The Rogue Trilogy

by Elizabeth Carlton

  The one with the broken nose came back with a swing of his mace. Tobiano spun on his heel, his sword sweeping under the assailant’s arm and through his lungs. The blade lingered only for a second before the re’shahna wrenched it out. In one swift motion, he grabbed his dirk and struck again, its blade catching the falling thug as it drew cleanly through his heart. Tobiano’s victim gave a faint moan; his last utterance prior to dying.

  The re’shahna slowly shook his head. He picked up his bow and abandoned arrow, then turned in the rogue's direction only to be startled by what he found. Blood painted Jaspur’s face, arms and tunic, his expression locked in a primal rage as he railed his fist relentlessly against the face of the last man he killed.

  A man that was clearly beyond dead.

  Running over, Tobiano grabbed Jaspur by the tunic and yanked him to his feet.

  “Jaspur!” He shoved the rogue away from the body and Diego quickly stepped in between them. “Rein yourself!” he called over the stallion’s back.

  Jaspur panted heavily, his eyes cold as ice as he strode around his mount and yanked the dagger from the man’s chest. His hands trembled, his mind clouded by a thoughtless rage. When he came to his senses, he was embarrassed, but his pride wouldn’t let him say so. Kicking the body, he retrieved Lumiere from the ground and left the dead man to rot with his face in the dirt.

  Tobiano shook his head again, clearly upset. “We need to go,” he said. “Before someone sees this.”

  Jaspur mounted Diego’s bare back and used his weight to turn him north before kicking into a gallop. Tobiano leapt forward, his body morphing into his equine form. Seconds later a painted unicorn was galloping alongside the rogue, racing him to the forest ahead.

  Both Diego and Tobiano refused to slow until they breached a line of thick evergreens. No one would pursue them inside the forest. It wasn’t worth the chase. The tangle of vines and untamed brush made it easy for anyone to lose their sense of direction, especially at night.

  Tobiano and Jaspur slowed under the cover of trees, taking care with every step. Jaspur pulled an unlit torch from his saddlebag and held it in Tobiano's direction. The re'shahna raked his horn across its tip and a flame ignited, illuminating their path.

  They had navigated these woods many times throughout the years and recognized the subtle notches in the trees that told them where they were. Soon, they were deep inside the bowels of the forest, entering a dell that served as the center of a large camp. Tents in various sizes scattered the area, accompanied by small fires. At least a hundred re’shahna wandered between them, all of them painted and exotic like Tobiano.

  Jaspur shifted his weight back, bringing his stallion to a halt as Tobiano returned to his original form. Legs became arms and hooves became hands as the re'shahna shivered with the last shift of his bones. Soon, he was a two-legger once more, absent of the horn or tail that had once claimed otherwise.

  “We could have avoided that fight altogether, Jaspur,” a rare flare of anger rumbled in Tobiano's voice as he spoke in his native language.

  “They attacked us,” the rogue responded in the same tongue, his expression tight with pain as he reached for his upper shoulder only to find blood. In the rush of adrenaline, he hadn’t even noticed one of the men had scored a hit on him. Reaching back again, he blindly inspected the wound. It wasn't very deep. The breastplate beneath his cloak had done its job. Jaspur dismounted.

  “You had Diego,” Tobiano continued. “They were on foot. We could have spared their lives; gotten away unscathed. But you didn't want to, did you?”

  “Oh, don't get your tail in a knot.” Sticking his cloak between his teeth, Jaspur grabbed a bottle of liquor from his saddlebag and poured it on his wound, then winced. “They were bad men,” he explained between gasps. “We did that city a favor by getting rid of them.”

  Tobiano shook his head as he checked to make sure the scroll was still in his cloak. Once satisfied, he slid his arms into a disappointed cross. “What happens when one of these men gets away, hey? What shall Jaspur Clovenhoof do if they come back for you only to discover who you really are?”

  Jaspur rolled his eyes. “They have no idea who I am. My own people do not recognize me anymore.” He tugged off his tunic and endured another splash of liquor before taking a swig for himself. “Besides, once I mark a man, they never get away.”

  Tobiano sighed. “True or not, there is nothing subtle about a trail of bodies.”

  A chilling laugh rose from the rogue’s throat as he dropped the bottle back into his pack. “No one will care about a few dead highwaymen. I doubt they will go beyond burning the bodies.”

  The re’shahna rubbed the back of his neck. “I fear your heart has grown hard, brother.”

  “Mayhap yours has grown too soft. Ever thought of that?” The rogue sauntered down to a creek where he unsheathed Lumiere and washed the blood from its blade. Tobiano watched him with an unsettled frown.

  “We are losing him, Diego,” the re'shahna whispered.

  The stallion lowered his neck and extended his head in Jaspur's direction while voicing an anxious grunt. Shaking his mane, he stomped his hoof.

  “Jaspur is not who he used to be,” Tobiano agreed. “He has closed his ears to our counsel.”

  Diego reached down and grabbed Jaspur's pack in his teeth only to drop it at Tobiano's feet. Nosing it open, he shoveled Rayhan's journal over the lip. The re'shahna bent down to pick it up, intrigued by the stallion's suggestion. He looked at Diego, his own furry ear cocked in question. “How did you even know about this?”

  The stallion shook his mane as if the answer didn't matter, then nudged the book against Tobiano's chest.

  Before the re'shahna could say more, a whistle commanded his attention. He glanced over his shoulder where a short, flaxen-haired re'shahna stood outside the flap of a maroon tent. He motioned for Jaspur’s mentor to join him. Tobiano’s shoulders slumped. “Watch Jaspur for me?”

  Diego nodded and the re'shahna set out to answer his chief's call. Tucking the journal into the back of his belt, he pulled out the scroll Jaspur had found, then ducked his way inside the tent.

  Inside, thick furs ranging from brown to gray to white covered the floor. Tobiano removed his boots as was custom and strode to the center table where the small re'shahna stood waiting.

  “Lightning Dancer,” Patchi turned to face Tobiano. Beneath the chief’s flaxen hair, the birthmark that had been his namesake trailed from above his left brow over a cherubic cheek.

  Tobiano bowed low before his chief, his palm trailing from his forehead back to his waist. “Teeyam.”

  “Loud are the voices on the road this night,” Patchi's youth did not rob the legendary chief of his powerful presence. Although he barely crested five feet, he was several centuries old and phenomenally connected with the world at large. When his stern brown eyes fell upon Tobiano, the re'shahna dared not look away.

  “The rogue acted out,” Jaspur's mentor confessed. “He would not heed my counsel.”

  The re’shahna bowed his head, sincerely disappointed. “He has grown beyond your reach.”

  “No,” Tobiano replied a little too quickly.

  Two pale brows dipped over Patchi’s gaze. “You have grown fond of the rogue…” he observed, his voice hinting toward concern.

  “Yes,” Tobiano confessed. “But my hope is not misguided. Although he has suffered much, the prince we once knew still exists.”

  “Jaycent Connor is dead,” Patchi corrected. “Your pupil was never meant to be a prince. That was merely a beginning for him. Jaspur’s true self is Jaspur: a rogue leader unburdened by the laws and expectations of princehood.”

  “Who he is now is not his true self,” Tobiano insisted.

  “No. The rogue has lost direction. Memory holds him hostage. He is caught in a web of his own weaving and cannot break free.”

  “He can. He just needs a reason to believe in that part of himself again.”

  “Perhaps,” Pat
chi planted both hands on the table. “But if that part of him can return at all, it will not be by your hand.”

  “The one we call Melah can help him,” Tobiano began to suggest.

  Patchi was already shaking his head. “Jaspur’s mate has drawn Shadow’s attention. They cannot be reunited.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Tobiano’s tone was harsher than he meant it to be, and he bowed again in apology.

  Patchi pushed away from the table and began to pace. “Few are our choices. Ready or not, the next move is coming. The ritual I told you about must be completed before the revolution starts, and we must prepare for the real possibility that the rogue may not survive it.”

  Tobiano grabbed the scroll from inside his cloak and threw it on the table. “We cannot force him into this ritual,” he said while pointing at the scroll. “Not until he is in the right mind to make the transition.”

  “I understand your hesitation,” Patchi placed a hand on the re’shahna’s shoulder. “But do not let compassion soften your resolve. We cannot wait for Jaspur to make the right choice for himself. As his power grows, so do the similarities…” He cocked his head slightly when Tobiano looked away. “You know of whom I speak?”

  Tobiano did. Before Shadow Silverhorn became the tyrant they knew today, he had been a re’shahna. A good one by many folk's standards, until his envy led him down an irreversible path.

  Jaspur, too, had been strong in character until a series of tragedies hardened his heart. The losses he suffered in his life thus far had left him wounded in ways a healer could not fix. Tobiano had witnessed Jaspur’s guilt and mourning mold into hatred, just as Shadow's envy turned into greed and revenge.

  “Aye. T'is another reason why we must intervene,” Tobiano pleaded. “The rogue has suffered much. He needs someone to remind him of why he once believed in a good path. He needs Melah, Patchi. I understand the chance we take by reuniting them, but losing the wielder of Lumiere is a greater risk still.”

  Patchi swatted the air with his hand, emphasizing the finality of his decision. “We cannot reunite them.”

  “We can!” Tobiano displayed a rare streak of defiance that surprised the chief.

  Patchi sighed. “Melah is not how our rogue remembers her. She is different, and mated now to another.

  “Milo Kasateno. I have heard. But he has always been second to Jaspur,” Tobiano reasoned.

  “Second best, yet with a son.”

  Tobiano's eyes widened. “A what?”

  Patchi leaned against the table and crossed his ankles, a frown upon his lips. “Jaspur clings to the memory of a past love, not a current one. What you think is his salvation may undo him completely. We cannot close this door once it’s been opened.”

  Tobiano clenched his jaw, determined. “Levee is Jaspur's only anchor to this world. Outside of her, I know of no other.”

  Patchi shook his head. “Then he is lost.”

  Tobiano chewed on his lip as he tried to think of an alternative. He moved to take a seat when a pinch in his belt reminded him of the journal he had tucked there moments before. He launched to his feet, surprising the chief.

  Patchi stared incredulously at his second-in-command as Tobiano approached the table with a spark in his eye.

  “Maybe not. Today I saw a glimpse of the true Jaspur. When he spoke of his cousin, Rayhan Mendeley, there was sorrow in his words. He said the world had grown darker since his cousin and his chivalry had left it.”

  Patchi perked his flaxen ears. “What evoked that conversation?”

  Pulling the journal free, Tobiano set it on the table before his chief. “He found Rayhan's journal in the same place as the scroll you sent us to retrieve. It inspired a vision of Rayhan's past. A reminder, I think, of a life he still yearns for.”

  Patchi took the journal in hand and flipped through its pages, intrigued by Tobiano’s revelation. “He must let down his guard to allow such visions in.”

  Jaspur's mentor smiled. “Aye, you see? Jaspur still feels, brother. The darkness in him only exists because he cares. With the right push, perhaps we can lure him back.”

  Patchi rubbed his forehead, perplexed. He returned the journal, his tone softened. “Perhaps I am wrong. There may still be enough of the rogue’s spirit left to survive the ritual. However, the ritual will happen, and soon. You understand this? And you understand what you must do should he not withstand its trials?”

  Tobiano gave a short nod, his jaw taut with determination. “I will do what I must.”

  “The scroll is yours,” Patchi handed it back to Tobiano. “Ensure the rogue completes the ritual before autumn sets in.”

  “And what of our business with Levee?”

  “I will consider it,” was all Patchi would offer. He then dismissed Tobiano.

  The re'shahna sighed as he ducked his way out of the tent and made for the creek where he had left the rogue. Upon his shoulders sat a new and heavy burden. He took a deep breath and forced himself not to despair. If he was to help Jaspur, he must believe in the rogue’s ability to face his demons.

  The re'shahna found Jaspur sitting on a large rock as he dried Lumiere with his cloak, his shoulder now bound.

  The rogue turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Another not-so-secret meeting with Patchi?”

  Tobiano handed him Rayhan's journal. “I told him about your vision.”

  Jaspur smirked as he accepted the book unknowingly borrowed. “Is anything I do private or is my whole life a topic of discussion for the re'shahna?”

  “It is important he knows of your achievements.”

  The rogue stood, his eyes narrowed skeptically. “And what did he say?”

  “Just to focus on the coming revolution and to keep him informed.”

  Jaspur rolled his eyes, then scaled the slope, ready to make camp. Tobiano followed him to a cleared piece of level ground. Jaspur pulled his pack from Diego’s back and laid out his bedroll as Tobiano uncovered a bundle of firewood he’d collected earlier that day.

  Settling in for the night, Jaspur plopped down with Rayhan's journal in his lap. Diego knelt, tucking his hooves beneath his belly as he settled behind his companion. The rogue moved to rest his back against the stallion's shoulder, his head resting comfortably against Diego’s thick mane. The beast tucked a velvet nose against Jaspur's arm and sighed.

  Propping his thighs in front of him, Jaspur flipped to the next page in Rayhan's journal. What he found stirred a whicker from Diego's mouth and took the breath from Jaspur's own, for it was a portrait of himself.

  Or rather, who he used to be.

  Prince Jaycent stared at the rogue through graphite eyes, his long, straight hair combed back behind his shoulders. A silver circlet hung across his brow, his face shaved to reveal a grin that was charming and mischievous. It was an early portrait. He must have been twenty years old when it was drawn, and ambitious in every way of the word.

  Jaspur whipped the journal shut and Diego jerked his head in surprise. He grunted at the rogue and flexed his ears back.

  “Grabbing his journal was a mistake,” he told the stallion as he tossed the leather book inside his bag. “No good can come from dwelling on the past.”

  Diego butted his head against Jaspur's cheek, then nipped at his bag again. The rogue brushed the stallion's muzzle aside. “Enough,” he scolded as he tucked himself beneath the comfort of his blanket.

  Diego groaned but relented, resting his neck around Jaspur's curled form. Stuffing his bag in a ball beneath his head, the rogue closed his eyes and tried to find sleep. Recalling memories, even the good ones, only served as a reminder of why he was Jaspur now, not Jaycent, surviving in a world much different from his youth. It seemed wiser to forget it all; to take the past and throw it far into the southern seas where he could no longer find it.

  Yet for all of Jaspur's bluster, he couldn’t let it go. The pain was a part of him. His hand strayed back to Rayhan’s journal, tucked in the bag beneath his head. No ma
tter how many years went by, he still felt stuck in that one moment; that sick battle against Shadow where he’d lost everything.

  When he closed his eyes, the memories were there to enter his dreams and turn them into nightmares. He was haunted by his mistakes and the losses that came with them. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake them.

  So despite his regrets and his words to Diego, Jaspur didn’t ignore the book inside his bag. His fingers dug deep enough to connect with the binding as he sought another vision, for he’d rather experience Rayhan’s past than relive his own.

  The Badge of Guilt

  Jaspur fell into a deep state of meditation where he awoke to a world composed of shadowy wisps and strokes of color. It was called the Veil: a realm between time and space that served as a gateway to his visions.

  He looked around, curious. Usually his transitions were too quick to even see this place. Perhaps the strain on his magic made it more difficult to connect with his destination. After all, this was his second trek across decades in less than a day.

  Jaspur closed his eyes and visualized a ball of blue magic dancing like the licks of a fire. That was his core; the place where his soul resided and where his magic was born. The rogue pulled a strand from its flame and held it up to his lips. He whispered a simple incantation and the tendril came to life. It lifted off the rogue's hand and spun into a circle, increasing speed until it became a small, three-dimensional orb. Opening his eyes, Jaspur waved his hand across its surface.

  “Illumina me,” he commanded. Obediently, the orb swelled and expanded outward, creating a burst of light that stretched across the obscure plane.

  He could see more now. Several transparent figures moved about the camp where his physical body still remained. Jaspur stood from his place on the ground while shadows passed by him, all at once and yet not. They were echoes of all the people who walked that very spot throughout the span of time. A fascinating overlap of history. Using his orb as a guide, Jaspur started to walk around in search of a doorway to Rayhan’s memories.