Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1)

by Jason James King

  Then the Voice spoke to him in the way it always did, showing him a scene, this one clearer than the previous one. It was of Salache arguing with the emperor over the wisdom of their attack and accusing the Medasylas of manipulating Lorta for his own ends. The General pled with the emperor to abandon their campaign at which point Lorta angrily dismissed him.

  Perfect! Rayome felt a sense of relief quell his rising panic. The Voice had at last given him the answer. He would exploit the widening rift between the emperor and his chief general, sow the seeds of distrust early so that he could credibly blame Salache should the unthinkable happen.

  The two missing Imperial Guards, named deserters by Lorta himself, would serve as a convenient explanation for how the enemy attained his counter measure. Rayome would say he had built the EMP as Lorta’s assurance that the Niazeride weapons weren’t used against him. He would have to take precautions to protect his cannon in case the EMP was used, but that was easily accomplished. Rayome breathed another heavy sigh of relief as everything fell back into place.

  Still, one thing gnawed at him. What had happened? Who was the Imperial Guard that had stolen his machine? Who had he given it to? Was it possible that there was an Amigus spy amongst them? Could the deserters really have taken the counter measure to the Amigus government? How did they find out what it did or did, they even really know? To all this, the Voice remained frustrating in its silence. Once again, it seemed to have left his mind. It often did that, imparting its information in bursts of ideas, images, and emotions before abruptly abandoning him. Rayome wondered at that. Could it be that communicating with him cost the Voice something, making a permanent presence in his mind unsustainable? It was an interesting question, but a pointless one. He didn’t know enough about the belt to be sure.

  Rayome turned to look after the direction in which Gevan had retreated. With the Voice gone, a profound sense of guilt settled over him. Why did he feel as though he had wronged Gevan? What was it about Gevan’s reaction to him while he had been under the influence of the Voice that now disturbed him? The boy looked as though he had seen a monster. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what they did to me, to us. That was the other day that remained forever burned into his memory, the day he was banished from his home. The day the king of Amigus and his advisors turned their backs on him, men he had served, respected and trusted, men who were supposed to be his friends.

  The scene replayed in his mind as it so often did, and he again saw himself twenty years younger in Salatia Taeo’s palace throne room. He was standing on a circular painting of Amigus’ white eagle in flight, facing King Tael Valadin and the other members of the Amigus Ruling Council.

  They stared at him with disapproving faces as he bellowed, “Our king has been withholding a vital secret from us! One that he’s known since the day he succeeded his father!”

  He smiled inwardly as his declaration caused an uneasy stir amidst the nobles of the court.

  Valadin paled. “Minister, Saetala―”

  “A secret that could give us a technological edge against our enemies!” he shouted, brazenly ignoring the words of his king.

  “Please, Rayome,” Valadin whispered. “Don’t do this.”

  Rayome paused, meeting the king’s stare before defiantly proclaiming, “Beneath this city lies the ruins of the Aldor Sokatasa!”

  A collective gasp filled the throne room followed by a cacophony of scandalized chatter.

  “And though he knows the only means whereby to gain entrance, he has chosen not to divulge that information even though it could have,” Rayome’s voice cracked, “saved her life.”

  “You don’t know that, Rayome,” Valadin replied.

  “I DO KNOW!” Rayome screamed, his unseemly outburst dousing the room in an abrupt silence.

  Valadin shook his head as he rose to address the council. “What Minister Saetala says is the truth. The ruins of the Aldor lie beneath Salatia Taeo and I do know the means for gaining access to its treasures, but I cannot reveal that secret, save to my heir.”

  The members of the council again broke into a din of conversation to which the king raised a hand, thereby invoking an obedient silence. “What he does not tell you is that Amaeg, my progenitor and founder of our great nation, was oath bound by Arch Sage Alnostra Kyrell to never reveal that secret to anyone save his descendants, who in turn could only reveal it to their descendants. For what purpose, I truly do not know, but I will not betray an oath made to the last emissary of Trysta Jiann. To do so would only bring disaster upon us.”

  “Superstition!” Rayome hissed as he angrily threw his finger at the king. “You let her die for the sake of a thousand year old tradition.”

  The king shook his head. “Rayome, I am sorry it has come to this, but I cannot let your betrayal go unpunished.” The king raised his voice to a tone of formality, “Rayome Saetala, for defying the command of your king to keep this dangerous knowledge secret, and for betraying the trust placed in you by the crown, I hereby strip you of your position as Minister of Science and expel you from the Amigus Ruling Council. In light of your recent loss, I will forgo arraigning you on capital charges. However, because of the threat you pose to the safety of our nation, I have no choice but to exile you from the kingdom. You have two days to leave Salatia Taeo and never return.” Valadin looked down at him from his throne. “I am truly sorry.”

  As the memory faded, Rayome found himself back on the balcony in Lisidra’s citadel, overlooking the Aukasian soldiers training in the courtyard. They will be truly sorry. He balled his fists. Sorry when Salatia Taeo lies in ruins and its people burn as heaps of refuse in the streets! Then they will be sorry!

  True, the king was dead and would not personally know his retribution, but Valadin did have a daughter. She would have been passed the secret, the one that had so cruelly been withheld from him, knowledge that could have saved Darcivian. No, It would have!

  The princess would give him that secret and then she would die―die to pay her father’s debt. A life for a life. That was his purpose now, vengeance. That was who he had become, the Medasylas. He had told Lorta that the title meant emissary and by implication Sage, but that wasn’t exactly true. Harbinger would be closer to the real meaning of Medasylas, a term most often used in the ancient language to connote the coming of a calamity or disaster. That’s what he had become, the harbinger of Salatia Taeo’s destruction. To those who had betrayed him, he would be the Medasylas.

  Gevan aimlessly wandered the halls of Lisidra’s citadel, his distracting anxiety making him oblivious to his surroundings and preventing him from settling on a particular destination. He was disturbed by what he had seen and felt. He had caught glimpses of it before, but never this strong and never to the point that he became frightened.

  And what of father’s eyes? They had glowed red in tandem with the jewel on that black metal belt. What was going on? Gevan’s whole world, everything he believed in and thought he understood was crumbling. Father always taught him that there was no such thing as the supernatural, but what else could he call all that was happening? No technology, however advanced, could give someone powers of clairvoyance such as father seemed to enjoy. No technology could change a person like the belt had changed him. He no longer seemed to respect life or care for anything except his agenda and personal vendetta. Gevan too had studied the advancements of the ancients and was becoming convinced that the belt was something entirely different.

  But what was it? Or perhaps more important, what was Gevan going to do now? What more could he do? He was alone in another country, thousands of miles away from his wife and father in law, embroiled in lethal politics, confronted by something he could only call supernatural, and forced to improvise as he worked a never fully diagrammed plan.

  He had taken a terrible risk improvising. He had gambled on a complete stranger whom he had no way to be sure would follow his instructions. Even if the man was true to his word, a thousand things could go wrong with his p
lan. A thousand unforeseeable variables could make it fail. And then, if by some miracle it did succeed, Gevan had no guarantee that hindering the Aukasian invasion would make any difference, not after what had just happened, not after what he had just seen.

  What was he going to do? What he could he do but wait and see? It was out of his hands now.

  He hated that.

  Guided by the dark voice within his mind, Yaokken plotted the overthrow of the kingdom. Using the powers of the crown, he murdered the king in front of a large assembly and took his throne.

  Chapter 13

  Kinship

  Jalek squatted as he examined the hoofprints stamped into the clay of Hirath’s west road. There were ten sets, yet he had only spotted five riders emerge from the city earlier that afternoon. They mean to cycle their horses for the sake of speed. If that were so, then he and his two Imperial Guard companions would be at severe disadvantage, for they had brought no spare mounts and soon would not be able to keep pace with their quarry, let alone overtake them. He had to act quickly or his mission, and likely his life, would be forfeit.

  To make matters worse, he had not spotted Sen among the group that had fled Hirath. Jalek had not been expecting their party to leave so soon, if at all, and so their departure had caught him off guard. Thus, by the time he was able to climb a tree and employ his telescope, they had already rode a great distance, making it difficult for him to discern detail. Yet even at his disadvantage, Jalek had been able to ascertain that none of the riders had the dark complexion of his people. Worse still, one of them had been the blonde boy he had spied upon when he first reached Hirath, the same lad for whom he had importuned YaJiann to hide from his search to the end of sparing the boy’s life. Now all he could pray for was to reach the boy before Iok or Nadal so as to mercifully deliver him a quick death.

  Jalek dusted off his hands as he rose to his feet. “They plan to ride hard and fast. We must overtake them before they cycle their horses or we will not be able to catch them.” He glanced over his shoulder at Iok who did nothing to hide his hateful stare.

  “How long do you think we have?” Nadal asked as he emerged from a thicket of trees that lined the south side of the road.

  Jalek stared into the western horizon working out the time and distance in his mind. It had been just over two hours since he had spied the entourage pass this way, and at the rate they were riding they would already be more than twenty miles gone. “They will need to trade mounts in about eight hours.”

  “You don’t think they’ll camp?” Nadal walked to stand just a few feet off of Jalek’s left flank.

  Jalek shook his head. “I think they mean to reach the forest of Jala Tacia before they rest.”

  “That’s over a hundred miles from here!”

  Jalek glanced at Nadal. “And they will cover that distance in less than two days if they hold their course.”

  “We should’ve attacked them the moment they rode out of the city.” Iok spat.

  Jalek turned to glare at the Imperial Guard, “And risk being pinned down by the city guards who are already patrolling this area because you two couldn’t control your lust?”

  “That wouldn’t have been a problem had you not interfered.” Iok growled.

  Jalek turned back to the west road. “You’re right. No one would have ever come searching for her.”

  Iok made no reply.

  Jalek shook his head, half convinced that at any moment he would feel the point of Iok’s sword pierce his back. “We can overtake them before they change mounts, though I fear it will cost killing our own horses to do it. We will have to take care not to injure, kill, or lose their spare horses as we will need them in order to ride back to Lisidra.” Jalek turned to Nadal. “Go fetch our mounts.”

  Nadal cast an uncertain glance at Iok before retreating back into the trees.

  Iok walked up to stand next Jalek. “We’ll follow your plan, Jalek, but understand one thing.”

  “And that is?” Jalek asked without turning to look at him.

  “Sen belongs to us.”

  Jalek decided not to reveal the fact that Sen wasn’t among the group. “Fair enough.” With them so focused on capturing their former comrade, I will have time to mercy-kill the boy and spare him their torture. A pang of sorrow stabbed his heart at that thought, as though killing the blonde boy would be as grievous as butchering a brother, or one of his own children. Why did he feel such a profound kinship with a boy he had never even met? He grew anxious at the sudden wonder of if he could go through with it, but what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let Iok and Nadal have him. And what would happen when the two Imperial Guards discovered that they weren’t chasing Sen anymore? Jalek wondered if they had ever been chasing Sen. Whatever was happening, they couldn’t let the boy and his comrades reach Salatia Taeo, or their surprise incursion would be spoiled. I have to do my duty, Jalek told himself, but the words held little comfort. The cold foreboding that had afflicted him earlier recurred with new intensity, and nothing he did would dispel it. The whole situation just felt wrong.

  Sitrell winced in time with every gallop of his horse. Although he had taken a large dose of opiate extract, enough to make him have to struggle just to stay awake, the wound in his side still twinged as every hoof-fall jostled his body. He was nearing the outer limits of his endurance, having ridden non-stop for almost eight hours since his little party had fled Hirath, but the thought of his urgent mission, as well as a forthcoming break to trade horses countered the temptation to slow their pace and camp for the night. He clenched his jaw as his mount bounded over a large rock embedded in the dirt road, sending a particularly violent shock up through his body with a keen stab of pain.

  “You’as ok?” Yuiv asked.

  Sitrell curtly nodded as he sucked air through gritted teeth. The boy had seemed unusually anxious over his comfort and condition since they had left Hirath, something Sitrell attributed to the trauma the boy had endured over the past three days. He had seen it before in soldiers enduring highly stressful battle conditions. They would devote themselves to a comrade or a commanding officer who would then become their anchor, comfort, and means for coping. He had also seen what happened when that person was killed, when that anchor for the suffering soldier was lost. It was not good. Would Yuiv break if I were to die before this was over? Sitrell wondered. Is that really what’s happening?

  Still, perhaps there was another explanation for Yuiv’s puppy-like attachment. They had been through a lot together since they met three days ago, and Sitrell knew that such circumstances were known to forge true friendships. He was surprised to find that it was always remarkably easy to talk with and confide in Yuiv, something that didn’t come naturally to him. He even felt a fondness developing for the boy. Could it be as simple as the fact that they were becoming friends? His familiarity with Yuiv had come so easily, as if he had known him for years and that their meeting in the dungeons of Lisidra had been but a reunion.

  Both of those explanations made sense, but Sitrell couldn’t dispel the nagging feeling that his sudden friendship with the boy might be the consequence of his vulnerable condition. Could it be that he was just projecting his feelings for Kyen onto Yuiv, his long unhealed grief subconsciously adopting a substitute to fill the hole left in his heart by the death of his little brother? That wound had dulled with time but never fully healed and was now the worse since being re-opened by the death of his father. Perhaps Yuiv wasn’t the one seeking a touchstone for stability, maybe it was himself.

  The torturous ride continued for almost another hour, though it felt much longer to Sitrell. Finally, to his relief, they were able to stop for a brief rest. It was dark now, the hour late, almost midnight. They would enjoy only a brief respite with a hurried meal before changing mounts and continuing their course. Still, the prospect of even a short break soothed Sitrell’s weary mind.

  A member of the Royal Guard assisted him as he dismounted and shuffled over to lean against
a tall Aspen. After freezing for a moment to weather a wave of pain, he gingerly slid down to sit against the trunk of the tree. As expected, Yuiv was not far behind. He hurried up to Sitrell and handed him a full canteen, from which Sitrell guzzled. When it was empty, he drew in a deep breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “I’as dunno if I’as can keep doin this.” Yuiv groaned as he rubbed his backside. “My bum aint never hurt’d so bad.”

  Despite his weariness and pain, Sitrell laughed aloud at that. “Well you better get used to it, we have at least six more days of hard travel ahead of us.”

  Yuiv sucked in a sharp breath as he sat on the ground and Sitrell laughed again.

  “Howd’ya do it?” he asked.

  “What? Ride a horse all day?”

  Yuiv shook his head. “No. Be strong alla time? Getting shot like you’d woulda killed me dead.”

  Sitrell shrugged. “We do what we have to.”

  “Other’as coulda do this.”

  Sitrell lifted his eyes to the night sky. Being on the plains gave him a pristine view of the stars, one of which was larger than the rest, a shimmering dot of crystal blue. Trysta Jiann, the Istran priests said it was, the orb at the center of the heavens, the throne of God, and the final abode of the departed faithful.