The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  “They are here.”

  Everett felt a wash of relief rush over him. Had this gone on much longer, he would have had a revolt on his hands. Turning to the baron sitting on his left—the man to whom this hall belonged—he asked, “Your servants will not cause any problems, will they?”

  Baron Treswell, former representative to the First Council, shook his head and replied in a soft, meek voice.

  “No, my Lord. Your instructions were clear.”

  Everett gave a quick nod.

  “Good.”

  Turning back to the rest of the assembled nobles, Everett said, “If you will all remain patient for a few more moments, everything will be made—”

  A thud and a rattle filled the stone hall as the arched oaken door at the room’s far end opened. As one, everyone swiveled to stare. From the darkened hallway beyond the threshold, a man emerged and stepped into the room. The screech of ten chairs scraping on flagstone filled the hall as nine nobles and the Knight-General leapt to their feet.

  Duke Vanson strolled into the hall, prompting polite, mumbled greetings from the barons and baronesses. He ignored them all, making eye contact only with Everett and Raela before striding along the left side of the table.

  Behind the Borderlands’ sovereign, a line of men and women marched into the torch-lit room, their dark skin and manner of dress marking them as Borderlanders. As they entered, the Great Lakes nobles went quiet.

  Vanson stopped halfway up the table, turned to the Borderlanders, and pointed to both sides of the table.

  “Half of you on one side, half on the other.”

  The Borderlanders quietly complied, separating as ordered and lining up behind those still standing at the table. The nobles twisted around, staring in open confusion at the strangers.

  Still relaxing in her chair, Raela said, “You were supposed to be here by eveningmeal.”

  The duke glanced at Raela and shrugged.

  “We have been busy. There is a war going on, in case you were not aware.”

  “And how goes that?” asked Raela.

  “Little resistance as of yet,” answered Vanson. “We’re into the western Marshlands now. Should be at Demetus within the week.”

  An anxious murmuring arose from the Great Lakes’ rulers as they shared worried glances with one another. Baroness Monnard spoke up almost immediately.

  “Excuse me, Lord Vanson? What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Vanson glanced at the baroness, a distasteful look spreading over his face. He looked as if he had gulped down a mouthful of sour milk. Turning his attention to Raela, he asked, “Why is she asking me that?”

  “Because she wants an answer,” replied Raela, a sly smile creeping over her pretty face. “The questions have been coming all afternoon.” She eyed Everett, adding, “Everett nearly murdered a few, I think.”

  Frowning, Everett muttered, “It had crossed my mind.”

  His comment sent the nobles into a series of fitful gasps and stammering protests. Everett watched them with a dispassionate eye. He did not care what they thought or said now. It no longer mattered.

  Vanson raised his voice over the clamor, asking, “Raela, can you please do something about this?”

  A weary sigh slipped from Raela.

  “If I must.”

  The Goddess of Deception stared into the air for several heartbeats before glancing around the table, her gaze briefly resting on every noble and the lone soldier. The only two people spared her magic were Everett and Baron Treswell. The baron of Deartfield had been enthralled by the Cabal years ago and did not need further controlling.

  As the lords and ladies continued talking, shouting, and demanding answers, Raela stood, her thin, gauzy dress clinging to her diminutive form. In a clear, calm tone, she shouted, “Everyone will be quiet!”

  The room went silent.

  Everett stared around the quiet hall, shaking his head in wonder. Ruling would be so much easier if he could do that. He had quietly inquired about the duchy for a mage who could do what Raela could, but his search had been fruitless. Perhaps that was for the better, though. Had he managed to find one, the Constables in Redstone would have made life difficult. There was a reason this meeting was occurring on the sparsely populated shores of Lake Hawthorne. No Trackers were within two day’s ride.

  Raela looked back to Vanson, lifted her eyebrows, and asked, “Better?”

  Vanson inclined his bald head.

  “Much.”

  A new voice emanated from the dark hallway.

  “I agree. I had no desire to talk over everyone.”

  A moment later, the owner of the voice stepped into the hunting hall. The nobles turned to stare, their eyes going wide in an instant. Everett rose from his chair, wondering if this was the first time that any of them had ever seen a saeljul.

  Tandyr moved into the room with unusual grace, his elongated limbs sending ripples along his midnight black robes. His pale skin and whitish-blonde hair took on a soft, warm glow from the room’s torches. Stopping a half-dozen paces into the hall, he peered around the table once, before his gaze settled on Everett.

  “And this is all of them?”

  Nodding once, Everett said, “Yes. Every barony of the Great Lakes is here. And the head of the Sentinels, as well.”

  Tandyr’s gaze rested on the red and black uniform of the knight-general briefly before the God of Chaos said, “Good. Well done, Everett.”

  The duke of the Great Lakes bowed.

  “You are gracious with your praise.”

  “Yes,” said Tandyr, looking back to Everett. “I am. Especially after your previous mistakes.”

  Everett would have liked to point out that earlier failings were not actually his fault, but it was best to keep his mouth shut, so that is what he did.

  One of the barons, a squat man from Bamson stepped away from his chair and began to hurry toward the door. He had taken but two steps when Raela called out, “Stop!”

  The man’s exodus was abruptly halted.

  Raela said, “Now, Baron…” She trailed off and paused a moment in thought before giving a careless wave of her hand. “Bah, whatever your name is, return to your chair and stay there. And to be perfectly clear, everyone is to remain in place until I say so, is that understood?”

  To a man and woman, those assembled nodded, the fear shining in their eyes as clear as Mu’s orb in an empty, blue sky at midday. As the stray baron returned to his chair, Tandyr looked to a nearby Borderlander.

  “Close the door and bar it.”

  The dark-skinned man hurried to the door and shut it, sending a solid thud echoing through the hall. After grabbing a thick board of oak leaning against the wall, he dropped it into two braces on either side of the entryway. The only other door into the room was already likewise barred.

  Tandyr strode forward to stand opposite Everett at the table’s end, unslung a small leather sack that was draped over his shoulder, and placed it on the tabletop. Reaching inside, he withdrew a black, wooden box and held it before him. For the first time in a long while, Everett felt the feathery finger of nervousness tickle his insides.

  Eyeing the box warily, he asked, “Pardon me, Tandyr?”

  The God of Chaos turned an icy gaze to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Must I be here for this?”

  Earlier today, Raela had described in explicit detail as to what happened next. By no means did Everett have a weak stomach, but now that the moment was at hand, he was unsure he wanted to go through with it.

  A slight frown spread over the saeljul’s too-wide lips.

  “Yes. For this to work, you need to be here.”

  “And there is no other—”

  Tandyr’s eyes flashed as hot as a Year’s End bonfire, chasing the calm away.

  “I will have your cooperation today, Everett! The next words from your lips will determine whether or not it will be voluntary!”

  The flare-up of anger took Everett by sur
prise. Most of the time, Tandyr had been nothing but cordial in previous meetings.

  As a quiet chuckle slipped forth from Vanson, Tandyr shifted his burning glare to the God.

  “What is so humorous?!”

  “Now there is the old you,” said Vanson, a smug expression on his face. “I was wondering how long this might take.”

  Over the next few breaths, Everett watched Tandyr struggle to purge himself of his quick surge of fury. Soon, the previously calm and cool expression to which Everett was accustomed returned.

  “Pardon my outburst. We have had a minor setback as of late.”

  “Minor?” grumbled Raela. “What is ‘minor’ about Vanson’s foul-up?”

  Tandyr’s fury flared hot again. Standing tall, he spoke, his voice filling the hall. “Not here! Not now!” The words throbbed with a strange, terrifying power. A few of the nobles appeared ready to bolt for the door, despite Raela’s explicit instructions not to. Glaring between Raela and Vanson, he growled, “Let us do what we are here for so I can get back to the Marshlands!”

  With a careless shrug of her shoulders, Raela said, “I’m not stopping you, am I? Do what you must.”

  Struggling to regain his tranquility yet again, Tandyr set the black box he still held on the table, quickly gripped the lid, and flipped it open. The room grew brighter in an instant, as if the number of torches in the room tripled. All but the blackest of shadows died. With the light came a deep, soul-scraping fear clawing at Everett’s insides. He winced, almost in physical pain from the sensation. Others around the table fared worse against the malicious surge as some of the nobles began to whimper. Knight-General Oper, mere paces from Tandyr, threw his hands up to cover his face and cowered like a frightened child.

  Tandyr reached into the black lacquered box and withdrew a small, silver stone, no bigger than the tip of a man’s thumb. Everett stared at the rock through squinted eyes as the last, stubborn shadows perished.

  Without looking from the stone, Tandyr said, “Take your places.”

  Without hesitation, the dark-skinned men and women moved forward, one Borderlander to a baron or baroness. The Great Lakes’ nobles swiveled their heads back and forth, staring wide-eyed between the advancing Borderlanders and the stone in Tandyr’s hand.

  Shooting a quick look at Vanson and Raela, Tandyr ordered, “If any of them run, hold them.”

  As both of the Gods nodded, Everett closed his eyes and waited, his heart thudding in his throat.

  Moments later, the screaming started.

  Chapter 43: Oracle

  The journey into Buhaylunsod was a quiet one. When Nikalys caught up to Broedi, he remained silent, all the while keeping a careful eye on the hillman. Speaking now seemed a sour idea.

  The path into the valley was a gentle descent, a dirt trail cut into the black-rock cliff side encircling Buhaylunsod. Shrubs, vines, and a handful of small trees grew from cracks in the sheer wall.

  The deeper they went into the crater, the cooler the air became, reminding Nikalys of his and Jak’s journey into Fallsbottom all those turns back. When the path led them from the sun and into the ridge’s shade, Nikalys shivered, pulled his cloak from his pack, and draped it over his shoulders.

  Upon reaching the opposite side of the crater, he looked back to where they had started atop the cliff. He could make out a few figures standing at the path’s start, but he could not tell who was who aside from Captain Scrag with his bright white hair and Nundle from the tomble’s short stature. Nikalys kept looking back to the group until the tops of the evergreens hid the expedition from his view. After saying a silent prayer to Lamoth to keep them safe, Nikalys turned his full attention to the city and—with an involuntary gasp of surprise—muttered, “Bless the Gods.”

  The city of the thorn was stunning.

  Each thick-trunked tree supported numerous levels of circular buildings topped by sloping, gently curved roofs. A network of interconnected wood-planked walkways hung between the different buildings, suspended by tough, woody vines. Hundreds of thorn moved through the city, shuffling along platforms and walkways alike. A handful of hillmen and hillwomen—all bald and tattooed—moved with them.

  A glance to his right revealed Broedi staring hard into the city. Most of his typical stoicism had returned, yet fury still simmered just below the surface. Nikalys studied the throngs moving through the city, wondering what was fueling Broedi’s intensity. After a moment, he realized that none of the hillmen moved independently. Each trailed a particular thorn. His step slowed a fraction as a disturbing possibility flashed through his head.

  Glancing back to Broedi’s stern profile, he muttered, “Broedi?”

  Without meeting his eye, the hillman answered, “Yes?”

  “Are they all sla—”

  Wide eyes and a quick, warning shake of Broedi’s head cut his question short. The White Lion stole a quick look at Talulot—the thorn did not seem to be paying attention—and as quietly as he could manage, Broedi whispered, “It would seem so.” His gaze returned to the city. “Every one of them.”

  Nikalys shook his head, disgusted.

  Slaves.

  Shocked, Nikalys muttered, “But why?”

  Broedi glanced back at him, snapping, “How am I to know?”

  Unnerved by Broedi’s flash of irritation, Nikalys kept his own tone neutral as he said, “I suppose you wouldn’t, but—”

  “Remain quiet,” rumbled Broedi, cutting Nikalys off again. “No more questions. I must think.” He stared back to the platforms with anger in his eyes.

  Not wanting to press further, Nikalys simply nodded and followed.

  Ahead of them, Nikalys spotted a long vine and wood bridge stretching from the cliff’s path to one of the platforms wrapped around an evergreen’s trunk. Three thorn were shuffling across the bridge and toward the trail, their black-eyed gazes fixed on Nikalys’ approaching group. A single, bald hillman in brown robes followed them, gaping at the group.

  Upon reaching the end of the bridge, the group from the city stopped in the pathway and waited, the thorn swaying side-to-side while glaring at Talulot. One stood at the point, apart from the other two, the trio effectively barring entrance to city. While their triangular faces looked nearly identical to Talulot’s, Nikalys noticed slight variations in height, the color of their bark-skin, and different shades of green in their grassy hair. The hillman with them moved to stand a half-dozen paces behind them, his curious gaze reserved solely for Broedi. When Talulot was twenty paces away, the lead thorn of the trio held up a six-fingered, wooden hand and spoke.

  “Sino ang madala sa aman?”

  Talulot stopped in place, forcing Broedi and Nikalys to halt behind him. Nikalys glanced over at Broedi and raised an eyebrow, hoping the White Lion could translate. Broedi ignored him.

  Talulot whistled, “In Argot, Puno.”

  The lead thorn—Nikalys assumed ‘Puno’ was its name—angled its head and asked, “Why must I use—” Puno halted suddenly and tilted its head, turning its glassy stare to Nikalys and Broedi. After peering at them both for a moment, it whistled, “They are unique.” Its voice was slightly higher than Talulot’s, as if wind was rustling through an ash grove rather than oak.

  Talulot whistled, “See into them.”

  As Nikalys’ eyebrows drew together, Puno lifted its branch of an arm and extended it outward. Closing its black eyes, the thorn began to sway in the same manner as Talulot had on the beach. A glance into the city revealed every thorn and hillmen in view staring at him and Broedi. Nikalys offered an awkward smile but none of Buhaylunsod’s residents smiled back. Turning back to Puno, Nikalys did the only thing he could do: he waited.

  After a time, the thorn stopped oscillating and opened its eyes. Staring at Nikalys, it whistled, “Noteworthy.” The grassy hair on its head shivered in the cool, valley breeze. “Who are you?”

  With a soft creak of wood, Talulot twisted head and torso around to stare at them, evidently expecting an answer. Nik
alys glanced at Broedi, intending to defer to him. Upon seeing the muscles twitching in the hillman’s thick neck, Nikalys decided it might be better if he answered.

  Stepping forward, he announced, “My name is Nikalys Isaac.”

  Puno tilted its head and asked, “Where are you from?”

  Following another fruitless glance at Broedi, Nikalys said, “I grew up in Yellow Mud.”

  The thorn stared at him in silence, its eyes blank.

  After a moment Nikalys, added, “It’s a village. In the Great Lakes Duchy.” When there was still no recognition in the thorn’s expression, he added hopefully, “In the Oaken Duchies?”

  A few heartbeats passed in complete silence before Puno turned its gaze to Talulot.

  “How is it they are here?”

  “A ship arrived where the sun enters the sea and they came ashore,” whistled Talulot. “Believing they were of the Chosen, my aliipin—” Nikalys sensed Broedi tense “—and I defended our lands.” Talulot turned to stare at Nikalys and Broedi. “It was only after the battle was halted that I was able to see inside them.”

  “They defeated you?” asked Puno. It sounded vaguely surprised.

  Returning its gaze to Puno, Talulot swayed as it answered, “In a manner, yes.”

  The two thorn behind Puno shared a long stare while open surprise washed over the robed hillman’s face. The tattoos atop his head twisted as his eyebrows raised high.

  “Noteworthy,” whistled Puno. Turning its gaze back to Nikalys, it tilted his head—again—and asked, “Why have you come here?”

  Before Nikalys could answer, Talulot spoke, saying, “They wish to speak with Aembyr-The-Ageless.”

  “Do they?” asked Puno. “And are there more like them?”

  “They have followers, yes, but they are not like these two,” answered Talulot. “My aliipin is with them, outside of the center. I promised safety for them until we speak with the Mataan.”

  Puno began swaying again, its movements more vigorous than before.

  “Strangers are not permitted this close to Buhaylunsod. Their lives must be ended.”

  Nikalys shot an anxious glance to Broedi.