Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  The heralds on either side of her father’s seat blew their trumpets again, and a small entourage of travel-stained men entered the door and walked up the aisle to stand before the king.

  A thin man led the group of four. Pale dirty hair protruded beneath his helm, and the device on his red and green shield was a black dragon. He held his head high, looking down a large and reddish nose; his sword hand continually twitched towards his weapon.

  “Announcing, Sir Kyle of Frain, emissary of King Korul, come to see King Ian of Madean on matters of great importance to both great countries,” the herald announced in a ringing voice.

  Illera heard her father speak directly below her. “Welcome, Sir Kyle if you come in peace. I would not care to test the temper of your liege in war, but if for war you have come then you are indeed ill come.”

  Sir Kyle went down on one knee and lowered his head in a fraction of a bow. The others in his train followed his example. “Good King Ian, I indeed come in peace. Just now King Korul has enough enemies and would sue for peace with your land. Indeed, we have heard that you yourselves have fallen upon the hard times of war. These pirates of Carnuvon attack both of our ships, choking our trade. The Shul raid, destroying towns, farms and villages. They loot and burn and savage the land so that the peasants go hungry and cry for relief. King Korul would forge an alliance with you, to fight against these invaders from sea and mountain.”

  “Then you are welcome Sir Kyle. Go, refresh yourselves, we will speak more of this when you are rested.”

  The Franians rose and were escorted to guest quarters by the servants. Illera returned to her rooms pondering what this all meant. Maggie was unlikely to be wrong, yet peace with Frain sounded like something good. She decided for the time being to remain in hiding.

  The musicians were in the gallery when the evening meal was served, so Illera chose a spot behind the hangings on the main floor of the great hall, just to the left of her father’s seat. The hall was crowded tonight. Her place, opposite her father at the head table remained empty, but his three war leaders and the four visitors from Frain filled the sides of the table. The lower tables were jammed with the rest of the knights, squires, yeomen and ordinary men come to swell the ranks of the soldiers at the castle. Servants scurried back and forth, trying to cater to all the men gathered to eat at the King’s table.

  Sir Kyle asked the King, “I thought you had a daughter?”

  Illera stiffened behind the heavy curtain. “Yes, I do indeed have a daughter. But quite often she is involved with the local people. She has quite a talent for helping with livestock, she does.”

  “And I was told she is of marriageable age?”

  King Ian sighed. “I fear that, perhaps like her mother, my daughter will never marry. She has a…a somewhat willful spirit?”

  “Ah,” retorted Sir Kyle.

  “Nonetheless, she is a lovely girl and as I have said very talented.”

  Sir Kyle scratched the side of his nose. “My King also has a son of marriageable age. Torul has turned nineteen this year past, and Korul thinks to find him a suitable wife.”

  Ian laughed. “I fear my daughter would not feel she was a suitable wife for any man.”

  “But are not daughters subject to their fathers, particularly if their fathers are the king?”

  Ian leaned forward. “Illera is special. You might barter another princess for the sake of the kingdom, but Illera...she is like the wind that blows over the land, or the mountains that make up its spine. I could no more give you my daughter than I could give you the soil that grows our bread. She is my heir, my only child, and she will inherit the Kingdom of Madean when I pass on. I hope she can find a brave knight to share the throne with and provide Madean with princes to rule after her, but Illera belongs here. I believe a mate will be her choice. Like it was with her mother; she is much like her mother.”

  King Ian looked up to the huge portrait hanging over the fireplace. As a younger man, he stood there, a proud smile on his shapely lips and a hand resting on the shoulder of a beautiful seated woman. The face was familiar to Illera, she saw it every day in the mirror, but the hair was like sunlight on snow, unbound and falling about her shoulders, accenting the delicate, pointed chin and wide spaced, violet eyes. The artist had captured a sense of otherworldliness, as if her mother didn’t belong on this earth, and the only thing tethering her was the hand resting gently on her shoulder. Illera sighed, longing for the mother she had never known.

  Sir Kyle puckered his lips and drew his eyebrows up. “But surely King Ian, if the very life of the kingdom were at stake…?”

  Ian sighed, blowing down his snowy beard and drawing his eyebrows fiercely together. “Can you tell me just why you are so interested in Illera? Is the kingdom at stake?”

  Smiling, Sir Kyle stroked fingers down his sheathed sword. “My liege, King Korul, is an eminent statesman. It is his…. uh…hope to unite Frain and Madean. Together we could make a much better stand against Shul and the Carnuvon pirates. Now, of course, the easy way is through an alliance, Torul, and Illera. And, if that cannot be arranged, then perhaps, and I say just perhaps, King Korul might think that it would be better to conquer Madean than to have an unsecured border.”

  Sir Kyle stared upwards at the many candles flickering on the gold and crystal chandelier. Illera saw her father’s face grew red. He sat his throne stiffly. An arm shot out, shaking a finger at Sir Kyle.

  “Sir,” the King spat, “if you think to abuse my hospitality and threaten my kingdom and my daughter, then perhaps t’would be better that you should hurry to horse and home again before my patience is exhausted.”

  The knights on both sides of the table shifted restlessly, hands going to sword hilts and chairs surreptitiously pushed back.

  “You mistake me, sire. I do not make policy, I merely guess at what my liege would think. I do not presume upon your hospitality. Indeed, my only task here is to assure you of peace with Frain and attempt to make an alliance with your sweet and warm country.”

  “So long as your mission is a peaceful one,” retorted Ian, face stiff and voice hard.

  “It is indeed, sire. I think only of what is good for Frain, and Madean as well. It is well known that your years are adding up, what have you now, ninety summers?”

  “Not that it is your business, but I have eighty-four summers, and my health is excellent,” Ian snapped back.

  “Still, one must be realistic, at that great age things can occur suddenly and can a young girl of but twenty summers cope with the loss of a beloved father and the running of a kingdom at war?”

  “Sir, this discussion is ended!” King Ian rose from his place and stalked from the table.

  Illera felt the pain of stiffened, straining muscles and realized that her shoulders and back were clenched to the point of spasm and her jaw was aching with the pressure of her teeth grinding together. She relaxed her muscles, telling herself that her father would never agree to have her leave Madean. Maggie was right, this was trouble, and she needed to hide. She would remain hidden until these noxious visitors had left; as if she would leave this beautiful and bountiful country for the dark and cold northern lands. She tiptoed through the hidden passages to the kitchen where she gathered some food supplies and disappeared back into the walls.

  High on the front right turret, overlooking the barbican, Illera made her nest. An irregular chink in the stones gave her a small window to watch the comings and goings below, and it allowed the magpie entrance. It was a small room, the floors, and walls lined with furs and linens; the place where she played as a child. A few of her old dolls were still scattered over the furthest sections from the window. Right below the watchman’s tower perch, it gave an excellent view of the entire castle and the long straight approach leading to the outer walls.

  Maggie flew in, gargling her usual welcome. Illera stroked the pinto feathers, making soothing sounds to the bird. She was ruffled, refusing to settle down, hopping to the window and shaking
herself. Illera sighed, what now?

  The sound of a rider thundering across the drawbridge drew her attention. The horse was lathered, head hanging down, heaving for breath on the outer bailey as the rider explained to the guards with extravagant gestures, repeatedly pointing back down the road. One man dashed off to the keep, as the others rushed in all directions, gathering weapons and mounts. In a short time, her father appeared, mounted on his giant black war-horse. Most of the knights of the castle were with him, armed and mounted. The king leaned down and instructed Sir Garth, his most trusted knight, turned his horse’s head and galloped out of the gate followed by most of the men from the castle. The rider rode a fresh horse at King Ian’s side, pointing down the road to River Blend. Illera watched until they had vanished from sight, and she could no longer hear the thunder of the horse’s hooves on the heavy clay of the roads.

  She stayed immured in her little room, leaving only to gather more food and attend to nature. It was a long, weary time. She tried to recapture the simplicity of childhood, playing with her discarded dolls, but it was hollow, all the magic long since burned away by maturity. Maggie came and went at intervals that made sense only to the bird. On the evening of the third day, just as Illera felt she could stay inside no more, the trumpets hailed the return of the king.

  Her heart clenched into a tight fist at the sight her father and his men presented as they dragged themselves up the approach. Half the men were missing, and many returning were bandaged and bloody. Even the mighty war-horses were disheveled and dragged their great hooves, stirring up dust to cloak the dispirited riders. Illera sped from her tower room, through the back passages to the musician’s gallery above the great hall. It was deserted at this time of day. She watched her father hobble in, limping badly on one leg. Sir Kyle swept him a deep bow. Her father waved it away and settled in his chair.

  “Your majesty, I hope the battle went well?”

  “No Sir Kyle, it did not. The pirates were gone by the time I reached the River Blend and along with them, our grain crop, all of last year’s produce and the new spring grain. Now the farmers will have no food until the grain ripens in the fall. Indeed, I’ll have none myself. I cannot eat if the farmers don’t and I cannot eat what doesn’t exist.”

  “But if there was no battle…?”

  The King wearily flopped his head into his hands. He made a muffled reply.

  “I’m sorry sire; I couldn’t hear you.”

  With a deep sigh, he lifted his head. “The pirates returned. They bombarded us with some sort of missiles. When they landed, they killed everyone they could reach. Half my knights, half my knights….” His reply trailed off into muttering once more. “You must excuse me. I must go and attend to the wounded.”

  The king rose and hobbled from the great hall, head hanging. Sir Kyle smiled and slapped his hands together, striding after the broken man.

  Illera ducked back into the walls. She trotted, counting the doorways by their latches. At the panel before the stables she halted, breathing deeply of the dusty air, catching her breath. She tiptoed to the glass eye and squinted out. The men lay in their barracks. Few moved, most lay as if dead; bone weary and injured. Illera could see the stooped back of the physician moving slowly from bed to bed, ministering to the wounded. The dame followed closely behind him carrying the sizeable woven basket of supplies. Her gray-clad corpulent body barely fit between the narrow rows of wooden platforms jammed into the barracks to accommodate the men impressed into the King’s service. Illera watched her father limp slowly through the wide open door. The physician tottered over to him and gave a low voiced report with much hand-wringing and head shaking. She had never seen her father look so despondent. The physician moved back to the men, changing bandages and anointing wounds with wine and oil. King Ian moved slowly from bed to bed, encouraging the men and speaking consoling words to them.

  As he approached her position, slightly behind the washstand, she slipped the catch and slid from the narrow opening. His snowy head whipped towards her.

  “Illera, where have you been?” he hissed.

  “Father, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Illera, answer me. I’m too tired to play games with you, where have you been?”

  “Maggie warned me, father, and I have been hiding. I won’t be sold to Frain!”

  Ian sighed and dropped his head to his chest. Raising it again, he placed both hands on her slender shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.

  “Illera, my darling, darling girl, the last thing in the world I would want for you is to leave Madean and me. But you must realize, when one is born to royalty one has obligations, duties to the land and to the people. I know you are aware of that and that you do your best to take care of the people around you. You do a wonderful job, and I am proud of you. We have suffered a bitter defeat. All our food stocks are gone, taken by the pirates. Many of our men are dead, slaughtered like sheep. These are the men that we need to grow more food, to take care of the land and the women and children that are left behind. I will not consent to this marriage to Torul of Frain unless there is no other way to save Madean and her people, but my darling; it may come to that. You may have to sacrifice yourself for the land you love.”

  Illera backed a step away from her father, watching his hands fall wearily to his sides. “No father. I cannot leave you, and I cannot leave Madean. What if my mother returns?”

  Ian grimaced. “No child, I’ve told you often your mother will not return. She said herself, that as one of the ageless ones she should not have been with me. I was most blessed to have her company for the time she was here and even more blessed that she allowed you to be conceived and brought to birth. You were her final gift to me, but it was final, and I wish, oh how I wish you wouldn't keep dreaming of your mother’s return. She’s gone to her people and her land.”

  Tears formed in Illera’s eyes and dripped unheeded down her cheeks to splash on the dusty stone of the floor. “She left you, father, she didn’t leave me, and I have to believe that one day, one day when I need her most, she will return for me.”

  “Oh Illera,” began Ian.

  The tramp of spurred boots rang on the cobblestones outside the door. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Illera vanished back into the walls. As the catch snicked tight, she heard the loud voice of Sir Kyle and a shudder left a cold trail up her spine.

  She hurried back to her room, gathering her cloak, basket, and candles and made her way through the passages to the longest of them. It was a long trip to the edge of the forest, more so when it was underground through long disused tunnels. She walked for hours with only the flickering candle for company. At last the stone stairs rose under her feet, and she dragged up them, slowly and wearily until she reached the heavy stone doorway. Grunting she shoved the massive block aside on its rails and exited into the fresh air of the forest.

  First moon was just rising, hovering on the battlements of the distant castle. It was full and golden tonight, shedding a steady even light over the dark boles of the trees. Illera blew out the candle and traveled swiftly through the dark trees to the silver forest, where the ghostly birch dominated the land, regal and pale against the strengthening light of first moon. Second moon was following close behind tonight, a slender blue sicle half the size of first moon. The double shadows made finding the herbs and mosses she was collecting difficult, and she had to exercise great care not to pick the wrong plants.

  Her eyes were aching and her basket nearly full when she heard the low, rumbling growl. She straightened from the base of a huge silver birch and stared straight into glowing green eyes. She immediately tore her gaze from the predator’s, looking down its long, tawny length stretched on the branch above her. The rumble intensified. Illera began to talk to the lion in a soft voice. Her voice rose in a gentle wordless song. The growl stopped, and the tautness left the muscles of the creature. As Illera continued, the lion sprang down from the branch and sat in front of
her. Illera went down on her knees in front of the beast, just inches away from the six-inch ripping fangs. With gentle hands, she reached out and stroked the long whiskers on either side of its face. The big cat purred with pleasure. Illera rose and took her basket, walking slowly back to the entrance of the tunnel. The lion padded beside her. At the tunnel, Illera spent a few moments petting the animal, lit her candle and disappeared into the dark hole, closing the rock behind her.

  The trip back to the castle was even more difficult, for she was weary. Her heart seized with anxiety every time she thought of leaving Madean, and she knew she couldn’t go away whether the kingdom depended on it or not. So, she tried to hurry with her burden and finally made it home. Careless, she dropped her things on the floor of her room and crawled into her bed for a few hours’ sleep.

  The maidservant, Sar, woke her, opening the curtains and caroling a good morning. Illera came groggily awake. A steaming tub was waiting for her in the bathing room, and she sank into its depths gratefully. After breakfast she went through the castle to her father’s rooms, every nerve straining to the sound of the Franians, ever ready to duck into the secret passages within the walls. Undetected by outsiders she made it to the King’s quarters. She knocked loudly. Her father’s servant opened the door.

  Propped up with pillows, her father was dwarfed by the massive four-poster bed. The heavy red velvet draperies accented the pallor of his face as he flinched away from the bright morning sun. Illera felt a pang of alarm run through her at the sight of him.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, “Good morning father. How are you today?”

  His normally clear blue eyes were cloudy, with sagging pouches of flesh below them. “I’ve had a hard night, child. And you? You look tired.”

  “Well, I was a little busy last night,” she replied.