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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  Jorj released his grip and Nicolas fell back into his seat. He could feel his neck burn where his collar had dug into the flesh, and he had to remind himself to breathe again. He glared at Jorj wordlessly, but the man had gone back to his meal, and ignored his stare.

  "I expect there will be more folk seeking my services this evening. You will sit here as you did last night, and report back to me if any lucrative opportunities arise. Remember, I do not talk to servants, so do not bring any to see me. For now, however, the afternoon is yours. Go…enjoy yourself."

  Without looking at Nicolas, he drew a silver coin out from his robes and flicked it across the table. Nicolas merely looked at the coin. He had no intention of talking it. He wanted to stalk out of the inn, but he could not seem to regain his composure. There was an energy building inside of him he could not suppress, and with a sinking feeling he realized that soon the säel would be raging through him. He tried desperately to feel around him, to find a connection somewhere he could channel the brunt of the säel as he had done before, but to no avail.

  "I said go!" yelled Jorj, but when Nicolas did not answer, Jorj looked at him more carefully.

  "Boy?" he asked, snapping his fingers before Nicolas' eyes. When he saw a tremor run through Nicolas' hands, his eyes widened.

  "Not here, boy," he hissed. "Fight it. If people think I cannot even cure my own servant, I…" Jorj must have sensed that Nicolas was losing the fight to keep the säel from taking over his body, for he drew out one of the flasks of spirits he carried with him, and pressed it to Nicolas' lips.

  "Drink, boy. As much as you can stand."

  Nicolas was just able to part his lips. Jorj poured the thick brown liquid down his throat, and soon he was sputtering for air.

  "Enough," he coughed. In a few moments, he could feel the liquor take hold, and the säel inside him begin to diffuse and recede. When Nicolas could comfortably move again, Jorj gave a sigh of relief.

  "You need to practice, boy," he said. "Resisting the säel is not something you can do once, and then repeat successfully ever after. Never forget that what you have is as much a disease as it is a gift. Now go, find some place to let your mind and body recover for a while, and think twice in the future before leveling your petty accusations at me."

  The cool ocean breeze that floated in from the harbor helped Nicolas forget his anger, and seemed to blow away some of the shameful oily feeling that still lingered on his skin. He had no real interest in making his way back through the crowded streets of the town in search of entertainment, and soon decided that he would like nothing better than to find a quiet spot near the ocean, and to watch the waves for a while. As he surveyed the coast however, he was quickly reminded just how unlike Brightshore this Widow's Harbor was. The shoreline was littered with piers, small and large, and around each pier crowded ships of all sorts. It was a far cry from his spot on the cliffs near the lighthouse in Brightshore, but as Nicolas made his way closer to the harbor's edge he found himself immediately absorbed in the many activities which were going on around him.

  A line of sailors were coming off a large ship nearby, cursing audibly as they struggled to carry what looked like huge mounds of white feathers. Soon it became obvious to Nicolas that the masses of feathers were moving slightly, and making muffled squawking sounds. He saw a man waiting on the docks move to examine one such pile of feathers, drawing out a small knife as he did so. The man cut something Nicolas could not see, and all of a sudden, a pair of huge, but poorly-formed wings shot out from the previously shapeless mound of feathers, and the whole thing was lifted off the ground by a pair of long, burnt orange legs. It was, without question, the largest bird Nicolas had ever seen, and he stood looking at it, amazed, until the shiny gleam of something metallic caught his eye and diverted his attention. Off another ship were marching a troop of soldiers, armored in bright platemail which bore the crimson torch of Rekon. Nicolas had never seen a fully-armored Church soldier before, though he had heard enough descriptions from Rujo to recognize one. He counted at least fifty such soldiers leave the ship, march off the pier, and stand at attention some yards away.

  After a while, Nicolas noticed he was not the only one who had stopped to look at the soldiers. In fact, most of the people around the docks had stopped what they were doing to gaze curiously at the spectacle. He could hear people wondering in low voices what had brought the soldiers here, but nobody seemed to have an answer. A final soldier emerged from the ship, but whereas all the other soldier's platemail had been a silvery gray, this one was clad head to foot in dark crimson. Catching the late afternoon sun, the man's armor reminded Nicolas of a hot coal, almost dark one instant, then flaring to life the next. It was obvious from the change in the posture of the other soldiers that this was a man of some rank, and Nicolas watched as he strode purposefully down the gangway. A priest clad in ceremonial vestments rushed up to the meet the soldier, and the two gave each other a stiff bow. After a brief conversation Nicolas could not hear, the man in red plate barked some orders to the rest of his soldiers, and they immediately began a brisk march down one of the roads that led into town, causing everyone to stop and stare as they passed.

  When the last Church soldier had disappeared from sight, the piers slowly resumed their normal business, and before long things were bustling as busily as when Nicolas had arrived. After some searching, he found a relatively uncrowded spot on a tiny pier about a mile up the coast, and sat down to dip his toes in the cool ocean water. He could see that he shared the pier with a pair fishermen, who were busy cleaning this morning's catch. They took no notice of him, however, and he closed his eyes and sat back to enjoy the feel of the warm sun on his skin and listen to the day around him.

  Besides the constant lull of the waves and the occasional splash as a handful of fish bones or innards hit the water, Nicolas caught some snatches of the conversation the fishermen around him were having.

  "'Tis true, I say. I heard it from old Marthew the harbor master," one of the fishermen was saying.

  "Bah. Not as it makes any difference to me. But I don' see the sense in it. I mean, after all it's not the traders who do all the warrin' and killin'," said the other.

  "Ye can't trust the whole lot of them, I say. They might not be akillin' no one, but it's them as cheats us local merchants out of a fair price. They're a bad lot, I say!"

  The other fishermen shook his head in amusement. "We'll then Davin, ye'd better watch out yerself! Yer skin's been baked so dark by the sun, yer likely to be mistaken for one of them! They'll drag you off to one of their boats and dump you in a desert somewhere!"

  "'Ere now! I'm a proper follower, even go to church sometimes, I do! That's the whole point, in't it? Church soldiers won't even look at me twice, I say."

  Nicolas didn't like the sound of what he was hearing. If these fishermen were saying what he thought they were…

  "I'm sorry," he called over to the fishermen. "But, I couldn't help hearing. Who are the Church soldiers looking for?"

  The fishermen looked at him suspiciously, but then one of them shrugged and said, "Not as it matters to you, ye shouldn't have any trouble with the Church soldiers. It's the sandies they've come looking for, on account of the how the Curahshar 'ave outlawed the Church in their parts, and banished all of Rekon's holy workers from their lands. It's an eye for an eye, says the Church, or so I hear."

  "Oh," said Nicolas, before he found himself sprinting off the pier and back towards the inn.

  As Nicolas ran back along the shoreline, doubts started to cloud his mind. His first reaction had been to rush back to the inn and warn Jorj of the Church soldiers, but then he began to think back on the previous evening, and this morning's confrontation in the inn. Did he really want to spend his next three years with a man who made his living taking advantage of others? Could he really survive without Jorj? Had the man taught him all he needed to know about controlling his tremors? It occurred to Nicolas that life seemed to have handed him the perfect op
portunity to rid himself of his promise to Jorj…all it would take would be a whisper in one of the soldier's ears and he likely wouldn't have to participate in any of Jorj's dishonest schemes ever again.

  Yet, the man had saved his life, Nicolas was fairly sure of that. The tremors and pain had been all too real during those weeks spent in the woods, and there was truth in Jorj's stories of senisthma and their mind-working abilities. Jorj might not have much of a conscience, but that did not give Nicolas a good reason for reneging on his promise, and worse, betraying Jorj to potential enemies. Nicolas wondered if the soldiers would merely ferry the Curahshar back to their own lands, or if there was a more sinister end waiting for men like Jorj at sea. He decided that, like it or not, he owed it to Jorj to warn him of the danger.

  When he got back to the inn his heart was pounding and he stopped to catch his breath as he surveyed the common room. No sign of Jorj, but no sign of any Church soldiers either. Nicolas made his way to Jorj's room and knocked forcefully on the door. At first, no one answered, but after Nicolas pounded on the door a second time he heard an irritated voice from within say, "Go away."

  "Jorj," said Nicolas, as loudly as he dared. "It's Nicolas, let me in!"

  He heard some rustling inside, and a string of curses before Jorj replied. "What is it? I'm busy sleeping."

  "It's important," said Nicolas.

  "A customer?" came the hopeful voice from inside.

  "More important than that," insisted Nicolas. He heard a rustling again, and this time the knob on the door started turning, and eventually the door swung open into Jorj's room. Jorj stood there, eyelids drooping over bloodshot eyes, his white robes askew, and swaying slightly as he stood. Nicolas' eyes fell on half a dozen empty bottles of liquor around the room, and he could smell a mix of alcohol and sweat in the air.

  "Well?" demanded Jorj. "What is it?"

  "Church soldiers," replied Nicolas, and before Jorj could spit out another question Nicolas continued. "I have seen them myself, disembarking from ships in the harbor, fully armored and armed. I heard that they are here looking for Curahshar—"

  "Damn!" swore Jorj, as his eyes snapped open. They were still webbed with tiny channels of blood, but all traces of sleep and inebriation were gone. "It is probably that bastard Alpadri Surlin. How did he know I was here? We have to leave. Now."

  "What?" said Nicolas, confused. "The soldiers aren't looking for you, they are looking for any Curahshar in the area."

  "That doesn't make sense," said Jorj, pausing momentarily. "But it doesn't matter. If they figure out who I am, we'll be in more trouble than we can handle. Grab your things and meet me downstairs."

  Nicolas ran to the door, pulled it open, and found himself facing a small serving girl, her hand raised above her head, poised to knock on the door.

  "What is it?" asked Nicolas, surprised.

  "'m sorry Sir, there's some men asking for the healer, out there in the common room. Said it was urgent."

  "Soldiers?" demanded Jorj, coming to the door with a wild look in his eye. The girl seemed frightened, but said,"Well, I don't know Sir. Might be. One had a sword, I saw, but they is dressed fairly normal-like."

  "The soldiers I saw were in full armor," offered Nicolas.

  Jorj relaxed a bit, and he said thoughtfully, "A client, perhaps. Damnation! This is not a good time. Boy, grab your things. I will go tell these men that we have no time to help them. Meet me in the common room. Hurry!"

  Nicolas scrambled out the door past the wide-eyed serving girl to collect his things. He had stuffed them in a dark corner of one of the larders by the kitchen, but even so it took him almost no time at all. Still, by the time he made it out to the common room, he saw quite a scene starting to take place. Half a dozen Church soldiers stood near the entrance of the inn, standing quite still and looking menacing in their gleaming plate. Opposite them stood Jorj, surrounded by three men in traveling gear. Jorj had a look of pure panic on his face, and looked as if he wanted to flee, but the men around him looked as if they were gearing up for a confrontation, though no one, Nicolas noticed, had yet reached for their weapons.

  "On whose authority?" demanded one of the men standing around Jorj. He was a tall man, thickly muscled, with shoulder-length hair and a face framed by a dark brown beard. A leather patch covered his left eye, and Nicolas could see a few angry red scars that ran along his cheek.

  "By order of the Sumpadri, Leader of the Holy Church and the voice of Rekon on Esmoria," said one of the soldiers.

  "Oh?" said the man in the eye patch. "And on what grounds?"

  "He is a Curahshar, one of the heathen barbarians who cast out Rekon's holy missionaries from their lands. Since his kind has refused the illumination of the glorious light of Rekon, it has been decreed that their corrupt souls are no longer welcome upon Church soil."

  "So you're throwing him out, eh?"

  "All heathens are to be expelled from Creko's Isle."

  "So you won't mind," said the man in the eye patch smiling, "if we save you some trouble and ship him out ourselves?"

  Jorj's eyes widened, and he shifted his stance as if to bolt, but the men on either side of him seized his arms and told him, quietly, to stay still. The Church soldier had a look of confusion on his face, and he threw sidelong glances at his companions. They each gave small shrugs, indicating that they were caught off guard by the offer as well.

  "You understand, Sir, that we cannot just let anyone carry out the Church's justice. How are we to know you will do as you say you will?"

  The man in the eye patch laughed and said, "I'm afraid I've no one you'd trust to attest to my honesty. But, lucky for you I'm not just anybody." His hand went to the hilt of the sword, and Nicolas saw steel flash in the air as the man whipped the blade out of his scabbard. Instantly, the sound of ringing metal filled the room as the Church soldiers drew their weapons, but the man in the eye patch spun the blade in his hand, catching it by the tip and extending it, hilt-first, towards the soldier with whom he had been speaking. Surprised, the soldier looked at the sword suspiciously, his eyes registering some shock when he examined the hilt. Nicolas was too far away to see what had caught the man's eye, but the soldier looked up quizzically, and said.

  "A bloodknight?"

  "Aye," said the man in the eye patch, "and that means, friend, that I outrank you. My name is Mavonin, Sir Relusz Mavonin, and I've been looking for this man," he pointed to Jorj, "for some time. I am prepared to give you my oath as a knight, he'll be off your little island before sundown." The sword clattered to the ground, and Nicolas could see a small rivulet of blood where the man's palm had gripped the blade. He held out his bloody hand to the Church soldier, and said, "By the blood, you have my word."

  The soldier, looking shocked, slowly removed his gauntlet and grasped the man's hand, withdrawing quickly as he felt the warm wet blood on his skin.

  "Very well," said the soldier. "See that he is…" Mavonin coughed, and nodded towards his discarded sword. "Sorry, Sir," the soldier demurred, "It would be best if he was off the island by dark." Then, turning stiffly, he and his men filed out of the inn.

  When the last soldier had gone, Sir Mavonin turned to Jorj with a broad smile on his face. "Looks like we caught up with you just in time." Jorj, his arms still in the firm grip of the other two men, did not return the smile.

  "A small comfort, to escape capture by falling into someone else's snare."

  "Oho!" chuckled the knight. "You would rather have gone with those stony-faced soldiers, then?"

  "I didn't say that," said Jorj. "Look, who are you and what do you want with me?"

  "Relax," said Sir Mavonin reassuringly, although he gave no indication to his companions to loosen their grip on Jorj. "You'll find we can be friends, or at the very least partners in business. Whispered rumors are circulating about you, Sir, which seem to have spanned even the sea. I was sent by someone in need of your services, to try and convince you to come back with us to the Marsh. Rekon's luck mus
t be shining upon me today, for it seems to me that you now have little choice but to accept the invitation."

  Jorj seemed to relax slightly, but the corners of his eyes were still narrowed in suspicion when he asked, "What kind of man sends a bloodknight to foreign lands to find a healer?"

  Sir Mavonin's grin faltered, and for a second Nicolas thought his face took on an almost mournful expression, before slipping back into a confident smile. "A desperate one," he offered, then added, "and wealthy, too."

  "Ah," said Jorj. "So you weren't just planning to kidnap me and ship me off to the Blood Marsh without so much as a copper for my services?"

  "Well…" began Sir Mavonin, his one good eye glinting mischievously, "we were hoping that we wouldn't have resort to unpleasant measures." He spoke in affable manner, but something in the Knight's tone left no doubt in Nicolas' mind that Sir Mavonin and his companions would have no qualms in using whatever means necessary to get Jorj to come with them. Jorj seemed to have picked up on that too, for he was quick to point out that he would not mind a bit of travel, for the right price. At this, the Knight's companions finally released their grip on Jorj's arms, and he gave a small sigh of relief.

  "Might I know what you require of me?" Jorj asked.

  "You are rumored to possess healing powers which are quite beyond the ordinary," replied Mavonin. "The man I serve has a daughter, an only daughter you understand, who has become afflicted with a rare illness which the best healers, apothecaries, and priests in the Blood Marsh cannot cure. She is quite weak, and may not last the year. That is why even if I hadn't met with that band of holy tinsuits, I would ask that we leave as soon as possible."