by Ryan Cahill
CHAPTER 34
Long Live the King
It was a few days before Calen could hold on to consciousness for longer than an hour or two at a time. Even then, his body still ached as though he had been thrown off the side of a cliff. In that time, his room had been a never-ending stream of visitors, though he was unconscious for most of them. Dann even brought his blanket roll and slept on the floor for the first two nights before Therin ushered him out, telling him he wasn’t helping.
After Valerys killed the Fade, the fighting in the rest of the city didn’t last long. The Fade had not brought enough soldiers with him to take the city by brute force. The polished green stones that Aeson had used at the hidden mountain pass were found nestled in their alcoves, the portcullis open. That was how they had stormed the city, as if from nowhere. If the bells hadn’t rung out, everything would have been different. Calen was sure that he wouldn’t be drawing breath. How the Fade had gotten the stones was another question entirely.
Calen looked over at Valerys, who rested on the floor by the fireplace. His pale lavender eyes watched Calen with intrigue as he fastened the top button of his gilt-trimmed silk shirt that Therin had insisted he wear. The dragon had recovered a lot faster than he had, but then again, Valerys had not dragged himself to the edge of the void.
A smile touched the corners of Calen’s mouth as he watched Valerys. For a moment in that hall, Calen had thought that he might lose him. He had never felt a fear like that. Like half of his soul had come a hair’s thickness from being shorn from the living world. Even then, as he stood there in the lavish room, his new scars covered by the fine clothes given to him by Daymon, he felt that sense of loss. It made his stomach weak.
“Calen, it is time.” There was a weak smile on Erik’s face as he walked into the room, Dann and Therin either side of him.
Calen nodded. He checked one more time that his shirt was buttoned properly before making his way towards the door.
Dann hissed as Calen pulled him into a tight embrace. “Take it easy, m’lord,” Dann said in a mocking tone. “Some of us didn’t get the attention of all the healers in the city.”
Therin gave Dann a sideways glance. “I offered to look at your wound, and I was told to leave it because ‘women love scars’.”
“Oh, shut up, Therin. You’re ruining the moment.”
Calen couldn’t help but laugh as Therin waved Dann away with a dismissive hand and went over to check on Valerys. “Speaking of scars, let me see?”
Dann grabbed his shirt by the neckline and pulled it back across his shoulder, revealing a knotted mess of burnt flesh that spread across his collarbone and up over his left shoulder. “I don’t plan on getting hit by lightning again anytime soon.”
Calen grimaced as he ran his finger over the twisted skin on Dann’s collarbone. “What about the one on your side?”
“Oh, no, I let them heal that one. That one would have killed me.”
Calen went to argue with Dann, but instead, he shook his head, pulled Dann in for another embrace, and laughed. Healing one wound, only to leave another solely for the stories he could tell about it, was quite possibly the most Dann thing that Calen could think of.
Calen took a deep breath in, then turned to Erik. “Let’s do this.”
The hallways were empty as they made their way to the courtyard. Every soul in the city would be squashed together to lay witness. Therin turned to Calen as they made their way down one of the long corridors. “Calen…” There was a cautious tone in his voice. “You need to be careful. Arthur was a good man. I trusted him, as Aeson did, and Daymon might well be the same, but—”
Calen cut him short. “But he might not be.”
Therin nodded, twisting his lips into a reluctant frown. “Just be careful. There will be few who will not seek to tie a string around you.”
“As you and Aeson have?” Calen replied, without missing a beat.
Calen felt a twinge of regret as he saw hurt flash in the elf’s eyes, but Therin did not reply. He simply turned his head forward and kept walking. Dann and Erik did not speak either, but Calen felt the tension. That had not been his plan. The words just slipped out.
The elves of Aravell joined them at the end of the corridor before they stepped out into the square. They had stood guard outside Calen’s room day and night, but that was the first time he laid eyes on them since the battle.
“It is no loss,” Gaeleron remarked when Calen gawked at the stump where his left hand had once been. “I wield my sword with my right, and I am not much with a bow.” That was the end of the conversation as far as the elf was concerned. Calen did not think he would be so calm had he lost a hand. He was not sure whether to laugh at the elf’s candour. He decided not to.
Calen’s heart held heavy in his chest as he looked over the elves. Five had followed him from the Darkwood. Only four stood before him now. “Ellisar—”
“Ellisar died with honour, fulfilling an oath that he believed in,” Vaeril said not allowing Calen to finish his sentence, “an oath that we all still believe in. We are with you, Calen, now more than ever.”
They all nodded in agreement.
Calen felt a rumble of pride from Valerys in the back of his mind. The white dragon stepped up beside Calen, craning his neck in the air.
“Thank you,” Calen said. He reached his arm out to Vaeril, who in turn reached out his own. “Du gryr haydria til myia elwyn.”
You bring honour to my heart. Therin’s teachings had not been going to waste.
Vaeril smiled at Calen’s use of the Old Tongue, as did the other elves. “Du gryr haydria til myia elwyn,” they replied in unison.
Dann leaned into Calen. “When did you learn to speak elf?” he whispered.
Calen smiled, suppressing a laugh. “It’s the Old Tongue. I’ll explain later.” He turned to the group. “We’d better keep moving, or we’ll be late.”
The archway that led out into the courtyard was flanked by two dwarves in full plate armour, crimson cloaks draped around their shoulders. Calen wondered how Daymon felt about the dwarves remaining in the city, but he hadn’t brought it up. The man had enough to concern his mind with.
“Draleid.” The dwarf on the right side of the arch tilted his head ever so slightly. His beard was knotted heavily with gold and silver rings. Calen returned the gesture as he passed under the arch.
The air itself seemed to shake as the cheers of the crowd echoed through the courtyard. The people were crammed together like blades of grass in a field. Calen didn’t think he had ever seen so many souls in one place. In fact, he knew he hadn’t. He stared out in amazement over the crowd. Therin gave him a slight push, ushering him onto the raised platform at the front of the crowd.
Calen greeted Daymon as he stepped onto the platform. Valerys leapt up beside him to a rapturous applause from the gathered crowd. Daymon had come to Calen’s room and asked if he would be the one to crown him in his father’s place. “It would be an honour,” he had said, “to be crowned King by a Draleid.”
Both Therin and Aeson had told Calen, in no uncertain terms that he absolutely could not. That alone might have spurred him on to do it, just so he would not be dancing to their tune, but they were right. To be seen to think that he had the power to crown kings was a dangerous message to send. But he had told Daymon that he would stand by his side to show his support. Therin and Aeson had argued against that as well, but he was set. He owed Arthur that much.
Lord Ihvon Arnell stood at Daymon’s right side. The king-to-be’s new chief advisor had a grim look on his face, and he was sporting more than a few new cuts and bruises. Ihvon had come to visit Calen while he was recovering. He had said nothing; he had just sat there in silence. He didn’t know that Calen was awake. It had seemed odd to Calen that he would visit but not speak. But he was Arthur’s good friend, and mourning affected people differently. On this occasion, the man gave him a purposeful nod before turning his attention back towards the soon-to-be kin
g.
The kings and queens of the Dwarven Freehold also stood on the platform – as a sign of unity. Kira’s plate armour was replaced with her padded leather cuirass and silken skirts, in a deep crimson laced with gilt. The golden crown nestled atop her star-fire hair. She looked as fair as any woman he had ever seen, with the bloodlust gone from her eyes. Calen thought she gave him a quick smile, though it was too quick to be sure.
“Thank you,” Daymon said as Calen took his place beside the soon-to-be king. There was a loss in his eyes. A loss that Calen understood.
“It is my honour, Your Majesty.”
The coronation did not last long. Once Daymon was crowned, he spent a few moments waving to his people, who chanted and cheered, voracious for the sight of their new king. Calen and Valerys simply stood there by his side. Calen couldn’t help but think that the image would look powerful. The newly crowned king, standing side-by-side with the king and queens of the Dwarven Freehold, and a Draleid. It would be like one of Therin’s stories.
Daymon raised his hand in the air, quieting the crowd. It amazed Calen how, with a gathering of so many, that silence could truly be achieved. But it was silent. He could have heard a pin drop as the people of Belduar waited on the first words of their new king.
“My father was a good and just man. He was a true king. He was the king that I aspire to be. I will miss him, and I will mourn his loss along with you every day. But I will not let it break me!”
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
Calen could see a mage behind the king, pulling threads of Air and Spirit into the king’s words, funnelling them throughout the courtyard, above the din of the crowd.
“We are the people of Belduar. We have defended this city for thousands of years. From tyrants, from armies, and from dragonfire. We have not – and we will not – bow down. And we are not alone! When we were in need, our allies came. The dwarves, ever our steadfast brothers and sisters, came to our aid. And we must not forget that dragonfire is no longer owned by the empire. The Draleid have returned! They stand again! They stand with us! This is our time!”
Chants of “Long live the king” and “Long live King Daymon” still boomed through the air as they stepped down from the platform.
The celebrations would go on for days, no doubt. It would be a welcome respite from the mourning. Arthur’s death had cast a shadow over the city.
Aeson, Therin, and Asius made their way over to bestow their well wishes on the newly crowned king, no doubt. But as they did, the barrel-chested figure of the new Lord Captain of the Kingsguard, Tarmon Hoard, his purple cloak billowing behind him, pushed his way past them. He stopped in front of the king, his knuckles pressed to his forehead.
Daymon frowned, tilting his head. “What is it, Tarmon?”
“My king, I bring urgent news. The empire’s blockade has been lifted.”
Daymon smiled for the first time since Arthur’s death, but the soldier’s brow furrowed.
“Tarmon, what is it?”
“They move towards the city, my king. The Dragonguard are with them.”
Rist grunted in triumph as the boards in front of him split in two. He whipped his threads of Air back around, extinguishing the two candles on either side of him before letting go of the Spark.
Brother Garramon had been true to his word. They began training the very next day after they had spoken, and with each day, Rist felt himself getting stronger. He had more focus now and could create more delicate combinations. The first day, he had shattered the planks of wood until they were nothing but a cloud of floating splinters… then he passed out.
Garramon was there each and every minute of Rist’s training. Others taught him lessons too, but they were mostly of histories, mathematics, and the likes. At any other time, he would have adored every moment, but all he wanted was to learn more of magic. He wanted to understand more.
Brother Garramon was particularly quiet that morning as they stood out in one of the many open courtyards of the castle. A large oak tree swept over them, keeping the morning sun at bay. Brother Garramon leaned his back against the stone wall of one of the castle towers. His mind seemed in a different place entirely.
“Brother?”
The mage tilted his head towards Rist, raising an eyebrow.
“Have you heard a response from any of the messages? It has been weeks now.”
Irritation flashed across the man’s face, but it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. “No, child. Not yet, not from Gisa, Camylin, Midhaven, or the villages. We even got a message to Belduar – secretly – but we have not heard back. Have patience. It takes time to travel these great distances. I’m sure your friends have received your letter and are right now penning one in return.”
Ella tilted the tankard as high as she could, choking the ale down in one gulp. She would never understand how Rhett enjoyed the vile stuff. It left such an acrid taste on her tongue.
More than a few of the men at the tables around her and Shirea stared openly, but that was less because of the way she threw back ale and more because of the massive grey wolfpine curled up at her heels, growling deeply at anyone who got too close.
The innkeeper had baulked at the three of them when they arrived at the door. The plump, ashen-haired woman had tried to physically sweep them out with the end of a brush. One growl from Faenir made her abandon that idea swiftly, and a bit of the coin Ella had taken from the soldiers helped to soften her further. That didn’t mean the woman didn’t eye them askance every time she passed the table.
Shirea was a fumbling mess after Faenir arrived that day. They both were. She and her husband were on their way to Gisa for the same reason that Rhett and Ella were – to start a new life in the North. Neither of them would ever get to live that life. Ella choked a bit at the thought. She still sobbed herself to sleep each night.
Four nights they had been at the Wandering Willow. Ella went to the port on the second day to find the man, Jack Narys, that Rhett’s uncle had mentioned in the letter. He was a leather-skinned, weasel looking man, but he seemed reasonable. He was hesitant to hand over the tickets at first, but he was looser after a bit of conversation, once she explained that Rhett was busy, so he had sent her on an errand for the tickets. Men always seemed more amenable to women if they had been sent by another man.
She had been okay until she got back to the room in the inn, where she burst out crying again as soon as she laid eyes on the tickets. Those yellowish slips of card were meant to be the start of their new life together.
Ella wasn’t entirely sure why she went to get the tickets. The smart thing to do would have been to go back home. To run home as fast as she could, straight into her mother’s arms. But there was something inside her that wanted to keep going. Something that wanted her to make it to Berona, to finish what they had started together – and to meet Tanner. She owed the man that much. To tell him what had happened to Rhett. Those two sides of her waged war day and night.
Ella caught the innkeeper’s attention with a waved hand, calling her for another ale. She despised them, but if Rhett had liked them, then she would learn to like them as well.
She buried him. She and Shirea had buried the both of them, along with the merchant. They had found a shovel in the merchant’s wagon. They marked the graves with piled stones. But even if she were blindfolded and spun until she was sick, she knew she would be able to find her way back to that spot, with or without the stones. It took every shred of willpower within her to walk away.
She thanked the innkeeper, tossed her a few copper marks from her purse, and took a hefty mouthful of the vile liquid. That bitter taste sat at the back of her throat like an unwanted house guest.
Ella looked across the table at Shirea. The golden-haired young woman was a beauty. Not the kind that figured herself for a beauty and walked around with their chin scraping the clouds, but a genuine beauty. There was an even chance that the drunken louts surrounding them were staring at her milk-bottle skin as
much as they were at Faenir.
“Let’s go,” Ella said. She poured the second half of the ale down her throat and pushed herself up from the table.
The other woman looked at her with raised eyebrows. She had spent most of the afternoon thumbing the silver chain she had taken from around her partner’s neck. John. His name was John. Ella had taken nothing from Rhett. Nothing but memories and images, forever ingrained in her mind.
“Where?” Shirea asked, her meek voice barely raising above a whisper.
Ella took a moment to let her own decision sink in. “North. Let’s sail to Antiquar. Then onwards to Berona.”
Shirea had taken a bit of convincing. At first, she was all talk of returning to her home, a small village just south of Midhaven, called Folinwood. She told Ella how there was nothing for her in the North anymore, that her father would expect her home, she wouldn’t be able to survive on her own, and a variety of other excuses. In all fairness, each one of them were excuses that had rolled through Ella’s mind as well. Though, she had pushed them to the side.
They talked for nearly an hour, punishing themselves with more ale. Apparently, John had liked ale too, or so Shirea said. Around the half-hour mark, the woman began to sway.
“To go North, to honour the last decision we made together,” Ella said, her voice firm and more than a little slurred from the ale. “We will not be alone. We will have each other, and we will have Faenir.” She raised her glass, as did Shirea. They clinked them off each other before draining their contents. That received even more sideways glances than they had already been getting. Not that the two women cared. Not that it meant anything to them at all.
Faenir padded along beside them as they strode through the streets of Gisa, everything they could carry shoved into their backpacks. They did their best not to stumble or fall. The alcohol had given them liquid courage, but it also softened their senses and shook their knees.