Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  Valamon turned, his expression filling with warmth.

  “Lord Qara, I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk since… everything…”

  Qara swallowed.

  “I…” she said. “I…”

  She seemed to be choking, and Valamon felt slightly alarmed.

  “I…I’m sorry,” said Qara, her voice cracking. “Valamon, I’m so sorry… For all the things I said… All the things I did to you…”

  Her shoulders shuddered, and for a moment Valamon thought she was going to cry. Then he realised she was trying to raise her arms, her limbs jerking awkwardly towards him. Valamon quickly stepped forward and put his arms around her in a gentle hug.

  “It’s all right, Qara. I’ve long forgiven your childhood transgressions, as I’m sure you’ve forgiven mine.”

  Qara looked briefly puzzled, then slightly suspicious, and Valamon continued quickly.

  “The city owes you a debt of gratitude, as do I. You have been, and always will be, beloved of my brother and me.”

  Qara’s arms seemed to vaguely remember where they were supposed to go and wrapped around Valamon stiffly. From across the clearing, Haska and Elhan watched with very different expressions.

  “He’s big into the hugging thing, isn’t he?” said Elhan.

  Graciously, Haska remained silent. Elhan peered up at Haska.

  “I heard about your face,” said Elhan, a note of sympathy in her voice.

  Haska maintained a dignified silence, although she was starting to wish she was standing next to someone else.

  “Seris used to try and heal me without permission all the time,” continued Elhan, lowering her voice. “I think that’s why they took it away from him.”

  Haska felt a tinge of relief when Falon and Seris headed towards them from between the trees. Falon paused in front of Elhan, looking at her with wary appraisal.

  “The curse may be broken,” said Elhan, “but I can still punch you in the head until you fall over.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Falon dryly. “Elhan del Gavir, consider yourself officially pardoned for your crimes against the Talgaran Empire. Please note that this does not cover future crimes.”

  “You’re pardoning her for everything?” said Seris, and Elhan shot him a sour look.

  “Prince Valamon says he owes her one.” Falon’s tone suggested that, in this matter at least, his opinion of his brother had not vastly improved.

  Elhan turned to Seris, her face lighting up with a sky full of possibilities. Seris returned the smile.

  “I guess it’s time you found a place to call home,” said Seris.

  TWENTY ONE

  Two tall thrones carved from cherry oak stood on the dais of the throne room. However, neither was used very often, as the intended occupants preferred to stalk the lands, moving freely to wherever they felt there was work to be done. Algaris Castle had never known such terror as swept through its halls these days, although it was accompanied by a certain fearful thrill, a sense that change was happening and everyone was being carried forth upon a great wave.

  Falon strode into the throne room, a cluster of messengers, squires, and soldiers trailing him like exhausted ducklings. From behind a desk piled neatly with parchments, Albaran rose to his feet and gave a brief salute.

  “Isn’t Lord Haska supposed to be here?” snapped Falon.

  “Lord Haska has finished with her petitioners,” said Albaran.

  “How the devil does she get through them so quickly?”

  “I believe she gets Lord Valamon to leave notes on the pages. Regarding your petitioners, I’ve prioritised and subdivided the queries into those requiring your attention…”

  Albaran handed Falon a slim pile of parchments.

  “…those you might prefer Lord Qara to deal with…” Albaran gestured to another tray of documents. “And those I would be happy to…make arrangements for…with your permission.”

  Albaran laid the tips of his fingers on a thick pile of parchments. Falon had the peculiar feeling he was about to remove the stopper from a genie-shaped bottle; however, it was true that the number of vexatious complaints had halved since Albaran had taken over the petitioning process. Falon hadn’t seen any of the squabbling houses in weeks, not since Qara and Albaran had paid a visit to several prominent nobles to sort out something involving burning packages and fish heads.

  “Proceed,” said Falon. “But I want a report on all action taken above administrative level.”

  Albaran gave a small bow.

  “May I say what a pleasure it is to be working in Algaris again, Lord Falon?” said Albaran, and Falon couldn’t quite tell if there was an edge of accusation there.

  “Yes…” Falon decided it had been an excellent suggestion of Qara’s to put him behind a very large, very wide desk.

  She’d also suggested erecting a piked fence, but she’d been voted down on that one. Just.

  “Lord Falon!” piped a young voice, and Falon turned to see a squire trotting into the throne room with her plumed cap askew. “There’s a man here to see you. He was very insistent, and he says—”

  Falon looked past the girl and stared at the large, shambling figure striding into the hall. Although the figure was attired in the plain garb of a peasant farmer, he walked with the confidence of a man in full armour. He caught sight of Falon and swept gracefully to one knee.

  “Your Highness,” burred the man, his voice a rich baritone. “I have returned.”

  Albaran carefully extricated the pile of parchments from Falon’s unresisting fingers, and Falon took several faltering steps towards the genuflecting man.

  “Sir Goron…”

  “Your Highness,” said Goron. “I fear that I return in shame and mourning. I failed the king and offer myself for whatever fate awaits me.”

  Falon pulled Goron to his feet, looking over the hale, weathered man in disbelief.

  “You—You’re—” Falon struggled for words. “Why are you dressed like a farmer?”

  “My pride lies in worse tatters than my garments—”

  “Sir Goron! Report!” said Falon, caught between wanting to shake and hug the man.

  “Your father entrusted me with the task of destroying the Kali-Adelsa. Grievously, she defeated me. She took my sword but spared my life, on the condition that I hide my existence until the king’s death. Alas, I’ve been living as a goat farmer beyond the Belass Ranges and heard only weeks ago that both King Delmar and Queen Nalan had passed. I return with heavy heart to serve my empire as you and your brother see fit.”

  Falon gripped Goron’s arms, feeling an unfamiliar surge of optimism. For the first time in his adult life, Falon wondered if sometimes, just maybe, a little hope was justified.

  “You return to an empire in the midst of great change, Sir Goron,” said Falon, leading the knight down the hall. “Lord Haska and I share rule of the empire, at least until the treaties are signed and the ceded territories stable. We’ve dismantled the royal family—we’re all just a bunch of lords now, although it doesn’t really make a difference, since it’s still the same amount of paperwork…”

  She wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, but it was like the turning of a season or the return of an old friend. She felt like she could finally breathe again.

  Qara hadn’t thought of herself as particularly unhappy, but she’d spent so long trying not to feel very much at all that she probably wouldn’t have recognised it as anything other than indigestion. She’d allowed her guilt to become a carapace, to the extent that she’d almost forgotten there was still something living inside.

  It was such a common story—she’d been a headstrong child with a willful father, and during Qara’s arrogant teenage years…words had been said. Their last fight had been over such a petty thing—her father had wanted her to accompany him on campaign, she wanted to join the Talgaran Guard. She refused to go with him, and he never returned, leaving Qara with a mountain of guilty regrets that cru
shed her heart until she could no longer bear it.

  Some childish part of her had thought she could somehow bring him back by becoming him. She thought she could shut out love, shut out pain, shut out all those frailties that threatened to break her into pieces. Yet all those feelings had found her anyway, eventually.

  Qara stood beneath the pomegranate trees, sunlight washing through the spindly branches. Neat groves stretched into the distance, boughs of rumpled red blossoms swaying in the breeze. Her father had helped King Delmar plant this orchard decades ago to impress a visiting Princess Nalan. Valamon said her father had visited here often and spoke to one tree in particular when he thought he was alone.

  The crown of the tree was a good fifteen feet high, but Qara could see a scrap of red cloth, wound firmly down the length of a thick branch. The weathered fabric had been slowly stretched to its breaking point, as though it had been tied when the tree was still a sapling.

  Qara couldn’t be sure what it meant, but she had become enough of her father to know this—sometimes, when you were too late, or too far, or too proud to say the things you’d meant to say, it was still important that they be said. And perhaps somehow, somewhere, sometime, the right person would hear them.

  Footsteps padded over the rough dirt track, and Qara turned to see Falon approaching through the trees, wearing a smile that, for once, bore no trace of bitterness.

  “Your High—Falon,” said Qara. “What are you doing here?”

  Falon grinned, as though sharing some delightfully horrid news.

  “I have the afternoon off. Haska and Valamon are entertaining the Hurel delegates. And by entertaining, I mean Valamon’s confusing them with gibberish and Haska’s making them agree.”

  “Truly a match made by the gods. So, what will you be doing with this legendary afternoon off?”

  Falon took a deep breath, looking around as though surveying a world full of delicious adventure.

  “I thought I might go riding, or have a swim, maybe some fencing.”

  “Maybe go carousing?” deadpanned Qara.

  “Maybe go carousing,” agreed Falon, equally deadpan.

  He let out a slow breath, turning to face Qara with an entirely unfamiliar expression in his eyes.

  “Qara…”

  “Yes?”

  Falon took Qara’s hand gently, tracing a thumb slowly over her weathered palm, callused from bowstrings and blades. He was silent for a long while, seeming deep in meditation, or possibly having a very long internal monologue.

  “I think,” said Falon, “I’d like to spend my afternoon on a leisurely walk. May I join you?”

  Qara closed her hand gently around his.

  “Of course.”

  Side by side, they strolled through the arched branches, crimson trumpets carpeting the sunlit avenue.

  The lamp burned softly on Valamon’s desk, colouring the room in gentle chiaroscuro. Assorted letters and odd souvenirs filled the room, the only sound the conscientious scraping of a quill over parchment.

  A faint breeze drifted through the arched window, and Valamon glanced at the panel of sky, stars winking in the darkness. The first dramatic sign of change had crashed through that window, but he’d never imagined how deep and how powerful those changes would be.

  There were no mirrors in the room, as Haska still found them disconcerting. However, Valamon had discovered that how you looked delivering a speech mattered far less than how you felt. And he felt…

  Haska sprawled lazily over one of the couches.

  “We swear in the new Council of Gavir next month,” said Haska. “I was wondering whether we should ask the—Elhan—if she’d like to attend.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate the thought.” Valamon watched Haska’s finger dragging distractedly down her cheek. “Is it still bothering you?”

  Haska realised what she was doing and returned her hand to the armrest.

  “I’ll get used to it. He did take away half my face.”

  “Actually, he more or less gave it back,” said Valamon, joining Haska on the couch.

  Haska’s scowl turned into subdued silence.

  “It doesn’t feel like mine,” she said.

  Valamon took Haska’s hands, looking into eyes that had changed so much since he’d first seen them, full of hellfire and hatred. Admittedly, there was still more than a trace of hellfire, but he understood it came with the Fey heritage. And it had certainly come in handy when they were negotiating temporary borders with the Goethos States.

  The thing about change was that you couldn’t really stop it, and you often couldn’t control it. Sometimes, it happened to you before you were ready, but the truth was, no one was ever really ready. It was just that some people fought it and ended up being swept away. Some people just let it happen and were buried by regrets and resentment.

  But some people tried to shape change, tried to steer it in a certain direction. Change was nebulous, and the shape of the world after it depended on people and the choices they made. You always had to believe that you could make a difference. You had to have hope, and sometimes, things that seemed impossible turned out to be… remarkable.

  Valamon touched his hand gently to Haska’s cheek.

  “Faces change,” said Valamon. “Hearts change. The world changes. But who you are and what you want to become can be your constants. Keeping you on course towards the life you want to lead and the legacy you want to leave behind.”

  “And what do you want to become, Valamon?”

  “Older, wiser, better. And you, Haska del Fey?”

  Haska turned her eyes towards the seemingly changeless constellations. Somewhere across the heavens, a star burst into silvery existence.

  She turned to Valamon, and the fire in her eyes shone.

  “I suppose we’ll find out,” said Haska.

  There was no trace of her. Seris closed his eyes, but all he felt was the sun against his skin, and the grass tickling beneath him. Morle was convinced Eliantora would welcome him back, given time. However, the sorcery that resurrected him had wiped away twenty years of a carefully cultivated connection, and Seris wasn’t sure if Eliantora had the patience to rebuild it.

  He felt the rapid thud of footsteps through the earth and opened his eyes to see Elhan running across the garden towards him. She flopped onto the grass and tossed a muddy potato onto his chest.

  “I brought you a potato,” said Elhan. “You still like potatoes, right?”

  Dressed in a slightly oversized tunic and well-patched breeches, Elhan looked like any other slightly disturbed young woman. Her hair was tied back with a strip of leather, and a wooden pendant in the shape of a bird hung from a cord around her neck. And her eyes were…just eyes.

  “I don’t think Petr would appreciate—” began Seris.

  Morle marched into the garden, radiating a cloud of stern, unspoken words. She strode over to Seris and Elhan, and pointed hard at Elhan.

  “Are you supposed to be helping Morle with the patients?” said Seris.

  “Why doesn’t Seris have to help?” said Elhan. “He was just napping.”

  “I was meditating.”

  A loud knocking could be heard from the front doors of the temple, and Morle rapped her quarterstaff on Elhan’s knee.

  “Hey!” protested Elhan.

  “You are the youngest,” said Seris.

  “I was resurrected before you!” said Elhan.

  She scrambled to her feet before Morle could poke her again, but she clearly felt that her logic was being ignored. As Elhan trudged towards the temple, Seris rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his robes.

  “Anything?” said Morle.

  Seris shook his head.

  “Maybe I should just go join the clerics of Thorlassia,” he said dejectedly.

  Morle looked appalled.

  “Or maybe the clerics of Fiviel,” said Seris quickly.

  Morle looked only slightly less appalled. She paused, and then gave Seris a quick h
ug.

  “You don’t have to be a cleric to make people better,” she said.

  Elhan strode back into the garden, followed by a tanned man in pale blue robes.

  “There’s a guy here to see you,” said Elhan, although the man seemed to be staring fixedly at Elhan.

  “Olrios?” said Seris.

  Elhan’s gaze turned sharply to Olrios, and he quickly smoothed away his expression of intense curiosity.

  “Seris, how are you?” he said.

  “Alive.”

  Olrios looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “I’m not sure if we parted on good terms or not. Sorcerers have difficulty keeping track of things like that, as Kaligara recently reminded me.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be found.”

  “Well, curiosity’s a terrible thing,” said Olrios, and there was a flash of something slightly hungry behind his eyes. “I had to make my apologies to Kaligara at Horizon’s Gate, so you could say I was in the neighbourhood.”

  “She’s not the Kali-Adelsa anymore,” said Seris firmly.

  Morle and Elhan shifted closer to Seris, with the faintest touch of defensiveness.

  “No, but she still carries the mark of the Old Kin.” Olrios turned his eyes towards Elhan. “You still remember them, don’t you?”

  Elhan paused, glancing at Seris, then back at Olrios.

  “I remember.”

  A flicker of a smile tugged at Olrios’s lips.

  “How much? How many? How far—” said Olrios.

  There was a distant knocking from the front doors.

  “I should get that,” said Elhan, throwing a wary look at Olrios as she passed, but Seris could see the curiosity in her eyes.

  “Is that why you’re here, Olrios?” said Seris.

  “You can dress her and wash her and fill her veins with blood, but she’ll never be normal, Seris. She remembers worlds you can’t imagine. She spent a lifetime as the vessel of the Old Kin, and their knowledge, their memories, their yearnings are still there. Don’t deny her a chance to know herself.”

  Bees hummed lazily around the garden, and you could almost hear the plants pushing slowly through the soil.