by MJ Blehart
She stopped, and swallowed, clearly fighting her emotions. “Karlock-Sharron would never return; he was slaughtered. My mother wept openly, but my father remained silent, and never spoke of it. My brother had been fifteen, and my father had ordered him into combat, knowing it would kill him. He never shed a tear for his son, and was totally somber at the funeral, standing apart from my mother, sister and I, isolating himself. He has never spoken of my brother since.”
Lyrra-Sharron stopped a moment, before changing her tone yet again and continuing the narrative.
“The death of Karlock-Sharron only brought Miara-Sharon and I closer. We studied together, played together, shared everything. Not long after my brother’s death, I took up the study of the arte of defense under Sir Torin. Miara-Sharron wanted nothing to do with weapons, so she studied music and poetry and dance instead. Close as we were, we began inevitably to grow apart, and I soon only saw her at night, when she would usually crawl into my bed.”
Once more she paused, clearly lost in the moment, then continued. “Over the next many months, Miara-Sharron spoke less and less to me, became withdrawn, seemed very sad, very secretive. I tried to speak of this to my parents, but Father was involved in some matter of state, and Mother seemed distracted. Miara-Sharron herself always said she was fine, nothing was wrong, but I knew otherwise. Clearly, mother’s constant preoccupation, and more, my father’s increasing distance was upsetting her. He was never seen when she would perform a dance, or a song, or present a new painting. What little attention he gave to his children, he seemed to give only to my study of rapier and the arts of war.”
Her tone darkened. “We were eleven when it happened. In the middle of the night, I felt something, an odd sensation, something out of place, and awoke instantly. I turned, and found my father, weeping over my sister, a hand upon her forehead. She lay beside me, cold, dead.”
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “My father carried her from my bed, saying nothing to me, offering no explanation for his presence, or her death. He returned to comfort me, but I feigned sleep, and he sat beside my bed a while, before leaving my room. We never talked about it, and she was buried a day later.”
“But how did she die?” Cam questioned.
Lyrra-Sharron shook her head. “There was never an explanation, she simply died, and that was all that my father ever made public. I have become suspicious, now, that he killed her.”
Cam was appalled. “Killed his own daughter?”
“It was not by his own hand,” Lyrra-Sharron replied. “But I believe it was his fault. We were twins, matching in age, since my mother made certain that none recalled the order of our births, thus we held equal claim to the Crown. Miara-Sharron, the artist, would not be able to lead the Armies, while I, the warrior, could. His attentions turned totally away from her, and with my mother always so distracted, the neglect became unbearable. So she took her own life.”
“So you claim her suicide was murder on the part of your father?”
“Her death was due to his negligence,” Lyrra-Sharron defended. “Before Karlock-Sharron’s death, Miara-Sharron and my father had been close, she was father’s little angel. Had he listened as before, had he paid her some attention, had he shown her the love she desired from him, Miara-Sharron might have wanted to live! And it was not only her life his indifference would destroy!”
Her tone had been getting more aggressive, her voice louder, and she took a moment to regain her composure, before Lyrra-Sharron continued her tale. “My mother took to her rooms. I almost never saw her. Sometimes she would come to supper, but always she would leave before she could even eat, distraught. My father would not allow me access to her, claiming she wanted to be left alone with her sorrow. He was constantly leaving Gara-Sharron, usually claiming military matters only he could handle were arising, and Lady Ara and Guardsmen kept me from my mother, still. Months later, she was dead, my father claiming she had died of grief. I do not doubt that his neglect was responsible for her death as well.”
Lyrra-Sharron took a breath, and her tone changed. “The King and I rarely had any conversations after that. I took lessons on how to be a queen from my mother’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Ara, and learned what I could from other functionaries about the Palace. My father plotted battles, and conquests, and was biding his time. He made plans, laid out invasion routes of our neighbors, building a massive army, awaiting the right time to strike. I came across numerous diagrams and stratagems, maps marked with invasion routes, proof of his intentions. He has no care for the people of this land, only his own power.”
She halted again for a moment. “Until I met Andim, I believed my father burned Tarmollo as an exercise in siege warfare. The Sharron Army has never been so large as it is now, and they prepare all kinds of tactics and strategies that can only be offensives. He is preparing invasions, not the counter-strikes he claims. I have seen many of his so-called ‘defensive’ plans, and in truth they are invasion routes he lays out, and plans to take more land for himself, for his own power, for his own control.”
Lyrra-Sharron’s voice had been rising in volume again, and she paused, catching her breath, and continued more softly. “My father is responsible for the death of his son, his daughter, and his wife. He is deceitful, ambitious, unemotional, and he is a young man. It will be many, many years before I would become queen. Years when I could do nothing to stop him invading his neighbors, killing his own people, like he killed his own family. The Council is wholly his. The only way I could stop him was to rebel against him, and win the support of the people.”
Lyrra-Sharron’s tone changed again, becoming more ominous. “Sharron is the largest kingdom in the world. It is a nightmare of bureaucracy and politics to maintain as it is. And to invade our neighbors, for his own gain, at the expense of the health and welfare of his own people, and, frankly, those he would conquer...it is irresponsible! I would inherit war-torn lands, starving, dying people, and a crown steeped in blood. No! He must be stopped. That is why I rebel. That is why I created and lead the Falcon Raiders, in memory of my lost brother.”
*****
Varlock-Sharron was rapt. The story his daughter told, as related by the errant Sorcerer, was incredible. And told from that perspective, he found that, like his own powers of persuasion, his daughter’s tale was captivating.
“So that is how she recalls these things?” he questioned softly.
“Yes, your Majesty. That is what she believes, and that is what drives her rebellion against you.”
“I never knew she felt like that,” Varlock-Sharron stated defensively. “That is not at all what happened. That is the emphasis of aspects of this misfortune from so long ago from only her perspective. But it is not the truth of the matters.”
“Then tell me, your Majesty, just what did happen? Let me hear your side of this tragedy?”
The King paused. He considered things a moment, clearly weighing his privacy against the awkward necessity of explaining himself to this man.
Varock-Sharron removed his hands from the table, sitting on the edge of his seat, back straight. He took a breath, then cleared his throat. “Very well. I am not certain I understand the reason for all this, and I do not know what good this knowledge will be to you, but I shall tell you the truth. Know this; all that I speak of now must remain between you and I alone, Cam Murtallan.”
*****
Cam agreed, and sat back to hear the King’s tale.
For the next quarter of an hour, Varlock-Sharron spoke of the past, his version of the same tale Lyrra-Sharron told, while Cam heard him out. The King had always been a gifted speaker, and Cam found himself riveted, not just by the tale from Varlock-Sharron’s perspective, but also by the tone of his voice, and the obvious emotions involved in the subject matter.
“Is that what you sought? Does that answer your questions?” questioned Varlock-Sharron softly when he concluded. It was clear to Cam that he had just freed emotions long buried in the past.
&n
bsp; “That explains a great many things, Majesty,” Cam replied. His eyes went distant a moment, as he weighed the King’s tale against that of the Princess, but when he trained them back on the King, his tone became sympathetic. “I am sorry for these calamities of your life, Varlock-Sharron Anduin. They have changed you, affected you as no man could easily endure. Know that if I could take you back in time, and change them, I would.”
Cam reached for the goblet before him, and took a drink. He considered his words carefully, before he looked again at the King.
“I cannot take back the past,” stated Cam simply. “But I can prevent further grief from befalling House Anduin, and the whole of Sharron. You must come with me. You must let me take you to Lyrra-Sharron.”
“You are asking that I trust in you implicitly?” queried Varlock-Sharron pointedly.
“I am, your Majesty.”
Varlock-Sharron stood. “I have shared with you history I do not give easily. You have uncovered a secret no other has discovered. I have granted you this stay of execution, and I have allowed you to speak with brevity I hardly allow from many of my closest advisors…but you ask too much. How do I know this is not an elaborate trap for me?”
Cam shrugged, holding out his hands, palms up. “I come to you open handed, Varlock-Sharron. I grant you, I am a criminal of your land, escaped from my fate, sentenced to death. Even bearing that, I have come to you, at terrible risk to myself. I took this chance. I revealed myself, knowing full-well I could be signing my own death warrant. Now I ask you to take a chance on me, as I have taken on you.”
Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms, obviously studying the man before him. “You intrigue me, Cam Murtallan. I grant you that. When we met before, you would not be broken. You cheated death, and marked your time with my daughter and her outlaws. You cheated fate, somehow reclaiming a power that, once lost, cannot be reclaimed. Now you have come before me, and reveal everything I asked before, and much, much more. I do not know you, Cam Murtallan. I do not understand you.”
He paused, and Cam found himself holding his breath. “But somehow, and I have no idea how I know this, I cannot say…beyond any logic I can think of, I know I should trust you.”
“Our fates are linked, your Majesty,” Cam stated conclusively. “We are both agents of Order.”
“You speak of Order and Chaos as one would speak of good and evil,” Varlock-Sharron observed, a note of curiosity in the remark.
“Good and evil involve ideas and intentions, where order and chaos are tangibles. The two most powerful forces in the world.”
“I have often considered these notions, in actuality,” remarked Varlock-Sharron conversationally. “I believe this could make for a fascinating discussion for you and I to undertake, Cam Murtallan.”
Cam grinned wryly. “Certainly, if you don’t choose to carry out my interrupted sentence and have me executed forthwith.”
Varlock-Sharron’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You are correct…I should probably send now for a headsman.” The King returned Cam’s grin. Then his tone changed, become contemplative. “Though I am sure you would make it hard work. I am not very knowledgeable of the spells you could cast, apart from what little I have seen, and that which I have read, but I sense you would not be easily taken.”
He grinned again slyly, the tension clearly broken. “I suppose, then, I must grant you an amnesty instead.”
Cam’s shoulders sank some, as he also felt the tension break. His gamble had paid off. “Though I’d certainly not tell you how to run your Kingdom, that’s a fair assumption, your Majesty.”
“Tulock!” cried the King.
Sir Tulock reentered the study. His eyes grew wide as he recognized the Sorcerer seated before the King.
“Draw up some official papers, granting Cam Murtallan, here, amnesty.” Varlock-Sharron commanded. “Before you ask me too many questions, know that he has returned to us, perhaps with the solution to our current difficulties.”
Tulock nodded his head in agreement, the look on his face as he eyed the condemned man before him a mix of concern and curiosity.
Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam as well. “It is getting late. I do not doubt, after the pains you have taken to come here, you would like to rest. I will have quarters found for you.” His tone became facetious. “I presume you would prefer ambassadorial quarters to the dungeons?”
Cam could not help himself, the elation at his success made him grin, his own response took on a similar tone as he arose from his chair. “Though I am quite familiar with the comforts and hospitalities of your fine dungeons, your Majesty, I do believe ambassadorial quarters would be much more preferable.”
“Fine,” replied Varlock-Sharron. He turned to his Seneschal. “Tulock, call the Council. First thing in the morning. We have new preparations to make.”
Tulock finally recovered from his initial shock, curiosity still obvious in his expression. “Yes, of course, your Majesty.”
Varlock-Sharron walked over to Cam, and spoke in a declarative tone. “Cam Murtallan, I hereby grant you amnesty from the laws of Sharron, preventing the practice of the arte of Sorcery. You may remain in the palace, as my guest, with full ambassadorial privileges.” His tone became more conversational. “Will that do?”
“Yes, your Majesty. And thank you.”
“Fine. Then come with me,” ordered Varlock-Sharron. “Tulock, see to those papers, and meet me back here right away.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Tulock, almost running, obviously anxious to get his duties completed as soon as possible, so as to learn what had just transpired.
The King gestured to the door. “Cam Murtallan?”
Cam walked out, followed by the King.
*****
For the first time in over thirty years, a Sorcerer would sleep in the palace of the King of Sharron, in the ambassadorial wing, not the dungeon.
Chapter 27
Lyrra-Sharron found herself awake just after dawn, moments before she would have gotten up normally. A Falcon Raider named Tirra gently scratched at the flap of her tent.
She rolled over, and found the woman peering in.
“What is it, Tirra?” she queried softly.
“M’lady, Baron Tilroan is here. He has with him almost a hundred men. Salman and the Baron await you in the meeting pavilion.”
“Thank you, Tirra. I shall be there soon.”
The young lady bowed, and departed.
Lyrra-Sharron threw off her blankets, and arose. She stretched, and removed her chemise. She changed into fresh underclothes, a grey tunic and black breetches. She pulled on her sword belt, and searched for a brush. Her hair was hard to control as it was, but the rough life made it doubly so. More than once she’d considered cutting it down, but admitted privately to herself she was too vain to do that. It was, she thought, was one of her best features.
Lyrra-Sharron reluctantly admitted to herself that she missed Dak’s presence in the camp. Though he’d never taken to her bed, she’d hinted to him more than once she would not mind. A few Falcon Raiders had enjoyed her favor, in part as bribes to recruit them, and on one occasion from simple boredom. As much as she could surely bring any man to her chambers, she found there was only one she really considered of late.
She shook off the thought, concentrating instead on what lay ahead. Time for intimacy, and even love, perhaps, after all else was through. She took the stick she used as a toothbrush to her teeth, then pulled a vest over her tunic. Satisfied, she left her tent.
The sky was becoming lighter, the sun rising somewhere beyond the overcast. Small fires were already going, as Falcon Raiders prepared for the morning breakfast. In a clearing where no tents had been set-up, Andim and Kallan were going through the motions of several sword exercises.
She slowed, watching them a moment. She found herself wearing a gentle smile at the image of the two men, the old and the young, both so adept with the heavy longswords.
She crossed the rest of the way to
the large pavilion that had been erected as a meeting tent. This had come with her when she’d left the palace, nearly two years ago.
Her thoughts took her back to that choice. Discontent, remembering the long repressed pain of her dearly departed siblings and mother, she’d gathered a great many of her things. To her father, she’d proposed that she make a tour of southern Sharron, even a return to the family estates in Anduin. A month away from the palace, her personally selected guards took out those not in on her plan. They stole away, and successfully disappeared.
She’d plotted and planned for months, then slowly began to recruit. She raided small merchants, took supplies quietly. Left messages that could not be ignored by the King. After several setbacks, she was ready.
Less than six months ago, she’d begun the real work that would help her achieve her goal. Now, albeit ahead of schedule, her plans were near to their fruition.
She entered the pavilion, and found Baron Tilroan sitting in a chair, feet propped up on the table. In his hand, a wooden tankard with steaming tea. Salman stood at the head of the table they’d erected here.
“Ah, your Highness,” the Baron said, inclining his head. He made no move to stand, as was proper. Lyrra-Sharron chose to ignore this. “I am here, along with three-fourths of my household guards. Foltupp and Dovan will arrive this afternoon and tomorrow morning, respectively.”
Lyrra-Sharron looked past the Baron to the Falcon Raider standing nearby. “All is well, Salman?”
The Falcon Raider started, obviously not expecting to be addressed. “Yes, your Highness.”