The Fractured Heartstone

by Ian Thornburrow-Dobson

  “The Ythelian Embassy,” Ydari wheezed. “Where is it?”

  “That way and then left. Follow it for a while and then take a right at the Tailor’s,” the beggar replied helpfully, gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

  “Thank you.”

  Ydari spun on the spot and instantly set off in the direction the beggar indicated. As the Captain neared the end of the road, he heard a monotonous clanking that was the tell-tale sign of Tirgaal’s city guards. He threw himself against a building that was mostly obscured in darkness and waited with bated breath as they jangled by almost musically. The soldier at the head of the column barked commands to his troops as they marched by the Captain who pressed himself further into the shadowy recess. Ydari waited a few more seconds as the footfalls faded, setting out once more after everything had fallen still.

  The rest of Ydari’s trip was thankfully quiet as he shot sideways glances at every figure and indeterminate shape and, eventually, he found his way to a magnificent building that resembled a manor house. A metal fence had been erected around its perimeter and the Ythelian national flag fluttered in the evening breeze. In the darkness Ydari could make out two armoured knights standing at the building’s entrance and he craned his head this way and that. Suddenly something tapped the Captain on the shoulder and he wheeled about suddenly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword as he did so. As he turned a familiar voice shouted for him to calm down. The figure stepped forward with their hands held up defensively and Ydari saw that they belonged to his brother who was rasping heavily.

  “Good to see that you made it,” Ydari remarked seriously, his usual jovial tone having been lost.

  “I didn’t think I would,” Kael gasped between breaths. “There are guards everywhere. They got the word out quicker than I expected.”

  “Which is all the more reason why we should get off the streets. Have you seen Raelynne?”

  “I’m right here,” a voice intoned to their left as the mage materialised from the gloom.

  “Elhaer’s tits!” Kael swore as he brandished his knife instinctively. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Strange, I didn’t think you were frightened so easily,” mused Raelynne.

  “Well I think…”

  “Would you shut up for a second! We need to get into the embassy.”

  Ydari’s raised voice roused the Ythelian soldiers, moving from their post to converse with someone who was obscured from the Watch Captain. Slowly the front door opened and a silhouette emerged. Hushed silence fell between Ydari and his fellows as they listened intently. Sure enough, padded footsteps could be heard approaching until at last a face was visible in the light of a lone torch that flickered on the perimeter fence. Ydari scrutinised the face that now greeted them. Everything about the man reeked of order and careful attention to detail. The diplomat possessed a small angular face with a neatly trimmed goatee and his jet black hair had been slicked back as if it were covering an embarrassing bald spot. His clothes echoed the finery to which the wearer was obviously accustomed and, even in the faint glow of the torch, Ydari could see that his attire was equally immaculate. Often garments were creased or had a spot of food staining it somewhere but the attaché looked as if his clothes had just been washed and pressed.

  “How can I help you?” the diplomat asked stiffly.

  “We’re here to see if you’d like a subscription to our newsletter,” Kael replied sarcastically.

  “I’m sorry sir, we don’t tolerate that sort of humour here. We’re Ythelian. You might try the local tavern?”

  “Unfortunately, so are we,” Ydari responded. “We’ve come to ask for sanctuary.”

  “I see.” The Diplomat’s eyes passed over Ydari for a second with a hint of recognition. “Do I know you sir?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, unless…” Ydari began but the foggy recesses of his mind pulled back and a distant memory bubbled to the surface. “Kythrol?”

  “Indeed, that is my name. Pray tell, where did you hear of it?”

  “The White Tower. I was the Queen’s Protector while you were Chamberlain for her father.”

  “I remember now, the soldier.”

  “Not anymore. Can you let us in please?”

  “I suppose so. So, your mission didn’t go as intended?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You were here days ago on some fool’s errand to convince the Tirgaalians you were on a diplomatic mission. Since you’ve returned, I can only assume things did not go well?”

  “Something like that,” Ydari responded evasively.

  “Details man! I need details if I am to help.”

  “Fine. We tried to prevent the death of Aynhar’s son but it turned out to be a trap. Now the Tirgaalians believe we were there to assassinate him.”

  “I see,” Kythrol replied frostily. “The Queen needs to know about this immediately. Follow me.”

  “Uh, excuse me but how exactly do we do that? She is in Ythelia and we have no way to communicate with her.”

  “You may not but we are not backward villagers. I knew you had been sent by her Majesty on an important task and I’ve been under strict instructions to send regular reports back to Maleardhus. Follow me,” Kythrol commanded in a flat tone that made it seem that aiding Ydari was somehow a burden.

  Ydari simply nodded and let Kythrol’s irritable demeanour wash over him. The diplomat stepped forward and pulled the gate open, making this simple act appear stuffy and regimented. The attaché stood to one side to allow entrance for Ydari and his fellows. Once they had stepped inside he pushed the gate closed, nodding to himself in satisfaction at the tell-tale clang of the metal gate rattling against the fence. Kythrol instantly set off, not bothering to see if his guests were following. The trio trailed behind the diplomat as he escorted them through the front door.

  The entrance hall beyond was as luxuriant as Kythrol was intolerable. Every inch of the room dripped with extravagance; lush cream coloured carpet adorned the floor offset by crimson drapes. Off to the right stood a colossal fireplace and Ydari mentally surmised that an entire wood or glade had been cut down to create the magnificent fire that roared in the hearth. Around the fireplace three long sofas had been placed and a few of the embassy’s employees sat here and chatted idly with one another.

  Kythrol reminded Ydari of the Queen’s Chamberlain, Londorff, in almost every aspect and he thought to himself that it perhaps took a certain personality to deal with the daily grind of adhering to royal protocol. At the rear of the embassy a series of small doors lined the back wall and Ydari imagined them to be small offices with low paid workers toiling and completing the busy work that kept the wheels of bureaucracy turning. Kythrol ushered his guests quickly to one of these doors and rapped on the woodwork, a muffled voice coming from the room’s confines. Kythrol obligingly opened the door and stepped aside to allow his guests to enter first before stepping through himself and closing it again with a gentle snap.

  The room was deeper than it appeared from the outside and it was as if a hurricane had lifted everything and thrown it around. The effect was startling and there was no making sense of the chaos. A small sofa sat in the corner, buried under a mound of papers, trinkets and complicated looking contraptions that Ydari could barely comprehend. There was a table and chair in the middle of the room and bookshelves on every wall. Each article of furniture was similarly strewn with so many knick-knacks and books it was impossible to tell where the furniture ended and the mess began.

  The man who had invited them bore the hallmark of the maelstrom that was his office. Every item of clothing he wore was badly tattered and stained and none of it matched with anything else he wore. It was as if he had simply picked up whatever clothing he found first and thrust his meagre form into them with no thought whatsoever. He had a small rounded face and flushed cheeks. His entire visage was slick from perspiration and it was covered with pimples and spots to such an extent that it had become a face with topographical featur
es.

  Kythrol’s face wrinkled as he nestled in behind his guests and suddenly Ydari understood why the diplomat had allowed them to enter first. The air was thick with the stench of stale sweat and decay, so much so that it very quickly became an assault on the senses. Raelynne politely looked to one side as she tried to control her breathing with short bursts through her mouth. Kael however was a lot less subtle; complaining about the odours in a booming voice as he waved a hand in front of his face theatrically. In spite of this, the man who was the source of the smell barely registered Kael’s remarks and continued to work away feverishly, snatching up a letter and scribbling furiously on the back of it. Tears had already formed in Kythrol’s eyes as he desperately plugged his nose and spoke through a gap in his hands.

  “What is wrong with you Zarifis!?” Kythrol exclaimed. “How do you work in these conditions without succumbing to your odours?”

  “What?” the filthy man asked, half listening. “Did you say something? Look, I’m very busy.”

  “I’m aware of that but I need your attention for just a moment.”

  “With all due respect, but why did you bring us here?” Ydari interceded.

  “Because Zarifis is the one we need to speak to about sending a message to her royal Majesty,” Kythrol whined nasally. The edge he put to his voice made even Zarifis pause in whatever experiment he was conducting.

  “Oh, very well,” Zarifis lamented. “What is the message?”

  “What do you want to say to the Queen?” Kythrol asked, turning to Ydari.

  “Tell her the truth,” he said simply.

  Ydari recounted briefly the events that had led up to their flight to the embassy and the arrogant diplomat and dirt-streaked Zarifis listened intently to his retelling. Ydari had half expected for Kythrol to interrupt at certain points or to scold him for his stupidity. However, the diplomat instead listened to his words without comment. After Ydari finished his account Kythrol scrawled out a few words on a blank piece of parchment that he had been keeping on his person until he had distilled Ydari’s words into a paragraph-long message. Kythrol handed the message off to Zarifis who bustled past the diplomat as he searched frantically for something. A few seconds of banging and crashing passed until he re-emerged holding a complicated-looking device that looked to Ydari and Kael like a small cage inside a metal cube.

  “You have a Fenilax,” Raelynne commented, her eyes wide with amazement. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “I’m impressed you would know that,” Zarifis remarked, his voice cracking in surprise.

  Raelynne nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment while Zarifis swept a mound of clutter to the floor with a series of dull thuds. He set the Fenilax on the now empty table and adjusted dials and knobs on its exterior before carefully placing the note in the cage. The grubby man fiddled with a few more settings when suddenly a light flared up from within the mysterious device. Ydari craned in to see a small fire consuming the note and within a few seconds the paper had been burnt to a cinder, a thin line of smoke rising up from the remains. Zarifis watched the Fenilax for a few minutes and a silence dragged on as they waited for something to happen.

  Boredom threatened to overcome Ydari and he glanced at his brother whose eyes had glazed over. The Watch Captain yawned loudly which caused Raelynne to mimic him in kind. Ydari watched as Kael’s eyelids drooped as drowsiness threatened to take hold completely when suddenly the Fenilax lit up once more, rousing the vagabond as all eyes in the room turned to stare at the device. This time a small fire burned and in the empty space a note flamed into existence. Ydari did a double-take to confirm what he had just seen, much to his amazement. Zarifis lowered himself toward the Fenilax and blew on it to cool the contraption down before reaching in and retrieving the note. His mouth moved visibly as he read the message’s contents.

  “Queen Elhara has sent a reply,” the fetid man reported.

  “Well, obviously. What does it say man?” Kythrol barked.

  “The message reads that Ydari is to keep a low profile until we have learnt more. The Queen has received disturbing reports and nothing is to be done while the veracity of these claims is being checked. If you can, gather information in secret and learn what the Draconis Legium is planning,” Zarifis read aloud.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Our enemies are circling and we can’t wait around for them to strike,” Kael announced to the room.

  “That’s exactly what you’ll do,” Kythrol retorted. “Unless you know of some way to find out what the Legium is planning.”

  “We’ll do as she commands, for now,” said Ydari before Kael could get another word in. “We can still act but we’ll have to be more careful. I don’t know what the long-term plan is but we can be assured that their ploy with Ferilan was part of a much larger plan and we need more information before we blunder our way into another trap.”

  “True enough,” observed Kythrol. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay here until things settle down. And, from what you have told me, that might take a while.”

  ***

  Trelech yawned as boredom threatened to overcome him. The Akanthiri King lounged on the throne whilst a snivelling peasant quivered with fear on his hands and knees before the tyrant. The unfortunate man’s face had drained of colour when it was his turn to stand in front of his monarch and it had become a macabre ritual for the guards of Mal Ithir to haul lowly townsfolk or villagers from farther afield to ply their King with their tales of woe. Nobody particularly wanted to speak to Trelech. Instead it had become a means to amuse the bloodthirsty man and the citizens of Akanthir had learnt to be elsewhere when Trelech’s soldiers came in search of victims. Piles of still warm ash were dotted around the throne room and were the only reminder that they had once been people of flesh and blood before Trelech had erased them from existence.

  As the serf drawled on over some imagined tale of despair, Trelech raised an arm meaningfully and a fire crackled into life in his palm. The sound made the peasant press his face against the ground so hard he smacked his forehead into the stone floor and he trembled miserably in fright. The display was pathetic enough for Trelech to suddenly burst into vile laughter. With a wave of his hand he signalled two guards to grab the poor wretch and escort him from the throne room. The marshal sound of their footsteps was accompanied by the confused squeals of the peasant as he was dragged from the hall, followed by an expulsion of air as he sighed deeply in relief.

  “Show the rest of them out,” Trelech ordered imperiously. “This drivel is starting to bore me.”

  The soldiers around the throne room moved instantly, roughly dragging or shoving the drab line of victims that had been hauled here to sate Trelech’s blood lust. They kept their mouths clamped shut and silently thanked the Gods that they would get to live to see another day. Whilst this was happening a messenger pushed their way into the hall. He watched the wretched precession for a moment before approaching the throne uncertainly. Trelech’s head snapped to the messenger instantly and the man froze on the spot under his Sovereign’s fierce and scrutinising gaze.

  The unlucky herald opened his mouth to speak but he froze as an unsettling feeling of dread took hold. Trelech’s eyes glowed with fire and the same eerie hue shone through his loose-fitting tunic. In that moment the runner was all but certain that his life would come to a screaming halt, much like the victims that had been sacrificed at the altar of Trelech’s malevolence and beads of sweat erupted from his pores until he was practically drenched. The tyrant grunted in irritation as he beckoned to the herald to deliver his message who stepped forward and bowed low. In spite of Trelech’s impatient sigh, the messenger dared not to look the King in the eye.

  “You’re here to deliver a message I assume?” Trelech asked irascibly.

  “Y…yes, I am your highness,” the herald stammered.

  “Get on with it then.”

  “I was sent here by the Captain of the city guards stationed at the main
gate that three of his men were killed last night.”

  “Who did this?” Trelech demanded, his tone icy cold.

  “Uh, apparently your highness the attacker identified himself as Kalythyll. I was told you would know who that was,” the messenger reported uneasily.

  “Kalythyll!” the Sovereign snarled. “I knew I should have dealt with him sooner. Leave me!” Trelech thundered at the messenger.

  “At once,” the herald replied before turning on the spot and practically fleeing from the throne room before Trelech would have a change of heart and decide to snuff him out too.

  Trelech rose from the throne and bellowed angrily at the honour guard that had assembled around the hall. One of them dutifully opened a door for the King and he strode through it purposefully, shouting choice expletives into the air as he walked, A smouldering fury had taken over and Trelech imagined all sorts of torture for Kalythyll should he ever get his hands on him as he walked through the Keep. As he did so he passed numerous servants and cooks and they all shrank back from view as he passed by and, thanks to his improved hearing, he heard them offering silent prayers to the Gods that Trelech now scorned. ‘Let them hate me, as long as they fear me’ Trelech thought to himself as he walked on, the same malevolent grin decorating his features as he drew grim satisfaction from the sentiment.

  Trelech swept his way through the bowels of the Keep before ascending a flight of stairs until he arrived at the top floor. He cast his eyes about and turned his back on the corridor that led to his private bedroom, instead marching past a series of doors until he reached one in particular. He kicked the door open forcefully and stepped into the room. The gem shard in Trelech’s chest seemed to reflect the prevailing mood of its host and he imagined it snarling with ferocity. The tyrant looked around the room and, save for it being empty, there was nothing untoward about the chamber. Everything was immaculate and ordered and in fact there was nothing to show that the room had even been inhabited.