by Kel Kade
Light skittered away as a dark shadow plummeted through Rezkin’s mind toward him. He ripped himself from his meditation and lurched to his feet as he deflected the projectile with a serrated knife and strength borne of a lifetime of training. His heart pumped furiously, but the battle energy was slow to respond. A quick perusal of his room reassured him that he had not somehow missed an encroaching assailant. Tieran was frozen in wide-eyed trepidation as two vaporous wraiths stood over him, their blazing-red blades bared at his throat.
“Spirétua Syek-lyé,” Shielreyah Elry intoned, “this human assaulted you in eskyeyela. Shall we carry out his sentence now?”
Rezkin studied the floor, the assault evidenced by the torn sack and beans strewn across the grey stones. He looked to his cousin with a questioning lift of his brow.
“I-I was just seeing if you were awake … I mean, if you were you.” Tieran swallowed hard as he felt the sharp edge of the phantom blade press against his throat. “Y-you were speaking … but it did not seem right. I cannot explain it, but I thought that … um … maybe something was trying to possess you.”
Tieran’s confidence seemed to wane with each word spoken. Rezkin cocked his head curiously at his cousin. Tieran closed his eyes and released as much breath as he dared.
Terrified, he muttered, “I know, it sounds stupid when I say it aloud.”
Rezkin said, “Shielreyah, what is the sentence for attacking someone who is in … eskyeyela?”
“Immediate death, Spirétua Syek-lyé,” the phantom warrior answered tonelessly.
“And yet, you did not kill him,” Rezkin observed.
A wisp of energy flitted between the two wraiths, and the second answered. “We sensed that you did not desire his death, Spirétua Syek-lyé.”
Rezkin smiled at his cousin, but Tieran did not find the fiendish grin consoling in any way.
“There, see?” Rezkin said. “They were responding to my will.”
His cousin frowned in sharp reply. “It is your will that they bare their blades to my throat?”
Rezkin sheathed his knife and said, “No. Release him and return to your posts.”
The wraiths bowed their heads and then evaporated in a vaporous puff, only to reappear at attention outside the open portal. Tieran rubbed at his throat and was relieved to find no blood.
“What is this eskyeyela?” he asked as Rezkin retook his resting place on the floor.
“It would seem it has something to do with a state of mediation, although it must be more than that or the shielreyah would have translated it as such.”
“So that is what you were doing? Meditating?” Tieran asked as he sucked in a calming breath.
“Yes,” Rezkin answered. “At least, I was until you assaulted me,” he said as he tossed a small packet to his cousin.
“What is this?” Tieran asked as he unwrapped the leather pouch.
“A needle and thread—to mend your pillow.”
“Mend my pillow?” Tieran exclaimed in dismay. “What do I know of mending? Besides, the beans are all over the floor! Where is Colton when I need him?”
“Yes, it may take you awhile to collect them all,” Rezkin said. “And, you do not need your manservant to mend a sack of beans.”
The heir to the duchy of Wellinven stared at his king. Rezkin sighed and stood. He snatched the torn sack from the ground and then sat beside his cousin.
“It is like this,” he said as he showed Tieran how to thread the needle and then demonstrated the highly complex task of stitching. “You have to loop the thread back like this or the seams will pull apart …”
“What are you doing?” a deep, gruff voice asked from the doorway.
“What does it look like?” Tieran snapped.
Kai huffed and said, “I see the King of Cael, True King of Ashai, sitting on the floor teaching the Archduke and Crown Prince how to sew.”
Tieran scowled and rebuffed, “I am not the duke … or archduke. My father still lives. I know it. And what is this Crown Prince business?”
“While I realize all of this is new,” the striker said as he twirled his finger in the air to indicate everything, “and we have yet to hold any official ceremonies or make announcements, the fact remains that you are Rezkin’s only confirmed kin. Therefore, you are the closest thing he has to an heir, not to mention that you are already in the direct line of ascension to the throne of Ashai.”
Tieran said, “I never wanted to rule Ashai and have even less desire to rule over this haunted abomination.”
Rezkin interrupted before the striker could reply with one of his usual acerbic remarks. “What are you doing here, Kai?”
The striker grunted. “The ghosts came for me. One of those phantom elves popped right out of the wall and told me you were under attack. I am not ashamed to admit I nearly lost my skin when he suddenly appeared over my pallet. I have to say, though, Lord Tieran, that a sewing needle is a poor choice of weapon.”
Rezkin said, “It was a pillow, actually.”
“He tried to suffocate you?”
Rezkin shook his head and smirked. “No, he threw it at me.”
“You mean I was pulled from my bed by phantom elven warriors because the two of you decided to have a pillow fight?”
“What is the problem?” Striker Shezar asked as he appeared behind Kai, his sword drawn in preparation for a fight.
Kai muttered, “Our valiant king is hosting a sewing circle.”
“Consider it a test of sorts,” Rezkin said as he stood. “We now know the shielreyah are highly intuitive and considerate of my desires …”
“Or so they would have us think,” Tieran mumbled.
Rezkin tilted his head in recognition of Tieran’s pessimism. It was, after all, a valid concern. “We also know that, although they have divided themselves into separate entities, they are still, in a way, of one mind and can communicate between multiple locations within the citadel. Additionally, it seems they are aware of your status as my guards and they will alert you if I am in danger. It was a very informative encounter.”
Rezkin settled himself onto his makeshift pallet and said, “Now, if you all do not mind, I intend to get some rest.”
Rezkin was up well before dawn, as usual. Somehow, he felt both refreshed and drained. He had not actually slept, but after Tieran fell asleep, he had finally entered a state of deep meditation. He could typically function on meditation alone for a few days, but for some reason, it had been less effective that night. He wondered if he could not reach the meditative depth he intended due to his perceived need for constant vigilance in the mysterious citadel. He would need to get some real sleep soon if he were to feel truly revitalized.
Most of the refugees were still abed, except for the few guards. Rezkin did not wish to disturb his slumbering subjects, and he felt even less inclined to deal with the guards—not that he expected any trouble. On that morning, he did not feel like dealing with people in general. After donning his night stealth armor and dark hood, Rezkin swept through the crystal-lit corridors on silent feet. With a few well-timed turns, some minor distractions, and the expert use of shadows that somehow always appeared where he needed them, the dark wraith slipped past the guards and through the warehouse to the dock. Hand over hand, he scurried up one of the ropes securing the ship to the dock and slinked over the rail without notice. He was both thankful and irritated that it had been so easy to infiltrate the ship without raising the alarm.
After a quick sweep of the decks, Rezkin stole into the captain’s quarters. Captain Estadd was just beginning to rouse. The man grumbled and rubbed at his face as he shifted his feet to the floor. He used a firestick to light the candle on his bedside table and then lurched back with a shout.
Undesiring of frivolous chatter, Rezkin remained curt. “Captain, report.”
The captain sputtered and clutched at his chest as he attempted to regain his senses. A moment later, two of the ship’s crewmen charged into the room, weapons bared.
“S-sorry, Cap’n. We didn’t know he was aboard,” the first mate answered, his eyes shifting anxiously between king and captain.
Rezkin scowled at the late arrivals and then looked back to Estadd. “Captain?”
“Ah, Your Majesty … nothing to report. All is hale,” Estadd said as he hurriedly tucked his shirt into his trousers.
“You have heard of the phantom warriors in the citadel?” Rezkin asked.
Standing straighter, the captain replied, “Yes, Sire. Quite disturbing, I would say.”
“Have they made an appearance on the ship?” Rezkin asked, his words clipped and brusque.
“No, Sire. We have seen no phantoms on the ship … save for you, perhaps.” Then catching himself, he said, “Pardon me, Your Majesty, I am not quite awake …”
Before Estadd could finish his sentence, the king was out the door. The two crewmen and the captain quickly followed, but when they reached the deck, the king was gone.
Upon reentering the warehouse, Rezkin was momentarily pleased to see that Tam and Waylen were up and just beginning to work through their warm-up routine. He knew Malcius and Brandt would be joining them soon. Palis’s death had been difficult for everyone, but it had lit a fire under the young lords. Waylen had been Palis’s most avid training partner, and over the past several weeks, Tam, Malcius, and Brandt had begun to fill the void. Rezkin was not exactly sure what was driving Tam, but he knew Malcius and Brandt sought vengeance.
He did not think vengeance was an appropriate driving force. His masters had emphasized the need to distance himself from any emotions or personal desires. But Malcius and Brandt were not training to be like him. Rezkin now understood that outworlders had little knowledge of the Rules and even less motivation to follow them. He thought this odd since the Rules were intended to keep people alive. From everything he had observed, though, outworlders tended toward complacency and even apathy. It was deeply rooted in their society and perhaps even encouraged by those in power. Fewer aspiring minds meant easier targets to control.
Rezkin also realized that his upbringing was considered odd and harsh to the outworlders. He had trained with no clear understanding of his purpose and none had been necessary. He trained because it was expected; it was what he did. He had not known anything different, and frankly, it was painful when he failed. The threat of pain could be enough to drive any man, at least until he learned to resist the pain; but by then he was already conditioned for training. Rezkin decided the young lords probably needed a sense of purpose, so he accepted their thirst for blood—for the time being.
As he passed the two young men, Rezkin said, “You two are with me.”
Tam and Waylen glanced at each other and then hurried to catch up to their king. The blue crystals were dim in the corridor at the top of the stairs, barely shedding enough light to illuminate the floor in front of them.
“Uh, Rez, where are we going?” Tam asked as he reached Rezkin’s side.
Waylen strode to the king’s other side with piqued interest. It was not often that Rezkin addressed him outside of training, and he was excited to be included in whatever excursion the king had planned.
“We go to explore the citadel,” Rezkin quietly replied so as not to wake those sleeping in the side chambers.
“What?” exclaimed Tam. At Rezkin’s scowl, he glanced around and lowered his voice. “All alone? Just us?”
Rezkin rounded on his friend and grumbled, “Would you rather stay behind?”
“No!” Tam blurted. “I mean, shouldn’t we have a team or something? You know, like with guards and mages?”
“I agree with your apprentice,” remarked a shadow as it separated itself from the other shadows along the corridor. Striker Shezar’s eyes appeared tired but alert as he blocked their passage. “These boys are not warriors. You are not truly considering going to the next level without your forward units?”
Rezkin’s reply was terse as he pushed passed the striker. “Since you are here, you may attend as well,”
“Sire, we should gather a team …”
“We go now,” Rezkin said. “The shielreyah have assured me that I am in no danger.”
“And you believe them?” Shezar muttered. His generally smooth voice and steady tone did nothing to disguise his irritation. “Then Lord Tieran speaks sense.”
“And I do not?” Rezkin snapped.
The striker stepped in front of his king when they reached the foot of the stairs leading to the next floor. He leveled his gaze at the imposing young warrior and said, “I fear you are still not recovered from yesterday’s incident. You are not acting like yourself.”
“I am fine, Shezar. I just do not feel like dealing with people today.”
“You would dismiss the danger and threats simply because you are feeling asocial?” Waving his hand toward the stairs, Shezar said, “This, here, is an unnecessary risk, Sire. It is in violation of the Rules.”
Rezkin paused. Was he in violation of the Rules? Was he taking an unnecessary risk? Perhaps he would have been if he were not certain that he had no need for concern. As it was, he knew the wraiths spoke truth, and he had no apprehension about the unknown that resided above.
“Spirétua Syek-lyé, you summoned?” a phantom said as his vaporous form took shape beside the striker.
Rezkin was momentarily thrown, as he did not remember calling for the phantom. He narrowed his eyes at the vaporous entity. Had he unconsciously summoned the being, or were the specters listening to them argue?
“Who are you?” Rezkin asked.
This phantom appeared younger than the others he had met, with fine features but a serious countenance. He stood about an inch shorter than Rezkin and wore his hair in an intricate braid that trailed down his back to his waist. Although it was impossible to tell the man’s coloration since he was composed only of bluish vapors, Rezkin thought the young eihelvanan might have had much lighter hair and eyes than the others.
The phantom thrust the pommel of his glowing red sword into his vaporous palm and bowed deeply. “Pereliou evé Spirétua Syek-lyé. My name is Yeshri,” he intoned in an accent unlike the others. “How may I serve?”
Rezkin studied the phantom for a moment and then said, “My companions believe you intend to lead me into a trap.”
“Sire …” Striker Shezar protested with a scowl for his liege.
Tam and Waylen glanced at each other but were otherwise frozen in place. Neither wanted to attract the attention of the wraith … or the angry striker … or the unpredictable warrior-king. Shielreyah Yeshri straightened to attention with his sword hidden behind his back at the ready. He looked curiously at Rezkin but said nothing.
Rezkin looked to the striker and remarked, “They can hear everything that occurs in the citadel.” Looking back to the shielreyah, he asked, “Is this not true?”
The shielreyah tilted his head and answered, “This is true, Spirétua Syek-lyé, but one of us must be listening.”
Shezar looked accusingly at his king. “They might not have heard, then.”
Rezkin shook his head and asked the phantom, “You are always listening to me, are you not?”
Yeshri tilted his head again and replied, “Yes, Spirétua Syek-lyé. We are ever at your call.”
It suddenly dawned on Shezar that the king might not have been behaving oddly after all. Perhaps Rezkin was allowing the wraiths to believe they had his trust for a reason. The striker was now faced with a conundrum. Either the young king had become mentally unstable and erratic, or he was fully cognizant of the dangers and had a plan. Shezar had not known Rezkin for long, and during that time, they had mostly been confined to the ship. He knew the young man to be an indomitable warrior with a sharp mind, but Rezkin’s upbringing had been brutal. It was possible the young king was not altogether sane. Plus, the enchanted citadel had done something to the king upon their arrival. Shezar did
not know Rezkin well enough to tell if he was under a spell.
Rezkin looked to the shielreyah and asked, “So, is it a trap?”
This time it was the shielreyah who looked at Rezkin as if he were crazy. “You would ask me if I am leading you into a trap?”
“Yes. Is it a trap?” Rezkin asked with irritation.
“No, Spirétua. We have no reason or desire to trap you.” Yeshri glanced at the striker and then back to Rezkin. “The humans do not understand. We heed the will of the Spirétua and serve the Syek-lyé.”
Rezkin gave Shezar a single nod. He said, “See. No trap. Let us go.”
With that, the young king pushed past the striker and started up the stairs to the unexplored level.
Shezar said, “Please, at least bring the battle mage. We know not what surprises await.”
Rezkin snapped, “Fine. Yeshri, summon Journeyman Mage Wesson.”
Yeshri floated ahead of him as they ascended the steps, his vaporous form providing additional light to the dim stairwell. This passage was not as wide as the one that led from the warehouse to the first level, only allowing for two or three people to stand abreast. At the landing, Rezkin and his comrades stood before three closed stone doors. Several minutes later, Rezkin could hear the patter of feet in the corridor below, followed by heavy panting up the stairwell. Wesson stopped behind Tam and Waylen as he sucked in air like a man dying for breath.
“The … the phantom said it was urgent,” Wesson huffed as he leaned on his knees gasping for breath.
Rezkin raised a questioning brow at the shielreyah. The phantom appeared concerned that he had somehow offended the king.
“I sensed your frustration and thought it best for the mage to attend quickly,” he said apologetically.
