Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  A low voice whispered in his ear. “You are great among men.”

  He craned his neck to find that it was Lhinthel. “Shagober.” Humble thanks.

  She inclined her head and took a chair next to him, sitting in companionable silence until the band played the first notes of an ethereal melody. A wide smile spread on the Elf’s face, and she rushed to Baldomir’s side to bring his attention to the dance floor. The space cleared out to allow five rows of Elven warriors to form up in front of the royal family. Cyril’s face lit up. He’d seen this once before. How rare to get to experience it twice!

  Another party-goer nudged him. “What are they doing?”

  “Rovetha tencer ten valinor. The victory dance of the warriors.”

  The stranger snorted. “Warriors? Most of them didn’t show up until after the battle!”

  “Perhaps, but those who did fight, fought as fiercely as a hundred men. Now shh, I want to watch.”

  The music solidified into a stately rhythm, and the Elven warriors flowed into an elegant series of movements incorporating their weapons. So fascinating, simultaneously a dance and a demonstration of skill. As one, their bowmen knelt and showed off an impressive rapid fire technique, while the swordsmen engaged in a choreographed show of parries, slashes and thrusts. Cyril used his sleeve to dab at his eyes. Leave it to the Elves to make an elegant dance from a whirlwind of death.

  The massive doors at the rear of the hall boomed open. A hush settled over the folk nearest to it, and swept over the rest of the hall. Dancers left the floor, and the music petered out. A low murmur drifted through the room, but faded quickly.

  Cyril craned his neck. What had grabbed everyone’s attention? Around the gaudy feathered hat of the woman in front of him, he caught sight of Prince Kasomir striding through the room toward his father at the high table. A young woman clung to him, clad in a city guardsman’s cloak. She hardly seemed like a prisoner. Perhaps a freed Golgent slave?

  Princess Plantagia bolted up, knocking her chair to the floor, and looked about to vault over the table towards her brother. She stopped, though, in deference to years of training in proper etiquette. The loving excitement on her face warmed Cyril to the very core. How wonderful that the royal family loved each other, not giving into the typical jealousies brought on by palace intrigue.

  The king circled around in front of the table, stretched out his arms and embraced the young prince. “Welcome home, my son. Though I should be angry with you for your disobedience. Running off the way you did.” A reserved collection of snorts and chuckles sounded throughout the room. “And Lamortain? Is he dead?” He released the prince.

  Kasomir stiffened. “He escaped our judgment. But not his adjutant, Xantasia.”

  “Ah! My son has distinguished himself in battle with a high-ranking dark mage!”

  “No, father.” He offered his hand to the young woman, who had backed away during the exchange. “This is Sudalya. She felled Xantasia.”

  Hundreds of gazes fixed upon the mysterious maiden. She clung to the prince, reminding Cyril of a frightened rabbit. But where was Dagorat? Hadn’t he been with Kasomir? Cyril strained to search through the rest of the entourage. His old friend was nowhere to be found.

  Kasomir handed Sudalya over to the queen’s attendants. “Find something proper for her to wear.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, producing murmurs from around the room, and a decidedly disapproving glare from the queen.

  “Yes!” Baldomir said. He slurped a swig from his mug. “Show this maiden all the hospitality that can be mustered.” The attendants curtseyed and bustled off with the girl in tow. The king beamed at his son as he clouted him on the shoulder.

  With a loud clap of his hands, Kasomir gestured to several of his men lurking in the doorway. Four men entered, dragging oversized sacks to the front; at the high table, they untied the bags and upended them. A golden, glistening river of precious metal and jewels spilled out upon the floor. Sheer glee dominated King Baldomir’s face, while a chorus of marvelous wonder escaped the mouths of the guests. Even Cyril got caught up in the moment and felt a sense of dumbfounded amazement at the sight of Lamortain’s treasure. Enough to reimburse the kingdom’s war expenses five times over.

  Baldomir embraced Kasomir again. “Well done, my son. This battle swallowed a fair share of our resources. I worried about feeding our soldiers this winter. But this bounty solves that problem.” Plantagia worked her way over to hug her brother, followed by the rest of the royal children.

  Cyril still hadn’t spotted Dagorat. He tapped a finger, waiting for the family reunion to break up, and then strode up to Kasomir. “Where is Dagorat? He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  The prince regarded him with an inscrutable expression. “He’s fine. He said he was going home.”

  A lump choked up Cyril’s throat. “Without me? That’s rather peculiar.” Was Dagorat still angry with him? He thought they’d parted, if not on the best of terms, at least with a mutual understanding of why he and Katrina had been sent on patrol. The more he thought about it now, though, the more he became convinced his old friend had abandoned him in anger. Fresh with grief, he probably still blamed Cyril for everything. Sadly, the old mage polished off his ale and searched for another.

  ***

  The celebrations continued for a full week. Early on the eighth morning, head throbbing from too much ale and revelry, Cyril went with Liberon to join a caravan heading back to Mentiria. King Baldomir had been most generous with parting gifts, and Grand Abbot Clementon had added a handsome sum in exchange for Cyril’s aid in the battle. The wagon groaned under the load. Their horses didn’t seem too happy about it, either.

  Liberon settled onto the driver’s bench and grabbed the reins. Cyril clambered up next to him, and the young monk gave him a happy grin. He had in fact spent the battle praying with his brethren, and thus was spared the horror. “Well, at least we have each other’s company for the journey home.”

  “And a few friends that we made along the way,” Cyril said. He waved to Craicwyth and Magda, sitting on a wagon to their left. Magda waved back, while Craicwyth smiled pleasantly. His shoulder was still bound up, letting an arrow wound heal.

  The horn sounded for the small caravan to leave. Cyril settled back in his seat and sank deep into thought. He had to find a way to give Dagorat his half of Baldomir’s reward. What did he mean by “going home”? Mentiria? Or Dun Targhill, where his family still resided? Will I ever set eyes on my dearest friend again? He bowed his head.

  After several tedious hours, the caravan stopped on the roadside for a midday meal. Along with Liberon, Cyril ate his fill, cleaned up after himself, and climbed back onto the wagon. He sighed in weariness, knowing this ritual would be repeated to the point of drudgery until they arrived in Mentiria. Had his life ever been anything but travel? As if the battle had been a mere diversion from the road. “I can hardly wait to sleep at home again,” he commented.

  Liberon’s chin bobbed. “Me, too. I long for the simple and orderly life of Farmstead Abbey.”

  A voice came from behind. “What is life like at the abbey?”

  The young monk let out a yelp, and Cyril nearly jumped out of his pants. That was Dagorat’s voice. “What are you doing here?” the mage shouted. His heart leapt for joy as he slid through the hatch into the rear of the wagon. “I thought you left without us. Why didn’t you come back to the city for the celebration?”

  “I was recognized. It was better to wait for you along the road.”

  “Who saw you?” Cyril asked.

  “One of the condemned, one of those promised freedom in return for fighting. A crazy bugger named Bandoras who said he wanted me dead.”

  Cyril gave an approving grunt. “And what have you been doing for eight days?”

  “I rode up to Dun Targhill.” He yanked out the spyglass. “But I stayed at a distance.”

  “They’re still watching the village in case you show up?” Cyril’s brows rose to a curve.
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  “Two men-at-arms were camped out behind a barn. But I saw Mom. She seemed happy and healthy.”

  “And the children?”

  “My sister must’ve had a new baby while I was gone. She was holding a bundle while the older children played with the herding dog. They’ve grown so much.” His voice broke on the last word.

  “Perhaps one day you’ll be able to really visit,” Liberon said.

  “Yes, both my family and Katrina’s grave. If she even has one.”

  Liberon sniffled. “I made sure all the necessary holy rites were done for her. She rests in sacred ground within the Luminous Core.”

  Dagorat clapped Liberon on the shoulder with one hand, and wiped his eyes with the other. “Thank you, brother.”

  ***

  Grand Abbot Clementon strode into King Baldomir’s throne room, footsteps echoing from the stone walls. His brows pinched when he realized the normally bustling place was empty, except for himself and the king. That never boded well. He steeled himself for whatever would come, halted at the foot of the throne and bowed. “Where is everyone else, Sire?”

  “I wanted to speak with you alone about your recent inquiries.”

  Ah, of course. He should have known. “I’ve discovered several interesting facts. But they could be mere coincidences.”

  “I’ll be the judge of what’s coincidence. Tell me everything,” Baldomir said.

  “Yes, Sire,” the abbot said. “Do you remember when Blackmond Moonshadow fled the kingdom about three years ago?”

  The king gave a curt nod. Clementon strode over to an ornate map of Easterly. “I’ll start with the day of Moonshadow’s disappearance. When your men tried to ambush him, word reached us that he fled. Outlaw activity ceased to be, and stories of the rogue faded to nothing.” He placed a finger on the small village of Dun Targhill. “Now, we know this was the rogue’s home village. We posted a watch, which still stands to this day. He never returned home. But some weeks after Moonshadow left, a professional gambler took up residence in Jalken. You know of the Jalkenese weakness for games of chance. Especially card play. This gambler and his servant relieved the Jalkenese nobility of a tidy sum.”

  Baldomir edged forward. “Is there more?”

  “The strange gambler won too much too quickly, and many felt cheated. On the morning when the constable went to arrest him and his servant, they’d vanished.”

  “I see. Just as it happened here, it happened in Jalken. But that doesn’t mean it was Blackmond Moonshadow.”

  “But there’s more, Sire. A month after that incident, a Shantokran Mage purchased a house and began offering consultation and remedies in Mentiria. The timeframe lined up with a caravan’s travel route from Jalken.”

  “Still coincidence, but interesting,” Baldomir said.

  “But he paid for the house with Jalkenese coins. And the name of this particular Mentirian mage was Cyril the Wise. And his servant’s name was Dagorat.”

  Baldomir pounded his fist on the throne and shot to his feet. “You think Moonshadow was Dagorat? Sleeping under my roof and eating my food? That scoundrel enjoyed my hospitality and generosity?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility, Sire.”

  The doors swung open before the king probed any further. A steward stood in the doorway and rapped on the floor with a wooden staff. “Sire, one of the freed men wishes to see you.”

  “I’m in private consultation,” Baldomir snapped.

  The steward bowed and backed away.

  “Wait,” Clementon said. He sidled up to the king and whispered, “I’ve heard a rumor about Moonshadow being seen here during the battle by a freed man.”

  With a flick of his fingers, the king approved the entrance of the visitor. The steward beckoned. A scruffy, bald man entered and approached the throne. “Sire, I am Bandoras, the formerly condemned. I committed crimes and you imprisoned me, then I fought bravely and you freed me.” Bandoras paused as if trying to stir up the courage for his next words. After a moment, he raised his head to look Baldomir in the eye. “What would you pay to have Blackmond Moonshadow killed?”

  “Nothing, unless you can explain yourself. If you saw him in the city, why didn’t you tell the constable?” the king asked.

  The prisoner bowed his head again. “Humblest apologies, Sire. I did see him during the battle. We killed many goblins together on the walls. But I didn’t recognize him until I saw him on horseback outside the gates. Afterward, he never came back to the city. He’s using the name Dagorat.”

  Clementon and the king gave each other a glance. The abbot walked over to a desk, fetched a small brown pouch and tossed it to Bandoras. “For your faithful service. Go purchase a plot of land. With a few cows, or goats, or chickens, as you please.”

  Bandoras opened the pouch, and his eyes grew to the size of saucers. “There must be seven gold pieces in here. Most humble thanks, Sire. I’ll send word when Blackmond is dead.”

  “No,” Clementon said. “That’s not payment for blood. The gold is for your silence. Do not seek out Moonshadow, and forget you ever set eyes on him.”

  The king shot him a sidelong glance, but went along with it. “Go and obey,” he told the freed man.

  Bandoras scratched his head, but wisely asked no questions. “I will, Sire.” He bowed and left the room, puzzlement sparring with glee on his face.

  Once the doors shut, Baldomir crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you should tell me why you did that.”

  “Moonshadow did fight for us, and you did pardon the condemned who fought.”

  “That outlaw has never been condemned. Never even been caught. Besides, his crimes are much more extensive than all the others.”

  “As was his courage. And the price that he paid.”

  “He did well during the battle, true enough. But can that genuinely forgive his years of thievery? Of throwing this kingdom into disarray?” Baldomir said.

  Privately, Clementon thought the man’s cruel loss of his wife and child more than paid for his crimes. But arguing with Baldomir wouldn’t help anything. Best try a different approach. “It can’t.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Killing him serves no purpose at this moment. Your only reward will be a corpse. Perhaps we should retain this information until it gives us an advantage in some future situation.”

  “You’re thinking of our forthcoming trade negotiations with Jalken.”

  That should work. “Precisely.”

  “Wise reasoning, as always,” Baldomir said.

  ***

  At the end of the long and dusty journey back to Mentiria, the wagon trundled around the last corner onto Coalfire Street. Savory aromas from the Sword and Anvil Tavern wafted their way into Dagorat’s senses. His mouth watered at the thought of Lilly’s cooking. “Let’s not go home yet,” Dagorat said as he brought the wagon to a halt in front of Cyril’s home. “How about a spot of breakfast in our favorite tavern?”

  “How can a man resist?” Cyril said.

  “One last fine meal before going home to the abbey?” Liberon grinned. “Sounds wonderful to me.”

  They opened the door to be assaulted by the clang of Lilly’s triangle. Odd; this time Dagorat didn’t feel the need to cover his ears. Instead he welcomed the clatter, and despite himself, a smile touched his lips. They made their way through the bustling tavern to an open table. Through the din, Rindell’s voice cried out, “Cyril!” The jolly old innkeeper came running over to greet them.

  But he never got the chance. “Cyril? Did I hear someone say Cyril was here?” Lilly’s bellow rose above the noise, stopping Rindell in his tracks.

  Dagorat grinned. This promised to be entertaining. The Halfling dashed out of the kitchen, ran up to Cyril, and jumped on him with such force that she knocked him to the floor. “I knew you’d come home safe and sound, me dearie.” The mage looked dazed but happy as he held her tight and finally kissed her full on the lips. The whole place erupted into cheers.

  Except a blushing Liber
on.

  ***

  They enjoyed a long breakfast. Lilly refused to leave Cyril’s side, and Rindell was forced to cook, much to the detriment of all his patrons. Afterward, Cyril, Dagorat and Liberon went back to the house. When Dagorat threw the door open, it kicked up a cloud of dust. The thud echoed down the hall, a rather lonely sound. “We should’ve thought about covering the furniture before we left,” Dagorat said.

  “Did we have time to think of such things?” Cyril said. “Well, best get started. This house will not clean itself.”

  They spent the better part of the day unloading the wagon, cleaning, and dusting. The ground floor was finished by the time Lilly showed up with a bag of tea cakes. She and Cyril ran off to the study and shut themselves in, presumably feasting and staring into each other’s eyes. Or other things, but Dagorat didn’t want to think about that right now.

  Liberon yawned and decided to retire to the guest room for the night. With no one else to talk to, Dagorat headed upstairs as well. As he straightened his things for the night, laying out fresh sheets and tidying away his belongings, he tried not to listen to the laughter coming from downstairs. The life that should have been his now belonged to Cyril. A wife. Maybe children. Light, and laughter, and joy.

  He curled up on his bed, willing the tears not to come, but only achieved partial success. Soon, he had no doubt, Lilly would move in. She’d add her own touches, and make it no longer feel like home. In that moment, he decided he could not stay with Cyril.

  CHAPTER 29

  VOWS

  THE NEXT MORNING, CYRIL AND Liberon sat down together to banter about their homecoming. Over tea and leftover cakes, they talked about visiting Craicwyth and Magda and mulled over introducing roast oleni to the Sword and Anvil’s menu. The monk agreed to send Cyril fresh spices from the abbey periodically, in return for some of Lilly’s Silberian eggs.

  Dagorat joined them but remained silent, content to brood over the life he could have had with Katrina. The end of his comradeship with Cyril made him choke up now and again. “Am I taking you back to the monastery after tea?” he asked Liberon.