The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  “Thank you,” the woman whispered into his chest. “I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped to help.”

  “I was glad to,” replied Thomas, his hands reaching for her wrists as he tried to extricate himself from her grasp in the nicest way possible. But the woman was having none of it, her hold on him actually becoming tighter. The warning in the back of his head grew louder, but he didn’t understand the cause because he didn’t sense an obvious threat.

  “A reward is certainly in order,” said the woman. Finally releasing Thomas, her arms slipping from his neck, she stepped back and pushed her hood down.

  Thomas gazed at her in surprise. “Corelia?”

  Then his hands went to his throat as a misty darkness began to seep into him, one that dulled his senses and sapped his energy. She had latched a collar of black stone around his neck, and he could feel the instrument draining his strength. He tried to pull it off his neck, but the collar held, and with each tug on the shimmering rocks, the black mist that swirled in his head sped faster and faster, becoming a churning mass of darkness that crushed any independent thought that tried to find purchase in Thomas’ mind. His strength, both physical and mental, waned. It was as if his consciousness was being pushed into the very back of his brain, and he was looking at himself and the world around him through a thick fog.

  “So good to see you, Thomas,” laughed the Princess of Armagh. The cowering young woman was gone, replaced by a more commanding presence, a calculating smile curling her lip. “And thank you so much for your help. Why don’t you take a nap, my Highland Lord, and we’ll talk again later about how I plan to pay you for your kind service.”

  Her words drifted over him as he sank into the darkness that pulled at him. He struggled desperately against the magic that continued to seep into him, but to no avail, his ability to grab hold of the Talent taken from him. As his eyes closed involuntarily, Thomas fell to the cobblestones, the black mist consuming him.

  9

  Letting Go

  The clash of steel rang throughout the enclosed courtyard, startling several birds from their nighttime roosts among the joists. The two opponents circled each other warily, a few seconds of blade scraping against blade followed by a longer period of time when the two men tracked each other’s movements, knowing one another so well -- their tendencies with the sword, how they preferred to attack and defend -- that these frequent sessions usually ended in a stalemate, as neither could find the opening that they sought.

  Gregory Carlomin, King of Fal Carrach and recently named High King, though he hoped that the latter was only a temporary responsibility, was a large man, both tall and broad, and his years of handling a sword were evident. It was on the battlefield that he felt most comfortable, not in a throne room. But what he preferred in life wasn’t always his to have. His short beard, once black and now speckled with more salty whiskers than he would care to acknowledge, complemented his short, curly, black hair. Years before he had looked like a rogue, his eyes always smiling and open, his grin frequent. At least, that's what his wife had told him. Upon her death more than a decade before, his eyes had become sad and his smile rarely evident. But in the last few months that had changed somewhat, a spark of fun, of life, returning at certain, perhaps not unexpected, moments.

  Kael Bellilil opposed Gregory in the training circle. A head taller than the King of Fal Carrach, he had the grizzled expression of a veteran soldier and the scars to prove it. Completely bald, and with a scar running across one half of his neck from his right ear to his windpipe, the joke among the Fal Carrachian soldiers was that to win a combat Kael simply had to stare at his opponent with his unnerving, flat eyes. A sword wasn’t necessary with such a frightening countenance. No one would repeat such a joke to Kael, of course. He was the best swordfighter in Fal Carrach, which was why he was that Kingdom’s Swordmaster. He had guarded Gregory's back for twenty years, and Gregory could not think of anyone else who could do a better job.

  The two continued to glide in a slow circle, eyes intent on the other’s, blades held at the ready. In an instant, Gregory led with his right leg, lunging forward with his blade extended. Kael twisted deftly in response, sweeping his sword down to deflect the blow. But midswing Gregory shifted his attack, bringing his sword up in a low backhanded strike that would have dug into Kael’s exposed side. But the slash never connected, Kael spinning out of the way just in time, swinging his blade up with two hands to catch his king’s steel on his own.

  Gregory and Kael stepped back, nodding to each other in respect, then starting their slow, circling dance once again. Sweat dripped from their brows and their limbs had begun to feel heavy. They had been at it for more than an hour, yet as was the case so often during their training sessions together, neither had yet to gain even a touch on the other, and neither wanted to be the first to ask for a break.

  “Are you two done, yet?” asked a strong, husky voice. “The sun is almost up, and we have important matters that need to be addressed.”

  Sarelle Makarin, Queen of Benewyn, stood in a shaded alcove next to a tall, ascetic man who wore the full-dress uniform of the Armaghian Home Guard. With the removal of Rodric Tessaril from the throne of Armagh, General Brennios had stepped forward to lead the Kingdom and had quickly become a staunch ally of Gregory and Sarelle as they sought to prepare the eastern Kingdoms for the expected onslaught from the north.

  Sarelle was a beautiful woman, preferring green dresses that set off her auburn hair. On this day she wore riding skirts, having just returned from her daily circuit of the surrounding countryside. The flush of her cheeks from her early morning ride caught Gregory’s attention. It was because of Sarelle and the time that they had been spending together that Gregory’s eyes had begun to display the spark of enthusiasm that had been missing for so long.

  Gregory grinned at the summons, captured by Sarelle’s dazzling smile. Both he and Kael sheathed their swords and approached after grabbing towels to wipe the sweat from their faces and arms.

  “Good morning, High King Gregory,” said General Brennios.

  “I told you not to call me that, Brennios,” the Fal Carrachian ruler grumbled.

  “Yes, my High King,” General Brennios answered, a twist of his lips suggesting a smile.

  “My, my,” said Sarelle. “It seems that our austere Armaghian regent has a sense of humor after all.”

  “At my expense,” said Gregory.

  “Yes, my High King,” Brennios confirmed.

  Sarelle and Kael couldn’t hold back a laugh, Brennios following suit, until Gregory, his face at first a thundercloud, had no choice but to smile as well.

  “You seem to be in a good mood this morning, Brennios.”

  “Indeed, King Gregory,” his normally serious expression returning quickly. “I spoke with Toreal just a few moments ago. The final shipment of supplies is due at the docks sometime this afternoon. The Home Guard will be ready to march by the end of the week.”

  “Excellent,” said Gregory. “Toreal is comfortable managing Eamhain Mhacha on his own?”

  “Yes, King Gregory,” confirmed Brennios. “I’ll leave a company of soldiers here in Eamhain Mhacha, but I doubt that he’ll have need of them. With Rodric expelled from the Kingdom, the city has changed dramatically in just a few months, and all for the better. The people have enjoyed and made the most of their newfound freedom. Trade has increased fourfold and public works projects under Toreal’s direction have restarted.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Sarelle. “And that’s good for everyone. All the Kingdoms will benefit from more commerce.”

  “Indeed, Queen Sarelle,” agreed Brennios. “My thanks once again to you, King Gregory, for putting us on this path. Rodric had left Eamhain Mhacha to its own devices, not caring if it crumbled to the ground so long as he achieved his own objectives.”

  “You give me too much credit, Brennios. I simply offered a few suggestions, many of which came from Que
en Sarelle. You and Toreal have turned these few ideas into reality.”

  Brennios nodded, though clearly, he thought that the King of Fal Carrach deserved more acknowledgement than he was willing to take.

  “I have news from Rendael as well,” said Sarelle. “He’s already moving south and will meet us in two weeks’ time near the Corazon River and the Clanwar Desert.”

  “That’s good to hear,” nodded Kael. “Armagh, Kenmare, Benewyn, Fal Carrach and the Highlands. That will give us a fighting chance at the Breaker.”

  “That’s all we can ask for,” said Sarelle. “Now gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I need a few minutes to speak to King Gregory alone.”

  Brennios and Kael both offered nods of respect before marching off to their next tasks, though Gregory couldn’t help but see the big grin that Kael gave him before he turned on his heel and left the training ground.

  “Will you walk me back to my chambers, Gregory?” asked Sarelle, who had placed her hand on his forearm and was already guiding him in that direction. “I need to wash and change clothes before the day truly begins.”

  “Of course,” he replied, his face turning redder from her touch than it had that morning even with his exertions in the training circle with Kael. “What did you want to discuss?”

  Sarelle chuckled, her throaty laugh sending a surge of heat to Gregory’s chest. “Must we talk about something?” she asked. “I was simply hoping for an early morning stroll.”

  Gregory smiled and nodded, though he knew that there was more on Sarelle’s mind than she had divulged. She never did anything without a purpose. “Of course.”

  The two monarchs took their time as they meandered through the halls of Eamhain Mhacha, simply enjoying one another’s company, Sarelle’s hand sliding from Gregory’s forearm to take his hand in her own. But Sarelle could tell that something was bothering Gregory. She could read his moods. When she had first met him upon assuming the throne of Benewyn after the death of her sister, Sarelle had been taken by his quiet stoicism. There was a strength in Gregory that she had found in few others, along with a moral compass that guided him even when following it would make his life more difficult than it needed to be. She had been enamored with him just minutes into their first conversation, but at the time he was dealing with the death of his wife and the need to raise his daughter on his own. Over the years, they had grown closer, and she had learned much to her delight that Gregory, although he initially seemed oblivious to her suggestions, returned her affection. However, he was a bit more reserved than she was and less willing to make his feelings known. Having reached the door to her chambers, she turned to face him, pulling him closer in the same movement.

  “What’s worrying you, Gregory? I can tell you have something on your mind.”

  “It’s nothing,” he replied, not wanting to burden her.

  Sarelle gave Gregory a sympathetic smile. “You cannot hide it from me. I know you too well now. Kaylie?”

  “Yes,” Gregory sighed, his fears for his daughter, so carefully pushed to the back of his mind, now rising to the surface. “I know she can handle herself. Kael tells me she’s a more accomplished fighter than most of my soldiers except for perhaps just a handful. I just worry about her. I wish she would have talked to me before she went after Thomas.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Sarelle. “She should have spoken with you. And if she did, what would you have said?”

  “No, of course,” Gregory replied. “That it was too dangerous.”

  “I may not be a parent, but I understand your fears. I know this is difficult, but remember that your daughter needs to do this. If she is to become the person that you want her to be, the person that she wants to be, this is something that she must do on her own. It’s not a matter of proving herself to you. It’s more a matter of proving herself to herself.”

  Gregory nodded reluctantly, his frustration plain. “I understand. It’s just not an easy thing to accept knowing the dangers that she faces and what approaches for all of us.”

  Sarelle smiled again in sympathy. “Your daughter is a capable, strong young woman. And remember, Thomas is with her. He will do all that he can to keep her safe.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” said Gregory. “I just wish we could do more for them.”

  “We’re doing what we can. Thomas explained why he must find the Key. Kaylie will help him do that. We will be ready for when they return. Once Thomas has the Key, I believe larger events will overtake us, and we must be prepared for what’s to come.”

  “You seem exceedingly confident that Thomas will succeed.”

  “How could he not?” replied Sarelle. “That young man has a determination that I have yet to come across in anyone else. Besides, with Kaylie at his side, how could he fail?”

  “There is that,” agreed Gregory, his smile lightening his load.

  Seeing the change in his expression, Sarelle smiled as well, but this time for a different reason. Leaning against the King of Fal Carrach, her green eyes sparkling, she brushed her lips first across his cheek and then his lips before stepping back and pushing open the door to her chambers with her hip. Her eyes never left Gregory’s as she walked over the threshold. Gregory stood there for a moment, breathing in her scent and remembering the touch of her lips, before following after the Queen of Benewyn and closing the door tightly behind him.

  10

  Unwilling Ally

  Kaylie stalked through the streets of Laurag, the ever-present crowd parting before her like a ship’s keel cutting through deep water. Oso stuck to her side, Aric and several other Marchers following after and widening her wake with their grim expressions. She had found the ship captain Torlan had spoken of. Brienne had been as described, her colorful clothes and gregarious manner making her easy to locate. The ship captain had confirmed that she had agreed to terms with Thomas that morning. But since then there had been no sign of him anywhere in the surrounding neighborhood, other than a metalsmith who said that a young man matching the description Kaylie had given him had purchased one of his pieces several hours before.

  Clearly, Thomas either had forgotten or ignored their conversation aboard the Waverunner before docking in Laurag, and that bothered her to no end. But what irritated Kaylie even more at the moment was her confusion about why she had kissed him just a few days gone. She remembered when she first saw Thomas at the Eastern Festival, participating in the archery contest and defeating Ragin Tessaril, son of the former High King, in the final round of the competition. Thomas was not handsome in the traditional sense, and not tall like the other boys and men attracted to her, either because of her looks or more commonly the fact that some day she would assume the throne of Fal Carrach. So why was she so attracted to him when half the things that he did drove her crazy? Yes, he was brave, steadfast, intelligent, even funny. But he was also stubborn, hard-headed, difficult … she growled in irritation. Why couldn’t he have done as he had agreed?

  “If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll have his hide,” muttered Kaylie for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  “We’ll find him,” responded Oso, his sharp eyes scanning the busy streets. Though he said it with confidence, he was worried. Admittedly, Thomas did things his own way. But something about this entire situation didn’t sit well with him. “I’m sure he had good cause for taking this on by himself.”

  “You’re certainly quick to support him,” snapped Kaylie, allowing her anger and fear to get the better of her for just a second.

  “Thomas is the best friend you could have,” said Oso, ignoring the sharpness of her words, understanding they came from Kaylie’s own worries. “I’d lay down my life for him. He’s certainly risked his for mine more times than I can count. And I’d hate to have him as an enemy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s an implacable foe. In my experience, his enemies tend not to live very long.”

  Oso was going to say more, but they were interrupted
by a short man who stepped abruptly into their path from a side alley. He dressed like a merchant, his jacket and pants conservatively cut and dark in color, but Kaylie’s keen eye picked through his appearance in an instant. There was something about this man -- the way that he moved, how his eyes flitted about in every direction in search of what she didn’t know -- that suggested that he had been looking for them. Used to the intrigues of a royal court, she assumed immediately that he was one of the many spies loyal to one of the two Inishmore houses competing for this Kingdom’s throne, but which one she didn’t know … yet.

  “My good sir and lady,” began the man, bowing so low it seemed that his head eventually would touch the cobblestones.

  “Can we help you?” asked Oso, his irritation clear. He had more important things to focus on at the moment.

  “I’m but a simple merchant,” the man began. “Nolan is the name. I had heard that some Highlanders had entered the city, and I hoped that I might run across them. There has been so little trade between the Highlands and the Kingdoms of the west. I thought that this might be an opportunity to develop a relationship that would be of value to you, and to me, of course. I seek only a conversation, my good sir.”

  Kaylie examined Nolan closely. Sweat trickled down his brow, despite the coolness of the day. And there was a wariness about him, his eyes still roving every few seconds, as if he worried that others watched him. He was likely right to do so, as she had no doubt that unseen eyes had tracked them since they had left their inn that morning.

  “I have many relationships that would benefit us both, I think,” continued Nolan. “Many goods to trade -- some staples, some exotic -- and if I don’t have an item of interest, I can find someone who does. Perhaps we could talk more about your purpose here in Laurag and what you may be seeking? I had heard tell that there was another among your party, another young man, not quite as large as you, though.” Nolan gestured toward the bulky Highlander who loomed over him, his slightly shaking hand testifying to his nervousness. “Is he the one I should perhaps be speaking to? I’ve been told that he’s someone of some importance.”