by N M Zoltack
“Because the world helps those who help themselves,” the cartwright said. “Is that cart your pa’s or not?”
“What does it matter?” Rase grumbled.
The cartwright had looked down at the wood piece in his hand, but now, he jerked his head up and stared at Rase hard.
“It matters a great deal because if you stole—”
“A man abandoned it,” Rase said. “It’s mine now.”
The cartwright sighed. “Be off with you.”
“But—”
“Run along.”
Undeterred, despite the hour growing late, Rase rushed along as quickly as his broken cart would allow. It wasn’t easy maneuvering his way through the crowded marketplace, but he managed somehow.
He strolled up to the smithy, one of the few stalls here in the marketplace to be a permanent fixture. Rase was pretty sure there was another smithy on the street with the alchemy shop, but he wasn’t certain.
Once no one was around to bother the blacksmith, Rase cleared his throat.
The blacksmith didn’t even glance over at him. “What do you want?”
“A chance to work for you.”
“I have more than enough apprentices as it is.”
“I know. I can see that,” Rase said.
The blacksmith paused his hammering and glared at Rase. “So what then? You come to waste my time?”
“Not at all, sir. I was hoping that I might be able to help you anyhow.”
“Help me how?”
“You need metal to forge the weapons, don’t you? I can use my cart here and—”
“Your broken cart.” The blacksmith returned to his work, hammering away, the dull ding grating Rase’s ears.
“Isn’t there anyone who could use me?” Rase muttered under his breath.
The blacksmith paused. “Honestly, not likely. You’re how old? I get that you don’t want to have to steal or beg, but no one needs an apprentice.”
“How can absolutely no one—”
“Because trades run in the family, lad. You know this. Are your parents dead?”
“It’s not as if you’ll take me on either way,” Rase grumbled.
“No, but dead or alive, your parents did you no good by not teaching you their trade.” The blacksmith eyed him. “What did your pa do? Does he do?”
“Nothing worthwhile,” Rase murmured.
“Then I’m afraid that’s all your life will ever amount to.” And the blacksmith went back to hammering.
“You think I didn’t hear what’s been happening to you?” Rase demanded.
The blacksmith paused before swinging his hammer again.
“You best be off,” one of the older apprentices said, coming close to the wooden half-wall that separated Rase from the smithy.
Rase ignored him. “People don’t want to pay as much because they can tell you aren’t using strong enough metal.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy.” The blacksmith held up the blade, inspected it, and pointed it at Rase. “I already have a deal with the miners. I get the metal I need. I pay them. I don’t need you to cart it for me.”
“But if I—”
“But nothing.” The blacksmith grunted and handed the blade to the older apprentice, who carried it over to the barrel full of liquid. The blacksmith marched over toward Rase, who refused to cower even though the blacksmith was a physical brute of a man. “Time are tough, yes, and growing tougher by the day for all of us. You won’t find a job because there aren’t any to be had. Go on home, boy, if you have one to go to.”
Rase backed away, bumped into someone, mumbled an apology, and fled. It wasn’t until he was halfway home that he realized he had left the cart behind.
Broken cart. What use did he have for it anyhow?
What use was he to anyone?
The blacksmith was right. Times were tough and growing tougher by the day for all of them.
For all of the peasants.
Not so much for the nobles though.
39
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The ceaseless training and preparations gave Marcellus little and less time for sleep than ever before. He was anxious and willing to do whatever was necessary for his father. When he would retire to his room at night to rest for a few hours, his mind would sometimes betray him. Unable to settle, he would think, contemplate, and reflect on the future.
While he had already fully embraced and accepted that his father was now the king of Vincana, Marcellus hardly had time to explore his feelings on the matter of his now being a prince. One day, if all went according to plan, he would be king.
Did he wish for the crown? The throne? Did he wish to help establish and rule over Vincana Proper?
All of his life, Marcellus had been a strong and solid Vincanan. He had listened to his parents. Without complaints, he did as the elders asked of him since an early age. His father had been a military mastermind, a warrior through and through. Marcellus had always assumed he would follow in his father’s footsteps.
Only now, his father cast royal footsteps.
Before the Riveras, when the Lis sat on the throne, Vincana had been wholly separated from Tenoch. All of the islands had ruled over themselves. The world was divided.
But then the Riveras came along. They killed the Lis and sent such a large fleet around every island, one by one, forcing them to submit. There had been no matter, no wars. The only casualties had been ships that had been burned to nothing so that they could not defend themselves against the might of the Riveras’ fleet.
That was how Tenoch acquired the islands and reforged itself anew into Tenoch Proper.
Marcellus had no issue with battles and fighting and wars. That was what he lived for, had trained for. All he needed was a sword, spear, or axe. Or perhaps two of the three.
Honestly, the rule under Tenoch Proper had not changed their lives significantly. The guards had been there mostly to prevent them from doing anything untoward to Tenoch. They had taken to training out of sight when they normally would have trained in open fields. Whatever they had to do to keep their fighting edge, killer drive, and unflappable spirit.
Now, the guards were gone, and they could do as they wished concerning life and training and their future.
From what Marcellus’s father had told him, the people of Vincana had grown lax. They had trained, yes, but they had not been prepared for war. When the ships came, it had been at night, and they had shot fiery arrows at their ships before the island had even stirred from their slumber. Without ships, how could they dare launch a counter assault?
It had taken the Vincanans years to start to rebuild their fleet, mostly because they had to do so behind the guards’ backs. Now, they did not have that issue, and the warships were being completed in short order. Teamwork. Marcellus’s father could motivate the men and women so easily. Marcellus still had much and more to learn from him.
He had no doubt that his father would make a wonderful king. There had never been a more passionate, stronger, more eager man than Antonius Gallus.
Marcellus rolled over in his bed to face the open side versus the other sided-rectangle. He could not stop thinking this night so he could sleep.
Just then, the whirl of resounding wind picked up. Thunder rumbled loudly, and Marcellus dashed out of the open side of the bed and raced over to his window. From the darkened skies, the flashes of lightning, and the massive waves rolling toward shore, Marcellus could only mutter a curse under his breath. This was not good at all.
Worried, Marcellus raced over to his bedroom door. He opened it, but the wind proved far too great. It was almost as if the monsoon wished to have its way with the island, and there was nothing they could do about it. Not a single thing.
Still, Marcellus truly had no possibility of getting even a few minutes rest. The moment the monsoon finally died away, Marcellus was the first one running outside and heading to check on the warships.
To his dismay and
horror, the massive monsoon had destroyed not only some of their new warships but some of our regular ones.
Immediately, Marcellus raced toward the ship that appeared to have suffered the least amount of injuries. The holes in the hull would not be easily fixed, but at this point, Marcellus would not be shoved aside. He was here to help, and he would.
Minutes passed, and more and more of the people came to assist Marcellus. They had not yet made much progress when his father appeared. Marcellus continued to work hard, until his father, after examining each and every one of the books currently available, yanked Marcellus aside. Father and son entered their house. The king had already spoken about having a castle and a throne built, but only after Tenoch Proper became Vincana Proper. Once victory was theirs, they could move forward with their lives.
Marcellus paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. The sheer number of ships that had been impaired was alarming. Most of their fleet, including the transportation ships, suffered at least a little damage. The majority were no longer sailable.
His father commended them for working hard already and motioned for Marcellus to come to him. With great reluctance, Marcellus complied. There was work to be done, and he would prefer to have his hands dirty. However, to ignore the king was simply not possible.
Wordlessly, he walked beside his father as they strolled the shore and took in the destruction.
“I know what you are thinking,” his father rumbled quietly. “I refuse to see this as a sign that we should stop. Unfortunately, this does mean that we must bide more time for our war preparations. You will go ahead to Atlan for the ball. Pick someone else to go with you.”
“Rufus,” Marcellus murmured.
Rufus Vitus had been Marcellus’s friend since they were first learning how to wield spears.
The king nodded. “Very well. You two will leave at once. Do not fear. I will find a way to communicate with you.”
“War might not happen for some time now,” Marcellus said.
“So be it. We will launch the start of the war when we are truly ready for a decisive victory and not a moment too soon.”
Marcellus nodded and bid his father farewell. He must find Rufus, and the two of them would need to pack. It would not make for the easiest of journeys with only the two of them to tend to the ship. Perhaps taking a few guards with them would not be remiss. In fact, Tenoch might become suspicious if they do not.
Time would tell what the future would bring. For now, Marcellus was not quite as anticipatory as he had once been. No matter. All would work out in the end. Tenoch Proper could not be allowed to stand. He would even rather that all of the lands tend to their own than for Tenoch Proper to continue to rule over the world.
And so, hours later, with a modest crew that would also function as servants and two guards, Marcellus and Rufus bid their people and their home farewell. Untold dangers may await them, but if Marcellus played his hand correctly, perhaps he could learn the weaknesses of his enemy. Mayhap this could prove to be a boon in disguise. One could hope.
40
Sir Edmund Hill
To say that Edmund was furious with himself would be an understatement. How could he possibly have non-brotherly feelings toward Tatum? She was pledged to his brother!
Edmund labored day and night, the hardest-working guard out of the lot of them. In addition to his duty, he trained. His body became even more muscular than before, but still, late at night, when he would finally rest in bed, his mind would turn traitor, and he would think of Tatum, and nothing could stop him.
Tatum invited him over for dinner, but he refused. Dudley reached out as well, but Edmund ignored them both. He would not see them again, not until the wedding, whenever that might be. Tatum had mentioned during their trek back to Atlan that she wished they would get married and then continue to save up for the inn, but Dudley was insisting otherwise. Why Dudley wanted the inn so badly and would not listen to his betrothed, Edmund didn’t understand. Why wait to get married? The inn was meant to be their combined future, so why not combine their lives together first?
One early morning a few weeks later, Edmund was training by himself. Lately, some of the other guards had stopped mocking him and would join him, but normally only for his afternoon or evening sessions. No one else bothered to wake up this early with him.
He paused a moment to take a swig from his water pouch when he spied a young girl with blond hair approach him.
“Are you Edmund?” she asked in a timid but clear voice. “Sir Edmund I mean.”
“Indeed I am.” He stoppered his water pouch. “How may I serve you?”
“Oh, no, sir. I am here to serve you.” She reached into a pouch tied to her belt that had been wrapped around her miniscule waist three times. Her tiny hand removed a large oval-shaped vial. “I am to give this to you.”
Curious, Edmund accepted the vial.
“Oh, this too!” The girl reached inside her clean but ill-fitting dress and produced a piece of parchment.
Edmund took the parchment, but before he could even thank the girl, she was already scampering away.
Clearly this could be from no other save for Tatum. Edmund ignored the vial and examined the scroll.
Edmund,
I cannot thank you enough for all you did for me. Not only did you accompany me to the swamp, but you saved my life, and you gave me the courage to try to grow as an alchemist. I do not know if I will continue to experiment or not. Just because I was successful the first time does not necessarily mean that I will again on my second and third attempts, but I must stop this. I only have so much parchment.
This potion will help you gain that which your heart desires most. Since I have what my heart desires, and you helped me so that I might make my soon-to-be husband’s heart happy too, you alone deserve this potion. Please take it in good health.
Your soon-to-be sister,
Tatum
Edmund read and reread the letter several times. He would decide if he should take the potion another day. For now, seeing Tatum’s flowery, perfect script, reading the words in her voice in his mind, it all brought his feelings rushing back. If he weren’t careful, he’ll destroy the potion.
Because what if what he desired most was no longer to be assigned elsewhere but to be Tatum’s future husband? How could he risk his own happiness coming before hers? Before his brother’s?
So he tucked the parchment beneath the linen shirt under his armor to keep it close to his breast and tucked the vial away for safekeeping. For now, he would do nothing concerning the vial. Who knew what he might think or do come the morrow?
41
Cateline Locke
Princess Vivian Locke stared around her in shock. The monastery was rife with illumination. Countless lit torches cast both light and shadows throughout the hall. Paintings of dragons covered the walls.
“Won’t you come?” the monk asked, already several paces ahead.
Vivian hurried after him and tried to remember to keep her mouth closed. She could not help fawning over the paintings. She had never seen ones so inspired before and about dragons! She did not truly believe that dragons had long ago ruled the world, but seeing these paintings could almost make her begin to wonder. How could one’s imagination conjure up such vivid details unless one had truly seen the winged beasts? Yet, how could that be possible?
The long hallway contained no doors. Eventually, they entered a circular room. This room contained no paintings at all. Every space on the walls was covered in shelves and books, more books even than in the royal library.
The hallway continued beyond the room, with another hallway going perpendicular. The monk turned to take the other hallway, and Vivian trailed behind him. At the end of this hallway was a small room to eat, and beyond that was a small kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” the monk asked.
“I will only eat if you will.”
The monk eyed her critically and then nodded. He handed her a roll. To her surpri
se, they did not sit to consume their bread. Instead, he continue onward, and they walked through several other rooms that contained more books and scrolls.
Eventually, they climbed a spiral staircase. There were far more doors, and he brought her to the third one on the left. He nodded.
She opened the door and stepped inside to find a living quarter. There was only a bed and a small table beside it with an unlit candle. The walls were plain stone without any paintings. It was ridiculous how much that disappointed her. The monk’s swift pace had ensured that she could not take in any of the details of the stained glass or the glorious paintings. Even if they had only been an artist’s interpretation of what dragons might have appeared if they were real, the paintings were masterful.
“Your room,” he said. He nodded to her and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Vivian hesitated. Who was the man? He had never given his name. Did he know who she was? Along the trek through the monastery to her room, she had not seen a single other person. Certainly others had to live here, more monks, perhaps some servants to. There was not a speck of dust anywhere at all within the entire place, and that feat could only be accomplished through servants. That much Vivian knew even if she had never dusted a day in her life.
She had not eaten any of her roll on the walk. Now, she sat on the edge of the bed. It felt far harder than her bed back home, but at least she could sleep on a bed again. As for the roll, it tasted rather hard. It did not flake at all, and there was no butter inside either. Honestly, it was the best roll she had tasted in a long while.
What place was this exactly, she mused as she lay down. While the paintings were beautiful, and she was certain this monastery contained much information, Vivian was no longer certain that this place was the safest for her. She could not begin to explain it, but this place had an oldness to it. Was it possible that this building had been erected when dragons had soared overhead? Surely not and yet she could not help wondering that just the same.