The Rogue Trilogy

by Elizabeth Carlton

  Jaycent’s ears perked. He knew the gypsies were once part of a thriving kingdom, but he had always assumed his ancestors had been a part of it. “I confess, I am glad you seek to learn more about these mysterious people,” Bardo continued. “I think you will be pleasantly surprised at how advanced they truly are.”

  “If they are so advanced, librarian,” Jaycent inquired, “then why do we reign over the northern realm and not them?”

  “Do not be fooled by their humble ways, my prince,” Bardo bid as he lugged several scrolls to the table where Rayhan was seated. “There is nothing simple about them. They are keen folk, full of integrity and brilliant in the arts of disguise and infiltration.” Peeking from behind the load, he smirked at Rayhan and set the collection on the table in front of Jaycent instead.

  “Thank you, Bardo,” the general mused.

  “Whatever you do, do not soil my scrolls, General Mendeley,” the librarian warned. “Deal with them carefully. They are very fragile! When you are finished, I will return them to their proper place.”

  Jaycent gingerly spread the parchments across the table while Rayhan plucked up an old, leather-bound book. The image of a centaur embossed on its cover caught the general’s eye. The beast held out its hands like a set of scales, one bearing the weight of the world, and the other a star.

  “What is that?” the prince looked over his cousin’s shoulder.

  “A historical account of our race,” Rayhan ran his hand across the cover. “Definitely elvish.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The centaur is a symbol the elves used to describe our people because it is half human and half equine. They chose it back when our people first entered this land in the form of tribes. They said we knew the thoughts of horses and the horses understood our language.”

  “Like Diego and me?”

  “Very much like you and Diego, except we communicated with horses, not unicorns. This was many centuries ago, before Nevaharday was even a thought. They spoke of our kind as pure spirits, naïve to the evils of this world.”

  “Are you sure that’s not just some tree lover’s fairytale?” the prince asked as he eyed the book with interest. Despite Jaycent’s skepticism, he found his cousin’s description reminded him much of Arelee's new apprentice. How many times had Arelee caught her babbling to the horses when she thought no one was looking? She was peculiar, but they let her strange habits slide, their questions tempered by her innocent charm.

  “It's not a fairytale,” his cousin replied.

  “What makes you so certain?”

  Rayhan took a deep breath before beginning to divulge a fraction of his past Jaycent had begged for years to hear. “When your father sent me to form an alliance with the elves, I spent several weeks waiting for an answer from their king.

  “During that time, I met an elven maiden named Elessara who had been studying rahee since the ancient city fell. Her mother was alive during the early days of our people and many of these tales were ones she had told Elessara when she was a child. It was her mother’s stories that inspired her to study us in the first place.”

  “Elessara… Is that her name?” Jaycent dared to ask. The general had revealed little about his journey to the elven kingdom since he returned broken-hearted and empty-handed. “Is she the maiden you fell in love with all those years ago?”

  Rayhan fell silent, the palm of his hand tracing the star on the book’s cover. The prince watched the general sort his thoughts and knew he had unveiled the truth.

  “This is hardly the time for such tales, cousin,” Rayhan reasoned.

  Jaycent pulled up a chair and straddled it, resting his arms against the back. “It’s been over a decade, cousin. Just moments ago you were ranting about the importance of being honest. Show me by example,” he shrugged. “Unless you believe silence is the same thing. And if that is the case, you have no basis for the lectures you have been dealing as of late.”

  Rayhan dealt Jaycent a knowing glance. “What is there to tell? I messed up, cousin. I was young and foolish. I let my heart override my duty and I paid for it. We all did. Relations with the elves are still terrible.”

  “Relations with the elves have always been rocky! I want to know about you and this Elessara maiden.”

  “It is a long story and we have a lot of material here to shift through.”

  Rayhan was right, but Jaycent itched to know the truth. “Just tell me why you can’t forget her and we’ll comb every page old Bardo put on this table.”

  Tapping the book against his palm, the general thumbed through the memories of those three short months in King Mekkai’s palace. “Elessara was the niece of elven king and a scholar. She knew everything there was to know about our people’s history.

  “She became my guide to elven culture while I was in Whitewood, and I became a source of insight to her on our people’s present-day lives. We spent a lot of time together... until one night something happened.

  “I fell for her, Jaycent. She was unpredictable, passionate, beautiful, and undeniably brilliant. Those are the dangerous ones, cousin. Women who are complicated and adventurous will never cease to enthrall you.”

  “Then why did you let her go? Why not bring her home with you?”

  “Her father hated the Mendeley family. In fact, he tried to kill me,” Rayhan laughed quietly, but his face was somber. “The whole scandal would have sparked another war, so I cut my losses and returned empty-handed. I have fought many battles and faced death in the eyes, yet letting her go remains the hardest thing I have ever had to do.”

  Jaycent put a comforting hand on his cousin’s back, but deep down he couldn’t fathom his pain. How could one elven maiden leave his kin spellbound for so long? No matter how pretty or clever, she was still just a female, and they were as common as the leaves of fall.

  “Anyway,” Rayhan steered them back on target. “She gave me a book almost identical to this one. It was a record of our people and how we came to be.”

  “So then why is it down here? Why is it not in the main room where people can read it?”

  “Someone apparently felt these things were better left forgotten,” Rayhan speculated as he opened the cover. “This book may shed some light on Patchi’s way of thinking, though.”

  The two fell quiet as they delved deeper into the wealth of information at their fingertips. The prince found several accounts of old kings admonishing the gypsies for their fight against assimilation into Nevaharday. Again and again they received letters of rejection in response to the decree, and with them the same statement:

  “…Centuries ago we were all horse folk, one with the herds and each other. While some of tribes turned toward the ways of the so-called civilized races, others choose to remain true to the way of life we were born into; one that shall outlast your Nevaharday.

  Behind your city’s walls, you have resigned to forget the magic that dwells within you. Your hearts have forgotten the ways of our people and slowly your connection with the herds and your innate talents have begun to fade. It is a decision you will rue one day, for a time will come when the stones of your kingdom will return to the dust from whence they came. It is in that tragedy that the horse folk shall unite as one again.

  But until that day, we will remain separated, divided by our differences…”

  “Rayhan, listen to this,” Jaycent read the excerpt aloud before motioning to the identical paragraphs on each letter. “Do you think it is the prophecy we’re looking for?”

  “Is it in every letter?” the general asked.

  “Every single one. And look at the dates: year 203, year 330, year 460... Yet all of them were signed by Patchi.”

  Rayhan stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Many people believe that Patchi is more of a role than a person, and that a new ‘Patchi’ is chosen every decade or so. That could explain the signature,” the general explained, but paused as he glimpsed at the letters. Setting the book in his lap, he leaned forward and traced his fing
er over each signature.

  “If a different person is writing each one, then how can letters written over a century apart have the same handwriting?” Jaycent asked.

  “They are similar,” the general muttered. “However, it could be part of an elaborate disguise. Like Bardo said, the gypsies are masters of their trade.

  The only other known theory is that Patchi is the phantom of the last king to rule the ancient city, but according to all historical accounts,” Rayhan tapped the elven book he had been studying, “there wasn’t even a ruler named Patchi. Dikan Thunderhoof was the last to reign and he died with his twin sons the night the city fell.”

  “Considering it was the elves who felled them, they would probably be an accurate source,” the prince remarked.

  “Actually, the elves still claim they never had any part in the tragedy. And that, I think, may be something worth noting,” the general handed his cousin the book he had been browsing and motioned to an illustration of Thunderhoof’s last stand. The enemy appeared not as an elf, but rather as a rather exotic-looking rahee.

  “What do you notice about this drawing?” Rayhan asked.

  “He looks like one of our own people,” the prince observed. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Rayhan saw a bit of emotion break through Jaycent’s visage. He set the book in his lap, his eyes trying to digest what he saw in the illustration. “No, wait. He looks… different.”

  “Back then, there were two types of horse tribes. The rahee and the re’shahna,” the general explained. “Both Thunderhoof and his enemy were the latter.”

  “Rayhan,” Jaycent addressed, his voice too soft for Rayhan to hear above his enthusiasm.

  “They were more akin to the unicorns than horses and had more equine features than we did,” his cousin continued.

  “Rayhan,” the prince said again, this time a little louder. The general quieted. “This enemy has red eyes,” Jaycent divulged. “Like the soldier I saw and the wolf in my dreams.”

  A pause extended between them. “Your Highness, that story is centuries old.”

  “So is Patchi, according to our records and lore. What if it isn’t an act, Rayhan? What if he has really been alive this long? More importantly, what if this is the same enemy that dragged Bresan T’ahnya into ruin centuries ago?”

  Rayhan drummed his fingers against the armrest of the chair, thinking. “The root of the gypsies’ beliefs is connected to the ancient city’s fall, so it wouldn’t hurt to entertain such a farfetched thought…” Rising to his feet, the general patted the prince on the shoulder. “Gather what information you can here. I have to give my lieutenants orders on how to deal with the recruits so we can focus on finding answers.”

  Jaycent shook his head. “No, you must lead the training. You are the best we have. If war lingers on our borders, then we need skilled soldiers on our side. I will be fine down here alone. Go finish your tasks and we will reconvene tonight.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness,” Rayhan bowed. “But please do not leave me in the dark. You know I am here to serve you, and I’ll do that in any way I can.”

  Jaycent clapped a hand on his cousin's shoulder and smiled. “We will talk again later. I promise.”

  Rayhan nodded and headed up the stairs, leaving Jaycent with his nose buried in scrolls. Between the faded lines, questions pulled him ever deeper into the past. Scrawled accounts illuminated history, opening his eyes to truths that had been buried for centuries.

  Reading through the pages of the elven book, the prince came across another copy of a letter written by an unknown survivor of Bresan T’ahnya. Jaycent traced the soft tip of a feather quill across his lips as he let the words sink in:

  Desolate. It is the only word befitting of the city’s ruins. Smoke rises in heaps from amber and ashes. Every pebble and stone has been displaced and scattered across the charred ground. Nothing so savage could come from any known race we horse-hearted have heard of.

  Certainly not the elves or humans, as we first suspected. Orcs and mimics and other foul creatures from the depths of the great earth have found courage in an ally only seen when shrouded in mist and darkness.

  We know not its name, but the enemy's red eyes haunt many unfortunate souls. Particularly those who possess the prophetic gift...

  Jaycent tossed the plume onto the table and sat up straight in his chair. Pulling the candelabra closer, he continued reading.

  ...The power of this enemy seems to prey upon the gifted. Our dreamers dream of terror so cold and frightening, it robs them of peace until exhaustion takes their lives. Only the speakers—those whose childlike souls lie closest to our equine kin—seem impervious to its evil.

  In fact, the enemy fears them.

  I believe it is for the speakers he is here. For once they are gone, there will be none to keep the voices of the equines alive. Without our four-legged kin, we are at the mercy of this cruel and mysterious adversary.

  Jaycent closed the book, his eyes clinched shut as he realized who would become the hunter’s new prey if he found her. Regret lassoed his voice, and her name barely escaped his lips. “Levee.”

  JOINING THE INNER CIRCLE

  The regal arch of Nevaharday’s palace doors stretched wide in front of Levee. Mounted upon her palomino pony, she watched a crowd of armored rahee march tight-faced in front of the castle. They moved in solid ranks, each line directed to posts marked on and beyond royal grounds. General Mendeley made it a point to let the monsters know Nevaharday would not humor their visit.

  “Are things really this bad?” she whispered to Melee.

  A lieutenant Levee had worked with before nodded a greeting, and she returned the gesture as she wove cautiously around their rigid marches. However, that peaceful exchange was lost when he suddenly shouted orders to a small set of troops behind him. Levee jumped and Melee shied, sidling into one of the war mounts beside her.

  The horse neighed an angry warning, and Melee—unacquainted with such commotion—had seen and heard enough. She bolted, taking Levee with her.

  “Whoa, girl. Easy!” Gathering the reins and her wits, Levee pulled her mare’s head toward her knee. “Kaliano,” she coaxed, but the palomino’s eyes had rolled back in panic.

  “Levee?” Arelee’s head poked out from the sea of soldiers in the castle yard, but the gypsy didn’t have time to answer. Too many sounds and strangers set Melee rocking between four hooves and two. Directing the palomino toward a gap between a foot soldier and a merchant’s wagon, Levee let loose the reins.

  She kicked the mare forward, and Melee took to open ground like a hunted rabbit. Curses sounded behind them, but Levee paid them no heed. All that mattered was bringing Melee back from the snares of fear.

  She clenched her knees against the pony’s barrel and abandoned the reins for two tufts of mane. Worry gripped her as the pony galloped headlong toward a low stone wall. Melee couldn’t see it, but behind the small barricade sat a ten foot drop into a muddy gully.

  A cry carried over the field behind her, and Levee glanced over her shoulder to see Arelee on her white mare, galloping in pursuit. The horse mistress would never catch up to her apprentice in time.

  Out of options, Levee fell into herself, summoning an old magic she hadn’t used in many years. It was the gift that had attracted attention and stolen her family from her.

  After that tragic night, she had held the promise never to open her mind to such magic again, but as the stone wall drew ever nearer, it was clear there was no other choice. Either Levee would break her vow or they would crumple into a heap upon the slick ground below.

  Levee couldn’t bear the thought of their bodies broken together. With eyes clenched shut, she unraveled her senses until she felt the rhythm of the mare’s hooves beneath her.

  One, two, three, four. One, two three, four.

  Levee’s heart pounded in sync with the little palomino’s, her mind melding with the mare’s. As they joined as one, Levee found herself overwhelmed wit
h the need to get away from this place.

  Clenching her fingers around Melee’s mane, the gypsy flooded her own calm feelings into the wild mare. As it coated the surge of panic pumping through their hearts, the gypsy used her mind to console Melee.

  We’re safe, Levee’s words trickled serenely into their joint thoughts. Slow your hooves, Melee. Turn around.

  Clumps of dirt and grass flung every which way as Melee skidded to a halt. Her hooves slid several feet across the damp ground, rolling layers of dirt beneath a frantic back pedal. The pair finally came to a stop just as they reached the edge of the low wall. Relieved, Levee draped herself over the huffing pony.

  Melee shook her head. We don’t belong here, the words spilled into Levee’s mind with a sense of dread. Something bad is building in this place. I can feel it.

  Levee patted her mare’s shaking frame. “Relax, Melee. I’m sure you’re just picking up the tension of so many soldiers about. Look at it this way: the more of them there are, the safer we’ll be.”

  The palomino looked back at the line of armed rahee and gave a doubtful whicker.

  “Levee?” Arelee approached from an angle that wouldn’t catch the nervous pony off guard. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  “We’re fine,” Levee dismounted onto wobbling legs that begged to differ. Arelee caught her by the arm and steadied her apprentice until she found solid footing. “We just got wedged in the crowd back there and Melee spooked.”

  The horse mistress dismounted so they could walk their steeds back to the castle gates together. “That was an impressive response, Tensley. For a moment, I thought that pony of yours was inconsolable.”

  When Melee realized they were heading toward the castle, she belted a disagreeable neigh. Tugging on the reins, she tried to pull Levee back. What are you doing? Don’t go back!

  “I have to,” Levee replied.