At one point, several hours into the session, she went pale as a sheet, swayed, and nearly fell. It wasn’t until later that Gaven learned just how critical a moment that had been. Andaris’ soul was lifting up, trying to flee the pain that wracked his body. To stop its ascent, a single strand of consciousness sprouted from the forehead of each person in the circle. Invisible in the physical world, these strands wove together in the spiritual world into a single iridescent cord. Acting like a kind of spiritual tether, the cord wrapped around his soul and prevented it from flying away. But Andaris’ will was stronger than expected. In spite of their efforts, he was on the verge of breaking that tether. If Trilla had broken the circle, he surely would have.
***
Andaris turned the mug in his hands, watching, with a distant look in his eyes, the frothy brown beer slosh to the rim. “I know,” he finally said, voice raspy with emotion. “I remember most of it…now. And I care for her, too. That’s the problem.” Hoping to deaden the sharp edge of his grief, he gulped the remainder of his beer and lifted his mug for more. The redheaded waitress was there in an instant.
Gaven gestured to the pitcher as she refilled Andaris’ mug. “Why don’t you leave that with us,” he said meaningfully. “I think we’re going to need it.” She looked at Andaris’ somber face, nodded her understanding, then set the pitcher between them and left them alone.
“We leave in two days,” Gaven said, keeping his voice low as he raised the pitcher. “King Palden agreed to give Trilla ten thousand swords to help bolster Rogar’s defenses, all of which his son, of course, has valiantly volunteered to command. Preparations have been under way since shortly after we arrived.
It’s surprising how long it takes to coordinate a deployment of this size. What with the food, weapons, and other supplies…like pots and pans, soap, blankets, tools, it’s amazing that armies ever get anywhere.” Gaven shook his head. “Ten thousand swords is a lot…but Trilla asked for three times that number. The king turned her down flat. Said without certified correspondence through established channels he was unwilling to commit any more troops, at least until he had a better idea as to what he was facing. So, unless something changes, we’re to travel to Rogar at best speed and send runners back to report what we find. The king will accept only a signed and sealed dispatch from the prince.”
“So…there’s been no word at all from Rogar?” Andaris asked.
Gaven frowned and took a deep breath. “Palden claims to have received no official request for aid, just rumors. Which I find strange, since the Minderian fellow who passed the news onto Trilla and I said he’d just returned from Sokerra on business. He was a trader of rare goods, spices and such. He had a wagon full of the stuff. That’s where I got the pepper. The thing is…he spoke of Rogar’s plight as though everyone in Sokerra knew about it, when in fact they’ve just now begun to suspect. Something doesn’t add up. Palden says he sent riders to Rogar to investigate, but that so far none have returned. If you want my opinion, I think he’s worried that Rogar has already fallen. I think that’s why he’s uncomfortable committing any more troops. He’s afraid he’ll need them here, to defend Sokerra.
“But that’s not what you think?” Andaris asked.
Gaven’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t. I can’t. As we told you before, Rogar castle has stood for over a thousand years. Once, it survived a siege that lasted eighteen months. I can’t imagine a force that could overthrow it in just a few weeks, no matter how formidable. “If,” Gaven said, tapping the tabletop for emphasis, “and mind you, I hate to even pose the question. But if Rogar has fallen, then Sokerra would be like a house of cards in a strong wind. Staying holed up in this castle wouldn’t change that. Their only chance would be to fall back and try to join up with troops from Nelvin and Mindere, and make a stand in the caves bordering the Iron Mountains, on Mindere’s southern shore. A well-provisioned army could hold those caves indefinitely, but not here. Sokerra castle just wasn’t designed to withstand a major offensive.”
“Well,” said Andaris, feeling numb, “all we can do is pray that you’re right. Because otherwise…it’s all been for nothing. Trilla’s sacrifice, Ashel’s death—everything.”
Gaven nodded, breathed a long sigh, and took another drink.
The two talked well into the morning, until the proprietor, a short fellow with greasy hair and rat-like features, informed them that he was closing up. “I already stayed open later than usual,” he said with a toothy grin. “But please, come back tomorrow. My purse is not yet full.”
They were both heartsick as they stumbled to their respective rooms—each for different reasons. Gaven felt like he’d lost his little sister. Andaris knew he’d lost his one true love. It had always been a dream, a hope that would probably go unfulfilled, but at least that was something. Now all possibility of a future with Trilla was gone. Small chance had been reduced to no chance. The images in his mind would remain forever unrealized.
Standing with Trilla at the door to his parent’s cottage, anxious to introduce her to his family--building a house of their own somewhere in the hill country along the outskirts of Fairhaven, subsisting on hope and love until they could start a family of their own--he and Trilla standing in the center of a ring of silverleaf maple trees, like the ones back in Tinar, blue sky above, ring of white flowers in her hair, waiting to be married….
Indeed, this last image would wound his mind and heart for the rest of his days, confirming that life, as he’d always suspected, was not fair.
Because of this, when the redheaded waitress knocked on Andaris’ door, he let her in. He could blame it on the alcohol, or on her beguiling looks, but deep down he knew the truth. On this night, he would have welcomed her company even if she had been ugly and he had been sober. He would definitely have to have a talk with Gaven though. Well meaning or not, the man couldn’t just go around telling every woman they met where he slept at night.
Betrayal
King Laris sat crouched in deep shadow, quiet as the grave, with a clear view of the wine bottle he’d opened the night before, still safe in its slot. He sneezed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and sneezed again. The cellar was both dusty and damp, full of much more than just wine. Mice scurried here and there in search of food, squeaking, sniffing, and shitting. Spiders dropped from the ceiling, spinning webs to ensnare their victims, mainly horseflies, the many legions of which were buzzing about Laris’ head with endless zeal, showing little regard for the fact that he was not a horse.
To be certain, the accommodations were somewhat less accommodating than what he was used to. Ordinarily, this was not the sort of place he would choose to spend the night, but when necessity dictates…one listens.
He had remained on that bench outside of Girard’s room for a long while, staring in vain at those winged cherubs, until finally, with a heavy heart and clouded brain, he had stood and gone to bed. If those angels of stone and paint did, in fact, know something, they weren’t talking. It had been a very tiring day, a day that had not turned out the way he had planned. In such cases, it was better to regroup and start fresh later. At least this is what he had told himself as he’d crawled beneath the covers and gone to sleep, hoping for more clarity on the morrow.
The following morning, this morning, when he’d looked in the mirror, he’d seen an old man staring back at him from the glass, an old man whose face expressed a curious mixture of regret and relief. Laris was himself again, and for the most part he was glad. Looking young had been exciting, but like a worn pair of slippers, his true appearance was much more comfortable. It had taken him many years to break it in. Each wrinkle and strand of gray had been well earned. They were part of him now, changing as he changed, constant reminders of who he was and where he’d been.
Around ten a.m., Doctor Terrell had given Laris a thorough examination, after which, with a look of sincere jubilation in his eyes, he had deemed him well enough to resume his kingly duties. Laris had been more than happy
to comply. Considering how disjointed things had been of late, settling back into his regular routine, even if only for a little while, was a welcome diversion.
Before putting on his cloak and coming here, to the cellar, the king had spent a delightfully lackluster day filled with paperwork and meetings. It was a shame it had been such a brief respite. He had just begun to feel like himself again, like he had before falling ill. It had been so good to be at the reigns again, in full command of his faculties—to be able to fulfill his duties as he should, instead of like a doddering old fool with a head full of mush. He wished he could just get on with the business of being king, now that he was able, without having to bother with the aggravation of assassination plots and sedition.
But there was no time. No indeed. He had to get back to the infernal investigation. Kolera forbid he have a chance to get his bearings first. He reminded himself that the only constant in life was change. Usually this adage helped to quiet his mind. Not this time though. He’d been in this dank cellar too long to be comforted by mere philosophy, regardless how insightful. He was cold, stiff, and tired. It would take bed rest and a hot bath to remedy what ailed him, to get the kink out of his neck, not poetic words written by someone in a comfy chair beside a warm hearth. How long have I been here? he wondered. A couple of hours? Maybe three? No matter. If need be I’ll wait all night.
Laris was recovering from yet another sneezing fit, when the cellar door creaked open. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, nearly started sneezing again, and then listened, nostrils plugged, to the sound of soft footfalls descending the steps. Whoever it was walked slowly, but purposefully.
Come on, he thought. Show yourself.
The man—he could at least determine that much—stepped over to the bottle of Greenhaven Select, uncorked it with what looked to be a great effort, and sprinkled some white powder into its glass neck. Laris couldn’t believe his eyes. His plan had actually worked. He had caught the scoundrel in the act.
Now I have you! he thought.
The man replaced the cork, put the bottle back into its slot and, with a noticeable lack of balance, turned around. Laris was about to spring from the shadows, when the man passed into the flickering light of the only lit wall sconce.
No, he thought. It can’t be.
And yet there he stood—his oldest, dearest friend, Fenton Albigard. Laris sat in stunned silence as Fenton made his way up the steps and back out the door. He sat for what seemed a very long time, huddled in despair, searching his memory for an explanation. Was Fenton in league with the Lost One? Had their friendship been a lie from the beginning? What have you done? he thought. What could turn you into a traitor?
Laris knew that no reason would be good enough. The crime Fenton had committed was unforgivable. Nothing could make it any easier to bear. What grieved him most, however, was what he had to do in response. His duty was all too clear. He had to go arrest his best friend and charge him with high treason, an offense punishable only by death.
His guards were taken aback as Laris pulled open his chamber doors and stepped into the hall. “Follow me,” he ordered. He knew no matter how late the hour or peculiar the command, they would not question him, for he was king—if he wanted to go on an impromptu stroll in the dead of night that was his business. “We’re going to go arrest a friend,” he told them.
All too soon, Laris found himself before Fenton’s door. He hesitated, frowning deeply at the lion’s head knocker, thinking back on all the enjoyable evenings spent on the other side, discussing a wide range of topics over a chessboard and a glass of wine.
Poisoned wine, he thought bitterly.
Fenton usually won the games they played. His mind was clever and quick. Laris had always known he was smarter. How long had he been playing him for the fool? How many months…or years?
All lies, he told himself, reaching down and gripping the knob.
To his surprise, it would not turn. Fenton never locked his door. He claimed he didn’t believe in locks. “If someone wants in that badly,” he often argued, “it will take more than a lock to keep them out.”
As if to demonstrate Fenton’s point, Laris stepped aside and nodded to one of his guards—a wiry chap with dark skin and a high, sloping forehead. The man squared his shoulders, clenched his fists, and sent a steel shod boot flying into the center of the door.
Fenton sat bolt upright in bed and gasped as they rushed in, then began, in rather violent fashion, to cough. When the fit subsided, he peered up at the king, puzzlement shining bright in his eyes. “What’s happening?” he rasped. “Are they here?”
“Do not embarrass yourself by professing your innocence,” Laris growled. “I saw you poison the wine.”
“Wine? What wine?” he asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“You know very well what wine,” Laris said. “How could you do this? I thought you were…. To betray me after all these years, I….” Choking on his emotions, he frowned and looked away.
“Laris, I swear to you, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You will address me by my formal title,” snarled the king.
“I would never betray you,” Fenton pleaded, struggling to breathe. “There must be some mistake. You know me, my King. Please…don’t do this.”
Laris hung his head, unable, for the moment, to continue. Fenton looked so pathetic and frail, sitting there on his narrow bed, that it was difficult not to pity him. With his sunken chest, hollow cheeks, and wild gray hair, he looked like a man who had only days left to live.
Fenton had never accepted Rodan as his one and true maker. No matter how often Laris had tried to persuade him, he had remained an avid disbeliever of anything he couldn’t experience with his five senses, developing an unhealthy preoccupation with death. Rather than a new beginning, Fenton saw death as the end.
Is that what drove him to such treachery? Laris wondered. Did the Lost One promise him immortality? The questioners will ascertain what you do and do not know,” he told him. “They, in the presence of Rodan, shall judge you, not I.”
Fenton’s eyes widened with fear. “No, not that. Please, Laris! I beg of you!”
The king felt tears welling in his eyes, which only infuriated him more. “Take him away!” he yelled. “Remove him from my sight!”
Treating him no more gently than they would a common criminal, his guards hauled Fenton to his feet and hustled him into the hallway. Laris walked to his chambers in a daze, feeling sick to his stomach. Once back in his room, he locked his doors and fell into bed. His world had just become a much drearier place. But regardless of how much he wanted to, he would not weep. He had no time to weep. He would turn his despair into something else. He would turn it into rage.
Rogar
The day of departure had at last arrived. It had taken longer than expected to amass the troops and supplies needed for their journey, but after nearly a week of careful preparation, the Sokerrans were finally on their way. They had yet to hear any word from Rogar, any news of how King Laris and his people fared. They couldn’t even be certain the walls dividing east from west still stood. All they could do was hope and pray.
The populace pressed close on either side of the street, cheering and clapping as the Sokerran army rode past, the numerous ranks of which glittered brightly in the morning sunlight. Green and gold banners snapped in the wind above gleaming armor. Horses stepped in time to the steady rhythm of beating drums. Trumpets blared. Women holding wicker baskets stood on the verandas, filling the air with flower petals and streamers of ribbon.
Prince Palden and his new princess rode at the head of the procession, flanked by several proud-faced officers sitting atop gallant white steeds, most of which had pink eyes and flared nostrils, traits common to the breed. Trilla had become amazingly popular with the people in the short time since their wedding, her gentle nature and kind face winning them over almost instantly. All who met her remarked on how unpretentious she seemed. She was genuine, and tha
t isn’t the sort of thing you can fake. You either are or you are not. Well, she was, and for that they adored her.
Andaris and Gaven rode in places of honor behind the officers, feeling rather ordinary by comparison. To Andaris, Gaven resembled a grizzled old bear within a swarm of colorful butterflies. They had been offered new horses, but had both refused, choosing to keep the ones they’d purchased from Puck instead.
“I’ve become rather fond of Del,” Andaris had told them. “He’s a good fellow, and has seen me through this far. It doesn’t seem right to leave him. Besides, I’m not sure how well I’d do atop one of those big prancing steeds of yours. Not that there’s anything wrong with them. They’re beautiful. It’s just that I’m accustomed to simpler things. Del reminds me of the horses we had on my parent’s farm while I was growing up. It’s a comfort to me, I guess, to have something familiar…something I understand.”
Gaven frowned, shook his head and, leaning towards Andaris said, “These Sokerrans are untried in real combat. Too many fresh faces. Not enough veterans.” The soldiers within earshot looked offended, but held their tongues, too well disciplined to tell Gaven what they thought of his assessment.
Andaris barely heard him. His attention was fixed on something infinitely more interesting—the back of Trilla’s head. She surprised him by glancing over her shoulder. Their gazes locked. She frowned, forced a sad smile full of regret and, with eyes just beginning to glisten, looked away. Instead of commenting on the exchange, Gaven just kept muttering about how pretty the army was, sensing, correctly, that Andaris was in no mood to talk.
And so it was, with the sun at their backs and their minds full of uncertainty, that the Sokerrans left their families and homes behind and rode west. They had been told they were going to Rogar merely in an exploratory capacity, to determine if aid was needed, and if so, what the size and nature of the opposing force was. But rumor and instinct told them different.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 20
