Drekk’t certainly knew his place.
“I am in the city of Rydah,” the prince said.
Drekk’t’s eyes grew as wide and round as dwarven bucklers. “So near, n’Pruelta! Had I known you were arriving, I would have prepared a proper welcome—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliot admonished. “What would you have done, organized a goblin parade to march down the thoroughfares of the capital? I require no such attention. But tell me, Drekk’t, has anything noteworthy occurred during my voyage?”
Drekk’t’s shoulders straightened as he announced, “Our presence remains undetected, n’Pruelta. That is to say, the woodcutters who settled near our camp a few days past have all been killed…their remains, destroyed.”
More likely eaten, the prince thought. “Has anyone come looking for them?”
The goblin’s head was shaking before the prince finished the question. “The skirmish happened away from our camp. We were never in danger of being discovered. Our spies within the capital have heard nothing of the missing men. Upsinous willing, the Knights will blame the Renegades for the woodcutters’ disappearance.”
“And what is the status of your army?”
The goblin took a big breath before answering. “My warriors are eager for battle. They are disciplined but grow tired of waiting, tired of hiding from the enemy.” The goblin lowered his round, bald head again. “The army is at your command, n’Pruelta. We are ready to do your bidding!”
“Patience,” Eliot intoned, scolding the overzealous general as though he were little more than a whelp, newly weaned from his mother’s teat. “I have not come to instigate open war. I have worked too long and too hard to maintain our shroud of secrecy to jeopardize my plans now. I will not cast all that careful planning aside so that you and your warriors can slake your thirst for blood.”
“Of course, n’Pruelta.”
“You have done well thus far, Drekk’t. You would do well to avoid doing anything to lose my favor.”
“Of course, n’Pruelta.”
“I will not take command of either your army or the troops in Port Town at this time. I will, however, require two warriors to serve as my personal bodyguards throughout the duration of my stay in Capricon. My subjects may grow suspicious if I roam the island without at least some protection. Choose two of your bravest and most intelligent soldiers…they will have to take on the appearance of humans.”
Drekk’t’s green-gray face drained to an ashen yellow. The assignment was more like a punishment than a privilege, Eliot knew, for no goblin would take joy in impersonating an ugly, weak-minded human.
“Expect me at your camp before noon tomorrow,” Eliot added before breaking off the magical connection.
Drekk’t’s uneasy expression faded instantly, and the prince was staring once more into his own blue eyes. He quickly put the accursed mirror back into his pack and then took a good look at his room. His eyes lingered on the oversized bed in the corner.
He had had no restful sleep in many, many days, for he had spent most of the voyage from Continae in a state of meditation, maintaining the strong buffets of wind that filled the ship’s sails and pushed the vessel across the Strait of Liliae at an unprecedented pace.
The crew had thought their speedy trip the result of some miracle, a gift from the gods. But Eliot knew well that there was always a price for divine favors. Days and nights had passed in an indistinguishable blur. He wasn’t fully awake but not truly sleeping either. Now he was exhausted, and his body ached.
Yes, the powers of the gods certainly took a toll.
Eliot went to the bed and lay down, resisting the urge to grant his body the sleep it begged for. The prince had learned long ago how to deny the weaknesses of the flesh in order to strengthen the spirit. He fixed his thoughts on the image of a crow, picturing the bird’s oily black feathers, sharp beak, and fierce eyes.
It was at times like these when the prince envied common spell-casters. Wizards were truly independent souls, tapping into the Magic Goddesses’ power without answering to the deities themselves. It was due to this detached relationship between the goddesses and their servants that enabled the prince to trigger the enchantment locked in the mirror while earnestly serving another god. A greater god.
Magic was impersonal, tricks learned without the benefit of guidance. As far as Eliot could see, the wizard sacrificed nothing for his magic.
Feeling his thoughts drifting, Eliot renewed his efforts in concentrating on the symbol of his faith, that same image he envisioned every time he sought a connection with Upsinous. Eliot’s mouth began to move of its own accord, speaking a mantra his mind could not comprehend, using words sounded remotely like the goblin tongue but contained more power than any mortal language.
The image of the crow expanded in his mind until it filled his consciousness entirely. He could see red fires of righteousness burning in the bird’s otherwise expressionless eyes and dark blood dripping from the crow’s sharp talons.
A great chill ran over Eliot’s entire body, causing his skin to prickle and twitch. Beneath the cold, however, the prince felt his insides boiling, churning as though magma coursed through his veins. He could hardly focus on these contradictory sensations, however, for his brain felt as though it were being filled far beyond its natural capacity by a raging force that threatened to shatter his skull. It was an exquisite pain, the paradoxical ecstasy of being dominated and empowered at the same time.
The prince looked forward to this intimate connection with his god—a communion that no wizard would ever know—only slightly more than he dreaded it.
An hour later, when Eliot’s consciousness returned to him and he realized he was staring up at the ceiling, the prince sorted through Upsinous’s unspoken message. In the rolling thunder that still echoed in his ears, Eliot understood his master was pleased with all he was doing. Upsinous would continue to lend him his power.
But along with that covenant, Eliot detected another promise: should he fail, Eliot would be made to suffer beyond all mortal understanding.
Covered in cold sweat, the prince pulled a blanket over him. Communicating with his god, begging for the divine might that he needed and craved, took so much out of him. But it was a small enough price to pay for the power to perform miracles far beyond the ken of most mortals. His secret talent, the gift of vuudu, was typically granted the members of the goblin race, not humans.
Who would ever suspect that the Crown Prince of Superius was one of the greatest shamans in Altaerra?
Nausea assaulted the prince as he turned on his side. Every bone throbbed with a dull pain. Every muscle felt on the verge of cramping. And yet Eliot Borrom, a stranger to the men and women who called him prince, had never felt better.
With the confidence of an oracle, Eliot knew everything was coming together, could feel the moment of his destiny drawing nearer. The strife in Port Town was coming to a fevered pitch, open war already raged in North Port, and the Renegades in Rydah were well on the path to taking up arms against the Celestial Palace.
And Capricon was only the beginning. All throughout Superius and the other kingdoms of Continae, the rebellion was growing more audacious. Civil war was imminent.
<
br /> There was but one loose thread that Eliot could not resist pulling at, one variable that had escaped his control—if not his attention—for too long. The prince still did not know what, if anything, the rogue knights of Fort Splendor knew about his plans. With Upsinous’s dire threats still ringing in his ears, Eliot knew he couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.
He had underestimated those particular Renegades before but vowed not to do so again.
They all had to die, and the prince swore in the name of Upsinous, Father of Guile and Glory, that he would crush the life from each and every one of them personally if need be.
Passage XI
Colt tried to look unhurried as he saluted the sentries and exited Fort Faith. He faced straight ahead as he walked away, but all the while, his eyes were busy scanning his limited field of vision, searching for his quarry. Maintaining a casual pace, he left the Knights at the front entrance far behind.
He felt the perfect fool, wasting the entire morning hunting down Noel. Somewhere in the back of his mind there lingered a proverb about the correlation between avoiding midge and a long, happy life. And here he was, diligently seeking one out!
After learning Noel had a connection to Klye Tristan, Colt had felt a little better about letting Noel stay at Fort Faith. It had taken some arguing to convince Petton that Noel might prove instrumental in bringing the Renegades to justice. After all, Noel had been a big help in rescuing Opal.
Yet more than a week had passed since the scuffle with the rebels, and Colt had learned virtually nothing about his adversary. Noel, who was ever underfoot when Colt had something important to attend to, suspiciously vanished whenever Colt set his mind to interrogating him about Klye.
He had to admit, however, Noel hadn’t caused any trouble since the rescue mission. Still, he was tired of being played for the fool. It was time for Noel to tell all he knew of the Renegade Leader.
Colt rounded a corner, where only a passing guard up on the rampart might see him, and took a long look at the tall grass beyond the fortress. Then he realized Noel wouldn’t have any need for cover. The midge’s magic would be a far better means for hiding.
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 39
