The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  Something about the man reminded Conrad of the countess, though the two looked very different: this man was large and commanding, whereas the Countess Destette was petite and delicate. Perhaps it was due to the eyes, or perhaps due to the confident way in which he moved, but the familiarity made Conrad wary. “I was not aware that you wished to receive me, Grand Commander,” he said carefully.

  “And I did not,” Lord Maven said bluntly. He paced to a small cupboard upon which a silver tray stood with a pitcher and a gleaming goblet. “Yet you came to my castle.” The man poured up a deep-red wine and held the goblet under his nose before taking a sip. “Wine, Sir Conrad?”

  “Your castle?” Conrad frowned. “The Order’s castle, you mean. No grand commander can claim ownership of it. It belongs to the Lions.”

  “But you are a Lion no longer,” said the nobleman, perhaps having baited the comment. “What are you now? What does our Lady Destette keep you as? Some leashed creature, no doubt.” Lord Maven did not let scorn enter his voice. He just threw the words out there callously, seemingly disinterested in how they might be interpreted. “Yet I come to wonder what Lady Destette’s pet hero is doing in Sacrifice, or in the city at all. What does she hope that the Reclaimer shall be able to accomplish here, I ask. Will you not sit down, sir?” The man gestured to a cushioned chair before the desk, but Conrad did not even look at it.

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “Very well.” The man didn’t seem to care as he took another sip of wine. “But you will tell me what your business here was yesterday, surely?”

  Conrad felt a strange discomfort, as if he owed the man something. Lord Maven was the new grand commander, after all, and he had a right to know what happened in Sacrifice. He almost blinked in confusion upon realizing his thoughts, but Lord Maven did not seem to notice. The grand commander was just waiting for an answer with blue eyes that were very intent on him.

  “I visited my friend,” Sir Conrad managed finally, and then the words came more easily. “Haeigwyn, in the Watchtower. As you know, he is very sick.”

  “Very sick indeed.” Lord Maven nodded. “And a very interesting illness, it is, too. I have never seen a condition quite like it.”

  “I would not call his condition interesting any more than I would that of Sir Olwyn,” Conrad said curtly. “Though, perhaps neither would you?”

  “Ah, the old commander. Yes, a sorry story, that.” Maven swirled the wine in his goblet absently. “He was your friend? We all suffer losses.” The grand commander said it all so casually that Conrad nearly ground his teeth. Lord Maven had completely ignored his scarcely veiled accusation, and yet Conrad knew that it would be useless to press him on it. If the nobleman took pleasure in his guest’s rage, he did not show it. “Perhaps we are coming closer to the reason the countess sent you?”

  Is the man admitting something now? Lord Maven’s way of speaking confused him. He can’t be speaking of something like that so casually. He is taunting me somehow.

  “For the last time, tell her to stay away from my interests. I hold the Pass, not she.”

  “I doubt any liege of Silverstream has ever made claim to the Pass,” Conrad said in a biting tone.

  Now the man even chuckled, as if Conrad had made a joke. “Indeed, she would be the first. You can tell her that she has nothing to claim here, as you put it. She is not the Master, and she will not change what is planned.”

  Conrad frowned. What is the man babbling about? “I was not aware of any correspondence between you. What plans do you speak of? I do hope they entail enlarging the garrisons, for the Defense is in a poor state to face the wrath building up in Rurhav.”

  For a moment, the grand commander frowned, too, a swiftly evaluating confusion on his face that soon turned into laughter. “Not aware of...? Indeed.” The man chuckled into his goblet and took another swallow, his expression becoming calm and harmonic. “Well, it is not my place to decide how much she tells her servants. I usually prefer mine well informed of...certain circumstances. It makes them less unpredictable. When they know who they serve, you know that they serve you, isn’t that so?”

  “What are you talking about?” Conrad asked impatiently. “I got more sense out of Haeigwyn.”

  Lord Maven met the statement with a slight smile. “Perhaps you did.” He drained the goblet and went over to refill it. “But now I’m wondering why she would send you here so uninformed if she had those interests? Surely, some mistake has been made on my part. I will not admit that my suspicion was unfounded, however. The countess has her rather sly methods. Oh, I was truly imagining what disastrous mess she planned to make here. What are you doing here, then, sir? I know you sent a message yesterday. Was it for the countess?”

  “Yes.” Conrad knew not why it would interest the man.

  The lord made an inquiring gesture. “But why? What could she possibly have you report from this place without any knowledge of the circumstances? What did you tell her of Sacrifice and of me?”

  “Of you?” Conrad asked. “Nothing at all. My business has nothing to do with Sacrifice.”

  “No?” the commander asked, revealing some surprise. “Then what is it?”

  “I am escorting a moinguir to... Well, to Lourne,” he said. “We shall pass through Rurhav.”

  Now the nobleman was surprised, and he stared at Conrad as though confounded. It felt quite satisfying to switch the roles. “You are...taking a moinguir through Rurhav?” Lord Maven asked. “She sends you to...?” The man broke into laughter. “And I, who thought... Surely, she did this consciously, a rather rude jape.”

  “I can assure you that you have not been mentioned at all.” Gods, what is it I am being left in the dark about? He had not the slightest idea, but he had plenty of bad feeling.

  The commander gathered himself. “So. Just another flirtation with the moinguir? Moinguir jewelry will have any woman running laps, especially one like our Lady Destette.” The man let slip a few more chuckles. “This has been rather amusing. Of course, you wouldn’t see the humor. Regardless, I am quite done with you, sir, and I apologize for taking up your time.” The man gestured for him to leave. “Please ride into Rurhav with your moinguir, by all means. Who knows, perhaps I shall have yet more rotting men for my tower.”

  25

  Cruel Satire

  Nathelion knocked on the door one more time, but there was still no response. The silence had long since grown ominous. “Alwarul?” he called again, more hesitantly than he had at first.

  “Are ye sure this was his room?” Molgrimin asked. “Maybe it was that one.” He pointed to the neighboring door with a heavy finger. “I’ll try it.”

  “Gods, no!” Nathelion exclaimed. “No, it was this one! The serving maid told us, number thirteen, that’s what he got.” The numbers were carved stylishly on the doors, surrounded by growing wines and flowers that threaded in and out of a slim frame. Thirteen stood very clearly before them.

  “Well, then maybe he can’t hear ye,” Molgrimin suggested, coming back to the door. “Aye, mighty thick door. Here, let me show ye.” The moinguir made him step aside before starting to bang on the door like mad. “Alwarul, are ye there?” he screamed so loudly that Nathelion had to put his hands to his ears. “Alwarul, we were thinking about leaving soon! Are ye awake?” The dwarf drummed at the door as if he were trying to break it down. “Alwarul, are ye—”

  “Okay, great, that’s enough,” Nathelion said, and he shoved the dwarf aside. He leaned in to listen at the door, and soon, Molgrimin did the same. They both strained to hear anything.

  “Shhh!” Nathelion told the moinguir.

  “What do ye mean, ‘shhh’? I wasn’t saying anything.”

  “You breathe too loudly,” Nathelion replied.

  “Breathe too loudly? I—”

  “Shhh!” Did he hear something in that room? It seemed quiet. Or...?

  A fat old man in fine clothes passed them by in the hallway, and they could only grin dumbly when he
frowned at them. “It’s a friend,” Nathelion said. “Yes, we...play some pranks on each other.”

  The man didn’t say anything, but his expression was still condemning when he hastened his steps down the corridor.

  “This isn’t working,” Nathelion said, straightening. “We’ll have to ask for the key. Can you...” He suddenly realized that the dwarf was still listening at the door, deep creases forming across his brow as if he were puzzling with a sound. “Don’t tell me that moinguir have enhanced hearing...”

  “Eh?” the dwarf asked. “Nay, nay, I hear nothing. But this door smells really good. It that the oil, ye think? Smells very pleasantly of cedar...” Nathelion only glared at him, and Molgrimin moved back with a shamed nod. “Aye, I’ll go and get the key.”

  When he turned to hurry down the hallway, Nathelion called after him, “If they don’t give it to you, tell them that he is old and might be sick!” By the hells, but why doesn’t Alwarul answer?

  He surprised himself with the amount of concern he felt for the old man, almost as if they had had a long-running friendship. Despite how bizarrely mad the old man was, and how short a time they had traveled together, Nathelion had found a rare kindness in Alwarul, and even some strange encouragement. He was the confused sage that had prompted Nathelion to leave Widowswood, the hopeless wizard who could scare them all with his stories, the lunatic who knew more of the world than Nathelion could ever hope to learn.

  Molgrimin came stumbling back up the stairs again, a key in hand, and then he ran up to press it into Nathelion’s palm.

  Nathelion found himself shaking when he put it into the lock. What’s bloody wrong with Alwarul? He put his weight on the handle, and as the door swung open, he almost dared not look.

  “By the gods!” Molgrimin exclaimed when the whole ruin of the room was revealed to them. Everywhere, there were shards of broken vases and pottery, and candelabras had been tossed over the floor with all the candles flung from them. Chairs and tables lay toppled as if a tornado had passed through the chamber. A hand was visible behind the ruffled canopy bed, outstretched and limp on the floor.

  “Alwarul!” Nathelion shouted, and he ran right through the devastation while Molgrimin climbed over the bed. They both reached the old man at the same time. Nathelion crouched down next to him, and he tried to shake the old man back to consciousness, but Alwarul was unresponsive — as if he were in some deep sleep from which there could be no awakening. He is dying. The realization was like an arrow punching through Nathelion’s ribs.

  “Give him the staff,” the moinguir suggested, lying flat on the mattress and looking as ridiculous as he sounded. “There, give him the staff.” Molgrimin nodded to the mighty, gnarled walking stick that Alwarul kept. It lay on the floor, too.

  “Bloody, silly fool!” Nathelion groaned at the hopelessness of the moinguir’s advice. He didn’t know why he still picked the staff up. Perhaps he wanted to be rid of the dwarf’s theories as quickly and painlessly as possible. Or perhaps simply because it was fitting for the “wizard” to die with his beloved talisman in hand. Maybe it was those reasons and more, but regardless, he did pick the staff up and carried it to the old man.

  Nathelion gasped when Alwarul’s hand immediately gripped around it like had he suddenly found some spark of life. The man’s breaths grew louder, still ragged but deeper and more forceful. Then his eyes began to flutter open, and a sound came from his throat.

  “Yes, Alwarul,” Nathelion said comfortingly, “you have your staff!” He turned to Molgrimin with an urgent voice. “Quickly, bring water and get help!” He didn’t know what help that was supposed to be, but they needed it. The dwarf bounded off the bed with revived purpose and ran from the room on short legs that could then have been the longest and swiftest in the world. Alwarul groaned weakly, and Nathelion begged him to awaken. “Gods, Alwarul, you cannot follow us into Rurhav.” He was shaking his head and spilling out all kinds of things in a jumble. “Look, I had this vision: there was gold and light and warm mist. I played chess with death. Damn it, I tossed the note away! Listen, you must stay in the city, Alwarul. We’ll have the physicians at the castle take care of you. Sir Conrad told you he could arrange it.” Tears were forming in his eyes, and his voice grew raw, but he couldn’t stop the stream of words. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. The Queen Beyond is going to be defeated. By the hells, why did I throw away the note! I went to the stars, Alwarul, and found all these profound truths there, a whole adventure, and after all the riddles and trials, I realized the weakness of our enemy. And the demons! They poured out through the closet like a bloody legion, probably some wave of the abyss, like you said. But I slew them so that they vanished, and then I knew that the Queen Beyond would fall before me. Damn it, Alwarul, the world will be saved!”

  “Nathelion...what are you saying?”

  He realized that the old man had opened his eyes, though they looked dim and confused, made uncomprehending by his illness.

  “And what are you wearing?” Alwarul’s voice was weak and unsteady, and Nathelion had to calm down in order to hear it all. He laughed at the old man’s last question.

  “Oh, this?” he said, indicating his new garb. “I thought that I better dress for the journey.”

  “I understand.” Alwarul smiled wearily. “You look very fierce. It will serve. Please, will you help me to my feet?”

  “Are you sure that you can stand?” Nathelion asked, but the man chuckled at the question.

  “I will need to pull off far greater feats than being able to stand if our quest is to be successful, Nathelion.”

  He took Alwarul by the arm and helped him rise. The old man was tall, yet he weighed shockingly little, as if only bones were hidden beneath his robes. A serving maid appeared in the doorway with a glass of water and put a hand to her mouth at the sight of the trashed room. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, and then she rushed to the old man, full of concern. “Sit down, mister, here on the bed. Drink some. What has happened here?”

  Nathelion asked the same, but he could only assume what violent seizure must have taken hold of Alwarul. Gods, he nearly tore down the walls. “Alwarul, I’m afraid you can’t continue on the...quest,” he said firmly as the old man lowered himself down on the side of the bed. “Sir Conrad wants us to leave now. He is waiting for us to be ready.”

  “No,” the serving maid said, shaking her head. “There were some Lions here, and they brought him away to the castle. He said that you should be ready when he gets back.”

  “Really?” Nathelion asked, grinding his teeth. “How good of you to tell us.”

  The serving maid smiled obliviously. “Yes, he said to do it.”

  “Nathelion,” Alwarul intoned more somberly, “I must follow you. There is no other way. Many trials will be ahead of us, and the Rizych shall need to assist you. We do not yet know how our foe is to be overcome. The Seventh Tower will give us clarity.”

  Nathelion considered trying to convince him of the things he’d written again, but he couldn’t formulate himself now, and Alwarul’s face seemed frozen in determination. He wants to take part in this quest for however long he can. Gods, but it is all he has. Can I take that away from him? “As you say, Alwarul.” He nodded slowly. “It shall be as you say.”

  The old man smiled then, and Nathelion decided that he had made the best choice. “It is the only way, Nathelion,” Alwarul told him, and then he added with more mirth, “You cannot do this all on your own, you know.”

  “No.” Nathelion grinned back. “Of course not. Where is Molgrimin?” The question was for the confused serving maid. She blinked now.

  “He went with Nieve to fetch the physician on Carriage Street,” she answered. “He was very...pushy about it.”

  “I can imagine,” Nathelion said. “Then we’ll just wait here. And you can try to relax, Alwarul. Maybe you should lie down...”

  The old man rose instead. “I do not need a physician, so spare the expense.”

 
“Where are you going?” Nathelion asked as Alwarul passed him with his staff, treading over the floor with surprisingly steady steps considering how he’d been lying unconscious a moment earlier.

  “Downstairs. We must leave soon. Are you ready to go?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Good. If Sir Conrad does not arrive within the hour, we make for Lourne without him. I have no time for the games of the countess.”

  “But...” Nathelion hardly believed his ears. Leave Sir Conrad behind? Oh no, he’d not be that brave. He rushed after Alwarul, and all his insistence followed.

  They sat down at a table in the common room, where some of the patrons were still making comical impressions of a burly moinguir with a rough accent who had demanded very loudly and repeatedly to get “help for the wizard!” Then Molgrimin had apparently stormed out the door while shooing at the serving maid to take him quickly to the estate of the physician. There seemed to have been a whole lot of ruckus, and only now was calm beginning to settle again.

  “Did he really say ‘wizard’?” a fine lady asked her company. “I thought he said ‘wizard.’”

  “Crazy moinguir,” a gentleman replied. “I hear most of them who come to the kingdoms are. Exiles. He may be rich enough but trust me when I say that he probably only has one name.”

  Nathelion caught on to that, though he hadn’t really listened to the conversation at first. Now he frowned. Is that what Molgrimin won’t talk about? Is he an exile?

  “A rather rude habit of them, isn’t it?” a fatter man in red silks asked, his face powdered and his lips painted. “To just heap their troublemakers over on us, I mean.”