The Rogue Trilogy

by Elizabeth Carlton

  “Live it right, Rayhan Mendeley, and one is more than enough.”

  The rahee looked to his guard. “Nadel,” he called.

  Reluctantly, the elf answered his call.

  “Your dagger.”

  Nadel took a step back, but Rayhan shook his head. “It is not what you think.”

  Reluctantly, his guard consented and the captain sliced a fresh cut through his palm. Clamping his fist shut, he handed Nadel the blade and walked toward the spirit. “Upon my honor,” he pressed his fist against his chest. “Upon my lifeblood, I swear to you my family’s debt will be paid.”

  The soldier smiled. “We will wait beyond the Veil for you, Mendeley.” Then he turned, and the others turned with him, disappearing into the trees.

  Rayhan watched them go as the warmth returned to his body. Nadel couldn’t believe it. He stared speechless at his charge, unable to determine whether he was aghast or impressed. Eventually, he settled for a scoff, shaking his head before he herded the rahee back toward the palace.

  “Captain Mendeley…” Elessara breathed. When he walked past her, she moved to catch up.

  “If it is okay with you, Lady Elessara, I would like to retire to my room,” Rayhan said.

  “That was no empty promise you made,” she berated, ignoring his request. “The dead will hold you to your oath.”

  Rayhan stared hard at her for several moments, the first flicker of anger revealed in his expression. “And so will I,” he shook his head. “The soldier’s anger I understand. Their need for answers, I understand. But what is your reason, my lady?”

  Elessara held her breath. “My reason for what?”

  “What sins do you wish me to atone for?”

  The blunt trauma of his honesty threw her back a step. Tears rushed unwillingly to her eyes and Elessara turned away to hide her face.

  “One day I hope you will realize I am not my father.” He looked at her one last time, disappointed. “And I am not your enemy.”

  A Lucky Break

  Siabra glanced frequently at the hand on her halter, more curious than afraid. She had been imprisoned in Shadow’s collection of mounts for several months now, and she had never seen this servant before. It had always been a short girl with scraggily tufts of hair who tended to her needs.

  The mare had just seen the girl this morning, and hoped nothing foul had befallen the poor mute. Mousey as she was, Siabra had grown rather fond of her company. It was one of the few joys she found under her imprisonment as one of Shadow’s trophies.

  Her capture had been an unfortunate circumstance that came about after she followed what she thought was her former master straight into King Shadow’s royal procession.

  The mare couldn’t believe her folly. At first, she had assumed that the specter had been an illusion created by Shadow to lure her in and capture her, but he seemed just as surprised as she was when the mare leapt out of the trees and nearly straight into his carriage. She remembered that encounter well.

  “An elemental unicorn?” Shadow stepped out of the carriage as three night mares surrounded Siabra with bony maws gnashing with hunger. “Oh, but you are familiar!” Velagray’s king tapped his chin as he walked a full circle around Siabra, inspecting her with a careful eye. “You were that Nevahardan general’s mare. The one I killed,” he crooned. “I see you’ve come back to serve a better master.”

  Siabra struck a cloven hoof against the ground in defiance, and the earth rose to her call. A tremor rolled through the ground, causing the night mares to falter and the surrounding soldiers to grab the closest thing within their grasp, even if it meant each other.

  The king smiled and clicked his tongue. “We can’t have you doing that, can we? Not if you’re going to stay with me.”

  Siabra snorted and shook her head, for the horrors that followed that tormenting encounter were not something she wanted to remember. Days of terrifying illusions and painful torture led to her being bound by the magic-cancelling halter she now wore. With it on, she was no more powerful than the countless horses crammed inside the royal stables.

  “Easy, Siabra,” the servant guiding her whispered. “If you bear with me, I have a plan to set you free.”

  The mare perked her clay-colored ears and whickered, but the girl didn’t react. She remained hidden under the hood of her robe, her eyes planted on the ground as was demanded of Shadow’s servants.

  “In my sleeve is an elven dagger with an enchanted edge. It will cut through anything, including that halter of yours. I can free you, but you have to promise you’ll get us both out of here.”

  Siabra halted in her tracks, yanking the servant to an abrupt stop. With a snort, she flexed her ears back and turned her head, inspecting her with a skeptical eye.

  “Can I trust you?” the girl whispered. She stepped in front of Siabra, stroking her neck and murmuring calming words while a pair of soldiers passed them by.

  Siabra considered the offer. Without the halter, it would take some time to regain her magic, but the soldiers around them didn’t know that. They still jumped every time she jerked her head a little too quickly. The mare nudged the servant’s shoulder, then her arm, letting her know she was ready.

  “Hey,” a soldier called.

  The girl spun around to see a guard marching toward them.

  “What are you doing?” he was already pulling his sword free.

  Siabra tossed her head and bunched her haunches. She had to think quickly. The girl with the dagger was her first opportunity to escape since she had been dragged to Velagray. Grunting, she swung her horn in warning.

  “Sirrah,” the servant called back. “Stop, please! She is testy tonight and the sword is not helping.”

  The soldier froze, but he didn’t lower his weapon. Siabra played along, sidling nervously and revealing the whites of her eyes as she stared at the soldier’s blade.

  The servant reached subtly for the underside of Siabra’s halter with her left hand, her billowing sleeve masking her fingers. The mare felt something pull against the line beneath her chin and she dared to hope this ruse might work. Siabra kept up the charade, snorting and stomping one of her cloven hooves as she pinned her eyes on the soldier.

  “Get that mare under control!” the soldier barked. There was a quiver in his voice despite his orders, and he took a cautious step back.

  “I’m trying, sirrah,” the girl grunted. She maneuvered her feet a bit, holding tightly to Siabra’s halter as the mare tugged so that it looked like she was struggling.

  Siabra felt a few more sharp tugs beneath her chin before the enchanted fibers began to tear. The mare kicked up her hooves with a loud whinny, throwing her head back even harder this time so that the blade beneath her chin snapped the halter apart.

  The servant fell upon her back, and Siabra shook her head violently in attempt to toss the halter free. It didn’t work, but it was enough to spook the guard. He ran toward the castle, shouting for help.

  The girl with the elven knife used those few precious moments to leap to her feet and tear the broken halter free. The mare shoved her shoulder against the girl’s side and to onlookers it looked like she was trying to get away from her handler.

  The girl was quicker than she expected. A nimble jump planted her upon Siabra’s back, the legs beneath her humble robes clinging to the mare’s ribs as she grabbed two fistfuls of chocolate mane.

  The mare launched into a gallop, weaving with the grace of a doe through three angry guards as she sped at a breakneck pace for the city gates. Velagray may look different, but the streets hadn’t changed. The layout was the same as it was when Siabra had called this place home eighteen years before.

  “Hold tight, clever girl,” the mare warned. It felt good to have a voice again. She quickened the pace, lowering her cream-colored horn like a lance as she charged furiously toward four more soldiers barring her escape.

  The guards wouldn’t dare strike at Siabra, for harming the mare would incur King Shadow’s wrath. T
hey had no choice but to dive aside, and they did, but not before Siabra knocked one of the soldier’s helmets clean off his head.

  The man went down and two of the other soldiers went to his aid while the third tried in vain to chase Siabra down on foot. Shouts of alarm rang out from the castle grounds and the heavy thrum of hoof beats picked up behind them as Siabra sped onto the city’s cobblestone streets.

  “Velagran soldiers on war mounts,” the servant called over the mare’s shoulder. Her hood flung back, revealing a head of thick, coffee hair. “Three of them.”

  Siabra gave a defiant snort and skidded in a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway. She could feel the pull of the girl’s nervous hold on her mane. It reined her back, limiting the reach of her neck. “Loosen your grip, child!”

  To her credit, the servant did just that, her thighs compensating as they held onto Siabra for dear life. It was enough to make a difference.

  A melodic laugh rose in Siabra’s throat as she turned another corner only to find a wall of cut stone four feet high barring the way back to the main road. Lengthening her stride, the mare calculated the jump.

  “She makes for the central market road heading north toward the gate!” A guard shouted from behind.

  But it was too late. Siabra made the leap, a gleam in her dark brown eyes as she felt her innate powers returning. As her cloven hooves landed, she loosed a small tendril of magic into the earth, shaking the ground just enough to make the pursuing mounts falter.

  They balked at the jump and Siabra galloped on, leaving them in the dust.

  “Amazing!” the servant marveled, but they were still far from being free.

  Siabra took advantage of every back road she could remember as she veered east. They ducked under several lines of laundry, knocked over two barrels of mead, and nearly trampled an angry cat before finally catching sight of the city gate.

  The sound of gears shifting propelled Siabra into a more desperate charge. The servant girl watched as the portcullis started to fall. She squeezed her eyes shut and bowed low over Siabra’s neck, praying to the gods they would make it in time.

  Hooves resounded against stone, then wood, and she felt a harsh jerk as Siabra bounded right. The reason why struck the girl soon after, and she cried out in pain as a spear clipped her shoulder.

  “Hold fast, child,” Siabra encouraged, her hooves falling upon the muted grass that marked their escape from Velagray’s outer walls.

  The servant girl looked back over her bloody shoulder, hoping that was the end of their troubles.

  But it was only the beginning. Out of the gates came more soldiers on horseback, and with them two demonic creatures that could give Siabra a run for her freedom.

  The servant took a deep breath and clung even tighter to the unicorn beneath her seat. “Gods be with us,” she whispered, and prayed they were listening.

  She and Siabra would need all the help they could get.

  Haunting Secrets

  “Jaspur... Wake up, Jaspur.”

  Jaspur returned to the present realm with the weight of a thousand stones on his chest. He stared up at the trees and their bony limbs, hardly aware of the sunlight stinging his eyes.

  His latest vision had thrown him. Rayhan had never spoken about that night. Not to Jaspur. Not to anybody. Yet he knew years before the fall of Nevaharday that he would die for a Connor. That he would die for Jaspur. The rogue sat up and hung his arms over his knees as he tried to wrap his mind around the disturbing revelation. “All those years...” he muttered.

  “Jaspur?” Tobiano knelt in front of the rogue, his charcoal-lined eyes studying him carefully. “Are you okay? You were having another vision. That is twice in a day's span.”

  “Give me a moment. Please.” Jaspur rubbed his face. His senses felt scrambled and a dull ache resonated in his bones.

  But the physical strain caused by his vision was nothing compared to the emotional pain it yielded. Rayhan's life had ended in sacrifice, just as the elven soldier had predicted. It left Jaspur with questions he couldn’t answer.

  Was Rayhan’s life predestined for tragedy? If so, was Jaspur’s? How much of their past was a choice, and how much of it was providence? The rogue pressed his palms against his eyes, steeling himself against a fresh wave of emotions.

  Tobiano stood a few paces away, his gaze lost in a shroud of trees and heavy vines. “Speak to me, rogue.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “When you began your trance it was evening,” the re'shahna propped his shoulder against one of the tree’s trunks and Jaspur watched a puff of smoke curl and dance above his two-toned hair. “Now it is late afternoon.”

  “That long?” The rogue sighed. “In my vision, it had only been an hour or so.”

  “Time is peculiar. Its passing differs from plane to plane.” There was a pause as Tobiano took a long drag of his pipe. “Are you going to tell me what you saw?”

  “I… no. Not right now. Perhaps another time.”

  Tobiano exhaled and watched as the smoke formed abstract shapes in front of his nose. “How do you feel?”

  “Different,” Jaspur considered the sensation that lingered with him. “Like I left one life behind for another.”

  His mentor gave a contemplative “hmm”, then proceeded to snuff out his pipe. “And your magic?”

  “It is fine.” A headache badgered Jaspur, but if he complained, Tobiano would put a stop to his visions. The rogue wasn’t ready for that yet.

  The re’shahna tossed him a medicine skin and Jaspur made a face when he recognized its scent. It was a concoction Tobiano forced him to drink whenever he pushed the limits of his gift. “Fuel,” the re’shahna called it, though the rogue suspected it was horse piss.

  Jaspur took a swig, coughed, and tossed the skin back to his mentor. “Could you make it taste any worse?” His stomach lurched in protest, causing him to burp. “Ugh… I’m starting to think you boil it in sewer water.”

  “Keep guessing, rogue,” Tobiano said as he put the medicine skin away.

  “Or you could just tell me.”

  Tobiano grinned. “What fun is that?”

  Jaspur brushed off his tunic before folding up his bedroll. “So why did you wake me?”

  “I told you.”

  “Why else?” Jaspur crossed his arms. “I know that pensive look, Tobi. Something is up.”

  The re’shahna sighed. “A caravan of tchaka have made camp near the border of Whitewood. Word has it they are looking for the re'shahna.”

  “We can help with that.” The rogue stomped on a boot. “I suspect you have a plan to approach them?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Somewhat?”

  Tobiano emptied his pipe. “T’is a plan in progress.”

  “Ah, so we are winging it. Marvelous!” Grabbing his belt, Jaspur tightened it around his tunic and slid Lumiere into his scabbard.

  Tobiano smirked. “You and I will engage their leader in dialogue while Patchi and our warriors surround their camp. T’is our job to unveil their intentions. If they are potential allies, I will give the signal and Patchi will intervene. If they are enemies, we will attack and Patchi’s warriors will be ready to join us to dispose of them before they can pose a threat.”

  “You almost make it sound easy.”

  Tobiano grunted. He knew it wasn’t.

  There were two types of gypsies known to the re’shahna. Most common were the northern sort that looked to Patchi for wisdom and guidance. They were clever and fiercely independent, but stayed true to many of the old traditions and beliefs.

  Then there were the Sarrokian gypsies. Tchaka, the re'shahna called them. Predators. The tribes viewed tchaka as honorless tricksters who lived for the hunt. Sometimes it was gold. Other times it was people. Jaspur tightened the sheath on his hip and flexed his gloved hands.

  “What good are they to us, anyway?” he asked. “Last I checked, our plan was to infiltrate Velagray, and they don't exactly blend in.” />
  “Patchi has yet to state his purpose for recruiting them.”

  “Of course,” Jaspur grumbled. “We wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, would we?” He mounted Diego while the re'shahna transitioned into his equine form and the two made the eight mile trek to the eastern fields.

  When they broke onto open ground, Diego flared his nostrils. The rogue leaned forward and the stallion leapt into a hard gallop. Jaspur held a tight grip on Diego’s crimped mane, his inner thighs keeping his seat as he moved with his mount’s smooth gait. Wind and hair whipped his face as the thrum of onyx hooves resounded in his ears. Tobiano fought to match the midnight stallion's stride, but it was hard to keep the pace.

  Diego, like Jaspur, was far more than he seemed. Before the prince became a rogue, he had a companion. A unicorn companion. Their bond was a rare and unique thing, established the moment Jaycent was born. The priests explained that the two were connected in spirit, and anyone who saw the pair together believed it. Diego had arrived at the palace on the day of Jaycent’s birth, and had been the prince’s faithful companion ever since.

  He hailed from the oldest living breed of unicorns in the realm called regals. They were built like draft horses: tall and muscular, with thick manes and long, deadly horns.

  Now Diego was an echo of his former magnificence. Hornless; speechless; stripped of everything but his immortality. Even as a horse, he was the envy of many, but Jaspur knew the depth of what Diego had lost. His was just one more sacrifice that weighed upon the rogue's conscience.

  “Whoa,” Jaspur eased his weight back, slowing his steed into an easy trot. The stallion's legs swished quietly through the grass, his chest breathing heavily beneath the rogue's seat. His endurance wasn't limitless like it used to be. The sweat on his flanks testified to that. Tobiano galloped a couple strides passed them before he slowed and circled back around.

  Jaspur guided his mount to the crest of a hill. At the bottom sat a ring of caravans settled next to a wide river. It was a large camp. He guessed there to be forty gypsies inside, at least. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”