Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “You might as well drop your disguise, Rylin.” Synahla’s smug, honeyed alto rang from the granite. “You’re practicing your last deception. The queen’s dealt with your allies and the traitorous council.”

  He felt himself go cold, thinking of the squires he’d fled Darassus with transformed into hunks of crystal. For the briefest moment, he questioned that Queen Leonara would dare do that once more, to Lasren, to Elik, to members of the council. And then he realized that she would stop at nothing. And at close range it might be that Lasren’s ring would not have held back her attack.

  Behind him he heard both sets of doors opening, and stepped to the edge of the stairs to look down on Synahla. He understood that he’d been herded by someone who knew just how far the sensitivity of the rings extended. Now two separate pairs of combatants were at his rear.

  He dropped his semblance and set the ring on his hand alight.

  Synahla smiled in satisfaction. Below her the squires gasped in surprise and disappointment. They hadn’t wanted the exalt commander’s accusations to be true, he realized. That he had revealed himself walking hallowed halls in disguise was clear evidence to all who watched that he had failed to honor the spirit of his own oath.

  She had engineered this moment with great cleverness. Those squires might have had doubts about what they’d been told by exalts, but now they could see a traitor in the ranks of the Altenerai. They would not already have determined, as he had, that the queen and the exalts were enemies who had murdered the innocent. They could not yet know this was war, and in war he had practiced trickery to prevail against evils.

  “I see you’ve grown a beard. Another attempt at disguise?”

  “How did you know where I was?” He didn’t really care; he wanted a moment to further assess the situation.

  She laughed at him. “How could we not? You were watched from the moment the four of you entered the city. Naturally you were followed, and when a Kaneshi horseman changed himself into an exalt I was immediately alerted.”

  “Very well organized,” he said.

  “Not really. You were merely careless. Now shut down your ring, and unbuckle your sword belt. You are surrounded, and outmatched.”

  Theater, he decided. These words weren’t for him so much as those who watched. “Surrounded,” he said, feeling those behind him hesitating ten feet out. “But not outmatched.”

  She laughed at him. “I thought you arrogant when I first met you. You tricked your way into the Hall of Exalts then, spying for your traitorous masters, attacked us, and stole our hard-won hearthstones. It didn’t matter to you that men and women had died for those stones. That the safety of the realms depended upon them.”

  Again she spoke for her audience, not Rylin. She might mean to evoke a response from him for which she had readied a counter. How best not to play?

  “If you seek a traitor,” he said, “look to your own ranks.”

  “Is that all you have to say to excuse your actions?”

  He drew his sword in a flash of steel and set his footing. Behind him he felt his opponents reach for their own weapons. One had begun manipulating a thread in the inner world.

  “You will die a fool, Rylin,” Synahla told him.

  What better response could there be to that than the one seared across his soul? “When comes my numbered day,” he said, “I will meet it smiling.”

  Was that an intake of breath from that blond third ranker below? Perhaps Synahla hadn’t expected Rylin to invoke the oath.

  Why, then, did she still look so satisfied? Those full lips parted. “There’s no more need to lie. We have you caught. Your only chance is to tell the truth, Rylin.”

  Her spell struck him as she spoke, and his brows rose in surprise that she should wield so great a magic while concentrating upon something else. Her sorcery was backed by all the power of a hearthstone shard she carried at her side.

  “Tell them, Rylin.” Her smile grew. “Tell them how you conspired against the queen and the exalts. How you have stolen and lied and allied with murderers. Confess, and surrender, and beg for mercy.”

  He knew the pressure of her suggestion only as a voice shouting from a distant room, no matter the intense force of the spell, for it struck the protective energies of his ring, which was linked to all those rings and sapphires he carried. One by one their powers lit within his pouches. And for the first time he saw her smile waver, witnessed surprise dawn and then envelop her face and lift her eyebrows.

  “No,” he cried, voice ringing with confidence. “I shall tell them how the exalts murdered noble Asrahn and framed Kyrkenall for the crime!” His voice rose. “I shall tell them how the queen lied about N’lahr’s death and imprisoned him!”

  The squires shifted in confusion. He felt Synahla’s power strain against the defensive web of his shield, saw anger light those eyes, knew that she drew more power from her hearthstone shard.

  And while she fought to break him, he spoke on to the audience she herself had gathered: “The queen murdered innocent squires as they slept, and brokered peace with the Naor for the sake of her accursed hearthstones!”

  “Take him,” she shouted.

  “Come for me,” he cried. “Who dies first?”

  He did not expect to live. There were six arrayed against him. Three were mages, and they lingered in the back while their exalt companions came at him from left rear, right rear, and front. The weavers wove masterful spells meant to daze or blind that had all the effect of a gentle breeze, so easily did he shrug them off.

  Those weapons bearers to his rear were closer, and one, a dark-haired woman, had flung a knife before her charge. This Rylin crossed with the tip of his sword and sent clanging into a distant wall.

  He advanced against a tall black-haired man, now trying to slow so he and the knife thrower would reach him at the same moment. He felt an influence spell from Synahla brush past him, then slashed under black hair’s guard and struck his leg below his exalt’s coat. Fools, to be thinking only of tournament sword rules.

  The exalt shouted in pain and went down as the leg collapsed. Rylin pivoted before the exalt warrior on the stairs caught him from behind, one sword-bearer on either side now. The exalt knife thrower was a few steps closer. Rylin brought his sword in line and beat her back with a series of savage cuts. He raised his blade to lock hers as she lifted it for a head strike, paused a heartbeat as the man behind him closed, then ducked and spun to the right.

  The warrior’s sword swept through the point where Rylin’s head had been only moments before and sliced deep into the woman’s face. Rylin felt the spray of blood, heard her gurgle and the man’s gasp of horror. The mages tried a new spell as he pivoted, but they still hadn’t worked out why their influence wasn’t effective.

  The male exalt struggled to pull his sword from his mangled, screaming ally. Someone more experienced would have released the weapon and backed off.

  Rylin finished the spin by cracking his pommel into the back of the man’s head. He heard a sickening crunch and felt something give. As both exalts tottered and fell, he leapt toward the closer mage behind.

  A broad, dark-bearded fellow with a white shirt with laced sleeves, he wore no armor. He raised a round, decorative shield in a desperate effort to ward the incoming attack. His eyes were wide with fear.

  Rylin grabbed the shield’s rim in one hand and forced it down. Rather than releasing it, the mage leaned in, fighting to lift it, and soon found it bashed into his own face when Rylin released it suddenly. He dropped cold, nose spewing blood over his beautiful shirt.

  Snatching the shield from the wounded weaver, Rylin turned to confront his remaining opponents.

  Synahla had arrived at the topmost stair, her eyes alive with fury. The other mage had withdrawn to the far door. Rylin’s four downed opponents were mostly still, save for the man he’d struck in the leg, who’d crawled to one side and was frantically calling to the mage by the door for help.

  That man, likewise in
a white uniform shirt, ignored black hair’s plea, and sent a spell against Rylin. He felt the touch of dizziness, as though he’d spun too fast, but this ebbed, and he advanced toward Synahla with his reddened blade before him.

  He sensed Synahla had reached deep into her own stone. Gone was her subtlety when she threw her next spell. She leaned into it, hands extended. To those watching below it might have looked as if she simply held out her palms. Through the rings, though, Rylin perceived a coruscating whirl of bright energies, a line of magic threaded from her shard and into the combined shield of his Altenerai rings.

  This magery hit him hard. The hair on the back of his neck stood upright, and even under the sleeves of his armored khalat the chill raised his arm hairs. For the first time, the power of the rings flickered under the assault. He stepped forward, but it was like walking into a gale wind. He advanced another step but could go no farther.

  He faced Synahla two sword lengths out, saw her gritting her teeth, and comprehended that while he could not reach her, she couldn’t reach him, either. Whatever the other mage attempted seemed ineffectual.

  Synahla redoubled her efforts, and he winced as shocking blue energy sparkled before his eyes, straining against his protective barrier. Worse, the mage behind him had found courage. He heard a blade being drawn and his ring senses informed him the mage crept closer.

  He considered and dismissed the notion of using Synahla’s own hearthstone energies against her. She knew that tool far better than he. No, Asrahn had told him that sorcerers in combat often made a vital mistake.

  In their intense mental concentration, they forgot to consider the physical.

  He lifted the shield and lobbed it.

  The exalt commander’s eyes widened as the shield slammed into her just above her belt buckle. That in itself was at best a mild discomfort, but the sudden intrusion into her own personal space wrenched a cry of surprise and disrupted her spellwork.

  Free now from the blistering attack, Rylin lunged and thrust his blade through the opening in Synahla’s khalat, where her necklace hung. The blow pierced flesh and broke bone. He ripped the weapon from her body and Synahla’s hands clutched at the jagged wound left above her pendant. She staggered as her life blood poured from the injury and down over the faceted ruby.

  He spun to face the attack of the man behind him. He heard Synahla’s death rattle and collapse even as he swept the attacker’s knife strike aside with the shield in his off hand and slammed his temple with his sword guard. The man groaned, staggered on wobbly legs, and sank to the floor.

  Panting, Rylin turned to contemplate the field of battle, verifying his opponents were dead or out of the fight. Elik had reported that there were somewhere close to two dozen exalts, and he himself had downed four, along with two of some forty aspirants. While he had survived the battle, he hoped he wouldn’t have to tangle with the rest in similar circustances.

  He stepped to Synahla’s body. He wiped his blade upon her pant leg, and found the side pocket where she kept her hearthstone. It proved a dull ruby shard as long as his finger. He considered it briefly before he closed its power and slipped it into one of his belt pouches. He relieved her body of the ruby pendant as well, almost certainly a magical enhancement of some kind, and stepped to the head of the stair to look down at the squires. They stared back at him with rounded eyes.

  They had but watched through the whole struggle and he had no idea where their loyalties might lie.

  “Our enemies are revealed,” he said as he descended. “The queen and her exalts plan to use accumulated artifacts to summon an unknown goddess that they think will usher a new age of power, and they’ve broken every ethic to further their secret plan. They’ve cut a path of treachery and deception, murder and betrayal that has damaged our nation to its core.” He stopped two-thirds of the way down and sheathed his sword. “They mean to force us into their version of a better world. I mean to fight to preserve and truly better the one we have. Will you stand with me, or stand aside?”

  They looked back and forth at one another, and at him. And then the blond third ranker he’d met earlier stepped forward. “We stand with you.”

  The others nodded assent, and a dark-skinned woman said: “We will strike as one.”

  He nodded, pleased at the sentiment, and rattled off his orders. One he sent running for a healer. Others he dispatched to retrieve the old-fashioned binders from storage. He searched for and confiscated all the prisoners’ magical tools while five stood guard, then left those five with the healers tending the restrained injured. The exalts and aspirants would be relocated to holding cells once their wounds were stabilized.

  He led the remaining awed squires to the armory to equip for battle, and ordered them to fan quickly through the city and quietly spread word to all their brothers and sisters: prepare for action and meet them at the stadium. Any they found who were already geared for duty were to join them in spreading the message. He posted the stunned third ranker in charge of the armory, providing more exacting instructions, as well as a thumbnail account of the events. He was to share them with all who reported in, and lead them to the amphitheater when the crowd assembled there, to await for Rylin’s signal.

  Rylin departed to scout ahead, not bothering this time with the nearly drained semblance. He wanted to preserve it for emergencies.

  The sentry he’d met outside the palace was one of those who’d gathered at the foot of the stairs, so the only one waiting outside for him was his horse. The animal whickered nervously as Rylin drew to the hitching post, and he reflected ruefully on Rurudan’s calmness. He wished, again, that the faithful gelding had survived.

  As he undid the reins, a man jogged from the shadow of the Altenerai stables. Rylin put his hand to his hilt, then saw that it was Elik, who drew panting to a stop and threw up a salute.

  Rylin smiled in relief to see him. “I thought you and Lasren were dead.”

  Elik’s tense expression didn’t ease. He breathed in heavily. “Lasren is dead, sir.”

  Rylin stilled, thinking of his friend’s hearty laugh, his solid presence. He hadn’t had a chance to truly consider his absence, and with its certain confirmation a spark inside him dimmed. It was as though he listened to someone else speaking. “How did he die?”

  “The queen.” Elik let out a breath and then succinctly rattled off a report: “Three councilors listened to the governor and Lasren testify about what happened, and they looked over N’lahr’s letter. They called all the councilors present for a conference. Dozens of them. Somehow the queen got wind of it.”

  “Thelar,” Rylin said. “Was Thelar still with you?”

  “No. He left after he overheard our report.”

  “Lasren let him leave?” How could his friend have been so stupid? “Thelar must have headed straight back to the queen!”

  Elik shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. He looked pretty shaken. I think he believed us.”

  “Even if he believed you, if he went to the queen—” Rylin pulled himself together. Lasren had allowed one last ill-considered choice. But this was no time to dwell on it. “Finish your report. The queen turned up…”

  “Yes, sir. She tried, briefly, to win us over, telling everyone there was far more to the story, and that they needed to trust her. But all the councilors looked uncertain and a couple grew pretty challenging, and that’s when she cried out she didn’t need to waste any more time. It was just like you said about the squires she killed. A few at a time, she turned them into lumps of crystal. It was more horrible than I’d imagined.”

  The squire paused, dilated pupils and streaming sweat communicating more threat response than a simple run from Hall of Ancesters would produce. “Lasren used his ring to protect as many of us as he could, and backed toward the rear door. But only the governor and one councilor and I got out. Alten Lasren’s just … frozen there in the doorway. He was already crumbling a little.”

  Rylin felt tears welling, and thrust up his chin, wipin
g his eyes. Now was not the time to mourn. He faced the squire.

  “I’ve sent word for all the squires to gear up at the armory. I’m placing them under your command now. Relieve the third ranker I left in charge. Make sure they’re ready to support as I deal with whatever the queen is doing at the stadium. It’s going to be very dangerous.”

  “You can’t face her, sir. She went through the councilors’ spells and swords and even a ring’s shielding. You’ll be no better off than Lasren.”

  “I have other safeguards.” He forced a smile. “I want you to use your best judgment. Lead them to the stadium and await my signal. But if the queen overwhelms me, flee. Preserve what’s left of the corps to fight another day.”

  The fifth ranker frowned.

  “This is no time for last stands. I’m not acting until I can reasonably succeed in saving our people and you shouldn’t either. Remember that Lasren sacrificed himself so that you might live.” He paused, breathed out before grief overcame him. “Your most important duty is to protect the lives of the men and women under you. You must protect every one you can. Heart and mind. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are Governor Feolia and the councilor?”

  “The survivors fled to speak to councilors who weren’t there, and any city leaders—and anyone else who will listen.”

  “Good luck to them.” He climbed into the saddle.

  “May the gods go with you,” Elik said solemnly.

  “And with you. Treat Darassus as enemy territory. Stay alert. Trust no exalts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They exchanged a final salute. He didn’t look back at the palace as he rode away.

  He reached one of the sally gates in the inner wall and let himself out. No guards remained to close it behind him, and he realized he didn’t especially care.

  Lasren was dead.

  While he’d grown to find his friend a little juvenile, he missed him already, and not just because they’d been comrades for more than a decade. He’d glimpsed what Lasren might have become. The man had never lacked courage, and he had strength and stamina and skill. He’d been finding his way to wisdom.