All three moons—sisters, in Lander lore—shone above him softly illuminating the way. Torches burned here and there, lighting the area for the guards up in the spires. Hesitating a moment to get his bearings, he started off in what he hoped was the right direction to the Vassal’s home.
As he strolled along the stone paths, with their short, trimmed hedges, he replayed all that had happened during the day in his mind. With any luck, Sal would have found out something on those men by the time they reached Caeldanage. He had a feeling they might be the key to the answers they were all looking for.
So it was that he didn’t notice four shadows sweep over him until one of them landed directly in his path. Torren’s eyes locked on him, wondering if it was someone else who thought they’d known him. He realized almost immediately this wasn’t the case as three others landed around him.
Boxed in, he instinctively reached for his sword. His hand closed on empty air, even as he remembered he’d left it back in his room at the Vassal’s home.
“So, look who we have here.”
Torren turned to the side, recognizing Elon’s voice. “What do you want?”
The young Flyer gave him an unpleasant smile. “We’re doing our duty to our God, as we should. Though I very much doubt it’s what you’re doing.”
Torren glanced upward toward the nearest spire, looking for the guard, but found the spot empty.
Another of the four laughed. “Tyo, I think he’s looking for you.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Torren saw the one directly behind him was wearing armor and was armed. He cursed to himself. He had the knife in his boot, but it would be hard to reach it in such close quarters. “I ask you again, what is it you want?”
“I’ve already told you,” Elon said, smiling widely, “we’re here to do El’s work.” The smile died. “You may think you’ve fooled everyone, but you’re wrong. Some of those old fools may be willing to believe anything just to allay their fears, but there are those of us who’d rather reveal the truth instead.”
Torren felt himself stiffen. “And what truth might that be?”
“Why, the truth about you, of course. We’re here to reveal you for the impostor you are.” As Elon spoke, all four Chosen took a step closer to him. “Take that off.”
Elon pointed to his vest.
Slowly moving as if to comply, Torren got ready to attack. As soon as he slipped one arm from the vest, he lunged right and elbowed the Flyer there in the ribs, knocking him back. He got a kick in on Elon before a blow from behind sent him to his knees. Before he could make his vision stop spinning and struggle back to his feet, all four Flyers closed in on him and wrestled him to the hard ground.
The stone walkway bit into Torren’s cheek as he struggled to free himself. “Let go of me!”
His pulse thundered at his temples, anger and frustration growing inside him. Laughing, Elon made sure the others had him firmly pinned before reaching into his drape to withdraw a small knife.
“Now we’ll reveal you for the liar you are.”
As the Flyer bent over him, Torren howled and put every last ounce of strength he could into trying to break free. His captors held tight. Elon only laughed harder.
Pressing Torren’s face down with his hand, Elon used the knife to snag his loose-fitting shirt and cut it down the middle of the back. With Torren still uselessly struggling beneath him, he then moved aside both halves of the shirt to reveal what lay beneath.
The haughty, triumphant smile on the young Flyer’s face faltered and died. With a gasp, he straightened, stepping back, the knife in his hand falling with a clatter to the ground.
“No, it can’t be…He said…”
Torren was suddenly free as the others loosened their holds in their amazement. He shot up from the ground, his fist pulled back. With a grimace of pure hatred, he let fly at Elon’s shocked face. His fist connected with the Flyer’s jaw and sent him sprawling.
With a sneer, Torren strode up to tower over him. “So, did you get an eyeful? Did you see what you wanted to see?”
He turned scathing eyes on the others as they backed away in panic.
“Please, we’d honestly thought…” The guard shut up as Torren snarled at him.
Every cell in his body begged him to take out his knife. He wanted to hurt them, hurt them badly. How dare they expose his shame? “Get out here. Get out of here before I decide to kill you.”
Two of them immediately turned around and took flight. The third, the one in armor, backed up further but didn’t leave, staring with concern at the still-floored Elon.
Torren turned around, ignoring him, telling himself the guard did have cause for concern. He swayed where he stood, his fists coiled at his sides, staring at the hapless Elon. All he wanted to do was beat the Flyer within an inch of his life. He was having to resist with all he possessed not to give in to the impulse.
Elon only stared at him, terror turning his face white. “No, no, this isn’t right. You were…you were supposed to be…the Black Lords…”
Torren’s anger inched back a moment at the unexpected but familiar name. “What did you say?”
Elon’s eyes widened, as if he had only just realized he’d spoken out loud. His wings quivering, he scrambled hastily to his feet. “I–I…nothing. I said nothing!”
Before Torren could stop him, he took off and soared out of reach.
“We’re sorry.”
Torren turned around just in time to see the guard disappear as well. Bastards! Seething, he yanked his vest from where it’d fallen on the ground and slipped it on to hide the scars on his back from sight. Now totally alert and watching everywhere at once, he stomped his way back to the Vassal’s home.
Chapter Nineteen
Micca glanced up from where he sat reading a scroll as Torren came into the room. He set the scroll down and stood, astonishment on his face as he saw his friend’s rumpled state and the scratches on his face.
“Torren, what…?”
The rest of the question died on Micca’s lips as Torren threw him a furious glance. The Flyer was silent, his expression of surprise turning to concern as Torren angrily yanked his pack from the corner and retrieved a change of clothes.
As he passed him to go to the bathing room next door, Micca was finally able to find his voice again. “What happened?”
Torren ignored him. When Micca made as if to follow him, he glared at him until he stopped. The Flyer wisely decided to stay where he was.
Torren bathed with his front facing the doorway, not sure Micca wouldn’t barge in. He didn’t care if the Flyer saw the few scars he’d picked up over the years in training and combat, but the ones behind him, the ones proclaiming what he’d lost, what he’d not been able to stop from being done to him in his helplessness—those were another matter entirely.
When he finished and returned to the room, Micca peeked at him from his bed. Torren ignored him, making his way to his side of the room. After dumping his clothes, he retrieved his blankets and set them out on the floor.
“If you’re hurt, I can fetch a healer.”
“I’m fine.” Though the bath helped take the sting out of the night’s events, he was still far from happy. “Nothing happened. Goodnight.”
Not looking at Micca, he lay down on the floor with his back to him, cutting off further conversation. It took him a long time after his roommate quietly turned off the lamps for him to go to sleep. Once he finally did drift off into oblivion, he slept without dreams.
Chapter Twenty
Mallean met them for breakfast the next morning. Torren made sure to bring his dagger as well as his boot knife, slipping the former into his belt for easy access. While they ate, Tyleen appeared just long enough to let them know there’d been no change in Larana’s condition during the night. She tentatively smiled at them until she caught sight of Torren’s deep frown and then scurried away.
“I’m sure Valerian will call for a vote this morning,” Mallean informed the
m as they finished the meal. “It’s very difficult to tell which way it will go.”
“How long might the council decide to keep this a secret?” Micca ventured. “Surely, if she doesn’t wake up when we reach the Lander city, everyone will realize there’s something wrong as she continues to be unseen.”
Mallean slowly shook her head. “Some will want to insist nothing is wrong even when there’s no doubt of it. Only one thing will keep matters from fragmenting into a situation no one will be able to control.”
The councilor sighed, looking suddenly worn.
“We’ll find a way to help her,” Micca protested. “We must.” He glanced at Torren for support. “I’m sure once we hear from my uncle and acquire the information Torren’s friend has gathered, we’ll be that much closer to a solution.”
The table fell quiet. Before it could become awkward, Torren asked, “Have either of you ever heard of the Black Lords?”
“The Black Lords?” Both Mallean and Micca stared at him, obviously not having heard the name before.
“They’re a band of soldiers for hire. They have a bad reputation—some say their own agenda. They’re ruthless.” Torren had heard of them from other mercenaries who’d had to work with them on campaigns, and from some who’d been on the receiving end of their handiwork.
“Are they important?” Micca asked. “Does it have anything to do with—”
Torren stopped him before he could bring up the events from last night. “They might be. I’ll have Sal look into it as soon as we get to Caeldanage.”
Not long after, they left for the council chamber. Zelene beat them there and all but jumped to her feet as she spotted her son coming in.
“Good morning.” She smiled up at Torren, taking his hand between hers as he sat beside her. Hers were cold and trembling. Had she thought he wouldn’t come? That he’d left again? He tried not to think about this, knowing eventually it would end up being the case.
Micca and Mallean sat on the bench behind them as they’d done before. While they waited for the rest of the councilors to arrive, Torren studied the faces of the Chosen. Most looked tired, anxious, almost reluctant to be there at all. They all knew what was to be on the docket this morning.
Though he searched for it, there was one face he didn’t see in the growing group. Still angry at Elon’s actions, he wondered if the Flyer hadn’t come because he feared his deeds would be exposed to the council—or that the bruise on his jaw the size of Torren’s fist would bring a lot of questions.
Perhaps it had something to do with his slip about the Black Lords. Torren was pretty confident that, however they were involved, the Black Lords weren’t taking their orders from the young Flyer. His impetuousness and age ruled him out as an instigator, since all these events spanned years. There was no doubt, however, the Flyer was in someway involved with a piece of this business.
Elon still hadn’t turned up when Valerian ordered the doors to the council chamber closed.
“Greetings, councilors.” He stepped out to the middle of the floor, looking stern. “As we do not want a repeat of yesterday, and as we have less than a day before reaching the Lander city, I propose bringing the question of informing the people of the truth about Aen’s condition to a vote. Any objections?”
Murmurs sounded in the back but no objections were raised beneath his scornful gaze.
“Good. When you are ready, you may cast your stones.”
He stepped out of the circle as an assistant quickly passed out three baskets, one for each tier of seats. The baskets were filled with small light-gray velvet sacks. Each councilor took one, passing the basket on until it’d made a full circuit. As soon as the empty baskets were gathered, the sacks were opened.
Torren glanced down at his mother’s and saw her pull out two flat, smooth stones; one was brown, the other blue. Without pause, Zelene picked the blue one and tossed it into the center of the room.
One-by-one, all the other councilors followed suit. When they were done, the number of brown stones appeared to be similar to the number of blue ones.
“It is too close to call by color alone,” Valerian stated. “A count will now begin.”
The room was tense as the stones were separated and counted. Finally, Valerian stepped forward.
“The count is thirty-seven for, forty-two against.” His expression was strangely neutral. “The people will not yet be told of Aen’s condition.”
Relieved sighs and dissatisfied murmurs trickled through the room.
“The Lander city will be reached sometime in the morning tomorrow. If Aen’s condition does not change by the following day, we will need to convene again.”
No one said anything.
“I would suggest we all spend what time we can praying for success.” His gaze scoured the room. “Meeting adjourned.”
The councilors and their aides got up to go. A few mingled in quiet discussion, but others seemed eager to get out into fresher air.
Once they made it outside, Torren spotted Valerian exchanging a few words with a couple of the older councilors. As he turned away from them, he moved to intercept him, knowing he’d find no better opportunity to try and talk to him.
“Excuse me, Tel Valerian.”
Valerian turned in the air, already several feet off the ground, his strong wings flapping without effort as he gazed down at him. “Yes?”
“Might I speak with you for a moment?”
Valerian’s frost-blue eyes met his impassively, his expression veiled. Slowly, he drifted back to the ground. “What can I do for you, son of Lar?”
Torren tried not to be intimidated by his tone and station. “I had a couple of points of confusion I’d hoped you’d be able to help me with, if you would.”
Valerian stared at him long and hard, then looked around at those surreptitiously watching what they were doing. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
Not waiting for his response, the councilor set off briskly down the nearest walkway. Soon, they were out of the other councilors’ immediate view.
For several minutes, Torren kept silent as Valerian continued at a fast yet not hurried pace. They passed an old woman working diligently on some bushes next to the walkway. She gave Valerian an acknowledging nod but Torren a gap-toothed smile and a small wave. Feeling a little awkward, he returned it.
Not once in all the years he’d been separated from the Chosen had he thought any of them would accept him again in any way. He was a cripple; he had survived when those better than he had not. Last night’s fiasco proved some did feel him to be less than he’d been, but the fact he’d been the one to bring Aen back appeared to have erased some of the stigma which should have been his at his mode of dress and his lack of wings. How long this friendly attitude would last, especially if Larana didn’t awaken, was yet to be seen.
Torren pushed these thoughts aside as they reached the deep shade of a large wisteria tree. Purple blossoms still hung from the long, thin branches, perfuming the air with their delicate scent.
“So, what is it you desired to ask me?” Valerian turned to face him, his imposing figure looming.
Now more than ever, Torren had the distinct feeling this man didn’t like him. Somehow, he doubted what he wanted to ask would make the councilor feel any warmer toward him.
“It’s my understanding you were the one who convinced the council to detour the capital over to Caeldanage—that you believed the Vassal would be found there. Is this correct?”
Valerian gave him a small, humorless smile. “Yes, you might say that’s true.”
“How did you know she would be there? It seems strange to me that the information could have come to you, since no one should have known where she was, especially since Aen didn’t know who she was herself.”
Valerian didn’t even blink. “Actually, I’m not the one who discovered where Aen was to be found. The information came to us from a Lander merchant, a contact of Symeas. He’d dealt with him before. As you may not kno
w, Symeas spent some time as an ambassador and had dealings, as they all do, with merchants the Chosen and Lander governments mutually agreed would be allowed to do business with us.”
“Yes, but why would you place trust in the word of a Lander?” Torren asked with true curiosity.
“No lead was to be left unchecked where the Vassal was concerned. Our duty demanded it be verified. And nothing better had turned up in some time.”
“Still,” he couldn’t help asking, “wasn’t turning the capital around a bit much? There’s an embassy in Caeldanage. The ambassador there appears more than capable.”
Valerian smile grew wider, yet even less amused than before. “The choice to move the capital was the council’s decision, not mine. As a race, it was thought to be a show of our commitment to El that we wanted to right what had gone wrong.”
Desperate after all these years not to be abandoned by a god who could no longer talk to them, Torren could well see the Chosen’s need to cling to any possibility of returning things to what they’d been. But still…
“Might I ask you something?”
Torren was caught off-guard by the question; and though he didn’t like it, since he wasn’t sure what to expect, he could find no real way to refuse.
“Of course.” His stomach tightened.
Valerian’s frost-blue eyes suddenly bored right through him. “Can you honestly tell me you don't want to see their blood spilled for what they did to you, son of Lar? For the fact they’ve made you into one of them? Or are there other reasons for your seeming understanding of the Lander race?”
He tensed. Why was Valerian asking him this? “My feelings one way or another don’t change the facts. I don’t know who assaulted my father’s party and not all Landers were responsible.”
Valerian’s expression turned blank. “So you say. And yet, I note you still didn’t answer my question.”
His gaze was even more intense than before.
Torren felt his cheeks grow hot, betraying him. He’d wanted to spill Lander blood, to see it run and stain the ground as theirs had done. And he had. It was to do this he’d left those who’d helped him, once he was old and well enough, and become a mercenary.
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