The Weave of Fate

by S L Matthews

  His eyes filled with sorrow. Taryn knew what was to come, and his stomach turned. He stared at the curve of Ava’s face and the angle of her chin. He fell into her and longed for his hands to match the contour of her hair, and ached knowing that day would never come.

  Taryn stood and walked around the table, reaching for Ava’s hand. “Viktor Wray isn’t here,” he said to the stranger in a cold tone. He turned to Ava and his voice softened. “We need to go.”

  Thibold stood as well, dislodging the table and the glasses still resting upon it. Ava backed away like a cornered animal. Her eyes tore through the businessman like relentless daggers. Taryn grabbed her hand and pulled her close, taking her attention away from Thibold.

  “Thibold Aerent,” boomed a voice from the shadow of the stairwell. The commotion in the tavern died to a dull rumble as a well-dressed, dark-skinned man descended the stairs. He flashed his rings and adjusted his topcoat.

  “Welcome to Wyvern’s Rest, dear friend.”

  Taryn pulled Ava tight to his chest. The stranger glanced toward Ava, then back toward the man on the stairs, straightening his robes.

  “Mr…Wray?” Thibold clutched his satchel and met Viktor at the bottom of the stairs. Viktor extended his arm toward the balcony, inviting his business partner to join him. Thibold grasped his hand. “Lord Wray. We must speak quickly.”

  “Don’t worry, dear friend,” Viktor bellowed, stroking the slick hairs of his beard. “We have plenty of time. Damn ships are always leaving for the East. Probably be another next week.”

  Thibold’s face widened. “N−next week? But−”

  “Very good, Mr. Aerent,” Viktor proclaimed. “Trust me, the Promenade will wait for you.”

  Thibold relaxed, then turned around once more.

  Taryn met his eye. He tucked Ava’s head under his chin and cupped the back of her head, sliding his fingers through her hair. She was shivering. Heat welled within. His fingers curled into a fist just as the subtle scent of lavender filled his nostrils. Taking a long, steady breath, Taryn absorbed every last drop of Ava’s scent. He closed his eyes, praying the moment would simply pass.

  Please don’t take her.

  As Taryn pulled Ava close, however, another smell violated his senses, a vile, musky scent. A potent mixture of bourbon, sweat, and cigars. It was horrible−it was Viktor. In Taryn’s heart, he knew how this would end−the same thing that happened every time Viktor came to collect her.

  “No. Not this time,” Taryn whispered in Ava’s ear.

  Taryn’s gaze turned cold and dark, raising his eyes to meet Thibold. It reflected nothing of the genial man the stranger had met mere moments ago. As Thibold passed up the stairs, Viktor turned, his curious eyes landing on the same golden blonde hair and emerald green dress, then followed their curves to the floor with the appetite of a hungry wolf.

  Taryn’s hair bristled at the sight of Viktor’s lecherous gaze. He turned Ava away, concealing her from his predatory stare. Taryn pulled her closer, yearning to free her from this moment.

  Viktor overtly cleared his throat for all the tavern to hear. A silence fell over the crowd as Ava’s shoulders slumped and her eyes drifted to the floor.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Taryn protested, bending low to catch her gaze. He grabbed her hands and pleaded, “Let’s just run−run away!” His eyes implored her to action while she stared into emptiness.

  Viktor’s tone grew dire. “Am I to assume you’ll keep us waiting?” He crossed his arms across his prodigious chest.

  Taryn’s blood boiled. He grasped the hilt of the old, worn sword at his side. He spun to face the stairs, prepared to face the Gods themselves. “You’ll not have her!” he screamed, pulling against the rusted hilt. Wood grinded against the floor as nearly a dozen of Viktor’s men stood at once, followed by metal against metal. His sellswords unsheathed their weapons and advanced upon Taryn before his weapon had fully left his side.

  Warmth caressed Taryn’s shoulder. Ava’s gentle touch pulled him away from Viktor. She gently raised her hand to the advancing men and offered each a stern glance.

  Ava lifted her chin and pulled Taryn back to her. Her eyes were wet and solemn, begging of understanding. “No. They’ll kill you.” A soft hand fell onto Taryn’s sword, pressing it back into its sheathe.

  “You have to leave,” Ava said, her voice cracking.

  Taryn met her gaze. “But−“ He pointed to Viktor, stumbling to find words. “I’ll be here when−“

  “No!” Ava touched her finger to his lips, whispering, “You have to leave Wyvern’s Rest.”

  Taryn’s mouth dropped. His mind fought to understand. “No,” he said against her fingertips. Anger, rage, and helplessness churned as he stared back into her blue eyes.

  “Your brother was right, Taryn,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “You’re not dying for me.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then gently spun out of Taryn’s arms. With her head held high, she passed Viktor up the stairs. There was no eye contact, no recognition, just a simple, understated tone of understanding between owner and slave.

  Ava leaned over the handrail and motioned to the ancient rock fireplace. Promptly, the boy from the darkened corner jumped to his feet and ran through the crowd, taking a seat in front of the roaring fire.

  She deserves better than this. She deserves better than−me, Taryn thought.

  Taryn’s eyes followed the trio up the stairs. He wanted to cry out, to rescue her from this Hell. He prayed for the Gods to grant her strength, knowing she already had more than he ever would. As he focused on the empty stairwell, a distant bell rang throughout the tavern. It echoed off the walls and rattled the glasses, bringing all in the tavern to attention. Without a word, the crowd worked their way to the walls and gathered their belongings. The belly of the inn emptied as dozens of solemn faces flowed out of the crowded room and headed toward the docks. Taryn’s eyes struggled to remove themselves from the stairs as dozens rushed past him, eager to make their exit.

  A pain washed over him. His stomach turned and his heart ached as his eyes fell upon the giant sails through the windows of the inn. Passengers lined up by the hundreds as the vessel opened its doors to the onrushing crowd. Taryn pulled a small silver charm from under his shirt and ran his thumb over the winged symbol.

  Cooper’s words tugged at his chest while his mind replayed Ava’s sobering request. He gently kissed the locket and placed it against his neck.

  “Goodbye, Ava,” Taryn whispered, bowing his head. He turned away from the stairs and shuffled toward the door. With a simple turn of his head, he looked back to the empty stairwell and the table they sat at moments ago. His gaze wandered to the balcony and his thoughts fell into darkness. He then sighed, pushed forward, and left the Guilded Wyrmling Inn…forever.

  | Chapter IV

  The Abysmal Path

  T he Abyssal Path was once the greatest highway in Eastern Cyrea, bridging the great cities of Cambridge and Sephyra as it snaked along the Blackthorn Coast. The elaborate highway stood as a testament to man’s ingenuity, traversing forests, swamps, and highlands along its route. Life sprang forth as watering holes became outposts, outposts grew into forts, and forts erupted into great cities. Along this path sprang forth the greatest city in the Province of Ventera, Wyvern’s Rest.

  Much of the highway had now collapsed, some of it fallen into the sea, some swallowed by the giant highland grasses. The decorative pavement was now cracked and broken, its vibrant colors lost to years of scorching sun. Vines grew across the road in an intricate weave of thick, obtrusive foliage. Where once bloomed an endless field of wildflowers now yielded the hallmark of a decayed way of life.

  It had been months since anyone other than robbers or bandits traversed the roads south of Wyvern’s Rest; but as both suns crested the horizon, a complement of colorful wagons creaked north. Three carriages, flanked by blue-cloaked soldiers, made their way along the Abyssal Path toward the fallen city. Their colors were b
old and exotic, a stark contrast to the giant plume of dust that lifted along their trail.

  Inside the caravan sat several wealthy men dressed as extravagantly as the carriages they rode upon. The walls and pillows were lined with the finest silk, but paled in comparison to the exotic furs and robes of the peculiar merchants. The gentlemen spoke of unimportant things and sipped expensive tea, or at least tried.

  Camille Celaera sat upright and proper, as she had been taught her entire life. She playfully thumbed the line of thin, elegant lace that accented her blue dress. The cobalt-colored fabric spilled over the silk cushions while her curly black hair covered her shoulders and neck. By all accounts, she was a proper Lady of Cambria, even if she hadn’t yet reached her twelfth name day. Camille sat quiet, wide-eyed and attentive while two older men exchanged veiled pleasantries and subtle jabs.

  Amoran Davilla, the most boisterous of the men, pulled a gold-trimmed cup to his frayed whiskers and attempted to sip. His patience gave way to frustration as the carriage hit a large hole in the road. His tea spilled over the mouth of his cup, all over his exotic robe, joining dozens of other stains from previous attempts.

  “Err…Poppycock!” Amoran said, glancing up to meet Camille’s attentive gaze. She knew there were other words he wanted to use, but proper form and favor were paramount in a noble city like Cambridge. Rather than curse the ill-maintained roads, he collected himself and attempted another sip, yielding similar results.

  A child-like laughter erupted throughout the carriage while Camille amused herself at Amoran’s expense. “Such language, Mr. Davilla.” She giggled with a contagious grin. “Is that any way to speak while a lady is present?”

  A disingenuous chuckle emerged from the seat next to Camille. “Having troubles, I see?” Servan Kendle’s belly jiggled under his indulgent yellow robe, which bounced independent of the fat underneath. The constant jingle of jewelry around his neck beat to the rhythm of the broken cobblestones, and the pot holes in between.

  The trio had lived in the same carriage for far too long, days from Tiriev and the Riverlands to the south, and nearly a week from their Cambrian homes. She had never been this far from home. In fact, she had never left the sprawling forests of Cambria. The rolling hills and highland bluffs were a far cry from the courts of Cambridge, and Camille had never been more excited.

  She knew all of Cambridge’s strict social customs, and reveled while dissension caused those customs to unravel. Like watching an intense game of skittles, her eyes bounced between the men, each rebuttal more anticipated than the last.

  “I do wonder,” Servan said with guiled sincerity. “How a man could be called upon by one king to destroy a nation.” Servan shifted, a mischievous eyebrow curling upward. “Yet called upon by another…to rebuild it?”

  Amoran sat up straight and his beard came to a point. “I did no such thing! Petr D’Vayne’s actions were his own. To suggest that I destroyed Wyvern’s Rest is pure−“

  “So then you admit it,” Servan said with a sheepish grin.

  Camille gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shot back to Amoran, eagerly awaiting his practiced response. Her face was mostly concealed, yet her eyes failed to hide her anticipation, though admittedly, she had no idea what they were talking about.

  Amoran’s expression said what his lips would not. He grew stoic, turning his attention back to Camille. “I’ve had the honor of living many lives, young Camille,” he began, after a subtle shift in his seat. “Some for which I am...well, not so proud.” Amoran curled his mustache and massaged his beard into a perfect point. “That is not to say I am not proud of many other things, however.” He waved a hand at Servan. “To which I’m confident our canary-clad friend cannot attest.”

  Camille’s laughter echoed throughout the cabin. “Oh, you two,” she said, clearly enjoying the jabs. “Play nice now or I’ll have my father come sit between you.” She adjusted her seat, sat up straight, and smiled in hopes the wordplay would continue.

  Servan pursed his lips and elected not to react, aside from his devilish grin as more tea spilled over Amoran’s robes.

  The carriage came to a halt and the wagon master rang out, “Whoa Durran. Easy, Felner. Whoooaaaaa there.”

  Amoran and Servan paused their bickering, an anxious look upon their faces. Camille’s gaze met theirs. Her eyes were impossibly wide and filled with curiosity.

  She shot off her bench and yanked the curtains aside, but there was little more to see than overgrown highland grass. Determined, she slid across her seat and looked out the opposite window. Waves crashed against rock mere feet away, coating her lips with the taste of cool, salty water.

  The carriage rocked.

  Camille latched onto the window frame while Servan unsteadily rolled to his feet. The gaudy merchant cursed under his breath, struggling to find his balance. Once his feet were steady, he hoisted himself up and reached for the pearl door handle.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He bellowed before the door was even open. “You told us there would be no more−“ Servan wedged himself into the doorway and stared in silence.

  “What is it, Mr. Kendle? What do you see?” Camille shouted, unable to contain her excitement. She angled her body out the seaside window and gasped as her mouth fell open. Sheer wonder etched its way across her face. Before them lay the sprawling city walls of Wyvern’s Rest. Though the walls were crumbled and many buildings had collapsed, signs of the city’s former greatness loomed before them. Magnificent towers stood defiant against the ruin and the roofline of an old inn peeked over the skyline.

  Though the city itself was quite a spectacle, Camille’s eyes fell upon something more sinister. Hundreds of pikes lined the highway that led to the great gates, remains of their victims still impaled upon them. Their bodies sat silent, a gory reminder of crueler times.

  Camille felt the carriage rock once more as Amoran climbed out to join the other merchants, who were all staring at the grizzly scene. “Been coming here for over fifty years,” he said. “Yet this−this is what I remember of Wyvern’s Rest.”

  After a moment of silence, Servan said, “Heard he went mad at the end…even had his wife and daughter murdered.”

  Camille slid back into the carriage, her attention focused on the cautious words of the old merchants. The actions of Petr D’Vayne were legend, though Camille assumed all the stories overheard in the courts of Cambridge were exaggerated tales, stirred from the cup of dramatic politicians.

  “Inner demons, indeed,” one merchant echoed. “Lord D’Ranged, they used to call him. Said he killed half the city before it…was over.”

  Killed half the…? Camille’s joyous expression faded completely. She descended the stairs, one steady foot at a time. She heard the crack of stone as she stepped onto the highway, turning back to the darkened city gates.

  Along with the pirates and criminals of the day hung several smaller bodies. Camille’s mind struggled to comprehend what grievance would see children impaled in a public display of cruelty.

  “It would seem even the smallest child was not safe from Petr D’Vayne’s…justice,” Servan said, though it was not clear who the comment was directed toward. He held onto the last word, his teeth clenched at the thought.

  Amoran’s words appeared to be more difficult to come by, however. Camille watched him tug at his mustache, mesmerized by the bodies, the moment of their last breath captured for all to witness. His eyes watered while he focused on a pair hanging in front of the masses. Without a word, he worked his way to the head of the caravan. His feet carried him forward, but his head never turned and his gaze never wavered.

  Camille’s heart sank, sensing the loss that consumed her old friend.

  While the other eccentric merchants gathered ‘round, Camille wept for Amoran. The old man strolled farther from the safety of the Cambrian guards and Servan’s patience could take it no longer. “Eh, old friend. They’re dead, you know?” he said, though it was clear no words woul
d distract the pensive man’s course.

  Camille fled the safety of the caravan, darting past the carriages and bounding up the broken cobblestones. “Cami!” shouted the Cambrian Lieutenant. The soldier leapt off his horse and sprinted after her, his hand gripping the hilt of his weapon.

  “Camille, stop!” he cried, desperation in his voice.

  She sprinted after Amoran. Camille climbed off the broken highway, ducking and weaving through a maze of towering highland grass. A breeze rustled through the tops, echoing off the rocky bluffs in a dull, prolonged murmur. The caravan disappeared from sight, replaced by thick yellow stalks and dried, feathery leaves.

  A muffled call came from the highway as Servan’s concerned voice penetrated the blanket of grass. “I say, Amoran. Don’t you think we should be going?”

  There was no response.

  Camille’s footsteps followed Amoran, bursting into a clearing. She found her old travel companion, standing fast, staring skyward at a pair of bodies suspended by brutal, wooden pikes. “Mr. Davilla!” she cried in a tiny, shallow voice. “Are you ok, Mr. Davilla?” Camille ran to him and wrapped her hand around his old, worn fingers. She frantically tugged on his hand, but could not pull his eyes away from the shriveled frames, highlighted in the early morning glow.

  The echo of boots crashed through the grass as the Cambrian Lieutenant arrived at the clearing. “Camille,” he demanded. His voice was stern, but a look of concern draped his face. Camille’s father dropped to a knee and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you must listen to me,” he pleaded in a soft, genuine tone.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “Mr. Davilla was−“

  “Camille, you don’t understand,” he said, his hand still gripping his sword, his gaze set within the bluffs nearby.

  “My apologies, Anduin,” Amoran said. He remained calm as a dozen more blue-cloaked soldiers crashed through the grass, spilling into the clearing. Amoran continued to stare at the pair of bodies, scraps of cloth still clung to their bindings. He extended a hand toward the guards, implying their attention was not required.