Part II
Annie
She awoke to the sound of boiling water. Across from her she saw the back of the witch she helped that day in the forest. She seemed to be placing ingredients in a large pot. Annie clinched her fists and realized her wrists were bound and tied to the bed she was lying on. She tried to call out, but nothing came. Her voice was gone. Terror. She tried to kick her feet about, but they were bound as well.
“Fighting only makes it worse,” the witch said without turning around.
Annie surveyed the room and noticed hundreds of dusty books and all types of plants, flowers, individual leaves and roots. A single ray of sunlight broke through the middle of the roof and onto the floor between her and the witch. She had always imagined that a witch’s cottage would be more menacing, with dead animal parts hanging about and jars of eyeballs on shelves. This particular witch seemed to have a preference for all things nature, which slightly alleviated Annie’s fear.
“You’re probably wondering why I have brought you here,” the witch said, finally turning to look at her. “You’re also probably wondering why you can’t speak. That is because I put a spell – just a minor spell - on your tongue. It’s only temporary as I don’t want or need your voice for anything.”
She swayed back and forth as she inched closer to Annie.
“Do you want to speak again?” the witch asked rhetorically.
Annie, still quite shaken, nodded.
“Of course you do,” she said. “We feel powerless when we don’t have a voice, which I’m sure is how you feel right now.”
The witch made her way to the bed and sat at the end near Annie’s bruised and bloody ankles. The witch noticed the injury and shook her head. A couple of tears ran down Annie’s cheeks as she waited for the witch to reveal her plan. Her mind raced as she thought the worse, that she would be mutilated and used for some dark poison. The standard Child’s Blood Elixir came to mind, an elixir used by elderly women to combat wrinkles on the face. Or the Potion of a Dozen Deaths which was said to increase the chances a soldier would not be fatally wounded in battle.
“Child, what have you done to yourself?” she asked as she gently touched Annie’s ankles. The witch closed her eyes and whispered an incantation that slowly healed the gashes in Annie’s flesh around her ankles. Annie was confused. Why would this woman heal me when she is responsible for my injuries?
“I want to offer you an opportunity. Well, it’s more of an agreement where if you give me what I want I will give you what you want,” she said as she untied the ropes wrapped around Annie’s ankles. “You’re not going to kick me now, are you?” she asked with a smile. Annie shook her head no. “I know what you want and it isn’t just your voice back.”
“You have two choices,” the witch said as she pulled out a deck of cards. She spread the cards out on the bed and picked one with a picture of a hooded woman holding a cane. “If you choose the Shrouded Woman card it will be quite some time before I restore your voice as I need to teach you a few things before I dispatch you to complete my quest. Do you understand? You will not leave this cottage for several years,” the witch paused to ensure that Annie was fully taking in what was being said. “You will most likely never see your mother or father again as they won’t recognize you when we’re finished. And when you reach your twenty-first year you will be a powerful sorcerous and prophet known kingdom-wide.”
The witch’s fingertips skimmed the top of the remaining cards on the bed. “Or, if you choose the Pregnant Mother card, you can give all that up and return home none the wiser,” she said as she held up a card with a picture of woman in her third trimester. “I will restore your voice and erase your memory of the last few days. You will wake up on your doorstep and life will continue as usual.”
Annie’s fears slowly dissolved as she became aware of the calling the witch was placing on her life. She had read about this in one of her books. As witches age they keep their powers alive by discipleship. This method is seemingly universal as she recognized it in the various religions of Tresladore as well. Clerics are discipled by priests who are discipled by pontiffs who answer to the Archpontiff in the capitol. Annie had never been religious as she detested the local priest, a drunkard and reprobate, so her hesitation wasn’t tied to piety or eternal damnation. It was more with the notion that she’d be forsaking her family, namely her mother, whom she adored.
“Close your eyes and nod if you understand,” the witch directed.
Annie closed her eyes immediately but didn’t nod right away. She knew this was the most important decision she would ever make, and at such an early moment in her life. She thought through both scenarios. On one hand, she could return home and continue her schooling until she met a boy whom she would marry. They would raise children and work the land trying to make ends meet for forty or fifty years before they died peacefully in their beds. On the other hand, she could potentially live out variations of the hundreds of stories she had read and be free of the womanly duties that had prohibited women of Tresladore from having adventurous lives. She thought of her mother and how rarely she saw her smile. Her future, she realized, was on her mother’s face. In her mind, she went down both paths a half-dozen times before nodding her head yes.
Rinehart II
Sir Wein looked across the table at an irritated Sir Terric. Terric had been Warden of the South for a month now and it was already proving to be too much for him. The southern area of the kingdom was, in those days, not easy to rule. It was the farthest region from King’s Square and any news would take at least two weeks to reach the King’s ear. Wein knew this, that Terric was unfit to rule and social unrest in the South was becoming an issue, and informed the King on several occasions, but the boy was stubborn, as it was known, and once his mind was made up there was no changing it. “He’ll learn how to rule,” he’d say. “Give him time.” But Wein had seen this before when he served as consulate to the boy’s father all those years ago.
Three other men were seated at the table today, each awaiting the King’s arrival. Each man was a knight and served as a Warden to various parts of the kingdom. The North were governed by Sir Odgerrin, the oldest man at the table. He had served as Consulate to Henry VII, the boy’s grandfather and King before Rinehart I. He was more a scholar than a warrior and had taught at Kingsford Academy before being called on by Rinehart I to serve at his side a dozen years ago. It was common knowledge that he would prefer to rejoin the faculty there and close out his days as a professor, but he didn’t dare mention this to the King.
Sir Girfroy, Warden of the East, and Sir Hilderinus, of the West, were used to waiting on the boy’s father. If the King is on time to a council then the kingdom is at peace, they’d say. That motto proved to be true as the kingdom hadn’t seen a season of peace in many years, not since the Plains War at least. “Whatever has cornered the King’s attention must be urgent,” they’d say, making excuses for his tardiness. They didn’t make excuses for the boy’s tardiness, however, and often looked dissatisfied at the decisions that were being made during the meetings.
It had been two months since his father’s burial and he still had a lot to learn, which is to be expected of a twelve-year old. There was a concern that he spent more time with his head in a book than he did ruling the kingdom. In fact, it was rare to see him without a book or two on his person. Today was no different. He entered the chamber to find the room in a dead silence. “My lords,” he said, “how rude of me to keep you all waiting. What is on the agenda for today?” He placed two different religious texts on the table and took his seat at the head. He had recently met with Archpontiff Sidney and wanted the day’s meeting to be solely concerned with religious matters, but there was a more pressing issue at hand.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Terric started, “as you may know we are dealing with a growing hostility in the villages around an area known as The Hamelesh. There have been accounts of Royal Guards abusing their power and position. I have asked,
on several occasions, that we relieve the local Lord Commander of his post and reassign someone who is local to the region.”
“Who currently serves as Lord Commander of the region,” the King asked.
“Fort Asbury is the stronghold of the South, Your Majesty, and Lord Commander Fortineth governs that area with Gandor’s, of the House Goldrak, consent,” Sir Wein said.
“This is becoming more common, Your Majesty,” Sir Terric said. “Governors and lords of trade posts and villages are relinquishing their power to allow military rule in their area.”
“It’s not common in the East, Your Majesty,” Sir Girfroy interjected.
“Nor the West, Your Majesty,” Sir Hilderinus added.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Odgerrin said with a finger raised in the air, “it may not be my place to say this, but Lord Commander Fortineth has a notorious, and bloody, reputation and although he may be suited for the Royal Guard he is probably one that we do not want in power in the South.”
“My Lords,” King Rinehart said as he stood up, “I must admit I am confused. Do Wardens not govern their assigned regions anymore?” He looked first at Terric and then around the table. A slight smile came across Sir Wein’s face as the boy was finally showing his teeth. Only Sir Ogderrin dared make eye contact with the boy as he governed the North with his own small council of five, a practice Rinehart had secretly hoped the others would have adopted by now.
“It concerns me that my chosen Warden of the South is merely a face in King’s Square and not an authority in his appointed post,” the boy said angrily. “This notion of allowing someone else to govern - even if it’s a village of two people - without a Warden’s consent goes against every proclamation that this council and every council before it has affirmed.”
“To alleviate Your Majesty’s concerns, I will relinquish my duties as Warden of the South, if it is the King’s will,” Sir Terric offered sheepishly.
“Sir Terric, what has happened to you?” the King asked.
“Your Majesty?” he responded, still unable to look at the King.
“Terric the Bear Killer. Terric the Great. Terric the Wise. Are these not titles bestowed upon you over the years?”
The other members of the council began to recognize that Sir Terric was distressed. About what, they didn’t know. “Your Majesty,” Sir Wein said, trying to get the King’s attention.
“The Terric I see today is only an echo of what he once was. The Terric that fought beside my father was brave and noble and destined for greatness!” the King exclaimed, furiously. “Yes, Sir Terric, it is my will that you alleviate my concerns and relinquish your duties as Warden of the South. Why don’t you relinquish your manhood as well on your way out of this hallowed hall?” The boy shoved the table toward Sir Terric in a fit of rage. Sir Terric jumped up quickly and escorted himself out.
“Anyone else?” he said as he looked around the table. “Do I need to find replacements for other regions of the Kingdom?”
The men sat in a respectful silence. They knew the boy’s father had a temper as they had seen it on display many times before. And they agreed with him for once. Sir Terric wasn’t fulfilling his responsibilities appropriately and needed to be scolded. However, the issues at hand still needed to be resolved and they were now without a Warden of the South.
Braume
“Papa, what happens when we die?” Thomas asked, catching everyone off guard.
Braume assumed that Thomas, his youngest, was troubled by the death of their largest ox. Thomas was a gentle child who had a tendency to name the various animals running around the farm. He was most like his mother and Braume had always been less strict with him.
“Nothing. Nothing happens when we die,” Abram replied.
“I was asking Papa,” Thomas shouted back.
“We join our loved ones in the sky,” Braume said.
It was nearing dusk and the boys were setting the table. It had been a long day in the fields, too long in fact as Braume kept them working until the job was done - a family saying he was fond of using. Wooden bowls and plates crashed onto the table as Benjamin and Thomas, the two youngest, fulfilled their dinnertime duties while Artyom entered with a jug of goat’s milk. Abram gathered the utensils and meticulously placed each in its assigned spot. He was the sort that needed everything to be perfect.
Braume had grown used to cooking all the meals after his wife died years ago. He didn’t consider himself great at it, though. And neither did the boys. Yet they ate without complaint as was the Kellner way. Braume was the last of the Kellner name before he had a son, a thought that kept Evgeni up at night. Braume’s sisters, of which there were four, married young and moved halfway across the island. He now wished he had learned a thing or two in the kitchen from them before they left.
Some stew concoction was on the menu tonight and Braume assumed that once the water was at a boil it was time to eat. He placed the pot in the center of the table and looked at the boys with a hopeful grin. “It might be good,” he said, not overly proud of what he had prepared. The boys stood up to take a look when a man was heard shouting from outside. “Bear! Bear, they killed your father! They killed Evgeni.”
Those that lived in The Hamelesh at that time loved and admired Braume. He was a man who was stern yet compassionate. Strong yet gentle. He had been unofficially elected to serve as a representative of the area if the farmers had disputes with traders at Avanton, which there were many. Braume wasn’t fond of the attention he received, but he recognized his role and accepted it to serve the greater good. When someone used his nickname, Bear, it meant one of two things. One, they were a close friend and were happy to see him again after a long absence. Or, two, there was a serious matter that needed his attention and, typically, the person who used the nickname was trying to tap into his aggressive side.
Braume and the boys jumped up to see what was going on. Once outside they saw the shouting man. He was dirty and seemingly exhausted from pulling a cart through the mud. He was creating quite a commotion and a few other villagers had joined him in the muck. “He’s dead, and so is the Jonus boy,” the man said, panting uncontrollably.
Braume rushed over to the cart to see if it were true. Artyom followed. The cut across Evgeni’s neck was deep. It was calculated, too. Done with a dagger instead of a sword and probably from behind, he thought. This wasn’t the result of a random pub fight. He was murdered and Braume knew it.
“Where did you find him?”
“In the alley near The Lion’s Den,” the man said. “You know who’s responsible for this, don’t you?”
Braume looked at Artyom, who fought hard to suppress signs of emotion. “Don’t you cry, boy,” he whispered. He then looked back at his other sons who stood at the doorstep of their cottage. “Come over here. You need to see this,” he called out to them. It was that invitation that caused the crowd of villagers to close in on the cart as well.
“Does Jonus know?” Braume asked the man.
“I came to you first.”
“Well, you might want to go fetch him and see if you can do it without alerting his wife,” Braume instructed. “He should be the one that tells her.”
Thomas and Abram looked over the side of the cart at the two bodies. Benjamin refused to look. “Father will know if you don’t look,” Artyom said in a hushed voice. He glanced over the side for maybe a second or two before looking away. He loved his grandfather and was often considered the favorite of the four grandsons.
Another man joined Braume’s side. His name was Dentrik, a local organizer of sorts. He was a large man, almost as tall as Braume, and was known in The Hamelesh for his intelligence and sword collection. He was a unit commander during the War of the Plains and was obsessed with combat and fighting styles. He taught himself how to read and read Conferu’s The Science of Shedding Blood enough that he could quote full passages from memory.
“It’s a shame,” Dentrik said.
“I think I’m ready to mee
t with the others,” Braume replied.
“They’ve been waiting for you to join for some time now. When?”
Jonus and his wife arrived behind the man dispatched to deliver the news. There was no consoling her and Jonus didn’t seem to be any better off. She caused quite a scene and no one presumed it was their place to stop her. She climbed into the back of the cart and tried to pick the boy up, calling out and cursing Jonus to help her. He climbed up and held her as she rocked the boy back and forth.
“Tonight,” Braume growled. “Gather everyone.”
Lynad
Fever was setting in. It had been two days since Lynad cut off his foot. The pain was unbearable and he assumed death was only a few days out. Dragon, his old blind bloodhound, was at his side. The two lie in bed on bloody sheets not sure how to spend their time. Occasionally, he’d reach down and tighten the tourniquet he made for himself and take a quick look at where his foot used to be. He was terrified and, for only the second time in his life, found cause to show emotion.
What was most interesting to him in these final hours was the changing color of his right hand. It had gradually turned black as coal. It started in his fingertips and spread all the way to his wrist. He first assumed it was frostbite from touching that cold black sphere in the forest, but if it were frostbite he would’ve lost feeling by now. He hadn’t. In fact, he had been dealing with a slight case of bone tightness in that hand before all this happened. That tightness was now gone. He made a fist with that hand and it felt good as new. “Dragon, at least my hand doesn’t hurt anymore,” he said, in an effort to take his mind off what was coming.
He nodded off for a minute and then woke himself back up. This had been the pattern for the last two days. He was afraid to go to sleep as he believed he would never wake up. “It’s in these times that most people call on a god of their choosing, Dragon,” he said, patting Dragon on the head. “I never cared much for religion. God of the Earth, God of the Air, God of Water, Modesitt, Paget, Heschel – there are so many and they all want different things from their followers. In this instance, for example, I should call on Agatheresus, the God of Missteps. But I can’t ask him to heal me as I’ve never erected a shrine in his name, made an offering, or confessed my wrongdoing. Besides, how dishonorable would I be to only pray to a god when it’s convenient?”
Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1) Page 3