King Wolhan shook his head. “Nothing is written in stone Connell. I will not risk open warfare unless I am certain it was the King of Ao’dan behind the assassins.”
“Then there is hope that this war will not come to pass?” Connell asked with some relief.
“There is,” The King responded. “Regardless of my decision on the matter, Kesh will not intervene in Trondhiem’s affairs.”
“I would not be surprised if you eventually learn that the Assassins were bought with coin from Trondhiem’s treasury.” Marcos offered from his place near the door. “With Kesh at war there would be little chance of Gaelan receiving any aid.”
King Wolhan looked annoyed at having his conversation interrupted by Marcos’s suggestion. “It could have been Gaelan as well,” He countered. “With Connell on the throne his grip upon the crown would have been assured.”
Connell shook his head; he would not even consider the notion that his cousin was capable of such a deed. “It is Goliad and Vernal who seek to claim the throne. They have disbanded the Landsmarch and have either killed or imprisoned the nobles of the great houses. It was they, not Prince Gaelan who slew the King.”
A greater threat however looms in Trondhiem father.” Connell continued. “Goliad has allied himself with the Morne. They are now in Trondhiem, some have even ventured as far as Lakarra. A war is coming father, and the Morne are our enemy.”
“Morne,” King Wolhan scoffed. “Let them come, we are safe enough within our borders from a few raiders.”
“Do not be a fool, King Wolhan.” Marcos said. “This is not a single tribe that threatens your lands. All the tribes are united, and the eastern lands are at great risk.”
“Who is this man to speak to me in such a manner?” The King asked Connell, his temper flaring anew.
“Marcos,” Connell answered. “Heed his words father for he knows the nature of the danger threatening us.”
“What is it you know, Marcos?” King Wolhan asked in a sarcastic voice. “I have little patience of late and my son has pressed its bounds.”
“Do not speak to me of Patience, King Wolhan.” Marcos said softly, he was growing tired of the sparring between father and son. “I have watched seasons without number pass, always vigilant for the stirrings of our enemy. I have stood upon this very rock ere the first masons hammer fell.” Marcos pushed past the King and stood behind the throne. “I will not let the bickering of a father and son destroy the world.”
King Wolhan laughed, “You have brought a madman before me Connell. Get him and your companions from my site. I have tarried here long enough and the are other matters that require my attention.”
“Father, Marcos is one of the Tal’shear.”
“A sorcerer then,” The King said with little humor in his voice. “What shall we do first? Toss bones or read the entrails of a chicken?” He waved his hand at Connell’s protestations. “Enough of this nonsense.” King Wolhan stepped away from Connell and shouted to the door. “Guards!”
The doors flew open and armed men began to enter.
A powerful blast of wind sent the men sprawling out of the room. The gilded Doors slammed with an echoing boom. Argent light flared and the locks melted into slag sealing them in.
“I will leave on my own accord.” Marcos said above the pounding on the outside of the doors. “You will hear what I have to say before that door ever opens again.”
King Wolhan tried to open the door, after several futile tugs he spun and faced Marcos his hand upon his sword. “What madness is this?”
“The madness of truth,” Marcos answered. “For thousands of years I have watched and waited knowing that this day would eventually come. Sur’kar has returned and the Morne are united beneath his banner. Trothgar is aflame and the servants of the dark are gathering in Tarok-nor.”
King Wolhan began to draw his sword when Connell’s hand grasped his wrist forcing the blade deep into its sheath. “Have you lost your mind as well?” Wolhan asked his son.
Connell relaxed his grip, “With the horrors I have seen father, it is a wonder I have not.”
“It is time for what has long been hidden to be revealed.” Marcos spun on his heel and placed his hand upon the alcoves wall behind the throne. “Open your eyes King Wolhan, the time of legends has returned.”
The room shook and the wall beneath his touch soon filled with deep fissures. Out of the cracks poured a brilliant white light. Marcos stepped back and the fissures widened until the stone was no longer visible. With a nearly silent whoosh of air the light vanished leaving behind a cloud of fine dust that drifted down to the floor.
“Behold the hall of your forefathers,” Marcos announced. “Bathed in the light of Aytor lies the true throne of man.”
Connell smiled at his father’s expression, “I am not the fool I once was.”
King Wolhan failed to hear the words of his son. He was stunned, staring in open amazement at the scene beyond the archway.
The opening led into a broad circular chamber, beneath a domed ceiling of gleaming gold. High windows of stained glass filled one wall; many of the panes were shattered. Through the jagged openings stars could be seen. Dust covered the floor and on the wall opposite the windows the decayed fragments of rotted tapestries still hung from golden hooks.
A large fountain set in the room’s center gurgled, the flow of water having continued over the many centuries that this room had remained hidden.
Beyond the fountain stood an ornate throne of ivory and gold, setting behind it as if on guard was another Demilion. The smaller statue an exact replica of the one at the spires entry, it’s crowned head rising a dozen feet above the floor.
What captured everyone’s eyes was the source of the room’s illumination. A gem the size of a man’s fist hung motionless in the air. It glowed as if it were on fire pulsing with a life of its own.
King Wolhan stepped into the ancient throne room his boots crunching on the debris blown in from the broken windows. He was speechless; he stared in open-eyed wonder at the floating gem overhead.
One by one they stepped into the great hall, their eyes drawn to the light.
King Wolhan lowered his gaze and looked to Marcos who still remained outside the room. “Then the old tales are true?” He asked placing his hand on the worn ivory arm of the throne.
From the archway Marcos nodded. “Many of them are, and yet some have been distorted in the countless retellings.” He looked up to the floating light. “The stone of Aytor was placed here so that no false hoods would stand between the men who would gather before the King.”
“What of this throne?” Wolhan asked. “I have never heard of its kind before.”
“It was known as the regents seat,” Marcos answered. “Fashioned from the ivory horns of the mighty serpent Ysrex. Slain by Aderis Rendir on the sea cliffs of long vanished Thelikor. It is yours King Wolhan, the true throne of this land.”
“Will you not enter?” King Wolhan asked, curious as to why Marcos would remain beyond the archway.
“The guise which I wear is not my own,” Marcos answered. “The light of the stone would rend it from me.”
“You would have me lead my people into war with the Morne on your word alone, let there be no secrets between us.”
“Look at what he has shown you,” Connell said. “And yet you would doubt his word?”
“There are men in this world who can wield power such as his.” The King explained. “Men of that ilk are to be feared, Connell.”
“The King is only being cautious, Connell.” Marcos said stepping through the doorway. “And rightly so.”
The light from the stone brightened and Marcos seemed to blur and waver as if he were beneath water. He began to change; his short dark hair grew long and lightened to the color of golden wheat.
He grew taller and his skin paled, all signs of age disappeared from his face. His eyes remained untouched only burning brighter in the stones light, their colors constantly changing.
What had been a middle-aged man was now a tall lean being whose gaze hinted at great wisdom and formidable power.
“You are fair to look upon Marcos,” D’Yana said once the transformation was complete. “Why do you hide?”
“To appear as I am now, would draw unwanted attention. My purposes are best served when I travel in anonymity. The less the world knows of me the better.”
“Long ago your people left this world, and with the passage of the ages they have become nothing more than a legend.” King Wolhan said coming to stand before Marcos. “And now here you stand.”
“When my people left this fair world I choose to remain.” Marcos lifted his hand and tendrils of light emerged from the floating orb and caressed his open palm. “I knew Sur’kar would return, and with his dark servants he would once again try to conquer the world of man.”
“Will you aid Gaelan now?” Connell asked. “Will you stand against Sur’kar and the Morne?”
The King ran his fingers through his hair. “I must consider all that has been revealed to me. It is no easy task to order men to their deaths, Connell. No matter the reason, it will eat at your very soul.”
Connell lowered his head in acceptance. “You will do the right thing,” He said. “You always have.”
The King looked at his son. “I have always been a better King than a father.”
Connell smiled, “And I a better rogue than son.”
“Now go see your mother,” King Wolhan said. “I have much to think upon and no desire to face her wrath should I detain you further.”
Connell bowed and his friends followed him out of the chamber. As Marcos stepped to the archway King Wolhan called to him.
“Would you stay?” He asked. “I have many questions that need to be answered before I make my decision.”
Marcos smiled, “I would be honored to offer such counsel as I have.”
Connell led Casius and D’Yana through the long passages and many grand halls that seemed to fill the whole of the spire. They were awed by the size and beauty of the keep. Each doorway opening onto rooms whose beauty stole their breath away.
“You left all this to become a Mercenary in Lakarran?” D’Yana asked incredulously.
“A cage of gold is yet a cage,” Connell responded. “At the time all I could see were bars before me.”
“What do you see now?” She asked.
Connell replied with a single word that was filled with emotion. “Home.”
D’Yana smiled and slipped her arm through his. “Then show me all of it.”
Connell laughed, “You do not yet grasp the size of this place, I have not seen it all.”
Word of the prince’s return spread through the keep like a wind driven wild fire. Servants and Guards bowed before him as he passed. At first Connell seemed ill at ease with the honor being bestowed upon him. He soon recovered his composure and returned their courtesies as his station required.
They entered a large passageway filled with the keeps staff. The crowd pressed against the walls allowing Connell and his friends to pass down the halls center. At the end of the corridor a broad stair led upward.
The guards at the stairs base snapped to attention, their armor gleaming in the lamplight.
“These stairs lead to the royal apartments.” Connell told them as they climbed the steps. “This has been my families home for generations.”
It was a short flight and opened onto a sitting parlor of modest proportions. Paneled in dark wood with a ceiling of white plaster it was a stark contrast to the opulence that lay at the foot of the stair.
Two men in gray tunics and red hosiery bowed as Connell stepped into the room.
Connell removed his cloak and handed it to the older man. “It is good to see you Hagen.” He said in greeting.
The man smiled, “It is a happy day for all of Kesh mi lord.”
Connell frowned, “If only that were true, foul tidings like an ill wind follow my shadow.”
The steward looked confused but he said nothing.
“Where is my mother?” Connell asked changing the subject.
“The Queen is in the east garden,” the steward replied while taking the cloaks from the others. “She awaits your arrival.”
There were three doorways in the room; Connell led them through the one on the right. Down another hall and up two flights of stairs they came to a landing with a view that stopped Casius and D’Yana in their tracks.
A series of large terraces had been cut from the side of the Spire. A framework of iron supporting panes of thick glass enclosed them, bending back over their heads to meet the wall above. The air was warm and rich with the perfume of so many flowers.
Roses of many kinds filled planters cut from the rock. A group of benches sat beneath a flower laden trellis overlooking the lights of the city far below them.
Stars twinkled in the cold air beyond the glass, it was well past sunset and a nearly full moon hung high in the sky, its cool soft light touching the peaks of the Dragon Spine Mountains in the west.
Standing next to a bronze basin of water stood the Queen. She wore a gown of amber silk with billowy sleeves of fine lace. Her hair was deep black streaked with gray. She wore it long allowing the tresses to drape her shoulders. A simple circlet of silver and gold rested upon her brow.
She looked up and smiled at them, age had traced small lines about her eyes but much of her beauty yet remained.
Connell rushed down the terraces and fell to one knee. Taking her hand in his and kissed it. “Mother,” he said in a voice full of emotion. “Can you forgive me?”
The Queen smiled softly and pulled him to his feet. “What is there to forgive?” She asked kissing his forehead. “Your father’s blood ran hot in his youth as well. When I look at you I see the man I married so long ago, strong, brave and full of pride. We cannot change what has happened, we can only learn from our mistakes and let that wisdom guide us.”
“Wisdom,” Connell chuckled. “I fear I have very little of that. If it were not for Gaelan’s need I would not have returned at all.” Connell winced as he said those words wishing he could take them back.
“The first step is always the hardest,” The Queen said. “It matters not what brought you here. The only thing of any importance is the fact you came at all. You set aside your pride and risked reopening old wounds and facing your father’s wrath. That took courage Connell, more than some men would be capable of.”
“I only wish I had done it sooner.” Connell said regretfully.
“Perhaps the time was not right.” The Queen said with a shrug.” She looked up and smiled at D’Yana and Casius who were still on the landing. “Who are your friends?”
Connell waved them closer. “This D’Yana a friend of many years.”
The queen smiled, “D’Yana of Lakarra, it is nice to finally meet you.”
D’Yana made an attempt to curtsy, but gave it up and bowed instead.
“The nervous lad here is Casius.” Connell said with a laugh. “A trustworthy companion and friend.”
“My lady,” Casius said bowing deeply.
“Well met both of you.” The queen responded with a nod to them. “Welcome to Red spire friends of my son.” She turned her attention back to Connell. “You wear the dirt of the road as if it were a badge of honor.” She commented brushing at the soiled sleeve of his tunic. “Go now see to your friends comfort, once you have bathed and changed we will have our dinner.”
Connell smiled, “No feast mother, a simple hot meal is what I most desire.”
The queen inclined her head in acceptance. “Very well I shall refrain from turning this into an affair of state.” She said with a slight grin. She pointed to the entry with a cut rose she had been holding. “Go now,” She said. “I will have clothing sent to you all. I doubt anything in your wardrobe still fits Connell.”
Connell bowed and led them out of the garden with a smile upon his face.
Casius stood in the center
of his room feeling like a new man. The steaming tub of water was dark and muddy, with half of Brymir within it, he thought.
He smoothed the tunic he wore and adjusted the sword belt about his waist. He felt foolish and out of place in the outfit. He had rummaged through the pile of clothing the servants had placed upon his bed. Each one was brightly colored and heavily embroidered. Nothing he would have desired to wear at any time. Twice he went through the stack finally settling on the most conservative of the lot.
A deep blue tunic with silver herons embroidered on the sleeves. Dark gray hose and slippers of black felt finished the ensemble. He stood looking with chagrin in a full-length mirror.
“I’m no member of court,” He mumbled to himself. “A jester perhaps,” He added after another glance at the glass.
Connell stepped into the room and broke into a grin at his friend’s discomfort.
“Don’t laugh!” Casius snapped adjusting the sword once more. “Is there not a normal stitch of clothing to be found in the Spire?”
“You look fine.” Connell assured him. “Although most people do not wear swords to the King’s table.” He said eyeing the belt Casius was fiddling with.
Casius undid the buckle and tossed the belt and weapon onto the bed. “Sorry,” he said. “It has become a habit.”
Connell nodded. “As it should, a good swordsman will always feel naked without his blade.”
Casius took a look at Connell. He wore a scarlet tunic with the Demilion of Kesh embroidered across his chest in gold. About his neck hung a heavy gold chain fashioned to resemble leaves of holly. Across his brow a circlet of silver held his dark hair away from his face. Gone was the haggard mercenary of Lakarra, in his place stood the Prince of Kesh.
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