The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  “You need to be faster next time,” Declan said gruffly, unsure of what to say, so he fell back into his more comfortable role as Master of the Gladiators. “Otherwise, you may not be as lucky. If your aim had been off by just a hair, you would have died.”

  “Probably,” said Bryen as he dropped heavily to a wooden bench and closed his eyes. Declan noticed the grimace that played across his face, so he told one of the boys who worked at the Colosseum to find the physick. The slash and burns Bryen had suffered needed treatment.

  The expression on Bryen’s face told Declan that his young charge simply didn’t care anymore. Declan cursed the boy’s luck. Bryen didn’t deserve to be here. None of the gladiators did. But few could challenge fate and win. There was nothing that he could do about it, nothing except teach them everything he knew, all with the hope that something he gave to them would allow them to live -- if only for one more week.

  “Well done, Bryen. For a moment I thought the sand would turn red.”

  Bryen looked up and grinned, seeing Lycia standing in the doorway. Just a few days after Bryen had arrived in the Colosseum, Declan had explained what the saying used so frequently by the gladiators meant, as it referenced a gladiator dying on the white sand of the Pit, his or her red blood soaking into the feathery, soft, pure white crystals.

  “So did I.”

  “But not yet.”

  “No, not yet,” Bryen confirmed.

  “Death doesn’t choose us …,” began Lycia.

  “We choose our death.”

  Bryen finished the saying that was a mantra among the gladiators. They clasped arms and then Lycia walked off with a grin, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she headed toward the steel gate to watch her brother fight. She understood that she had to give him the space that he needed to release the tension of the duel, from the fight that in all his time in the Pit had brought him closest to death.

  Chapter 2. Demands

  “Are you enjoying the combat, Duke Winborne?” The question was a simple one, yet it held several meanings in the slightly mocking tone with which it was offered. “I understand you have a unique perspective on the games.”

  “Quite the spectacle,” replied the Duke of the Southern Marches, who hesitated just a moment before responding. He chose to ignore the attempted insult. “I’m quite impressed by this gladiator. A lesser fighter would not have survived for so long against such a beast.”

  In actuality, Kevan Winborne despised the gladiatorial combats. They showed a lack of respect for human life, for the people compelled to participate. The Caledonian Kingdom had abolished slavery hundreds of years before, yet a form of it still remained here in the Pit, something that was simply accepted and overlooked, and it left Kevan somewhat sickened. The privileged classes viewed the Colosseum as a place of sport and an opportunity for their own amusement or distraction. They cared little for the wellbeing of those forced to perform on the white sand, ignoring the hypocrisy of such a practice, as they were only concerned about the quality of the show. They wanted drama, excitement, bravery, skill, and a heroic end, having no concern for the people or creatures placed on their sandy stage.

  “Very true,” replied the handsome young man. Long black hair ran to the nape of his neck, and more often than not it fell into his eyes. His regular attempts to move the unruly strands amused and excited the many young, eligible ladies who sought to attract his attention. He had an easy smile, though the ladies pursuing him tended to ignore the fact that it tended to curl into a sneer when he failed to obtain what he wanted, or he believed that the person he was interacting with wasn’t worth his time. When you sought to catch a king, the little things could be disregarded. “Very true. Tell me, Tetric, has anyone ever survived an encounter with a black dragon? I believe we haven’t had a beast as dangerous as this one in the Colosseum for decades.”

  “Not to my knowledge, your Majesty. And you’re right. The last time we had a creature such as this was well before your father’s reign. Six gladiators fought it together. All six died.” Tetric’s words came out as a hiss. His intense black eyes, which had an almost hypnotic quality, added to the man’s formidable appearance. Wiping a few drops of sweat from his bald head, then stroking his short, pointed beard, he turned the full force of his gaze on Duke Winborne. “Of course, no man can escape his fate, no matter how hard he might try.”

  “Yet this young man continues to do so.” Kevan understood Tetric’s reference quite well. Having to pay his respects once a year to the young King Marden, ruler of Caledonia, was a chore that he dreaded but couldn’t avoid. To also have to deal with the likes of Tetric, the King’s Chief Advisor, almost made the experience unbearable. The Duke of the Southern Marches sighed in weariness. He was still a young man, or at least he liked to think so, but the last few days in Tintagel had aged him. As soon as he and his contingent of soldiers had ridden under the gates of the Corinthian Palace, named for Marden’s late father, a battle had ensued. Not one of steel or magic, but rather of words. Insinuations, threats, and promises that could be just as deadly as a dagger in the ribs. “No man can escape his fate, Tetric. I will agree with you on that. But no man has to accept it willingly. No man has to give in. Though a man may be placed on a certain path, that man can still fight it. In fact, some would say that allowing others to choose your path is worse than fate. You never know what will come of the choice until it’s too late.”

  Tetric flinched as if he had been struck a physical blow, yet he quickly recovered with a menacing glare. Kevan was pleased to see that his jab had hit home. Rumors buzzed around Tetric like buzzards circled a wounded animal. And everyone knew that in any rumor there always was some hint of the truth.

  Marden’s chief advisor had appeared mysteriously in Caledonia a decade before, quickly inserting himself as a confidant and advisor to King Corinthus, Marden’s father. At the time of Tetric’s arrival, Caledonia prospered. The harvests flourished, the Kingdom was free of the pirates who often marauded along the coast, and the Dukes and Duchesses of the various provinces had learned to settle their differences through diplomacy rather than war -- all aided by the King’s wise and just leadership. Yet soon after Tetric had wormed his way into the Tintagel court, cracks began to appear in the Kingdom’s foundations. The crown began to ignore the requirements of long-standing treaties, impinging on the rights of the provinces. New taxes were forced on the Duchies, and thus on the common folk, making it harder for the average worker or farmer to pay their debts. The argument was often much of the same. There was a need for more soldiers in the Royal Guard. The Corinthian Palace had to be expanded. The navy required more ships. More, always more. While at the same time the commoners suffered and Tintagel, the capital of Caledonia, began to fall into disrepair. No one could trace these problems or crises directly to the new Chief Advisor, because it was King Corinthus who signed every order or approved every action, but Tetric’s influence over the King was clear and increasing by the day. Then Corinthus’ health began to wane.

  In consequence, as time passed, Tetric rather than Corinthus appeared to be ruling Caledonia, yet there was little that the Duchies could do, if only because now several of the provinces were frequently at odds with one another, and individually no Duchy had the strength to stand against the much larger Royal Guard. The King’s health continued to fail and after several years of deterioration the old man died. With a young, ambitious, and impressionable Marden following his father to the throne, in just the last three years Tetric had strengthened his grip on the Kingdom -- surreptitiously, of course -- along with his influence over the mercurial and short-tempered king.

  “I disagree,” replied Marden. “A man can be forced onto a path he hasn’t chosen for himself. It simply requires a certain incentive. For example, just the other day I had a man drawn and quartered because he refused to admit his crime, proclaiming his innocence to the very end. If he had retracted his statement of innocence, then perhaps I would have been more lenient.
Maybe a beheading instead. But that was his choice. He chose to fight, to deny. To try for a different path. In this instance, the man’s decision to resist led to a more painful death.”

  Marden settled back in his chair, his attention once again on the combat that continued to play out before him. The gladiator now circled the black dragon, searching for an opening. Ah, well. No matter how good a fight the man put up, it was all for naught. If he fought in the Pit, he was a man condemned and his sentence eventually would be carried out. Even if he survived his struggle on this day, and that likelihood was slim, fate would catch up to him on another. “And then just yesterday a merchant accused of smuggling was brought before me. He had a cart full of finely woven rugs, jewels, even some spices, all from the Western Isle. He was given the choice of turning over his contraband to the crown and leaving the Kingdom peacefully or having his head chopped off. Though he, too, proclaimed his innocence, stating that he had paid the required taxes on the imports, he wisely chose the former course, losing his contraband but escaping with his head, though he will be spending a good bit of time in prison for his crime.”

  “May I ask, your Majesty, what these examples have to do with me?” asked Kevan. He knew exactly what they had to do with him, but he had to play along, if only to massage the ego of this young, impetuous ruler. “I know you asked me to attend you here for a specific purpose. I’m curious as to that reason.”

  “You are the most direct, straightforward of my vassals, Kevan,” said Marden, leaning forward now, his black eyes focused on the Duke of the Southern Marches. “Whether that’s good or bad, we shall see. I should have expected you of all people to cut to the chase.” Marden nodded toward his advisor. “I told you he would do such a thing, Tetric, did I not?”

  “You did, your Majesty,” confirmed Tetric, twirling the pointed end of his beard in his hand. “As you said, Duke Winborne is one who goes straight to the heart of a matter.” Tetric eyed Kevan with a malicious intent in his eyes. Kevan’s pointed comment had obviously struck closer to home than he had thought possible. Moreover, it had stayed with the advisor, who was known for holding grudges and meting out retribution when the time was right.

  “You see, Kevan,” began Marden, “I’m faced with a problem.” He clenched his fist and sneered as he watched the gladiator’s blade shatter on the black dragon’s snout. It wouldn’t be long now. The gladiator’s heroics would soon be lost to history. “I’ve sat on the throne of Caledonia for three years now. And the Duchies are growing restless. I’m sure you’re quite aware of that.”

  Kevan shrugged and nodded his head noncommittally. The provinces were always restless these days because of the crown’s usually self-serving decisions. Before Tetric had arrived, King Corinthus had usually put the interests of the Kingdom before his own. With the King’s Advisor and the coronation of Marden Beleron, that dynamic had been reversed. As a result, there were rumblings that several of the Dukes and Duchesses were interested in removing Marden from the throne. But none were willing to take that risk on their own. Yet. No Duchy on its own had the strength to defeat the King’s Royal Guard, and the distrust sown by Tetric during the last decade had weakened the former bonds between the Duchies. As a result, none of the Duchies but for a few trusted any of the others enough to form temporary alliances to achieve their goals. Thus, the Dukes and Duchesses spent half their time looking at their peers, worrying about what they might be planning, while spending the rest of their time trying to hinder Marden’s many schemes. For Marden, it was an effective way to rule, keeping his greatest threats off balance, and Kevan gave Tetric full credit for engineering the current situation.

  “To help soothe the Duchies, Tetric advises me that it’s time to select a bride. Isn’t that right, Tetric?”

  “Yes, your Majesty. Absolutely correct. By picking a bride you can solidify your position on the throne and remove any questions with respect to an heir, once the lucky bride is with child. Then the Duchies can turn their attention to more important matters rather than questions of succession.”

  Kevan listened to Tetric with half an ear, his mind having outpaced the conversation. An icy chill ran down his spine. He knew immediately what was coming next.

  “I’ve thought about this for some time, Kevan. Marriage is not something that you simply jump into.” Marden sat back in his chair, a broad smile on his face. “Your daughter Aislinn is a beautiful young lady, don’t you think? And with the Southern Marches the most powerful of all the Duchies, I believe it only fitting that Aislinn become the Queen of Caledonia. Don’t you agree?”

  Marden said the words with such nonchalance, as if the proposal was simply a topic of idle conversation and carried little import. Yet for Kevan the words drove a stake through his heart.

  “Your Majesty is very kind for suggesting Aislinn as a possible match, but I must admit that I’m somewhat surprised by the choice.” Kevan cleared his throat, trying to buy some time to think. “Aislinn is still just a young girl, and not yet ready for marriage. I would even suggest that she’s a bit rough around the edges. Would you not, your Majesty, do better by selecting a young woman of greater maturity? A young woman who would have a much better understanding of how lucky she would be to marry into the House of Beleron?”

  “Kevan …”

  “Keep in mind as well, your Majesty, that though I may rule the strongest of the Duchies, my House is still relatively young compared to some of the others. Choosing Aislinn is a great honor for me, I certainly can’t deny that, but her selection may cause you ill will with some of the other Duchies.”

  Marden opened his mouth to reply, his face scrunched up slightly in anger, as his temper, which was never very far from the surface, threatened to erupt. He was the King! When he made a decision, there was no discussion or debate. No questions or resistance. There was only action. With an effort, he forced down his irritation. If he had learned one thing in his three years on the throne, it was that patience and cleverness at times trumped the application of force and unnecessary confrontation. And this was one of those times. Having regained control of himself, Marden was about to take a different tack, but before he could say what was on the tip of his tongue, Tetric interrupted him.

  “King Marden is well aware of the political ramifications of his choice,” said the King’s Advisor, leaning forward so that Kevan could smell his acrid, musty breath. It reminded the Duke of the Southern Marches of a newly opened crypt and sent a shiver down his spine. “And though your daughter is young, she is still of an age to marry. She offers more to our good king than any of the other eligible young women in the Kingdom. So much more.”

  With the Advisor’s last comment, Kevan realized immediately that Tetric was much more dangerous than Marden, a thought that worried him, yet wasn’t a surprise.

  “As King Marden has said, he has given much thought to his decision,” continued Tetric, his voice an unsettling hiss. “An alliance between Tintagel and the Southern Marches would strengthen the Kingdom, so he asks for your daughter in marriage. It is not just a gracious request, but one to be valued and appreciated. What say you, Kevan?”

  Kevan shot Tetric a hard glare, well aware of the insult offered by the King’s Chief Advisor. Or rather the warning. To address a Duke of Caledonia with such informality was almost unheard of, occurring only between equals. Yet Kevan got the impression that Tetric saw himself as more than equal to Kevan or Marden. Kevan looked down briefly at the combat still taking place in the Pit. The gladiator was holding his own, having survived for more than an hour. He seemed to be quite capable, and the young man’s patience was impressive as he waited for his opening, waited for the right moment to strike. Though almost everyone in the crowd believed that the black dragon would eventually kill the young man, Kevan knew the truth of it. The gladiator had become the hunter in just the last few minutes. It was only a matter of time before he proved victorious. Turning his gaze back to Marden and Tetric, an uncomfortable lump in the pit of his stomach
suggested that unfortunately for Kevan, he was now the quarry, a position that he detested. As a military leader, he was used to taking the initiative. To advancing forward. But now, all that he could do was attempt to build up his deteriorating defenses as quickly as possible. Perhaps if he exercised the same patience as that of the gladiator fighting for his life, he could extricate himself and his daughter from this trap, at least for a time.

  “Your Majesty, I must apologize. Truly, your request is overwhelming. I had never expected it.” Tetric smiled slightly at the statement. Kevan was now certain that this entire plot was Tetric’s idea. More important, it was clear that Tetric held more sway over the son than he ever did over the father, and that was a frightening realization.

  “It is overwhelming,” answered Tetric in his quiet rasp. “But the King still needs your answer. He needs his bride.”