by CK Dawn
The Messenger shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. He knew what this could mean, but was happy it was now in the King’s able hands. The King stopped moving and fixed him with another of his scrutinizing looks.
“You know where this person is?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You will take me there.” He turned to his guards. “Have someone fetch me my coat and ready me a horse.”
“Your Majesty,” one of the guards stepped forward. “Surely you’ll take the carriage.”
“A man on a horse can disappear in a way a man in a carriage cannot.” He rubbed at the graying whiskers on his chin absently. “No, I don’t think it would be a good idea to be seen tonight.” He reached up and removed the golden circlet from atop his head, setting it on the table.
The guard who had yet to speak stepped close to the King and whispered, “Are you sure you trust this man?”
“Trust is only necessary when you can afford to do without that which is offered.” He placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “You may come if it makes you feel better, but the armor stays here.”
A short time later, the four men sat atop their horses, cantering down the path from the castle. A rain drizzled down, dampening everything in their way. The night was cold, despite the summer month, making the Messenger pull his cloak tighter around his shoulders as his icy fingers went numb on the reins. He glanced behind him where the King seemed unaffected by the weather, only determined.
The path led them through a dense part of the forest surrounding the castle. Trees loomed over them, a web of shadows in the dark. Insects and frogs inundated the air with their nighttime song, joining the steady drumming of their horse’s hooves.
By the time they’d reached the village, mud had splattered up the flanks of their large beasts and onto the men who rode them. The rhythm of their travels changed as forest paths gave way to cobblestone streets.
They slowed to a walk so as not to attract attention. The Messenger led them past row upon row of squalid houses, the fruit of poverty evident in their wretchedness. They took a turn at the end of the road, into an alleyway where they found the entrance to a non-descript tavern. A wooden sign above the door proclaimed it as The Hunter’s Inn. The rowdy noises from inside grew louder as they got closer. The Messenger pulled his horse to a stop and motioned for them to do the same.
“The woman you are seeking is being housed by the matron of this establishment,” he said. “Her name is Lorelai. I have fulfilled my mission.” He bowed his head. “With your leave, Sire.”
The King didn’t remove his gaze from the door before him as he waved the Messenger away and dismounted. “Stay with the horses,” he told his guards.
“You shouldn’t go in alone,” one of them responded.
“I need to know.” The King, having been desperate for answers for five years now, stepped forward just as the door opened, spilling golden candlelight onto the street.
He left his guards behind and walked forward, at once both apprehensive and excited. He knew what this would mean if it were true. A plump older woman held the door for him but showed no recognition in her eyes.
“Are you daft, man?” She narrowed her tiny eyes. “The cold is gettin’ in.”
The King swallowed the natural urge to chastise her for speaking to him in such a manner. Tonight, he wasn’t the king. He didn’t look at her as he scooted by into a room lined with long tables where men and women alike sat behind large mugs of ale.
He unclasped his soggy cloak, letting the warmth of the nearby fire dry him for a moment. His eyes scanned the groups of people, but not one of them gave him a second glance. Too involved in their own transgressions.
A woman brushed up against his back. “What can I get you, sir?” she purred. He shifted away from her ample bosom and kept his eyes trained on hers. She stood still, seemingly unable to look away.
“I need to speak with your mistress.” He kept his voice low and even, knowing she’d do what he asked.
“Right away.” She flitted away as he stayed rooted to his spot by the fire.
A moment later, a different woman appeared. This one was older, carrying herself as if she was once a thing of beauty. She still had an attractiveness about her, but her hair was streaked with gray and rouge no longer covered up the deficiencies on her face.
King Marcus Renauld was not a cruel man, but his shrewdness allowed him to see a lot about a person the moment they appeared.
“How can I help you?” There was no melodic quality to her voice as he’d come to enjoy in most women. Instead, it was rough, gravelly. This was a woman who’d seen many of the harsher realities of life. To his utter dismay, that could describe most of the people in his kingdom since the war.
“I’ve been told to seek a woman named Lorelai.” The King straightened himself to his full height and towered over the woman in front of him. To her credit, she didn’t flinch. Her hands flew to her hips in defiance.
“There ain’t no one here by that name.”
The King leaned down and looked her directly in the eye. Her pupils dilated as she blinked rapidly. “I don’t believe you,” he growled.
They were still staring at each other as another woman approached. “It’s okay.” She put a hand on the older lady’s shoulder and the woman instantly relaxed. “I’ve been waiting for him.”
The King turned to find a young girl, not yet into adulthood. Ash-white hair hung all the way to her waist and icy blue eyes regarded him with a maturity beyond her years. She was as tall as the other woman but thin and willowy.
“Your Majesty.” She dipped into a curtsy.
The King grabbed her arm and pulled her up, looking around to make sure no one else took notice of her display. “But you’re only a girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“I’m sixteen,” she responded, yanking her arm out of his grasp and squaring her shoulders. Her voice was like a song, holding every note the older woman’s lacked. She turned to the other woman who now stood with a bewildered look on her face. “I told you the King would find me.” She turned on her heel and marched towards a door at the other end of the room.
The King didn’t know if this girl thought him being here was a good thing or a disaster, but he followed her anyway. He knew there’d be raised eyebrows as he followed her into the private room, but as long as none of them knew who he was, it was okay.
He soon found himself alone with his could-be seer. She looked young and fragile, not how she should look if touched by magic.
A single bed stood along the back wall with a table and two chairs in the center. Other than those essentials, the room was sparse.
Lorelai waited for the King to sit as was customary and then took the space across from him.
“I’d ask for refreshments,” she began. “But, something tells me you don’t want to be interrupted.”
“Seer’s intuition?” he asked hopefully.
“Common sense.” Her soft laugh echoed throughout the room.
The King couldn’t remember the last time someone laughed at him. He grimaced, impatient to get on with it.
“Ask me your questions,” she said finally.
“You saw I would come?” he asked.
“I did.”
“So, it’s true.”
“I’m sure I’d be able to tell you if I knew what it was.” She held in her laugh this time.
“You see things.”
“I have eyes, yes.”
“That is not what I mean.” He drummed his fingers on the table in agitation. The girl was playing with him.
“You must speak plainly, Sire.”
“You can see the future.” It sounded crazy coming out of his mouth in light of the world they were living in – the one without magic.
“That is not how it works exactly. I can see what certain people are capable of and the paths open before them. Sometimes I can see an event will occur, but I don’t know who will be involved.”
The King leaned in eagerly. “How is this possible?” he asked. “Magic was taken from these lands when we lost the war.”
“I have no magic, Sire.” Surprise laced her words. “Before the war, people obtained their magic from the earth, it was a gift. The sight is different. It’s who I am. A part of me. It was not given and therefore can’t be taken away. Seers have remained true, but have been forced into hiding by those who are desperate for their perceived magic.”
With just a few words, the hope he’d placed on her was gone. He was no closer to regaining their magic than he was five years ago when it was stolen.
“Don’t fret, you haven’t come in vain for I’ve seen something that will aid you in the future.”
“Speak,” he commanded.
She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “There will come a time when a noble man will rise and only he will have the power to defeat the darkness.”
“We will win? We will defeat Dreach-Dhoun?”
“An outcome no one knows.” She opened her eyes. “He may succeed in his mission or he may fail.”
“A noble man will rise,” he whispered. “Trystan, my son. He’s the one, yes? Of course, he is. It couldn’t be anyone but the prince.”
She stood up and moved towards the door. “I can’t say, Sire. All I know is his destiny intertwines greatly with Dreach-Sciene’s survival.”
Her words did nothing to damper the spark of hope growing in his heart as she led him back through the tavern. He’d always known his son was different, special somehow. She opened the door to the cold night. The rain was coming down more heavily now.
“Ah,” she said, stepping outside, seemingly unaware of her quickly dampening hair. “Davion.” Her voice had taken on a sweet, almost motherly fashion.
The boy she was talking to currently had one arm in the tight grip of one of the King’s guards.
“Caught this boy trying to steal from the saddle bags, Sire,” the guard said, thrusting the kid forward.
He couldn’t have been any older than Trystan’s five years, but here he was on a night like this in the streets.
“I was just wanting something to eat, Sir,” the boy cried softly.
“Let him go at once,” Lorelai commanded of the guard, stomping her feet. She hit a puddle, splashing muddy water up onto her dress.
The King nodded to his guard who released the boy. He ran directly into Lorelai’s arms. “I was looking for you, Davion,” she cooed. “I wanted you to meet my new friend.” She eyed the King warily and then spun the boy around to face him. “This is the king, Davi, isn’t that grand?”
To the boy’s credit, he fumbled through a bow.
“He’s going to take you with him,” she said.
“What are you going on about, girl?” the King asked.
Lorelai left Davi by the side of the building and stepped closer so only the King could hear her. “I don’t understand it. I’ve known Davi for over a year. He’s an orphan living on the streets and his future is unknown to me. What I’ve seen is he’s important. Whenever I see images of your son, it’s Davion by his side. He will be his greatest protector and most loyal friend.”
The King didn’t know what to say. He trusted what this girl said to be true. He had no choice.
Turning to his guards, he shouted, “The boy comes with us.”
His gaze reverted back to the girl. “Thank you. You have given me hope. I may be able to restore life back to my kingdom.”
“Be careful, my king. It is a fool that believes everything pertains to one’s self.” Lorelai fixed the King with her piercing gaze. When she looked at him, it was as if she saw all, knew all. Nothing could be hidden, nothing protected.
The King handed Davion up to one of his guards and mounted his own horse with more questions than he’d had before.
It seemed to take them longer to get back, but as soon as they reached the castle, the servants took their horses and ushered them inside to get warm. The King handed off his sopping coat. If he hurried, he could still make it to his children’s rooms before they drifted off.
Putting a hand on a lost looking Davion’s shoulder, he ushered him through the halls. The child didn’t speak and the King suspected it was because he’d never been in surroundings such as these. Torches along the walls lit their way, reflecting in the boy’s wide eyes.
The King looked down at the filthy boy with mud matted in his dark hair and sighed. This was not how the night was supposed to go.
Rissa’s room was first. She was his curious little three-year-old who was forced into the cruelest fate of all – growing up without a mother. Her maid, Ana, was exiting the room when he arrived.
She curtsied upon seeing him.
“Ana.” He nodded. “I need you to take Davion here and get him cleaned up, fed, and tucked in somewhere warm.”
She looked at the boy curiously, but didn’t ask any questions as she ushered him away.
The King glanced down at his muddy boots and wet clothing, realizing there was nothing he could do about it. After the night he’d had, he just wanted to look into his little girl’s innocent face and give his son a long hug.
Rissa and Trystan were both laying on Rissa’s bed. On stormy nights, Trystan slept in there to keep her from being scared. It warmed the King’s heart to see them together.
“Father,” Trystan called when he saw him.
“Da,” Rissa piped up.
The King smiled more cheerily than he felt and moved further into the room to sit on the corner of the bed, careful not to get it muddy.
“Tell us a story,” Rissa said.
“Which one would you like to hear?” he asked.
“Trystan the bold,” Trystan said.
“Again?” The King laughed. “Okay then. Over a hundred years ago Dreach-Sciene and Dreach-Dhoun were one. The kingdom was called Dreach until a powerful sorcerer rose to defy the King. His magic was like nothing anyone had seen before. He pulled enormous amounts of energy from the earth and unleashed it. The King of Dreach and his son Trystan wouldn’t let him seize the throne. They fought battle after battle, combining their magic to fight this other sorcerer. There was to be one final battle to take place in the mountains of Isenore. This would decide their fate. The battle lasted two days until both armies were weary. All seemed lost for Trystan and his father. On the second night, Trystan went out alone to pull magic from the earth. Now, a person can only hold so much before their body starts to break down. He went past that point. By the time he returned to his camp, he was stumbling and babbling. It was plain to everyone what he’d done. Some thought it bravado or ego – until the fight began again. Trystan lurched forward to grab a spear. He then hurled it into the air with every bit of magic he’d absorbed. He pushed it through the protective barrier set up by the other sorcerer and directly into his heart. But he couldn’t recover. Both men died at the exact same moment. The battle ended, allowing Trystan’s father and his people to retreat with their lives and the kingdom was split in two.”
“What about my name?” Rissa asked.
“You, my darling girl.” He reached out to run a hand lovingly over her fire-red hair. “Are named for the greatest hero I’ve ever known. Your mother.”
He watched as his children drifted off, safe in their castle. He thought of the boy he’d brought home, who was alone and scared; who had a destiny, just like his son. Trystan was the man Lorelai had spoken of. He was sure of it. What nobler man was there in the kingdom than a prince? If he was going to rise, the King knew what he had to do.
He went to his rooms and wrote out a note, dripping wax onto the paper and pressing his ring into it. Walking into the hall, he went to find a messenger who was still awake. He came upon a girl who would do just fine.
“Take this to the Duchess of Sona.” He pressed it into her hands along with a pouch of coins. “For your ship’s passage.”
She dropped into a curtsy before hurrying away.
He hoped h
e was doing the right thing. His brother, Geran, might be volatile and scheming, but he was still a member of this royal family and Trystan was going to need them all behind him – the entire force of the Renauld name. The Duchess of Sona had been hiding him for too long. It was time for him to come home.
Two
Fifteen Years Later
The sword sliced the air missing Trystan’s ear by a split hair. Lurching to the right, Trystan whirled just in time as the second attack came. Raising his heavy broadsword, it collided against his attacker’s blade with a metallic clang, stunting the blow. The contact reverberated up his arm, into his shoulder. He grimaced in pain as sweat beaded on his brow, threatening to drip into his eyes. He didn’t dare take the time to wipe it away. His opponent was skilled and eager, already bouncing back from the jarring blow. The Prince’s numerous years of practice took over. Bending his knees, he straightened his back to keep his hips aligned with his shoulders. This fighting stance was ingrained and he did it without thought. His instinct to stay alive.
The steel blade glinted in the morning sun as it thrust his way again and again. The prince parried the attempts, slapping the edge away with ease. A tiny grin of victory escaped as he deflected blow after blow. His attacker was tiring, he could tell. Victory was near. Deciding to end this fight, Trystan delivered a powerful low slash to his opponent’s abdomen. The other swordsman evaded it easily enough, but it knocked him off balance and he hit the ground with a loud grunt. Trystan’s blade hovered above the man’s chest, a mere inch from his heart.
“Concede or I will run you through.”
His opponent sneered in response, but instead of uttering the words of defeat, he knocked the blade away and with a nimble backwards roll, leaped to his feet. Feinting hard to the right, Trystan fell for the ploy as his nemesis attacked from the left and the hilt of his blade connected with the Prince’s ribs. His opponent took advantage of the slight stumble. The Prince’s feet were swept out from underneath him and he crashed onto his back, his sword flying out of his grip.