Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Trolly

  “Not even Kallin?”

  “I don’t know his intentions. His father abdicated to chase some rumour beyond the mountains, and Storinea refused to send representatives to council meetings since Garneth left. And, Kallin has made his own position dangerous. If you remember, he spoke for Galeth Tendornin. During the voting, he chose to stand for Atalin. Though other Morschcoda’s loyalties shifted, it is more dangerous for Kallin. He is new to the Council, and as a Demosira, changing his mind so quickly will have many people doubting whether he is really worthy of the title. It could cost him his throne.”

  “I did wonder at it, though he would have been more a fool to stay with the Meclaryan.”

  “And, it may be more dangerous for Kallin if he stands with me. You said that Atalin might live until his first quarrel with Guinira. I feel that Guinira will get over the fact that I named him as her contender for the throne. Kallin though, is a neighbour. An important neighbour. And if Guinira is mad enough, well …” He did not finish the ominous statement of fact. He chose to also pull out his pipe, a curiously shaped thing, curved so that when clamped in his mouth, it would rest against his chin. “Anaria would” he started to say, but Erygan cut him off.

  “Quiet, someone is coming.”

  Erygan’s ears did not fail him. No sooner had he heard approaching footsteps and warned Taren then the two men were well into another topic, seemingly picked at random. It was well that they were, for within seconds, Xari, Ranny, and Guinira Estaleth walked into the room. The two men were not particularly surprised that the women had found them. Though it was small, it was in the Torridestan district of the city, and the bar was a favourite of Erygan’s. He was often seen there. As it was close to Pentailia Morschcoda, Taren made his way down occasionally to gamble and meet with his spies, though he was careful about that, for though the tavern was small, it was famous for the quality of its dark ale, and Taren’s reputation had lead him there many times to reconfirm the ale’s superiority. But now, neither Erygan nor Taren even pretended to be polite. Though Guinira was officially Queen, her coronation was not until the following day. Even as he turned to face her, Taren was studying Guinira. How would she react to two Morschcoda who refused to bow? How did she carry herself, with arrogance or confidence? Both questions were easy to answer. As she walked in and saw both Taren Garrenin and Erygan Dalrey, arguably the two most powerful men in all of Anaria, she seemed to be fighting to control her temper. As for her obvious arrogance, that did not diminish. She had just been named Queen of Anaria. She was entitled to it.

  Guinira was studying the two men before her as well. She had heard reports, little more than rumours really, that made Erygan Dalrey a great man. But still, Torridesta and its nocturnal inhabitants were far away, and rumours would have to be greatly exaggerated. And yet, here he was, sitting before her, in every way as arrogant as she was herself. But she felt something from him. A dark power that was only too ready to burst forth and cover the world in its shadow. One that knew it was strong, perhaps even strong enough to do what it clearly desired, held in check only by its master’s own sense of honour and morality. ‘He is indeed a great man’ Guinira thought to herself. And then she turned her eyes to the Drog sitting beside him. She had heard more of Taren Garrenin the Second than she had about Erygan, but she believed fewer of the reports about him. She had only half believed Xari when the Morschcoda had told her that Taren was the creator of the Dance of One Thousand Blades. And yet, something in the way he sat betrayed that he was far more than a mere Tai-Aren Coda. He was seated just so, with his hand oh so close to the hilt of Mishdonkar, a sword that she was not entirely convinced had earned its name. The tales of Taren from battlefields throughout Anaria made him beyond legendary, crafted of something other than mortal flesh and blood, and yet the arrogance in his posture, in his face, even in his sword’s name, displayed his weakness to the world. And then she looked into his eyes. In all the reports, rumours, fanatical murmurings, and deranged babble she had ever heard about Taren Garrenin the Second, his eyes were ever present. His eyes seemed to suggest, no, to tell her, that his arrogance was well founded, confidence more than anything else. But that was not all they did. Even as she searched them, they searched her. She felt their mental probe as it simply brushed her mind’s walls aside, and then began to pry at all of her darkest secrets, until one by one most were laid bare, though she kept her darkest secrets still unknown. She tried to do the same thing, but his eyes were so deep, and yet they were hard, harder than ice, harder even than Dwarven Steel. She could not even reach his the walls of his mind, let alone push herself through them. ‘Surely,’ she thought ‘these must be the eyes of a god.’ Taren seemed to smile at that conclusion. Then he spoke out loud.

  “Few can hold my gaze for long, Guinira Estaleth. And none pass through it unchanged. Do you believe your spies now? Are you convinced of whatever answer you wanted to find?”

  “I am convinced, Warship. But there are other ways to get information about one’s neighbours than by spying on them.” She tried to sound as sure and confident of herself as she knew Taren was. But her confidence in both herself and her army was shaken by the two men she had just studied. Erygan was convinced he was strong enough to conquer what he wanted in Anaria and hold it. Taren was more than certain that he could take all of Anaria if and when he wanted to. Unlike Erygan, he held that power in check more because he did not want to exercise it than because of any moral or honourable constraints.

  * * * * *

  For the first time in several months, Taren’s waking nightmares did not trouble him. He was still plagued by the dream itself, but the ending seemed more hopeful. The battle raged as fiercely as ever outside of the walls of Alquendiro, yet Taren knew how to counter every assault, all of the movements that the Deshika made in an attempt to break the walls and gate of the city. He took it as a sign that the path he had chosen was the right one, one that it led to hope, for the Drogs at least. He woke early, feeling better than he had for almost a century, and dressed. Today would see the coronation of Anaria’s first Queen in over twenty thousand years. ‘And much more.’ Taren laughed to himself at the thought. There were days in his life he remembered in exacting detail: the day he was named Ambassador to Armanda, the last day of the Drog Civil War, and the day he was named Morschcoda, among many others. This would be one of those days, and unfortunately for many of the same reasons.

  * * * * *

  In his dark halls, Erygan was thinking along much the same lines as Taren. He never liked the annual councils. They disrupted his nocturnal habits, forcing him to do by day what he would normally do by night. Today would be worse than usual, however. He would actually have to be outside of Pentailia Morschcoda during the day. Fighting to defend his country was one thing. Being forced to witness the crowning of the Armandan Queen of Anaria was a different matter. He groaned aloud at the thought, even as he pressed his signet ring, a half-moon side-by-side with a cat’s eye, into the hot wax that was the thirteenth blot in a row running down a long sheet of paper.

  * * * * *

  The morning dawned bright and clear. ‘Strange for midwinter’ thought Taren to himself ‘but not if you consider what Ranny will do to gain any sort of favour or influence.’ Erygan stood beside him, eyeing the sky and the sunshine distrustfully. Not far off, Daken looked wistfully into the sky, no doubt wishing that he could be flying high above the city. Marrdin stormed up to his place beside Taren. He looked more than ready to unleash a blizzard on Dishmo Kornara. Norrin’s left hand rested on the head of his large hammer as he took his place beside Erygan. He looked ready to use it. Still, the Morschcoda had to be present, to show their support of Guinira, or Queen Guinira, as she now was. High above, five silver bells rang once to announce the beginning of the day, and a single golden bell sounded its high, clear ring once to announce the beginning of a new era.

  As the gold bell sounded, Guinira started her journey at the east gate of the city, the Gate of the Rising Sun. A
ll journeys began at that gate. She walked along the city’s outer edge, almost to its southern gate, until she came to the Gate of Fire. Each of the Ten Nations had a gate in the wall. She then paced along the Road of Fire towards Pentailia Morschcoda, which would be her palace. Eliish Del Anaria had been taken from its normal place in the Council Chamber and set up in front of the Door of Fire, which was connected to the gate by the road which Guinira was walking. Guinira ascended the steps and knelt before Xari, who stood in front of Eliish Del Anaria. Xari asked Guinira ten questions, all of which she responded to with “I so swear, in the name of Lasheed.” Satisfied, Xari stepped aside and bowed, leaving Guinira Estaleth free to sit upon the throne. After much bowing, feasting, gift giving, and swearing of oaths only half meant, Taren was finally able to slip away unnoticed. Giving quick orders, he returned before he could be missed. He just saw, with the tail of his eye, Erygan slipping away to do the same. Turning around quickly, he barely stopped himself to avoid knocking Kallin to the ground. “There is to be a special session of The Councils tomorrow, Taren. I think Guinira knows some of the Morschcoda may try to challenge her while she is newly come to the throne.”

  “If you listen to an Armandan prophesy, you’ll never want for mead.”

  “You said much the same about me, when I challenged you in Rista.”

  “And I once again advise you to forget what you pretend to know. What can never be, for more reasons than you could find in all the dusty tomes in the Great Library, will do its best to be forgotten.”

  “So there …”

  “Thank you for telling me about the council Guinira has called tomorrow. If there is nothing else ‘her majesty’ requires of me tonight, I will retire. I now have much more to do than I originally thought.”

  “You mean about-”

  “Yes. For one of the Demosira, you seem to have an extraordinary lack of wisdom for when it’s advisable to shut your mouth.” Taren pulled Kallin aside into the shadow of a pillar and lowered his voice. “Tell me if you stand with me, now, and I will ensure you are protected. If you don’t, then get out of my way.”

  With that, Taren forced himself past Kallin and into Pentailia Morschcoda, not unnoticed by Guinira.

  * * * * *

  Taren sat uncomfortably in his chair in the Council Chamber. He had more soldiers in his following than usual, but not an overly large number, not enough to attract suspicion. Erygan had more anyway. What the two of them had planned for the past six hundred years had no precedent in all of Anaria’s millennia of recorded history.

  “…And in light of these recent attacks by the Deshika, Anaria must remain united under the banner of the Morschcoda Council. We cannot afford to crumble from within even as we seek to win a war.”

  “Well spoken, your majesty.”

  ‘Shut up, Ranny’ thought Taren. ‘I feel almost vindicated doing this, if it means I will no longer have to deal with you.’ But he knew that Guinira’s words had been pointed towards him. He knew she had felt his power and was afraid of it. She had not, fortunately, realized what he planned to do. A messenger came forward silently, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a paper, with several seals and signatures across the bottom. His own seal, a snake wrapped around an upright sword with its open mouth resting on the pommel, and signature were all that was now required, and they were quickly added. Whispering, he said “Take this to Kallin, for him to sign or not, as he will, then bring it back to me and I will deal with it.” He knew that Erygan had had a similar messenger that morning, clearly trying to hide his steps until the last moment. Taren had no such fear of discovery.

  “Does no one have anything to say?”

  “I am just waiting for a message, your majesty. That will determine what I intend to say or leave unsaid” said Taren, just as the man bearing Kallin’s response came up behind him. Kallin’s seal, a pointed star in an open book, and signature were on the paper.

  “Queen Estaleth,” said Taren standing, “this is an official Writ of Secession. It is signed and sealed by ten Lawmakers, and it formally withdraws the lands of Drogoda and Storinea from the Anarian Treaty. It also names me as the legally appointed King of the both countries.”

  Guinira took the long sheet of paper from Taren and read it carefully. She lowered it to look over the top at him. “This is treason, Garrenin.”

  “No, it isn’t.” When she started to argue, he broke in on her. “I cannot commit a crime against a Queen I do not have.”

  “You swore fealty to me.”

  “For as long as remained my Queen, and you are my Queen no longer. Drogoda and Storinea answer to me, now, and to me alone.”

  Guinira was seething. Everyone else was speechless, but Taren was not yet finished. He did not ask for permission to draw near, but walked back up to her, climbed the short steps of the dais, and bent over, whispering into her ear. “If it makes you feel better, Guinira,” he made a point of not acknowledging her title as Queen, “know that I was the heir to the throne you now sit upon. Garisha the Arrogant was my ancestor, in a direct line.” Turning to leave, he descended from short steps, looked at Erygan and said “Well? What are you waiting for, Erygan?”

  Erygan slowly got up, turned around and took a piece of paper similar to Taren’s from a servant standing behind him.

  “As with Taren, this is an official Writ of Secession, signed and sealed by ten Lawmakers, withdrawing the lands of Torridesta, Eschcota, and Noldoron from the Anarian Treaty, and naming me their King.”

  Guinira did not even acknowledge that Erygan had said anything. She just put out her hand and took the paper he offered her, but she did not read it. As soon as the five Morschcoda who had left Anaria and their entourages had left the room, she shook her head in a clear dismissal of those who were left. No one wasted any time in obeying her.

  Into the Forest

  Five years later, Taren still remembered every word that had been said at that final meeting of the Morschcoda Council. It was always that way when something that would change the course of the future was placed into his hands. Taren had not known when his father had made him Ambassador to Armanda that he would soon be meeting the love of his life, and yet he remembered that day in painful detail. The woman he had loved he had married, she who was next in line to the Morschcodal Throne in Dishmo Kornara. She had died not even three years after their marriage, at which time Taren resigned the position of Ambassador. The final day of the Drog Civil War was also engraved in his mind. A day of bloodshed beyond anything Taren had witnessed previously or since. His three younger brothers and his younger sister had stood against him. They would not surrender, and so, on the field of battle, Taren had met Garret and Dreth. Dreth had nearly carved out Taren’s eye, but Taren had killed them both. The day he had been named Morschcoda, too, was carved into the unbreakable stone of his memory, when he had brought his evidence before the Mordak Council, accusing his father of inciting civil war in his own land. He had executed Garrick Garrenin himself. Shaking off his haunting past, and the urge to reach for the flask in his boot with it, Taren turned from the window where he had been standing. Though he had given up drinking, for the most part, occasion often demanded it, and he still kept the flask in his boot for emergencies. Makret was there in the room behind him as he turned, standing as usual. The man was more loyal than Taren had any reason to expect. He was a man who could not be bought. Taren knew that well. He knew that Makret had refused substantial rewards, even ones that promised that he would be the next Morschcoda, to assassinate Taren. He had stood with Taren since they had both been young and careless, in their early twenties, now seven hundred years past.

  “What news is there today, Makret?”

  “The Storinean Delegation has arrived in the city, my lord, and-” Taren cut him off.

  “Makret, I won’t have you calling me my lord. Call me Taren unless occasion demands formality. I’m still the same man I was fifty years ago, let alone five, no matter how much Drogoda, and its people with i
t, has changed.”

  “Yes … my lord” he said, laughing. Taren laughed with him.

  “Have it your own way. Now, what is the rest?”

  “A messenger from Eshtam-Nis arrived early this morning. She will not speak to anyone but you.”

  “There’s more to that, isn’t there.”

  “Unfortunately. She wears the armour of a Dothrin courier, but I would swear she is not one of the people of the forest. Her dark brown eyes and her red hair mark her as Armandan.”

  “So, Guinira sent this woman, not Daliana.”

  “It would seem so.”

  Taren thought. Obviously the message had its origin in Dothoro, but the woman Makret described could not, by any stretch of imagination, belong to Daliana’s people. For the most part, Dothrin had green eyes and hair any shade of brown, not brown eyes or red hair. Daliana’s eyes were the only exception to that rule that he could think of, though many of the Half-Elvin had black or blond hair. “I will see Kallin and his delegation now. Bring the woman in sometime later. Her masters will learn to respect the Drogodan throne through her.”

  * * * * *

  Daliana closed the doors to her private chambers. Not even Guinira would follow her there, whether she respected Daliana’s rights as Morschcoda or not. Daliana had retreated because, though she had no choice, she still had trouble being in the same room as her Queen since Atalin’s execution. Guinira had summoned him to An-Aniath barely a year into her rule. Daliana had begged him not to go, had offered him every excuse, had even ordered him not to leave Eshtam-Nis. He had stubbornly insisted that there was no danger for him. He did not believe that Guinira blamed him for being the only contender for the throne she now sat on. Daliana had not been able to convince him that he was wrong. His small guard had been ambushed inside of An-Aniath, he had been arrested, and he had been charged for treason against Anaria. Taren’s ambassador had attempted to free Atalin politically, Taren’s spies had tried to force their way into the prison and get him out. They had failed, and Atalin was executed before Daliana had even known he had been arrested. When Daliana had complained to Guinira, she had been given a choice: she could forget the whole thing, or she could face the same consequences as Atalin. Taren had intervened personally, and closed his borders before Guinira’s threat could be carried out. So, it had been Daliana who suggested that the messenger go to Taren. Her private messenger had not gotten out of the city alive, so another had been sent, this time with Guinira’s permission. Daliana composed herself, managed one more time to put Atalin’s murder behind her, and walked back out to deal with Guinira.