Right now, however, battle plans and city infrastructure issues went to the back of Rook’s mind as he and his entourage made their way into the city square. The streets were choked with people. When they saw him coming, their cheers roared through the avenues like an ocean wave and they all parted for him. Rook felt hands reaching out to touch him; saw people pointing at him and waving banners painted with a sun. Through the tumult he heard his name cheered, thanked and praised.
Rook felt himself shrink into his armor as he walked behind the Saints who all helped to clear the way for him. He had been cheered in the streets before; he had been cheered when the King and his daughters fell. But that had all been for victorious battle. These cheers, however, were for something else. They held a different kind of weight, and it was crushing him. These were the cheers of people looking upon a leader; a ruler; an idol; a hero. He wasn’t any of those things. He was just a slave of Narbereth who had stood up one day. It wasn’t anything more than the rest of these people could do. But more than that, deep down he felt himself a villain. His actions had led to the deaths of Karinael and Marisal, and nearly the deaths of Galen and the other Saints. He had called upon the demon, and those close to him had paid the price. He wanted to run.
Rook slipped his hand into Kierza’s. At his other side Diotus leaned into him and said, “In Duroton there was once a young man named Rankin Parvailes. He was an orphan and stole food from vendors in the streets when times were tough and the orphanage was overcrowded and could not provide for all the children. But one day he was caught and tried as a thief, and then he was sent to be a laborer, indentured to the Lands. He was a slave really, such is the fate of many thieves in Duroton.
“He was about your age when the Iron Witch rose to power in the east of Duroton, near Mount Yotun. The Iron Witch was once a Jinn, but her mind was twisted by the blood magic and spells of the dead she dabbled in. She rose to great power, and none dared venture to her tower, for even the King feared her curses. The people cowered in the night, never knowing when she would strike next, coming to steal away children for sacrifices to her blood magic.
“One night, the Iron Witch and her servants struck upon a small village near the Blue Wilds. It was the village where Rankin grew up, and he knew many of the young children the Iron Witch stole from the orphanage. Rankin was strong from laboring and digging the trenches for gas lines, but he was not a warrior. Still, he vowed that he would put an end to the Iron Witch, and asked that any who had the courage might follow him. But nobody would join him, for he was nothing but a laborer.
“But Rankin was determined to end the reign of the Iron Witch and her servants of the dead, the revenants. Few had stood against such creatures, and fewer still lived to tell their tale. It was said that only a blessed hand or blessed weapon could turn them away. Knowing this, Rankin thought to obtain the one blessed artifact he knew of. It was a sword named the Valclarinax, a holy weapon that had been blessed by Saint Rachiel of the Blessed Hand during the First Age. The sword was kept as a treasured artifact in the great church of Durtania, and Rankin stole it away one night.
“With the holy Valclarinax in hand, Rankin went to the tower of the Iron Witch and faced her alone. She sent her revenants upon him, but by the light of the Valclarinax they were turned. Then he came upon the Iron Witch herself, and a fearsome foe was she. They battled, and like King Tharick who broke the Mard Grander when he struck down Apollyon, Rankin broke the holy sword when he struck it upon the Iron Witch. As she died, the army of revenants crumbled to dust, their souls free and at peace at last.
“Rankin returned home with many children and brought the mask of the Iron Witch back with him as proof that her powers were no more. He was hailed a hero and even the King summoned him to the throne to receive titles and honors. The King sent men to tear down the cursed tower, and in its place put a statue of Rankin, so that all might remember that heroes are born of courage and not their skill with a sword.
“Tales of his deed spread throughout Duroton and people came to believe that his very shadow would bring courage and strength to any who might stand in it. People would make long pilgrimages to his statue, for it was said that to touch it could make a warrior out of any man. Rankin was never at peace with the honors and titles he received. He told me once that he didn’t feel he deserved as much attention as he got; that all he had done was what any man could have done. In Duroton, even today, if you were to ask who Rankin Parvailes is, they will tell you he is the man who struck down a horde of the undead with naught but the courage in his heart and the righteousness of his hands; the man who faced down the most powerful warlock of our age and rescued a thousand villages from the shadow of the cursed tower. He eats the swords of his enemies for breakfast and he can spit fireballs from his ass.”
Rook chuckled. “So what’s this have to do with anything?”
“My point is, Rook, that no good man feels equal to the power given him by those who adore his name. A hero might earn his title through deeds, but his legend is born of the ideas he stands for. Many times, those ideas are more than the man. Do not fear your ability to live up to the cheers these crowds bestow upon you. It is not you, your deeds or actions they revere, but the ideas that were born from you.”
As they came upon the town square Rook could see that the golden statues of the Sisters had been torn down. In their place now stood a flagpole higher than any building in the entire city. Rook could hardly believe it and wondered when it had gone up. He supposed it had been done late last night, all part of the plan to keep this a surprise for him.
Callad, Sierla, Diotus, Ertrael and Kierza led Rook toward the massive flagpole where a small platform and podium had been erected. It still smelled of fresh wood. Rook’s legs felt weak as he walked up the steps. He had never seen so many people gathered at once. Every street and alley was packed with people, their arms raised in cheers. Children sat on the shoulders of their fathers. The armor of knights and soldiers gleamed in the sun. People dressed in finery and people dressed in rags mingled together everywhere. But of all the raised hands, Rook saw not a single slave bracelet catch in the sun’s rays. He saw people with brands—the same one he and Kierza had—but not a single bracelet. And every raised hand had a sun painted in red upon it. Rook now noticed that it was painted on shirts and the sides of buildings as well. It was also painted upon the podium.
Rook didn’t think it possible, but as he stepped up to the podium the cheers intensified. It was a roar without beginning or end; white noise that did not ebb, but flowed like an unending wave rushing over him. It rumbled in his chest and rattled the nearby windows. Rook felt his cheeks flush. He trembled.
Kierza slipped her hand into his. She leaned into his ear and whispered, “Be brave. You know what to say.”
He squeezed her hand, nearly crushing it. His heart pounded as he settled in at the podium. Upon it was a megaphone. The same megaphone he had used to rally the army against the King. His hand shook as he picked it up. He looked behind. Kierza, Callad, Sierla and Ertrael all smiled brightly at him, holding the rolled-up flag. Behind them, Saints Hadraniel, Raziel, Asteroth, Cabiel, Sodiel and Loganiel all stood. Diotus looked at him and smiled, then flapped his hand, shooing him toward his duty.
Rook looked out at the crowd and placed the megaphone to his mouth. The roar of the crowd receded to near silence, and now thousands of staring, expecting eyes became his burden. It was a weight greater than the cheering had been. Rook swallowed hard, and then spoke into the megaphone.
“People of Narbereth,” he began. Stars above, I have no idea what to say. “You honor me with your cheers. But, on this day, it is all of you that I must honor. Your courage, your bravery, have given us all this chance at freedom—true freedom!—not just for us, but for all the people of Narbereth. Maybe even for all the people of the world. But, it is just that: a chance. What you have all won is more valuable than gold. It is more valuable than
all the riches of all the kingdoms. And thus there will be those who want to take it from you. There will be more battles to fight. There will be no rest for any of us for a long time.”
Rook took a deep breath, trying to rally his thoughts. Before him stood that immense sea of people, all watching, listening. And then off to his left he caught sight of a puddle of blackness. In the shadows of a tall inn stood Grandon Faust and a number of men. They all wore black armor. None of them bore the sign of the sun. Grandon eyed Rook coldly as he puffed on a cigar, his men smirking and whispering amongst themselves.
Rook looked back out to the people. “But I tell you all this: the greatest threat you will yet face will not come from armies of men, or Queen Lustille and her Exalteds. Freedom is not a treasure easily taken away by force of arms. It cannot be stolen away in the night by thieves. Freedom is indeed a treasure, but it is not tangible or ageless like gold and silver. Freedom is something that lives, and all things that live can decay. Those who would take this treasure from you will try to corrupt it from within. They will try to sway you back to the ways of old by promises of strong kings and armies to protect you from the threats of the outside. They will poison you with temptation, to bring back slaves so that some might have an easier life. Do not be fooled! Freedom is something that lives, and the more darkness you cast upon it, the more it will wither and die.
“I do not know what the future will hold for us, but I tell you all this: I am Rook Gatimarian. My family starved in Jerusa. I was made a slave in Narbereth. But today I am free, and so are all of you! Whatever shadows we have cast, let them remain behind us, for before us shines only the sun! So what say you? Shall this land where we stand go back to shadows, or will you raise your hand and say with me, Here Shines the Sun!”
Fists raised into the air and the chant of, “Here Shines the Sun!” rattled the windows of the buildings and thundered through every alley. Rook glanced behind him, and to his relief he saw that Callad, Diotus and Ertrael had fixed the flag to the rope and were ready to raise it.
Rook held his hand up to the flag as it began its ascent. “People of Narbereth, behold your treasure!”
The flag began to rise into the air, and the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, whistles, hoots and hollers. Rook looked to where Grandon Faust and his men were. Grandon cast him a steely gaze, then his folded arms bounced as he huffed a laugh. Grandon spit his cigar to the ground and waved his hand, and fifty or so of his black-clad men turned and disappeared down the alley.
Rook looked back to the cheering crowds as the flag reached full height. “Celebrate, for today you are all citizens of Free Narbereth! Here Shines the Sun!”
Bolt-throwers fired into the air and people roared out in unison. Rook turned around and was immediately scooped up into a painful squeeze by Callad’s large arms. “Well done, son. Well done.”
Callad released him and Sierla hugged him to her chest. She was crying and said something about being proud, but Rook couldn’t hear over the commotion. Then Kierza spun him around and embraced him into a long kiss that only seemed to make the people roar out louder. By the time Rook was out of Kierza’s arms, Hadraniel, Sodiel, Raziel, Cabiel and Loganiel were already gone.
Saint Ertrael patted Rook on the back. “They went back to the church, but they’ll stick around for a while, I think.” said Ertrael. “I don’t think they’ve decided what they’re going to do yet.”
“And what of you?” asked Rook.
“I’ll stay, I think.” said Ertrael. “But right now, I better get back to Galen.”
“I’ll go too.” said Kierza.
Rook looked out at the crowds. “I think I’ll make my escape as well.”
“Not so fast.” croaked Diotus, taking Rook by the arm. “Your people out there are going to expect a few handshakes and a few pints of beer with you.”
No sooner than Diotus said that then Blake and Dontis came up to the podium. “Rook, c’mon!” Blake extended a hand to him. “Tavern’s all ready. There are some people you need to meet. They all need to run something by you. C’mon!”
Rook gulped.
“I’ll go with you.” said Callad, patting Rook on the shoulder.
Rook called out to Kierza as he was dragged away by Blake and Dontis, “I’ll meet you at Diotus’s!”
Kierza smiled and blew him a kiss.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Rook hadn’t really believed he would be doing much celebrating, and he was right. On the way to the tavern there were some handshakes and cheers and even a couple pints of ale shared. However, once at the tavern, Rook’s political duties reared their ugly head again. The tables had all been pushed together to form a circle, and seated around them were a number of people. They introduced themselves to Rook as the First Council of Free Narbereth, the ones the city had more or less elected to represent itself. They consisted of some dozen men from various walks of life. There was the new constable of the city guard, a man named Tamus Garo who had taken over now that his predecessor had been killed in the fighting. For the knights of the King’s former army sat Sir Rivenal, who was the one Rook had met out on the battlefield before the King. There was a wealthy nobleman named Lucus who sat for the merchants and their guilds, and also a farmer who Rook already knew fairly well, named Aethan. And then there was Barzoo. He was a rather large and imposing Escalapian man with the darkest skin Rook had ever seen. Rook was familiar with him. He had been one of Grandon Faust’s slaves. His leather armor was old and beat-up, his hands gnarled from years of labor and battle. Still, Barzoo brought a sense of peace to Rook, for it showed that the people of Free Narbereth had decided that even the lowest of their numbers had a voice.
Notably absent, however, were any of the Saints. According to the Council, the Saints had been invited but had declined any part. Rook couldn’t help but wonder if Karinael would still be here if things had gone better. He also wondered if this meant that if the Saints all stayed, they’d still count themselves apart from the people. Grandon Faust and his men were also absent. Rook thought for sure that this Council would be something the man would demand to be a part of. The fact that he wasn’t here actually did not sit too easily with Rook.
The surprise the Council had in store for Rook was a large sheet of parchment and a quill pen and inkwell. Together with Rook, they wanted to draft an official declaration of independence; something that would officially state that Free Narbereth was free from the rule of any King recognized by Sanctuary, and from Sanctuary itself.
Of all the people in the Council, only Rook himself, Sir Rivenal and Lucus the merchant could read and write, so most of the work fell upon Rook. In fact, the Council really just wanted Rook to draft the declaration himself, only using their input where they felt necessary. In the end, Rook had scribed some two-thousand words declaring Free Narbereth its own, sovereign country which was to be governed under the premises of freedom and liberty for all, and absolving itself from the rule of Sanctuary and any of its Kings. Rook and all the Council signed it. It was then agreed that Lucus would have a copy of it made in bronze to be displayed in the town square beside the flag, and Rook would provide a public reading.
By the time everything was said and done and the Council adjourned, the sun had set and Rook found himself walking blessedly alone upon the streets. It was just dark enough that the gaslamps along the roads began to flicker to life. It had been a long day and Rook’s hands were sore and stained black with ink. His mind was exhausted and he was thankful for the quiet he enjoyed on the way to Diotus’s shop. But away from the hectic duties the city placed on him, Rook found his thoughts troubled by things that now refused to be kept at bay.
For two weeks his sleep had been dreamless, his mind haunted by thoughts of his sister. Every night as he lay beside Kierza he couldn’t help but think that it was another night away from Ursula. Was she safe? Was she loved? Was she cold and
hungry? How could he just stay here, now that he knew where to find her? He had to get to her. He had to tell her that he loved her; tell her about what had happened to their mother and father; about all he had done to try to save her. Even now the thoughts were so maddening that he almost felt compelled to run off to Valdasia at the very moment.
But, Rook hadn’t even told Kierza or anybody else that he knew where his sister was. He hadn’t even sorted out his feelings over what had happened with Karinael, Gabidar and Marisal. On one hand, the guilt of their deaths—and of what happened to little Galen, and that all three boys were now without parents—ate away at his heart. On the other hand, anger that Gabidar had found his sister but didn’t tell him burned within his mind. It all made sense now, why Marisal had become so against Gabidar going off in search of Ursula. How long had they known Ursula was in Valdasia? Months? Years? Why had Gabidar kept it a secret? What, in Valdasia, had become of Ursula that was so dreadful that Gabidar had decided he was better off not knowing?
As Rook came upon Diotus’s shop a somberness, confused by guilt and anger, entered him. He wanted nothing more than to tell Kierza tonight, but he knew that to tell her would be to tell her that he was leaving. She would, of course, insist on coming with him. But Valdasia was a long and dangerous journey. He wasn’t certain he could risk her life. And what of Callad and Sierla? Could he leave them behind? And what of this city and all its people? They looked to him. They needed him. But, what if Ursula needed him? He had to get to her, but when?
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