“This is where he goes to think?” Lyessa asked, her face wrinkling in disgust.
“It didn’t used to be like this,” Breen whispered as he scanned the clearing.
Everything was covered in ash, like a fresh layer of fallen snow. Everything was dead. Every bush, briar, and patch of grass had been burned away. Most of the trees had lost their leaves already, anticipating winter’s approach, but even the evergreens were bare and lifeless. Not even the wind dared blow. The place seemed nothing more than a hollow tomb.
Ty was seated at the center of the lifeless sanctuary, his white hair blending in with his surroundings, almost making him appear headless.
Breen wasn’t sure if Ty hadn’t noticed their arrival or was simply ignoring it.
“I see the book,” Fraya whispered.
Ty was holding it in his lap. He appeared to be reading it as he rocked slowly back and forth.
Lyessa held out her hand and let a couple of pieces of ash land in her palm. “What did he do to this place?”
“We need to get that book,” his father said.
“And how do you propose we do that?” she asked.
“I’ll talk to him,” Breen said, taking a step forward.
His father grabbed his arm. “No. I’ll go. You stay with them.”
Breen nodded reluctantly. He didn’t like the idea of his father going down there alone, but he liked the idea of disobeying him even less. Besides, when it came to his brother, his father was better at keeping his calm than Breen. So, he watched as his father made his way down the shallow incline toward the ash-covered valley below.
Ty never moved. If he heard his father’s approach, he wasn’t showing it.
Breen still couldn’t understand how a simple book could allow someone to use Ty in such a way. Did his brother really have no control? Was he even aware of what he was doing? After nearly killing Gilly, he hated to think he was. Come to think of it, why was his brother even here? This was Ty’s hiding spot. How would the one controlling him know to come here?
Breen’s father reached the bottom of the clearing and slowly made his way out to the middle where Ty remained seated. “Ty?”
Breen held his breath.
His brother didn’t move, other than to continue rocking. His father stopped a few steps back, not wanting to startle him.
“Ty, are you all right? We were worried about you.” Even from the top of the rise, Breen could still hear his father’s voice.
Still no answer.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”
Breen huffed. What kind of question is that? Ty or not, who cares if he’s hungry? Grab the book.
His father waited for a reply, but none came. “What are you reading, son?”
Ty stopped rocking. Slowly, he stood and turned around.
Breen grabbed his bow, getting ready to pull an arrow if needed.
Ty’s face was twisted in rage. “I’m not your son.” In one swift move, he raised his hand, and their father lifted into the air.
Breen grabbed an arrow and charged down the slope. He barely had time to nock it before his father was suddenly thrown across the meadow, landing with a hard thud on the far side.
“Ty!” Breen shouted, half running, half stumbling the rest of the way down the hill. His father wasn’t moving. He ran to the outer edge of the glade and yanked the bowstring, but Ty was gone. The valley was completely empty.
“Is he alive?” Lyessa asked as she and Fraya rushed in behind him, swords drawn.
Breen lowered his bow and ran to his father and knelt beside him. He wasn’t moving. There was a slight wheeze, letting them know he was at least still alive.
“Here, let me through,” Fraya said.
Breen moved out of the way, giving her plenty of room to work her magic. She ran her hands across his chest and closed her eyes. Her palms began to glow. The light from her hands seeped through his shirt and down into his father’s chest.
“It’s not as bad as it could have been,” she said. “He has a couple of broken ribs, and he hit his head, which has left him unconscious. Probably a good thing. He won’t feel the pain.” Fraya smiled up at him reassuringly. “He’ll be fine, Breen.”
“Where did he go?” Lyessa asked.
Breen turned to find her walking out onto the ash-covered floor of the glen.
“He was here just a moment ago.”
Breen followed her out. He walked to the center and studied the tracks. Other than the single set leading to where his father had been standing and the round indention where his brother had been seated, there was no sign of anyone else coming or going. He scanned the tree line on either side. “I have no idea. He just . . . vanished.”
“Is that something he’s capable of doing?”
“At this point, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.”
Breen started back to where Fraya was helping his father, who was now awake, to a sitting position.
“Your brother packs quite the punch,” his father said, taking a moment to look around the empty clearing. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Breen said. “He was there one minute and gone the next. Whoever is controlling him is plainly well versed in magic.”
“How can we find him?” Lyessa asked. “Did the wizard say what to do when we did?”
“No,” Breen admitted. “But I’m guessing we need to get that book away from him.”
“Ty couldn’t have picked a worse time to go completely insane,” Lyessa said. “What was he thinking?”
“He’s not thinking,” Breen’s father said. “He’s reacting. His anger and guilt have driven him to this.”
Lyessa clicked her tongue. “The overlords are already here. The conclave is scheduled for tomorrow. The last thing we need is for Ty to be running around Easthaven in his condition.”
Behind them, a twig snapped.
Chapter 74 | Dakaran
DAKARAN WASHED THE SOAP from his face and stared into the mirror. He smiled. “What do you think, Fernon?”
The head groom cleared his throat as he dabbed the remaining soap from Dakaran’s neck with his towel. “Regal, Your Majesty. You have a bearing that demands respect.”
Dakaran couldn’t tell if Fernon was being sincere or simply pandering. The man had a face like a statue, completely emotionless. A character trait ingrained into every royal attendant from birth, it would seem. Dakaran had attempted numerous pranks on the older man over the years, hoping to get a rise out of him, but sadly, to no avail. He’d even gone so far as to leave a snake in the man’s bed. Fernon hadn’t even flinched.
“Most amusing,” the groom had said before sliding the serpent onto the floor and placing a bucket over it.
Regardless of whether Fernon was capable of emotion or not, he was certainly proficient with a straight razor and snippers. Dakaran turned his head to the side, admiring the new look. He had always hated the idea of hair on his face hiding his features. But he had to admit, it did make him appear more commanding. More kingly.
He had requested Fernon trim it in the same style Ayrion had always worn—thin along the jaw and widening out to a slight goatee. He held his head up and admired the man’s work. Hopefully, Amarysia would notice.
“Fernon, my clothes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Fernon clapped his hands, and three attendants who had been standing quietly at the back of the room quickly rushed forward to be of assistance.
Much like Fernon, the three attendants were dressed in their formal palace uniforms: a deep-crimson doublet with gold lining over a white tunic. The sleeves were affixed with ribbon ties at the shoulder joints for easy removal. Along with the uniform, they wore matching caps with gold crests attached to the side.
The attendants held out a variety of outfits from Dakaran’s closets for him to inspect, each as regal as the next. It was a difficult choice, but he finally settled on the forest green with white lace and gold trim. It was one of three that came with its own cape
. He knew Amarysia had a fondness for capes. At least, he thought he remembered her saying something to that effect.
Lastly, Fernon positioned the crown on Dakaran’s head, letting it rest in place just over his brow. It was the finishing touch, the icing on the cake.
Dakaran strode over to the full standing mirror beside his chifforobe and examined the end result. “Very nice,” he said with a satisfied nod, fiddling with the crown. He shifted his bangs to the side to keep them from getting in his eyes.
Content with the way he looked, he left his chambers and made his way to the throne room. It was that time of week again, and from what he’d heard, the crowd was extensive, the line wrapping clear down the hall, across the foyer, and into the upper courtyard outside. He never remembered there being such a turnout while his father sat on the throne. Most of his father’s sessions had been finished in time for lunch.
Dakaran decided to take the west wing today, not wanting to face the swarming throngs coming in from the east. He’d made the mistake the last time of entering from the front, barely making it down the hall as people pressed him with their concerns and desires before he’d even had a chance to get inside. The only reason he’d attempted it was to please Amarysia, who had suggested spending more time amongst them as opposed to sitting up on his throne.
That had been a mistake.
The white-clad guards standing outside the back entrance to the throne room opened the doors at his approach. They didn’t bother saluting or bowing as he passed. In fact, very few of these new guards Valtor had assigned showed any modicum of respect. At least, not in the way the High Guard had with his father. He gritted his teeth at the thought. Just another thing on the long list of differences between his rule and his father’s.
Once inside, his eyes went straight to the platform. It was empty. He took a moment to glance around the room, but he didn’t see either his mother or Amarysia amongst the servants at the side. Running late as usual, it seems.
With a frustrated sigh, he climbed the stairs and took his seat. At least his servants had stacked the pillows this time. He eased himself down on top of them, needing to shift only one.
By the time he’d found a comfortable position, his cupbearer was halfway up the steps with his favorite goblet. He was carrying a tray with two pitchers. “Red or white, Your Majesty?”
It was still early, but Dakaran found it helped dull the boredom and the constant aching of his head. “Red.”
The servant bowed and, with one hand balancing the tray, managed to fill the goblet without spilling. The servant bowed once more, then made his way back down to the bottom.
Dakaran lifted the goblet, took a whiff to get the full effect, then downed his first swallow of the day. It was lightly spiced, filling him with warm tingles as it coated his throat. He moaned softly and eased back in his seat, waiting for the proceedings to start. His mother had better hurry if she wanted to make it before they opened the doors.
Looking around, he noticed his advisor wasn’t present either. Where was everyone? He had no intention of sitting there all day by himself, listening to people whine on and on about their problems. About the time he raised his glass for another swallow, the chamberlain walked out to the center of the room and smacked his ceremonial staff on the marble floor.
It couldn’t be time to start already, could it? Where were his mother and Amarysia? Where was Valtor? The pressure in his head was building, and he took another swallow.
The guards at the far end of the hall released the latch and pulled open the double doors, allowing those in the hall to begin filing in. The entire corridor outside was filled.
He pressed his thumb to the side of his head. This was not what he had bargained for. The chamberlain stood at the front of the line, which the guards kept about ten feet from the steps leading up to the throne, taking names in order to offer proper introductions before allowing them to speak.
“Master Grimshorn of South Avis, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain said, following each name with the street they resided on. It allowed Dakaran to get a better idea of the person’s situation by knowing what part of the city they lived in.
The situation of people from South Avis, however, was a little harder to ascertain, considering the street ran from the merchant district at the center of Aramoor all the way down to the old city. What part of South Avis Master Grimshorn lived on could be the difference between a respectable middle-class merchant or someone living in the slums of Cheapside.
Either way, Dakaran was sure to be anything but pleased with whatever the man had to say, since few of his citizens came to these assemblies bearing joyful tidings. In fact, he couldn’t think of any who had.
Dakaran waved the man forward.
Master Grimshorn bowed nervously, hat in hand, as he took a couple of steps closer to the platform steps. He stopped and bowed once more, as if that were going to make his complaints any more palatable. “I represent a small consortium of spice merchants on the upper west side, Your Majesty,” he said, head lowered and voice shaking. “We ask the king for a stay on the increased taxes. It’s driving us to raise the cost of our goods to the point we are no longer able to compete. Three of our group have already lost their businesses, and the rest are soon to follow if we can’t find a way to lower this new burden.”
Dakaran balled his fist. Another complaint about the new citizen tax. He was growing weary of fielding one criticism after another concerning his decision to refill the royal coffers. “Do you enjoy living in Aramoor?”
The man looked up, seemingly shocked by the question. “Yes . . . Your Majesty?” His response came off sounding more like a question than a statement.
“And do you enjoy walking to work every day without the fear of getting beaten and robbed?” Of course, depending where on South Avis he lived, that might have been a moot question, so Dakaran followed it with another. “Do you enjoy the safety this city affords with its grand walls and trained soldiers?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Grimshorn said, sounding a little more certain than the last time.
“Do you think those benefits come without a price?”
The man didn’t respond, but he did tilt his head up far enough to see Dakaran.
“In order to protect Aramoor from its enemies, we need soldiers, we need ships, we need armament. Those don’t come cheap. The citizens of Aramoor have the privilege of living in the grandest city in the five kingdoms. Is it not fair to seek just compensation for such a right?”
“I . . . uh. I guess so, Your Majesty. But . . .” The man took a deep gulp. “We’ve lived this long without such a tax. Why is it being enforced now?”
Others down the line chimed in, voicing their own concerns over the new citizen tax. In fact, by the reaction, it seemed as though the majority of those in line were all there for the same reason.
Dakaran squeezed the stem of his goblet. Because I said so! was what he wanted to say. Instead, he waited for the chamberlain to quiet the crowd. “The reason for implementing a new tax is because our battle with Cylmar depleted the Elondrian treasury. My father raided our coffers in order to pay for his war, then lost half our army in the process, forcing me to rebuild. And that can’t be done without gold.”
Dakaran’s jaw tightened. Why was he having to explain himself? He was the king.
“But how are we to make a profit with such a high expense?” another man farther back in line shouted.
“That’s not my problem,” Dakaran said angrily. “If you can’t run a business in the most luxurious city in the world, then I recommend you move somewhere you can. Might I suggest Gnarr, or Erast? I hear southern Cylmar is quite lovely this time of year.” Dakaran stood and the people quieted. Without saying a word, he walked down the stairs and left through the back door. He could hear some of the people behind him asking if he was coming back.
That was one of the worst experiences he’d ever been forced to endure. He had no intention of ever holding another assembly
again.
The servants in the halls moved to get out of his way. A wise decision. He stormed into his room and threw his crown across the chamber, shattering the mirror on the other side and bringing Fernon running. “Why weren’t they there?” he shouted.
“Who, Your Majesty?” Fernon asked as he rushed to get a broom for the glass.
Not only had his mother and Amarysia not shown as they had promised, but his own advisor had disappeared as well. How could they have left him there alone? And after he’d spent such an effort on his grooming. He rubbed the thickening hair on his chin, then shouted once more at the top of his lungs.
“Fernon! Wine!”
The old groomsman rushed back into the personal attendants’ room, which was attached to Dakaran’s personal chambers, and returned with a pitcher and goblet, careful not to step on the pile of glass as he followed Dakaran into his sleeping quarters.
Dakaran sat on the edge of his canopy bed and waited for the man to hand him his drink. He drained it in a single gulp and held it out to be refilled.
Fernon wisely didn’t argue.
“Send someone to my mother’s quarters and find out why she didn’t attend the assembly this morning. Hurry!”
Fernon set the pitcher on the table beside the bed and rushed to the door. Dakaran could hear the man ordering one of the guards outside to make the inquiry.
Dakaran lay back on the bed, taking a deep breath. His headache was getting worse. This was what he got for trying to please a woman. He closed his eyes, hoping the pain would lessen.
A knock on the door had him sitting back up. “Come!”
The door opened, but instead of one of the guards returning with a good explanation as to his mother and Amarysia’s absence, Valtor strolled in, shutting the door behind him and motioning for Fernon to leave.
Fernon glanced at Dakaran for final assurance, and Dakaran nodded. He did appreciate the old man’s loyalty. Fernon skirted around Valtor on his way out the door.
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