by Jack Conner
The lord commander of the city watch met him in the courtyard just inside of the gate, and Baleron saw to the refugees being placed in a hostel. Liessa gave him a backwards look as she was led away, but Baleron ignored her. After three years without Rolenya, he had given up celibacy, or at least he struggled with the idea, but he knew trouble when he saw it. He dismissed his men and went to find Wymar.
Lord Keras Wymar, Baleron’s castellan, met him near the Spira Fountain, where several stone rams warred amongst each other. Rams decorated many walls, mosaics and were depicted in numerous statues throughout Theslan. I’m the lord of ram-lovers and sheep herders. Somewhere Father laughs. Finally, out of the wind, he lit a pipe and listened as Lord Wymar related to him the events of the last two weeks, and Baleron listened with all the patience he could muster. He’d hitched his horse to a nearby post.
“Has there been word from the other towns?” he said at last. “Have any other towns gone silent, or reported encounters with spiders or other agents of Oslog?”
“No, my lord.”
A wave of relief swept through Baleron. “Thank the gods.” He sucked in a long drag, then blew it out in a fragrant cloud. “Have the priestesses said anything?”
“You mean, of Illiana?”
“Yes.” Baleron wanted to add of course, since he was raised in the worship of Illiana and to him what he’d meant was obvious, but he knew the people here bowed to other Omkar than just her, though there were plenty who still prayed to the Mother of the Moon.
“I’ve not heard anything from them, my lord. Nor from … her.” Lord Wymar said the word with reluctance, and Baleron counseled himself not to chastise the man. The Grothgars, Baleron’s family, had instilled a dislike of the Elves throughout the kingdom, and it wasn’t surprising that many heeded the preaching of the kings. Ironic that the apple of my father’s eye was an Elf.
“Then I must go to them,” Baleron said.
“Shall I have some knights escort you?” Wymar didn’t like for Baleron to wander the streets alone.
Baleron tapped his sword. “I’ll be fine.”
“Even so …”
“Trust me, it will be a mercy if some miscreant tries something.”
“How is that?”
“Either I’ll be dead or they will.”
He didn’t wait to hear the castellan’s rebuke but mounted up and rode on through the city streets, passing the townsfolk in their rough-spun clothes carrying on their business in the narrow, winding, surprisingly complicated avenues of the mountain city. Built among the crags and fissures, creeping up and down various slopes, Theslan was a mismatched sprawl of stone, wood and earthen homes, some of it very new, some of it quite ancient. Some of it had even been built into the mountainside itself. Everywhere were depictions of rams or birds—most notably hawks. People here saw themselves as free and living in the air like the birds, but hardy and canny like the rams. I would settle for free or canny, Baleron thought. At the moment I don’t feel like either.
Some bowed to him as he went, or made awkward salutes. Others called out to him, or begged him for coin. Most just let him go on his way. That was the good thing about these people. They didn’t stand on ceremony, and they didn’t care much for authority, one way or another. They simply wanted to live their lives without any interference. Baleron saw it as his duty to allow them as much freedom as he could give them. In response, they didn’t despise him as they had the previous duke and his family, who had been greedy, scheming wretches. Now they were greedy, scheming wretches in Glorifel, the capital, only without a castle or lands. All they had was their titles.
He reached the chapel of Illiana near sunset. In Glorifel, the priestesses of Illiana boasted a massive temple. In Theslan, the order only occupied a small stone chapel with one short tower and an eclectic collection of devotees. Baleron reined up before it, dismounted and gave his horse over to the stablemaster, who came out to greet him.
Inside Baleron found a ceremony under way, one of the elder priestesses preaching about the wonders of Illiana, Mother of the Moon, wife of the Maker of the Sun, Brunril, who had sacrificed all to rid the world of the Dark Lord Lorg-jilaad long ages ago. “Even now she tends to the radiant Sleeper in his eternal slumber, pouring her love and song into him,” the priestess said.
Ignoring the sermon, Baleron sought out Ciera, one of the younger priestesses, and she led him upstairs to the room at the top of the tower—that is, the third level, where the head of the order, the High Mother, made her home. It may have been a short spire, but it was built on a rise near the southeastern wall, and from the windows of the High Mother’s suite one commanded an impressive view out over the looming mountains and plunging valleys. Ciera ushered him to the High Mother’s audience room, really just a cluttered office complete with desk and wrinkled papers. The High Mother herself was smoking a foul-smelling pipe and blinking blearily at a letter. A matronly woman in her fifties, she had led the Theslan order for over a decade.
She glanced up as Baleron entered. “Ah, you’re back. Any news from Tulan? We’ve been praying for your safe return.”
“Unfortunately, things went worse than expected.” Briefly he described the fate that had befallen the people of Tulan. The High Mother’s face turned ashen, and her eyes teared up, but that may have been from the smoke. When he was done, Baleron said, “What do you think it means, High Mother?”
She emptied her bowl into a stone tray. “I do not know, my lord. But I will pray on it and reach out to my sisters in the Order. Maybe another High Mother will have some insight.”
Baleron steeled himself. “There … is another who went looking for answers. She’s been trying to find a way to forestall the coming of Lorg-jilaad for three years.”
The High Mother’s face was pitying. “Oh?”
“Has there been … word?”
The High Mother dropped her gaze, then went about the motions of stuffing another bowl. She made him wait until she had it lit, then opened a drawer and pulled out a scroll, sealed with a wax emblem. “This was dropped off for you a week ago.”
Baleron sucked in a breath. Steady, Baleron. Trying to keep his fingers from shaking, he reached out and grasped the scroll. Its paper was smooth and textured beneath his fingers. Elvish paper. “It’s from her?”
The High Mother nodded vaguely. “Yes. Dropped off by a trio of Swan Riders on their way somewhere—where, I don’t know. You do have interesting friends, Lord Grothgar.”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to one of the Children of the Light in years,” he said honestly.
“But you have been to Clevaris. You have seen the Crystal Palace. You have met the Elf-Queen herself.”
“Well, the Queen of Larenthi, yes. I know many consider her to be the High Queen of the Elves, but the other Elvish nations would probably dispute that.” He stared at the scroll. “Do you mind if I open this here?”
Her eyes were bleak. What did she know? The scroll was sealed. Had the Swan Riders given her some hint? Troubled, Baleron waited for an answer.
“Do as you wish, my lord.”
He grimaced, then moved to the living room of the suite. A thick door led out onto a balcony, and he stood at the parapet, feeling the cold wind howl all around, and stared at the letter. He’d been praying for some word from Rolenya for six months. That’s how long it had been since he’d last heard from her. After every letter, the next one came that much further apart.
Fumbling, he tore the wax seal with his thumb, then unrolled the scroll and held it up to the light.
Dear Baleron, it has been too long since last we spoke. I miss the touch of your hand and the warmth of your cheek.
Baleron rejoiced at the words, kept reading.
But I fear our time may be over before it could truly begin. I know you have waited for my return, and that you have put off numerous offers of marriage. You did so in the expectation of our reunion, but, and it pains me to say this beyond measure, but I fear there can be no such event
.
Baleron stared at the words, feeling something burn behind his eyes. Blinking, he read on.
Every day I think of you with love, and with longing. I have always loved you, Baleron. I always will. Know that. But at the same time I can never forget our current circumstances, that we are forbidden from each other. To surrender to our love would be to cast aside the love we bear for our families and our people, and neither of us are that selfish … though the notion is tempting, I will not deny.
I think it is time for both of us to admit that our time has passed. We knew joy, and each other, and that will have to be enough. In time we may both yet move on. I would not deny you the chance of finding a partner while you are still young and strong. I am free to take my time with these things, but you are mortal, and it would be wrong of me to pretend that you have the same luxuries I do.
I will write again. There is too much to tell you regarding Lorg-jilaad and Mogra. I have researched the situation in depth, but I confess there is still more to learn. The information I need is ancient and scattered, much of it lost, and locating it and compiling it has been a great labor and has taken me to many different places. Always I wished you were by my side. But that can never be, I know that now.
I believe something may be about to begin. Certain signs indicate that Mogra may finally be about to bestir herself and usher in the true Dark Times, the End of All We Know. Be watchful. Be prepared. I will write more at a later date when I know more, when I have more solid intelligence.
I wanted to send you this missive separate to that, however, and before waiting any longer. You have my love, Baleron, but you also have your freedom. Please use it to find happiness with another. I will write you, and I hope you will write me, but we will never see each other again. It is for the best.
Dearest wishes, and with all my heart,
Your Rolenya
Baleron read and reread the letter, even though the words blurred before his eyes. At last, he crumpled up the paper and shoved it into a pocket. It was only then that he realized that snow had begun to fall.
Chapter 2
Brooding, Baleron rode to his castle, which loomed above the city, dark and stained by weather, and set into the mountain itself. Many of its halls had been carved out of the rock of the mountain, and there were secret tunnels that led to caves and even hidden black pools deep in the heart of the mountain. The castle was known as the Crag.
“There you are, my lord,” said Lord Wymar, the castellan, as Baleron passed through the gate in the outer wall. Baleron hadn’t even been aware of the man’s presence. He may as well have popped out of a hole in the ground. Then again, Baleron knew he was quite distracted. “I’d hoped to catch you before you retired for the evening.”
Baleron dismounted and let the Master of Horse take his mount, meanwhile fending off greetings from various knights and servants. He was in no mood for conversation.
“Is something the matter?” Baleron said.
“One of the refugees, my lord. He attempted to kill himself. Hung himself from a balcony.”
“Damn it all. After having gotten him here and made him safe. Which one was he?”
“The young man with the brown hair and long nose. Ulfric, I believe.”
“You said attempted. He survived?”
“One of the townsmen saw him swinging and rushed over. Was able to cut him down before he choked. The noose wasn’t tied well enough to snap his neck.”
“Thank the gods for small favors.” Baleron thought quickly. “Where is he now?”
“Still at the hostel. His sister is tending to him. Sister Miri is there with him, too. She fears he’ll try again, though.”
“Give him a room here. We can keep a better watch on him than Sister Miri can, and maybe a change of surroundings will improve his mood.”
“I’ll see it done, my lord.” Lord Wymar bowed and moved off.
Baleron marched up the stairs and inside, where he was met by the majordomo and two knights. They escorted him to his rooms at the top of the tallest tower of the keep and he had a bath drawn and a barber trim his hair and beard while he waited. Once he was groomed and bathed, and a fire was lit in the hearth, he dismissed his servants and strode out onto the balcony. From here he commanded a handsome view over the tiered levels of Theslan and the plunging abyss beyond. A mountain lord, he thought. Has it really come to this? It wasn’t that he thought he was too good for his current post, exactly, but he’d certainly been raised to expect differently.
The one thing he’d had to look forward to, the one thing that had given him hope for the future, was Rolenya. He pulled out the letter and reread it, but there were no tears this time. He felt empty, hollowed out, as if something had been carved out of him. He retreated inside, out of the mountain winds, and pitched the letter into the fire. Such was his mood that he couldn’t even summon satisfaction as the paper burned.
Knocking from the front door drew his attention, and he answered it to find the majordomo appearing bemused.
“It’s … ah, the girl.”
“The girl?” Momentarily Baleron thought of Rolenya, then just as quickly dismissed the notion.
“Liessa, I believe is her name. One of the refugees. She came with her brother—the one who attempted suicide—and was installed in one of the outbuildings on your command about an hour ago.”
Had Baleron stared at the fire that long? “Yes?” he prodded.
“Well, she wishes to see you. To … thank you for your kindness, I believe is how she phrased it.”
Baleron resisted a smile. “I’m sure.”
“Shall I send her away like the others?”
Baleron started to say yes, but the memory of Rolenya’s letter still burned in his vision. Move on, she’d said. Well, very well.
“No. Send her up.”
“Are you sure, my lord?”
“Not at all, Riat. But send her up just the same.”
“As you will, my lord.”
She arrived a few minutes later, as Baleron was idly perusing his library. He had quite a collection of books and had become something of an ardent reader over the last few years. Without the distraction of court, not to mention wars and intrigue, he finally had time to enjoy a good book, and he’d taken quite a liking to the pastime. At the moment, however, he couldn’t have felt less disjointed and unable to focus. He simply needed something to do.
The knock came, and the majordomo brought Liessa in, then left. She looked much as she had last time, save that she was cleaned and in a new dress, or at least one that wasn’t stained and road-worn. Also, her hair was clean and fell over her large green eyes and freckled cheeks. Baleron wasn’t sure how old she was but doubted she had reached her twenties yet. She was slim and girlish.
“Thank you for seeing me, my lord,” she said with a curtsy.
“Hardly a strange event,” Baleron said. “We’ve seen each other every day for nigh on two weeks.”
“Even so, my lord.”
“Would you care for a drink?” he offered.
“If it please you, my lord.”
“Baleron. Remember, just call me Baleron.”
“Very well, and remember that I am Liessa.”
He crossed to the bar and poured them both a whiskey. It hit the back of his mouth and burned his throat going down, but he relished it. Gods, but he needed a drink after that letter. His eyes ran up and down Liessa, who was delicately but exquisitely curved. I might need something else, too.
She sipped her drink, swishing her narrow hips back and forth, surely for his amusement. Her cheeks colored prettily.
“I trust your brother is all right?” Baleron said.
“Indeed, he’s feeling much better now. It was just the sadness of it all that struck him all at once when we’d finally found our place to stop. I guess he thought it was his final place.”
Baleron nodded. “The end of the road.”
“Exactly. But he’s feeling much better now. Being at your castl
e really seems to have improved his temper.”
“As I’d hoped.”
“I wanted to thank you for it,” she said. “In person.”
“Well, I have received your thanks, and you are most welcome.”
They stared at each other. The wind howled outside, and a flurry of snow drifted across the windows. The first serious snowfall of the year. Terrific.
Baleron nodded to the couch and sat down on it. Making surprisingly bold eye contact, Liessa sat down beside him. She had found some perfume somewhere, he realized, breathing it in.
She studied him for a long moment, still sipping her drink daintily. At last she said, “What troubles you, my lord? I mean, except for everything?”
“Am I so obvious?”
She swallowed. “Only you seem … distant. Quiet. Not that you were a chatterbox before, my lord. Baleron. But yes … is something the matter?”
He waved it away with his hook. “Nothing that need concern you. Something private.”
“Is it … a woman?” She gasped. “Is it Rolenya?”
He could see the awe in her face at just saying the word. The ill-fated love affair between the doomed Baleron and the fairytale Rolenya had really captured her imagination, just as it had countless others throughout the kingdom, Baleron was all too aware. Of course, he was just as often the villain as the hero in such tales—the cursed, incestuous prince who murdered his own father and aided the Dark Lord in his war. Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course, but the tale still got told.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “She … did send me a letter.”
Liessa’s eyes widened. “What did she say?”
“Only that she can’t visit me for a time.” He wasn’t in the mood to discuss the truth.
“Oh, that is too bad.” She pouted, then smiled and inched closer to him on the couch. She was almost touching him. The fragrant, flowery scent of her hair teased his nose. “Well, perhaps I’ll do in her stead.”
