Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1)

by MJ Blehart

  “It’s that important to you that you be Queen?” asked Cam. “Are you not aware of the danger looming over everything you have built here? Don’t you care about this Kingdom you so desperately want to rule?”

  “Who is your silent friend, Cam?” interrupted Dak, before Lyrra-Sharron could respond.

  Cam twisted around, and inclined his head towards the cloaked man.

  He reached up, and drew back his hood.

  A collective gasp arose amongst all assembled.

  “Varlock-Sharron!” hissed Baron Tilroan.

  The King just stood there, and simply looked from one face to another, as though committing them to memory, and plotting how they’d die for their treason.

  Weapons were drawn, but Cam stepped between them and the King.

  “You will not harm the King,” stated Cam sharply. “He is here under my protection.”

  “Step away, Cam Murtallan,” threatened Torman, a knife in hand.

  “No,” replied Cam calmly. “This has to end, before matters get further out of hand. There is even more at stake than any of you realize. There are things you need to know, and only his Majesty can explain them properly. I have brought him here to do just that. You’ll have to kill me to get to the King. I will not let that happen.”

  “You have what you lost back, then, Cam Murtallan?” queried Lyrra-Sharron, wonder mixing with the anger in her voice.

  Cam simply nodded his head.

  “I see. Well, father, why are you here?” asked Lyrra-Sharron, placing her hands on her hips addressing the King callously.

  “I have come at the behest of Cam Murtallan, to speak with you directly,” replied Varlock-Sharron.

  “To what end, father?” asked Lyrra-Sharron acidly. “Do you plan to give me the crown, avoid embarrassment and bloodshed?”

  “To avoid bloodshed, yes,” responded the King plainly. “But the crown...no, my daughter. I wear the crown, still. Your time is not now.”

  “Leave, then, Father,” stated Lyrra-Sharron. “I am ready to present myself to the Common. They have called me to account. You cannot stop that.”

  “They called you to account at my insistence,” Varlock-Sharron informed her. “It is a trap I have set for you, Princess. This has gone far enough. You are tearing Sharron apart. Our enemies have noticed this. The Medaelians are about to invade. I will not fight a war on two fronts. If you go to Mintarn...one way, or the other...you will die.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended upon the pavilion.

  Lyrra-Sharron quietly, tentatively broke the tension. “You...you would have me killed?”

  Varlock-Sharron simply bowed his head, never taking his eyes off her.

  “Of course, why should I be surprised?” snapped Lyrra-Sharron darkly. “You killed my brother, my sister, my mother…kill me, and the annihilation of your family by your own hand is complete.”

  Varlock-Sharron shook his head. “I am not this murderous monster you have painted me to be, Lyrra-Sharron. Their deaths are not my fault.”

  “You dare to not take the responsibility for their deaths?” demanded Lyrra-Sharron, clenching her fists. “Who killed them, if not you? But then, your family has always been of far less importance than your crown, has it not? You would so easily dismiss my life as well, have me killed?”

  “My daughter, I did not want to bring it to an end such as this,” the King informed her. “But you have left me with no choice. Three of my Barons come to you, disobeying a command of Royal Commission, as well as soldiers and ex-soldiers, disenchanted nobles, farmers, merchants. You have touched every walk of life. I know what you tell them. I know what you say of me.”

  Varlock-Sharron shook his head. “If you continue this path, Sharron will fall to civil-war and strife, and the Medaelians will watch, and when we are weakest, they will strike. They will not only take the Vann Region back, but they will do everything they can to destroy the Kingdom entirely. The agents of chaos will score a victory that could echo across the world.”

  “Give over the crown, then, father, and I will see to the end of this.”

  Varlock-Sharron shook his head again. “You will be a great Queen, I doubt that not. You have prepared all your life for it. But this is not your time.”

  “We should kill the King,” remarked Baron Tilroan. “Then the Common would have no choice but to elevate you, Lyrra-Sharron, and we will be victorious.”

  Varlock-Sharron barked a short laugh, echoing his daughter’s earlier, looking to the Baron. “Fornon Val-Cara, do you know nothing? If I am killed, and at the hands of my own daughter, she will never rule Sharron. If I do not return or send word back to Gara-Sharron, Sir Tulock becomes Regent, and the Common will name him King soon after.”

  Lyrra-Sharron turned to the Baron. “If it were that simple, Baron, I would have done so long ago. You forget your own family history.”

  Baron Tilroan frowned, and turned away.

  “We’re getting nowhere with this bickering,” interjected Cam. “It’s time to set this right, they need to know the full story, to hear the full truth.”

  “You are the bearer of such?” queried Lyrra-Sharron, hands on her hips, glaring, antagonistic. “Come now, my dear Sorcerer, none here will trust you after this betrayal.”

  “Sorcerer?” breathed Barons Foltupp and Dovan quietly, taking a step back.

  Lyrra-Sharron did not look to them, but a bemused look crossed her face. “Aye. Sorcerer.” She glanced towards the King. “Going against your own law, Father?”

  Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms. “I have granted Cam Murtallan amnesty. His purpose, I am certain you know, is too important for us to interfere with.”

  “We can’t let him leave here, Lyrra-Sharron,” warned Torman, fingering the edge of his knife. “He’s seen us. We’re all as good as dead now.”

  “No, Torman. You must hear him out,” Cam said. “I brought the King here to stop this folly, avoid bloodshed, and in so doing stop the Medaelians from invading. Have you seen how Wilnar-Medira makes war? A full-fledged invasion? I am Anarian. I was there when he overran my home. My father was butchered where he stood, in his field, planting crops. Unarmed. My mother was raped and beaten. Anaria became a wasteland. I won’t watch that again. Sharron cannot suffer the same fate. This must end before that can happen.”

  “Speak your peace, then,” said Lyrra-Sharron simply, forestalling further discussion. “Say what you must, but do not think for a moment that anything you might say here will magically end this.”

  *****

  Varlock-Sharron stepped forward. Cam sidestepped, but remained between the King and the Falcon Raiders.

  During their ride to Tarmollo, the King had thought long and hard on what he would say, how he would explain to Lyrra-Sharron and her militia his side of the terrible events that drove their rebellion. Convincing them he spoke the truth, when his daughter was as strong an orator as he, would take the deepest sincerity he could muster.

  He hoped the truth would be as powerful a tool as he had always believed it to be.

  “I know what you think of me, my daughter,” began Varlock-Sharron. “You tell them I am remote, I am cruel. Ruthless. Terrible. You say I build the largest army on the continent, prepare tactics for invasions, dream of my own glory, plot the conquest of my neighbors. Never any regard for the common people of Sharron.”

  Varlock-Sharron looked to the Falcon Raiders beyond Lyrra-Sharron. “I am regularly indifferent. I can be cruel. I have been called ruthless. I do build the largest army on the continent. But my strategies are not invasions, they are counterstrikes and defenses. Our neighbors constantly posture, they threaten. Every two years, in some manner or other, they initiate a conflict on our border. One year it is the Medaelians. Two years later, the Cordianlotts. Then the Medaelians again. Always pushing. Frequently trying to break our stability, always trying to tear us apart. Endlessly grasping for more land. It is necessary for us to frequently defend ourselves against that.”

  H
e took a breath, and looked to Lyrra-Sharron. “I do not dream of my own glory. I have no plans to conquer my neighbors. It is enough for me to rule Sharron. Medaelia, Cordianlott, An-Quarvan...they are all entitled to their own sovereignty. I do not want to take that from them by force. Peace is prosperity. Peace is the health of the people, the crops, the invigoration of the arts. I want peace. I do not crave battle. I do not like war. I do not position myself for greater fame. Let history say what it will of me. I do not seek to be another Pallantir.”

  He paused, looked over the Falcon Raiders again. “I am the King of Sharron. I rule this nation, and I care for the people therein. I have the Common to be their voice. I listen to the Common. Do I tax too much? Taxes are at an all time low. Do the people starve? It is documented that since I began to rule Sharron, hunger is less. Even those who are peasants do not, as a whole, go to sleep hungry. Poverty is less apparent throughout the Kingdom. We have had no pestilence, no famine, for twenty years. Only Tarmollo suffered from the plague, as we stopped it from spreading throughout the land. Of course, not all enjoy good health. Not all can put food upon their table. But overall, the people of Sharron live decently, more so than in the times of nearly every monarch before me.”

  He crossed his arms, raised his voice. “Do any of you find my taxations unfair?” He was met with silence. “Do you starve?” More silence. “Are beggars and brigands ruling this nation?” No one made any response. “Have any of you really suffered by my hand? By my law?”

  The stillness was only interrupted by a muffled cough from someone in the pavilion.

  “My daughter, Lyrra-Sharron, is beautiful, intelligent, charismatic. She is a natural leader, a gifted orator, a fantastic strategist, and a clever tactician,” continued Varlock-Sharron. “She has been educated and raised to be a Queen. She is my heir. The Crown of Sharron will one day rest upon her head…when the time is ripe.”

  He looked to Lyrra-Sharron, stepped closer to her. “When the time is ripe, my daughter. You were meant to be the Queen, even before the deaths of your brother or sister. You were the sharpest, the smartest, the strongest of my children. So much like me, but so much your own.” He stopped, changed his tone. “I am young. I will in all likelihood sit upon the throne another twenty, thirty, maybe even forty years. It is a seemingly endless trial of your patience. So brilliant, so well ready to rule. You have a great many ideas, many plans. But your time comes not soon enough for you. As patient as you are, once the limit of that endurance is reached, you demand action.”

  His voice changed, it softened, as he gazed into the eyes of his daughter. “I admit that I have not been a good father. I have been reserved. I watched your progress from the distance. I was too close to your older brother. So close, that I did not see what he was becoming, until it was too late. I thought if I stayed near to you the same, you would have a hard time learning how to do for yourself. The hardest lesson of being a ruler is that you must make most decisions alone. There are few to no people you can truly rely on. Too well did I want you to learn that. So I watched from afar. I observed you unseen. I remained detached.”

  He shook his head, and looked up to the others in the pavilion. “My daughter has told you of the monster I am, responsible for the deaths of our family. My wife. My son. My daughter. Perhaps I am responsible for their deaths, after all. But not in the manner Lyrra-Sharron would lead you to believe.”

  “I will not listen to this any further,” interrupted Lyrra-Sharron, trying to storm past her father and leave the pavilion.

  Varlock-Sharron grabbed her arm. Strong as she was, she could not break his grasp. He looked into her face, clouded by many, unreadable emotions.

  “You must hear this,” stated the King. “I have avoided this for too long. I left you alone too long. I have to set things right, Lyrra-Sharron. Before it is impossible to do so. You will hear me out.”

  She glared at her father, tried a last time, half-heartedly, to free herself, but soon relaxed, her face remaining expressionless.

  Everyone else in the pavilion remained spellbound, watching the tableau, caught up in the unfolding tale that answered the unanswered questions that had motivated their actions up til now.

  “Your brother,” began the King once more. “Karlock-Sharron was my first born, a younger version of me. My first heir, though I did not think he would become King. He was trained for the military, to be a leader, a soldier. But I was too close, was blind to the truth, and his instructors went easy on him, let him pass lessons he should have failed, and he grew haughty, and arrogant. Despite this, he trained well and hard, gaining proficiency with the sword, and learning military strategy and history.”

  Varlock-Sharron paused, then continued. “A border dispute, like so many before, and after, emerged with Cordianlott. My son was fifteen, then. He came to me, proud of a plan he formulated to strike at our enemy, and stop them before they could strike us. A sound plan on paper, but unrealistic applied to the battlefield. His strategy was far too complicated to coordinate. I told him he was mistaken, showed him that it could not work as he anticipated. He argued with me. He was so proud, absolutely sure of himself, so arrogant. When he finally refused to listen to my counsel further, Karlock-Sharron stormed from my study. I was angry with him, and called after, taunting, ‘Get yourself to the battlefield? No, son!’ I had thought the matter closed.”

  He took a breath, controlling his emotions, and continued. “I did not send him to battle, Lyrra-Sharron. I did not order him to his death. Karlock-Sharron was forbidden to take his strategy to the field. But he was the Prince, and I did not give orders to stop his leaving Gara-Sharron. He made the choice. He went to battle. I could not stop him, before it was too late. The officer in charge let him assume command. His foolhardy tactics failed just as I had warned him that they would. He placed himself in the grave. May he rest in peace.”

  Not a sound could be heard in the pavilion as everyone absorbed the words of the King. He had, after all, always been noted as a gifted speaker. A natural leader, like his daughter.

  “I was angry. I was upset. I blamed myself for not preventing his error in judgment, and subsequent death. I considered myself responsible for failing him. But I had to put on a good face, for a King cannot show emotion, lest his enemies think him weak. I did not know what to say to you. You were so very young. I was going to tell you all of this when you were older, but...but things only got more complicated.”

  The King took another deep breath, and once more continued his narrative. “My father allowed the practice of Sorcery primarily because he thought Sorcerers were a boon. He thought they brought with them prosperity, and he was tremendously superstitious. But there is another reason, however, for this. It has been a long-held family secret, which I had not the opportunity to impart to you, my daughter. On the twenty-first birthday of any in the House of Anduin, this secret has traditionally been exposed. I missed my chance to reveal it to you. But I shall remedy this now, in the presence of witnesses, that it will be a secret no longer, for it has nearly destroyed us.”

  He sighed, looked into his daughter’s eyes. “Long ago, during the reign of the first monarch from the House of Anduin, Varlyn-Sharron, Sorcerers walked the continent freely. Though the Academy had been pulled down nearly six-hundred years prior, many monarchs still chose Sorcerers as counselors and advisors. Varlyn-Sharron was young, just past twenty, and unmarried. Chief among her counselors was a Sorcerer, maybe ten years her senior. Over time, they fell in love. She took him as her consort. She bore him five children.”

  He paused, let that sink in, and continued. “Of the five children, two discovered they possessed sorcerous abilities. They took the name of their father, and left Sharron, never to return. The entire episode was forgotten, and in those days, the family lives of the monarchy of Sharron were far more private. Since that time, every couple of generations, one or two emerge in our line with these abilities. There have been sorcerers among the Anduins. Your sister was such a one.”


  “Miara?” asked Lyrra-Sharron in a whisper.

  The King nodded his head solemnly.

  “It is poorly documented,” Cam interjected, taking over the narrative. “But it is written, none-the-less, that when the time comes, one could destroy themselves in the discovery of Sorcery. That’s why, when the Academy Citadel was still functional, the offspring of known Sorcerers were watched, so that the discovery of such powers would not destroy them. Though it is rare, it does happen. In old family lines, if one of sorcerous abilities was ever part of the bloodline, sorcerers will appear every few generations.”

  Lyrra-Sharron glanced towards Cam, before returning her gaze to her father.

  “There was no-one around to observe, and thus nobody to protect Miara-Sharron from herself,” Varlock-Sharron took up again. “There was not any way to know. As Cam says, it is not always the case that the discovery destroys the Sorcerer, but it can be.” He shook his head. “Miara-Sharron was my gentle daughter. She loved art, dance, and music. She was as talented as you, my daughter, but in her own manner. After my mistake with your brother, I kept a certain distance with you both, and never showed you how proud I was. But your mother knew…and it was she who noticed Miara-Sharron becoming more withdrawn, more aloof. I did not know what to do, but I intended to make time with you both. Always intentions…”

  Varlock-Sharron paused, got control of his emotions yet again. “I...sensed something, that night. I know not how I felt it, but it seemed like a surge of energy, like a flash of lightening, though it did not storm. It awoke me. I came to your room, and...I found her, lying beside you, my daughter, dead. There was nothing I could do for her then. I took her to her own room, and cried for her, alone in the dark. I returned to comfort you, Lyrra-Sharron, but you were asleep; I did not want to wake you, I knew not what to say to you. And I did not do right by you. I should have awakened you, should have stayed, should have told you...”

  He simply stopped, unable to proceed. Varlock-Sharron was silent for a moment while he recomposed himself. Not a soul within the pavilion made a sound, everyone was caught up in his tale.