Her Father's Fugitive Throne

by Brandon Barr

  “How, you might ask, do I know all this?

  “A Cherah rests upon me. It has given me these words and the mission to tell every child on this world the story you’ve just heard. So, dear young ones, never forget this tale. Pass it on to your own children. Make songs to remember it by.

  “Otherwise, hope may be lost, and without hope, darkness will spread over the land.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  WILUIT

  He was stirred from an enchanting dream by a persistent shaking on his right arm. He kept his eyes closed a moment longer, for he knew if he opened them, the dream would fly away from his memory. There had been a voice in the woods calling him…and Meluscia, she was out in the forest too. The voice was pure and trustworthy, and he heeded its call. As they moved through the woods, he had taken Meluscia’s hand, helping her through dense thickets until they reached a small green glen. A light shone at the center and a female figure stood there within the light.

  Another shake on his arm, and his eyes blinked open. He turned onto his back and saw a young woman’s graceful face half-lit by moonlight. The side of her cheeks glowed bluish and her beautiful eyes looked eagerly at him, and for just a moment, he wondered if it was the figure from his dream.

  “Wiluit,” said the woman’s voice. “It’s time. We must be off at once.”

  Wiluit sat up, recognizing suddenly it was Meluscia kneeling beside him. Already her four companions moved quietly about the camp, rolling their blankets and packing horses.

  Wiluit glanced at his sleeping friends through heavy eyes. “Alright,” said Wiluit, “I’ll wake the others.”

  An hour after they’d departed camp, the road finally paled with a gray-gold light. Shauwby rode with Meluscia, who’d kindly accepted the boy’s request. Takmuk’s arms were wrapped around Jauphenna, but his eyes were closed. He had the magical ability to stay upright in a saddle, even in deep sleep. And Seethus, who rode at Wiluit’s back, was quiet as a contented old turtle.

  Wiluit had never been in this region before, though he and his band had spent many months far west in the Blue Mountain Realm, in largely uninhabited forests. It had been a time of great inspiration and writing for Takmuk and Seethus, while he, Jauphenna, and Shauwby had the pleasure of enjoying the woods. Hunting deer and turkey. Exploring every rocky crag and cold mountain pool they came across.

  “Do you remember the land north of here?” Wiluit asked Jauphenna. He hoped the mention of sweet times together would dispel her cloudy mood.

  “Yes,” she said. “I want to go there now. It’s been too long since we were away from the annoyance of other people. We’re like a family. You and I are the father and mother of Shauwby, and the two loveable geezers are our grandfathers.” She drew her horse closer and placed her hand over his where he gripped the reins. “I think we make a good father and mother, don’t you?”

  “I do feel like a father to Shauwby at times,” said Wiluit, and squeezed Jauphenna’s fingers lightly. “But I also feel like an older brother to him too, just as I do with you.” This was his way of trying to divert Jauphenna’s attempts at flirtation. Not that he didn’t find them endearing, but they only proved she was still firmly enmeshed in adolescence.

  “I think I understand what you mean,” said Jauphenna. “You always look out for me, like a brother would. But don’t you think we are more than just friends? We’ve grown so close this past year and a half.”

  She looked at him, waiting for a response.

  When he didn’t surrender, Jauphenna said, “Your hands are so warm, I’d enjoy it if you held mine more often.”

  Her youthful boldness forced him to smile, but inwardly he cringed. It was getting worse. He felt certain it was the presence of Meluscia that was drawing her to be more brash with her emotions.

  How could he get her hand back to her own reins without hurting her feelings? He didn’t want to lead her falsely. She was still a girl with too many fanciful thoughts in her head clouding out the reality of husbands and wives. She confused being loving and selfless with being in love and being a lover.

  And besides, that tongue of hers could be quite the whip!

  “I liked how you took my hand last night to calm me down,” said Jauphenna. “I’m sorry I haven’t been behaving myself lately.”

  “I’m glad you see it too,” said Wiluit. He squeezed her hand gently and returned it to her own reins.

  Jauphenna frowned, but not unkindly, and a playful pout stuck out on her lips. Wiluit suddenly felt a pang of sadness as he remembered his fear for the girl. He was certain something dark would befall her. The impression had not faded with time. Impressions never did.

  At midday, a light rain fell on the small company. Meluscia led the way with Shauwby happily clinging to her. The rest of Meluscia’s group kept tight around Shauwby, as Wiluit had warned them. No attempts had been made to stop their journey, but Wiluit was certain the black-cloaked servant of Isolaug was not lying idle.

  He scanned a scattering of boulders on his right, but the only movement was that of a pair of squirrels darting away to hide in the shadows of a rock.

  The day wore on. Wiluit finally called the party to a halt in the late afternoon.

  The gentle rain had stopped, and patches of dark clouds were creased with rays of light where the sun reached down to illuminate the forest.

  Meluscia slowed her horse and gave orders for Belen to lead. She reined in her horse, falling back beside Wiluit, and eyed Jauphenna, who rode on the opposite side of him.

  “Would you excuse us, Jauphenna?” asked Meluscia. “I’d like to talk in private to Wiluit.

  All the softness fled from Jauphenna’s eyes, but she held her tongue, and kicked the side of her horse, moving up beside Praseme and Terling.

  Shauwby slept, his small arms loosely wrapped around Meluscia, head tucked in the crook of her hip.

  “What did you do before the gods called you?” asked Meluscia.

  “I hunted mostly, but on occasion, when I returned to my family’s village, I worked in my father’s butcher shop while he and my younger brother trapped river crab to sell at market.”

  “I have not traveled long with you, but I see you have rare leadership qualities. How did you acquire them? Was there a lord in your family line?”

  He laughed lightly at the question. His family line was anything but lordly. But also humorous was Meluscia’s unspoken assumption. That a person’s heritage was the reason for their abilities.

  He was about to respond with a jest, when Meluscia cut him off. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to imply that your leadership can only come from royal blood. That was rude of me.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” said Wiluit with a smile. Then he froze at a distant sound.

  A mysterious voice carried in the air.

  Wiluit looked east, into the forest.

  The silken song called to him, its lyrical ebb and flow like a windchime played by a restless summer breeze. He stared through the twisting tree limbs and brush, trying to find its source.

  Wiluit slid from his mare and heard the faint protesting of Meluscia. He simply raised his hand, gesturing for silence.

  The smooth and lovely voice continued, and he knew it was the voice from his early morning dreams. Only now, the song was accompanied by an impression that he must go and receive something from the voice.

  And so, also, Meluscia.

  He turned to the group, all of whom looked perplexed. “I hear the voice of a Maker. I have to go to her. I don’t know how long I’ll be away.” He looked at Meluscia. Her eyes were glass, her face flushed.

  “My party must ride on,” said Meluscia, “no matter the danger. I look forward to hearing of your encounter when you arrive at the Hold.”

  “Wait,” said Wiluit, “You are to come with me. I hear your name with mine on the Maker’s lips.”

  Meluscia sat rigid in the saddle. “But my father. He is dying.”

  Wiluit turned his head back to the
beautiful sound. “I understand. Make your choice. I will go alone if I must.”

  Wiluit left the road and reached the outskirts of a dense forest. An aura hung about the ferns beneath the trees, as if a mist were rising from some sacred cauldron, deep beneath the earth, breathing out through tiny pores in the thick layer of leaves and pine needles.

  “Wait,” shouted Meluscia behind him.

  Meluscia rushed after him down the gentle slope from the road, and not far behind was Jauphenna. Meluscia came to a stop beside him. The bruise on her left eye had lightened. It shone now, like a lavender-colored birthmark.

  “Is it too late to come?” said Meluscia. “If so, I am the greatest of fools.”

  “It’s not too late,” said Wiluit.

  “I’m coming too,” said Jauphenna, frustration or anger scoring her cheeks bright red.

  Wiluit put a soft hand on Jauphenna’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jauphenna, you must stay here.”

  “The Maker said this?” asked Jauphenna. “That I should stay behind?”

  “It is for Meluscia and I to go,” said Wiluit. “I’ll say no more.”

  Jauphenna’s face churned with turmoil like a winter storm. Her eyes fell to Wiluit’s feet, as if shamed by the chastisement of an elder.

  Under her breath, Jauphenna hissed, “As you wish.” She left and walked stiffly back toward the horses.

  “Stay close,” said Wiluit to Meluscia. “These woods are old and thick.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MELUSCIA

  “Have you heard a Maker’s voice before?” asked Meluscia, finding it difficult to believe his words. She twisted her body through a growth of winter fern.

  “I’ve never heard a voice like this,” said Wiluit, his voice rich with excitement. He stopped, surveying a horrid-looking wall of undergrowth, and then he glanced at Meluscia. “Do you hear the voice?”

  Meluscia stilled her thoughts and listened. For a moment, all she heard was the hush of the forest. But then, faintly, she thought she heard a song carried on short drafts of wind. Then she recognized it only as the sweet tune of a grosbeak. “I hear only a birdsong.”

  “The undergrowth is ancient here. No man has been this way in ages.” Wiluit reached out and took her hand. “Stay close. I’ll guide us through.”

  She tried not to dwell on the warmth of his fingers flowing through her hand, like an old, warm fire. For that fire had earlier led to shameful things. And beyond that, she was certain he was only being courteous, nothing more.

  “You never answered my question back on the road,” said Meluscia. “Where does your ability to lead come from?”

  “Not from my own life. It must be the Makers’ doing. Some children have a knack for a thing from birth. Of course, it could be my role in a group of bandits.”

  Meluscia laughed, thinking it a joke, but Wiluit continued. “By day I hunted animals, but at nights, I was a road thief. I started at nineteen, and by twenty, I led a company of young bandits. We robbed many, and a few died at our swords. I shed no blood, but their deaths still haunt my soul. If I am a good leader now, it is by the mercy of the Makers. Though my neck belonged in a noose, they called me to watch over our little band. That was less than two years ago. Every day is a gift now, to be out from under a dark and blinded mind. A beautiful gift. One that only the Makers could render.”

  Meluscia was stunned silent.

  To be out from under a dark and blinded mind.

  The words resonated in her soul, but she couldn’t imagine Wiluit as a bandit. That term brought associations of things she feared as a little-girl: shadowy men lying in wait, dark-circled eyes, heartless hands quick and blood-flecked. If Wiluit’s hands had been cold and violent, they were no longer.

  “Wait here,” he said, releasing her fingers. He ducked out of sight and was lost beneath the shorter growth of saplings and ferns that rose to her chest. She saw the problem ahead. An impenetrable stand of hardwood trees roped in vines. Why would a Maker lead them through such an impassable tangle of forest?

  When Wiluit returned, he took her hand again. “We’re close,” he said, his voice reverent. A restless wonder filled his eyes. Meluscia wished she could hear the voice as he did. It still felt like only half a reality…was she really being led to a Maker?

  “We’ll have to crawl the rest of the way. I found a wolves’ tunnel that goes beneath the thicket.”

  She followed Wiluit to the ground. Her dress was too long for crawling, so she tucked it into her riding pants and followed close to Wiluit’s heels. Inside the canine game path, the light was strangled into a horrible gray. All Meluscia could hear were the scrapings of her and Wiluit as they dug elbow and knee through the rot-reeking hole. Wiluit kept calling back to her, making sure she was all right, and though her arms were muddied, and the tunnel stank horribly, the challenge of it was invigorating. The wolves in these woods were not as large, nor dangerous, as those in past ages, and the tunnel she and Wiluit traversed showed just how agile they were. Meluscia suspected the wolves themselves had to crawl through certain tight passages of bent hardwood and briar.

  The tunnel ahead glowed with a circle of light. This last stretch of wolf trail had Meluscia wriggling on her stomach. Finally, the aura of light ahead broke into a full horizon of trees, and she stepped out into a thin, little meadow. All around the trees stood like giants, their branches like thousands of hands blocking off any color other than the dark green of their broad leaves. The sky above was covered in clouds, but for a small hole. The sunlight shining through it was bright in her eyes.

  Wiluit led her out into the meadow. The tall grass brushed against her waist and mud-slicked arms. As she neared the meadow’s center, she noticed three dirt mounds she knew immediately to be graves. Their location in the middle of this strange, wooded fortress made her deeply curious as to who they were, and the circumstances of their deaths.

  She felt a tug on her hand as Wiluit knelt and bowed his head low into the grass. She knelt beside him, and the moment she did, the sunlight touching the little meadow was overwhelmed by a light source hovering over the graves. The air rippled like the shimmer of mist swirling at the bottom of a great waterfall. A form materialized from it, like a body coming through a thin sheet of water.

  The blinding glory of light receded, and there stood a Maker in human form.

  Meluscia could hardly breathe. She was frozen in place by the awe of what her eyes beheld, warm chills running the length of her body. She could hardly manage a thought, overwhelmed by this gift of the Makers—to see one of them with her own eyes.

  “Rise, Wiluit, my fiercely cherished son. I have words for you, and a tool for your future need.”

  Wiluit stood and the Maker came to him. The Maker wore the skin of a plain-faced young woman. A crimson dress adorned her body with white, patterned lace about her neck and shoulders that allowed her fair skin to breathe through. Her hair was long and brown, her arms as slender as the fingers that stretched out and took Wiluit’s hands. She kissed him on his forehead and said, “You are unbound from your small group of prophets. Your role of leader is now only a choice. You may choose yet to lead the prophets, but you will also find yourself caught up in a much more dangerous task. It is fraught with uncertainty, and you will have many choices set before you. Though it is almost certain death will come to some you love, do not fear, for a remnant of prophets will live on. Whether treachery or war take some from this life to the life after life, never forget, that is where the faithful go one day, and it is joyous there. Come.”

  Meluscia followed Wiluit as the Maker led him to the edge of the wood. There, the Maker knelt before an enormous trunk. Meluscia looked up at the great branches. It was a whitewood poplar, an uncommon tree to find so far east in her realm. And the size of it told her the tree was ancient, the trunk as wide as both her arms outstretched.

  The Maker reached for the tree, and her arm disappeared within. The sight of it was startling, even though Meluscia underst
ood that spirit was not hampered by physical substance.

  Slowly, her hand withdrew from the tree, and the Maker smiled like a young woman just given a marriage ring. The plain face was filled with a powerful beauty as she lifted a long, crooked stick of wood before her face, and her eyes gazed admiringly upon it.

  “The oldest wood,” said the Maker. “The heart of the tree.”

  Then the Maker reached down deep into the earth, so that her head pressed against the dank ground, shoulder buried beneath. When she withdrew her arm, she held cords of dark roots that dangled from her fingers like braids. She put the twisted heartwood stick to her lips and exhaled a slow, deep breath upon each finger-length of the stick. As she did, the roots unwound from her grasp and formed in chaotic twists and snarls and knots as they attached to the wood stick.

  The last of the roots untangled from the Maker’s fingers and formed an oval knot of web-laced roots at the top of the stick. With pride in her eyes, the Maker looked up at Wiluit. “This walking staff will do only what we Makers desire. Through it, you will see our judgment, and as long as the staff remains unbroken in your hand, we will protect you.”

  The Maker’s eyes turned upon Meluscia. Starlight as old as creation itself stirred within them. “I have gifts for you, dear one. Your disgrace has led you to a true repentance of heart. Your mind is clear now, and the task within is right. We long to see you lead the armies of many lands into the Star Garden Realm, but it is not a certain future. A dark heart awaits you at home. Your becoming Luminess is by no means written in stone. The choices of many people must align—both servant and kings and queens—for the resolution in your mind to bear fruit.

  “But don’t lose heart, the gifts I give to you will help. Come.”

  The Maker led her beside the graves.