The Key of Creation: Book 02 - Journey to Khodara

by M. D. Bushnell

  Phalstave was dallying near the bottom of a wide marble staircase, which lead up to the more exclusive palace rooms. He gave them an obsequious smile as they approached.

  Jarvus ignored the leering noble and started up the stairs. After a few steps however, he paused and turned, addressing Paden. “Shockingly, Tiberius is in the library. You may wish to report in with him before retiring to your room.”

  Paden nodded. “Yes, I should.”

  “Thank you for escorting us safely Paden,” Jelénna said, standing on the lower steps of the staircase. “I would have preferred the trip was unnecessary of course, but I am still grateful for your generosity. I’m certain Aldrick and King…Gilmoure appreciate your assistance as well.”

  Paden swept a formal bow. “The pleasure was mine,” he lied smoothly. “Until we meet again.” He ignored Adrias, who was running to the top of the stairs and out of earshot. Phalstave watched the boy as he bolted up the stairs, and then gave Jelénna an awkward grin. She returned his look with a polite nod, and he turned and stalked off down the hall.

  She watched as the strange man disappeared, and then turned to follow Jarvus up the stairs.

  “Who was that?”

  Jarvus cleared his throat. “That was Phalstave, a newer noble and one of Felinus’ cronies. The king tends to avoid him. I suggest you do the same.”

  Jelénna nodded, and choosing not to pursue the matter any further, followed the servant up the stairs.

  Paden turned and started towards the library. He was not the only one uncertain of what to call the king now that his true identity had been revealed, to a select few at least. Jelénna had clearly paused before calling him Gilmoure. Paden supposed it would remain Gilmoure, since the general populace was unaware of his true identity, and most would likely never learn of the truth. That was, of course, unless the new king betrayed Asturia and conquered them with his Illyrian forces; a very troubling thought indeed.

  Paden found Tiberius sitting at his favorite table in the library.

  “Welcome back,” Tiberius said with a smile.

  “Tiberius,” Paden greeted him with a nod.

  “How was the trip? I imagine no one was pleased having to leave with such short notice.”

  “The trip was…tiring,” Paden sighed. “Adrias wanted to go with his father on his ‘big adventure’, and Jelénna wanted to stay home, and keep Aldrick from leaving altogether.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tiberius mused. “Yet Gilmoure believes what he is doing is absolutely necessary. I would have preferred to send other scouts, and I offered to do so. But the king was adamant that both he and Aldrick had to go. I’m not certain why he felt that way.”

  “You still refer to him as Gilmoure?”

  Tiberius nodded. “Yes, why?”

  “It seems strange now that we know he is Prince Garrick.”

  “I understand,” Tiberius agreed. “I had trouble getting used to the idea at first, and even now it seems odd. Yet he is known here as Gilmoure, and it makes sense to remain consistent for now, at least until we sort out this Illyrian situation.”

  “But can we honestly trust the crown prince of Illyria to be a good king?”

  “I believe we can,” Tiberius replied without hesitation. “I’ve spent enough time with him by now to get a good sense of who he really is, and I truly believe he is a good man. Although I admit he isn’t much for paperwork,” Tiberius added with a laugh.

  “So he said,” Paden agreed.

  “How did Aldrick take the news?”

  Paden plopped down in the chair across from his employer. “He asked some questions first, you know how Aldrick is. Strangely, he almost seemed to know what Gilmoure was going to tell him before he said it. I thought he accepted the news incredibly well. I’m having a harder time with it, to be honest.”

  Tiberius stood and ambled over to the familiar grand fireplace bordered by its watchful stone lions, and lit his pipe from a glowing ember. Blowing a fluffy smoke ring, he turned back to Paden and asked in a cautious voice, “Why is that?”

  Paden tapped his chin in thought. “I admit Gilmoure does seem like a good man, but isn’t that the perfect cover? If someone wanted to infiltrate Asturia with an Illyrian spy and take over the country, wouldn’t it make sense to send someone heroic and charismatic?”

  “I see your point,” Tiberius acknowledged. “But as I said I’ve spent enough time with him to analyze his character. Unless he is a truly amazing liar, I believe he has our best interests at heart. I do not believe he is an Illyrian spy and neither does Aldrick. If he did, he would never have agreed to go with him. My final test for the king was his ability to convince my son; Aldrick is a good judge of character.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Absolutely,” Tiberius replied with confidence, and blew another lingering smoke ring.

  Paden pushed the chair back and stood. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  Tiberius put his pipe down on the table. “No bother, Paden. Good looking out, a little caution never hurt anyone. I hope I was able to help.”

  Paden shrugged. “I promise to think on all of this. Thank you Tiberius.”

  “You’re welcome. Try to keep an open mind. In the meantime, you should get some rest. You look exhausted.”

  Paden nodded. “I’m planning on it.”

  Chapter 12

  Aldrick and the others trailed along near the rear of the merchant train for the remainder of that day and into the next. Other than occasional unpleasant glances from the foreman Franc and some of his wagon guards, the majority of the journey to Karkerech was uneventful. It seemed for the best they remain separate from the surly crew as much as possible, and so they cooked their meals and ate apart from the rest. Aldrick greatly anticipated their arrival in Karkerech, and the end of their association with this peculiar group of men.

  The only exciting part of the trip was their border crossing early on the third day. Practically no one waited at the gate to enter into Illyria, yet there was an enormous line of people waiting to leave the northern country and enter Asturia. The one group ahead of them was denied entrance, and forced to turn back. They were quite upset, but the border guards made it clear that they were not allowing entry into Illyria.

  If it was not for the special merchant pass provided by Bryce that Franc showed to the border guards, they would not have been allowed to pass safely through the gates. A suspicious glance back from the ill-mannered foreman gave Aldrick the impression he was considering telling the border patrol not to allow their group through, but a stern glance from Warren kept the man silent.

  The wagons rolled noisily through the border gate, their wheels crunching over the rough gravel of the road. A cool early autumn wind whistled through the tall pines surrounding the gate, rustling their cloaks. Garrick kept a hand on his concealing hood, which earned him a few hard stares from the border guards. They were too preoccupied with the throng of Illyrians attempting to cross into Asturia however, to interfere with them.

  Aldrick was amazed by both the large number of people huddled in the long line stretching back from the border gate, as well as by the look of anxiety on their faces. The line was orderly for the most part. The majority of people were waiting patiently, yet they exuded an overall impression of uncertainty. They had the look of refugees, yet there was no war for them to be running from.

  The merchant train had just finished passing through the gate, when two men from the waiting line broke into a run, trying to circumvent the gate and go around the perimeter. Arrows launched from the wooden guard tower overlooking the crossing quickly cut them down, and the men fell to the ground with a thud. Aldrick instinctively reached for his swords, but thought better of it and stopped himself. Their mission was much more critical at this point than avenging two unfortunate Illyrian refuges. As much as it bothered him, he had to stay calm and remain with the merchant wagons.

  After their successful border crossing, the rest of the day passed by un
remarkably until they arrived in Karkerech later that evening. The city streets were crowded with workers, merchants and tradesmen, and the busy passers-by barely had time to step out of the way of the men on horseback and rolling wagons. The living city was a cacophony of sights and sounds; merchants haggling with prospective buyers, clusters of sailors and soldiers laughing and dicing, the jingle of tack and the clatter of wagons, both empty and laden. The tempting myriad smells of cooking meats and spices mixed sourly with that of garbage and excrement to the point that Aldrick did not know whether to be hungry or nauseous.

  They saw soldiers all around the city, as they followed the rumbling wagon train. The uniformed men they saw were primarily loitering or relaxing, and few if any were acting in any sort of official capacity. Still, their very presence was reason enough for Garrick to keep his hood pulled low and his face shadowed. With the number of soldiers milling about, the odds of him being recognized were too great to take any chances.

  The wagons rolled into the waterfront district and up to an immense wooden warehouse. The suspicious and slovenly foreman sent one of his men to knock on a service door, and shortly the large warehouse access doors creaked open with a grinding squeal. Franc bellowed orders, and the wagons were pulled into the warehouse, leaving Aldrick and the others sitting outside on their mounts without so much as a word.

  “What now?” Warren asked, glancing about the rough area with a doubtful expression.

  Aldrick scanned the area surrounding the docks, willing one of his visions to guide him, but none came. The cool breeze rolling in across the river kept the worst of the city odors to a minimum, yet there was a lingering redolence of refuse. Stray gulls cried out and swooped about the piers, looking for stray bits of food. Boats of all sizes creaked against the docks, pushed against their ties by the unrelenting flow of the Tianna River.

  Behind them, small warehouses and nondescript buildings were nestled in a line running parallel to the edge of the river. A short distance away, a tavern sign he could not quite read swung listlessly over a faded red door in the late afternoon breeze.

  Aldrick pointed to the pendulous sign. “Why don’t we get a drink and decide our next move?”

  After general agreement, they walked their horses along the wharf towards the inn. When they were close enough, Garrick read the sign and guffawed. “It’s called The Wayward Prince. How appropriate.”

  They tied their horses to a post and ducked into the dim interior, letting their eyes adjust for a moment. A sweaty obese woman waddled in through a creaky swinging door in the back wall, wiping her hands on a wide filthy apron. She scanned the group and scowled at their weapons, seemingly deciding whether to greet them or not. Before she had decided, a loud “Warren!” was shouted from the back of the room.

  They all turned to see a brown haired man of average height and build stand up from a dimly lit round table and approach them.

  “Dathan!” Warren blurted, recognizing the man and striding over to shake his outstretched hand. “What in the name of the All Father are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” Dathan replied in an excited voice. “I don’t believe after all this bloody time you simply walk into the blasted Wayward Prince.”

  “You’ve been looking for me?”

  Dathan lowered his voice, although other than the surly innkeeper leering at them with her hands on her wide hips, there were only two sailors in the corner drinking quietly and playing a card game, which appeared to be either Ar’Nas or perhaps Trump the King. “Actually, I’m looking for the prince, and I figured he’d be with you.”

  Warren started a little at the mention of the prince, but recovered quickly and lowered his voice to match. “Why are you looking for him?” He added a particular emphasis on the last word.

  “I need to bloody warn…him,” Dathan began, looking around. “Let’s sit and get a bloody drink, and I’ll explain.”

  Dathan turned to the large scowling proprietor and in an artificially pleasant voice said, “My dear Gerda, would you…err, kindly bring us,” he paused to count, “Six bloody ales.”

  Aldrick held up a hand. “Make that five ales and a pomegranate wine, if you would.”

  Gerda spoke in a throaty, gravelly voice. “I ain’t got no wine,” she barked a quick laugh, which faded into a racking cough. After she recovered she continued. “All’s I got is ale.”

  “Ale it is,” Aldrick agreed.

  They pulled two round dingy tables together and sat down. Garrick kept his hood pulled low and no one spoke until after Gerda had slammed six ales down on the table, amber liquid splashing over the rim of each.

  After Gerda had stomped off into the back, Warren leaned in and said in a low voice, “What is this warning?”

  Dathan scanned the face of each member of the group, pausing at the hooded Garrick. “I have known you for a bloody long time Warren, and I trust you, but I don’t know these blokes. I can’t see this one’s bloody face, and this one sounds like an Asturian noble,” he added pointing to Aldrick. “I don’t want to be bloody rude, but are these men trustworthy?”

  Warren nodded emphatically. “As trustworthy as the prince himself.”

  “If you bloody say so,” Dathan sighed. “I must tell Prin…him, what has happened.”

  “He already knows that the throne has been usurped, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Usurped?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I knew something was bloody wrong, but I didn’t know it wasn’t Zabalan. He bloody looks just like him!”

  Warren nodded. “He is some kind of a sorcerer who killed King Zabalan and stole his face using some foul black magic. I saw it myself before we fled.”

  “Bloody unbelievable,” Dathan mused. “I thought he was bloody sick or possessed.”

  “So then what was your warning?”

  Dathan described the incident with the man he had thought was King Zabalan, and the unfortunate death of Simon. He continued, relaying the order of the bogus king to find Prince Garrick or face death. He finished with, “I was gonna find the bloody prince and warn him before Zabalan, or whoever he bloody is, finds him. My damn horse died on me and it took me bloody forever to get here. Now I’m bloody broke and working at the blasted docks until I can buy another horse.” Dathan chugged his ale and clanked his mug back down on the table. “Lucky you stopped in. You know where he is? I’m sure that this Zabalan means to see him bloody dead.”

  Warren glanced around the table at his companions. “I can honestly say the prince already knows.”

  “How is that bloody possible?”

  Warren turned to the hooded man. “I trust Dathan with my life.”

  He did not respond immediately, but then the man shrugged and pulled back his hood enough for Dathan to recognize his features in the dim flickering lamplight.

  Dathan gasped and blurted, “Prin…!” before he stopped himself with a hand over his mouth. In a much softer voice he said, “It’s you.”

  Garrick nodded and leaned closer. “I’ve been out of the country for the reasons you mentioned. I have returned because of the rumors of the troops amassing near the border.”

  “It’s no rumor, I saw them on my way into the bloody city. The whole blasted bunch of ‘em are camped to the north o’ here.”

  “I want to see it for myself,” Garrick said. “Can you take me there?”

  “Yes, I can take you…” Dathan slapped a palm to his forehead. “I almost forgot. This crazy woman is looking for you, bloody beautiful too. Says she seeks a lost prince who is looking for something called a…a bloody Clavis, I think it was.”

  Aldrick felt his stomach clench at the mention of the Clavis, but Garrick continued with a smile. “Beautiful eh? I should meet with her.”

  Aldrick tapped Garrick on the shoulder. “The Clavis…”

  “What about it?”

  “The Clavis is the name of the artifact that Jahann stole.”

  Garrick snapped his finge
rs in recognition. “I remember you saying something about that. That is an amazing coincidence.” The prince turned back to Dathan with a smirk. “I think you better tell us all about this beautiful girl.”

  Sometime later, they left the inn and followed Dathan north out of town. Once they were out of the city proper, they remained quiet, and approached the burgeoning encampment as surreptitiously as possible. No one spoke as Dathan pointed out the expanse of the land covered by the soldiers and their camp. They surveyed as much as they could from a safe distance, and returned to town. On the way back, they nearly ran into one group apparently out on patrol, but managed to skirt the men before being seen.