King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One

by B Lynch

  Normally savory smells of fresh-roast pig, toasted apples, and baked beets held no interest for her. Talwyck’s children were bubbly, and friendly, and though Patta’s pain was lessened for being around family, it was not gone. She felt a clouded haze about her; nothing else seemed as important as the pain. The only thing that still interested her was the bottle of wine on the table. Patta poured herself another glass, in spite of the concerned look that Cait had given her.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water, instead?” Cait asked, politely.

  “Not-at-allll,” Patta said, as she brought her fifth glass of the night to her lips. She’d given up all pretensions of etiquette, shy of drinking from the bottle. Patta all but gulped the wine down, and could feel herself swaying. But she was happier; she couldn’t feel that sense of loss as keenly. She could look upon her nieces and nephew, and smile. Auntie Patta tried to smile.

  “I really think -” Cait began, but Talwyck interrupted her.

  “Patta, I’d like to talk with you in the other room,” he said.

  “I think… I’d like to stay… here,” Patta said, as her speech slurred, as she gestured to the rest of the room with her glass. She turned to the children, and cooed at them. “I love being arrround family… It’s so important. You don-now how much it means, to have someone, until they’re ripped from your life!”

  Talwyck took the bottle away from Patta - who reached for it, and glared at him angrily. “We’re going to talk in my study,” Talwyck said, to Cait. “Children, Aunt Patta will be back after dinner. Then you can show her how your music lessons are progressing.” The children bounced in their seats; by her reckoning, they were too young to understand what was going on. But as Talwyck gripped her by the arm - she flinched. “What’re you doing?” she whispered. “Give me that back.”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself in front of my children,” Talwyck whispered, as he pulled her up from the chair. “And I’ve another bottle in my study. If you need to be drunk, I’d rather you do it where they can’t see you.”

  “Izzat it? You think I’m a… bad influence?” Patta said, laughing and swaying, but soon, her mood turned sour. “I dote on your children, I adorrrre them, I’ve been the perfect wife. For years! And when my husband gets his head cut off in public, azza traitor, I don’t get one Yom-damned night to grieve?”

  “Patta, I’m not denying you anything,” Talwyck said, calmly. “I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

  “I want to be around family! You, Cael, Cait, Tresa, Trise - you’re all I have, now. And you…want me to keep me away, from them? Like a leper?” her words snapped with vicious drunkenness.

  “You’re scaring them,” Talwyck whispered. “I want you to feel comforted, but I do not want my children to be any more ill at ease. They still don’t understand why their favorite uncle was executed, or why he would be… a traitor.”

  “And you think I do?” Patta shouted with disbelief, swaying all the while. “He did it! Not me. I don’t know why. He would’ve been a great king… and he was good to me. He never thought Caliandra would become King!” Patta yanked her arm out of her brother’s grip, and stared him down. “He thought what he was doing was rrrright. For allavus… That’s what hurts. Your uncle wasn’t a traitor,” she said, with her nieces and nephew watching. “He was a martyr. He died for this country because he wanted to protect it.”

  “Patta,” Talwyck said, “Come with me. Now.” She fought him as he tried to drag her away. Her hand lashed out without thinking, and then, too late, she realized which hand it was as glass shattered across her brother’s face.

  The children looked on in shock, as did she. Talwyck was stunned; Patta dropped the glass stem to the ground in shock.

  “Oh, Yom, Talwyck - I didn’t,” she said, trying to reach for him, and to find something to stop the bleeding. He shoved her away; she was horrified. Cait looked at her with utter disbelief. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Get out,” Talwyck said, his tone colder than mountain ice. “Now.”

  “Talwyck, I didn’t mean it! Talwyck! I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry -” she said, as she reached for a napkin to pad away the blood, but her brother stopped her.

  “Out!” he barked. Her lip quivering, Patta turned and fled the house. She didn’t take her horse. She ran, and cried, and felt overwhelmed by everything. His blood was on her sleeve, and her hand - she wiped it off on her other hand, but the stain, on one of her favorite dresses, only got worse. Then, she heard children laughing.

  It was late, and the sun was low in the sky, but they were near the executioner’s block - and there were several of them, playing near it. One of the children had his head in the block, playing at Marrol. And standing above him, with a broom-handle for an axe and a crown of branches, was a little girl, pretending to be King. The sight shocked and angered Patta beyond any rage she’d ever felt; Marrol was dead, and these children had turned it into a damned game.

  “Get away from there!” Patta shouted, as she lurched out of the side-street. The startled children ran; the little girl had dropped the axe. Patta walked over to it, and picked it up.

  “It’s her fault,” Patta mumbled, eying the girl from a distance. Patta’s hands trembled with anger as she held the axe in her hand. “It’s. Her. Fault. It’s! Her! Fault!” Patta said as she slammed the broom-handle against the block, over and over and over, until a piece flew off, and landed behind her.

  Patta seethed with anger, and took a deep breath before letting go of the broken wood in her hands.

  It clattered on the cobblestones; she saw people coming out of their homes to see what was the matter. She walked away, towards her house, as quick as she could - she stumbled on a loose cobblestone, but regained her footing soon enough. Patta knew she’d have her revenge, for Marrol’s sake. Caliandra would suffer soon enough.

  I’ll make her wish she’d never laid hands on that axe, Patta thought.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Few things could match the sheer relief that Eliya felt when Akels’s proud stone gates came into view at last; after a week and a half of traveling in the wilderness that covered the borders of Kersik and Barra, Eliya was ecstatic. They’d reached civilization at last. The hunter had led them through the woods, carefully, and they entered Kersikki territory with ease. They forded the Three Sisters safely - even Drowning Eera, whose current was quick, but not as deadly as her reputation would seem - and wound their way around the Elk’s Head Path.

  The hunter left them about twenty miles away from the city itself, near a small town called Fikke. The people there were delighted to see their Prince again, and they shared fresh news from the south: travelers from Barra had said that the pieces of Peacebringer had been recovered, the King Regent was imprisoned for treason, and the true King had been found. It was all a relief to Eliya, until she heard the King’s name: Caliandra.

  “You’re certain?” she asked. “The former Princess?” Yes, Eliya was told, no other than she. The news had stunned her, and when she recovered, she immediately ran to tell Mas, who was equally surprised - but noticed the look of concern on Eliya’s face.

  “Are you not happy for your sister?” he asked.

  “I am, but… it is a great responsibility for her,” Eliya said. “I worry if she’s equal to it.”

  “She has a keen mind, and a good heart - and from what you have told me, she is quite stubborn,” Mas replied, with a slight grin. “I believe she is ready.”

  “That all is true,” Eliya said, as other thoughts came to her mind - and then, she had a sudden realization. “We could go back to Barra, now,” she exclaimed to Mas. “With Marrol imprisoned, you have nothing to fear from him.”

  “Your people will still hold me responsible for what happened,” Mas noted, as he lightly shook his head. “We would need to wait until after my father has imprisoned our chamberlain, for hiring those wicked maids… and you would leave for Barra so soon, after coming all this way?”<
br />
  “I don’t mean that we have to leave,” Eliya replied. “I meant that we would be safe there, when we visited.”

  “And you still want to be married here?” Mas asked.

  “Of course,” Eliya said. “But we could wait now. I would hate for my sister and mother to miss my wedding.”

  “Then we will wait,” Mas said. “And we will have a proper wedding.” The words brought warmth to Eliya’s heart; she smiled, and stood up on her toes to peck him on the cheek. He turned his head, and let her kiss on the lips.

  “That’s a clever trick,” she said, smirking.

  “I thought so,” he replied, as he kissed her back.

  As they approached Akels’ massive triple-gates, worry came to Elyia’s mind: what if the guards don’t recognize Mas? They were forced to sell his finery along the way for food, and warmer clothing - he refused to sell his signet ring which bore the royal seal, and that much Eliya was thankful for. It would be the only means of showing who he was. Without his more regal clothing, he looked like any other Kersikki man, save with a wide jaw and the King’s nose. “Mas,” she said, “Do you think they will know you?”

  “Be calm,” Mas said, as they approached the front gates, wide open, where travelers were walking through at an even pace. Mas pulled a ring from out of his pocket - jewelry that he had kept off his hands as they traveled, for fear of it being stolen. He slid it onto his fourth finger. “They will recognize me, or they will know the seal on my ring. If they do not, the King will be furious.” He walked up to the guards, ahead of Eliya, head held high. She watched as he addressed them, and how his posture lowered as they registered confusion - and he, frustrated disappointment. They had no idea who he was. And then, one of the guards laughed.

  Oh, Yom, Eliya thought, as she sped up her pace, Please let him keep his temper.

  “I cannot say that I do, “ the first guard, a rounded man, said, as she came to Mas’s side. The other, a taller, more thick-shouldered man with a blond beard, stroked it as he regarded Mas’s face.

  “He does have the King’s nose,” the man said. “Perhaps he’s a bastard.”

  Eliya’s eyes widened, and she immediately grabbed Mas’s arms to restrain him. “How dare you!” Mas said, livid. “Me? A bastard? I have traveled a hundred miles to be here, and sold all my clothing, and you greet me by calling me bastard!”

  “Mas,” Eliya said, “Please, calm down, you’ll only make this more difficult.”

  “I demand to see your superior officer,” Prince Mas said, as he held up the back of his hand, showing the ring on his fourth finger. “Perhaps he’ll recognize the royal seal on this ring. And when he does, I should hope to Yom you are apologetic!”

  The bearded guard looked at the ring. “That does look like the seal…” he glanced over at his companion. “I’ll get the Captain. Just to be sure.”

  “It’s not him. You’re wasting your time. He’s down south, in Barra, with his betrothed… Princess what’s-her-name….”

  “Lady Eliya,” Eliya said, in Kersikki, with a curtsy, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The rounder guard looked at her oddly.

  “That’s a heavy accent you have,” he said, as he appeared unsure of his convictions.

  “I am from Barra,” she replied, “Please forgive it.” For once, she was glad for that accent; she strove for a native’s tongue, but Caliandra was always better with language. It was then that she noticed the bearded guard returning, with a more formally dressed, square-jawed man she took to be their captain. His eyes bulged upon seeing Mas - and the ring he wore

  “You idiots!” he shouted. “What are you doing, keeping them waiting here? This is Prince Mas! Can you not tell he’s the very image of the king? And look, upon his hand! Raise it, if you would, please, my Prince.” Mas obliged him, and held it up for the guards to see; the band was gold, inlaid with imported sapphires, bearing the crest of the royal family - two fish, surrounding a shield. It shimmered in the sunlight, as the Captain gestured to it. “These are the carved lines of Kersikki craftsmen of the highest order, and the stones inside cost more than the wages you’d both make for a year! Yom, are you so blind? Let them through before I throttle you.”

  Mas and Eliya shared a look of relief. “Finally,” he said. “Home at last.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The arrival came with the appropriate fanfare and fuss; royal heralds and servants were dispatched from the castle, as were a horse, more princely clothing, a new dress for Eliya, and a detachment of armed guards. The prince was taken to the nearby garrison, where he and Eliya were both re-dressed for their entrance. “Nothing has changed,” Mas grumbled, even as he welcomed the change of clothing, from behind a door. “I cannot even enter the city without doing it the way he wants.”

  “He does not want you to be seen as disgraceful to the throne,” Eliya replied, as a servant attended to her hair in the room on the other side of the door; her mane had not seen the luxury of a combing in some days, and a wash in far more. The garrison was heated, too; each room had a small furnace, and the heat felt as comfortable as silk upon her skin. “It is about appearances, Mas.”

  “I am no less a prince because I wore hunter’s clothing, and slept in the woods,” Mas said. “We survived the woods and fled for our lives. He cares more about how we look than that we are alive, and safe.”

  “He means well,” Eliya replied. “And tell me you aren’t glad to change out of those clothes.”

  “I am,” he replied. But in his tone, Eliya sensed that perhaps, he wasn’t.

  As they passed through the streets, she was reminded of the processions at home; the people flooded the streets, and their enthusiasm filled the air. It brought a smile to her face, but Mas disdained it. She could tell from the way he forced himself to smile, and how stiff he sat in the saddle, that he wasn’t relaxed in the least. She tried to compensate for the crowd, by waving more, and greeting the crowd as she was taught - with poise, and grace. At the very least, their focus wouldn’t fully be on him.

  She saw a myriad of colors lining the streets - blues, browns, and whites, like water, sand, and sea-foam, were predominantly worn by the peasants, with the more vivid reds, yellows, purples, and greens seen on merchants and nobles, who waved at the prince from their balconies. Each house was marked by their crest, waving proudly on a flag below the balcony; she saw dogs, wolves, cats, fish, birds, and several animals from Kersikki myth, each embodying a virtue. She wished she could see all of them more closely - the crests were a kind of stylized design dissimilar to the loops and whorls of Barrish art, and fascinating to her - but the procession continued, and Mas was hardly responsive to her questions. He wanted nothing more than to be home.

  They traveled through different sections of the city, and it was then that Eliya saw what Mas had referred to as “the hundred islands” - past the main part of the city were a score of smaller parcels of land, each connected to the city and each other by small bridges. Some bore houses; others, benches and merchant’s stands. The castle itself was on the furthest such island, and Eliya swore that they rode over two dozen such bridges to get there. Soon, the public’s cheers and the sound of trumpets were a distant, echoing memory, as Mas and Eliya reached the tall gates of Castle Wulfrag. It, too, was a far cry from Barrish architecture; it had none of the rigid, jutting walls of Castle Claine, which seemed carved from mountains. Their walls and buildings reminded Eliya of a boat’s hull; layers upon layers of interlocking, perfectly cut stone, all but seamless to the eye. The towers arched into the sky like proud, billowing sails, and bore the curves of the same. Wulfrag was less a building than a stone ship, forever anchored in harbor.

  Eliya rode through the front gates at Mas’s side, and could see the tension ease from his shoulders. His posture slackened. “Thank Yom that is over,” he said to her, in Barrish. “I will be glad to see my brothers, and be out of these damn robes.” He did not allow himself to smile, however; he saw a skinny red-haired page of
thirteen approach them, bearing the royal crest upon his canary-yellow doublet, and a look of anxiety upon his face. Eliya judged it did not bode well for them.

  “His Majesty, King Valkko, wishes to speak with you immediately,” the page said in Kersikki, his eyes darting between Eliya and Mas. “Please follow me to the Great Hall, if you will.” But Mas dismounted, and walked past the boy.

  “I know where to find him,” Mas grumbled. Eliya was startled; Mas was never this way with her, or her sisters. He stalked through the open courtyard, towards the Castle keep; Eliya caught up quickly.

  “Don’t you think you were rude to him? He’s but a messenger,” Eliya said, as she matched Mas’s pace. “He is only doing what the King tells him.”

  “So does everyone in this castle, and this kingdom,” Mas said, his voice low and tinged with disapproval. Discontent flickered behind his blue eyes. “There is no room for differing opinions.”

  “Surely, the King recognizes the wisdom of his children?” Eliya asked. “You, and your brothers?”

  “He does not like to listen, unless it’s the sound of his own voice,” Mas said. He clenched his jaw as they approached the keep, and walked under a set of spiraling stone arches that mimicked a cresting wave; beyond it, an open door, that they walked through, into the marble floors and wide halls of the Castle itself. Mas walked with fists balled, as if he expected a fight. Everything about him in that moment worried her beyond measure. She had seen him angry, but… towards his own father? “Most likely, he wishes to blame me for something.”

  “What could he possibly hold you accountable for, now?” she asked. The answer, she learned, was just that: everything.

  King Valkko excoriated his son for many things, several of which were not his fault - the hiring of the Nest agents, and the new insecurity that the King felt now around all of his men was directed at Mas. The exile of the man responsible for hiring the servants who were secretly Nest agents, too, was a frustration unduly channeled towards Prince Mas. But the King had saved his greater anger for Mas’s true fault: running away, when Marrol had blamed him for the Sparrows.