Kelven's Riddle Book Five

by Daniel Hylton

  He climbed up two steps, to within sword’s reach of the terrified man upon the throne. “The monsters produced from the wombs of the daughters of your own people have caused death and destruction throughout the world of men – and is therefore a crime against humankind itself. It is for that crime that I judge you unworthy to rule – or even to live.”

  It was in that moment that Aram realized that he had not brought a steel sword with him on the journey into Elam. The only weapon at his disposal was the Sword of Heaven. He had no desire to do further harm to the hall that he intended to leave in the care of his young friend, Marcus.

  Nor did he wish to inflict a terrible scene of gruesomeness upon those watching. But there was no alternative.

  He must, he realized, make quick work of it.

  There was a moment of thick, intense quiet as he and Rahm Imrid faced each other.

  Then Rahm’s eyes flew wide, as if in that awful moment he finally understood that his life had just been declared forfeit by the man standing before him.

  He threw up his hands. “You cannot –!”

  “I can,” Aram said.

  Quickly, he drew the Sword and pierced the body of the man on the throne, leaving it in him for just a moment to make certain that death attended it.

  But he left it too long.

  Initially, when the blade pierced him, Rahm made a small bleating sound, like that of a sheep or a rabbit, but then he gasped, his mouth flew open, blood gushed forth.

  An instant later his body burst into flame. Aram quickly pulled the Sword free, but it was too late to avoid the hideousness that he had wished to avoid.

  The flames engulfed Rahm’s body, even as he writhed and died, destroying him utterly. Within moments his flesh, his bones, and his clothing were entirely consumed, leaving only a smoldering heap of ash.

  Astonished by the suddenness and completeness of the man’s destruction, Aram stepped back and sheathed the blade.

  11.

  As he watched the fire consume Rahm’s mortal remains, reducing him to ash, Aram became afraid that the fire would spread, setting the wooden throne aflame, sweeping through the great hall itself. He needn’t have worried. Fortunately, and for reasons Aram could not fathom, the flame remained entirely contained in Rahm Imrid’s person. When he was gone, the fire died out. Moments later, the smoke began to dissipate as well.

  Aram turned and walked once more to the center of the room where he pivoted to face the gallery of councilors.

  Shock registered on every face and more than a few were given completely over to horror.

  By this time there was nothing to see upon the seat of the throne but smoldering ash and a dark stain caused by the intensity of the fire. The wide eyes of every head of the Great Houses of Elam gradually turned away from that stunning sight and focused again on the man that had just ended the criminal reign of Rahm Imrid.

  Aram gave them a long moment in which to fully grasp that which had just occurred, then,

  “I know none of you,” he stated calmly. “I know not whether you are good men or bad, honest men or no.” He let his gaze rove the gallery. “I have no political standing in this land nor do I wish it. Nonetheless,” he said, “I require something of you.”

  He went silent and waited.

  There followed a few moments of confusion as the councilors gradually realized that he did not mean to continue. Did he mean for them to guess at the nature of his “requirement”? As the silence lengthened, they looked around at each other in uncertainty. Then, over to the left, a tall, thin, elderly man with white hair and a long white beard rose to his feet.

  Aram turned his gaze upon him but said nothing.

  The tall man nervously cleared his throat. “You stated that you require a thing from us, sir. Then you said nothing further. May I – may we – ask what it is that you seek from us?”

  “What is your name?” Aram asked him.

  “I am named Leeton Cinnabar, head of House Cinnabar,” the man replied.

  Aram waved one hand toward the throne. “A loyal supporter of High Prince Rahm Imrid?”

  The man flushed and drew himself up to his full and rather impressive height. “Never!” He glanced around at his fellows and then brought his eyes back to Aram. “Whatever you do with the rest of us, sir, I will say this – I am glad that he is gone.”

  Aram looked at him intently, until he was certain of the veracity of the elderly man’s declaration. Then, satisfied, “And what is your standing on this council?” He asked him.

  “I am the first in age and the second in time served behind Heglund Basura,” Cinnabar replied. “As such, I would be next in line to be named Chancellor should Chancellor Basura retire from that post.” He hesitated and looked down for a moment. When he looked up once more, his features were constricted with anger. “I should say, sir, that such would be my standing if the ancient ways were observed. But Rahm Imrid abandoned the old ways. After Heglund Basura ceased coming to the council, Rahm Imrid largely ignored protocol.”

  He turned his eyes upon the now quiet pile of ash. A look of intense revulsion crossed his face. “I suspect the former High Prince took council with no one except his own ambition.”

  When Aram did not respond, Cinnabar looked around at his companions once more and then, once again, cleared his throat. “I ask you again, sir, with respect – what is it that you require of us? Do you require our obeisance?”

  “No,” Aram answered. “I require the resolution to a question. Namely – it is this. Upon the death of Rahm Imrid, who will rightly ascend to the throne of this land?”

  Cinnabar did not hesitate. “Were he here, Marcus, son of Waren, would rightly rule in his uncle’s – I should say his father’s – stead.”

  Aram nodded and glanced around the gallery. “And what say the rest of you?” He demanded. “What say you all?”

  Kavnaugh Berezan stood. “Leeton is right,” he said. “The throne of Elam rightly belongs to Waren’s son, Marcus.” He hesitated and glanced over at Cinnabar. “I must tell you, however, that we have not seen Marcus in some time, nor has there been news of him. Some of us greatly fear that Rahm slew his nephew in secret.”

  Aram nodded. “I understand this; nevertheless I must hear the consensus of this council. If he lives, does Marcus, son of Waren, inherit the throne of Elam? Or is there another?”

  Berezan shook his head. “There is no other. Every member of Waren’s family died in the palace tragedy – except for Rahm and Marcus.”

  Aram held up his hand. “Thank you, sir; but I wish to hear the consensus of this council. If he lives – does Marcus ascend?”

  Several voices spoke at once. “He does.”

  Seated near the center of the gallery, a short, stocky councilor glanced around and then rose. He was dressed in layers of finery, purple and blue. Chains of gold fastened his cloak across his ample torso, stretching in gleaming splendor from button to button.

  “I agree,” he began, meeting Aram’s gaze cautiously, “That if he lives, Marcus Imrid inherits the rule of Elam.” He glanced to either side before bringing his wary gaze back to Aram. “But if he does not live – or cannot be found, there is a process by which this council chooses a successor. It has occurred twice before in the history of this land.” He hesitated and cleared his throat.

  Grasping the wide lapels of his cloak with either hand, he continued, watching Aram with expressions of both shrewdness and caution fighting for control of his features. “You stated, sir, that you seek no standing in this land.” He hesitated again. “Does this mean that you will leave the matter with us where – as you yourself admitted – it rightly resides?”

  “I want to hear the consensus of the council,” Aram reminded him.

  The portly man blinked and glanced to either side, self-importantly. “But I believe you have heard the consensus, sir. If Marcus lives, he ascend the steps, if he does not –”

  “What is your name?” Aram interrupted him.

 
; The man’s sense of his own importance expanded as he gave his reply. “I am Bordo Bufor, first son of House Waurph, and as such mayor of Calom Malpas, a fine city of some substance in the north of this land.”

  Aram nodded without expression. “I know of Calom Malpas,” he stated. “And what is your standing in this chamber, sir? Why do you feel as if you can speak for the council?”

  Bufor blinked his heavy-lidded eyes again, several times in rapid succession. “I did not mean – it’s just that the High Prince and I –” His voice trailed off as his gaze fell involuntarily upon the pile of ash on the seat of the throne.

  “I meant what I said, Bordo Bufor,” Aram stated quietly. “I wish to hear the consensus of this council – not one man’s opinion of that consensus.” He smiled thinly. “I suspect, however, that your name is one I will want to remember.”

  Bufor puffed out his chest momentarily at this, but then his perceptive gaze caught the look in Aram’s eyes. His own gaze flicked once more toward the dusty remains of the former High Prince and he sat down rather abruptly.

  Aram then polled the members of the council one by one, making them say their names and rendering a sure judgment upon the identity of Rahm’s rightful successor.

  To a man, they expressed the conviction that Marcus, if he could be found alive, would rightly take the reins of Elam. All stated it willingly, some eagerly, and some grudgingly. Many stated it matter-of-factly, as if the general view of the council was more important to them, and carried more weight with them, than any personal consideration.

  When each had spoken, Aram let silence fall. The morning sun climbed toward noon, its rays finding their way down into the hall through the skylight with its one shattered pane.

  “Marcus is alive,” he said then. “And I know where he may be found. He will come in time and stand upon this very spot where I now stand – and you will name him High Prince of Elam.”

  There were audible gasps from the gallery at this remark and Leeton Cinnabar came to his feet.

  “Is he nearby?” The old man asked.

  Aram held up his hand. “Patience. There is one thing yet that I require of each of you.”

  Cinnabar frowned but returned to his seat and went silent. All of them watched Aram expectantly.

  Aram stepped close to the foremost tier of seats and spoke in harsh tones. “Prince Marcus is alive and will reveal himself at his own volition.” He let his hard gaze rove over the assembled leaders of Elam, letting it linger on each of those whose support of Marcus had been expressed in less than enthusiastic manner.

  “Hear this warning,” he went on, and his voice grew harsher. “High Prince Marcus is my friend. You have witnessed my power – but a small portion of it. Remember well what you have seen here today. Beyond the borders of your land, my word is law. Betray Marcus – any one of you – and I will return and I will find you. I will destroy you. I will burn you to ash.”

  At this blunt threat, the widened eyes of every councilor went involuntarily to the powdery remains of Rahm Imrid.

  “Now,” Aram went on. “How will the change in the fortunes of Elam be announced throughout the land? Is there a process by which the people are notified of the ascension of a new High Prince?” He looked expectantly at Cinnabar and Berezan.

  It was Berezan that answered. “There are heralds, official mouthpieces of the throne that dwell in Farenaire. They will be sent forth into the land – each with a writ from the Chancellor of this council.” He looked over at Leeton Cinnabar. “Which, in the absence of Heglund Basura, must be you, my friend.”

  Aram looked at Councilor Cinnabar as well. “Do it then,” he commanded. “Sign the writ and send it forth. Do so at once.”

  Cinnabar stood but then hesitated and looked at Aram. “And you will produce Prince Marcus?”

  “High Prince Marcus,” Aram corrected him, and with that he turned and looked toward the armored man standing to the left of the entrance to the hall. “Your Highness?”

  Marcus reached up and removed his helmet.

  The entire gallery came to its feet, all of them uttering exclamations of amazement, and many of joy.

  As Marcus walked toward the center of the room, Aram inclined his head in respect and moved aside. “Forgive the damage done to your hall, Your Highness,” He stated in a voice that all could hear. “I did not intend to add to the sum of those things requiring repair. And now, by your leave, I will say farewell.”

  Marcus halted in surprise and gazed at him, for the moment ignoring the gallery of men that had just become his councilors. “You are leaving us, my lord?”

  “I am needed elsewhere, as you know well.” Aram responded. “I am no longer needed here. I wish to return to my own land and see to my affairs there.” He looked up at the broken skylight and then at the ruined entrance at the front of the hall. “Again, my friend, I am sorry for the damage done here today.”

  Marcus waved his hand dismissively. “It is nothing. There are other things in Elam in greater need of repair. We are – all of us – greatly in your debt, my lord.”

  Aram inclined his head to the young High Prince once more. “Then by your gracious leave, Your Highness, I will say farewell.”

  After meeting Aram’s eyes for a long moment, Marcus bowed his own head in reply. “Of course, my lord. I thank you for this – and for all that you have done for me. I wish that you would stay for a time that you might enjoy the hospitality of my house. But if you say that you cannot; then I understand.”

  Aram shook his head. “I cannot.”

  Marcus watched him for a moment longer and then bowed. “Thank you, my lord. Journey well.”

  “Call upon me at need, my friend,” Aram replied and then he moved toward where Thaniel had gone to stand by the door. As he did so, he looked at Thom and raised his hand in salute. “Until we meet again, General.”

  Thom inclined his head and returned the salute. “Travel well, my lord.”

  Aram led Thaniel out of the hall and down the steps where he mounted up and they went eastward toward the distant main road. Citizens stood in doorways and peered from windows, watching his exit from their town open-mouthed.

  Aram sent a thought skyward. “Go ahead of me, if you will, Lord Alvern, and examine the road that I will travel as I leave this land. If there is nothing which requires a warning for my attention, then go on into the north, onto the plains. See if there are any slave trains of the grim lord near enough to Cumberland that I may disrupt them. If there are – return and tell me so.”

  “You will attack them singly, my lord?” The eagle asked.

  “I will.”

  “And you do not require that I watch the road before you as you journey forth from Elam?”

  “I do not think there will be any trouble, my friend.”

  “Then I will do as you wish, my lord,” Alvern replied.

  After reaching the junction at Mayfield, Thaniel turned to the left and drove northward with his might. Before evening fell, they once again made contact with General Arrabi, bivouacked near the road with his soldiers where Aram had left him on the previous day.

  “High Prince Marcus sits the throne of Elam,” Aram informed the general. “Rahm Imrid is no more. The heralds will announce this throughout the land in the coming days.”

  “What are your orders, my lord?” Arrabi asked.

  Aram shook his head. “Wait upon General Sota – he will inform you of his needs in due time. I must go and see to my own affairs. Farewell, general.”

  “Farewell, my lord.”

  And so Aram went back northward through the vast green countryside of Elam and toward its distant gates, passing through Calom Malpas and many smaller villages and towns, leaving behind an astonished populace and an event that came to be known in the lore of that land as The Day That Death Rode the Length of Elam.

  12.

  Three days after the death of Rahm Imrid and the ascension of High Prince Marcus, as Aram passed through the great gates and out
into Cumberland, he once more sought the sky for contact with Alvern.

  The eagle answered immediately. “There are no slave trains anywhere in Aniza or on the south of the plains. I inquired of the hawks in this region and they told me that all such traffic ceased after the slaying of Soroba.”

  This surprised Aram. “There has been no slave traffic at all?”

  “None, my lord.”

  “Any movement of the enemy’s armies?”

  “No,” Alvern replied.

  “What of the weather, and the coming of winter – what do the hawks say of this?” Aram asked.

  “There is snow in Vallenvale,” the eagle told him. “And also on the hills to the north of Bracken.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Puzzling over Manon’s suspension of the slave traffic, and wondering if it was a direct result of his confrontation with, and killing of, Hurack Soroba, Aram nonetheless happily turned eastward when he reached the north of Cumberland. Upon his journey from Marcus’ Great Hall, he had considered turning aside to inform the House of Basura of the change that had been wrought, but in the end decided that joyful news such as that would travel quickly enough. Besides, he had no wish to rob Marcus of passing along the glad tidings himself.

  As he rode north through Cumberland, he’d had the same thoughts about Governor Kitchell. In the end, he decided to leave that to Marcus as well. And so, reaching the bend in the road by the town next to the hills, he turned eastward up the valley of the dry lake, toward Burning Mountain and home.

  On his last night upon the road before he would reach the fortress on the banks of the Broad, he camped in a hollow of the hills to the southwest of Burning Mountain. Satisfied that there were no enemies nearby, he gathered dead branches from the junipers and started a fire, made kolfa, and seated himself on a rock close to the flames. As the twilight faded, Thaniel, who’d been grazing along the banks of a small stream that tumbled out of the hills, came to stand facing him from just beyond the fire.