by N M Zoltack
Perhaps some sunlight would help his aching bones, or so he hoped. At least it wasn't storming. His bones always were a great deal sorer when it stormed, even when he wasn't injured.
The staff helped him greatly as he walked about, and he asked any and all children that he passed if they had seen another dressed in a brown robe like his. Only one nodded.
“Did he have black hair?” Garsea asked eagerly. “It might have been braided and beaded.”
“No.”
Garsea’s shoulders slumped, but he spied the poor boy’s outstretched hand. He had nothing to give the child for this information, but he felt around his body, in his pockets, even though he knew they were empty.
Another child ran up and nudged the boy, and giggling, they raced off. The boy did glance back a few times, but Garsea just shook his head.
He had little. Hardly anything at all.
Unless… He did have food to offer. He had a house. The boy was scrawny and dirty, with the look of one who lived out of doors. Winter was coming. He could take the boy in, train him, raise him to be the next Keeper of the Flames…
But would the boy with worthy? At this point, could Garsea truly care about that? His own time was winding down, as were the Keepers’. Now, they numbered only two, and it would take a decade if not longer for anyone to be trained in their ways, to learn all of the upkeep and knowledge that the Keepers had acquired and preserved over the long years.
Not that it mattered now. The boy had run off, and Garsea was in no condition to race after him. Even if his ankle had healed entirely, Garsea still wouldn’t have the speed to catch up to one so youthful and full of energy. How did the street rats have so much despite their poor diets? And they had to sleep out of doors every night. Their rest could not be that rejuvenating, yet they were always racing about underfoot, knocking into stalls, stealing food and racing away.
A life of crime… Ones so young should be nurtured and cherished, but most had no parents, and none bothered to take them in, not even the Keepers. Many years ago, Ximeno had suggested that they do something to help the poor, but Velasco had argued against it, saying the dragons appreciated those who helped themselves. The street rats, for all of their thieving ways, were not only surviving. They were thriving. Did that not suggest they were doing as the dragons would have allowed them to?
A ridiculous argument to be sure, as the dragons had turned thieves into wraiths on occasions. Not ones so young, of course, but still, the fact remained that stealing was not sanctioned.
Garsea… He could not recall what exactly he had said during the argument, but clearly, Ximeno had not gotten his way. The elder Keeper hung his head. For too long, they had been consumed with their duties. Perhaps if they had ventured out more, if they had helped others as Ximeno had wished, they might have had others approach about joining their ranks. It might have been a blessing. What harm could have come from helping the street rats?
Ah, yes, now he recalled his argument.
"If we help them, others will want our assistance too. All of our time will be devoted to others and their wants, their needs, but what of the wants and needs of the order? We cannot forget our duties. We cannot lose sight of who we are. We might well be the last of the Keepers, and if that is to be the case, then we must be the ones to resurrect the dragons."
Of course, his speech had caused the others to argue then about whether or not resurrecting the dragons after such a long period of time was even feasible, and the street rats were forgotten.
Until now. Yes, he had wasted many years, but Garsea would see to it that he sparred some of his food for the poor creatures. If that meant they did not steal for that day, at least they would have one less transgression marring their soul.
Forcing his thoughts aside, Garsea resumed his efforts to locate Ximeno. All day long, the elder Keeper wandered throughout the city. No one he stopped to ask had seen Ximeno, and Garsea was beginning to give up hope.
No. Hope was far too important. He could never give up hope.
Please, Dragons Three, Fates, allow me to locate Ximeno. The more time passes, the more I fear for him.
And he also feared about the monastery. It was no longer the safe haven he thought it to be. The ransacking… Who would do such a thing? What if they returned during the day while he was away? What if the guilty party was lying in wait, hoping to capture or even kill him?
But just as he couldn’t give up on hope, he also could not give in to fear either.
The sky was darkening, and Garsea allowed the whims of chance to determine which way he should go at every crossroads. Soon, he was in the poorest section of the city, and when he passed an alley, a wave of heat came over him. How strange. The night was cold, so very cold that he could see his breath.
He slowly walked back past the alley, and that heat blasted him again. This most certainly warranted further exploration.
Garsea slinked into the alley, shuffling his feet more than walking, and he drew up short. A shrub grew close to one of the buildings, and beneath it was a body.
The Keeper did not have to see the face to know, but he checked on the person regardless. Indeed, the dead body belonged to Ximeno.
Garsea truly was the last Keeper of the Flames.
But how had Ximeno ended up here? How had he died?
Garsea dragged Ximeno from the shrub and covered his mouth with his hand.
Ximeno had been killed. Puncture wounds bloodied his body, marring him, ruining the sanctity of his service to the dragons.
The world was far too dangerous a place. Now was the time to bring back the dragons. Garsea had the bones, but now, he had to determine the proper ceremony to achieve such a monstrous goal.
47
Councilmember Greta Grantham
The younger queen had been far too active for Greta’s liking of late, far too active and in ways that were helping the kingdom. Yes, Greta supposed that was a good thing and something she should be pleased about, but no. Rosalynne had been a thorn in the Granthams’ side for far too long. It was far past time to uproot the weed that was Rosalynne.
If the people learned Rosalynne was capable and not like her father, which, Greta supposed, she wasn’t, then they might be willing to overlook the king’s transgression. They might not worry about the king committing infanticide.
All along, Greta knew Rosalynne’s claim to the throne was far superior to Sabine’s. If the king had lived longer, if the people had had the chance to fall in love with Sabine, then matters might have been different, but Sabine had married into the royal family instead of being born into it.
But then, Jankin had not been born king. He had killed to gain the throne. Again, Greta considered why she hadn’t married the man. After all, he had not been the only one to kill a family member of the Riveras. She had killed Noll to prove a point with Sabine, but Greta should’ve killed Rosalynne instead.
Despite the chaos at the marketplace, Greta, along with her guards, ventured out and saw the people in their homes, talking on behalf of her daughter, giving them a small portion of food. It wasn't enough to be anything significant, not truly, but they were so grateful, and she made certain they all knew this was from Sabine and never once mentioned Rosalynne by name.
It was too late for her to kill Rosalynne. To do so now would cause too much strife and turmoil within Tenoch and would most assuredly cause the Vincanans to be the victors.
Once the food ran out, Greta returned to the castle. Immediately, a guard told her that Sabine was looking for her.
Greta smiled warmly and allowed him to direct her to the small parlor where Sabine stood at a window, peering out.
The guard shut the sliding door, and Greta crossed over to sit on a settee. “What is it you want, daughter?”
“Where have you been?”
“Out.”
“Out where?” Sabine turned about to stare down at her mother.
Greta laughed and brought a hand to her chest. “I did not realize you
needed to know my every movement.”
“Maybe I am merely concerned—”
“Do not pretend that is the case,” Greta snapped. “When were you going to tell me that you and Rosalynne have become close?”
“We aren’t close!” Sabine protested, but her gaze dropped to the floor. “You always said to keep an eye on one’s enemies.”
“Yes, but you two have been rather chummy lately.”
“We have an alliance just for the duration of the war,” Sabine said through gritted teeth.
“You foolish knave! Believe me, if you do not build yourself up now, during the war, the people will credit Rosalynne far too greatly. You better believe she will wed as soon as the war is over, and you, my daughter, will be ousted.”
“If I am ousted, I am ousted, but better to live as the former queen than to die at the hands of the Vincanans!”
“There are worst things than death,” Greta said with a wave of her hand.
“Like what, Mother?” Sabine spat out.
“Do you truly wish for us to argue? I am on your side. You know this.”
“I know you care about yourself and the family name.”
Greta narrowed her eyes and then forced herself to relax. “I care about you far more than you will ever know. I married that nobleman for you.”
“That nobleman had a name!”
"He did," Greta remarked, "and he's dead, so it does not matter now."
“You’re a terrible, wicked person.”
“I am who I am, and if I were not, you would not be queen. Would you rather that?”
“Perhaps,” Sabine said coolly.
Greta stood regally and swept her skirts out of the way as she marched to the door. She opened it and banished away her guards. What she needed to do next was not something anyone else needed to know.
All alone, Greta hurried to the dungeon. There were guards down there too, and she whispered to them that the kitchen had a few fruit tarts with their names on them. They did not wish to leave her, but she waved them away.
“They are behind bars, and you have the keys. They will not be able to leave their cells. I will be perfectly safe, but I thank you very much for caring about me.”
The guards nodded, fell over themselves to bow, and left.
Greta marched down the hall of the cells, peering at the prisoners, and smiled at the one. "How would you like your freedom?" she asked.
“I don’t trust—”
“I have a job for you.” She slipped him a purse that was filled with both coins and gemstones.
He peered inside and eyed her.
“You will kill Rosalynne for me.”
“The queen with the dark hair.”
“Yes.”
The prisoner grinned. “You do realize you didn’t have to pay me to do such a task.”
“I know, but motivations cannot hurt.” She smiled back and removed a pin from her hair. With relative ease, she picked the lock.
The prisoner started to walk away.
“Be quick about it,” she called.
“It will be done when it’s done,” the prisoner said.
So long as the deed was accomplished, that was all she cared about.
Humming to herself, Greta retired to her room. Yes, she had changed her mind. Rosalynne could die before the war was over, but if Sabine did not stop being so foolish, the crown might not remain hers for much longer.
48
Sir Edmund Hill
Given the limited quantities of potions available to aid their fighting, Edmund caved and took a healing draught. Immediately, the pain from his wound vanished, and he didn’t have to remove the binding to know it was already starting to close up. Tatum tended to act as if her abilities were ordinary, that any alchemist could do as she was capable of, but Edmund was in awe of her. She did far more for the army than he or any of the leaders ever could. She touched the lives of every soldier whose lips touched her vials. Without her, Atlan might have fallen already, even before the battle at the beach and the increased numbers of the Vincanans.
They had been brilliant, the Vincanans, staging the battle at the marketplace at the precise moment that more of their ships came ashore. This assured that the Tenoch’s superior numbers would not be a factor. There hadn’t been time for word to be spread to the Tenoch fleet for them to join the battle. Edmund knew that every ship had been manned and prepared for battle, but the coastline of Tenoch was far too large for the ships to be hull-to-hull along the perimeter. They had been spaced too far apart, and even those ships closest hadn’t been able to see the approaching Vincanan vessels. A rolling fog had helped to obscure them from view. Had it been a coincidence that they had beached where there hadn’t been a ship from Tenoch? Ten or however many Vincanan ships there had been easily could have dispatched of a single vessel, but they hadn’t bothered. At least they had a band of warriors waiting there on the beach. Hopefully, the Vincanans had thought that stretch of the coastline had been unprotected and had been surprised and startled by their presence.
Not that it mattered. Even though knights had joined the fray, they had to retreat, and the beach had been lost. The Vincanans had won a huge victory, and Edmund was determined that they would not again. The castle would not fall. It would not!
All day long, Edmund paced back and forth, keeping a lookout, just waiting for a sign of the Vincanans’ approach. He watched every shadow, every rustling of a bush, but all he saw were animals and a single child. Where were her parents? Why was she wandering about? She was liable to get herself killed if she did not flee!
The girl had crawled from under a bush. She stood and patted her hands and then her tattered dress. Seemingly in awe, she stared at the castle for a long moment, tilting her head to the side. Then, she scampered away, quickly disappearing from view.
As he made his rounds, Edmund reflected on the girl often. Whoever she was, he hoped she was all right. She had looked thin, too thin, and her dress… She was poor, clearly. Did her parents live yet, or was she an orphan? It would be impossible to locate her, after the battle of course, and he hoped that she survived. Perhaps once the war was over, she could be located, and then, she could be given a tour of the castle. She had seemed so in awe of it after all.
Edmund glanced at the soldiers waiting silently for their foe to arrive so that the battle might commence. They fought to defend the castle, to protect the queens and all those inside, but the entire war was to keep safe everyone in Tenoch, the nobles, the merchants and workers, and the poor. Each and every one of them deserved to live in peace and harmony. Now, he knew, they slept restless, worried and anxious, fearful of the coming dawn, scared that this day might be their last. He shared their worries, but he refused to be afraid. He was a knight, and perhaps a small measure of fear would be a good thing, but fear could also paralyze a person. All Edmund wanted was for the war to end.
This battle, the one for Atlan Castle, would not end the war, he knew, but it would greatly affect the coming battles, of that he had no doubt.
His boots clattered against the stone of the floor as he paced the covered parapet walk. He couldn’t hide his nervousness if he tried. Yes, he had been the one to form teams to help defend the castle, but the entirety of the duty did not rest on his shoulders. He was a guard who had been given duties more suited to a true and honest knight, but he was not a leader among his peers.
The rest of the day passed with no Vincanans. The guards returned with the potions, but Edmund remained on edge. On the morrow would be another battle.
The castle was fully armed. They were prepared, and they were ready.
Before dawn, Edmund was already back on the covered parapet walk. He had hardly slept the night before. It wasn’t that he lacked the capabilities of his—of the castle’s—sentries. The knight was too eager for the battle. No, eager wasn’t the word. Willing. Impatient. Perhaps a bit zealous.
Tenney Brooker, the commander of the garrison and the castle fortification, march
ed up to Edmund. His helm visor was lifted, revealing the lower half of his face. He had a well-trimmed mustache, more gray than black, and the lines by his eyes were deeply etched as were the ones around the corners of his mouth.
“Well, Sir Edmund,” the commander said in his brusque voice, “where are they?”
“Commander, I only know what I overheard, and—”
“Your intelligence had better be accurate.”
The commander did not look at Edmund, just merely stared straight ahead. Edmund had planted himself as close to above the main drawbridge of the castle as he could. They could see for a fair distance away, and it was quite clear that no one was approaching yet.
“They will be here,” Edmund murmured.
He knew what he heard, but more than that, he felt it in his bones. There would be a fight again today. This time, he would not be injured. This time, he would fell as many of the Vincanans as he could, and this time, he and his fellow knights would win without also losing a great deal of their own.
With a curt nod of his head and before Edmund could give a sign of respect back, the commander marched off.
The sun rose slowly, the sky streaking with yellow, orange, and pink hues.
And no attack came.
The sun set just as slowly as it rose, the sky now turning red, magenta, and purple.
And still, no attack came.
Worried and anxious, Edmund paced, his hands clasped behind his back.
Just then, Jurian rushed up to Edmund. “Come now,” he said grimly. “All of you!”
Edmund kept pace with the knight. “What is going on? Have they come?”
“They came and attacked and already won,” Jurian said grimly, “but we must seize it back now.”