Her Father's Fugitive Throne

by Brandon Barr

  One of the little creatures ran over the man’s chest and perched itself on his shoulder. It bobbed its head like a bird, but its appearance was closer to a large rodent.

  “So that is your gift,” said the cloaked man, gesturing behind him toward the creatures. “Your eyes give you away...you see the unseen. It is a wonderful gift.”

  “What have you done to the girl?” demanded Wiluit.

  “Her affliction will be short,” said the man. “The venom of the red orb spinner is powerful but lasts no more than an hour.”

  “I remember your face.” said Wiluit. “You’re the woodcutter from Tilmar.”

  “Most know me by the name Harcor,” he said.

  Wiluit nodded. The familiar eyes were the same he’d seen on the man who’d nearly killed Meluscia’s sister, Savarah. But that such a man seemed to have a gift—it was incomprehensible. Wickedness blessed with the Makers’ power?

  “You must love her,” went on Harcor. “Why else would you leave the protection of the boy?”

  Wiluit stared at him, unmoved to give him a reply.

  “I have an offer for you,” said Harcor. “You are powerful among men, and your service would be highly valued to my master.”

  “I will not join light with dark, as it seems you have done.” Wiluit wondered at his own words. He’d never considered light and dark existing together until seeing this man and his Cherah.

  The thought sent shivers running up his spine.

  “You are mistaken in your concept of gifts,” said Harcor. “Your gifts come from the Makers—wicked beings disguised as light. My gift comes from the Beast, Isolaug. A brighter, better being, who is falsely accused as morally inferior to the gods.”

  Wiluit leaned upon his staff, remembering the beautiful Maker who’d made it, a memory that reaffirmed that what Harcor believed was a lie. Still, there was a formless fear in Wiluit’s throat.

  “How were you gifted with Sight, and where did you come by those Cherah?” asked Wiluit.

  Harcor laughed, an odd, friendly laugh. “The Sight was a gift from the Makers. Even in the realm of the Star Garden they are not quiet. Isolaug has had his share of trouble in Praelothia, rooting out the Makers’ weeds. I was one such weed, but I was a child, and Isolaug guided me from my deception. I still retain my gift of Sight. I see…spirit things.”

  “And the Cherah?” pressed Wiluit, masking his surprise that Harcor had been god-chosen.

  “The Cherah are Isolaug’s doing,” said Harcor. “These you see here were the only ones he was able to capture when he took power in Praelothia so long ago. All the others fled from him like mice from a cat. He has made me shepherd of his flock. I have been waiting a long time to give my little pets away. I offer one to you—any pet of your choosing. Each has a special talent.”

  Wiluit kept his eyes from drifting down to the Cherah, lest he feel more temptation than already assaulted him. There was a charm about the man, his words an enchantment to the listener.

  “And what if I refuse your offer?”

  “Why do that?” said Harcor. “The girl you came to save was wise enough to receive my offer.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Wiluit, but his tone lacked conviction.

  “Look, then,” said Harcor, then whistled a practiced tune, the melody at once eerie and beautiful.

  Wiluit turned to see a small creature crawl over Jauphenna. Its body was that of an enormous centipede, but it was covered in long fur. Instead of mandibles and antennae, its head was dominated by large black eyes. Double wings, like that of a dragonfly, fluttered from the head.

  “She is under a curse,” said Harcor. “Her gift is conditioned upon your acceptance. You see, I have a second gift, just as she does. It is the gift of Blessings and Curses. She agreed to my condition freely, and thus, the curse is binding by your gods’ own power. If you do not accept my offer, then she will be enslaved to me and become my faithful follower.”

  “You’ve tricked her somehow,” said Wiluit.

  Harcor shrugged. “I only leveraged her concern for your life against her, hardly a trick. I told her if she would embrace the creature, then I would not kill you. And I also told her that if you did not accept a Cherah from my flock, then she would belong to me indefinitely. You saw her eyes. They are not black from spider poison. That is the doing of my master’s power upon her Cherah.”

  Anger coursed like fire through Wiluit’s veins. “You forced her to make a promise out of fear. That is a despicable way to gain one’s allegiance,” Wiluit growled. “Unbind her from her curse!”

  “Would you rather her have declined and be presently dead?”

  Wiluit did not flinch at the question. “Living is less important than whom one serves. I’ll die before I aid your master.”

  Harcor’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Very well. She will serve me all her days, and you will suffer greatly because of it.” He left the fire and came before Wiluit. “You might yet reconsider. The offer to you will remain. You may yet free the girl from her curse one day. Either she feared death too much to surrender her life, or she loved you too much…more than you love her.”

  Wiluit turned away from the man’s beguiling face and returned to kneel beside Jauphenna. “You romanticize the immaturities of a young woman very well. Is that the gift of your Cherah, to woo men and women with words that enspell them?”

  “Yes,” said Harcor. “It is a wonderful gift my Cherah has given me.” He moved beside Wiluit. “Jauphenna chose her Cherah wisely. Would you like to know the gift it bestows?”

  Wiluit remained silent against the obvious answer. Yes, he wanted to know. But he also sensed that knowing would make matters worse.

  “She chose the gift of Resurrection. To bring life to the dead. A noble and good gift.” Harcor knelt opposite Wiluit and took Jauphenna’s hand gently in his. “Come my dear, our master has work for us. The orb spinner’s venom should be close to spent.”

  Jauphenna rose shakily. Harcor whistled again, a different tune, no less captivating than his first melody. A horse came trotting out of the brush. The same mare he’d stolen, and the only one that hadn’t been gutted. Meluscia’s mare.

  Wiluit remained on his knees, his desperation growing.

  The group of Cherah followed Harcor like hungry puppies bounding after their mother. Jauphenna walked just behind him, as a servant would. Only, she looked back again and again at Wiluit. Her pure-black eyes seemed somehow sad, despite their hideous appearance. If she wanted to turn and run to him, she didn’t. He didn’t know whether that was by her own decision or the curse’s control over her. The mare trotted up to Harcor, and he mounted it. Then he extended a hand to Jauphenna and helped her up to sit at his back.

  A terrible rage boiled up within Wiluit.

  He leapt up, springing toward the horse. “I care not for your promises and curses.” He started to reach for his sword but then remembered the staff in his hand. The Cherah began to hop at his approach like frightened whelps with soundless barks. Wiluit swung his staff at a small ferret-like Cherah with six legs that lagged behind the others. It shuddered as the wood passed through it, then ran frantically into the bush, as if it had again gone wild.

  “You’re a dead man!” snapped Harcor, but Wiluit swiped out a second time, scattering more of Harcor’s flock into the woods. Wiluit was nearly upon the horse when Harcor pulled back the bowstring. He took quick aim, then loosed the arrow just as Jauphena kicked the mare, causing it to jolt forward.

  Wiluit felt the arrow strike him just above the heart, under his left shoulder. The pain blurred his vision for a moment, and he stood dazed. Harcor jumped from the mare, drawing a sword.

  “If the mare hadn’t jumped, I would have shot you straight through the heart, and the curse over Jauphenna would be nullified,” said Harcor. “She would have run, and I would have had to kill her.” He stopped before Wiluit, the remaining Cherah hopping quickly behind their shepherd. “I was going to leave you be, Seer, but i
nstead I’m going to leave you maimed. Drop the stick now, or I’ll hamstring your legs.”

  Wiluit looked past Harcor into Jauphenna’s black eyes. At that moment, something powerful flowed from the staff into his arm. A dark blue flame sparked to life within the knot at the top of the staff. Wiluit thrust the staff at Harcor.

  The air screamed. A wind beat against Harcor as he dug the toes of his shoes into the earth, struggling to keep his feet. He held his ground for only a moment, then he soared backward on the current, like a leaf in a gale. His body flew straight, like a rock from a sling, until it struck against the trunk of a poplar. Wiluit pursued Harcor, feverishly praising the Makers for this new tool as he rushed forward through the undergrowth, staff extended.

  Harcor squirmed, his body pinned halfway up the trunk. It hovered there unnaturally, like a man hanging from the gallows.

  “Unspeak your curse or die,” called Wiluit through the high whistle of the wind.

  Harcor grimaced in great pain from the wind pummeling him against the tree. His sword had fallen from his hand and was nowhere to be seen. “I am broken,” he managed to call out. “My back is ruined.”

  “You’re alive, and that is more than you deserve. Unspeak the curse, and I will give you the horse and send you on your way alone.”

  For just a moment, defiance burned in Harcor’s eyes. But then he shouted, “I unbind her from her word. Remove the Cherah, and she will be yours again.”

  Wiluit lowered his staff and the wind calmed. Harcor plummeted to the ground with such an agonized cry that Wiluit felt sorrow for the man. The Cherah hopped away from Wiluit as he approached Jauphenna. The furry centipede with the dragonfly wings skittered to her back to hide. Wiluit stuck his staff against Jauphenna’s shoulder, and the creature sprang from the horse, buzzing like a bumblebee, and joined the others a distance away.

  Jauphenna slumped forward then rolled off the horse. Wiluit dropped his staff to catch her with his right arm. The arrow in his chest pulsed with the prick of a thousand knives, and he groaned in agony. Teeth clenched, he laid her softly on the grass.

  Jauphenna’s eyes blinked. They were her eyes again, freed of the darkness. Her face wrinkled into a mask of grief, and she sobbed against his chest. He stroked her hair, as he had nearly two years ago, when he’d pulled her out from underneath her home. Out from the deep dark pit she’d been cast into.

  The haunting black eyes came into Wiluit’s mind again. These Cherah had been defiled by Isolaug.

  Wiluit pointed his staff at the remaining flock a distance away.

  The wind changed this time, for it was a wind of fire.

  The devastation was swift. The little creatures crackled upon the grass where they lay, blue flames consuming them like tinder.

  Wiluit watched them burn with sadness. He’d only wanted to turn them wild. The staff, it seemed, had a will and judgment of its own.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  MELUSCIA

  The sun had not set for more than two hours before Meluscia arrived at the Hold, her horse panting beneath her. She made her way up the sloping road to the Hold’s tall gates, past a crumbling series of jutting rocks that looked like teeth.

  A sentry rode up with torch in hand. His eyes widened when he saw Meluscia’s face. He called up to the gatekeeper. “Trigon’s daughter has returned! Open the gates!”

  The summer’s last warm breezes were vanishing, and a cold crisp wind beat at Meluscia and her party as they rode through the gates. Meluscia dismounted, and immediately felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “I will tell Mica only half of what you’ve done,” said Praseme.

  Praseme’s eyes loomed large before Meluscia. “Tell him whatever you wish.”

  Praseme leaned close, “Only that you apologized to me for your advances. That way he knows you are changed.”

  Meluscia took Praseme in her arms and squeezed her. “You don’t have to hide my disgrace, my friend.”

  Praseme drew back, her eyes serious. “It is better this way. May I go to him now?”

  “Go, as fast as your feet can carry you,” said Meluscia.

  While Meluscia watched Praseme depart up the great stairway, she withdrew from her saddle bag the invaluable treaty scroll with King Feaor’s signature. She then removed the precious sword in its sheath, a weapon forged in part by a Maker’s own fires. Her fingers ran excitedly over the rough leather of the scabbard.

  “Terling,” said Meluscia, “come with me. I want you for a witness.”

  The many steps of the great staircase felt light beneath her feet, the nearness of her destination chasing away all weariness of the ride. The metal doors that led inside the mountain opened, and she entered the great hall to find it busy as usual.

  Then came a frantic voice.

  Heulan hurried down the main tunnel toward her. The frightened look upon his face halted her steps.

  “Valcere is coming,” said Heulan. “He knows of your father’s promise to you. And he worries you have a signed treaty—do you?”

  “I do, Huelan,” she said. “Does he mean to defy my father’s promise?”

  The look in Heulan’s eyes was all she needed for answer.

  “My father, tell me he has not passed?”

  “No,” said Heulan. “But he is close, unable to speak any longer. Come, we must take a side passage.”

  But Meluscia saw what Heulan did not. It was too late. Coming down the great passage was Valcere, accompanied by a host of soldiers. Any attempt to flee into a side passage seemed less than dignified for the daughter of Trigon. Besides, if his intentions were to stop her from reaching her father, he would have the royal bedroom well-guarded.

  Valcere swept down the hall dressed in the attire of a warrior king. A cape-like robe fluttered down to the back of his knees trimmed with golden silk. A gold breastplate adorned his chest, covering a surcoat of dark blue velvet tied with a thick black belt. And, just like her last encounter with him, he wore the smug look of victory.

  “Ah, Meluscia, so good to have you back from your journey,” rang Valcere’s voice, with the sickly-sweet tone of a rival. Then his eyes sharpened, though his lips took on a frown.

  “What happened to the side of your face?” he inquired. “It looks bruised, and you have the remnants of a black eye.”

  “A tale for another time,” she said shortly.

  “Very well,” said Valcere, eyes twinkling. “What news do you bring from the Verdlands?”

  She thought of lies…telling him that she had failed, but fear was the last thing she wanted to show before this man.

  She said loudly, “I have wonderful tidings. King Feaor has agreed to my father’s terms. There will be peace once again between us and the Verdlands.” In the large foyer, the sight of Meluscia and Valcere speaking together had drawn most conversations silent. She looked around and saw many familiar faces among the servants.

  Valcere’s arms spread wide, a well-crafted look of delight running down his face like saliva dripping from a toothed snout. “If I can see the document and verify it, we will throw a celebration across the Hold.”

  “My father will verify it,” said Meluscia, her voice again raised. The more ears that heard, the better.

  “I’m afraid your father cannot speak and doesn’t respond to other’s words. Since I am charged with the throne in his stead, I will verify the treaty for him.”

  “Perhaps he will wake in the presence of his daughter,” said Meluscia. “Regardless, I shall see him immediately. I wish to be with my father again, considering his condition.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Valcere. “I will take you to him.”

  Meluscia thought of protesting Valcere’s presence, but he was, after all, the one her father chose to judge in his stead. It was a duty to care for the Luminar’s daughter, though Meluscia had no pretensions about his reasons for staying close to her. Would he acquiesce if her father granted the throne to her?

  She had a deep misgiving. The Maker had p
romised no certain future.

  Once she entered her father’s bed chambers, she would call for friends to witness, as was her right. Besides Heulan and Terling her scribe, there was Katlel, and most importantly, Valcere’s own councilor and one of her father’s ten riders, Rivdon. He carried weight among the soldiers of the Hold.

  “Thank you, Valcere,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  It would have been a long walk from the bottom of the mountain to the top if it were traversed only by foot. But the stables at the lower orchards allowed for a horse to carry its rider to the upper plateau. The ride was short, and the sound of war horses accompanying her had grown familiar.

  At the small gateway, she sprang from her horse and followed Valcere back inside the mountain. It was good to feel the cold draft of air running down the upper passages. It felt like home.

  The moment she turned the corner toward her father’s room, a hand seized her. She struggled to escape the grasp, but suddenly more hands fell upon her and a rag was shoved over her mouth. Her body was lifted from the floor, and she was carried down the hallway, though she fought and struggled.

  Inside the room, the hands set her roughly down on hard stone. The door slammed shut and a bolt clanked into place. There was no light in the room.

  “Are you alright, Meluscia?” came Heulan’s worried voice.

  “Yes,” she said into the dark, spitting loose the rag from her mouth. “Curse Valcere. Where’s Terling?”

  “I’m here, My Lady,” said the scribe. “And in one piece, so it seems.”

  Meluscia felt within her cloak for the scroll. It was still rolled within an inner pocket, a useless parchment unless recognized by her father. “He means to keep us here until my father’s blight finishes its work.”

  “Yes,” said Heulan. “We’re under guarded watch, I suspect.”