by Tim Marquitz
The night crept by and he no longer had any sense of how long they had stood there, Jerul batting away the creatures and he tending to the warrior’s needs. He stared blankly up at the dark canopy, willing his vision to pierce its knotted mass, but only the blackness of night met his eyes.
He knew not how much longer it would be before the sun rose and the Dead Lands returned to its diurnal slumber, or if even that would cease the beasts’ attack, but he dearly hoped it would.
He only knew one thing for certain: dawn could not come soon enough.
Chapter Thirteen
The soldiers closed in tight around Arrin as he was marched through the gate that opened onto the Crown Level. He lifted his chin for the first time since he’d been led away from the Ninth, and let his eyes wander.
Memories flooded his mind at seeing the crowded masses of white stone homes and the gilded spires that rose up so high above as to challenge the mountains at their backs. They stood out bright against the backdrop of night. Arched windows peered from their stone faces like flickering eyes that stared out across the whole of Lathah. Nu’ree seemed to peek back as though hiding, its blue-gray orb just beginning its ascent into the eastern sky.
Arrin’s mood far too sour to enjoy such grandeur, he lowered his eyes to the narrow streets. They were free of the rampant clutter that plagued many of the levels below, the cobblestones polished to a fine shine. The air smelled of fragrant wood and musky spice, burned in small quantities in most every home to chase away the fetid scents that occasionally wafted up from the lower levels.
He glanced behind him as the gates to the Crown swung closed without a sound, the hinges oiled and gleaming in the light of the torches that hung in silvered sconces in excess upon every wall. They cast dancing shadows along the streets, an audience of blackened ghosts assembled to witness his shameful return.
He looked once more to the tall houses as he was herded forward, as his past weighed upon him. He’d spent the best years of his life on the Crown as he’d courted Malya. He couldn’t walk the streets without imagining her there beside him. His chest ached at the thought and his eyes danced in his skull in the hopes he might see her, though he knew she’d never be out after sundown. She’d always been a child of the sun.
He was almost grateful when the commander’s gruff order to halt interrupted his remembrances.
“Go tell the prince’s advisor we have an important prisoner I wish to bring before Prince Olenn, at his earliest convenience, of course,” Maltis told one of his men, who started off immediately. The commander grabbed the man’s arm before he got far. “Be as vague as possible as to who the prisoner is. I don’t want the prince angrier than he’s already going to be at such a late summons. The very last thing we need is him on a rampage before we’ve even reached the hall.”
The soldier nodded, understanding etched across his face, and darted away when the commander released him. Maltis turned to face Arrin.
“This is it, Arrin. There’s no more turning back.” He gestured to one of his men and the soldier pulled a pair of manacles from the pack of the man in front of him. “I’ve given you as much freedom as I possibly could, but I cannot have you unbound when I take you before the prince. You have far too good a reason to want our dear prince dead for me to trust in only your word. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, my friend,” Arrin answered without hesitation, placing his arms behind his back. “I would expect no less from one in your position.” He gave the officer an understanding smile, which made Maltis grimace.
The soldier placed the heavy iron shackles around Arrin’s wrists, the cold iron locks clanging shut. Arrin tested their mettle instinctively, willing the power of the collar to remain at peace. With its magical assistance, the manacles would delay him no more than a single heartbeat should he feel the need to be free of their binds. They were more a benefit to him than a hindrance, everyone likely to believe he was helpless and at the mercy of the prince’s whims. Shackled and seeming powerless, it might serve Arrin’s purpose and salve Olenn’s fury at his unexpected and unwelcome return.
Once the shackles were secured, Arrin nodded to Maltis. “Let’s be done with this, commander. The waiting is killing me.”
“I pray that is all that kills you,” Maltis replied, his hand resting light upon the pommel of his blade.
The message was clear. Despite the blood they had shed side by side upon the battlefield, the meals and laughter shared, and the loyalty of soldiers, Maltis was honor bound to the prince here in his home. Arrin could expect no mercy should it come to a choice between him and Olenn. Maltis would cut Arrin down as quickly as any enemy he had ever faced.
“Clear your conscience, friend. It won’t come to that.”
Maltis cleared his throat. “If only I were so certain. You know our prince as well as any, and time has done nothing to lessen his willfulness.” The commander turned away and waved his men on. “I can see no happy end to this night…for you,” he added as strode ahead.
The soldiers around him shuffling forward to follow their commander, Arrin matched their pace. Their boots thumped against the bright cobblestones as they paraded down the main road, which led toward the throne room.
The streets eerily quiet, Arrin glanced at the windows of the homes they passed, but they remained sealed tight against the night and the clamor of heavy boots. Lights flickered behind their shutters though he saw no shadows cast by their residents. While his memories were blurred by the time gone by, Arrin couldn’t recall the Crown having been quite so lifeless, even after the sun had set. The silence was foreboding.
“Is Lathah under curfew,” Arrin asked the soldier beside him.
The man hesitated to answer, his eyes drifting to the back of Maltis. He shook his head quick, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Arrin watched the soldier for a moment, then cast his eyes to the rest that surrounded him. None would meet his gaze, so he let the question die in the air. He would likely know the answer soon enough or he might well be dead. Either option would resolve his curiosity.
He kept his tongue still and his eyes open as they tromped through the center of the level. Arrin saw several of the watch out on the street, the prince’s own men, but he saw no urgency in their steps, no sense of restlessness about them. They moved about in their golden suits of chain, their eyes steady on the odd procession of soldiers and prisoner that marched past.
As they approached the massive double doors of the Great Hall, and the commander’s messenger soldier returned to the ranks with heavy breath, all thoughts of the somber town were forgotten. His pulse fluttered at his throat as his confrontation with the prince drew nigh. In just moments, he would be stood before the man he despised more than anyone in this life, the man who had stolen everything he loved from him, and Arrin could do nothing to revenge that cruelty. To do so was to lose even more.
He drew in a deep breath as Maltis pounded upon the doors, each reverberating blow setting his eyes to blink. Beyond the portal was a world that had continued on with its life after Arrin’s departure. For all his memories of that world, he knew not what to expect. His hopes were dying bitter on the vine.
The creak of the doors being opened set his heart to pounding. A Withered old man peered out from behind their reinforced bulk, his eyes dark and curious below the bald dome of his skull. A grimace bent his lips, which were buried amidst the wild white hair of his flowing beard and unkempt mustache.
“Sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, Lord Xilth, but as my man informed you, I have need to speak to the prince,” Maltis said with the barest of bows.
Xilth nodded at the shallow courtesy. “Prince Olenn is curious as to who might possibly be so important as to interrupt his supper.” The lord gestured toward Maltis’s messenger with a gnarled hand. “Your man seemed most reluctant to divulge the name of our guest, so he wonders if, perhaps, you might do so before he concedes to your humble request.”
Maltis turned t
o look at Arrin, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “But of course, Lord Xilth. A simple oversight, I assure you.” He waved his men to the side. “I bring Arrin Urrael before the prince, if he so pleases.”
Xilth’s eyes widened as the soldiers stepped away and cleared his view of Arrin. Shaking the hair from his face, Arrin lifted his chin and met the gaze of the old lord.
Xilth had been Olenn’s advisor since even before the madness had begun to settle upon the prince’s father, King Orrick. Arrin had no doubt it had been Xilth’s serpent-tongued words that had advised Olenn and encouraged the disposal of Arrin once his and Malya’s affair had been discovered. He had seen it in the man’s eyes when the prince had sent him to the whip. Xilth’s spite was visible in the glimmer of smile that cracked the old man’s lips at each blow that stripped the flesh from Arrin’s back. Had the king not come to clarity when he had, Arrin was certain it would have been the old lord’s hand that would have signaled the headsman to end Arrin’s life.
Arrin held no more love for Xilth than he did Olenn, but he knew the trial of passing on his message had already begun so he reined in his anger. He drew in a cold breath and bowed deep. “Lord Xilth. I have come with a dire warning for the people of Lathah, which I must deliver to the prince before it is too late. As a loyal servant of Lathah, I humbly request an audience with Prince Olenn.”
Xilth’s gaze wandered between Arrin and Maltis, settling on Arrin. “You are many things, Urrael, but loyal is not one of them.” He turned to the commander. “Hold him here until I have spoken with the prince.” His voice was cold as he turned away and shut the door heavily behind him.
“That went well,” Maltis said as he glanced at Arrin, letting loose a long sigh.
“I still live. I can ask for little more given the circumstances.” Arrin mustered a smile for his old companion, but the weight of his mission bore it away. “Stay close to me as I speak my peace, for if the prince deigns not to heed my words, I would have someone with more sense be privy to them.” He met the commander’s narrow eyes.
Maltis remained silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on Arrin’s until the creak of the door resounded behind them. The commander nodded, then turned to face the opening door.
Xilth stood in the arched doorway, five of the prince’s royal guardsmen, dressed in the traditional golden chain mail armor of their calling, at his back. “Prince Olenn will see the exile as requested, commander. Send your men away. Lieutenant Santos, of the prince’s guard, and I will escort you both to the throne room.”
“Thank you, Lord Xilth,” Maltis replied, nodding to his soldiers. Arrin noted the tone of his voice had softened, as though the commander too realized it was best to pet the dog of your master with care.
The royal guard surrounded Arrin and checked the shackles at his wrists. Once they had, men on either side grasped Arrin’s arms tight about his elbows and marched him forward. Maltis was pushed to the rear as the golden-garbed soldiers pushed through the door and into the foyer of the hall. Lord Xilth strolled before the group, setting a slow and deliberate pace.
Arrin repressed a smile at the petty gamesmanship displayed by the two factions: the men of the crown and those of the people. There had always been friction between the two, the desires of each so at odds with one another, but to see it so clearly without being a part of either was a shock to Arrin. The fact that Olenn refused to allow men of the wall before him was very telling. The division had grown since his time in Lathah.
At the ivory arch that led into the throne room, where four more royal guardsmen stood at the ready, Xilth came to a halt and turned to face the commander. “Your blades, please.”
Maltis complied, passing over Arrin’s weapon first, followed by his own.
“ He has been searched, I presume.” The old lord pointed at Arrin.
“He has,” Maltis replied.
“Good.” Xilth waved to his men. “Search him again; just to be certain, of course.” He smiled without cheer at the commander who stood stoic.
Arrin felt his heart flicker as Santos began his search. Unlike the men he’d encountered at the border, the prince’s guard would know no loyalty to a fellow soldier and would not be satisfied with a cursory examination. He held his breath as the lieutenant dug his hands beneath the leather of his armor in search of hidden weapons.
As Santos neared his neck, Arrin forced his body to relax, chasing back the tension that flooded into his shoulders as instinct called out for him to react. The man grabbed a handful of Arrin’s matted hair and lifted it with a hiss, his hand running beneath and over the collar. Arrin clenched his teeth at the lieutenant fiddled with the collar a moment, sliding his hand along its length. Without a word, Santos released Arrin’s hair and shook his hand as if to clean it.
“He bears no weapons, my lord, though his scent might be considered a danger to the prince’s nose.”
Arrin let his breath out slow and silent at Santos’s declaration, lowering his chin to hide his relief.
Xilth laughed, its sound echoed by the guards. “Excellent. He won’t be near enough to our lord for him to wield that weapon. Bring him before the prince.” The lord spun on his heels and entered the throne room, still chuckling to himself.
The guards resumed their hold upon Arrin’s arms and tugged him forward. His moment was at hand.
The throne room stood before him in all its remembered glory. The vaulted ceilings arched way above, their mirrored surfaces brilliant above the spider’s web of fine oak rafters that crisscrossed the roof. Long, flowing banners hung in abundance from their thick beams, all of the royal families represented in a place of honor, the coat of King Orrick and his line-swords crossed before a jagged mountain range-displayed foremost near the center of the hall. A great tapestry depicting the great Lathahn victory over the Grol, the first wall of Lathah weaved with amazing detail, hung behind the throne, covering the entirety of the wall.
Large golden lamps were spaced out along the length of the side walls, their light shimmered up to the ceiling that reflected it back down into the room as though the sun hung overhead in tribute to Lathah. A deep blue carpet lay unfurled along the floor, running from the arched entryway all the way to the raised dais upon which sat the throne.
Arrin’s eyes followed the carpet to its end and slowly raised his eyes over the stairs, up to the throne itself. The golden chair sat empty. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended.
Lord Xilth caught his gaze. “The prince will be here soon enough, so have no fear, exile. You will most assuredly have your audience, though I doubt your reunion will be pleasant.”
Arrin ignored the man as the guards led him forward until they reached the foot of the dais. Maltis stopped at their heels as Xilth climbed the wide stairs, coming to rest on the last. The old man wheeled about, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down on Arrin through narrow eyes, but said nothing.
Uninterested in Xilth’s posturing, Arrin glanced about the hall. Images of Malya assailed him, her voice echoing in the vaults of his mind, but he waved it all away as he felt his eyes begin to rebel. He’d remembered too much since he’d begun his journey home, and he could bear it no longer.
The arrival of the prince made it much easier, his thoughts of love and longing seared into ash at the sight of Olenn.
The prince walked slowly to his father’s throne, a sneer on his lips as his dark gaze settled on Arrin. He held a crystal goblet in his ring-burdened left hand, the crimson wine inside leaving dark trails on the glass as though it were blood. His right hand, free of adornment, sat upon the pommel of a gilded short blade that hung easy on his hip. His fingers tapped at the hilt.
Dressed in silks colored in the traditional blue and gray of Lathah, the trim in silver, he moved with a quiet swish. His clean-shaven jaw was set in a hard line and his eyes were narrowed, starring the corners, but he showed no signs of the years gone by. He looked as young as he had fifteen years passed, whereas Arrin knew he looked a tho
usand years older. It only enraged him more to think of the soft life the prince had led in his absence, but Arrin held his temper.
The flattering clothes did little to hide the serpentine strength that lurked beneath them. As the prince settled upon the throne, he did so with a fighter’s grace. While he had seen no true combat, had never been on campaign, Olenn had trained extensively with the blade under the greatest masters of Lathah, but he did so without honor.
He was no warrior king who led from the front ranks, destined for the annals of legend. He was simply a cruel man who had learned the way of the blade to benefit only himself; to instill fear in those whose skill was no match for his and to ward away those who might dare to challenge him.
It sickened Arrin to be in his presence. He resisted the urge to spit at Olenn’s feet as the prince sat in silent appraisal of him. Their eyes were locked and Arrin hoped the prince could not see inside his skull, into his thoughts, for they were very dark indeed.
Xilth broke the stalemate with a cough. “My lord, Commander Maltis deemed it necessary to bring before you the exile, who was commanded, I might add, never to return to our fair land, by royal decree.” The lord gestured to the commander. “What have you to say, commander?”
Arrin’s stomach hardened into a mass of tangled knots as he realized his presence had opened the door to Olenn’s persecution of the watch commander. He had not intended that.
However, Maltis seemed unconcerned, perhaps inured to such battles with the crown’s advisor. “The exile claims to carry a warning of impending doom for Lathah. I would be remiss were I to ignore such a warning and it come true, would I not, Lord Xilth?” Maltis bowed low before he continued. “The prisoner has been searched, twice if you recall, and remains bound in irons. Surely he is no threat to the crown in such a state, encircled as he is by a handful of your finest royal guard. I thought only to bring him before the prince, who is infinitely better suited to judge the value of the exile’s words than I.”
