The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  At first Laina could think of nothing to say. “Right. Now I really want to find my father.”

  She quickened her pace, Whitlanders ducking to the side as she passed. Near the end of the village, she caught a glimpse of what was probably her mother, sitting at a flimsy table and negotiating with three men. Her companion, Tenori, stood at her shoulder, his keen stare interrogating each builder in turn. Though Conard nudged her and pointed out her mother, Laina refused to slow her pace. Her father would have long since presumed her dead. She could not bear to cause him any further heartache.

  At the top of the steps, her mother’s followers were immediately obvious, thronging the lawn and interspersed with some of the more gravely injured Whitlanders. There were Varrilans and Ruunans among them, and Laina recognized a few of Conard’s gypsy friends lingering near the mud-slicked garden border.

  She had hardly begun searching for her father when she was enveloped in a crushing embrace. Her first instinct was to tense, yet soon she recognized the smell of her father—musty old parchment and his favorite rum-laced chocolate.

  “You came home.” His voice trembled as he released Laina.

  “Father.” It was not until she spoke that Laina realized she was crying too. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve made such a mistake.”

  “No. You have saved our people. Without you and your rash, impetuous ways, every one of these villagers would be dead.” He gave her a very scratchy kiss on the cheek.

  Laina scrubbed at her eyes with her wrist. “Will you forgive me for one more rash, impetuous decision, then?”

  Her father frowned, and only then seemed to notice who was supporting Laina.

  “Conard is the most honorable man I have ever known. Every accusation thrown against him is false.”

  Though her father’s frown deepened, Laina released her grip on Conard and pushed him forward. Immediately he knelt before his king, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “How did you survive?” her father demanded.

  “Jairus. He has a good heart.” Still Conard studied the ground. “After he rescued me, we tried to flee, but instead I found Queen Katrien’s followers and led them back to Lostport. If you wish, I’ll leave and never return.”

  “But if you send him away, I’m going as well,” Laina said.

  Her father crossed his arms and studied Conard, his frown lessening marginally. “I must admit, I take greater stock in your judgment than ever before,” he told Laina. “Despite the fact that this man nearly killed my only son and heir, and that he blatantly disobeyed the terms of his exile, I may be persuaded to choose lenience.”

  Laina opened her mouth to thank him.

  “However! He will have to earn my trust. Stand, Conard. I want you to look me in the eyes and swear that you will obey my word.”

  Conard rose and clasped his hands behind his back, meeting her father’s eyes with reluctance.

  “First, you will help the villagers rebuild this town. Second, you will ensure the bridges over Ashfall Creek and Stony Creek are replaced. Every one of them. And finally, you will spend five years laboring in my home before you can be considered a free citizen of Lostport once more.”

  “Agreed,” Conard said at once. “Thank you, Milord. I will gladly serve you.”

  Though Laina tried to suppress the urge, she found herself grinning. “Thank you, Father. You won’t regret this.”

  His father shook his head in acknowledgment of his defeat. “Have you seen your mother, Laina?”

  “Just down in town. She looks very busy, but it looks as though the men are heeding her word. She’s doing just fine.”

  Again her father shook his head. “If I had known what a brilliant leader your mother would make, I would have chained her here and forced her to stay by my side.”

  Laina snorted. She knew her father would have done nothing of the sort.

  Chapter 29

  T he next quarter passed in a daze. Katrien found she did not have a free moment to sit down or to speak with Faolan or Laina, as much as she desired both.

  As arrangements were made for the departure of the builders—barges assembled, a letter penned in Captain Drail’s own hand sent to King Luistan, and meager provisions packed—the crowds of disparate races grew increasingly restless. There were small spots of violence between her Varrilan followers and the Whitish builders, quickly subdued; surprisingly, these incidents were sidelined by equal displays of friendship and cooperation. Builders shared fires with Darden warriors and Varrilans; the denizens of the gypsy camp, who had arrived in a dense, laden group one night, offered tents and motley clothes to anyone in need; and a few strict builders tried to prevent the complete trampling of the village gardens.

  In this last pursuit the builders failed entirely, yet their willingness to try impressed Katrien. In the end, these were all men, none so bound to the high king’s ideal that they would sacrifice their humanity to see it through.

  Though she had no chance to speak with her in private, Katrien kept a watchful eye on Amadi. After Kurjan’s death, the girl remained quiet and withdrawn, quick to offer a hand but unwilling to ask for help in return. Katrien was afraid that she would be driven to some reckless decision, born of her restless youth. The isolated, rough kingdom did not suit Amadi in the slightest.

  Finally the day came when the first barges were scheduled to depart. The flooded river had receded to its usual docile flow, easy enough for crews to row upstream, and the men’s tolerance for their overcrowded camp was wearing thin.

  When Katrien noticed Amadi in the corner of the entrance hall, furtively stuffing a sack with her few belongings, she called the girl to her.

  Amadi slung the pack over one shoulder and slouched over to Katrien, not meeting her eyes.

  “I want to have a word with you,” Katrien said. “Come, join me in the garden. We could both use a respite from these smelly old men.”

  Amadi’s lips twitched. Without a word, she followed Katrien to the edge of the garden and a short ways into the woods, where Katrien chose a gnarled log for a seat.

  “I wish I could read your mind, Amadi. I don’t mean to pry, but I care for you a great deal. I’m concerned.”

  “I’m all right,” Amadi mumbled.

  “What are your plans?” Katrien took Amadi’s chill hand in both of her own. “You intend to leave Lostport, do you not?”

  After a pause, Amadi nodded. “I’m going back to the Twin Cities. It’s nicer there. I could make something of myself that way.”

  “True,” Katrien said. “You’re a clever girl. I know you will succeed. But have you thought of what you’ll do when you first arrive? You cannot slip into the city and expect to get by with no money.”

  “Tenori offered to look after me,” Amadi said.

  Katrien felt a pang. Tenori had not mentioned he was leaving; somehow Katrien had imagined him settling down in Lostport.

  As though she read Katrien’s thoughts, Amadi said, “He wanted to stay in Lostport. But he told me he’s a merchant, not a frontiersman. He’d be less than useless here, he said.”

  Though she hated to admit it, Katrien knew Amadi was right. “You look after him as well,” she said softly. She would miss Tenori more than she had guessed. “And look after yourself. You cannot spend the rest of your life in mourning.”

  Amadi sniffed. “I know. That doesn’t make it any better, though.”

  Katrien stood and pulled Amadi to her feet. “Remember, Amadi. You are still loved.” She swept the girl into an embrace; after a moment of stiff reluctance, Amadi sagged against Katrien and broke into ragged, noisy tears. “No matter where you go, you will always be like a daughter to me. And someday I’ll visit you in the Twin Cities. It’s not so far, truly.”

  Amadi snuffled and pressed her face into Katrien’s shoulder. “I should’ve died, not Kurjan!”

  “No one is lucky enough to choose these things,” Katrien said softly. “He would have wanted you to move on, to show the world what you are capable o
f. Death waits for us all. It does not do to rush the end.”

  Amadi nodded and wiped her face, her cheeks ruddy and wet.

  “Now, do you wish to join me in seeing off the first ferries?”

  “I guess.”

  It took all that day and most of the next for the Whitish builders to pack themselves aboard ferries and small sailboats and make their way up the river. Some of them chose to remain in Lostport, though most had families and obligations to return to. Meanwhile, Katrien’s followers waited another two quarters for the return of the ferries.

  To Katrien’s utter shock, more than half of her followers elected to remain behind and rebuild Lostport.

  “We lost our homes in Dardensfell,” one Varrilan family told her. “That place has dark memories for us. We would rather begin our lives anew in a place that has rejected Whitland’s influence.”

  Even a good number of the Darden warriors remained behind, though they never pretended they meant to stay longer than it took to repair the damage. They were honorable men and women, and Katrien was grateful for it.

  The greatest shock of all came with a small canoe from Ferrydown. Its sole passenger bore word from King Luistan, carried south as swiftly as horses could travel. Though Katrien had guessed the messenger to be a man in the king’s employ, Faolan and Laina recognized him at once. Laina took one glance at him and vanished into the forest, while King Faolan approached him with his hands fisted on his hips.

  “I hope you have not come to beg my daughter’s hand once more. Your father’s devoted men have laid ruin to my entire kingdom.”

  The man dropped to one knee. Could this be Prince Ronnick, youngest son of the high king? “Your grace, I come bearing word from my father. He sent me because he knew you might distrust the word of a mere messenger.”

  “Stand,” Faolan said, his mouth set in a grim line. Katrien crossed the hall to his side, adding her authority to his.

  The prince rose unsteadily. “Under the terms of his rule as High King, my father is obliged to pay for the damage done to Lostport. He is responsible for maintaining each of the Kinship Thrones. If he fails to do so, the other thrones are free to declare war on Whitland.”

  Katrien opened her mouth to thank the prince for the offer, but he was not finished.

  “However, my father finds himself in dire financial straits. He cannot afford to send aid to Lostport. He sent me to offer a compromise—he is willing to grant Lostport its independence in exchange for his release from any financial obligations to Lostport.”

  “Is this true?” Faolan asked roughly.

  Prince Ronnick bowed. “I swear it on my life. This is the reason my father sent me in place of a servant.”

  Standing at the top of the steps and looking down upon the ruin of Lostport, Katrien could see the logic in High King Luistan’s decision. Lostport was an utter wreck, nothing but a king’s manor looming over a junkyard. There was nothing of worth left in this kingdom. It had been reduced to rubble.

  Yet its future was full of breathtaking possibility. No more would Faolan pay taxes to a king who offered him nothing in return; no more would his ships be subjected to searches and strict regulations.

  Faolan joined her at the edge of his lawn and laced his fingers through hers. She smiled at him, enthralled by the wonder in his eyes.

  Together they had created the first truly independent land in all of the Kinship Thrones, a haven for those who stood against Whitland. Cashabree and Varrival were separated from Whitland by geography but not by political designation; Lostport had won its freedom in every way.

  For a tiny kingdom, Lostport was the greatest of them all.

  When it came time for Amadi and Tenori to depart, Katrien had to fight to suppress tears. She waited at the end of town, grim-faced and silent, as the barges approached.

  Tenori grabbed her shoulders from behind, startling her, and suggested they take a brief walk to the river. Katrien agreed at once.

  “I am going to miss you terribly, my queen,” Tenori said, so quietly Katrien barely caught his words. They had rounded the first cluster of trees, leaving Lostport and its people behind.

  “And I you,” she whispered. This time her eyes stung with tears that she could not blink away. “It wounds me to say this, but Faolan is still a stranger to me. I am not the girl he once married; I have lived my entire life alone, and I am not accustomed to having a man look after me. It is not something I enjoy.”

  “I suppose it was optimistic to hope for a love-filled marriage when it had been arranged from afar,” Tenori said.

  Katrien nodded. “I know it can never be, yet I wish I could remain with you forever, Tenori. You have given me the courage to lead these people to victory over Whitland. I would never have become who I am without you. You have never doubted me.”

  “If you were anyone but the queen of Lostport, I would urge you to come away with me,” Tenori muttered. He reached impulsively for Katrien’s hand, and she clung to his as though it would keep her from drifting out to sea. “The world beckons, does it not? But Lostport needs you, and I can think of no better person to lead this country in its first moments of independence. You know I have to leave, Katrien. Your husband has seen us spending every spare moment together. He is a good man, but before long he will begin to suspect you of unfaithfulness.”

  Katrien sighed and gripped his hand tighter still.

  “What will you have me do? I can return to the Twin Cities, or I can accompany your Varrilan followers home.”

  “Amadi wishes to return to the Twin Cities. You are as much a father to her as I am a mother. Will you bring her safely there?”

  Tenori stopped at the edge of the cliff overlooking the river. The water was sluggish and grey-green today. He swallowed visibly. “I will do anything you ask of me, dear Katrien. I’ve already spoken to Amadi about this.” He brought Katrien’s hand to his lips.

  Blinking furiously, Katrien turned away from the river. “We should return. Your ship awaits.”

  She released his hand, and together they walked back to the village, neither one speaking.

  If she delved too far into what could have been, she might lose her resolve.

  A great cheer went up as the first of her followers loosed their ropes and floated away from the newly-built pier. Those departing waved and blew kisses to those still on shore, shouting words of encouragement in every language. Katrien waved along with them all, dabbing discretely at her eyes.

  As she watched the ship bearing Tenori and Amadi round the mouth of the river and vanish into the forest, she felt her heart breaking. But in the balance of things, her own feelings did not matter. Lostport mattered; her people mattered. She could not be so selfish as to forget that.

  * * *

  Doran struggled gradually into awareness, a pitiless red light boring into his eyes. He ought to be dead. He could not remember exactly what had happened—there had been arrows, and shouts, and Iole’s look of horrified betrayal—and he had been ready to die.

  Yet someone had stitched his twice-broken body back together, and now he was aware of an excruciating pain made worse by a jolting movement that set his teeth rattling.

  Eventually he made enough sense of his surroundings to realize that the red light was filtering through a damp cloth someone had laid over his eyes, so he reached up and dragged it clumsily off.

  A shout in Varrilan came from behind. At once the lurching movement stopped, and faces crowded around to peer curiously at Doran.

  Squinting against the sunlight, which was more painful than ever without the cloth to mute its fury, Doran saw a cluster of silhouettes without faces. At last someone moved in front of the sun, blocking out its glare, and Doran recognized Nejeela standing directly over him.

  His breath caught in his throat. “Wh—” Days of disuse had coated his throat with sand, and his voice came as a whisper. Hands raised a waterskin to his lips, and he gulped eagerly before choking half of the precious water up again. Coughing, he
rolled onto his side and took several deep breaths.

  “What happened?” he managed at last. “Why are you here?” In his confusion, he wondered if he had dreamed the long spans in Chelt, and had never left the desert to begin with.

  “Assassins ambushed your company,” Nejeela said. She picked up the discarded red cloth and placed it carefully across Doran’s forehead. “It looked almost as if it the ambush had been planned. I had been traveling in Chelt when word came of your departure, and I raced down the coast to see if I could intercept you. Something did not seem right. Your Varrilan escort should have been notified, especially in times like these, but it seems someone else has been making decisions for you.”

  Doran grunted. “And what are you doing with me now?”

  “The arrows were poisoned,” Nejeela said, an odd look of urgency in her eyes. “We are taking you back to the capital for treatment. Lostport does not have the knowledge to treat such a dire wound. Already the heat is making it fester.”

  “Why do you care about what happens to me?” Doran asked flatly. “I’m worthless.”

  She shook her head. “No. You may be the single most important person in the Kinship Thrones right now.”

  Doran almost laughed. “You cannot be serious.”

  Again she shook her head. “Whitland may be weakening at last. If you can help forge an alliance between Lostport and Varrival, the entire balance of power may shift.”

  Reaching up, Doran put a hand to the side of his face. He felt feverish, and he could not tell whether the pain in his muscles was real or simply caused by his illness. “Don’t put too much stock in me,” he said. “I don’t think I will live much longer.”