Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

“I am overjoyed to hear, my good lady, though I must confess that I am not completely confident in this regard.” The woman’s suspicious glances and tone only increased Niclas’s doubts about this clandestine meeting. yet he was determined to discover Count Borodin’s part, if any, in these unexplained disappearances and deaths, and more importantly, to ensure Euriel Glanduer was safe and unharmed.

  The woman extended her hand.

  “My name is Missus Frieda Rasolka.” She shook Niclas’s hand as firmly as any man. “I am Count Borodin’s housekeeper and personal physician to the Divine Adoratrice.”

  Niclas coughed. “I am not familiar with that title ma’am. The divine whom, my good lady?”

  “The nights can be surprisingly cold this far inland,” she replies, ignoring the question. She cast a surreptitious glance around the manor yard and ushered Niclas inside. “Please follow me and warm yourself inside.”

  “Thank for your invitation, Missus Rasolka, and I must ask, as a member of the King's Council Triumvirate, that you summon your guest, Miss Euriel Glanduer, immediately.”

  “For what reason, may I enquire?”

  “I wish to see with my own eyes that she is safe and unharmed.”

  “She is, and she is resting. To disturb her now would only cause her distress.”

  “In what way?” Niclas asked.

  “Forgive my rudeness.” Missus Rasolka bowed with a curious and inexplicable uneasiness. Upon rising, she cast an evasive glance over Niclas’s shoulder. “She will join us shortly. Now, please, come inside and allow me to bolt the door. We do not want things that belong out in the night to push their way inside.”

  Don’t press her further. Let’s wait and hear what the good Count has to say about this strange and unseemly business.

  Niclas followed the housekeeper down a wide, mahogany-paneled hallway lined on both sides with closed doors. At the far end, a magnificent arched doorway of ornately-carved wood and gilded glass was closed and draped in red from the inside. Moonlight shone through large windows high on the walls, bathing the interior in a soft radiance.

  Missus Rasolka took a lit candle in a holder from a table and offered it to Niclas. “This way, please, and watch your head.” She brought another candle for herself.

  Niclas followed her descent down a narrow stone staircase. Stepping onto the cellar landing, Niclas steadied himself on the uneven natural rock surface beneath his feet. He slowly swept the candle in front of himself to get his bearings.

  Several flaming torches cast their quivering light upon the walls of a cavernous, subterranean vault that appeared to have been dug into the limestone beneath the earth as the underpinning for the manor above. Suspended cobwebs were netted across the ceiling beams, and waving as they hung from joists in the dank and disturbed air.

  Ahead lay a single bolted door in the middle of a stone wall, reminiscent of an entrance to a morgue. “There has been some misunderstanding. I was expecting to visit Count Borodin in his chambers.” The shriek of a woman from above made Niclas jump, his hand instinctively raising his sword in its scabbard. “By everything holy, what in the world was that?”

  “I must attend to another patient. Not all of Euriel’s kin are as strong as she,” Missus Rosolka said. Niclas put his hand on her arm, gentle but still firm enough to show he meant business.

  “Enough of this. Call her now. I want to speak with her at once,” he said.

  “When you have gained her trust you will speak, but until then knock precisely six times, no more, no less. Now, if you will excuse me, I do not wish to hear the lady scream again unless you willfully prevent me from alleviating her suffering.”

  “What did you mean, not as strong as Euriel? How many live here?”

  Missus Rosolka raised her gaze to the floor above. “Good evening, Lord Delcarden, and may fate smile kindly upon you.” She pulled her arm away and retreated up the steps without looking back.

  Is she as mad as the rest? Count Borodin will explain himself before I lose all patience with these stricken fools. God only help us all!

  Niclas drew a breath and banged on the door six times with the bottom of his furled fist. He took a step back and waited.

  The door creaked open. A balding, haughty man with craggy features, in a stained and grimy frock coat, a pair of multiple-lens magnifying glasses perched on his tall forehead, stood there as if he had been lurking on the other side all along.

  Niclas studied him for a moment, reminded more of a near-sighted jeweler or absent-minded alchemist than of any sort of gentleman of noble birth.

  “Count Lubos Borodin of Salak?”

  “I was expecting you well before nightfall. Please, please come in.”

  His guttural accent was not as heavy as most from that land. “And please, first names only. We are all the same underneath our skins, are we not, Niclas?”

  They shook hands; it was to Niclas’s immediate regret, as an oily residue seemed to seep from the Count’s aged palm. He tried to think of his next sentence.

  “Am I to understand that Bishop Jubert has informed you of the reason for my visit?” he asked, tactfully wiping his hand on the side of his trousers and trying not to show disgust. Other people’s bodily fluids were really not his penchant.

  “I received confirmation this morning,” the Count said as he watched the short display of hand-cleansing. “Though I assumed he would have accompanied you.”

  “Sir Razmig acts on his behalf. Is that true?” Niclas asked.

  “Yes, he has gained our trust most recently and only wishes to serve our rightful monarch,” the Count said.

  “As do all people of Miradora, though I cannot see why it should be a great concern of Salak. I was expecting to speak with you earlier than this. I must ask that you explain the reason for your absence.” Niclas sounded vexed and was aware of it.

  A faint, wistful smile lightened the Count’s brooding face. “There were urgent senate motions requiring my presence and my vote. You see, there have been disturbances lately in the remote provinces,” the Count replied.

  “Of what nature?”

  “That is why you are here, Niclas, to understand and serve the very nature of things as they truly are.”

  The very nature of things as they truly are? What baloney was this?

  That was the only reply coming forward. It seemed somewhat evasive again, making no attempt to address Niclas’s question about the nature of the disturbances.

  “I do not serve things. I serve only our people and our King,” Niclas said, more than slightly irked, “And that’s only once he is crowned, though the first falling snow is still months away.”

  Count Borodin held his hands together as though he was about to pray and tapped his fingertips. “It is not the storms of winter that we should fear, my good man. Neither the storms of winter nor any wrath of the skies.”

  He expelled his breath with more than a hint of frustration and slid the large iron deadbolt across the door.

  Niclas followed him into a large space, akin to a shipping warehouse filled with the odors of oil, steam, coal, and carbolic. A number of peculiar and unusual contraptions fitted with leather harnesses, chairs, and spring-like moving assemblies, sat on the floor. Oil lanterns shone brightly on several tables, illuminating bubbling beakers and liquids dripping out of glass tubes into vivid, emerald-green bottles.

  Niclas picked up a chunk of dull gray lead. “Are you an alchemist then?”

  The Count removed his multiple-lens magnifying glasses. “No, though some knowledge of alchemy has proved useful over the years.”

  “So, have you managed to transmute this into gold yet?” Niclas smirked, already knowing the answer.

  “That is not my interest and the fumes from such dangerous endeavors are poisonous to breathe. I prefer not to expend my few energies in such futile pastimes.”

  Niclas dropped the metal onto the table and grabbed Count Borodin’s arm.

  “Then speak plainly, my good lord of Salak, fo
r I have no patience for subterfuge or any who willfully obstruct an investigation by the King’s Council. I fear you are dilly-dallying, trying to volley in a game of words. Our kingdoms are allies now but when my great grandfather was alive we were at each other’s throats. I need to know what is the state of play.”

  “Lubos, please call me Lubos,” the Count said. He looked at Niclas’s hand, his countenance fallen, and sighed. “I take it then that you know nothing of The Lost Sacred Writings of Miradora?”

  That bloody book again.

  Niclas released the man’s arm. “What does that have to do with the Bishop’s message… or with Euriel Glanduer for that matter?”

  Count Borodin removed a pair of spectacles from the breast pocket of his frock coat. He picked up a worn leather-bound book from the desk. “Well, be quiet and I shall tell you. The original collection was written over a thousand years ago before the Age of Heroes, and seldom remembered now except by scribes, scholars, and those of us dedicated to preserving the true and compassionate monarchy of our land.”

  “Sir, are you determined to vex me with riddles too? The senators of Salak do not influence who sits on the throne of Miradora.”

  Count Borodin opened the book and carefully leafed through the yellowed parchment pages. “Frieda tells me I should practice reading and speaking the old common tongue out loud. We used to have the same accent. Remarkable, no?”

  The Count spoke as if he had all the time in the world; he was not fazed by Niclas’s impatient questioning and would take his time to get to the crux of matters. He adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and began to recite a passage.

  “And in those days, before the Age of Heroes, the Winged Queen bid her six dukes to not seek infernal council nor make dark allegiance though her people’s enemies pressed down hard upon them from all sides.”

  “The flying woman of fairytales? High Priest Worlaw would say it is blasphemy and superstition to speak of anything before the five patriarchs.”

  Count Borodin looked up from the book. “And do I, Niclas? Do I speak blasphemy to your ears?”

  “Speak as you wish in your own house, though I will be angered if I have traveled all this way to hear a child’s fable told to me by an old man apparently unable to talk in a straight line.”

  Count Borodin cleared his throat and went on exactly as before. “And to her six dukes, loyal and true, she promised a holy sword feared by man and demon alike if they but vowed allegiance to her with blood upon stone… “

  Niclas shook his head. “Demons now? And magic swords?”

  “Yes, to battle the Choldath of legend.”

  The Choldath? Niclas rubbed his cool fingers in the palm of his hand to warm them as a cold hand was not as quick on the hilt if needed. “That is another word I have not heard since childhood. And this is why you had the Bishop deliver your message?”

  “There is more, Niclas, much more. If you would learn to be patient.”

  Niclas gave a dismissive wave of his hand as if shooing away an annoying beggar, yet the Count’s words remained in his uncomfortable thoughts and could not easily be dismissed.

  “I believe you have been enjoying the Kardi sun for far too long, my friend, for it is common knowledge how even a few hours’ exposure to the evil rays will affect a man’s reason. You should seek the advice of your housekeeper if she truly is a physician,” Niclas said.

  “Only to the Divine Adoratrice,” came the reply. The old Count rubbed his hands together as if enjoying playing with words and the frustration it created.

  “And pray tell, my good Count, who or what is that? And please try not to cloak the answer in yet more puzzles.”

  “Good evening, Lord Delcarden.” Euriel Glanduer, dressed in a black leather vest and a mottled brown and white warrior’s tunic stepped out barefoot from beneath the thick drapes covering the entrance to another hall. She stood with her hands folded in front in a demure gesture, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor.

  “Is your sword hand warm enough, should you need it?” she asked, raising her gentle gaze to him.

  “Forgive me, Miss Glanduer. I meant no offense.” Niclas bowed. “I am extremely glad to see you safe and well.”

  Count Borodin bowed. “You should not have presented yourself, my lady.” The count’s eyes were heavy with suspicion as he scrutinized Niclas. “There is much his Lordship must still understand and no guarantee that he will accept the truth once he does.”

  “And how are we to know the fair measure of his loyalty and trust unless he sees it with his own eyes?” she enquired.

  Niclas stepped closer to her.

  “I have puzzled long over the events of late and can find no satisfactory answer, yet one is demanded of me when I return to Avidene. I respectfully ask that if there is something more you may show me that will unburden my mind, it is best that you do so now or my report will not look favorably on the actions of your benefactor, Count Borodin.”

  Euriel raised her head and smiled. “Then you shall have it, my lord. I have no right to conceal myself any longer from one who has suffered so much for my kin’s sake.” She unbuttoned her vest and dropped it onto the floor.

  “My lady, I beg you.” Count Borodin stepped forward hurriedly. “Please reconsider what you are doing. We can trust so few as it is and our enemies lie in wait at every turn.”

  “You say I was wrong to appear at the Governor’s feast but I could not remain a prisoner here any longer or I would go mad. I want to dance, and sing, and enjoy life as other women and not feel ashamed.”

  Count Borodin lowered his gaze. “It is for your own protection, my lady. Would you have me break my oath?”

  “No, and there are times you do me the greatest service by allowing the appearance of things to be seen just as they are, so they are believed. Therein lies my greatest protection and that of my kind.” Euriel unfastened the first button on her tunic.

  A sworn oath to a lady? Is she of noble blood then?

  Niclas was quite unsure what to expect next from this mysterious, entrancing young woman. Surely, she was not intent on disrobing herself quite naked in front of two men, familiar or otherwise?

  In either case, he did not wish to turn his back unless it was absolutely necessary for fear he might discover a dagger lodged there in short order. Niclas brushed the Count aside.

  “What did you mean about suffering for your kin’s sake? What do you know of my family?”

  “I know that you lost your parents and your younger brother, Wuldric, in a flash fire caused by a savage lightning storm at Lord Lionsbury’s manor, though your brother’s remains were never found among the burned ruins.”

  Niclas exhaled, feeling suddenly weaker as he often did whenever his family’s tragic past was mentioned. “Many know of this. My family’s misfortune is no secret in the kingdom and beyond.”

  “A simple misfortune of nature? No, my lord,” Euriel said. “You must believe me that it was not mere chance. A dark presence determined that the prophecy should not come to pass, and that the one with the mark—the eye of the overseer—should not survive… for if he perished, then the rightful rulers, the Sirin, could not return to this land and the way would be made ready for his return.”

  Niclas rubbed at his pulsing forehead.

  I cannot be angry with one so young and troubled though she be plainly as delirious as both the Count and the housekeeper.

  Euriel’s soft, spoken words transfixed Niclas, casting a spell of dark memories, a storm of images and recollections he struggled each day to forget and make more distant. Yet they stubbornly staked their place and refused to abandon his dreams.

  “I mean no disrespect, my gentle lady, but would you have me honestly believe that my parents and brother died because a malevolent power feared the prophecy of superstitious peasants and slaves?”

  “Why your family was chosen, or whom, I cannot say, but destiny does not deceive us if we but open our eyes to what it reveals.”

>   “You speak of that which my father and Lord Lionsbury believed, yet there was no proof then and there is none now.”

  Euriel unbuttoned the second button on her tunic.

  “That is for you to decide, Lord Niclas Aronbach of Delcarden.” She turned with her back to the men and unfastened the remaining buttons. She lowered her tunic to her hips until her entire back was exposed.

  Niclas could not deny being aroused by Euriel’s partial disrobing, yet he saw nothing that he had not seen before on the smooth back of a beautiful woman.

  There were no scars, marks, or disfigurements of any kind, and if he had overlooked something, then he was ignorant as to the significance of any such hidden blemish.

  “I am unclear as to your intention, Miss Glanduer, but as a gentleman I must insist that you clothe yourself if we are to continue our conversation.”

  Count Borodin had returned to the old book on his desk and was gently lifting the pages as though searching for a particular passage of interest. “Do not turn away, Niclas. You have asked for the truth and now you shall have it.” He looked up and stared at Euriel. “Though we may all regret that you have done so.”

  Without warning, Euriel began shaking, her torso jerking in spasmodic movements. She bent forward and clutched her arms to her sides.

  Niclas was aghast, unable to understand what was happening. He rushed toward her and she held up her hand. “No! You cannot touch me, please! Stay away!”

  “But something is wrong with you. I will call for the physician. I fear you are gravely ill.”

  “No, I’m not. Please do as I say and stay back.” She convulsed again and screamed, clutching at her side.

  “Do as she says, Niclas. Everything is as it should be.” Count Borodin lowered his gaze.

  “You’re mad!” Niclas turned on him in a rage. “How can you sit there and watch her suffer? Call for her physician at once—or you will answer to my sword!”

  “The only suffering I see, my distraught friend, comes from the images plaguing your own spirit. The Divine Adoratrice is unharmed as you can see.” Count Borodin gestured toward Euriel.

  Niclas flashed around and fell speechless with a gasp.