King Of Souls (Book 2)

by Matthew Ballard

  “I’ll need you to focus Master Montgomery. Can you do that?”

  Montgomery nodded, staring ahead into nothingness.

  “Good. My first question involves that peculiar statue and building right outside in the square. Who is the man depicted?” Tara said.

  Montgomery’s head turned to meet her gaze. He looked as if she’d ask him to grow wings and fly. “The statue m’lady?”

  “Yes, the statue,” Tara said.

  Montgomery’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “That’s Elan.”

  Tara nodded. “Why have the townspeople erected a statue of Elan in the town square?”

  “Why?” Montgomery looked between Tara and General Demos. “Elan’s the Lord.”

  Tara stiffened and balled her hands into fists. They worshiped Elan? He’d stood out as a leading scholar and minor celebrity of his time, but she knew him as a man not some twisted god. “That’s what I thought.” She forced a short nod and a weak smile. “Thank you.”

  General Demos stood and crossed the room until he loomed over Montgomery’s shoulder.

  Montgomery cast an uneasy glance behind him before turning back to face Tara.

  “Tell me about the king you mentioned earlier. You called him Ronan?” She imagined the simpleton who’d crowned himself king dispensing inane wisdom. Fat, pompous, and full of guile.

  Montgomery’s expression softened. “King Ronan? He’s a good man m’lady.”

  Tara needed to know about the soul knights. Did they still reign in Meranthia, or had magic died with the barrier’s collapse? But, how could a simple harbor master understand the complexities involving Elan’s life magic? “Where does he live?”

  “He lives in Freehold m’lady. In the royal palace.”

  “Does he travel to your village often?”

  Montgomery shook his head. “Our village hasn’t seen a member of the royal family in the better part of a century let alone the king. We don’t see many visitors to speak of.”

  Relief washed through Tara’s body. She couldn’t have chosen a better landing port. She gave silent thanks to the Baerinese scouts. Tara glanced toward General Demos, and he offered the barest nod. “Master Montgomery, you’ve been cooperative with your answers.”

  Montgomery tipped his head. “I don’t want any trouble m’lady, and I don’t want any trouble for my family either.”

  “Then, we might find a suitable arrangement.”

  Montgomery raised an eyebrow. “M’lady?”

  “General Demos and I would like to remain anonymous during our stay in your village.” Tara moved behind Montgomery and placed her gloved hands on his shoulders.

  Montgomery stiffened beneath her touch, but made no attempt to escape.

  “If your village receives any visitors, I’d like you to receive them, and make no mention of our presence.”

  Montgomery sat motionless. A bead of sweat started from his balding scalp and rolled down his temple before disappearing into his bushy gray beard.

  “In return, you and your family can enjoy peace of mind. How does that sound?” Tara said.

  Montgomery nodded. “Yes.” His voice raspy, he cleared his throat. “Yes. I think that sounds fine.”

  The King Comes Calling

  On the fringe of the white sand beach, Danielle reclined against a palm tree trunk. She positioned herself beneath the shifting shade of its wide leafy fronds and let go a deep breath. A gentle late afternoon breeze rustled in the treetop sending waves of cool relief washing through her damp hair. The air current also brought the sweet scent of fresh mint drifting from the jungle overgrowth. If not for intense curiosity driving her to read Arber’s journal, she could close her eyes and catch up on much needed rest.

  Instead, Danielle dragged the timeworn book to her lap and pried open the cover. She leafed through the first pages of Arber’s handwritten journal. To her surprise, the opening entries dated to the previous autumn. Just after the events leading to Merric Pride’s downfall.

  She flipped ahead and found the last page that contained writing. Arber had written the final entry only two days earlier, presumably from the cave where she’d found the journal.

  Danielle returned to the first entry and began reading. Arber wrote in detail of his escape through the Meranthian countryside. He recounted his decision to release the shard magic granted him by the Assembly. The entries didn’t outline a possible motive for his actions, nor did he express satisfaction or regret. He chronicled his journey from Freehold without bias. While intriguing, Danielle needed information surrounding potential threats from the strange desert weather anomalies.

  She paused on an entry dating back six weeks from the present that found Arber on the Heartwood’s southern tip.

  Eleventh Moon, Sixth Day, EY2001

  Tomorrow I will rendezvous with Martell at the northern edge of the Chukchi Desert. It’s my hope the Obsith will provide sanctuary despite my failure to secure Lora’s Sphere. We’ll find another way.

  Danielle searched her memory, but couldn’t recall a single reference to the Obsith during her years of service. Nor had she heard mention of someone named Martell. She read the next entry in the journal dated almost a month later.

  Twelfth Moon, Third Day, EY2001

  Despite Martell’s acceptance, he remains tight lipped about his people. One fact is clear, his ability to survive with such disregard for the harsh desert conditions is astonishing. If not for Martell’s protection, I wouldn’t have survived the first day. He’s promised we are within a day’s travel from the central oasis. I hope he’s right. I’m not accustomed to such long periods of exposure, and I fear I won’t survive this blistering heat for another three weeks.

  How had she missed any sign of an entire population living and thriving inside the desert's hostile terrain? And, why had these Obsith stayed hidden from Ayralen? She flipped the page and read Arber’s last passage dated two days ago.

  Twelfth Moon, Seventh Day, EY2001

  The last two days in the oasis have all but restored my physical health. We’ve feasted on fish, wild boar, and fresh fruit. Martell’s quick-witted conversation has sped time by. I wish we could stay longer, but I can no longer ignore the chain of events that started last autumn.

  Unfortunately, we’ll return to the desert tomorrow and travel south to the Obsith capital of Zen. Martell assures me the worst of the trip is over. Nonetheless, I’m dreading climbing aboard the Paka again. The animal smells of raw sewage.

  The jungle undergrowth rustled, and Keely stepped through a shrub carrying an armful of strange fruit. “You’ve got to try this Danielle. I’ve never tasted anything like them.” She held out an oval fruit bearing a deep yellow waxy skin. She squeezed it, and the fruit burst apart revealing a line of small black seeds near the fruit’s pinkish center. “Here. Try a piece.” She took a seat beside Danielle and handed her a piece of dripping pink pulp.

  Danielle bit into the exotic fruit, and a mixture of sweet and sour exploded across her taste buds. Tangy yellow juice dribbled down her chin and dripped onto the sugary white sand between her parted legs. “This is amazing Keely.” Danielle pocketed a few of the loose seeds. They’d make a perfect treat. “But, why didn’t you wait before you ate it? I could’ve told you if the fruit was safe.”

  Keely shrugged. “I haven’t died yet.”

  Danielle stopped chewing her mouth half-filled with fruit and gaped at Keely.

  Keely laughed. “I’m kidding. I saw these seeds littered in the monkey dung. If they’re eating it, so can we.”

  Danielle placed Arber’s journal face down on her lap before popping another piece of fruit in her mouth.

  Keely’s eyes flickered toward the worn journal. “Anything interesting?”

  “Interesting?”

  “Yeah. You know, with the journal.”

  Danielle smiled. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  Keely kicked a pile of loose sand near her bare feet. “I’d like to know why he did
it.”

  Danielle handed Keely the journal. “I’m not sure why he betrayed us, but maybe you can find something I overlooked.”

  Keely spent the next few minutes reading before finishing and handing the journal to Danielle.

  “Whatever happened here, I don’t think Arber or Martell saw it coming,” Danielle said.

  “Or Martell set up Arber,” Keely said. “I can’t say I’d be too sad about that.”

  “I suspect the Obsith are behind the rash of strange lights we’ve seen over the desert,” Danielle said.

  “Why now? Why didn’t we see them a year ago or a hundred years ago?” Keely said.

  Danielle shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if these people pose a serious threat to Ayralen. There’s only one way to know for sure.”

  “Danielle, maybe we should take this journal to the Prime Guardian.”

  Danielle laughed. “Keely, are you suggesting we seek counsel before rushing into a situation over our head?”

  Keely blushed. “I figured I might as well say it. Someone should sound the voice of reason.”

  “Is that what you really think?”

  Keely shrugged. “Something about this leaves me feeling unsettled somehow.” She tossed the eaten fruit core into the sand near her feet. “But, if Arber and Martell left less than a day ago, we’ll find them from the air.”

  Danielle nodded. “We could bring home real answers instead of more questions.”

  “If Arber and Martell reach Zen before we find them, we may never find the answers,” Keely said.

  “We’ll fly south until we find Arber and whoever else was at this oasis,” Danielle said. “If we don’t find them by late afternoon tomorrow, we’ll go home.”

  “Agreed, but under one condition,” Keely said.

  Danielle raised an eyebrow.

  Keely picked up two pieces of the yellow fruit and smiled. “The fruit comes with us.”

  ***

  “Ho’ there!” A broad shouldered driver pulled hard on reigns tied to a pair of chocolate colored draft horses.

  The horses snorted and whinnied before stopping beside a circular fountain. In the fountain's center, a white marble statue of Torr Latimer stood surveying Market Square. A sea of upper-class shoppers parted, and the royal carriage shuddered to a stop.

  A squat red-faced footman leaped from the carriage’s rear seat and hustled to the side door. As he reached for the handle, the door popped open.

  Ronan, dressed more like commoner than king, angled through the doorway. He hopped onto the slushy cobblestone street and glanced at his grandfather's statue.

  The footman’s eyes widened. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I should’ve reached the door sooner.”

  “Relax Manfred,” Ronan said. “I haven’t forgotten how to work a door handle.” He grinned and slapped the footman’s shoulder.

  Manfred’s cheeks reddened, and he stiffened before offering a deep formal bow. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The footman pressed his lips into a tight thin line and took a large step backward.

  “Come on Rika. I’m dying to meet Theon Renau. I still can’t believe you ran into him last week.” Ronan flashed a broad smile and reached into the carriage’s interior offering his hand to Rika. “Did I tell you I have one of his longbows?”

  Rika sat stone silent with arms folded, glaring daggers at him. She scooted forward and ducked her head through the opening, pushing aside Ronan’s offered hand. She hopped from the carriage’s short step landing with neat precision on the icy cobbles beside him.

  Ronan’s cheeks turned a crimson shade of red. He’d offended her somehow, but what had he done? He scoured his memory trying to locate any offensive remark or action from their last hour together, but he came up empty. “Is my hand dirty?”

  Rika folded her arms over her chest and glared. “If you won’t accept Manfred’s help, then why should I accept yours?”

  Ronan’s shoulders sagged. He’d forgotten his mother’s many hard taught lessons about royal protocol during his years with Rika. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to so much coddling.”

  Rika leaned in and lowered her voice turning her back to the gawking crowd. “Manfred’s worked hard to earn your respect. When you belittle his efforts, it makes him feel small and petty like his job is useless.” She folded a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m not the person that deserves the apology.” Her eyes flickered past his shoulder, and she tipped her head toward Manfred. “He does. You’re the king. Every person around you dissects and judges your every word and action.” She stepped backward still glaring.

  Ronan’s skin bristled. He hadn’t intended to belittle Manfred, but he’d not missed Rika’s point.

  Manfred stared ahead stone-faced avoiding eye contact with Ronan.

  Ronan didn’t know if Manfred had overheard Rika’s brow beating, but, given his closeness, it stood to reason he had. He leaned in and whispered. “Manfred, I… I’m sorry about what happened a minute ago. I consider your service the best in the realm.” Ronan tipped his head forward. “Thank you.”

  Manfred raised his chin, pushed back his shoulders, and straightened his spine. With a nod he said, “Thank you Your Majesty.”

  Ronan raised his voice loud enough for the crowd to overhear. “Manfred, would you please escort Lady Finn and me while we shop? We’ll need your help this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Manfred snapped his boots together and gave a short sharp salute. He barked a few instructions to the coachman before offering Ronan a crisp nod. “At your leisure Your Majesty.”

  Rika hooked her arm in Ronan’s, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek before whispering in his ear. “Well done.”

  Ronan and Rika faced Market Square, and throngs of shoppers created an informal circle around the king and his lady. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers as men, women, and children angled for a better look at the king and his lady.

  “Remember what I said,” Rika said.

  Taking the hint, Ronan doffed his leather cap and tipped it to the crowd.

  Cheers erupted from those gathered as Manfred bulldogged forward to the circle’s open center. “Make way for the king!” As he walked toward the circle’s far edge, Ronan and Rika followed in his wake. The crowd parted for the squat bushy haired footman allowing the king to attend his business.

  Ronan took Rika’s hand and strolled ahead.

  Peddlers, street performers, and busy shoppers clogged the bustling streets. A fortune-teller gazed into a noblewoman’s outstretched palm. Beside her, the lady's manservant buckled under the strain of a dozen wrapped packages.

  The succulent aroma of roast pork, turning on an open spit drifted from a vendor’s stall. Near it, a roaming fruit wagon lumbered by overflowing with last autumn’s apple crop. The tinny whine of a blacksmith's hammer rang out, and a lean muscled stable boy led an ebony stallion inside an attached stable.

  Merchants hawked bracelets, rings, bolts of fabric, and shoes, in a myriad of shops. A bookshop specializing in rare volumes sat next to Madame Darland’s curio shop. Her neighbor, an old woman with stooped shoulders and a gray woolen frock, sold fresh herbs, ointments, and salves.

  Dozens of shoppers crisscrossed storefronts and sidewalks creating an air of excitement.

  Music lilted from a lanky man strumming a well-used guitar on a nearby street corner. Accompanying him, a plump young woman with long red hair sang a haunting ballad her eyes bleary with emotion. A small crowd gathered in a half-circle drawn in by her soulful melody and flawless mezzo-soprano voice.

  Ronan nodded his appreciation to the young woman as he passed and tossed a gold crown into the guitarist’s open case.

  The red-haired singer curtsied low and bowed. “Thank you Your Majesty.”

  At last, they arrived at a new section of Market Square. An Ayralen import shop sold exotic leather goods from Meranthia’s neighbors to the west. Beside it, Theon Renau’s Ayralen bowyer shop stood with its front door wide open despite
the chill winter air.

  Displayed in the window, a white-oak recursive bow sculpted to perfection hung from a brass hook. On the windowsill sat a leather quiver crammed full of hand crafted Ayralen broad-head arrows.

  Ronan tipped his leather cap back on his forehead and whistled low and long eying the bow from top to bottom. “That’s the finest bow I’ve ever seen.”

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the man who built it.” Rika pulled Ronan’s hand and drew him toward the shop’s open door.

  Ronan stepped in behind Rika while Manfred waited outside standing with arms folded in the shop’s open doorway.

  Soft, warm light radiated from a broad fire dancing in a wide stone hearth against the shop’s far wall. Like the firelight’s welcoming glow, a warm smile stretched across Theon Renau’s face. The well-muscled bowyer removed a pair of thick reading glasses and pushed off a tall stool beside his workbench. Lean sinewy muscle corded the bowyer’s arms and shoulders surprising for a man near Connal Deveaux’s age.

  On Renau's long wooden counter, a marble chessboard sat arranged as if in mid-game.

  Ronan’s gaze locked on the chessboard. Sir Alcott taught him the game during his twelfth season. He’d had difficulty mastering chess’s subtle nuances, but loved it despite his lack of skill. He’d spent many late nights teaching Rika chess, but she played more to please him than from pure enjoyment.

  That Theon Renau shared two of his greatest passions, archery and chess, drew Ronan to the man like a toddler to saltwater taffy.

  “Ah, Lady Finn. I’m so happy to see you.” Renau bowed before Rika as his glance flickered between Ronan and the chessboard.

  “Master Renau, It’s so good to see you again,” Rika said. “I’d like to introduce you to Ronan.” She gestured toward Ronan, who stood with his gaze locked on the chessboard. “Ronan, please meet Theon Renau, the finest bowyer in the Heartwood.”

  Renau extended his large callused hand toward Ronan in greeting. “Your Majesty, it’s so good to meet you. I couldn’t help noticing your interest in the board. Do you play?”