The Legacy of Lanico: Return of the Son: Book two of the Legacy of Lanico series

by E Cantu Alegre

  Her smile faded and she received another one of his intimate kisses they tried to hide, but always failed at.

  “Wait,” Freck started, working to sit up from his sleeping mat.

  The two froze. Startled deer. They hadn’t intended for their kisses to be witnessed. It seemed they didn’t realize Freck had been awake either. To Freck it was of no matter. The young warrior rubbed his eyes with his palms, and continued quickly, “Wait…wait…wait. You’re Marin’s mother?” His face washed in astonishment.

  Lanico glowing eyes flashed wide open.

  “Well,...yes,” Treva said with some confusion. She flicked a glance at Lanico and then back at Freck. She seemed surprised that he didn’t already know this fact. She thought everyone knew.

  Lanico sat up quickly and straightened.

  Freck, noticing the awkwardness of his own reaction, tried to think of something nice to say. He and Marin weren’t exactly the closest of friends in the Great Mist. Not friends at all. Treva is a badass and Marin...just an ass. He reasoned with himself, but spoke anyway, “Well, I just meant that it must have been great getting to see him again.”

  Lanico sat against the boulder’s face—the same that Marin had leaned on all that time ago, and began observing.

  Feeling the weight of his stare, Freck hoped Lanico wouldn’t recognize it—the grimace behind his forced smile.

  “Yes.” Treva started, “It was a wonderful reunion he and I enjoyed.” She looked fondly at Freck. “It is a wonderful blessing to be a mother again.” She sighed and glanced down. “I miss him so. Even now.” Her scar-laced hand reached for that steaming mug again. “I hope in this very moment, he’s doing well with Greta. I find myself counting the hours in which I’ll see him.”

  The crackling and snapping of the fire broke the silence. Freck noticed Lanico’s ridged form relax, edging to lean back against the stone; his calm returning. He felt he had done well.

  “You must have been great friends with him, Freck.” Treva chirped still looking at the young warrior. Still looking to continue this sham of a conversation with him.

  From the corner of his eye, Freck noticed Lanico sit up again. His eyes narrowed. No. They burrowed into him. Lanico wasn’t privy to all the shenanigans that had been going on with the Great Mist’s popular youth and his Marin, but Marin had mentioned something about how he and Freck didn’t get along.

  Freck looked back at him, startled, and turned his attention back to Treva to respond. He couldn’t mess this up, not with Marin’s guardian so close. Honesty would win. Freck breathed, letting his shoulders droop. His thin frame curved slightly. “Truthfully,” he started, and Lanico tilted his head to listen. “Marin and I didn’t always prefer each other’s company—we didn’t have the friendliest relationship.” He paused noticing his King’s azure focus bearing upon him. “But, I-I regret that now. Marin knew more about being a WynSprign than I. I guess that’s how we were able to save the Great Mist, because of him.” In a roundabout way, that was true with the leaping into trees and all.

  It was clear from her expression that Treva didn’t expect this response or this level of honesty. “Freck, thank you. That was a...a very lovely compliment. I’m very proud of Marin. I’m proud of you as well. You saved the Great Mist also. Without your sword and bow, only Odan knows where we would have been.” She settled on the ground a little more. “Make no mistake, you turned the tide in our favor.” She paused. “As far as Marin...people grow, Freck. They can often start out in two different places and with differences, but over time, after weathering life’s storms, they can grow closer.” She paused and her eyes became distant, focused on some memory before she continued, “You and Marin have already changed quite a bit in these recent weeks; weathering life’s storms.”

  She was right. Freck hadn’t been the same WynSprign as he had been before. There had been many lessons learned, many trials both small and immense. When he ran his mental list, it was astounding how much he had learned since Marin left the Great Mist.

  Treva sighed, and let her stare linger over the horizon. That shadow of some memory now resurfacing once more.

  Freck was about to respond just as Felena started to stir. Their eyes landed on the silhouette of her moving body. Felena moaned, stretching. “Food,” she said half-asleep. Feeling the weight of their gaze, her eyes opened to them all looking at her. “Oh, good morning.” Her voice was quiet. She continued with as much courtesy as possible, “Is there any more food, uh-please?” It was more of a statement than a question. Her golden hair was messed on one side.

  The three flashed amused glances.

  “Yes, of course, Felena.” Lanico grinned.

  Chapter 2

  The head cook

  With extreme care and effort, a castle slave backed himself through the throne room door. His arms quaked under the weight of a silver domed serving tray sent from the kitchen.

  Grude noticed from the slave’s apparent strain that his dinner was heavier than normal. In fact, these past several days the food had been increasingly generous in proportion and elaborate in preparation. He hadn’t given it much thought until the slave set his load on the small wooden table before the Mysra leader. Grude looked unapprovingly at the slave and then at the large, domed platter. The warm aroma that wafted from it was delicious, but perplexing.

  Grude waved a hand of dismissal. “Go.” The slave bowed, backing away until disappearing entirely into the shadow from whence he came.

  Grude leaned forward. The silver dome reflected the distorted image of his tired face. He lifted the lid. Beneath the swirling steam that kissed his chin and cheeks sat a delightful surprise. Confused, he closed up the wonder set before him. He knew that instant. His recent suspicions were now understood. It was over-reaching. Frivolous. This was not Tunia’s cooking. The previous meals had hinted at this, but this one…this was opulent—if one could call food that.

  He raised himself from the throne and stomped from the vast room. He rounded the corner and trudged with purpose to the sound of song. Peering into the kitchen, he remained unnoticed and silent. His eyes widened at whom he saw, heard inside.

  He turned to hurry back to the throne room. No. It couldn’t be. Something is off. Outrageously off. With the doors closed behind him, he stood for a moment thinking this over. Who has been making my meals these past several days? Surely not the songstress? He didn’t know if he could trust the delightful feast. A slight panic washed over him. Uncertain of whether or not to eat it, he barked, “Guards!”

  Several large Mysra guards appeared from somewhere near, but hidden. Tran and another guard. They marched and then bowed awkwardly. “Yes, sire? Yes, sire?” they responded raggedly. The green light from the windows highlighted the guards’ bouldered muscles; their enormity and power only further outlined in this space.

  Grude held his scruffy chin and cast a measuring look to both of them. “Tell me, what of the normal cook, Tunia?”

  The two guards looked at one another but their expressions remained as dull and as blank as uninspired canvas. Tunia? It became apparent they hadn’t been briefed on any changes to the kitchen staff.

  Seeing the ignorance residing there, Grude continued without waiting, “I want to find out from Nizen what happened to that WynSprign. Didn’t he realize I’d notice? As acting head monitor, he’s the one that’s been in charge of all slave assignments and roles. Why did he feel the need for the odd switch? I want to know why Cantata is responsible for this.” He lifted the lid and more steam swirled to reveal a cooked Cornish hen with gemmed orange peel, cranberries, and black currants on a bed of rosemary and bright lettuces. It was delightful to the eye, nothing like Tunia had ever prepared for him. Until this point, he had thought Tunia was the most talented in the kitchen. He blinked, realizing he was sorely wrong. Her fare seemed purely adequate sustenance now in comparison to this. Though the grandeur of it all seemed suspicious.

  The guards’ gazes widened. Not for the gorgeous fare, but rat
her at hearing her name—Cantata. She had been working in their kitchen? Cantata?

  “Tran, you go to him.” Grude’s voice started. “Tell him I need to speak to him about this. In truth, I don’t know what to think of it.”

  “At once.” The senior guard nodded and, sparing no time, Tran marched off to learn more about the change in kitchen staff. The Mysra guard charged with all the answers was Nizen. He dutifully kept the ledger on all the WynSprigns, their jobs, and their whereabouts.

  The grumbling of his stomach sounded. Grude sat, staring at the golden-brown hen donning a bed of colorful culinary celebration. What is the motive for such a meal? Surely there has to be something wrong with it—poison perhaps? And why else would she be in there—cooking? There were too many questions for his liking. Too many, and his insides roiled in demand. Bunch of morons not to notify me—to worry me so over my own meals.

  ✽✽✽

  From the distance, he spotted Nizen’s signature red cape flapping in the hot breeze. It had been a fortunate surprise; the acting head monitor was usually making his rounds and taking counts of the slaves and monitoring any rotations. It could have easily been an arduous search for him in the vast encampment. Perhaps the Mysra Holy Mother, Fray Jaspia, was sending her blessings. Tran had been concerned about having to locate him among the throngs of slaves and numerous huts. Thankfully he was just outside his personal station.

  Ties held the tent flaps secured, open. Nizen lowered to sit in a chair and lean back. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow. He took in a breath, but the air was thick in this sweltering heat. The chair on which he sat looked as though it could give under his massive form. As the acting head monitor, Nizen’s role placed him above all other Mysra now that Gish, Grude’s son, was disowned, and Gax and Neen were off on a mission that he felt he should have been permitted to join in. Grude had begun to rely on Nizen increasingly in the brothers' stead. He felt himself becoming the right-hand to the Mysra leader as long as the two remained away. His wicked thoughts dreamed for a moment, If anything unfortunate happens to them—I’d become the head monitor, permanently.

  He leaned forward. The wooden legs groaned, seeming to struggle to maintain their composure beneath his muscle-corded form. Nizen wasted no time and began reviewing notes that his underling, Grimel, had scribed earlier.

  Tran cleared his throat as he approached the entrance. Another count to their monitored masses.

  Nizen glanced up. “Come in, Tran, but make it brief.” He straightened, waiting. “I’ve only just returned and am anxious to get on with whatever it is you want.” The immediate tapping of his fingers indicated his growing impatience. He was now a figure of many responsibilities. His expression said it clearly, I don’t have time for you.

  Tran removed his focus from Nizen’s thumping gray fingers to his glare. “Nizen, I’ve come with word from Grude. He has requested your presence in the throne room.” Nizen stilled. Seeing the wash of concern over his superior’s face, Tran continued in confidence, “He said he wants to know what happened to his cook, Tunia.”

  Nizen hadn’t thought about telling Grude about the change in kitchen staff. He figured it didn’t matter, a WynSprign was a WynSprign—even if it happened to be Cantata who wasn’t a slave, but was a WynSprign just the same. Having Tran here now, a newfound worry set in. Tunia had killed herself, after all. If she hadn’t done it herself, he determined that he would have done it anyway. Her time was limited either way. The sleepheather oil she took during their encounter was likely enough to kill her in the afterlife as well. The small dose she diluted in their wine during their celebration had been enough to render his Mysra warriors and guards into a deep slumber, resulting in six slaves going off missing. Grude was still furious at this. He remembered the way he promised punishment for one more slipup. A trickle of anxiety wormed its way into Nizen’s dark mind.

  Nizen didn’t answer him, instead he countered with a query of his own, “What did Grude say—was he displeased with Cantata, the new head cook?”

  Tran’s eyes widened at the confirmation that Cantata was indeed the new cook.

  Noticing Tran’s surprised glaze, Nizen loosed a stressed-filled sigh. He leaned forward in his chair. His graveled voice was factual as he explained, “Tunia killed herself in front of me. The bitch swallowed a bottle of Sleepheather oil right there in the kitchen. So,” he said as he casually leaned back again, “I decided to get another to replace her. It just so happened that Cantata was available. I had seen her helping in there before with the others. She, of course, stood out.” He deemed this a job well-done. “I hope Cantata is proving to be satisfactory for the time being.” More of a leading question rather than a statement.

  Tran uselessly maintained his blank stare. Nizen realized that as an underling, Tran wouldn’t have an opinion on the matter. Of course, this is why he had been summoned. He’d have to explain this change himself, in person. He understood he’d have to set aside his long-awaited chore of tallies, again, and march his own ass up to the castle. Nizen groaned a response to Tran, “Never mind. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Right.” Nizen raised a flicking hand, dismissing the castle underling. Tran frowned, and turned to march back.

  Nizen slowly rose from the chair. He hoped that Grude wouldn’t be angry over this change—over his not telling him about Tunia. The sun would set soon enough. At least, he wagered, he didn’t have to monitor any further slave activity for a small while. He found himself following Tran back to the castle, but several paces behind, of course. He didn’t need to appear to be consorting with him.

  It wasn’t long before they began the ascent to the castle. At their approach, they saw a rare sight - a waiting horse, tied and readied for its rider.

  A messenger had arrived.

  Chapter 3

  From the shadow of forgottenness

  Tran and Nizen entered through the heavy doors one after the other and froze.

  Grude’s white-hot anger took all focus from the throne room door; all but wrested the air from the massive place. “What do you mean ‘Not one was captured’?” His feet were planted firmly at the edge of the throne dais. His hands gathered in tight fists, straight at his sides. The action made his muscled forearms flex. He felt his heart slamming against his rib cage—he was rigid with fury.

  A messenger, who was double Grude’s size, slouched. Apparently shamed for actions for which he was not responsible, but it made no matter. He would get railed at just the same as if he were a guilty party in the failure. They were one. One Mysra people following one Fray Mysra creator. Unified by one leader. Him.

  The messenger opened his mouth to speak, but the words came from Grude instead. “Am I to stand here and believe not a single WynSprign was taken?” He threw his hands up as if casting away unseen flies. “Outrageous!”

  Tran slid a cautious glance to Nizen, but the superior head monitor was intently listening.

  The rider, though stone-faced and even more menacing than most, looked as if he may burst into tears. “Si-sire.” He trembled holding his hat. “The WynSprigns were outfitted with more weapons. They wielded swords, staffs, and used arrows. Sire, they leaped around on trees and houses—outperforming us. More tactical”—Grude growled at his words. The messenger fumbled through his words, “Neen lied, sire, and I don’t know his cause, but they were warriors. All of them.”

  Grude’s eyes all but bulged from their sockets. It was a look that held the promise of death. His voice was a cacophony clashing against the walls. “Did he?” His fingertips brushed against a dagger he ever kept at his belt. It was doubtful his favorite – his chosen, Neen, would have lied – as this shit-messenger so cruelly claimed.

  The messenger cringed. Judging by the way he shifted, Grude could plainly see there was more news still. Another batch of horrid shit waiting to be doled out. He noticed how the messenger’s fingers knitted, roaming over his hat in nervous contemplation. The circles beneath his eyes indicat
ed that he hadn’t slept since he had set out for this task, so consumed with fear and worry. But here it was…

  Gride wasn’t going to take this any longer, “I demand to see Neen! Summon him at once!” He leaned closer toward the messenger; his body almost held by an invisible leash from the throne. The messenger stiffened, and the Mysra leader knew he had hit the mark. The subject the messenger feared was about to surface.

  “Sire,” he gulped like a dying fish seized from water. The air became tight. Suffocating. His voice trembled as he repeated practiced words, “I regret to inform you that Neen and Gax, your closest, fell at the WynSprign village.”

  Still many strides away, Tran’s eyes widened and Nizen began to curl a smile at the news, at his new lasting position.

  Tran swung his head to look once more at Nizen. Seeing the clever grin carved on his face, he turned and silently padded to leave the throne room. The reason for his trek here was no longer important, and Nizen would be left to deal with their leader.