Fable: Edge of the World

by Christie Golden

  Speaking of devils …

  “No whispers of Reaver returning?” he asked of Jasper, who seemed to know everything about everyone. “It’d be just like him to try to spoil today.”

  “I can honestly say that I have not heard a breath of Mr. Reaver’s whereabouts, and I am buoyant with delight at the fact.”

  “Ben Finn’s just gotten back from wandering about, and Page’s network hasn’t heard anything either,” the king said. “We may just have gotten lucky.”

  “I would touch wood when you say that, Your Majesty. Repeatedly.”

  The king grinned. He glanced down at the other “old friend” who sat patiently at his feet, as he had done for over a decade. His border collie, Rex, had been a faithful ally on the long road to rule. Now that he was growing old, he slept more than he played, but was still alert and healthy. Rex’s eyes were fixed on his master, and he barked happily as he saw the king smile.

  “Good dog,” said the king. “The best dog ever.”

  Rex pranced a little at the praise, then sat down attentively. The king surveyed his reflection in the mirror and liked what he saw. Like Rex, he too was older, and time had begun to make its presence noticed in the crinkles around his brown eyes and the occasional thread of silver in his hair. His face was still strong and, if the blushing and giggling ladies of the court were to be believed, handsome. But he didn’t care what they thought. There was only one woman whose opinion mattered, and today, she would become his queen and his life’s companion.

  “You do look happy, Your Majesty,” said Jasper, and there was an unusual hint of warmth and pride in his voice.

  The monarch turned from the mirror. “I am, Jasper. My kingdom is content and growing, we are at peace, trade with Aurora is good, and I am about to be wed to the most wonderful girl in the world. And,” he added, whispering conspiratorially, “I’ll be happier still tonight.”

  “One should hope so, Your Majesty.”

  Chuckling slightly, the monarch clapped his old friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Can’t keep the love of my life waiting.”

  Rex trotted after them, tail waving, as the king and his butler left the room.

  The throne room was exquisite testimony to the majesty of the castle’s design. Stairs covered with rich blue carpeting led up to a raised dais, upon which the throne itself was seated. The walls were lined with portraits of former royalty, and the whole was illumined by colorful light filtered through three stained-glass windows. The room’s formality had been gentled through the use of flowers adorning the walls and fixtures, and a white canopy that draped from the ceiling. The throne was still present but had been moved back slightly to make room for a small table presided over by an elderly robed woman. All the guests had arrived and were chatting quietly among themselves. Over to the right, a quartet played.

  A slender blond man stood by the door, peering into the room and fidgeting as the king and Jasper approached. The king grinned as the young man tugged on a collar that was apparently too tight. Even from behind, Benjamin Finn looked quite out of his element. As indeed he was. Finn, who had been one of many who had helped the monarch claim the throne, came from common roots and had spent most of his life as either a soldier or a mercenary. Nonetheless, the king knew the man’s worth. Finn was brave if a little reckless, and a master sharpshooter, and the king appreciated his wit and rather tall tales. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Ben Finn had a great heart.

  “You look so anxious, one might think you were the one to be married today,” the king said casually. Ben started, then glared at him.

  “Crikey, don’t do that. I’m likely to drop the rings, and it’d be all your fault.”

  “No, no, my best man would never do that, not if he doesn’t want to start posing for ‘Wanted’ posters again.”

  “Too right,” Ben muttered, but the king noticed nonetheless that the soldier put his hand in his pocket with an overly casual movement, making sure the rings were still there. As he did so, he glanced up at his friend and liege.

  “Thank you again for the honor. I know that there would have been someone else you’d have picked if you’d had the chance though—and I would have cheered it.”

  The king sobered. Ben was right. One very important man was missing on this special day—his friend and weapons tutor, Sir Walter Beck. It had been Walter who had guided the then-prince on his quest, from that night when he, Beck, and Jasper had fled the castle, up until Walter’s tragic demise. While Captain Jack Timmins had taken over Walter’s role in things martial, no one had ever been as loyal as the knight, and the king knew he would never have quite that same kind of bond with anyone again.

  “Walter would have been very happy today, wouldn’t he?” the king said quietly.

  “Your Majesty—wherever he is, I suspect he is happy.”

  The king nodded and took a breath. Ben was right. Walter was the last person who would have wished to cast any pall over his king’s wedding day, and so, the king would not let that happen.

  “Ready, sir?” asked Ben.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure? Because you know, you’re the king; if you don’t want to go through with it, if you’re getting cold feet or anything like that—there’s no one who’s going to force you to do it, now, is there?”

  “You’re babbling, Ben.”

  “Oh. I am, aren’t I?”

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  As they walked in, Rex trotting behind his master, they saw many familiar faces. Sitting in the area reserved for special guests of the kingdom were two others who looked as out of place as Ben clearly felt. One was an extraordinarily large and powerfully built man with a long, curling black mustache. He wore a thick-brimmed hat and his wide leather belt was adorned with a skull and crossbones. To look at him, no one would guess that he had a soft spot a mile wide for animals. This was Boulder, the taciturn bodyguard of King Sabine of the Mistpeak Dwellers.

  Sabine was as different from Boulder as could be imagined. Little more than half the big man’s size, he could best be described with words like “knobby” and “spry.” His beard was as pointed as his hat and his strange, upturned shoes. Propped up beside him as he sat was a staff that his gnarled hands gripped tightly. Affixed to the top of the staff was a purple bottle that served Sabine as a pipe. Smoke usually rose from its opening as Sabine puffed away on a long stem, but for the occasion, the Dweller leader had grudgingly agreed not to smoke.

  The Dwellers had been the king’s first allies and had remained loyal friends. It was quite a trek from Mistpeak to Bowerstone, and the monarch was pleased to see that the cranky old man had made the journey.

  Another who had made an even longer journey was the exotic Auroran leader, Kalin. Her only concession to the cold climate of Albion in winter was a cloak currently folded in her lap. Otherwise, her body and garb proclaimed her origins proudly, from her shaved and tattooed head and arms to her green, gold, and red robes. She was here not only as a true ally but as a countrywoman of the bride-to-be. Indeed, Kalin had been the one to introduce the couple. Kalin caught the king’s eye and gave him a sweet, fond smile. He returned it, then turned his attention to the front of the room as he and Ben walked up the stairs and stood on the priestess’s left. As it had been important to his fiancée to have the wedding performed in the traditional manner of her people, the elderly and wise Priestess Mara had accompanied Kalin across the ocean to officiate.

  The music changed. All eyes now turned from the present king to Albion’s future queen. The king’s breath caught, as it did every time he saw her.

  Laylah.

  Tall and slender, delicate of feature with wide, doelike eyes, her lips curved in a smile that made his heart leap. The dusky golden brown of her skin and her ebony tresses contrasted with the creamy white of the formal gown. In her hands, she held a bouquet of native, riotously colorful Auroran blossoms.

  Walking behind her as her maid of honor was the only true Bowerstone native b
esides the king himself—Page. She resembled Laylah slightly although her skin was much darker, her features fuller, and her long hair tightly braided in rows. The leader of the Bowerstone Resistance during Logan’s reign, Page had taken a great deal of convincing before she had come to believe that the current ruler could be trusted. And he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

  He was delighted that Page and Laylah, though from completely different backgrounds, had become such fast friends. Laylah could not be called a true innocent. She and her people had suffered, terribly and terrifyingly, from the dark horror known to them as the Nightcrawler. It was this darkness the king himself had helped to defeat, first in Aurora and later in Albion proper. But even though she had endured much, Laylah had a certain naïveté about her.

  This could not be said about Page. She was as hard as Laylah was soft. A shrewd observer of people, Page knew how to motivate and inspire her friends and stand up to her enemies. Her “organization” was still largely intact though now she offered what she knew—at least most of what she knew; the king suspected that she still kept a few things close to her vest—and had proven to be an invaluable resource. Page was that admirable though often oxymoronic thing, the pragmatic optimist. He was glad that Laylah had found not only a friend but one who could help her understand Bowerstone and its populace, both good and bad.

  But all that, important though it was, could wait. All he saw now was the brave but gentle girl who had won his heart. Her cheeks turned a dark rose as she ascended the steps to stand beside him, and her eyes were bright with joy.

  Most of the wedding ceremony was a blur to the king. He uttered his name when needed to, happily vowed to love, protect, and be true to Laylah, and had a moment of panic when he heard Ben swearing as he fumbled for the rings. Laylah extended her slender hand, and the king slipped the simple gold ring on the fourth finger.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bearded Dweller standing outside the throne room, arguing with a guard. The guard was shaking his head, but Jasper quietly intervened and led the messenger as discreetly as possible to where King Sabine was seated. He heard Sabine’s distinctive yapping for an instant, then both he and the messenger hastened out.

  The king’s heart sank. Something bad had obviously happened, and he was selfish enough, at this moment at least, to hope it was something Sabine could handle by himself.

  He had a feeling it wasn’t.

  Oh well, he thought as Laylah slipped a ring on his own left hand, such is the life of a king.

  Even, it would seem, on his wedding day.

  He clasped Laylah’s hand and turned to face the applauding crowd as Priestess Mara presented them as King and Queen of Albion. Laylah’s arm was slipped through his, the new royal couple nodded, smiling, to the well-wishers. But the instant they stepped through the doors, the king felt the strong grip of Sabine’s clawlike hand.

  “Your Majesty! We must speak right away!”

  “Unfortunately, I fear King Sabine is correct,” said Jasper. “This matter is indeed demanding of your attention. I suggest you, Mr. Finn, Captain Timmins, Miss Page, and the lady Kalin take a few moments now to converse. I shall take our lovely new queen to the reception and—”

  “No, Jasper,” said Laylah. Her musical voice was soft, as always, but firm. “I am, as you say, the queen now. My husband has said he wished me to share in the duties as well as the pleasures of ruling. If this matter is so urgent, I should like to hear of it.” She turned to the king. “If His Majesty agrees?”

  He sighed. “I had hoped you would get to enjoy more of the pleasures of being queen before you were forced to share its duties, my love. But yes—come with us. I would have you all know that Queen Laylah is my true partner, as well as my wife.”

  She beamed, and again he wished that this “urgent matter” could have waited until tomorrow, at the very least. He kissed her hand. “Jasper, I trust that you will keep the crowd entertained until we rejoin you. Tell the others to meet me …” He hesitated for a moment, then acknowledged the seriousness of the matter. “To meet me in the War Room.”

  Chapter Two

  The king and his new wife arrived first. Rex followed obediently, heading straight for his favorite corner, where he turned nose to tail and promptly fell asleep. The others trickled in as Jasper was able to find them. First to arrive was Ben, already undoing his collar and shrugging out of the formal coat, flinging it casually on a chair. “Jasper said something’s up with Sabine.”

  “Your guess is as good as ours,” said the king. “I saw someone come in to speak to him and Jasper said we should all convene.”

  Ben bowed to the new queen. “You had him all to yourself for about two minutes, Your Majesty.”

  Laylah leaned in toward her husband, who slipped an arm about her waist. “More than I expected to have, truly. Do not worry, Mr. Finn. I understood the import of my choice in who I loved.”

  “Ben, please. I’m glad to hear you understand. But if you’ll pardon the language, it still stinks.”

  Laylah smiled. “So it does.”

  Page hurried in. Kalin followed her, her brow furrowed in worry. Laylah embraced Page tightly and smiled at her countrywoman, who, the king noticed, did not return the expression. Page drew back, smiling sadly. “I did warn you,” she said.

  “Everyone did,” Laylah said. “I am more concerned with whatever is going on with Sabine than in having the day interrupted. We are married, and to me, that is all that matters.”

  “Spoken like a true Auroran,” said Kalin. “I pray this is all not as dire as it seems.”

  “Hate to interrupt the romance, my lord,” came the gruff but warm voice of Jack Timmins, the captain of the guard. “Sabine’s right behind me, and from the way he and Jasper are behaving, we’ll soon have a situation here right enough.” Timmins had been made head of the Bowerstone Guards shortly after the devastating attack of the Nightcrawler upon Albion. With his brusque but professional, thoughtful manner he had won a place in the king’s affections as well as his esteem. He wasn’t Sir Walter Beck. No one could be. Walter was irreplaceable. But Timmins was turning into a true and loyal friend as well as a shrewd military advisor.

  The monarch barely had time to acknowledge Timmins when Sabine came trundling through the door, looking as furious as the king had ever seen him. With him was of course Boulder, and a young man—though not the Dweller messenger who had called Sabine away from the ceremony. This boy, who couldn’t be much older than twenty, if that, appeared different from anyone the king had ever seen. He was clad in Dweller clothes, but they were ill fitting and clearly not his own. His skin was the same shade as Laylah’s, but his brown eyes had a slight slant.

  Those eyes looked almost vacant, and the boy seemed to be sleepwalking. The king winced in sympathy. He knew the look of one who had borne witness to horrors no one should ever see.

  “This young fellow managed to survive crossing the Blade Mountains chain in the dead of winter,” Sabine began.

  “From Samarkand?” The king looked with renewed interest at the boy. No wonder he looked exotic. The monarch had never personally met anyone from Samarkand before, though of course he had heard stories of the place. The king’s father, a Hero himself, had traveled with a Samarkandian known as Garth as well as the disliked Reaver. The king recalled his father’s speaking of Garth as one of the most powerful Will users he had ever heard of.

  “No, from Brightwall,” said Sabine, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, of course from Samarkand. Now, go on, boy. Tell these good people what you told me. It’s all right.”

  The youth lifted his haunted eyes to the king and said simply, “They are coming.”

  “Who is—” began Kalin, then fell silent. Laylah locked eyes with her, both of them clearly fearing the worst. Everyone else stared at the floor. No one wanted to speak, to give a concrete reality to what was now simply a horrible fear.

  Sabine nodded miserably, reading their expressions. “It’s as bad a
s you think. It took those who found him several days to get that much out of the poor lad. It seems that portentous statement is a direct quote. They spared him so we would know.”

  “Why?” asked Timmins. “Why warn us?”

  “To make us fear, Timmins,” the king said quietly.

  “They came from nowhere.” All eyes turned to the Samarkandian. He spoke in a hollow, empty voice. “We don’t know what happened. The roads were blocked against the attack, and all the gates in the wall around Zahadar were lowered. It was like—like …”

  “Being locked in a prison in your own city,” Laylah said quietly. The boy’s gaze jerked to her, and he stared at her raptly. “Under siege by shadows and whispers. Not a darkness like that of the sky at night, filled with comforting stars. An absence of everything—and a presence of hate and fear and a delight in torment.” She strode over to the boy. He permitted her to take his hands though they remained limp in hers. “They told you things as they took all you loved. No rest, no respite.”

  He nodded slowly. His throat worked for a moment, then he continued. “No one ever got inside Zahadar. Anyone who attempted it would have been slaughtered.”

  “The ships we sent last year,” Kalin said to the king and Laylah. The king nodded, pressing his lips together. Samarkand and Aurora had traded with one another sporadically through the years. With the defeat of the darkness—at least they had all believed it to be defeated, he thought bitterly—and the new prosperity the alliance with Albion had brought to that desert land, the Auroran fleet had once again opened trade routes. No fewer than eight fully loaded ships had been sent to Samarkand and were never heard from again. It had been ill luck indeed, and a sore blow to the economy of Aurora, but no one had thought it more than that. It seemed they had been dreadfully wrong.

  “Some of us could bear it no longer.” The boy was speaking as if a dam had burst inside him, and his hands closed so tightly on Laylah’s that she winced slightly but did not let go. “We fled. Over forty of us started out. We even had protectors. Those were the ones they picked off first. We kept them at bay at night. They called the beasts in from the wilds to attack us during the day, and the winds—the winds …” His voice trailed off.