“With this confession, you must understand my further concern,” Kaille pushed ahead uncomfortably. “Did you…” he sighed, then pushed forward, “did you…dispatch the men on the Illiamnaut?”
Fenric looked pained. The ghost of the sinking ship passed through his eyes. “I didn’t lay a hand on them, Captain. That’s the truth.”
“If not you, then who?” Jas asked intensely. “Was it your savages?”
“Jas,” Kaille scolded, seeing how this line of questioning awoke a hint of fear in the Scribe, “we don’t need to accuse old men and children of the kind of slaughter pirates are all too happy to commit.”
“But Kaille—” Jas hissed, “they bled from the eyes—”
“I intend to get a full account of that night, and no mistake,” Kaille said, pointing meaningfully at the Scribe. “But for now, what I want to know is this: was the attack we saved you from one that was well-planned or one of opportunity?”
Fenric seemed equally taken aback at this question. “Captain, you cut to the quick,” he gasped. “These are my own questions about that night, ones to which I have not yet found a satisfactory answer—”
“You’ve shared too much with us to act your ignorance now,” said the Captain sternly.
“The ignorance is no act,” Fenric implored. “I can see how the attack would have been planned, indeed, but I can see a royal frigate as a welcome opportunity for pirates also. I could share my theories with you, but what good are theories in a place of truth?”
The Captain looked down at the carved eye and nodded. “An attack of opportunity wouldn’t surprise me either. The pirates have pushed themselves into every corner of our seas—”
“Soon their number will grow beyond our ability to protect ourselves,” Jas said, jumping upon the chance to continue one of his favorite rants. “Nic Pharus’s negligence has led to this, we can be certain, but where have they all come from?”
Fenric shifted calmly. “At last, this is a thing I can tell you,” he whispered intently. “They’re not pirates. No pirates are that well outfitted or that strong in number. They’re regimented. Hired.” Giving them a significant look, he muttered, “They’re privateers.”
Jas, who’d been scanning the horizon, turned to the Scribe in surprise. “Think what you say, old man,” he spat. “Privateers aren’t just hired—they’re sanctioned by those who govern. Are you suggesting we’re at war with another country and we don’t know about it?”
“Perhaps another country,” Fenric considered, “perhaps our own. I don’t know who hired them—they wear a coat of arms with which I’m not familiar.”
Kaille thought back to reports of pirate sightings and the standards they were known to fly. “The arrow-struck bird?” he asked. “I’d never seen it before a few years ago, but now it’s fairly common.”
“The bird is a Piper,” Fenric said with a nod. “I believe it to be in reference to the legendary beginning of the Mallar dynasty.”
Kaille smiled, unbelieving, “You’re suggesting that the crest means, quite literally, ‘Death to the Mallars’?”
“Why not, with a Usurper on the throne?” Fenric asked, leaning forward on his crutch. “Is it truly so difficult to believe?”
Jas and the Captain shared a frightened look, as though suddenly seeing a color they’d never known existed.
“What do you know,” asked Fenric slowly, “about the Mallars?”
*
Chapter 3:
The Mallars
* * * * *
The Queen and the Piper
The Rise of the Mallar Empire
Royal Rites and Stories
Edited by Ershivard Tumberlin
*
Long ago, there was a Queen who was kind and wise and good. Her husband the King had a grand dream and, not long after they were wed, she grew to share it. They wished more than anything to end the tribal wars of the lands they loved and to unite the disparate provinces of the Great Isle into one vast, self-sustaining Kingdom.
With a firm yet a gentle touch, King and Queen toiled for many years, weaving the separate peoples together—making from many, one.
One day, during the Final Battle, the King was struck by an arrow, and the Queen was called to his side. Before his death, he bid her to finish their work and to rule over the realm with justice and magnanimity, and so she finished the job of uniting the Kingdom. She named it Illiamna, after their beloved sky god.
The Queen’s reign was marked by peace and prosperity, but as time passed and she grew older, she realized that it would soon be time to pass on the crown.
The Queen had seven sons, each of whom she loved very much. No matter how she loved them, however, she loved her kingdom more. Being wise, she knew the newly united provinces wouldn’t rest easily under the wrong kind of ruler. To ensure that she would leave the kindest and wisest person on the throne, she held a contest, the prize of which was the title of King.
The Queen placed inside a circle two women who were fighting over the ownership of a lamb. The northern woman swore that she had purchased the lamb’s mother and therefore the lamb, in accordance with northern law. The other vowed that, as defined by southern traditions, the sheep had been merely rented, and therefore the lamb was stolen.
Then, the Old Queen bade her contestants to create peace.
Out of fairness, her seven sons were entered into the competition.
Her eldest son, who was very brave and strong, suggested the women battle for ownership. The women took a few scratches at one another before tiring of their sport, but no peace was discovered, only further animosity. The old queen saw the sense of this, nonetheless, and named her eldest son as leader of the military, but not King.
Her second son, who was very learned, sat for hours in debate with the two women, citing laws from the icy north, sandy south, barren east, and city west. The women crossed their arms, unwilling to accept any laws but their own. The Queen, however, was pleased anyway, and named her second son as chief justice, but not King.
In this manner, on the first day, the Queen appointed all of her children to prestigious posts, but none as King.
On the second day of the festival the Queen heard the solutions of the nobles. She was delighted with many of them, even though the women continued to glare angrily at one another. She appointed several, but the crown remained upon her head.
On the third day she heard the merchants. Fewer still gained posts, and a monarch had not been found.
On the fourth day she heard the peasants. The Kingdom became discouraged that she would ever find what she was looking for. Her sons, still smarting from her rejection of their rule, felt hopeful that she would be compelled to change her mind about one of them.
Midday, however, a man in patched clothing entered the circle. He smiled fondly at the two women, who were now so tired and frustrated that they despised one another more than ever.
The Queen, who had dozed off in the heat of the day, woke to a gentle melody played on a set of wooden pipes. The song was sweet and sad, and spoke to her of warm breezes upon the wheat fields. She opened her eyes to see a handsome young man with long mahogany hair and gray eyes.
“Who are you, dear Piper? And how have you come to be here?” she inquired.
“I am Lurran Mallar,” he replied with confidence and grace, “and I have come to compete.”
The nobles in the audience ridiculed his confidence, pointing to his ragged clothes and bare feet. Clearly, they commented, his confidence had done little for him.
“And how would you solve my problem?” the Queen asked him eagerly.
Lurran said: “My pipes bring peace where e’er they’re heard.”
And then he played. The song was directed to the angry women, who could not help but listen. At first he played a melody of icy Bruinbak where cold was held at bay by thick walls and the warmth of loved ones around the fire. Then the melody changed to that of the Dunes, where sand flowed across the land like water and
where the only thing worth wasting precious tears upon was the site of a long-absent friend or sister, returned from the other side of the burning sand.
Next, once both women had heard their own lives in his tune, he twined them together. In his melodic tones they heard the point of view of the other, and found that they sympathized with the other’s plight. When the song ended, they chattered excitedly, as though picking up on a conversation they’d been having for years. The crowd could hardly believe their eyes. When asked, the women embraced one another, saying they agreed to share the lamb and all of its descendants.
The old Queen, who understood perfectly what had happened, gravely approached the Piper.
“Lurran Mallar,” she said, removing the crown from her head, “I give thee my kingdom. It is you who will maintain the peace of this land when I am gone.”
The Queen’s sons grew angry. It seemed unfair that their beloved mother had given their birthright to a pauper she had only just met.
Charging down to the circle, the eldest pulled out a sword to challenge the Piper.
The second eldest began to argue the injustice of such an appointment. “What,” he asked, “has this peasant done besides play a pipe tolerably well?”
“Don’t you see what he’s done?” the Queen asked them patiently, gesturing to the two women, who were still chatting as though the oldest of friends.
“They grew tired of their argument,” offered one son.
“It has only just sunk in what I said to them earlier,” suggested another.
“No, my loves,” the Queen said with a smile. “They’ve been united, don’t you see? One can’t bring together such different people under a single law and simply expect peace. One must see deep down into our common humanity, and then show us all that peace will be found within what we share. That is the lesson of the Piper.”
Despite their disappointment, her sons saw the wisdom in this, and so the Mallars reigned for many generations, spreading peace and prosperity throughout the land.
* * * * *
In the warm, sun-lit sitting room of the Delahaye Estate, there sat three girls. Two were daughters of the estate, with matching auburn hair and crystal blue eyes, and the other was a girl already familiar to our story, though her unruly mahogany hair had been tamed on this day by a morning indoors. Her name was Lucy.
The eldest Delahaye daughter, the young woman Simone, perched demurely on a pale blue divan, sewing the final stitches of her youngest sister’s silk frock. She leaned over her work with great care and attention, her soft gaze intent and her silken hair neatly arranged in twists and curls.
The owner of the frock-to-be shuddered in expectant pleasure as Lucy, the Delahaye ward, twisted and tied her unruly hair into tidy braids.
Simone pulled a final thread through her work, deftly working it into a knot and giving a sudden tug to detach it. She gently set down her needle and prepared to display her work to its intended owner. Lucy, however, stopped the motion with a quick draw of breath.
“Don’t you dare!” she warned. “You may be finished, but I’m not.”
“It seems silly to just sit here with it,” Simone said, frowning slightly. “May I just give her a little peek?”
“Not a glimpse! Not even a sneak!” Lucy exclaimed in answer, pushing a deft pin into the squirming girl’s hair. “You know perfectly well that our Adeline is incapable of containing her excitement. She’ll run round the room in a riot, which her braids aren’t ready for yet.”
“But Lucy,” whined the impatient Adeline, a mere babe at seven years of age, from in front of her. “I want to see my dress.” She let out the final ‘s’ as a petulant hiss.
“I know you do, but we’ve got a lot left to do here—”
“Lucy!” Adeline cried.
“—so you’ll just have to sit still while I…I’m kidding!” Lucy removed her hands from her work. “Look: all done.”
“I want to see,” Adeline squealed as expected, jumping up to stand expectantly before her eldest sister. “I want to see!”
Simone brandished the frock, holding it up to her own chest to display the soft blue color and white trim. “What do you think?”
Adeline’s jaw fell open in admiring wonder. “It’s beautiful, Simone! I love it so much!” Taking the dress from her eldest sister, Adeline held it to her own chest with one hand and took the edge of the skirt in the other. With a flourish, she turned round the room, practicing her childish dance.
“Your hair looks nice too,” Simone called to her. Adeline threw them a toothy smile and continued her ballet.
“Is it wrong for me to be jealous?” Lucy inquired of the smiling Simone.
“Of what, dear?” asked the lovely auburn girl.
“That I don’t have a dress yet?” Lucy clarified. “My uncle’s never failed to send one before. But the ball is so soon. What if I have to wear last year’s? I would die!”
“It’s a good thing there’s still time, then,” Simone said serenely. “I kind of like having you around.”
“If you like me so much, maybe I should beg on my knees for one of your dresses,” Lucy let the matter continue. “I’ve never had the patience to sew.”
“And I do?” Simone laughed. “Oh goodness, a child’s dress is tricky enough, and Adeline’s isn’t even close to being one of the fancy frocks your uncle sends from the best designers in Illiamna—”
“I don’t care who they’re from,” Lucy entreated, “so long as there are no more frocks! I sent him a letter immediately after the last ball saying that I was far too old for that kind of thing. If Emibelle has been presented in society, I should be too. She’s only a year ahead of me. Just because my uncle wasn’t there to give permission…”
“That can’t be easy, Lucy,” Simone said without guile. Her dewy blue eyes turned inward as a memory overcame her. Lucy could tell she was recalling the evening she’d stood upon the top step of a grand staircase, for the first time in an elegant floor-length dress instead of the shin-high frocks of childhood, stepping forward when her name was announced. As though to share the thoughts so apparent on her face, she said dreamily, “I remember when I was presented and wore a gown for the first time…”
“I remember too,” Lucy said, recalling this moment from her vantage point at the bottom of the stairs. She tried to imagine herself in Simone’s place, stunning and shy, all eyes on her. “You were so beautiful.”
“Just like me!” Adeline interrupted, waking the two from their shared reverie.
“Just like you, knucklehead,” Lucy agreed, turning in her seat to see where Adeline would run next.
Instead she saw the middle of the Delahaye daughters, Emibelle, standing in a doorway. She was the final of the three auburn-haired girls who belonged to the grand estate, but her presence didn’t complete the group. Instead, she floated in, tension following in her wake.
“You will not believe what happened in town!” Emibelle blurted without ceremony. She wore a light blue dress fit for a morning out. In her arms she carried several wrapped boxes.
“Emi, we were just talking about you,” Simone said. She cleared a seat among the scraps of fabric and ribbon from Adeline’s dress. “What happened? Did the shop finish your gown?”
“What?” Emibelle responded distractedly, tossing her bonnet and boxes aside. “Oh, yes, it’s being put away. No, something far better.”
“Tell me, tell me,” Adeline begged, tossing herself on her sister’s lap.
“Who did your hair?” Emibelle asked, holding Adeline’s head between her two hands and turning it this way and that. “It’s so uneven. Here, let me fix it.” Before Adeline could protest, she was scooped into her older sister’s clutch. Lucy opened her mouth to speak, but Emibelle beat her to it. “I’ll have you know that Linisie Estate has been purchased.”
“That isn’t news,” Lucy sneered, crossing her arms as she watched her hard work being undone.
“An older gentleman from Scadia made an offer,�
� Simone said, recalling her own intelligence on the matter. “He intends to retire there.”
Lucy hadn’t known as much, but she shot Emibelle a look as though she had.
“Well, perhaps if you let me finish,” Emibelle said, rolling her eyes, “you would learn that Old Mr. Lorey, that very Scadian gentleman, has an un-wed son.”
This bit of news caught the attention of the girls. “Oh?” Simone gasped. “What news of him? Is it said that he’s handsome?”
“Who cares what they say,” Emibelle waved an imperious hand, “I can tell you he’s handsome. He’s one Dustan Lorey. He has the rich, sun-dyed skin of his Scadian mother and the upright gentility of his Chavenean father. An exotic and fortunate blend, if I may say so.”
Lucy thought back to the boy she’d spoken to through the high-heather outside his carriage. “I met him!” she said as she realized it. The words had barely left her mouth when she was overcome with a violent blush. “Only I didn’t know who he was.”
The Delahayes could not un-see a blush from Lucy, for whom this was a seldom occurrence. “Lucy!” Simone scolded. “You didn’t tell us you’d stumbled upon a rich, handsome boy!”
“Well what could she know from just seeing him?” Emibelle dismissed, not wanting her news to be bested. “I talked to him.”
“I talked to him,” Lucy said through the blood that rushed to her face. She tried to remember what they’d talked about, but it all seemed too silly to share. “A little,” she amended.
“Really,” Emibelle asked, her tone biting, “did you know the thing about his mother and father? Did you know he’s in a place to become immensely rich?”
“Well, no,” Lucy conceded. No, in fact, the boy had seemed more interested in her, asking if she might be a fairy. “No, but—”
“Then don’t butt in,” Emibelle rebuked. “I was telling a story.”
“Was he agreeable?” Simone asked them both, trying to defuse the increasingly tense atmosphere in the sitting room.
“Agreeable enough,” Emibelle said, returning to a level of excitement below what it had previously been. “Though somewhat reserved.”
“Oh, and now we’ve found his flaw,” Simone smiled, patting Lucy on the knee. “He’s reserved. We may cease our swooning.”
The Secret's Keeper and the Heir Page 6