by Jason Parker
“My lords, it’s Skenan!” he exclaimed, referring to the guard Wexworth had confronted. “He started sweating, complained he wasn't feeling well—he dropped to the ground in severe pain.”
The agonized screams pierced the air, reverberating throughout the chamber.
“There was no one else around when this started?” Tyval asked, resuming his seat.
“No, my lord,” the guard said with a quick, nervous glance in Wexworth's direction.
“His screaming is going to make me ill,” Vergilus complained, placing his hands over his ears. “Can you do anything to offer him relief, High Priestess?”
“Unfortunately, my talents do not lie in the art of healing,” she responded with a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward Wexworth. “He would be best served in the infirmary.”
“Very well,” Tyval said and motioned to the guards. “You two help Skenan to the infirmary and…you…” he motioned with his hand then pointed to the front, “you assume his post outside the door.”
The guards quickly sprang into motion. Within a few moments, Skenan's wails faded into the distance.
“If I may continue, my lords,” Wexworth said, taking advantage of the temporary chaos to turn the conversation in his favor, “I next traveled to the Science Institute under the pretense of offering a goodwill demonstration. The force beam I showed them captivated and astounded the students and faculty even though I consider it a work in progress. The utter amazement I observed reinforces that our accomplishments are considerably more advanced than any of the Institute's achievements.”
“Be that as it may,” Markov said, drumming his fingers, “were you able to learn anything of pertinence at the Institute?”
“I spoke at length with Head Master Rainstel,” Wexworth replied. “He talked mostly about the forthcoming graduation and continually raved about a student who would be graduating as a Scientist. Jorgen or some such. At any rate, he had heard not one whit of anything resembling Whitestorm's tale. He even had the nerve to scoff at me when I mentioned Vladrik. Yes, I am well aware Vladrik is long dead.”
“Hmm. Perhaps the Institute is too far south to have heard news of any disturbances,” Tyval said. “Did the other Master Scientists have any insight?”
“Well, Fodjan’s primary concern was making preparations for a feast to honor the new Scientist,” Wexworth said as he rolled his eyes. “He assured me it would be magnificent and begged me to stay for it numerous times. Sandstar seemed terrified of me, taking pains to avoid me. Every time I asked her a direct question, she referred me to Rainstel.”
“So, Wexworth,” Markov said, drumming his fingers more rapidly, “it would seem your sojourn to Delon was a complete waste. Hopefully you had a nice vacation.”
“On the contrary,” Vergilus interjected, “If Whitestorm is telling the truth, one very important piece of information we have learned from Wexworth's journey is that all incidents appear to be confined to the Northern Territory at this juncture.”
“Okay,” Markov said with a grunt, “I suppose if you find nothing, you at least know what you didn’t find. That is something, but not much.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Wexworth said offering a bow in Markov’s direction.
Markov glowered at him. He then turned his attention to Lancia and said, “High Priestess, I am interested to hear your opinion on the matter.”
Lancia stepped toward the dais. “As you are aware, I interviewed Whitestorm. I have considerable skill at discerning if people are speaking the truth. I am convinced Whitestorm believes what she says. It is her version of the truth—that does not mean her account is completely accurate.”
Tyval raised an eyebrow. “Do I understand you correctly? You believe Whitestorm's tale is somewhat exaggerated?” he asked.
“I am merely saying every individual can have their own perception of the truth,” Lancia answered. “Regardless of the precise details, I have no doubt Whitestorm experienced an extremely traumatic event resulting in the loss of her loved ones. Such a tragedy can produce significant psychological effects. Perhaps the event she witnessed was so awful she needed to reconstruct it into something she could better accept.”
“And what of her reference to Vladrik being alive?” Tyval asked. “That is an unusual contrivance no matter how traumatized she is.”
Lancia nodded. “Oh, I agree, but remember, she did not actually claim to have seen someone declaring himself to be Vladrik, rather the name was scrawled on the walls of structures within her village. A logical conclusion is someone is using the name in an attempt to inspire fear.”
Markov shuddered. “How horrid!” He looked at Lancia. “What of Keyaul? Has the goddess provided you with any insight or wisdom on the matter?”
Lancia glanced skyward and raised her arms, causing her robe sleeves to slide to her elbows. Wexworth stared at the creamy radiance of her forearms. “I have indeed prayed to our great goddess for guidance,” she replied. “From her response I have gleaned the situation in the Northern Territory is of concern and bears monitoring—but Keyaul does not believe any threat to be imminent.”
“No disrespect to you or the goddess Keyaul, High Priestess,” Tyval countered, “but I am not convinced. If something is afoot in the Northern Territory and it spreads south, then all our efforts to bring Delon into the Triumvirate could be torn asunder.” Tyval put his hands to his temples.
For a moment, the room was still.
Tyval leaned back with his hands gripping the edge of the polished wood table. “I assert we should send a squadron of some of our most trustworthy and dependable soldiers to the Northern Territory. We need to obtain an accurate account of what is truly going on and our troops could potentially take control of the situation if one does, indeed, exist. Perhaps Paladin should lead the mission under the Church's banner. This would appear more peaceful than sending a squadron of Triumvirate soldiers marching through Delon.”
Markov clenched his fists then looked squarely at Tyval. “I disagree. We must have faith in our goddess Keyaul. If the situation were truly dire then she would surely communicate such urgency to the High Priestess. I see no reason to send Paladin or any of our best and brightest soldiers on a fool's errand that would likely serve only to infuriate Vonador.”
“Fool's errand!” Tyval exclaimed, erupting out of his chair and pounding a fist on the table. “You believe taking relatively minor precautions to ensure the safety of all Gandany is a fool's errand?”
“Gentlemen,” Vergilus interrupted, “for the second time today I find myself in concurrence with Lord Markov, in principle at least.”
Tyval turned bright red with anger, but before he could speak Vergilus held up a hand and implored, “Please Lord Tyval, hear me out.”
Vergilus cleared his throat then spoke deliberately making eye contact around the room. “It is certainly not a bad idea to send a couple of scouts to the Northern Territory,” he explained. “A complete understanding of what transpires in the Northern Territory would be of benefit, but a show of military force or a grandiose Church crusade led by Paladin would not serve us well. Such a spectacle would doubtlessly be taken as an affront by King Vonador and create yet another obstacle in our road to unification.”
“Lord Tyval,” Vergilus continued, “select two or three dependable soldiers who can exercise discretion and send them covertly. In the meantime, we can take advantage of the purported disturbances in the Northern Territory to further our efforts to persuade Vonador of the necessity to combine our resources. The uncertainty and prospect of troubling times should help us convince him that as one strong, unified nation we would be able to handle any potential threat and ensure his coffers continue to be filled.”
Having calmed considerably, Tyval said, “As far as Vonador is concerned, I grow weary with diplomacy. I still believe a quick strike to remove him from the throne might be the best course of action. We could then deal with whatever is going on in the Northern Territory without worrying about w
hose toes we might be stepping on.”
Tyval studied his wrinkled hands and sighed. “I do, however, see the wisdom in fully understanding all the cards that are on the table. I will assign Captain Raemus to the reconnaissance mission. He is fully capable and trustworthy. I will allow him to select a couple of reliable soldiers to accompany him.”
Markov blanched at the naming of Captain Raemus but quickly composed himself. He smiled and said, “I’m certain Captain Raemus will be up to the task. I’m pleased we have decided to pursue a course of patience in this matter. Also, Lord Tyval, I beg your pardon for my prior rudeness.”
“Think no more of it,” Tyval responded with a dismissive wave. “Our passion as rulers is vital to the continued strength and greatness of our nation.”
Captain Tanach Raemus, better known by his nickname, Blaze, was a colossal man with the brute strength of several men combined. His size and power combined with a fiery disposition made for an intimidating package. For the most part, Wexworth just tried to stay out of his way—partially because he was daunted by Blaze’s physical presence—but more so because of his bravado. Associating with such a disrespectful and controversial person could damage Wexworth’s own reputation.
Blaze was well noted for challenging the chain of command and openly questioning authority. His challenges garnered considerable respect in some circles but created powerful enemies of the superiors for whom he caused embarrassment. Blaze was famous for a number of almost legendary exploits. He once single-handedly uncovered and averted an assassination plot against Tyval, forever ingratiating himself with the Lord. After this, Tyval’s gratitude and influence enabled Blaze to advance through the military ranks at an accelerated pace.
A stirring at the chamber doors caused all eyes to shift toward the tall white clad figure entering the room. “Excuse the intrusion my lords,” he said with a voice distorted by the full face mask he wore. He quickly bent a knee then turned his attention to Lancia. “Are you safe High Priestess? I was told there was a disturbance.”
“I’m fine, Paladin” Lancia said, waiving him away. “You’ve troubled yourself needlessly.”
“Praise to Keyaul,” Paladin intoned, patting the inlaid golden diamond within a circle fashioned in the center of his white double breasted keratium military jacket.
Markov smiled and clapped his hands. “Paladin, your arrival is timely. We were just discussing a covert military operation to investigate the ranger Whitestorm’s claims of unspeakable horrors in the Northern Territory. As commander of the Church Guard, your opinion on military matters is always valued.”
“Yes,” Vergilus interrupted, “but this matter has already been decided. Captain Raemus will select a couple of soldiers and lead the mission.” He glared at Paladin, daring him to offer a challenge.
Paladin shifted his stance. It was impossible to read any emotion from behind his mask. Even his eyes were obscured by dark lenses framed with brass ovals and rivets. The mask’s only openings were perforated brass disks over his ears and mouth.
“Blaze is a…fine choice,” he said in a slow, even voice.
Wexworth noticed a hint of disappointment creep across Vergilus’s face. His attempt to bait Paladin failed. There was history between Blaze and Paladin. They clashed on several occasions, even to the point of drawing swords, however, no blood was ever spilled.
Wexworth knew little about Paladin on a personal level—not even his true name. Like a spirit, Paladin was shrouded in mystery. He was never seen in public without a mask. Rumors suggested he suffered a disfiguring injury, but details of the incident were scarce. Paladin had been commander of the Church Guard as long as Wexworth could remember, yet Paladin’s stature and physical prowess betrayed no signs of advanced years. However, with his face hidden behind the mask there were few clues to judge his true age. Perhaps only Markov knew the full truth. He and Paladin had developed a close affinity for one another.
“So, it is settled then,” Tyval said, “I will instruct Captain Raemus to begin making preparations.”
“A suggestion, Lord Tyval. If I may?” Paladin asked.
“Go ahead,” Tyval instructed, motioning him to continue.
Paladin nodded. “Perhaps you should include Whitestorm in Captain Raemus’s party. She is familiar with the territory and could lead them directly to the heart of the matter.”
“Excellent suggestion. I have no objections,” Markov stated.
“I’ve considered this,” Tyval responded, “but I’m concerned about her mental state.” He looked pointedly at Lancia. “High Priestess, you have spoken the most with her. Is she ready for to venture back to the site of her trauma?”
“She’s a strong and determined woman,” Lancia said with a nod. “I believe she will be fine.”
“Then it is decided,” Tyval said. Looking toward Wexworth, Lancia, and Paladin he continued, “Thank you for your attendance. We will keep you apprised as we learn more.”
Lancia bowed her head and uttered a quiet, “Thank you, my lords.”
Wexworth offered a deep courtesy and exclaimed, “Most happy to be of service, my lords.”
Paladin dropped to one knee, but remained silent.
Together they turned to leave the audience chamber. As they reached the doors to the hallway, Vergilus called out, “Wexworth, please stay behind for a few moments. There is another matter I’d like to discuss.”
CHAPTER 11
Jhenna Caepio stared at length at the crates of herbs and spices recently delivered to the Corava Castle infirmary. The stock room’s dank and musty smell did little to improve her dour mood. The supplies needed to be organized, cataloged and stored. She knew it was important work but hardly exciting or satisfying. Her skills in the art of healing were lost on the work—skills she could use to help those in need of aid and develop new remedies.
Jhenna tightened the leather cord holding back her long blonde hair and absently scratched at the long hypertrophic scar on her left cheek. Touching it reminded her of the pivotal moment when she found freedom. Freedom from violence. Freedom from abuse. Freedom from a lost youth and redemption in Keyaul. The Church and Keyaul rescued her from the edge of despair. Within the clergy and with their love and support, she found renewed dignity and a sense of purpose.
She smiled at the memory of it.
Priest Dennan, her mentor and a former High Counselor, always said she was on the fast track to greatness. From initiate to acolyte to priestess—her rise in the clergy was like lightning. Her intuitiveness with herbs and a penchant for healing distinguished her early on and facilitated her rapid ascent.
She loved her work. Her elevation to a priestess enabled her to organize and lead several medical missions to the South and Central Outposts in Tuvir. There she used her healing abilities and remedies to restore the health of brave soldiers injured in the havoc wreaked by the invading creatures from the Stoneskull Mountains.
Then it all fell apart. Six months ago Dennan recommended her for a seat on the High Council. Jhenna protested but Dennan insisted she deserved the position. He said she had accomplished so much in such a short time. However, the push to obtain a seat on the High Council proved to be the downfall for both of them.
At some point in the process, the High Priestess became enraged with Dennan. Jhenna was still not clear on all the details, but he was severely rebuked in his campaign to elevate her. The High Priestess criticized his lack of judgment and called Jhenna a presumptuous child lacking in experience and humility. She even suggested he was involved in an improper relationship with Jhenna. A complete falsity. Dennan was the father she never had.
Jhenna’s anger flared. She forcefully slammed a bottle of wolfsbane onto a supply shelf. She jumped as it shattered in her grasp. Wasting the precious herb fueled her anger further.
Jhenna grit her teeth and curled her hands into fists. “Why me?” she whispered under her breath. “Why does the High Priestess hate me so? Why did she remove me from the Church’s Clinica
l Research Center and banish me to this meaningless infirmary? And poor Dennan. Stripped of his seat on the High Council and sent to the debauchery filled Crossroads to establish a congregation.”
Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. “Why do I so meekly put up with this?”
She cleared her mind and silently asked Keyaul for strength, wisdom, and patience. In an instant she felt a rush of energy and a sense of peace. She quietly uttered a word of thanks to Keyaul and found a broom to clean up the spilled herbal powder.
Suddenly, Jhenna’s sweeping was disturbed by a commotion in the main treatment area of the infirmary. Wails of pain echoed off the walls coupled with the frenzied voices of men shouting for help. As Jhenna walked toward the door of the supply room, she was nearly bowled over by the scurrying figure of Vynnera, the medic who was on duty.
“Oh, Priestess Jhenna, thank goodness. Please come quickly,” Vynnera said frantically and rushed back toward the treatment room.
Vynnera was the oldest and perhaps the most skilled of the three medics on the infirmary staff, but she was also the most high strung and easily flustered. Not an ideal temperament for dealing with crisis situations.
Jhenna sighed, “I’m coming, Vynnera. Watch your step.” She saw her trip slightly and followed after her.
During Jhenna’s tenure, the infirmary had not been a hotbed of activity. Aside from sniffles, coughs, and the occasional accident, guardsmen were the most frequent patients with a variety of cuts, bumps, bruises, and similar minor injuries sustained during training.
Upon entering the treatment room she saw three familiar members of the Triumvirate Guard, two shifted around uncomfortably and the third, the source of the piercing screams, writhed in obvious pain on an examination table. Vynnera fumbled with his sleeve and was thwarted by her own anxiety as she attempted to examine him. It was, “Oh, dear!” and “Please hold steady,” and a bit of a yelp and a jump at his every wail and sudden movement.
