Daecrynn climbed the oak, and gazed into every direction. Observing no signs of sentient life, he dropped to the ground from a low branch, huddled up close to the burning embers, and fell asleep.
Some time after noon, he awakened, having used his hood to shield his face from the sun’s glare. It was very warm, as it was late in the summer. He removed his hood, gathered his things, and began to walk in a direction he believed would lead him to Fidralinia. He knew that King Threis was a close friend of his elder brother, and would possibly recognize him and give him sanctuary.
As dusk settled, he reached the city, with its tall wooden walls of latched logs. It smelt of burnt pine, and many strands of smoke climbed into the evening sky. Just as the front gate closed off the city to the outside, Daecrynn approached. Up at the top of the wooden tower platform at the side of the gate stood the silhouette of a woman with a lithe, athletic build.
“Hail! I seek passage into the city,” Daecrynn requested.
She drew her crossbow.
“My skill with a crossbow is known from here to Tanathiel. Identify yourself, outsider!”
“I am a traveler and a son of Anda. I am kindred to the House Tartali and a brother of an old friend to the king.”
“I am Nadali, daughter of Threis the Warrior-Sage of the House Murana. Brother to a friend of my father?” Her tone echoed incredulity. “Give me more reason to trust you.”
“Why would the princess of Fidralinia be moonlighting as a gate guard?” Daecrynn responded.
In the flash of a thunder crack, Daecrynn was pinned by the knees of this elvish warrior, whose raven black hair was tied behind her head in a long braid. He stared up to see a nicked-up greatsword with a golden hilt and a very sharp point. Nadali’s countenance was regal, with deep blue eyes and chiseled features. She was adorned in polished chainmail with a single sculpted plate over her chest.
“I’ve introduced myself to you,” She said quietly. “Now you introduce yourself properly, and I won’t kill you. Is this ‘sign of trust’ enough for you, outsider?”
Daecrynn looked to his side, and said resignedly, “My name is Daecrynn; younger son of Meldehan, brother to the late Ariandi Tuvitor, High King of Tarligean.”
She shook her head, “No—I was told the Duke of Andriel was killed five years ago. Who are you really—outcast of Namakiera with a sick sense of humor?”
“Verify that you are the daughter of Threis, and I shall prove to you my claim is true,” Daecrynn asserted, again facing Nadali.
Nadali sheathed her sword and stepped away from Daecrynn, pulling a silver necklace from beneath her armor—an inverted teardrop pendant fashioned of crystal.
“If you know anything of Threis and his kin, you will know I do not speak falsely.”
“I am honored to be in your presence, Princess Nadali. As my token of trust to you, I present to you the prize of my Rite of Passage,” Daecrynn said. “Oro’quiel, the sword of Asutel Thetali.”
He removed Oro’quiel from its wrappings, and presented it to Nadali.
As Nadali examined the sword with suspicion, her eyes widened. She grasped it by the handle to study it more closely.
“What is your business in Fidralinia, stranger?” She demanded, looking sidelong at Daecrynn.
“I simply ask for safe quarters for two to three days. A small room, and meals. I’ll even pay with my skills. I can craft bows for your soldiers,” Daecrynn said.
“Oh, I think something like that can be arranged. Come with me,” Nadali ordered, as she bound Daecrynn’s wrists with a leather strap. She turned toward the guard tower. “Open the gate!”
“As you wish, milady!” a voice responded from the other side of the wall.
From inside the gate, wheels grinded against gears; driven by a pulley. The walls slid open; the walled hardwood city was illuminated by the yellow orange glow of torch and lamp. The streets were mud and gravel, littered with rotting straw and horse dung. Nadali led Daecrynn into the city, artifact sword in hand. Down a side street, she spirited Daecrynn into a barracks.
Nadali looked to an archery sergeant and ordered, “This is a stranger. He says his name is Daecrynn, and perhaps it is. You are to take him in as a private and place him in your munitions platoon as a bowyer.”
“Yes milady,” the youthful blonde-haired sergeant replied. To Daecrynn he turned. “We need gatherers. I hope you like climbing trees.”
Nadali turned to Daecrynn. “I have little reason to think you are anything more than a rogue with a clever replica. You do look familiar. Maybe I have seen you before—on a wanted poster perhaps? Until I learn more, consider yourself conscripted.”
Nadali turned about-face and left the barracks, wielding the sword awkwardly. She held it with the point down, clutching the hilt at chest level. Marching intently, she approached a small manor on the western end of the city, close to the palace. Ivy crawled up the dull gray stone brickwork at the front door of the abode. The windows flickered orange, as a lamp’s light illuminated the curtains from behind. She barged in through the front door, down a hall and into a study, lit by three hanging lanterns. A long silvery-haired muscular elf wearing spectacles, dressed in a casual brown shirt and trousers, held a quill pen in
his hand. Sitting at a table with an unfinished parchment scroll before him, he straightened up in surprise.
“General Kretali, I have something that may interest you,” she addressed him.
“A clever replica indeed,” Kalrys responded, his eyes locking onto the sword in sudden interest. “Though the jewel is far too blue in color to represent the Kri’isen of Xendros. The craftsmanship is superb, however. It is surprising that the counterfeiter would create such a striking replica with such a glaring mistake.”
“So it isn’t Xendros,” Nadali said, her eyes turning away in thought.
“An exemplary counterfeit,” Kalrys replied, his eyes turned to Nadali. As an aside, he added, “This false Kri’isen would be a better match for the color of Oro’quiel.”
She returned the gaze. “He told me this was Oro’quiel.”
“Who did,” Kalrys asked.
“He claims to be Daecrynn Tuvitor,” Nadali responded. “The Duke of Andriel.”
“Rubbish,” Kalrys gasped.
Nadali continued, “He claims he was sent to retrieve Oro’quiel on a Rite of Passage.”
“Even if—even if the stories were true,” Kalrys stammered. “Lord Kethral would never be so mad to send the only heir in Meldehan’s line on a fool’s errand that in all manner of sane reasoning would get him killed! May I see the sword?”
Nadali placed it onto the table. Kalrys grabbed it by the handle.
“Milady, my hand has gone numb!” the General exclaimed, holding his hand up in disbelief.
“Odd,” Nadali whispered in wonder.
“This cannot be Oro’quiel,” Kalrys whispered. “This is some vile Cirethian artifice.”
“He didn’t act like any Cirethian I have ever met,” Nadali said, her hands clasped and held close to her. “His accent is Tuitari, with a thread of Andrielite.”
“Andrielite,” the General whispered. Beside his desk a walking stick was propped against a wall. He picked it up and slammed its end against the jewel. A blue-violet bolt of energy climbed up the walking stick and his arm, throwing him into the wall. Kicking the table, an inkwell tipped over.
A high-pitched ringing sound filled the air.
‘The Wail of Terei. This is the genuine artifact,’ he thought.
“That was a bad idea,” he whispered.
The wail increased in volume. Nadali winced, and Kalrys palmed his pointed ears. He swiftly stood up, and ran for the door to the Kretali manor, Nadali following closely behind. They ran to the pond at the center of the courtyard, and looked at each other.
“Don’t ever do that again, Kalrys.” Nadali glared at the general, whose hair was still smoking from Oro’quiel’s zap.
“I am sorry milady, I had to break whatever un
holy machine was in the hilt—if it wasn’t Oro’quiel. I didn’t expect it to be genuine,” Kalrys apologized.
“It’s no replica,” Nadali paused momentarily before she returned her glare to the general. “Now are you absolutely certain that it is not Xendros? I wish to hear it one more time.”
“That sword can only be Oro’quiel,” Kalrys affirmed.
“Then perhaps it is time we became better acquainted with our visitor,” Nadali decreed.
Daecrynn had just settled into his bunk, at the highest of four levels of redwood-framed beds stacked upon each other. Easing under the scratchy, yet warm woolen blankets, he closed his eyes.
He heard a muttering in the aisles below him.
“Do I address him as Prince or Private, then?”
“Address him as Private; we have yet to confirm his claim. All we know for certain is that he has uncovered a powerful relic.” Nadali replied.
“Private Daecrynn!” The sergeant ordered nervously. “Come down at once!”
Daecrynn opened his eyes, and rolled them in exasperation. He leaned upwards, and donned his socks. He shrugged, reaching for the boots at the foot of his bed. He pushed his feet into his boots, and slid down the rope from the top level to the floor below.
“As you ordered, sergeant,” Daecrynn said with a fatigued smile.
The sergeant ordered Daecrynn to the entrance at the barracks, where Nadali stood. Daecrynn bowed, and the sergeant saluted. Suddenly, Kalrys barged into the room that separated the locker room from the barracks, where the sergeant, Daecrynn and Nadali stood.
“That damned sword is relentless, it hasn’t ceased its accursed ringing,” Kalrys exclaimed, facing Nadali. He turned to face Daecrynn and then back to Nadali. He whispered loudly, “He looks just like his father!”
“I never met his father,” Nadali remarked, sizing him up. “But I’ve seen beggars who resembled the Prince of Tuitari.”
“If the sword has bonded to him, he may have command of the Kri’isen. We should see if his touch will appease it,” Kalrys hypothesized in whispers.
Daecrynn mused, “Do you ever feel like you are under a looking glass, like the small spider a child contemplates tearing its legs from?”
“Daecrynn son of Unknown,” Nadali replied. “If your claim is true, then have no fear. If you can appease Oro’quiel, this will support your claim. I will take you to my father, and present you and the sword to him. If you are in fact Daecrynn Tuvitor, then you will be honored. If you are a charlatan however, you shall be executed.”
Daecrynn seemed undisturbed. “Lead on.”
Nadali tilted her head to the side, still examining Daecrynn as Kalrys marched forward. He pushed through the doorway, not breaking his pace. They walked up the central street of Fidralinia in the still midnight air, with the windows of the houses and shops blackened, as the townsfolk slept. Storming through the gate into the Royal Courtyard, they turned left at the pond, and walked into Kalrys’ estate. Kalrys and Nadali appeared pained.
“What ails you, General?” Daecrynn asked Kalrys.
“You mean to tell me that you don’t hear it?” Kalrys shouted in response.
“Hear what? Why are you shouting, sir?” Daecrynn asked in confusion.
“He doesn’t hear Oro’quiel’s alarm!” Nadali shouted; her hands over her ears.
“The sword’s alarm?” Daecrynn asked bemusedly.
“Go into the front door—it’s open. Down the hallway you will find a study lit with three hanging lanterns. You will find it on the table. Retrieve it—it belongs to you. It is telling me that it belongs to you!” Kalrys shouted, collapsing in pain.
Daecrynn sprinted through the door, and down the hallway. He entered Kalrys’ study. On the table, Oro’quiel sat quietly next to a ruined parchment covered in streaks of black ink. He reached for it, and grasped it by the handle. He turned and jogged down the hall, leaving the manor through the front door. Gratefully, Kalrys and Nadali greeted him, relieved to have the shrill alarm of Oro’quiel silenced in their mind.
“Lord Daecrynn Tuvitor, son of Meldehan, High Prince and heir to Asutel the Great, I…” Nadali paused, “welcome you to Fidralinia. I ask that you forgive my suspicions.”
“Well, I’m sure my claims sounded absurd,” Daecrynn affirmed jovially. “I would have arrested me for sure. Thank you for showing me a warm bed instead, even if I only enjoyed it for less than part of an hour.”
“About my father,” Nadali said hesitantly. “You know he was a close friend to your father and your brother. He will certainly be glad to see you, but—“
“The treaty of Subservience to His Imperial Majesty Emperor Sacchaeus Medaccae would demand your execution. I assure you, Lord Threis would have never signed it had he had known you lived.”
“Not exactly reassuring,” Daecrynn remarked.
“He won’t kill you. He is a man of honor. My father will not betray you, Milord. He could never betray the only surviving brother of his departed best friend,” Nadali pleaded.
“I think I will just ask for some basic supplies and leave for the Everwood tonight,” Daecrynn suggested.
“That’s reasonable. Within an hour, you’d be able to find an acceptable campground north of town. Within days, you’d be home,” Kalrys agreed.
A lantern’s light from the path to the palace hovered on the three.
“General, Princess. Who is this stranger among you, may I ask?” a voice queried from behind the bright lantern, in Imperial Madrocean.
“Nothing of your concern, Vintaeus,” Nadali answered in the same.
“Beyond the gates of this city, you are nothing but a lady slave to me, Taergeni,” Vintaeus sneered. “Now answer my question.”
Daecrynn eyed the balding bureaucrat in ambient light. He wore a black robe, neatly pressed and wrapped tight around him.
“I am a friend of the family, gah’raen,” Daecrynn declared snidely, gripping the hilt of Oro’quiel. “That is all you will know of me.”
“And what is your name, friend of the House Murana?” Vintaeus demanded.
“Morcossi,” Daecrynn stated lowly.
Kalrys’ eyes widened as his body was hit with a chill.
“That is all I need to know. The Emperor demands precision when it comes to his census. I am sure you understand,” Vintaeus explained, his lips tightly held back in a plastic grin. He walked away toward the city center.
Nadali and Kalrys escorted Daecrynn into the citadel. The palace of Fidralinia was a stone building. It seemed to only have one story. Guard towers were erected in the frame of the palace at regular intervals. The stone was dark in color, with growths of ivy crawling up the sides.
The archway over the entrance was built of polished crystals, each with a sigil etched into them. Large redwood doors covered with ornate carvings of heroes and goddesses sat firmly in the archway. A second archway was set inside it with polished stone housed the crystal archway beneath it. In Atriune script, the written form of the Taergeni language, an inscription was engraved.
“The blessings and the light be with you. Go with truth and a pure heart.”
The doors swung open as Nadali pulled down on a lever beside the entrance. Daecrynn’s eyes were locked onto the blessing for a brief moment before he passed beneath it. The three strode up an oaken staircase that led into the royal hall.
The throne chamber of King Threis was large, with walls of contoured wood forming an archway above the dark, polished earthy brown marble floor. A raven black haired elf with strong arms, and cold blue eyes sat upon a throne of luminescent silver. His long, tightly curled black hair tied back in a braid, with two long braids beside each cheek, fastened with crystalline beads. He was dressed in crimson and black, the colors of the Kestelan, or King of Andule.
“Nadali, who is this stranger you bring before me?” Threis asked, eyes narrowing on Daecrynn.
“Theo ule d’den?” Nadali asked, in an older elvish dialect called Fen’yi.
“Non
e that I know of,” Threis answered, in common Taergeni. “Vintaeus left less than an hour ago.”
“We bumped into him on our way here,” the General said, momentarily glancing at Daecrynn.
“So tell me of this stranger,” Threis reiterated.
Daecrynn drew Oro’quiel, and dropped to a knee, sword upright and pointed downward before him.
“I am Daecrynn, son of Meldehan Tuvitor, brother to Ariandi the Steadfast, and bearer of the Kri’isen blade Oro’quiel. I am a private in your army, and offer you my unwavering allegiance as kinsman and soldier.”
Threis froze in his throne. Momentarily, he glanced at Nadali. His eyes betrayed wry suspicion as they shifted to the General.
“Good one, Kalrys,” Threis chuckled. “You almost had me there!”
The Legacy of Tirlannon: The Freedom Fighter Page 3
