Once We Were Kings (Young Adult Fantasy) (The Sojourner Saga)

by Alexander, Ian

  No one else knew of his visits to the now barren wood that had long been abandoned since his childhood village had been annexed into the ever-expanding kingdom. And though for decades, nothing remained of his home, his past, his family, Edwyn continually returned to the ruins to think, to remember. Or perhaps to forget, he couldn't be sure which.

  The sentry called down from his tower. "A fine morning, Sir Edwyn."

  "Indeed." Edwyn pulled down his hood, turned his eyes upwards and nodded his thanks as the enormous iron gates opened for him. Render would soon be at the library awaiting his history lesson. And his combat exams thereafter, to be taken against the worst possible opponent. An opponent who by now was certainly an able swordsman under the tutelage of the King's premier military commander.

  If he had survived the training.

  Edwyn tightened his belt and hastened his steps past the merchants selling their wares, the farmers peddling their produce and livestock. Even in the fresh of the morning, the stench of rotting vegetables and yesterday's refuse hung in the air. But such was life in the citadel. If he hadn't been accustomed to it by now, he never would be.

  As he continued, he noticed the haggard man who every day since the kingdom of Valdshire Tor had begun to expand its protectorate towards the Eastern borders, stood by Hawthern Fountain, pacing back and forth speaking quietly only to those that would stop and listen. Many mocked him and called him 'The Prophet.'

  "Will you lend an ear today, Sir Edwyn?" The grimy prophet gently grasped his elbow. "It's about your—"

  "My answer has remained steadfast for the past eleven years, old man. It shall not today change." Usually, The Prophet would release his arm and turn to another passerby. This time, he clutched it harder.

  "The time is at hand," The Prophet said. "You of all people must hear my message."

  "I think not. Kindly unhand me."

  He did not.

  Instead, The Prophet tightened his grip with alarming force. "Hear me, for I know all about you, your parents, what they—"

  "Unhand me!" Edwyn shoved The Prophet with what should have only been adequate strength to gain release. But the old man fell back and landed with a weak grunt. His mouth remained agape as he lifted a finger and pointed at Edwyn. "Hear me, Sir Edwyn. I implore you."

  "Defending the kingdom from the frail and elderly, I see." A voice from behind him said. Edwyn clenched his teeth. His face burned as he turned around to respond. "Mooregaard."

  "Lord Mooregaard, if you please." He climbed down from his black steed, stepped past Edwyn and offered a hand to help the old man to his feet. The Prophet thanked him politely, never taking his oddly cautious eyes from him. Carefully, he backed away and bowed, then turned to the opposite side of the fountain.

  "It is not as it seems," Edwyn said, as he started off for Castle Mittelvald. "I did not intend to... I merely tried to pry free from his grip."

  "And a fine job you did of it," Mooregaard said, overtaking his stride. "For he did seem rather dangerous." Then, standing directly in his path, he bent down such that his nose nearly touched Edwyn's forehead and said, "Perhaps you are now ready to battle widows and small children."

  "Not all battles are with flesh and blood," Edwyn replied, quoting the old book, the only tangible reminder of his parents, though he knew not why the words came to his lips.

  "But those of significance...are."

  "How reassuring that the High King has entrusted his military to those possessing such intelligence as yours."

  Mooregaard stepped back a few steps, drew his broadsword and pointed at the dagger sheathed at Edwyn's belt. "But such belligerence does so betray your—shall we call it—weapon envy?"

  Edwyn gave him a wry grin and shook his head. "I should like to say that your demise will come by the sword, but it is more likely that it come as a consequence of your folly and pride."

  "What do you know of pride, you of questionable lineage?"

  Edywn drew his dagger. For a brief moment, despite the impossible odds, he considered fulfilling the dream he'd dreamed since he and Mooregaard trained as fellow wards of the King: to rush him and cut his throat. Edwyn clutched the handle so hard the dagger shook in his hands.

  "Now, now. Is that any way for a learned man to settle his differences?"

  "I swear, if you ever mention my parents again, I'll... I'll—"

  "You'll what?"

  Reason returned along with the good sense to keep his limbs. Regaining his composure, Edwyn put his dagger away, took a deep breath and held his chin high.

  A smile stretched across Lord Mooregaard's face as he too replaced his sword, and mounted his horse again. "Well then. Is your student ready for the exams?"

  "You will be surprised at Render's swordsmanship."

  "Little surprises me. We'll see you here by Hawthern Fountain, at the tenth hour."

  "Why do you insist on making these exams a public spectacle?"

  "Because my students—the highest rated to date, mind you—deserve recognition." He started riding off, then stopped to add, "And they never lose."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  How unlike Sir Edwyn to be tardy for lessons. Render stood at the balcony peering out into the courtyard with his books tied in a bundle and slung over his shoulder. Beyond the castle walls, people of the citadel were resurrected from an entombed slumber. Buyers, sellers, town criers, they all seemed to have a purpose, a vocation, simple though they might be.

  Harsh as slavery had been, for Render, freedom opened the door for a new kind of despair. The uncertainty of one's purpose in life.

  What shall I be? What shall be my lot in life? Unaccustomed to making choices for himself, the prospect of having to do so made him uneasy. Especially because of that troublesome feeling that he was meant to do something of great significance. What if he chose his path incorrectly?

  He thought about his favorite activities and scoffed. "I don't suppose my paintings or music could have much of an impact on the world."

  "Play me a song on your lute, and I'll tell you," said the familiar voice. Render turned around.

  "Folen!" He could barely recognize the boy in the garb of a squire, a short sword at his hip.

  "I've been searching all over this castle for you."

  "Seems ages since I last saw you and your brother. Have you grown taller?" Render met him half way and gave him a one-armed embrace.

  "We've had no opportunity to explore," he said. "You know Sir Edwyn."

  "He's a task master, he is." But Render said this with a smile. "Whatever he may be, he's late today."

  "And I seem to have misplaced my brother." Folen searched behind Render, as though Stewan might be hiding there.

  Render wanted to know more about all they had been doing, or if they'd heard anything about Kaine recently. He tried to ask, but Folen's eyes kept wandering, searching around the balcony, back into the castle. "Folen, when did you last see your brother?"

  "After breakfast. We were waiting in the library to receive our assignments from Sir Edwyn, when Branson—"

  "Oh. Branson."

  "Yes. He popped his flat little head in and told Stewan that Sir Edwyn wished to speak with him immediately and that he was sent to fetch him. So Stewan followed him out into the hallway."

  "Bother that."

  Folen nodded. "When too much time had passed, I went out to look for them. But I haven't found any of them yet. I'm worried." As he spoke, the faint, yet distinct sound of laugher, not the good-natured kind but more of a malicious variety, alerted Render. It came from the doorway.

  "Branson!" Render called out. "Where is Stewan?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  Folen growled and whirled around and pulled out his sword. "You little beast!"

  But Render held his arm and whispered, "If you hurt him, you'll have his father to reckon with, or worse, Edwyn."

  "I was only planning on batting him with the flat side of the blade."

  "Well," said Branson, pursi
ng his lips, "Good day." And with that, he ran back into the castle.

  "Come back here!" Immediately, Render gave chase. Folen followed directly behind. When they entered the hallway, Branson stopped at a corner, stuck out his tongue and made a flatulent sound. He stood there watching for a reaction.

  "You would almost think he wanted to get caught," Folen said.

  "Or he's setting a trap."

  As soon as Render took a step forward, Branson reacted. "Ha! You'll never catch me!" He turned and bolted down another hallway.

  "Come on!" Render grabbed Folen's arm and they raced towards the bend, footfalls echoing through the cavernous passageways. Again, the little rat turned a corner, taunting them.

  "Not so clever as you thought, are you? Lowborn dungslingers!" Again, Branson vanished behind another corner.

  "That's it!" Folen snarled and started after him again. "I don't care if his father is The Lord Agon, nor do I care what Sir Edwyn says, I am going to teach that brat a lesson."

  "Not if I get to him first." Render said. They flew down the hall with such determination that Render barely noticed the suit of armor, the tapestries and other art work on the walls and how they became increasingly sparse, as they proceeded deeper into unfamiliar regions of the castle.

  They came upon their destination rather suddenly. About thirty paces away, the hallway ended and there stood Branson, the look on his face daring Render to come after him.

  And, as Branson was the only person who seemed to know where Stewan was, that is exactly what Render did. But just as he came within striking distance, the little maggot slipped into a door that Render had not seen until the moment it slammed shut.

  "Hey!" Oddly enough, Branson hadn't locked the door. Render pulled it open and what he saw inside arrested his breath.

  Even Folen stood silent.

  The sound of the door latches hung in the air like dust-flecks in slats of sunlight. Shelves filled with books and curios lined the walls, a table with parchments, quills and dark inkwells stood in the center of the vast chamber. And in the back room sat a bed, a pewter pitcher and a basin.

  "It's a museum," Folen whispered, forgetting about their quarry.

  "There must be thousands of them," Render strode over and reached up to touch one of the old leather bound tomes in the shelf.

  As his fingertips touched it, a loud slam jolted him from his trance. When he swung around, he saw the large wooden door closed. The sound of keys and chains tinkled on the other side.

  "You're in it deep, now." Branson said from the other side, as he locked them in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I’m in here!" a muffled voice called out amidst repeated pounding. It came from within the bed chamber of this museum, or library, or whatever this odd place was. Render dashed over.

  "Stewan?"

  "In here!"

  He turned around and went over to a closet door, removed the chair blocking it and opened it.

  "I'll...I'll cut his ears off!" Stewan growled.

  "Are you all right?" Render said.

  "I'm fine, just very, very angry." Stewan bolted out of the bedchamber. But his footfalls stopped abruptly. "Where is that idiot Branson? I'll kill him!"

  "I'm afraid it won't be that simple?" Render said.

  "Why are you two just standing around?" Stewan demanded.

  Folen shook his head. "He's locked us in."

  While the twins complained and cursed Branson for his treachery, Render's eyes drifted to the multitude of books in the shelves. There were books on history, astronomy, philosophy, physical sciences and poetry. Perhaps being locked in here was not the worst imaginable fate.

  Render ran his hand along the first row of books he came across and for some reason stopped on the spine of a book called Venerable Tales and Fables of the Handara. When he slid it out of the shelf, he noticed a glint of light reflecting from the space behind the books.

  "Render!" Stewan called out. "How are we going to get out of here?"

  But he didn't answer. Something about the object behind the books drew him deeper. Carefully, he removed two books on each side of the empty space left from the first book.

  "We've missed our lesson with Sir Edwyn," Folen groaned. "He'll be exceedingly cross with us."

  Not heeding, Render reached into the back of the bookcase and grasped the object which hung from a nail on a leather bootlace. A key.

  "What's that for?" Stewan said, now at Render's side and peering over his arm. Folen continued to joggle the door and mutter.

  "Something of great interest, I'm sure," Render said, searching the library. Nothing appeared to require a key so he stepped into the bedchamber. Found even less there. He scratched his chin. "If I had something to hide, where would I...?"

  "Under the bed," Stewan said.

  "Brilliant!" They both dropped to the ground, lifted the edge of the blanket and let out a excited shout.

  Out from under the rickety wood frame, a blur of gray and black shot out, screeching and skittering on the ground.

  "Rat!" Stewan leapt up but tripped over his own foot. He fell back on his rear and crawled back on his hands and feet, like a crab. Render gasped, but found it more amusing than frightening. The rodent scurried straight out to the library, between Folen's shoes and though the space at the bottom of the splintery door.

  "Whoever lives here must not be very clean," Folen said, checking his feet.

  "I'm just hoping he'll come back before we get gnawed to death!" Stewan said, shuddering.

  "Or starve to death," said Stewan. "I haven't had breakfast yet."

  "For all the both of you eat, it's amazing you're not a big as elephants," Render said. "I'm sure your master back in Talen Wood is glad that you've been liberated."

  "I don't feel so liberated, now," Folen said, rattling the door. But Stewan's countenance darkened. His eyes became red and his lower lip quivered.

  Render turned fully to face him. He grasped the boy's shoulder. "What is it?"

  "I just—" He sniffed, holding back a sob. "They were so kind to us. Treated us like their children, not slaves. They were the closest we ever had to a mother or a father." Stewan buried his face into his arms draped over his knees and whimpered.

  "I never knew that, Stew." Render slid over and put his arm fully around the boy's shoulders. "You must miss them terribly."

  "I do."

  "Well, maybe we can talk to Sir Edwyn. You know, arrange for some visitation time. After all, the government might treat you differently, knowing that you were more like adopted children than slaves. It's certainly worth a try."

  At this, Stewan lifted his wet face and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. A hopeful smile shone through his tears. "You really think there's hope?"

  "There's always hope."

  "Do let's talk to him then."

  "We shall," said Render.

  "If we ever get out of this blasted death trap!" Folen said and kicked the door.

  Render held up a hand. "Hold on, there, Folen. Let's not draw too much attention just yet."

  Folen's eyes widened. "But I don't like it in here."

  "Someone will find us soon enough." Render held up the key, which was entirely too small to fit the door's lock. "But first, let's see what this opens. I must know." He crawled on his hands and knees and stared under the bed. No disease-ridden vermin. Good. The only thing he found was an object wrapped in a dusty brown cloth.

  "Hello, what have we here?" Render unwrapped the cloth to find a small wooden chest with brass hinges and a lock. "I wonder...."

  "That's got to be it," Stewan said, wiping his nose. He sat up tall and peered over Render's shoulder. In no time, Folen stood behind his other shoulder. All eyes fixed upon the mysterious box.

  "What do you think is inside?" Folen said.

  "Only one way to know." Render slipped the key into the lock.

  "Wait," said Stewan. Render and Folen both turned to him. "Hadn't we better leave that alone?"

  "
What's the harm?" Render didn't take his eyes from the box.

  "Well, for one thing, isn't this like stealing?"

  Folen shoved his brother in the arm. "Not like he's taking anything. We're just looking."

  "One look," said Render. "I promise. Then I'll lock it up, and put the key back. They'll never know."

  "I don't feel good about this."

  "Don't be such a baby," said Folen.

  Stewan let out a sigh. "I'm not a baby. Open it, for all I care. Just remember, I warned you not to." He crossed his arms and turned away.

  Render turned the key.

  It clicked and unlocked.

  His pulse began to race.

  He slipped his finger under the latch and flipped it open. Then, he opened the box.

  "Why, it's—!"

  "A book?" Folen said in a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

  Stewan turned back and leaned over his brother's shoulders. "What kind of book?"

  Render had already opened the blank cover with no title. The words on the page gave no indication of the book's subject, or even the type of work it might be. "I'm not certain."

  "Well, why don't you just read something from it?"

  "All right." He began with the top of the page to which he had turned. A spectral chill crawled up his spine. Depicted was a drawing of Mount Handara, familiar to him as when he'd seen it in his dreams, in his paintings. He blinked and looked closer at the page.

  "What is it?" Folen said.

  At first, Render could not form words. Though he had taken Edwyn at his word that the Mountain he'd seen and painted did in fact exist, this further confirmed it. He quickly turned the page and began to read.

  And when Valhandra had finished, he wept, for his son had chosen the most painful path, one from which there was no redemption. But Malakandor had hardened his heart.

  "I will rise up. Above my brother, above my father. I will take which was not given me, and rule as I please."