“Child?”
“Yes. Shira finally carries a child.”
Leon falls, defeated, back into the chair.
“I cannot risk rebellion against my father. I will not.”
“There are many who will, kingdoms to the west.”
“Then let them. I will not attempt to stop them, but I shall have no part of it. You are not the only one thinking of the lives of loved ones.”
Leon stands to leave. As he walks away, Uri’el calls out.
“No more kingdoms will fall to your father’s insanity, Alastor. I would give my life to see this promise through.”
Leon does not acknowledge Uri’el and, after a brief pause, leaves.
~-~~-~
Leon returns to the castle, this time pushing through the crowd, which eventually parts for the prince. When he finally comes into the outer court of the castle, Cain catches sight of his son.
“People of Valachia!” Cain exclaims. “The man whom without my victory would not have come. My son, Alastor!” Cain cries, gesturing to the prince in the crowd.
The people begin to chant the name of Alastor, embracing him, swearing fealty to he and his father. Cain rushes out to Leon, embracing him fiercely.
“How went Elenesia?” he whispers.
“Even easier than normal, father.”
“Good, good. We can speak later, but for now, enjoy this, as it is for you also.”
At that moment, many of the harlots come dancing around the prince. Now it is his heart that falls apart at the stitches.
A lion without claws is not much of a lion at all.
~-~~-~
The celebration lasts for hours, but Leon grows tired of it long before it comes close to ending, avoiding everyone he can while sneaking back into the castle, sleep the only thing on his mind. In the morning, he receives a summons from Cain.
Reluctantly, Leon heeds the call.
~-~~-~
Over the course of two weeks, Leon is sent to the east three more times to deliver yet more wax sealed scrolls, though these times are far less eventful than the first, with no surprises upon returning home. For a time, Leon is not called by his father, but likewise he does not see much of his mother, sister or even Uri’el and his wife, Shira.
This suits the Valachian prince well.
To be alone is a rarity.
The lack of contact from his father, though, gets him to thinking that perhaps Cain has finally had his fill of conquest. That open rebellion will be something he never has to see. The drought of summons ends one cold fall morning.
~-~~-~
“You wanted to see me father?” Leon asks as he enters the throne room.
Cain is pacing across the room, thinking upon some quandary.
“Yes. Tell me, son... what do you know of the kingdoms of the western lands?”
“Not much to be honest, father. The extent of my knowledge is what was taught to me; that many of them have been our allies since before your rule of Valachia began.”
“That is all you know?”
“I have had no dealings with the west, father. I have never needed to, as Valachia has always had what I needed.”
“That is now the problem. Many of the goods we have enjoyed for so long were brought here from the west, and from one kingdom in particular, Halvard, from which the materials to build this castle and much of the old city came.”
“I do not think I follow. What exactly is the problem, father?”
“We have received no trade from Halvard for the past month.”
“You wish me to travel there and discover the reason for this?”
“Yes. I would hope it is a simple matter of bandits, something which the likes of you could easily deal with. However, if it is not, come back to me.”
“As you wish, father.”
“Do not procrastinate on getting to the bottom of this, if at all possible,” Cain tells Leon as the prince is leaving the throne room.
Outside the castle, Leon’s horse is, like always, prepared, but now packed with a sword and shield baring the Valachian crest.
“In the event that Cain’s hope of bandits proves true, good Prince Alastor,” the stable master holding the reins to Leon’s horse explains with a chuckle.
Leon takes his animal with a nod of his head and mounts, waiting for a moment, half expecting Charlotte to run out from the castle, demanding to know where he is going this time. When she does not, he begins to ride away, somewhat saddened that his sister has not come to see him off.
At the fountain, he heads onto the western road, passing under Uri’el’s spire, again expecting to be stopped and questioned, but there is nothing. He continues to Valachia’s western gate. The land beyond, he sees, is the complete antithesis of the east lands; green, rolling hills and tall, strong trees as far as the eyes can see. He rides out of Valachia, oblivious to what the near future will hold.
~-~~-~
Leon does not bother to take notice of the beautiful landscape, instead keeping watch attentively for signs of roadside robbers, or perhaps a blockade. The journey to Halvard is taken slower than previous outings and stopping to rest is far more frequent. Days pass sluggishly with no evidence of anything out of the ordinary. Not traveler nor evildoer is seen. The trade road he has taken, the longer of the two that go west, guides him through forests and glades, beside lakes and waterfalls, but still he comes into contact with no one. This longer road passes a city called Judeheim, but he does not look upon it long, passing through and going south. Finally, the day comes when he arrives in Halvard, currently in the process of constructing a thick outer wall.
Trotting into the city, all work stops as the citizenry stare at their foreign visitor. The Valachian prince looks in admiration at the castle rising up over the city, freshly built; the stone and glass, the fantastically wrought metal shimmering in the sunlight, giving the illusion of having been made out of jewels and precious other materials. Without realizing it, he has ridden up to the castle entrance.
He dismounts, walking to the castle doors.
The guards nod to him with the slightest of smiles, allowing the visitor free access. None of the suspicion Leon was so used to in other lands and upon other faces is present on these men. He passes slowly through the outer hall which leads to the throne room, a beautiful and wondrous sight, full of spectacular art of myriad mediums, nothing like the cold, sterile hall leading to his father’s throne. The doors of the Halvard throne room are open for the guest, and Leon walks in, the doors shutting behind him.
Leon’s preconception of kings and queens is wholly obliterated as he sees the rulers of Halvard upon their throne seats. The Halvard King is no older than Leon himself, younger possibly, and to his right sits the Queen with flowing brown hair and hazel eyes. In her arms she holds an infant, some months old.
The King leans forward wordlessly, summing up Leon. The Queen does the same in her own way. Leon readies to speak, but the King holds up a hand for silence. A young maid enters the throne room from a side door, whom the Queen hands her child to. When the maid has left, Leon again tries to speak.
“I am - ”
But the King nods to the guards stationed behind Leon, previously unseen by the Valachian prince.
“Seize him,” the King says with a smooth tone.
The guards act decisively, grabbing Leon’s arms and pushing him to his knees in one well orchestrated movement.
“What is the meaning of this!?” Leon demands. “Do you know who I am?”
“All too well,” the King replies in something akin to a low growl. “Alastor, also called Leon by some, the only begotten son of Cain. And, before you ask, I know why you are here also.”
The King stands up from his throne, walking over to Leon. The Queen watches with a cold detachment, never stirring, simply watching, her eyes never leaving the form of Leon.
“Then why are you doing this?” pleads Leon. “I merely came to discover why trade with Valachia had ceas
ed.”
“Cain knows exactly why trade stopped. My letter to him was quite clear. Given your reputation, you probably do not realize nor care what his true intention was in sending you here.”
“I fail to see how the two things are related.”
The King stares harshly at Leon, as does the Queen.
“You would fail to see the connection, of course. How you can live so blind is a mystery to me,” says the Queen, her voice almost cruel.
“Take him to the dungeon,” the King finally orders the guards.
Leon tries to free himself from the guard’s grasp, but the King himself strikes Leon ferociously, rendering him unconscious.
~-~~-~
When he awakes, Leon discovers himself in a small cell in a dark dungeon, the only rays of light coming from a single lamp hung upon the farthest wall. He rubs his face, the pain of the King’s strike still very much present.
“Which one are you?” a voice from the darkness asks. A small, sweet, feminine voice.
“What?” Leon asks, still groggy and slow.
“Are you Alastor, son of Cain? Or, are you Leon the brave hearted?”
“Both.”
“No. You are not both. That is wholly impossible.”
“Why is that?”
“Alastor is nothing more than an extension of his father’s hand. A shallow, cowardly little boy. Leon, however, is a champion of the weak. Leon, I have heard tale, has saved a fair share of lives on his secret excursions, the ones his horrid father never had any inclination of. So, I ask again: which are you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Never mind how I know and just answer the question.”
Leon sits in his cell, thinking for a moment.
“I do not think I know.”
“What will it take to make you decide?”
“I wish I knew.”
“At least you are honest in this regard. May I ask another question?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Everyone does.”
“Do they? I somehow doubt that, but ask away.”
“Why are you so afraid of Cain?”
Leon falls against the cold wall of his cell, wrapping the darkness around him like a cloak. No one has ever asked such a question of him, but it is not the question that makes him slink back from the light. It is the answer.
“He raised me to fear him.”
“How?”
“He would beat me near death when I did anything out of order. He butchered my pets as punishment, and sometimes he would do it as a warning just to keep me in line. When I became older, and thus able to fight back, he would threaten to do terrible things to my mother and, eventually, my sister once she was born, if I ever refused to do exactly as he commanded.”
“So then, it has never been the fear of yourself being killed that has you doing his will, has it?”
“No. It was never myself I thought of.”
“The thought of him hurting others, your mother and sister... this is how he broke you.”
Leon thinks hard on this statement, leaning back into the light.
“He did.”
“Does it sadden you that your obedience, brought about by this breaking, has resulted in the deaths of thousands?”
“It is a guilt that consumes my very soul.”
“Then why did you not confront your father?”
“People in far off lands, whom I would never meet and for all I knew never even existed, or my mother and sister whom I love more than anything in the whole of the world. How could I be asked to make that choice?”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask your mother and sister what they thought?”
“Never.”
“At least you are honest in this regard as well.”
The dungeon falls silent and Leon is left with that feminine voice still hanging in the air like a tainted veil, the words a barbed arrow piercing through his heart and hitting his very soul, and he left unable to pull it out lest he cause even more damage.
Hours pass as he broods, reexamining his entire life carefully. The lamp sputters and goes out and still he finds no sleep, his very existence now coming into question for him. Even as the dawn breaks, he contemplates.
So lost within his own mind, his own past, his heart buckling under the weight of his many decisions, or lack thereof, that he does not notice as the Halvard King enters the dungeon and stands before his cell. Leon’s metal and stone womb of rebirth.
“I feel I should apologize for what I did yesterday,” the King speaks gently.
“I bare you no ill will, good King of Halvard,” Leon replies.
“Why is that?”
“My time here has given me an ample chance to think about the very things I hid from myself for so long.”
“If I let you out, will I have any trouble with you?”
Leon looks up at the King, genuinely surprised by the question.
“Why let me out?”
“We have much to speak of, I think.”
“Releasing me is not a necessity for speaking since, after all, we are speaking right now.”
“True, but I have found that a man speaks more truthfully and honestly as a free man rather than a prisoner.”
“As you wish. You shall have no trouble from me. I give you my word, worthless though it may be.”
“Your word has more worth than you think.”
As the King opens Leon’s cell himself, the Valachian prince is struck curious by those words, but he holds his tongue. The King reaches down to help Leon from the floor, which he accepts gratefully. After dusting himself off, Leon is guided out of the dungeon and outside, from a small, thick building standing beside the castle.
“Dungeon?” Leon sarcastically asks, realizing that it was simply a room made up to look like a dungeon.
“Allow a king his indulgences. We do not believe in torturing our evil, though a cell made to look like a dungeon usually has the same effect on a man. The word simply slipped out when it came to you.”
The King and Leon return to the castle, going to the gardens within its center, where the Queen sits in waiting. She smiles at seeing her husband, or so Leon thinks. She stands and walks directly to him.
“I am glad to see you well, sir,” she says. Her voice much different than the cruel one that confronted him in the throne room only a day before.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” replies Leon.
“I am Taranis,” the King speaks, “and this is my beloved wife and queen, Isolde. By what name shall we call you?”
The memory of his conversation with that sweet disembodied voice revisits him, the voice which asked who he was.
Which was the real him, and which was the mask?
The Valachian prince stammers for a moment, unsure what to say. He looks to Taranis, then Isolde, and back. They can both see the turmoil in his eyes, trying to decide the answer to what should have been a very simple question.
He remembers now his mother.
He remembers too Charlotte.
Remembering Charlotte makes him think of Lionkiller.
In remembering Lionkiller, he recalls the name given to him.
“My name is Leon.”
The King and Queen smile at each other upon hearing this.
“Very well, Sir Leon. Let us walk the grounds as we speak,” says Taranis light heartedly.
Isolde joins them as they walk aimlessly around the gardens.
“I do not understand,” Leon starts. “Yesterday, you looked at me as though you would have wanted nothing more than to kill me. Both of you. Yet, now, you act toward me as one might an old friend.”
“Even after all we were told about you, I found it - ”
“We,” Isolde quickly interjects.
“Yes. We found it hard to separate you from your father.”
“After being told? Who could you possibly be speaking with about me?”
“Uri’el,” Isolde answers. “He spoke t
o you about western kingdoms that would fight with you, did he not? We, along with Judeheim to our north, are those of which he spoke.”
“Uri’el?” whispers Leon. “Is he here?”
“No. He avoids coming here as much as possible, lest Cain become overly suspicious.”
“But my father clearly did. He sent me here as a spy.”
“Husband?” says Isolde, looking to Taranis.
“Leon, I do not think that ‘spy’ is the right word,” Taranis says.
“No?” asks Leon.
“No. Uri’el and you were close friends, were you not? And Cain is, after all, a very paranoid man...”
“What? He thought Uri’el and I were plotting against him? If that were the case, why send me to my allies?”
“I wish we knew.”
Leon gets to thinking of Uri’el and the last time they spoke. Without meaning to he has stopped walking, sitting upon the edge of a raised flowerbed.
“Is something amiss?” asks Isolde.
“The last time Uri’el and I spoke did not fare well.”
“So he told us.”
Isolde’s maid comes out, carrying a small platter of food. The maid nods to her mistress and the King, then stands before Leon.
“For you good sir,” she says, presenting the food to him.
Leon looks to Taranis, who gestures for Leon to accept. Taranis and Isolde both sit on a stone bench opposite Leon.
“You did not have to bring me anything,” Leon says to the maid, feeling somewhat guilty.
“It was no problem. I thought you might be hungry, so I quickly prepared this for you.”
Leon smiles, both at her kindness and the familiarity of her voice. Leon accepts the platter of food with a nod. The maid leaves with a small bow, looking keenly into Leon’s eyes. Leon likewise stares into her shining green eyes, making her pause momentarily before finally leaving. While he eats, the Valachian prince continues the conversation.
“What I do not understand is how only two, rather meager from what I have seen, kingdoms can hope to defeat Valachia. Our army is second to none and equipped with the best weapons and armor money can buy. And that is all without me bringing up the Dread Knights, father’s beloved death dealers.”
“I never said it was only two kingdoms,” Isolde replies with a clever grin. “There are others, I assure you, but it would be most unwise to reveal their names.”
“And you should know, Leon, that weapons and armor alone do not an army make,” Taranis adds. “The will to live, to survive, to protect, to live in peace and harmony, these things are stronger than the desire to conquer.”
The Black Knight Page 40