by Lana Nielsen
The giant sprang in front of his master, axe hoisted high in the air. Before Fallon could react, Zander knocked Fallon’s sword from his hand. It landed on the steps to Widow White’s house. Fallon’s trance ended and Meldane was free. Fallon raised his hands in surrender. Zander moved closer, pressing the blade of his axe against Fallon’s sternum.
Arithel cursed and unsheathed her sword, placing herself between Fallon and Zander. Fallon hissed for her to go inside.
“Now!” Arithel said loudly. “Let us all stop this. Explain what is going on here.”
She turned her back to Zander’s weapon and sheathed her sword as she faced Fallon. Zander slowly put his axe back in its holster. Fallon quietly retrieved his fallen weapon.
Meldane was still panting on the ground. He tried to get up but his knees gave out. Zander assisted him to his feet.
Fallon slid his sword back into its scabbard with a screeching sound. He was breathing heavily and repeatedly cleared his throat.
“As you have probably surmised, this man and I are familiar,” Fallon gestured towards Meldane.
Arithel looked at Meldane. He leaned against his slave, appearing rather pathetic.
“That true?” she asked.
“Unfortunately. Your friend’s master is the reason I must live out my days in this sorry place. I suppose Morden either wants me gone for good, or worse, wants control again so I can do his bidding out here in the armpit of the continent. I was so stupid,” he spat, “to listen to your tales of my court and not see what was to come.”
“You were describing our mission?” Fallon shot in a bewildered voice.
“Only the most general of details. Relax,” Arithel said.” I knew they were Padenite and I was curious about them; I told them what I knew of Paden.”
“She didn’t say much. I think she just meant to goad me.” Meldane spoke up. His expression had softened and his shoulders had slumped. It was incredible how quickly his fierceness had dissipated. Zander, on the other hand, still seemed on edge, ready to pounce on either Neldorin at his master’s behest.
Fallon looked back towards Arithel. “Good,” he said. “Arithel has a tendency towards unfounded bravado.”
Meldane chuckled. “I noticed.”
She glared at Fallon. Though he wasn’t wrong per se, she felt quite annoyed. After all she had done to stop him from getting killed. For a second, she wished she were back in Northglade. Tax clerk may not have been the most interesting position, but she was good at it. People respected her, even if she avoided company. But on the road—it was different. She felt like a servant—or worse, an ordinary woman, a lowly category she had managed to evade most her life. She sat down upon the porch stoop with a heavy sigh, her head resting in her hand as she watched Meldane and Fallon interact.
“Just so you know, I wasn’t looking for you, Meldane,” Fallon pointed out.
“What is the weapon that you’re taking to my home?” the Northman demanded.
“That doesn’t sound very general.” Fallon frowned at Arithel.
“Perhaps we should all go inside, get something to drink.” Arithel laughed. “We can explain everything to each other beside the comfort of the hearth.”
“There is little to explain, other than by some strange coincidence you have stumbled across a former associate of the Dusaldr family,” Fallon said, referring to the ruling family of Paden.
“That does not surprise me. Your bracelet,” Arithel said. Meldane instinctively stuffed his hand in his coat pocket.
“He’s right,” Meldane muttered. “That is all there is to say. I am in exile. You stay out of our way and we stay out of yours.”
Meldane motioned to Zander that it was time to go.
“A fair suggestion,” Fallon stated.
“Good luck traveling to Paden in winter. I suspect that weapon of yours will never make it there,” Meldane called out as he walked away.
The Northmen left heavy boot prints in their wake.
“Arse,” Fallon muttered under his breath. He watched the Northmen until they were out of sight.
He went inside. Arithel followed him, relieved to be out of the cold at last. Her hands were swollen and the Veselte ring was tight and painful.
Fallon sat on the couch and lit a pipe. “This—” he announced as he slowly exhaled a plume of smoke. “—is why you should have waited on me to accompany you.”
“Everything went well. I found the answers I was looking for.”
“Where is Anoria?”
“Compromised,” Arithel answered darkly. “One of the raiders took her to wife. He towed her with him when he signed up for the Nureenian army. They are already headed for Mt. Aerys. I’ll never see her again, of that I’m sure.”
“Oh you never know about that. Nothing is impossible.” Fallon chuckled lightly.
Arithel was irritated by his trifling response. Fallon spoke again, staring into the low light of the hearth as he gnawed on his pipe.
“You brought Meldane, of all people, to my doorstep. I thought he had killed himself out of shame.”
“Just what sort of associate was he?”
Fallon smiled a little, his eyes flashing deviously towards Arithel. He uncrossed his legs, shaking some of the mud off of the bottom of his boots. She continuously flexed her fingers into her thighs. She wasn’t sure why she was still anxious.
“Oh, the best kind,” Fallon said, slowly and deliberately. “The king’s half-brother, a prince in his own right. The city’s champion, warrior, and all around good guy.”
Arithel had known Meldane was important, but a prince? That was unexpected.
“What did he do?” she whispered, moving closer to him on the couch. It seemed to make Fallon uncomfortable. He stiffened his posture.
“Committed high treason,” he answered. “Plotted to overthrow his own brother, with a little help from the Nureenians, and signed a non-aggression pact with Tiresias. Luckily, my employer foiled the attempt. If he hadn’t, I’m sure it would have succeeded. Meldane—despite being the son of a concubine and thus barred from the crown—was far more popular than the king. He would have certainly destroyed all that makes Paden unique from the rest of this despicable, slavish continent.”
Arithel supposed that meeting an exiled bastard prince was somewhat more plausible than meeting an exiled legitimate prince. Padenite kings no doubt had dozens of concubines.
“Why do you say he would have changed Paden?” Arithel asked.
“He planned to install a woman of the Empire, a Gyonian, at his side. She had a lot of influence over him. He would have built printing presses and factories and granted Agronian priests freedom to proselytize. He is fond of Nureenian foods and fashions and likes their awful, cacophonous music. Need I say more?” Fallon stated, with contempt.
“No.”
His description was totally at odds with her impression of Meldane. She couldn’t imagine him being interested in anything other than fighting, hunting, drinking… He had seemed like a textbook heathen, not some admirer of Nureenian high culture.
“A feeble-minded but great man is the most apt description of the fellow.”
“As opposed to what?” Arithel laughed and rolled her eyes a bit. “A great-minded but feeble man? What a coincidence,” she shot back sarcastically, hoping to slight him as he had her.
Instead of taking offense, Fallon sighed and laid his head back on the couch. “There is no such thing as coincidence, my Arithel.”
“Do you really mean anything at all by that?” Arithel smirked. “Or are you just saying things you think will impress?”
“I’m not really sure. But I do believe in fate.”
“I don’t,” Arithel muttered bitterly.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Glorun was with Morden, attempting to lift a stone above his head using only her thoughts. It was the third day she had tried it. The earlier attempts had produced the usual manifestations of her powers—chaotic winds, shaking walls, an out-of-body fee
ling, and every object in the room rendered an unpredictable missile. The episodes ended the same way—with those awful injections from Morden’s needle. They put her into a daze for hours.
This time was different. The room was calm, the wind was like a narrow tunnel, and the rock alone wavered, just slightly.
She had finally accepted Morden’s offer, mainly because she wished to avoid Wulfdane, now that she was allowed back in Staska. She never thought she would feel that way about her own brother, her king.
Morden guided her efforts, imploring her to drain her mind to find peace. He told her to think of her happiest memory. She followed his prompts and soon found herself a girl of eleven, swimming in the fjords near the coast with Meldane and some of his servants, the sun shining on their faces as they laughed and splashed at one another.
Morden told her to look at the idol of Seersha he had placed on the tiles near the rock. He had set one of his gems from the ruins into the statue’s forehead. It glowed, brilliant and white.
The rock soared above Morden’s head, almost to the ceiling. The wind took shape, a faint blue color, sparkling like snow and ice.
Glorun had done it—she had controlled her gifts. The rock dropped to the floor like a hammer. It almost landed on Morden’s toes. He was unbothered.
She realized she was very sweaty and cold but otherwise fine. She had felt like herself the entire time.
“Do you feel any weaker?” Morden asked.
“No,” she said. “Maybe a little sick to my stomach.”
Morden grinned and laughed again. She had never seen the doctor so happy.
One of the priestesses, Thora, rushed to her side, and patted her down with a towel. Glorun was amazed how much sweat there was.
“Wulfdane has wasted your talents, my lady, keeping you locked away from all of us for so long,” Thora whispered.
Thora’s hair was dyed blue and her arms were tattooed with interlocking runes, mostly protective spells that were believed to shield the wearer from the influence of evil spirits.
“Indeed,” said the high cleric, Casomir. “There is no black magic here. Only the blessing of Eben.”
Glorun could not stop smiling. A smile probably looked strange on her features.
“She will only grow in power,” Morden said to Casomir. “I foresee that one day she will make Paden proud.”
Glorun hated to admit it, but she was starting to like the Southron. She could see why the folk at court admired him; he had a way of speaking that made her feel like she was the only person in the world.
A member of her brother’s guard walked through the door. He was clad in chainmail and bore an emblem of a wolf on his tunic.
The herald informed Morden that the war council was ready. He requested the cleric to attend as well, telling him that the lords wished for a rune-casting.
Morden adorned himself in his white healer’s robes and slipped on a strange blue armored vest Glorun had never seen him wear before. She couldn’t tell what kind of metal it was, but she surmised it was probably from the excavations.
“Come with us, Princess,” Morden said.
“Wulfdane won’t be pleased.” She sighed.
Her brother had caused many problems for her since her return from Castle Flambard. He was essentially stalking her when she wasn’t in the service of the High Cleric. His advances had been so frightening she had to turn to Malina for help. He amused himself by playing servant and running make-work errands throughout the hidden passages of the palace. He would often ‘surprise’ her when she drew a bath or went to the wardrobe. One night, Glorun had awakened to him standing at the foot of her bed, sweeping her floors as he eerily watched her slumber. He threatened and beat her maids, including Selka, if they refused to reveal their mistress’s whereabouts.
Wulfdane had reiterated that the only way to get rid of their curse was for them to get married. He promised he’d get rid of Malina, that she’d torment Glorun no longer. Glorun was afraid to refuse him outright, but she told him court would have a fit, “even though I would love to follow in our parents’ courageous footsteps,” she had said, sweetly and at a distance, “you need more time and more success in battle, before our people will accept such a thing. You are not The Vergadane yet.”
The council met in a round chamber adjacent to the Great Hall. Busts of the greatest warriors of Paden were set on pale columns that lined the walls. Glorun had never been in this room. There was a smaller replica of her brother’s throne on a platform. The council gathered around a stone table that was carved out of the floor itself.
Morden announced to the lords and generals that Glorun would serve as the cup-bearer for the meeting. They murmured amongst themselves, barely hiding their contempt for her.
Casomir showed her the cup—solid silver, with amethysts and diamonds set into the base and rim—and the barrel of mead. It was a lot of mead. Would they really need that much? The cleric explained that each man who spoke had to hold the cup. When they were done talking, they would pass it back to her before the next man’s turn. She was to keep it half-filled at all times. No one was allowed to speak without the cup. The king would be served first.
“Where is Wulfdane?” Morden asked the lords.
An old, grizzled man with an ugly wound streaking down his brow and cheek—General Thagar, head of the King’s guard—raised his hand. “He sent me in his stead.”
“Do you mind telling me why the king is absent?”
“He’s, er—” Thagar looked a bit embarrassed. “—helping the laundresses.”
“This is why you’re here,” Morden whispered to Glorun as she filled up the cup.
Some of the men had traveled hundreds of miles for this meeting. Wulfdane had surely known for weeks it would occur.
“I suppose I must sit on the throne,” Thagar remarked uneasily.
“Aye, General,” said Casomir, shaking his runes in their bag. They were symbols, etched on the rib-bones of slain Agronians; the clerics made new runes every year.
Thagar called the meeting to order as a few more lords and knights straggled through the door. Many appeared to be drunk already.
Glorun handed Thagar the mead. He asked, “Why has council been called?”
Aghi, a dark-haired lord from the far south of Paden, stood to receive the cup.
His hand grazed Glorun’s as she passed it.
“A report from Valemark, General,” said Aghi. “Nureenians have encroached on my lands and surrounded my brother’s castle in the Sorstrum Pass. They took forty women and boys as slaves. My brother is a prisoner in his own home and needs aid.”
Another lord, Eroban, from the east of the country, spoke up. “Your brother’s not the only one fighting for our borders. Lady Alfhild Flambard sends word that the Nureenians have been raiding her villages. They stole the slaves from one of her best knights and have been sighted fishing on Lake Berengaria.”
Bors, a representative from one of the coastal territories, said, “The Empire’s tentacles are reaching to the northwest, too. A young priest, Gyonian, has stirred up the simple people of one of our ports. My steward, Gunter, would have him executed, but the alderman thinks his subjects will go after his head.”
Nils, one of her brother’s favorites, shouted out even though he was not in possession of the cup, “Paden has no time for men who are afraid to die! Long ago, we Northmen owned a good chunk of Nureen and the best soil west of the Great Dividing Range. And ports that stayed ice-free all winter!”
The cleric chided Nils for not following the council customs. Nils only grinned and re-arranged his yellow braids. He didn’t seem to care. He was good-looking, young, and strong. Rules didn’t apply to him.
Morden received the cup. “We cannot dwell on the past, men. General—how shall we settle this matter in Valemark?”
Thagar sighed. “Wulfdane said the gods must guide our decision.”
The cleric brought out the runes. He shook them in his hand and said, “Eben, Lord o
f the Sky, wielder of lightning, and bringer of rain, tell us, how do we drive out the Southrons this time?”
The bones scattered across the table. One clattered to the floor. All the lords leaned in to see.
Casomir hesitated to read them.
“What do they say?” Morden asked.
“What sacrifice must we make?” Nils roared.
“Take their capital. Take Mt. Aerys,” Casomir whispered in confusion.
A great clamor arose. Many of the lords laughed.
Glorun handed the cup to Lord Eroban again. “Cast again, priest! We can do no such thing! The Tower of the Sun is nine hundred feet tall!”
A heavy red-haired man who Glorun did not recognize said, “I’ve seen it. It scrapes the clouds.”
“The walls of Mt. Aerys are cast with iron. No catapult can breach them!” someone else called.
Kai, one of Wulfdane’s minor advisors and a former knight, said, “Take the capital when they build forts and sow wheat in our valleys! It is only the lives of our great berserkers that keep the Southrons from marching straight to this very room!”
Thagar said, “Cast again. Ask the gods if they are sure.”
Glorun noticed that Casomir looked at Morden, as if he was asking permission or awaiting some signal. Morden lowered his strange eyes in a kind of nod.
The priest threw the runes down again. He examined them closely and said, “Take the capital, on midsummer’s eve. Make the costliest of sacrifices to ensure a successful campaign.”
More arguing broke out. Glorun was exhausted from all her trips to refill the mead. She understood now why there was so much of it.
As she passed off the cup to Thagar, Eroban interrupted.”It’s her!” He pointed at the princess, his hand shaking. “This sort of madness never happened before she attended our council. She is an agent of Nielof! No other god would lead us to slaughter!”
Morden stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. He told her to let Casomir bear the cup. He advised her to keep watching, but to stand with the servants by the wall.
