by MJ Blehart
He was brought out of the reverie by a sensation he had not felt in a very long time. It tickled the back of Varlock-Sharron’s memory. It felt like something familiar, almost like there was someone else inside his head, at the base of his skull. He shook his head, and ignored it.
Tulock reentered the study. Behind him, a pair of Guardsmen escorted a cloaked and hooded man between them. He was about average height, but any description beyond that was impossible, the hood hiding his face.
“He is unarmed, sire,” stated one of the guards. “He yielded his weapons to us on his arrival, and bore no others when searched. He would speak not to us, saying his words were only for the ears of the King.”
“Very well, then. You are both dismissed.”
They saluted, and left.
“Welcome to Gara-Sharron,” the King said. He held the object up. “I do indeed know this. How did it come into your possession?”
The man shook his head, and pointed to Sir Tulock.
“This is my Seneschal, Sir Tulock Oran. What you say can be heard by him as well.”
The hooded man adamantly shook his head again, crossing his arms.
Varlock-Sharron looked at Tulock, who glanced back, and shrugged.
“Very well, then. Wait outside, Sir Tulock. If I need you, I shall call.”
“Understood, your Majesty,” stated Tulock. With a salute, fist to heart, he departed from the study, closing the doors behind him.
“Alright, then, friend. It is just you and I. What is it that you can share only with me?”
The hooded man reached up, and pulled back the hood of his cloak.
Varlock-Sharron hissed in surprise, leaning back in his seat. “You!”
“We need to talk, your Majesty,” stated Cam Murtallan evenly, without preamble.
*****
A great deal of thought had gone into Cam’s decision. He weighed all of his options, considered all that he had learned, and again and again returned to the same conclusion.
There could be only one way to save Lyrra-Sharron, the Falcon Raiders, and the Kingdom. Only one man held the key to this. Summoning all the courage he had ever known, Cam rode to Gara-Sharron.
Cloaked and hooded, no Guardsmen at the gate he entered had paid him the slightest attention. Moving at a steady, unhurried pace through the city, Cam noted the tension, and held onto a calm similar to that he used in meditation.
He reached the palace unhindered, and stood a while before its gate. Centering himself as best he could, Cam reached for the bell-pull to the right of the sealed entrance, and rang.
A slit at eye level slid open.
“State your business,” Cam was crisply ordered.
“I need to see the King immediately. I have urgent information for his eyes only.”
“The King does not just see anyone, my lord. Why would he see you?”
“I have information about the Falcon Raiders, as I have lived among them for some time.”
“Do you have any proof of this claim?”
Cam had pondered how he would do this, and took up the rapier, sheathed, showing it to the guard.
“Show his Majesty this. He will know where I got it from. I don’t doubt he will wish to see me then. But I will speak to no other but the King.”
The slit slammed closed, and Cam waited. He presumed his request was being passed along the chain of command. After a few moments, the gate slid up, and a pair of Guardsmen were pointing their weapons at him. A third man, with reddish hair whom Cam had seen standing beside the King at his failed execution, waited.
“Let me take that to the King, my lord,” the man said, holding out a hand for the sheathed rapier.
The Guardsmen both raised their weapons to strike.
Slowly, pommel up, Cam handed the sheathed rapier to the man.
Now he stood once more before the man who had sentenced him to death almost four months ago. The future of the world was hanging on the outcome of this choice.
*****
Varlock-Sharron recovered quickly from the initial shock. He arose, and looked at the Sorcerer before him.
“I certainly did not believe we would ever meet again,” commented the King.
“Nor I, your Majesty,” replied Cam with a hint of irony in his tone.
“Who are you?”
“I am just a Sorcerer, on a very important quest. I have, unfortunately, found myself a bit sidetracked along my journey, from time to time. My name is Cam Murtallan.”
“Cam Murtallan,” Varlock-Sharron repeated, the answer to a question he’d asked a season ago. “Anarian. That is easy enough to recognize. Why have you come here?”
“The course your daughter has set is putting this Kingdom at risk,” Cam pressed ahead. “If she continues unabated, Sharron will be ripped apart. My quest will be terminated if that happens. Sharron will suffer if my purpose is thwarted. The world will suffer if my purpose is thwarted.”
“What do you mean? What quest?” asked the King.
Cam took a step closer. “If she goes before the Common, or she is killed, Sharron will not survive. It has to be stopped. You are the only one who can do so. I’ve foreseen this. That is why I come before you now.”
“Your quest?” pressed the King without flinching.
Cam let out a breath, conceding to the demand. “I am The Seeker of The Source.”
Varlock-Sharron paused, and slowly sat down again. “The Seeker? It is not just a legend? The Source is real?”
Cam nodded his head in the affirmative to that.
Varlock-Sharron eyed him sharply. “Why should I believe you? Claiming to be The Seeker is audacious. Give me one good reason why I should not carry out the sentence pronounced upon you?”
Cam was undaunted. “Your Majesty, I know what Lyrra-Sharron plans. That is her sword, and she gifted it to me after she trained me how to use it.”
The King examined the sword closely. He remembered the day Sir Torin had presented this weapon to his daughter, with great pomp and ceremony. Varlock-Sharron had been just outside the chamber when it had been done, watching with the quiet pride he felt for his talented daughter.
He’d not thought of that moment a long time, now. A long time indeed since any pleasant memories of his daughter had surfaced.
Cam continued. “I come before you, at no small risk to myself, because I need to prevent an enormous tragedy. As to the latter...if you believe you can kill me, feel free to try.”
Varlock-Sharron arose once more. He remembered what the sensation at the base of skull was telling him. “I know you lost your power! You cannot have it back! That is not possible!”
A look of surprise crossed momentarily over Cam’s face. Just as fast, he recovered. “That is a fact. None has ever recovered before from the loss of their powers. But it’s true. I have. And I’m stronger now than before.”
Varlock-Sharron raised his eyebrows, at a loss for words.
*****
Cam began to pace, thinking back, analyzing something he sensed, then turned to Varlock-Sharron again. “When you tortured me, you said, ‘You have lost your powers, I know. You have nothing left.’ I never took the time to ponder what you were saying to me. But now I see. I can feel it.”
Cam took a step closer to the King, until he was right before his desk. “Of course you would know. You can feel it. As I can feel it in you. You have the powers of a Sorcerer.”
Varlock-Sharron slammed a fist upon his desk, his nostrils flaring with his outrage. “How dare you?! I am the King of Sharron. I am not a Sorcerer. How dare you make such an accusation. I will have you destroyed for such lies.”
Cam leaned in closer, clearly unintimidated. “You cannot hide the truth from me, King Varlock-Sharron. I am a Sorcerer. I can feel the power within you. Untouched, virtually unused. You’ve never learned how to truly apply it, but it’s there, none-the-less. That is how you knew me to be without mine. This is how you know I have it once more. You can sense it.”
“You
speak lies!” exclaimed Varlock-Sharron, his eyes growing wide, his nostrils still flared, a mix of anger and concern. “I have no such power! You feel nothing of the sort.”
Cam found himself unmoved. “You lie only to yourself then, Majesty. You have the abilities, whether you choose to see them or no. They cannot be given or taken away like any other tool…the power simply is. And you possess it.”
The King sank slowly into his chair, a look of consternation on his face. “No. No, it cannot be true. I have no such powers. It is not like that...it cannot be.”
Cam’s expression softened. Obviously, he had touched a raw nerve. “You’ve only used it by mistake, haven’t you? You’ve never intended to make it work for you.”
Varlock-Sharron looked into Cam’s eyes. “My father was killed by sorcerers. I was nearly killed the same way. I stopped them. I never thought on it again, and I have denied it a long time now…but I stopped them.”
“You used Sorcery against them, didn’t you?” pressed Cam.
*****
Varlock-Sharron looked within himself, and recalled his past through his conflicted emotions. “It was a long time ago. Long ago. I slept in my bed, and felt, no, sensed...something, outside my room. They came,” he shivered at the recollection of the memory.
“There were five of them. They cast spells, sealed my room. They slowly worked more spells, trying to gag and bind me. I arose quickly. I reached my sword, and cut one down. I was...enraged. I saw fire. Suddenly, two burst into flames. I thrust my sword into the chest of the next. But the last knocked my sword from my hands, and pushed me down, speaking quickly in a language I could not understand. I...I was terrified. I cried out ‘Stop’, and he just froze there. He collapsed a moment later. I had stopped his heart. The room was no longer sealed, so I left, called for guards, and they apprehended the two I had burned.”
Varlock-Sharron’s chin fell to his chest a moment. “That was long ago. I was now King, so no one questioned what happened that night, and I vowed I would never let myself touch that again.” His head came up now, eyes on Cam. “From time to time I could...sense things. I could feel things of a Sorcerous nature. I forced it down, ignored it. I have felt not a whisper of power for the past dozen years or so...not until you came to Sharron.”
“Some think it a curse,” Cam explained. “But it is a gift. I feared it, in the beginning, tried to hide from it when I was young. I learned what it was, what I could do with it, to accept it, embrace it. So much so that Sorcery blinded me with arrogance.” Cam took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Then I overdid it, burned myself out, and your men were able to capture me. Much has happened since that time.”
Varlock-Sharron stood again, slowly. He would never have believed any would discover his deepest secret. Not entirely trusting himself to speak, his voice was barely audible. “Why have you come to me, Cam Murtallan? What do you want of me?”
*****
“I want the same thing you do, Varlock-Sharron. To save this Kingdom.” Cam took another deep breath. He had made it this far, and while the revelation of Varlock-Sharron’s secret was stunning, he would need to analyze it another time. There were more pressing matters in the now.
“I have had...visions. The Medaelians will strike, and soon. If you are unready for them, or delayed, dealing with the repercussions of your daughter’s actions, Wilnar-Medira will triumph. The success of my quest is tied in to the well-being and stability of Sharron. There is one simple fact I cannot ignore…if Sharron falls, I will fail. That is my vision.”
“You serve only yourself, in the end, then?” Varlock-Sharron queried with a trace of hostility in his tone.
“You are a learned man…you know the prophecy. If I fail, t’Thera becomes a dangerously more chaotic place. It’s already begun.”
Cam’s eyes grew distant as he voiced his thoughts for the first time. He had only reached these conclusions since regaining his abilities, and leaving the Falcon Raiders.
“I have come to believe that it started with the fall of Anaria. There are many forces of chaos gaining more and more power in the world. More and more nations have skirmishes, disagreements, increased mortality, greater destruction. Other agents of chaos are biding their time, gathering their strength, like the Gendarme of Winsott, the Theocracy of Yadim and the Church of the Triad of Truth. But you, and Sharron, are a force of stability. Your nation represents Order. Certainly a needed force of stability.”
Cam took a deep breath, and looked at Varlock-Sharron. “Most are aware of the Prophecy of The Source, but only the academics seem to know of the other, the Prophecy of Source’s End::
‘If the Seeker fails his quest,
To return the Source unto the world,
Wizardry and Sorcery laid to rest,
Eternal darkness is unfurled.
For with the loss of The Source,
War and strife befall the lands,
The world set upon a dismal course,
Out of the prophetic healing hands.
Chaos of Order brings neigh but remorse,
Order of Chaos is the rite of The Source.
Do net let The Seeker fall,
In his doom the world will end,
Heed this warning, hear the call
Or all the lands shall fire rend.
The Source is Knowledge,
and Knowledge is The Source.’”
Varlock-Sharron raised his eyebrows again on hearing that. “I have read that one. It is hard to come by. Legend holds that it was only copied by the hand of its’ creator, and some of those have been lost.” He looked into Cam’s eyes closely. “So it is true?”
“So it would seem. It is true.”
Varlock-Sharron sat down again, began to rub at his goatee. “What have you in mind, Sorcerer? You are on dangerous ground, here. With all that is happening now, I have my own concerns, I do not think I am the one to help you in this.”
“You’re mistaken,” said Cam. “You can. You’re the only one who can help me. Together, we can end this, before Lyrra-Sharron reaches the Common.
“How?” questioned the King, leaning forward, clasping his hands and placing them upon his desk.
“You must meet up with her, before she travels to Mintarn,” stated Cam.
Varlock-Sharron gave a disheartened laugh. “Impossible. I could never find her, let alone get close enough to her to speak. And even if, somehow, I could do so, she would not hear me out.”
“I was one of her officers, your Majesty,” stated Cam, leaning closer, is if letting Varlock-Sharron in on some secret. “I know where she is gathering her full strength. I can get you to her.”
“And what would you have me say, Sorcerer?” questioned the King. His tone was facetious. “Am I to say something like, ‘Sorry, my daughter. You wronged me, tried to usurp my crown, started a rebellion, but, you see, we have a bad situation brewing on the Medaelian border, not to mention our interference with The Seeker, so would you please abandon this whole thing, and return to your place as my heir?’” Varlock-Sharron laughed bitterly. “No, Cam Murtallan. I cannot dissuade her this course. She must be destroyed.”
“You are incorrect in that, Varlock-Sharron. I believe it is you, and you alone, that can change this.”
“And how exactly have you concluded that?” questioned the King.
Cam took a seat, across from Varlock-Sharron. “Tell me about the deaths of your son, your daughter, and your wife.”
Varlock-Sharron unclasped his hands, and leaned forward upon his knuckles, an angry look on his face. “What do you know of that?”
Cam crossed his arms. “Only what Lyrra-Sharron told me. I want to hear it from you.”
A look of distant, ancient pain crossed the face of Varlock-Sharron. “This is none of your concern. I hardly think on those times any longer. They are the past, and they are not memories I care to dwell upon. What do these things matter to the present situation?”
“'These things’ are what drive Lyrra-Sharr
on, your Majesty,” Cam informed the King. “It is your involvement in these episodes that your daughter justifies her rebellion upon.”
“That cannot be so,” Varlock-Sharron replied. “Every one of these tragedies occurred over a decade ago.”
“Time never matters where the heart is concerned, your Majesty,” Cam spoke, nearly startled to hear such issue from his lips. “Wounds of the heart, real or perceived, take a long time to heal.”
“How does that make this your concern?”
“Your daughter considers you guilty of murdering your own family,” stated Cam plainly.
“How dare you!” exclaimed Varlock-Sharron, incensed, his knuckles turning white. “That is not at all what happened.”
“Would you care to know what Lyrra-Sharron is telling the leaders of her Falcon Raiders?” queried Cam. “It’s a rather convincing story.”
“And it has something to do with this rebellion of hers?” Varlock-Sharon asked, clearly seething still.
“Your Majesty, it is the heart or it all,” stated Cam.
“Then tell me.”
*****
Cam thought back to that afternoon in Lyrra-Sharron’s room, when he had revealed to her his tale. To his surprise, he remembered it exactly.
Lyrra-Sharron had started her narrative. “We had all been close, the three of us were virtually inseparable, until at age twelve Karlock-Sharron took up arms. He began to train in the sword, as our father had. He grew more distant, uninterested in playing with his young sisters. Father, at the time, began to focus his attentions more upon Karlock-Sharron than my sister or I. My brother began to learn the intricacies of the nobility, studied strategy, military history, and trained as a warrior. He was heir to the throne, after all.”
Lyrra-Sharron paused a moment, her tone shifting again, and continued. “For the next three years, my brother was seen by my sister and I only at supper, and not always then. He was distant, closed, never sharing his mind with us, as he had before. I hardly knew him. One afternoon, when I was nine, I chanced by my father’s study. I could not hear the whole thing, but my father and brother argued loudly, about a battle that was going to occur. My brother stormed out, and my father cried at him ‘Get yourself to the battlefield! Go, son!’ My brother brushed past me, muttering about how he would show my father. In the evening, I wanted to see my parents, question father and Karlock-Sharron’s fight. I heard my mother and father arguing, and I heard them mention my brother’s name several times, though I did not catch exactly what it was they debated. Mother seemed very angry with my father, and eventually he stormed from the room, completely ignoring me. Then, during the night, Karlock-Sharron rode out of the palace with a company of Guardsmen.”