by Peter Wacht
“No,” said Thomas. “Nothing around us for leagues, and right now there’s nothing in the way to stop us from reaching our goal.”
“Finally some good news,” said Oso.
“For now, yes,” agreed Thomas. “But that could change. Let’s talk to the Marchers and the Fal Carrachians tomorrow morning. They need to prepare for what’s going to happen next.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Quite a Performance
Rodric threw the glass he had placed on the table against the wall, watching it shatter and the wine drip slowly down the stones to stain the lush carpet. His rage knew no bounds, yet he had no outlet. He looked quickly around the room, seeking more things to break, when he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
His rage dissipated, replaced by an unsettling fear as Malachias stepped out of Rodric’s private office. Even the guards, hardened fighters, found Malachias’ presence unsettling. He held a power that none of them could even imagine. For the guards, that made them afraid. Yet for Rodric, his fear barely outweighed his jealousy, hating anyone who had more power than he did.
“Quite a performance, Rodric,” hissed Malachias in a raspy voice, his thin lips, almost hidden by his beard, barely moving.
“I did think I handled that quite …”
“Not you, Rodric. King Gregory. Quite a performance, indeed. If ever there was a candidate for High King …”
“Enough!” shouted Rodric, his rage returning ten-fold at the slight. “I am the High King! And the Kingdoms will acknowledge that as they should, Malachias. In less than a year, many of the Kingdoms will be mine.”
The shadowy figure stared at the High King, his black eyes boring into him. He felt the urge to crush the little man, but knew that his master wouldn’t approve. Not yet, at least. And there was never any good reason to antagonize his master.
“Let’s hope so, Rodric. I would hate for you to disappoint our master. He has little patience for those who fail to meet his objectives.”
“I have nothing to fear in that regard, Malachias. I will do as I have promised. Now do as you have promised. You were sent here to do what I needed done.”
“Be careful, Rodric. I serve you only because our master requires it. If the time comes when you are no longer of use…” Malachias didn’t see the need to complete the threat. Yet it was wasted effort, as Rodric’s rage continued to get the better of him.
“Your threats be damned. I have a simple task for you, Malachias. Ensure that Gregory never makes it back to Fal Carrach.”
“And his daughter?”
“Take her,” replied Rodric, weighing his options. As the heir to Fal Carrach, she could still be put to use, whether she wanted to be or not.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
Entering the Fray
Malachias sat in the second semicircle of chairs in Eamhain Mhacha’s throne room, just behind Rodric. Every now and then Kaylie Carlomin glanced his way, as did her father. They wanted his head for her kidnapping. Malachias smiled evilly, making sure they saw his contempt. Their hopes would never become reality. They could do nothing here at the Council. And once the gathering ended tomorrow? Well, gaining revenge would be a long-lost memory and the furthest thing from their minds. They would have more important things to worry about. In a matter of days the girl would once more be his and the father eliminated.
He turned his attention back to the murmurings and movements in the throne room. The High King wished to ignore what had been happening in the Highlands for the last few months, believing the Marchers’ last gasp effort to maintain control of their Kingdom would end in failure. Malachias knew better following word of Chertney’s most recent disastrous encounter, information he had chosen to keep to himself. He hoped that the dark creatures he had left in wait on the northern side of the river had more success than that fool did. But he didn’t hold out much hope.
Whether there was any truth to the claim that a Highland Lord once more stood on high was just one concern. The Marchers had proven, much like the long grass so common to the Highlands that was flattened to the soil when tread upon and then after a time sprang back up, that though beaten regularly during the last decade, the men and women of the Highlands were not yet defeated. A strange, disturbing feeling had wormed its way into Malachias’ stomach since the start of the Council, and it had increased as each day passed. Now, with the final day of the Council upon them, this unwanted sensation felt as if it were going to explode in his gut. A feeling that he had not experienced in quite some time. Fear. It annoyed him to no end, but he could not escape it. Thoughts of the green-eyed boy who had wriggled free in Tinnakilly, in large part due to Rodric’s stupidity, continued to plague him. With all the continuing problems in the Highlands, who would his master hold responsible? Who would pay the price for failure?
Yet Rodric, sitting on his throne, remained oblivious to Malachias’ concerns. On this, the final day of the Council of the Kingdoms, the High King had concluded that the Lost Kestrel was indeed lost, never to be found. For days, his scouts swept every inch of land for ten leagues around Eamhain Mhacha, with not one Highlander located.
Because of that, the High King’s smile threatened to blind anyone looking at him. Normally impatient, he sought to savor what would be his greatest and most sought after victory. After a decade, the Highlands finally would be his. And with the Highlands in his grasp, he could play the next few pieces on the board to solidify his dominance of the eastern Kingdoms.
“My lords,” began Rodric, the chamber settling into a reluctant silence. “As you know, ten years ago unknown attackers brutally murdered the Highland Lord and his family with many suspecting rebels to be the cause of this tragedy. Survivors of the Kestrel line have never been found, despite our best efforts since that tragic day. As a result, for the last ten years I have looked after the Highlands as if it were my own Kingdom.”
BOOM!
Rodric lost his train of thought for a moment, startled by the slam. The hallway leading to this chamber stretched out for several hundred feet, segregated by five massive double doors spaced along the way. At each doorway, just to ensure no disruptions occurred on this day of all days, Rodric had placed soldiers at each entranceway. Yet it had sounded like a set of doors had banged open. He regained his focus and continued.
“Therefore, as required by the law, I named the trusted Lord Killeran of Dunmoor regent.”
BOOM!
It sounded like another set of double doors, weighing well over one thousand pounds each, had just slammed open. Many in the chamber now turned toward the muted cacophony coming from the hallway, what sounded like shouts and scuffles drifting through the closed doors into the chamber.
Rodric had begun to sweat, his fear growing. What could be happening? Not wanting to stop, he ignored the growing unrest within the throne room.
“During his time as regent, Lord Killeran has done his best to protect the Highlands and its people, hoping that someone, perhaps this Lost Kestrel, would return to make a legitimate claim so that the people of the Highlands could rule themselves once more. Unfortunately, we have had no such luck.”
Murmurs began among those in the chamber, mostly from those who suspected that Rodric had masterminded the attack on the Crag and the murder of the Kestrels. Gregory’s stony face stated clearly where his thoughts on the subject lay.
BOOM!
The latest crash startled Rodric, the murmurs in the crowd growing louder, their attention wavering. Whatever was taking place in the hallway threatened to overshadow the High King’s moment. Recognizing this, Rodric quickly pressed on.
“Since we have not found a surviving Kestrel, according to the law the Kingdom reverts to the High King.”
BOOM!
The penultimate set of double doors slammed open, the murmurs in the crowd shifting to raised voices and shouts. Many in the throne room, like Rodric, strained to look over the heads of their peers to see what all the commotion out in the hallway was about despite the fac
t that the last set of double doors that led into the room remained closed. Several of the monarchs, including Gregory and Sarelle, stood up to get a better view.
“Therefore …”
BOOM!
The final crash reverberated throughout the chamber. Shouts followed with the sounds of a struggle just beyond the doorway drifting into the throne room. Even with all the commotion going on around him, not to be deterred, and not knowing what else to do, Rodric continued in a squeaky shout.
“Therefore, according to the law, I must ask the question: Who stands for the Highlands?”
Silence fell within the chamber as well as beyond as a result of the High King’s question. Rodric’s initial consternation from the distractions dissipated. His goal was almost within his grasp. After a decade, he would finally have what he so desperately wanted. He could barely control his rising excitement as he sought to conclude the day’s business.
“With no …”
“I stand for the Highlands.”
The strong voice shot into the throne room like an unexpected lightning bolt.
Rodric stood transfixed, shocked at the interruption. Malachias, seated behind him, rose, trying to get a better view.
Every pair of eyes in the chamber turned to stare at the entranceway as a brown-haired young man wearing forest garb and trailed by a troop of Highlanders pushed their way through the crowd to stand in front of the semicircle of rulers.
Kael Bellilil and the soldiers of Fal Carrach followed behind the Highlanders. Kael took his men through the crowd to stand next to Kaylie, who had risen from her chair behind her father with a lump in her throat. Thomas stood before her, his green eyes blazing, boring into those of the shocked High King. He was alive.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
Claiming the Highlands
Thomas stood defiantly in front of the High King, a dozen hard-faced Highlanders standing with him. Corelia Tessaril, long blonde hair capturing the rays of sun that streamed through the chamber’s windows, looked appraisingly at Thomas. Her cold and calculating eyes did not match the smile she gave him. Though Thomas ignored it, Kaylie saw it clearly, and that suggestive glance sent a stab of jealousy through her.
“You!” exclaimed Rodric, pointing at Thomas as if he could defend himself with his finger.
“Yes, me.”
“You dare to show your face here after what you did to my son?” demanded Rodric. “After the crimes you committed in Tinnakilly? You have no right to be here. Absolutely no right!’
“I have every right,” Thomas replied sharply. “As some of the people in this room can attest, Ragin brought his injury upon himself. I’m sure many of these people also remember what you did to me without justification. Something that I have not forgotten, but we will deal with that another time.”
Rodric took the cold certainty with which Thomas bit off his last sentence as a threat, as was intended.
“We Highlanders pay our debts,” continued Thomas. “And the debt I owe you will be paid, that I can assure you.”
The faces of the Highlanders standing behind Thomas turned to stone. Their intentions were clear though left unsaid. The debt to their Highland Lord would be paid. The debt to the Highlands would be paid. One way or another.
“But it will have to wait. At a Council of the Kingdoms, the past has no meaning.”
“The young man is right,” said Gregory, stepping forward to stand just a few feet in front of Thomas, that simple movement essentially giving the King of Fal Carrach control of the proceedings.
“During the Council there is an amnesty for any crimes or transgressions committed previously.” Gregory smiled a bit as he considered the position Rodric had placed himself in with the Highlanders. The High King would not like the reckoning that would be coming his way. “Any charges to be made, or debts paid, will have to wait until tomorrow, after the Council. At that time, the past may be remembered and acted upon.”
“That is the law,” said Sarelle Makarin, Queen of Benewyn.
“So it is,” confirmed Rendael, King of Kenmare.
Several of the other monarchs murmured their assent. Having lost control of the ceremony, Rodric slumped back into his throne, his hands covering his face as his years of planning slowly and inexorably unraveled around him.
“I believe we have a claimant before us,” said Gregory. “Who stands for the Highlands?”
“I stand for the Highlands.” Thomas stepped forward proudly.
“Your name?”
“Thomas Kestrel.”
Gasps of surprise burst out within the throne room, exclamations of shock rising to a crescendo of noisy disbelief and excitement. The clamor quickly dissipated to a low murmur when Gregory raised his hands for silence.
Rodric tried one last time to regain control of the situation. “Say what you want, boy, claim to be whomever you wish to be. The grandson died in the attack on the Crag. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, according to the law of the Kingdoms, I will decide the fate of the Highlands!”
Thomas smiled at the High King, much like a predator about to strike. The room sensed the increasing tension, the Highlanders themselves seeming to want that tension to explode, their anger at the last ten years plain on their faces and in their stances.
“That won’t be necessary, Rodric.”
“And before I have you thrown into the dungeon, boy, why is that?”
“Because I am the Highland Lord. I am the grandson of Talyn Kestrel.”
Total silence fell across the chamber, many of those in the room stunned by Thomas’ announcement, even catching Rodric off guard, who found himself speechless. Once again, Gregory took control of the proceedings.
“Can you prove it?” asked the King of Fal Carrach.
Thomas stepped toward Gregory, pulling his sword free from the scabbard on his back, then holding the blade in two hands to allow Gregory to get a closer look at the weapon. As Gregory examined the blade, his smile grew. He knew this sword. He would never forget it, having fought beside Talyn Kestrel too many times to not have the shining blade burned into his memory. And he would never forget the words that ran the length of both sides of the sharp steel: “Strength and courage lead to freedom.”
“I see before me the blade of the Kestrels, the Sword of the Highlands,” confirmed Gregory.
Shouts of surprise ran through the chamber.
“That proves nothing!” shouted Rodric, trying to be heard over the commotion. “It may be the blade of the Kestrels but that does not mean that this charlatan is a Kestrel.”
Thomas deftly slid the blade back into its scabbard. He rolled up his right sleeve, then pushed his wrist guard to the side. He raised his arm up so that it captured the light streaming in through the windows.
Gregory’s smile grew even bigger. Sarelle Makarin stepped up next to him, grinning as well. The mark on Thomas’ wrist, the claw of a kestrel, was unmistakable and well known throughout the Kingdoms. Several in the crowd gasped or shouted confirmation at what they saw, never expecting to view the mark again. For they all knew what it meant.
“I see before me the Highland Lord,” intoned Gregory, who inclined his head slightly toward Thomas as a show of respect between peers.
Thomas returned the nod. Many of the other rulers did so as well as Rodric sat flabbergasted, unable to speak.
“I see before me Thomas Kestrel, grandson of Talyn Kestrel, long lost Lord of the Highlands.”
A massive cheer erupted throughout the chamber, many caught up in the excitement of the moment, many pleased that Rodric had been thwarted. Yet the Highlanders stood behind Thomas calmly, Coban and Oso surveying the throng, focusing their attention on those few unhappy with the surprising turn of events. Just in case.
“Lord Kestrel,” asked Gregory in a strong, clear voice. “Would you like to take the chair that once belonged to your grandfather?”
Thomas hesitated for a moment, the emotion of the moment catching up to him. As he looked at
the chair, he thought he could see the spirit of his grandfather rising from it and gesturing him toward it, a large smile on his face. Thomas stepped up to the throne and turned, scanning the room, seeing the pleasure and joy on so many faces, smiling even more at the anger openly displayed by Rodric and Malachias and anyone else who had stood to profit from Rodric taking the Highlands.
As he sat on the chair, a roar erupted throughout the chamber. The Lord of the Highlands had returned.
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
The Pull
Ragin Tessaril had remained hidden away in his room for months, preferring the darkness and solitude of his chambers and refusing to leave once he saw the gruesome scar that trailed down his face. He adjusted his eyepatch for the hundredth time that day, scratching where his right eye should have been. Itching. Always itching. No matter what he tried. The itch drove him to distraction, especially at night, when his dreams always returned to that fateful night in Tinnakilly.
The boy on the battlements, wounded and exhausted, should have been an easy kill. An easy victory for Ragin and a way to enhance his standing in the eyes not only of his father, but also the other rulers of the various Kingdoms. But events had not played out as he expected. Night after night the images played through his mind. Night after night he reached the same conclusion. The boy had gotten lucky, the quick slash of his sword catching Ragin across his face. Moreover, the wound had done more than mar his appearance. It had changed him deeply.
No longer did he seek to assume his father’s place as the High King. That didn’t matter to him anymore. The power, the wealth, held little meaning for him. No, he wanted only one thing in life now. A simple thing. He wanted revenge on the boy who had taken so much from him. His father had said the boy was dead, not understanding how he could have survived his jump from the battlements. But Ragin knew. He knew in his heart that somehow the boy still lived, mocking him.
