Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  “Very well, Marquess. I accept, on the condition that you recognize I am my own master. I will do what I believe necessary.”

  The marquess looked at Aaslo uncertainly—and expectantly.

  “The blight, Aaslo. He wants you to fix his swamps.”

  Aaslo sighed and added, “And, I will do what I can to cure your blight as soon as it is manageable.”

  The marquess smiled. “Then we have a deal.” He turned to Greylan, who seemed to be snarling at Aaslo with his eyes. “Come. We have much to do and little time, it seems.”

  Aaslo made to follow but was stopped by the doorman at the palace entrance.

  “Sir Forester, I have received word that you are to remain in the palace.”

  “Uh-oh, Aaslo. The king changed his mind about throwing you in the dungeon.”

  “Am I being arrested?”

  The doorman raised his brow and shook his head. “No, sir. You are a royal guest.” Glancing up, the doorman waved toward a middle-aged, mousy woman in palace livery as she entered the hall from a servants’ passage. A massive ring of keys jangled at her waist as she scurried toward them on slippered feet.

  The doorman said to the woman, “This is Forester Aaslo. He is to be a guest at the feast tonight and will be quartered in the royal wing—the Sapphire Room.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she surveyed Aaslo with a glance. “I will see to it immediately.”

  “I didn’t like her reaction, Aaslo. Something’s up.”

  “Probably just because I’m a forester.”

  The woman blinked at him. “Oh no, I don’t believe that’s true. Many illustrious visitors come to the palace. Not even princes and magi go to the Sapphire Room.”

  “Sounds nefarious.”

  “Why is that?” Aaslo said.

  Glancing at the guard, the woman pursed her lips and said, “I couldn’t say.” She abruptly bowed, her manner suddenly formal, and said, “I am Helania, the keeper of the keys. It would be my pleasure to escort you to your quarters—if you would follow me?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and began walking toward the corridor.

  “Wait,” Aaslo said as he caught up with the small woman in only two strides. “I must return to my guild house. What about my belongings?”

  The woman glanced at his apparel out of the corner of her eye. “You will be provided with everything you require while you are a guest at the palace. Brontus will be your manservant. He and the master of the wardrobe will attend you shortly for a fitting.”

  “Fitting?”

  “For your dinner clothes. With all due respect, Sir Forester, you cannot sit at the king’s table in those.”

  Aaslo’s head was spinning. He had no desire to remain at the palace any longer than necessary, and he certainly didn’t want to dine with the king. He wondered—if he was suddenly being treated as a royal guest, perhaps the king had changed his mind about the prophecy.

  “He probably decided he doesn’t want you meddling in the kingdom’s affairs. He must want something else. Look, you’re heading for the tower dungeon.”

  Aaslo’s momentary flutter of optimism was dashed as Helania turned toward a set of winding steps. He cleared his throat and said, “Are you sure Sapphire Room isn’t another word for dungeon?”

  Helania’s foot slipped on the next step, and she fell back into his arms. As she straightened, she said, “Thank you, Sir Forester, and no. Why would you say such a thing?”

  Aaslo grumbled, “I figure I’m more likely to be placed in shackles than offered a seat at the king’s table.”

  She glanced back, looking as if she was suddenly concerned about being stuck in an empty stairwell with him. “Why? Have you done something to displease His Majesty?”

  “I was only the messenger.”

  Her smile was one of relief. “Oh, I cannot imagine King Rakith holding that against you. He’s a very reasonable man.”

  “And he will reasonably lock you in a tower, so you don’t go running around the kingdom spreading word of impending doom.”

  “Who would believe me?”

  “Apparently someone believes you,” said the woman. “You are, after all, a royal guest.”

  “That’s what concerns me.” Passing another exit, he said, “This doesn’t look like the route the king or queen would take to their quarters.”

  Helania laughed. “No, you wouldn’t want to go that way. There are so many checkpoints with guards and even a few magi. Every one of them would want to confirm that you are who you say you are and that you’re actually a royal guest. Not that they wouldn’t believe me. They just like to feel important. It would take forever.” She jangled the keys in front of his eyes and said, “That’s why I have these. I can access any door in the palace, even the secret ones.” She winked at him with a sly grin. “Don’t go getting any ideas, though. I’m a witch of the First Order.”

  “I’ve never met a witch.”

  “No, I would be surprised if you had. We are almost as rare as sorceresses.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Do you never listen?”

  “I must not have been there for that lesson,” Aaslo mumbled.

  “I suppose it isn’t something that’s generally taught,” said Helania. “Few outside the bloodlines understand. A sorceress or sorcerer shapes raw power with the mind. Their spells are most powerful but usually lack finesse. A witch or warlock uses incantations or rituals. It takes more preparation to develop spells of equivalent power, but we are more efficient and accurate than all but the most powerful sorceresses. Unfortunately, it is also easier to bind our power, which is why we are permitted to serve in the palace.”

  “Then you are a member of one of the twelve bloodlines?”

  “Of course. I am a Vivant.”

  Aaslo remembered the conversation he had overheard between Magdelay and Mathias as he had tracked the enemy outside Goldenwood. He said, “I heard that each bloodline believes magic should be used for a specific goal. If you don’t mind me asking, what do the Vivants believe?”

  The woman unlocked an unimpressive door on the fifth landing and led him into an elaborately decorated, albeit empty, corridor that curved. “You were told correctly,” she said as she shuffled past the first set of intricately carved doors. “The Vivants believe magic should be used to honor and worship the gods.”

  “Do you worship a specific deity?”

  She smiled as she stopped in front of a door painted blue and gilded around the edges. “I prefer to remain impartial. They are all worthy of our devotion.”

  “Even Death?”

  Helania said, “Oh yes! Death is an inevitability. Of all the gods, he is the most important after we leave this world. It is within his kingdom that we will find paradise or terror. I think it is best to please him.”

  * * *

  Myropa wanted to laugh. She might have if her face had not been numb from the cold. There was no pleasing Axus, and he cared nothing for the well-being of the humans before or after death. She knew firsthand the disdain he felt for humans. They were only a means to an end. Axus might be the God of Death, but he was not the Keeper of Paradise the witch believed him to be. Myropa had overheard the gods venting often enough to understand Axus’s power. He gained it through the process of death, the passage of souls through the veil. If he had access to the shining souls themselves, Axus’s power would quickly outshine that of the other gods. Only the tarnished souls destined for punishment ended in his care, but they did not provide him with much power.

  Myropa, like the other reapers, was assigned to collect souls on Axus’s behalf, then deliver them to the Sea of Transcendence. She wasn’t sure what happened to them once in the Sea. She wondered if even the gods knew. The reapers were a safety measure emplaced by the other gods. Axus was not permitted access to the Sea lest he claim the souls and gain unfettered power. Only reapers could reach its shores.

  Myropa kept following the forester, despite the pain o
f shame and guilt he inspired. In his presence, she felt a mixture of sorrow and joy. Given her present state of existence, the former could never be assuaged, nor could the latter be celebrated.

  After following Aaslo through the doorway, she surveyed her surroundings. She had never before seen this room—had never needed to collect anyone from this place. Aaslo seemed to think he was in trouble, but nothing here spoke of punishment. If anything, the voluminous fabrics and pillows, in earthy tones, piled together and mixed with the sweet scent of musk and incense had a soporific effect. A pool of steaming sapphire water sprinkled with lavender and rose petals occupied the center of the chamber, and a spelled lute displayed on a golden stand in one corner played an enchanting melody.

  Aaslo’s expression turned to one of confusion; then he turned to look right through Myropa to the keeper of the keys.

  “What is this?” he said.

  The woman motioned toward the pool and said, “This is the Sapphire Room. Food will arrive from the kitchen shortly. You are expected to take advantage of the warm bath before dinner. Brontus will be here soon. He will assist you with anything else you might need.”

  Rising in fragrant curls, the steam was enticing. Myropa wished she could feel the hot bath melting the ice from her core. She felt a familiar sizzle in her chest and looked down just as a luminous tether snapped into existence. She wanted to remain with the forester, but she had a soul to collect, and it was not far. Turning from the room, she shuffled down the corridor past the queen’s chambers and on to the king’s. She took a second to admire the guards, both handsome men who were exceptionally appealing in their uniforms. With a thought, she stood on the other side of the door in the receiving chamber. She passed tables, sofas, tapestries, and flower-filled vases, all of which she was certain were delightfully colorful, but they appeared drab to her. Then she was in the king’s bedchamber.

  “Come, Your Majesty, I will cheer you up,” said a young woman with strawberry curls, whom Myropa guessed to be his latest consort. The woman was half naked and kneeling on the bed behind Rakith where he sat still dressed in his court attire. He was at the foot of the bed, bent forward with his head in his hands.

  “No, Alarie, there is no cheer to be found this day.”

  “It surely cannot be that bad,” said the young woman. “We make our own joy, do we not?”

  Alarie slid from the bed and turned to face the king. That was when Myropa saw it. A charcoal-grey creature no larger than a hunting dog had been hiding behind the woman. Veins bulged along the leathery skin that was stretched tight across its bony body, and its wispy hair flicked around its oblong head as if untouched by gravity. Bulging, mottled grey-and-black eyes without pupils blinked at Myropa. The vight hissed, bearing sharp little fangs within an overlarge mouth. It lunged with glistening talons toward Alarie’s abdomen.

  Myropa slapped her hands together and opened them to emit a burst of light. Her voice rang with power not her own as she intoned, “By the power of the Fates, vight, I cast you to the Alterworld.”

  The vight screeched and tore across the room, trying to reach the sliver that remained of its portal hidden behind a drapery.

  “Stay out of this, Reaper,” it hissed. “Axus will hear of your interference.”

  “Axus goes too far. This one has not been marked by the Fates, yet they warn me nonetheless.” She plucked the tether, which had changed from the usual blue hue to pale orange in the vight’s presence. “Neither you nor Axus have the right to meddle in the tapestry. The Fates decide which souls Axus may claim, not you.”

  “It will die anyway. They all will.”

  “Yes, but not by your hand.”

  She cupped her palms and felt the power build within them. When she opened them, a ball of light streaked toward the little demon. The light wrapped itself around it like a spider’s web, and it was sucked through the veil along with the iridescent tether that had drawn her to the room. Myropa looked to the king and his consort, who were unaware of the ethereal battle that had threatened them.

  Rakith rested his hand on Alarie’s belly and said, “I am distraught that she will not have a chance at life.”

  Alarie’s brow furrowed. Her smile appeared forced as she stroked his cheek. “How do you know it’s a she?”

  The king rubbed the baby bump adoringly and said, “I have five sons already. I think I am due a daughter.”

  Taking Rakith’s hands, Alarie moved to sit on his lap. “You will give her the same life and joy you have given your sons. Why do you worry so?”

  Rakith kissed her forehead and said, “Do not worry over it. Stress is not good for the baby.”

  She smiled and climbed back onto the bed. “Come. A nap will do us both good.”

  Myropa glanced toward the drapery to see that the vight’s portal had completely sealed. She mentally groaned. This meant another report to Trostili.

  CHAPTER 11

  Aaslo had just discarded his clothes when the chamber door opened to admit a willowy man with long, silvery black hair intricately braided down his back. The man’s black suit was immaculate, perfectly fitted to his form and free of wrinkles and dust. He wore white gloves and carried a silver-tipped cane from which hung a small pouch overflowing with baubles. Aaslo grabbed a pillow from the bed, covering himself. The newcomer stepped aside to reveal another well-kempt middle-aged man. This one had grey hair and wore a haggard expression as he lugged a large basket to a side table. He was followed by two women and a boy carrying trays laden with food, wine, dishes, and table linens. The latter three went about setting a small table near the enchanted lute, while the two men approached him, unconcerned with his nudity.

  The grey-haired man said, “I am Brontus, your manservant for the remainder of your stay at the palace. This is Master of the Wardrobe Akirini.”

  Akirini placed his hands on his cane in front of him and said in a droll voice, “There is no need for modesty. Your present state of undress is well suited for acquiring your measurements.” Aaslo looked at the women and boy, and Akirini followed his gaze. The man said, “It is nothing we haven’t seen before.”

  Aaslo scowled as he looked back at the man. “You haven’t seen this one, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”

  “The steward will be pleased to hear it,” Akirini said, his expression unchanged. “Shall we continue?”

  “Did he just make a joke?”

  Aaslo glanced to where he had left the burlap sack on the floor a few feet from him. He doubted anyone who had not been in the throne room knew what was in the bag. He decided that, at that point, it was probably best not to call attention to it.

  “You’re not going to introduce me?”

  “I’d rather not,” he muttered.

  Akirini said, “I am a professional, sir. I could estimate your size, but your dinner attire will fit better if I take your measurements.”

  The two women glanced back at him. One whispered to the other, who giggled behind her hand. Then both women and the boy collected their empty trays and left the chamber.

  Aaslo looked back to the two men. “Fine. I don’t want anything frilly, though. None of that ridiculous lace, and I’m not wearing hose.”

  “Of course not, Sir Forester,” said Akirini. “You seem much too practical for that.”

  “His delivery could use some work, but he’s quite funny.”

  While Akirini took Aaslo’s measurements, Brontus arranged a number of bottles and hand towels on a tray beside the pool. When he bent to collect Aaslo’s worn clothes from the floor, Aaslo snapped, “Don’t touch the bag. It stays with me at all times.” The manservant glanced at Aaslo, then wrinkled his nose as he withdrew his hand.

  Akirini said, “That will not do. To carry such a filthy thing to dinner would be offensive—especially to anyone with a nose.”

  “I’m hurt, Akirini. I thought we shared a bond.”

  Aaslo said, “It stays with me.”

  The man’s lips thinned in disapproval, b
ut he said nothing more.

  An hour later, Aaslo was fed, bathed, and dressed in a thick robe. He smelled like lavender and roses and—he sniffed his arm—sage? He sat on a padded stool mentally grumbling to himself as Brontus combed and trimmed his hair. His hackles rose when the manservant moved toward his throat with a straight razor, but he begrudgingly allowed the stranger to shave his face.

  “There, that’s better. Do you agree, sir?” said Brontus.

  Aaslo stroked his smooth cheek. “Seems like a lot of trouble just to eat dinner.”

  Brontus chuckled. “A feast at the palace is much more than a meal, especially for one such as you. The feast is an opportunity to meet with your betters and to demonstrate to them whatever it is you have to offer. With luck, you may secure patronage.”

  “I already have a patron,” Aaslo said.

  “Well, then you are one of the lucky ones. Still, it doesn’t hurt to gain support. The more the better, I say. Besides, as far as I know, no forester has ever visited Tyellí, much less the palace.”

  Aaslo crossed his arms as he presented Brontus with a dubious look. “I am being put on display like one of those exotic animals in the traveling fair, aren’t I? I’m not so much a guest as the entertainment.”

  Brontus looked abashed, but he smiled and said, “It is not my place to question the motives of the monarchy.”

  He looked as confused as Aaslo when suddenly there was a heavy rap at the door. Brontus shuffled forward and opened it with practiced grace. One of the royal guardsmen stood on the other side. The guard glanced at Aaslo, then whispered something to the manservant. Brontus’s eyes widened and he, too, glanced at Aaslo. Then he bobbed his head and closed the door as the guard turned away.

  “Uh-oh, you’re in trouble now.”

  Aaslo scowled down at the burlap sack, then looked back to Brontus. “What is it?”

  Brontus spread his hands and said, “It seems you have been invited to observe the goings-on in the practice yard.”

  “What goings-on?”

  “The practice, of course.”

  Aaslo huffed, “Whose practice of what?”