The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  "Jeina," whispered Laiti, "you saw it too…the hand, I mean. I wanted to ask you, did it make you feel odd?"

  "What, frightened, you mean?" asked Jeina. "Yes, it made my heart race a good bit and my skin crawl, but I didn't…"

  "No, not like that," interrupted Laiti. "Jeina, I…I touched it. I ran my finger along the skin and when I did it made me feel…" Laiti's eyes were wide open and in them Jeina could see a mixture of fear and, to her surprise, something like hunger. "Jeina," said Laiti, putting her mouth to Jeina's ear. She spoke in the barest of whispers so that her words seemed to evaporate as soon as they left her mouth. "Oh, Jeina…I think I want to go back."

  Chapter 5: Bokrham

  Lord Alcinius Bokrham sat uncomfortably upon the Blood Marsh throne. His shoulders were hunched over, his head bowed, and the thumbs of both hands were busy massaging his temples in an effort to ease the throbbing ache that had taken root in his head. In front of him stood a captain called Shardon, who was shifting his weight slightly from side to side as he waited patiently for the Lord's reaction to his news.

  "Years…" muttered Bokrham bitterly. "Scouts have been searching for years and they have found no trace of Kazick? Not a rumor, not a sighting, not a shred of his clothing? Damn the man!" Bokrham pounded a huge first into the wood of the throne. "Where could he have gone? He was right here, right in this city. On the verge of becoming the bloody King of Esmoria, and one day he just vanishes right in front of our eyes. And your scouts can turn up nothing?"

  "Nothing as of yet Sir," said Shardon, "But we do have some theories—"

  "I've heard your damn theories," interrupted Bokrham, "and they are all nonsense. Do you seriously expect me to believe that some enemy plot succeeded in kidnapping him right out from under our noses? Here, in our greatest city? And with their own armies in tatters?"

  "We know that both armies, Sir, particularly the Curahshar, have had enemy agents living among us for years," argued Shardon. "Sometimes they pay one of our own to turn traitor, but these days with all the crossbreeding that goes on in the borderlands it's hard to tell the difference between an enemy and your common Marshlander. Mark my words, Sir, even now there are those among us, in our own ranks even, whose loyalties are to a foreign crown."

  "And have you found any of these enemy agents amongst us, hmm?" demanded Bokrham. "Is there anyone that has been discovered who can give us an idea of where our prince is being held?"

  "Again, Sir, none as of yet - but if you would authorize it I have a list of suspicious persons I would like to take in for questioning."

  "Have you any evidence against these people, have you any reason to bring them in besides your suspicions?" demanded Bokrham.

  "Well Sir, some are known to be Curahshar half-breeds. Many of them also conspire secretly to ends unknown."

  Lord Bokrham returned to rubbing his temples in silence for another few minutes. He did not like making these kinds of decisions. He knew that his hold over the Marshland government was tenuous at best. The people, it seemed, had grudgingly accepted his place at the helm of the kingdom and the imposition of martial law as acceptable, for now. But nearly all of Kazick's relations, no matter how distant, were making noise about how power should be in the hands of the Mehlor bloodline. The family had ruled the Blood Marsh for centuries, and had, to their credit, built up a tremendous amount of loyalty amongst the Marshland populace. The only thing keeping the people from demanding that another king be crowned was the fact no search had yet turned up the dead body of Prince Kazick. As long as the hope that he was still alive lingered, the people seemed content to keep searching. Now, however, after years of fruitless efforts to find the Prince, Bokrham sensed his government was on the verge of crisis. One slip would trigger the wrath of the people and surely send the realm into a nasty battle of succession. It was ironic, he thought with a sense of grim amusement, that it was he who now held the Blood Marsh throne, yet it was likely that he was the only person with a stake in the throne who prayed fervently for the Prince's safe return. Oh, it was true that the rest of the Mehlor family were making huge efforts to find the lost Prince, but Bokrham knew that what they were really hoping to find was Kazick's corpse.

  "Sir?" queried Shardon. "Do I have your authorization to bring in these people to be questioned?"

  "No," said Bokrham. "We do not know enough to bring them in. You do, however, have my authorization to send men out to question them on a voluntary basis." He looked Shardon squarely in the eyes as he said the word "voluntary," and just to make sure, added, "Do not under any circumstances use force in the matter."

  "As you say," agreed Shardon, begrudgingly.

  After Shardon had left the room, Lord Bokrham immediately got up from the throne and stretched himself out. Few things in life were made with men of Bokrham's size in mind, and the throne of the Blood Marsh was no different. The physical discomfort, however, was nothing compared to the immense emotional unrest he felt while occupying the great wooden chair. He sat in the thing only when necessary to convey rank and power, to throw some doubt into the minds of the men who challenged his right to rule. The reality of it was, however, that sitting the throne put as many doubts in Bokrham's mind as it put in the minds of others. Too often had Bokrham seen King Vichtor atop the throne, seemingly embedded in the wood as if it were merely an extension of his body. Sometimes, after a long and particularly draining day of diplomacy or tactical planning, Vichtor would sigh and sink down into the throne, which seemed to catch him like a soft bed. It was clear that the man and the throne had been made for each other, as clear as it was to Bokrham that he and the throne were an ill match.

  And Kazick, Bokrham could remember the Prince as a young child, sitting at the feet of his father. To him, the throne had been more like an oddly-shaped tree, for the prince was forever clambering all over it while his father looked on with pride. Bokrham had no doubt that the wood of the throne would welcome Kazick as fondly as it had his sire, if he could only be found. Where in Rekon's name was the man? Was he still alive? Bokrham hoped so. Many people like Shardon had conjured up stories about enemies sneaking into their midst and abducting the Prince, or killing him outright and dumping his body in the sea so it might never been found. The streets of the capital were awash with such stories, blaming everyone from the Curahshena rebels to the local spice trader's guild.

  None of these theories made any sense to Bokrham. But then, he knew more about the Prince and the affairs of the city than most men. He had himself searched Kazick's quarters after he was found to be missing. The prince's beautiful suit of armor and the emblematic blade of the Mehlor family were untouched, and the room was full of gold, gems, and other valuables. There was no sign of a struggle and no hint of a forced door, window, or any other suspicious method of entry or exit. Bokrham did, however, notice two things that were missing. One was a plain iron ring with some primitive etchings. It was probable that the prince had this on his person during whatever had befallen him, because he hardly ever took it off. He had come back from a year of education at a foreign monastery wearing it, but had never explained to anyone where he got it, or why.

  The other object that was missing was an old and battered shortsword, which the Prince had kept underneath his bed ever since he had learned to wield a real blade. The shortsword had been made for the young prince's combat training. It was overly heavy to help develop the muscles in the arms and shoulders necessary for speed and power. Its edges were blunted, so much so that it was more a club than a proper sword. But it had been Kazick's first weapon, and for some reason the young man had kept it even though he was soon given use of keener blades fit for a soldier in true battle.

  There was no reason why that sword should have gone missing if Kazick had been taken. What use would an enemy have for such an object? And Kazick was no fool; if he had been attacked he would not have reached for such an unwieldy weapon when the sharp blade of his ancestral sword was sitting right in front of him. No, Bokrham could on
ly think of one explanation for why the blade and the ring were the only things missing. Kazick had gone, and he had taken the two things which, for whatever reason, were most important to him.

  Bokrham had suggested as much to the War Council, but the notion had been dismissed as impossible. Kazick was to be the next King of all of Esmoria, heir to the wealthiest and most powerful throne in memory, and supported by a people who would have followed a Mehlor King into the flames of damnation, if he had so commanded. Who in his right mind would just leave all of that? Who indeed? thought Bokrham. Granted, he himself did not have the love, the almost fanatical devotion, of the common folk that came from being a descendant of the Mehlor bloodline. But for now, he had the power, and the wealth. And I feel like an ox, tired from a day's hard toil, and impatient to be unyoked, he mused.

  There would be no relief tonight, however, and Bokrham heaved a great sigh as he began to make his way out of the throne room. He had promised to speak with Lord Edgmere, an ancient man and Lord of a modest stretch of coastal land south of the Blood Marsh capital. Though it was only a few hours since the sun had ceased to flood the marsh with its rays, Bokrham knew if he did not make his way to see Edgmere with some haste, he would most likely find the man asleep. It was not Bokrham's usual practice to visit Lords in their own quarters while they stayed at the Royal Castle. Indeed most would have been summoned to the throne room if they wished an audience. But Bokrham actually liked old Edgmere, and gave the man a personal audience every now and then, out of deference to his age.

  When he arrived at Edgmere's quarters, Bokrham was relieved to see that the old Lord, though seated comfortably by one of the windows in his room and under a heavy woolen blanket, was alert and humming to himself as he looked through several sheets of parchment. The old Lord was about to rise and greet Bokrham when his arrival was announced, but Bokrham quickly waved at the man to stay seated.

  "Please, my Lord, do not trouble yourself. I am sure you have had a long day, as I have."

  "Ah," sighed Edgmere, "you do not look as if it has been a day of good news."

  Bokrham gave a tired laugh. "I feel like I have had nothing but bad tidings since I first learned of Kazick's disappearance. But, I am sure that cannot quite be true." He looked up at Edgmere and said, half in jest, "Perhaps you will be the one to finally bring me some good news, my Lord."

  Edgmere gave Bokrham a saddened look. "I wish I could, Lord Martial, I truly wish I could. But, I am afraid that I have yet another grievance to voice to yourself, and to the War Council. I know how the Council will react, but I hope you will hear me with a more sympathetic ear."

  Bokrham gave another sigh. He had not really expected that Edgmere would be the bearer of good news. But he knew the man well; if he felt strongly enough about bringing a grievance before the council, then it was more than likely that something was truly amiss.

  "Tell me," said Bokrham. "What worries you?"

  "My people are starving, Sir," said Edgmere simply.

  This caught Bokrham by surprise. "Truly?" he asked, "Even so far removed from the war? I have heard of no troubles with the harvest, nor problems with the livestock. Certainly, there are always those who may not have coin to pay for their meals, but the Church has always been able to provide for them adequately. It seems difficult to envision that lands so sheltered by nature and the rest of our kingdom should want for food."

  "It is a slow starvation," allowed Edgmere. "And made worse by the fact that we would not lack for milk, grain, or meat if we did not feed many more mouths than our own. Most of the food we produce is sent outside of our borders. Less and less food is left to furnish our local tables, and while many of the men and women support their brethren in the more remote and war-torn regions without complaint…"

  "Complaints there have been," Bokrham finished the thought.

  "I am afraid so," sighed Edgmere.

  "Are they paid well for the goods they export?" asked Bokrham. "Perhaps if we allowed them to increase their prices on certain goods, it might assuage their worries."

  "I do not think this is a problem mere gold can solve," said Edgmere, adding delicately, "A cold metal coin losses its appeal quickly, when it cannot buy food to fill your belly and those of your hungry children."

  Bokrham winced at this gentle, but poignant, reprimand. There had been a time when he would have laughed at his own suggestion, when he had been more connected to the struggles of ordinary life. Had he become so detached that his first answer to every problem was to throw gold at it? He looked up at the old Lord, asking "What can I do?"

  Edgmere gave another long sigh. "I do not know. Truly, I do not. I have a duty to my people, yet I recognize that we all must sacrifice to keep the men at our borders clothed and fed. If Vichtor were here, he would say it was all for the greater glory of the realm, and while he was alive I felt that it was so. But now..." Edgmere trailed off, not wanting to finish his thought. "Lord Martial, I am an old man. But, my many years on Esmoria have given me no answer to my current predicament. I do know, however, that tomorrow when I voice my grievances to the War Council, I will draw the fury of the Lords whose lands are embroiled in the border conflicts. All I ask of you, Bokrham, is that you not let them judge me too harshly."

  "My friend," said Bokrham, "I will try my best. But I fear what I have to say is of little value to the War Council these days."

  "Then we can commiserate together," said Edgmere with a sad smile, "for I have noticed that the Council's appreciation for my advice has waned as my life progresses to its winter."

  "Well," said Bokrham, trying to dispel the clouds that had fallen on their conversation, "I for one still value your voice. But enough of old age and warfare. Tell me, how is your family?"

  Bokrham had meant to turn the old Lord's thoughts to happier subjects, but to his surprise Edgmere's face fell, and he looked even more melancholy than he had moments before.

  "I regret to say that my granddaughter, a beautiful young girl not yet eleven years old, has taken very ill. For several weeks now, she has been confined to her bed, and by all accounts is not improving. My son is sick with worry, and has been severely distracted in his other duties. I do not blame him, of course, but it is yet another ponderous weight which I and my people must bear."

  "I am very sorry to hear of it," said Bokrham. "I could dispatch a medic this very evening, if you think it would—"

  "That is kind of you," interrupted Edgmere, "but the girl has seen a score of physicians, medics, nurses, wisewomen, and the like. I am afraid the matter is in Rekon's hands now."

  "Then I will pray for her," said Bokrham, patting the man gently on the back, and sitting in silence awhile before saying, "And now, I am sorry to leave you in such saddened thoughts, but we both should retire if we are to be ready for the Council tomorrow."

  Edgmere said nothing in reply, but Bokrham knew the old Lord shared his sentiment, for Edgmere's eyes had closed, and his head had come to rest on the back of his chair. As Bokrham left the room, he heard the sounds of a faint snoring behind him.

  Chapter 6: Nicolas

  When Nicolas opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at a face webbed with intricate ink markings and set with a pair of startling green eyes. The room was dark and lit only by a few candles, but the light seemed to collect around the strange figure in white robes before him. Even with his mind still foggy from the fit, Nicolas had no difficulty determining that this was the stranger Rujo had mentioned earlier.

  "Are you alright?" asked the figure in a soft voice, not much louder than a whisper.

  "I think I'll be fine," said Nicolas, realizing he could taste no blood in his mouth, nor feel the usual dull throbbing in his tongue.

  "I took the liberty of cleaning and anointing your wounds," said the strange man, as if he sensed what Nicolas was thinking.

  "Thank you," said Nicolas. Normally, waking up in the presence of so peculiar a stranger would have completely unnerved him. Yet Nicolas felt not the least bi
t worried or threatened. In fact, he felt strangely comfortable.

  "Who are you?" Nicolas wondered aloud.

  "My name is Zorje Ghadahim, but most people simply call me Jorj, if they bother to call me by any name at all." The man spoke in a thick accent, but seemed to have a flawless command of the Church tongue.

  "Why am I here?" asked Nicolas.

  "Ah, you were brought to me by a limping man who called himself Welo. He said he had witnessed you fall and begin to twitch. He became very worried and took it upon himself to carry you here. No small feat, I must say, for a man with a limp like his."

  Nicolas was confused.

  "But, why did he bring me to you? Sister Stacy usually takes care of those who get hurt, and Welo was on his way there anyway. He knows her quite well—how did he even know of you?"

  "Sadly, the Welo man came looking for me. By my robes he had surmised I was a healer, and he wanted help with his leg. I am no worker of miracles, however, and such an… obvious disfigurement I could never hope to heal."

  "And he brought me to you, even though you could not help him?"

  "I… impressed upon him during our meeting that I was looking for someone like you."

  "Someone like me, but why? What do you want from someone like me?"

  Jorj smiled. "I'm looking for an apprentice."

  "I'm already apprenticed to Gleydon the engraver," said Nicolas. "And I haven't really any other trade skills. Certainly I cannot heal, or… do whatever it is that you do."