by Ryan Cahill
Arthur rose back to his full height.
“Okay, I will indulge myself later. For now, you all must be tired and hungry. We will show you to your chambers, and I will arrange for a feast. My son, Daymon, is around here somewhere as well. Come, come.”
The kiss of the setting sun felt warm on Calen’s back as it trickled in through the window. He was more than thankful for the warm bath he had just soaked in. His muscles felt as though they were brand new. He did not think he would ever get used to bathing in cold river water.
His weak smile was one of relief as much as it was satisfaction as he pulled the linen shirt over his head. It was like wearing a cloud compared to the leathers he had grown used to. Arthur had provided each member of the group with their own private chambers, as well as fresh clothes for the feast, while the clothes they had travelled in were washed by the maids.
“Maids!” laughed Calen to himself. If only you were here to see me now, Dad. You would slap me across the back of the head for even saying the word out loud.
A touch of sadness crept into Calen’s heart. He dropped himself onto the edge of the bed. In that moment, as he sat there, alone for the first time, everything came crashing onto him like a waterfall.
They were all gone. His mother, his father, Ella, Faenir… Haem. His entire family. He didn’t even want to guess how many others might have lost their lives in the chaos that day. Faces flashed through his mind. Jorvill Ehrnin. Mara Styr. Tach Edwin… Anya. A sickly weightlessness filled his body.
The next face he saw was Rist’s. He had left him. Left him with Dahlen. Left him to be taken, and he was too scared to go after him. Anger mingled with his sadness, bubbling through it. Anger at Dahlen, anger at himself, anger at the world.
Once I’m stronger… I’ll find you.
The sound of smashing pottery reminded Calen that he was not truly alone. He puffed out his cheeks, wiping the nomadic tear from the side of his face. He allowed himself a subdued laugh. “Get over here!”
Valerys’s head poked up from amidst the rubble of two flowerpots that had previously held tulips and daisies. Like Faenir would do when wet, Valerys shook his body from head to tail, sending bits of shattered ceramic darting around the room.
“Hey!” shouted Calen as he shielded his eyes. “Watch it!”
The dragon puffed back at Calen in response. He spread his wings and leapt from the ground, up onto the bed.
Calen stood, his eyes falling on his sword that lay in its scabbard, resting against the far wall. Instinctively, he reached for it. But he knew well enough that it would be insulting to bring a sword to a king's table. He felt a moment of hesitation as his hand touched the leather scabbard. We’re safe here, I don’t need it.
“Come on.” He scratched under Valerys’s neck, producing as close to a purr as the dragon was able. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for supper. It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything decent.”
As the porter guided him through winding staircases and maze-like hallways, Calen thanked the gods that Arthur had sent someone to show him the way back to the main hall. He would have wandered haplessly for hours otherwise.
The young lad, fifteen or sixteen summers at most, continually peered over his shoulder to gawk at Valerys, who padded along at Calen’s feet. Calen allowed himself a wry smile. He often forgot what a strange sight it must be. Only a month ago, he had never even seen a dragon, and now Valerys was as normal to him as the morning sun.
“Thank you, Conal,” Calen said, as the young porter brought him to the entrance of the hall. In truth, he wasn’t much younger than Calen. But he seemed younger.
“My pleasure m’lord,” the boy said. He bowed around a corner before Calen could correct him. He was the furthest thing from a lord that someone could possibly be.
Calen took a deep breath before he entered. The hall was much the same as when Calen and his group had arrived earlier, with one exception. There was now a massive rectangular table right in the centre.
The table was piled high with fruit in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colours. Some he recognised: apples, oranges, pears. Others, he could not even imagine what they might be called. Curved, yellow fruit with leathery skin sat beside a small fruit with brown skin that was covered in fur. Calen had just picked up one of the furry fruits when Dann made his way into the hall.
“By the gods!” called Dann, his voice echoing through the hall. “I’m never leaving here, Calen. I could have sat in that bath for hours. And these clothes!” He lifted his arms up in the air, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Do we sit?”
“I’m not sure,” Calen replied, still rolling his thumb across the surface of the hairy fruit. “Look at all this fruit. I don’t think there would be as much in all the market stalls in The Glade combined.” Calen found it hard to match Dann’s enthusiasm. He couldn’t help but think how much that amount of food would cost back home.
“I know!” exclaimed Dann, his voice muffled as he bit deeply into an apple.
It wasn’t long before the rest of the group found their way to the hall. Everyone looked so different with the dirt scrubbed from their faces and hair, and clean linens on their backs.
“I don’t know about you,” Erik said, wrapping his arms around Calen's and Dann’s shoulders, “but I’m starved. I intend to eat until I can no longer fit in these trousers!”
Dann muffled out the words, “Me too,” through a mouthful of apple, which earned him a laugh from Erik.
“Calen, Dann, Erik, Dahlen. I would like you to meet my son, Daymon.”
Calen had not even seen Arthur enter the hall. The young man now standing beside him was the spitting image of the king, only about thirty summers his junior by the looks of it.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Daymon said, bowing slightly at the waist. “My father tells me that you have all come a long way to be here. I hope your journey has not taken too much of a toll on you.”
Daymon did not yet possess the effortless charisma that oozed from every word that left his father’s mouth, but Calen figured that was something earned, not something you were born with.
“It took what it needed to,” Erik replied, with a solemn twist in his lips.
“That it did,” Arthur said, a regretful look in his eyes. “Okay, now that we are all acquainted, why don’t we eat?” Arthur must have read the expression on Calen’s face, changing the conversation in an instant.
Once they were all seated, Arthur called over the same porter who had shown Calen to the hall. “Conal, can you please inform the kitchen that they may send up the food?”
“Yes, my king. I’ll fetch them now.”
“Thank you.”
That was one thing about Arthur that stood out to Calen, the way he acted towards people.
In the villages, the village elders always spoke with an air of superiority – even Erdhardt, whom Calen considered to be a kind and just man. Yet, here they were in the great hall of Belduar, at a table with its king. Not the elder of the village or a local lord, but a king. He did not treat anyone as though they were less. He did not command. He asked. His authority was clear, and he was not weak, but he knew that he did not need to command.
Calen had not met many kings – or any – but something told him that this was a rare quality among those with power.
“Send up the food?” Dann whispered, leaning over into Calen’s ear. “How much more food could there be?”
Just as Calen was about to agree, a stream of serving men and women swept into the hall. Some of them held large silver trays of steaming hot meats, potatoes, and vegetables. Others held jugs of wine and ale. By the time they all left the hall again, there was not so much as an inch of space on the wooden table to be seen through the mass of food and drink.
“Well,” Arthur announced, “do not wait on my account. Eat, eat!”
Calen watched as everyone piled their plates, talking and joking between them. He felt a warm smile sneak its way onto
his face. This was the first time in quite a while that they were actually safe.
Maybe he could allow himself some contentment. He wanted to, but it was almost impossible to push the images of blood and death from his mind. It felt strange to not have the familiar weight of his sword hanging at his hip.
Erik must have seen the look on his face. “We have to allow ourselves the small things,” he said with a thin smile.
Calen nodded. Even Valerys was having the time of his life. He sat just behind Calen, tearing into a leg of lamb that Arthur had arranged for him.
“You not going to eat?” Dann raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I am, I am. Sorry, just got lost in thought there for a minute. What’s good?”
CHAPTER 28
Brother
Rist jumped at the knock on the door. He folded over the corner of the page and slipped his book under the covers of his bed. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to hide it. He just did.
There wasn’t much in the room. A small bed with a wooden frame. A desk for reading and writing, adorned with a single candle. Two wooden chairs, a small dresser, and a woollen rug. There were no paintings, decorations, or ornamentations. It was simple. In honesty, he didn’t mind it too much.
The man who had knocked did not wait on an invitation to enter. He never did. He looked middling in his years, with a plain enough face, a strong jawline, and short, cropped black hair. A black robe adorned his shoulders and flowed down over his body. As usual, he carried a covered silver tray with that evening’s dinner.
Roast lamb, by the smell of it.
Rist had been there nearly two weeks, by his count. Every day flowed in much the same way. He woke with the sun to an empty room and a locked door. He ate one meal a day, which was always delivered by the same man. When he needed to wash or relieve himself, he did so under guard. That was it.
“Are you well?” The man’s voice was firmer than Rist had expected. There was an authority to it. He caught Rist off-guard. This was the first time he had spoken. Two weeks. He brought him his dinner every day for two weeks and had never said a word.
“I… I am. Thank you.”
A hint of a smile sat on the man’s face as he lifted the lid from the silver tray, showing two plates of food. Lamb, carrots, potatoes, and a small pitcher of meat gravy. The food had been like this every night. It was better than home. But there had never been two plates.
The man took the plates from the tray and lay them down on the desk, then placed the tray and lid on the floor under the table. He scooped up the pitcher of gravy and bathed his plate in the sweet-smelling brown liquid.
“Gravy?” he asked.
“Em… yes, please.” Rist was still unsure. It could be a trick. He had not been mistreated while he was there, but nor had he been free to leave. Not one person had spoken to him.
Rist had been angry at first, when he woke up. It had done nothing. He was barely even given a second look. So, he decided to try a different tack. A horse often responded better to a carrot than a stick. “Excuse me… Why am I here? Where are my friends?”
The man waved his hand, calling Rist over. “Come and sit. We will talk.”
Rist’s stomach rumbled. It was not like he had many options. He had been trying to get this man to talk for the last couple weeks. Now was his opportunity.
Rist got up from the bed and took the empty chair. The food smelled amazing. He had tried not to eat it the first few days, but they simply replaced the old full plate with a new full plate. Eventually, the hunger became too much. If they wanted him dead, they could have done so with ease. There was no need to poison him.
He looked up at the man, who chewed away on a piece of lamb. There was nothing about his face that would make him stand out. With an inward sigh, Rist took up the cutlery that the man had set out beside the plate and joined him in eating dinner. It tasted as good as it smelled.
“You are in Al’Nasla,” the man said out of nowhere, as if they had been in a free-flowing conversation. “The embassy of the Circle of Magii in the palace, to be exact.”
Rist’s fork dropped to the ground, clinking off the silver tray below the table. “I’m… I’m in Loria?” His mind raced a hundred miles a minute. “I can’t be… How is that even possible? I was in Midhaven, in Illyanara. How did I get to the North?”
Rist stopped. He needed to collect himself. He had no idea why this man had finally started talking, or if he would ever talk again. He needed to be smart and ask the right questions. “Who are you? why am I here?”
The man chewed his food meticulously, swallowing before he answered. “You may call me Garramon. I am your… guide.” The man pondered for a moment. “You are here because we found you on the side of the road just outside Al’Nasla. I do not know how you got there, nor did I care. You were filthy and half-starved to death. We took you in.”
Rist raised one eyebrow. “Took me in? Took me captive, more like. I am locked in this room, unable to leave unless I am under guard, and even then, only to bathe and relieve myself. That sounds like a captive to me.”
How did I get to the North? Calm down. Focus. Breathe.
Rist struggled to think. He tried to remember what happened, but the only thing he could remember was fighting in the streets of Midhaven, and Dahlen carrying him. Then everything went black.
“Captive? You are fed, are you not? Clothed? Have you been harmed?” Garramon did not wait for an answer. The begrudged look on Rist’s face was enough. “Well, I have given you my name. It is only fair that you do the same in return.”
Rist had not realised that the man would not know his name. “My name is Rist Havel.”
“It is nice to meet you.” Garramon swallowed another piece of meat, washed down with gravy. “Rist, there is a reason you are here and not in a tavern somewhere, and I think you might know what that reason is. It is the same reason that you have not been allowed to roam the grounds freely. And for all I know, it is the same reason that you ended up on the side of the road.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rist’s back stiffened. He couldn’t know.
Garramon sighed through his nose as he finished his mouthful. He wiped his knife and fork with a cloth that he produced from inside his cloak, then set them down on the desk beside the plate.
“You are among friends,” he said after a long moment of silence. Garramon turned his gaze to the candle on the desk and twisted his hand upward in the air, ending with a flick. The wick on the candle burst into life with a flame that flickered back and forth.
“You…”
A satisfied smile flitted across Garramon’s face. “Yes, me. You are no longer alone, Rist. We had to keep you under lock and guard. A fledgling mage can be a danger to both himself and those around him when he is untrained. We needed to watch you. And we did not know you enough to trust you. Surely, you understand?”
Rist’s pulse quickened. This was not how he had expected this day to go.
A fledgling mage.
“I… I think I do…”
“Good.” Garramon clasped his hands together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Rist, I want to teach you to use your gifts. To not fear them, but to embrace them. To not let the fear in the hearts of others stop you from being who you were destined to be. We must never dim our light so that others may shine.”
Rist felt a sense of warmth flowing through him. It was as if Garramon’s words were the remedy to something that he didn’t know was ailing him. “Yes. I would like that very much. Truly, I would.”
“Fantastic!” said Garramon. He clapped his hands together as he rose to his feet. “We will start tomorrow. I will send for you at first light.” Garramon turned towards the door. “And from now on, please, call me Brother Garramon.”
“Yes, Brother Garramon,” Rist said, a touch of hesitancy in his voice. “Brother Garramon?”
“Yes, initiate. What is it?”
A lump form
ed in Rist’s throat. He held his breath for a moment. “My friends… my family. They will be looking for me. I need to see them or contact them. Let them know I am okay.”
The mage stood in the doorway for a moment, considering. “I will have someone drop a pen, ink, and some parchment to you this evening. If you write them, we can dispatch hawks.”
“Thank you, Brother Garramon.”
The morning after the feast, Ihvon brought Calen and Aeson to speak with the dwarven emissary in Belduar. With the Lorian blockade only a few days’ march from the city, a meeting with the Dwarven Freehold was to be held as soon as possible. Arthur had asked Calen if he would be part of the embassy. It was the least Calen could do, considering Arthur had welcomed them into his home.
Calen was not sure what he was expecting, but he was most definitely surprised to find that Oleg Marylin was, in fact, a human, and not a dwarf at all. He was a heavy-set man, with a bit of a belly, a bald head, and a short beard.
“Not at all,” Oleg said, laughing, when Calen apologised for the surprised look on his face. “Many people are surprised when they find that the emissary to the Dwarven Freehold is not a dwarf himself. The dwarves of the Lodhar Mountains have not been above ground in hundreds of years, so I take care of their interests up here.”
Oleg stood up from behind his desk, patting down his wrinkled linen shirt. “May I just say, it is an honour to meet you, Calen Bryer. Word has been spreading around this city since your arrival yesterday morning. I have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to meet you – a Draleid.”
“Now, Oleg, don’t be swelling the boy’s head,” Ihvon said, his friendly demeanour yielding to an authoritative tone.
“Yes. Please excuse me, Lord Arnell,” Oleg said, raising his hands outward in apology.
“Not at all,” Ihvon replied. “Now, have you sent word to the freehold to arrange the meeting and to inform them of the Draleid’s arrival?”