Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  She took a breath and stood as close to him as she could. Unshed tears swelled in her throat, making breathing difficult. The smell and stillness of death rose about her threatening to suffocate her and take her to join him. For a moment, she thought that might be best, go with her father into death and let Garth have Madean. But the other love, the werwinstans rose unbidden at the thought. She loved this land, these people and all the creatures that lived in her demesnes. She could not abandon them and must struggle to do her best for they were hers and hers alone. A sob hiccuped in her throat. The clank of a knight walking across the floor disturbed her, and she looked up, grateful for the distraction.

  Raven, dressed for battle, with his sword drawn, was walking towards her.

  “My Lady, you should not be here alone in the night.”

  “And what of you?”

  “I came to take my turn to stand honor guard for your father.”

  “Oh,” was all she could squeak past a tight throat.

  In two steps she went to him, collapsing against him as the storm of sobbing took her. Trembling so that she could barely stand, she clutched the interstices of his armor, her fingers grasping claws.

  “I can stay another hour, take care of the Queen,” the guard at the head told him as another knight relieved the guard at the foot of the casket.

  Raven placed an arm about Illera and led her in stops and starts to the library. They sat down on the sofa, and she clung to him as she sobbed, using him as an anchor for her pain. The fire burned low, and Illera wept on, coughing and choking on the agony as she allowed it to flow from her. The embers fell to ash, and she was still, the odd tremor still racking her body.

  “My lady, Illera, are you all right now?”

  “No,” she muttered back, her voice thick, “I’ll never be all right again.”

  Raven held her tighter. “You will. You most definitely will. We’ll all help you. Ashera and Lark and me. Even Dorian and Aelfred will help.”

  “You can’t bring my father back.”

  “No, no we can’t, but we can be your friends.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “You are my friends, but I want my father.”

  Raven pushed her away and held her at arm’s length.

  “Illera, you can’t have him anymore. You have your memories of him, and that has to be enough, because that is all you will ever have. You have to get over this sometime and now is a good time. You can decide to go on, or you can decide to wallow in grief. Your people need you. Your country needs you, and I need you.”

  “You don’t understand.” She wailed.

  “You are right. I don’t understand. I only understand Korul is coming and he wants Madean. Your people need you. You have a duty to them and to yourself, and I’ve never known you to shun your duty.”

  Illera looked at him strangely. His face was in shadow, only the far light of the torches glinting on his eyes and armor. His silhouette was dark on darker, an odd outline without features. She closed her eyes.

  “I know you’re right, but it hurts so much.”

  “I know it hurts. I can see it in your face, so darling Illera, grieve in private, or with me if you will, but be brave in public.”

  “I tried.” She hiccuped as he drew her close to him again, the sobs returning.

  “I saw,” he replied, his voice rumbling directly to her from his chest, “You were magnificent this morning. I’ve never seen such royal authority on anyone. You truly are a Queen. And when you dismissed Sir Garth, I thought the others were going to swallow their tongues. All except the scribe, he enjoyed every bit of the incident.”

  “I did all right? It wasn’t a mistake?”

  He rubbed his hand in circles around her back. “No, you didn’t make a mistake. If Sir Garth was allowed to rule Madean, I think it would shortly become another Frain. He didn’t want to marry you because he loves you, he only wanted the throne.”

  “And what about you?”

  Raven laughed, bouncing her head up and down.

  “I think you are trying to trick me, but if you were to marry me, I wouldn’t care if you were a penniless waif from the woods or the Queen of the entire world. I like you for being who you are.”

  Illera began to sob uncontrollably again, and Raven held her through the long dark night. Just before the dawn, she fell asleep. He carried her to her rooms and left her to sleep off her exhaustion while he stood guard over the departed king.

  By midmorning, Illera was taking inventory in the armory with Sir North, Lark and Ashera. Their cache was indeed spare, but Sir North had seven smithies set up and working, day and night to build up the stores of swords and pikes at least.

  From there they went out of the castle to the horse herds. Jarot and Elisa met them. Illera hugged the older woman.

  “I regret I killed Copper getting back to my father. She was a fine and courageous mare.”

  Elisa smiled. “Relieve yourself of guilt on that account. When I heard you arrive, I went to the castle and got her. She was hard used, and her wind is be broken, but she can serve as broodmare for many years to come. See.”

  Elisa pointed to a fiery chestnut on the far side of the herd. Illera could make out the stockings and blaze down the face. A knot she had not known was inside her unraveled and smoothed out. A deep sigh from the center of her being forced its way through her lips. Elisa laughed.

  “You are not the only one who can doctor animals.”

  “Your Majesty,” interrupted Jarot, “as you can see, we have five times the number of horses that Korul does…”

  “It was my understanding that these horses were Korul’s.” Illera cut him off.

  “Yes, well yes, of course, they used to be, but…”

  “How did they come to be here?”

  Elisa laughed aloud. “Lark and Raven warned me that Korul was about to go on another rampage and that you had killed Torul.”

  “I didn’t kill Torul, he fell, but go on.”

  “My husband, the boy’s stepfather was sent to me with a note explaining the state of things and a suggestion that I take the herd and bring them to Madean in order to be safe. That is just what I did. Seth is here now, helping make weapons I think, although he is a blacksmith, not an armorer. Your father was most hospitable and offered me a place next to Jarot. I was happy to accept.”

  Illera grinned at the other woman. “As I am happy to accept your presence with my people.”

  “But when I become King of Frain, my mother and stepfather will return home with me.” Lark placed a proprietary arm around Elisa's shoulders.

  “That will be your mother’s decision,” Illera corrected him.

  “Well, as you can see, your Majesty,” Jarot said, trying to regain control of the situation, “we have a large number of well-trained war horses with which to fight.”

  “Can you train some of the farmers or their sons enough to be of use in the time we have?”

  Bowing low Jarot replied, “I will do my best, your Majesty. I will do my best.”

  “I know Jarot. I know you always do your best, and I appreciate it very much, and so will all of Madean. I‘ll leave you to get organized while I meet with Sir Trebut.”

  Illera, Ashera, and Lark marched back to the castle, and to the stuffy supply rooms, Sir Trebut occupied. They spent several hours in close discussion with him about supplies, depots, caches and supply lines before the fussy knight was satisfied.

  Orille prepared a banquet for the guests and knights. The Darkliete and sailors had arrived as well as a large contingent of Carnuvon, all excellently armed and ready to fight. Their troops had grown by one third, and the Darkliete promised warriors from Sorwelk would arrive within a few days. Although she wanted nothing more than to return to her room and wallow in grief, Illera made small talk and pleasantries to the guests and danced when required with the various hopeful suitors and dignitaries. She followed Raven’s advice and poured her heart into the solidifying of Madean’s friends, putting her personal
desires aside.

  The whirlwind of planning in the last few days had settled inside her head. It spun, around and around until Illera thought her stomach was going to turn. She had managed, and managed well these frightful days, always with her friends by her side, lending her their strength when her own was insufficient. The funeral cortege was waiting in the courtyard below her father sealed away forever and about to take his last trip, to the vault. She dressed in the flowing white mourning gown. The mourners with white ribbons on their arms waited; the honor guard mounted on black horses. Abbadon waited for her to mount and lead the way, Raven at his bridle, Lark, and Ashera following on foot, but her dizziness would not allow her to rise and descend the stairs to the waiting funeral.

  The soft tap on her door brought her upright from the dressing table over which she was leaning. The two maids at her back whispered behind their hands, annoying her. The tap came again, and one of them scurried to open it after a quick glance at her mistress.

  “My Lady,” Orille stated, “the cortege is waiting for you. You must come, or you will shame your father.”

  She sighed. “I know Orille, but I’m sick. My head is so dizzy that I can’t stand up let alone ride.”

  In three quick strides, Orille was across the room and lay a palm on her forehead.

  “Highness, you have no fever. It is probably distress of heart. As Queen of Madean, you must control yourself. It is your duty.”

  Illera lay her head again on the desk. “I am getting heartily sick of hearing those words. I know my duty. I know I am Queen, but I am sick, truly sick.”

  Giggles from the girls behind made her raise her head and glare at them.

  “What is so funny about being sick?”

  Orille coughed. “It is the nature of your illness.”

  Illera looked at him one eyebrow raised in question.

  “Well, you have been with the two squires from Frain and the two princes from Carnuvon a lot. Tongues will wag.”

  Illera felt her face grow hot as the meaning of his words dawned on her. Fury brought her to her feet, circles of bright red in either cheek. She took a step towards the now frightened maids.

  “How dare the servants make my efforts to save Madean a matter of prurient gossip,” she snarled.

  “There,” Orille said, smiling, “the sickness has past.”

  Illera spun to face him, realizing the dizziness had left her. It jolted her, making her realize that she must face the task ahead. Sighing, she obediently followed him out of the door, down the staircase, out the main door of the castle and through the throngs of mourners to the head of the line. Turning his great head, Abbadon whickered at her as Lark boosted her into the saddle. As Maggie glided down from the castle walls, the musicians positioned in front of the hearse began to play. The mournful, haunting notes of the flute silenced the low murmur of the crowd, and when the heavy drumbeat began in a slow cadence, Raven led Abbadon forward, one halting step at a time. Maggie perched on the stallion’s poll and refused to be moved no matter how he tossed his head.

  Everything had a surreal feeling, unlike the glamour of Faerie, but a clarity, a sharp-edged vision, and unnaturally keen hearing. She forced her spine straight and tall and held her chin high and face impassive. The long, slow march wound from the approach to the castle and through the nearest village to the edge of the quarry. Illera heard the murmurs of wonderment as the cortege passed by, the villagers standing in respectful stillness as their king went to his rest. The shuffling and whispers behind her were disturbing, but Illera stared straight ahead trying to shut out the others who were there to mourn with her. The pink marble of the crypt hove into view, nestled amid the carefully tended lawn and encircled by gnarled oak trees. The light reflected in painful fashion from the arches and columns polished to a mirror gloss. Raven led Abbadon to the left and halted. He lifted her down from the high saddle and gently squeezed her arm as he set her on her feet. She stood on shaking legs as the rest of the mourners formed a semi-circle beside and behind her.

  Turning her head, she noticed what the whispering was about. Every dog, cat, pig, goat, sheep, donkey, horse, or bovine in the area had joined their cortege. A smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. From the surrounding trees crept rabbits, wolves, lynx, lions, deer, elk, as well as a myriad of birds that filled the trees and the surrounding lawn with their singing, far more cheerful than the flute. The people shifted nervously amid the press of creatures, tame and domestic. The casket was unloaded and placed in front of the wide double doors. Then the priests had their say, extolling the virtues of good King Ian and praising the excellencies of his reign. They committed his body to the memory of the gods. The Darkliete presented a service, and again Illera tuned her ears to the wind in the trees and the birds and rustlings of the wild things. When the ceremonies finished, the doors were unlocked and opened. Her father vanished into the darkness within. In her mind, she called a farewell to him.

  She shook her head as the priests emerged and the doors closed with a loud crash. The sound of the tumblers turning as the vault was locked again, was one of the loudest noises she had ever heard. When Raven grasped her elbow, she realized she was shivering. She looked around. All the animals had surrounded her, with Raven, Lark, and Ashera in the middle with her. The rest of the human mourners had separated themselves and stood on the other side of the lawn. Illera went to her knees and thanked each creature as it passed by, bestowing her good wishes and blessing upon it. As she caressed each one, it vanished back to its normal place in the natural world. She turned to thank the humans just as a man riding a lathered horse burst into the clearing, waving his arms wildly over his head.

  “Korul, Korul is advancing,” the rider gasped as he tumbled from the horse. “He is on Madean soil and is razing the villages as he comes, raping the women and slaughtering the children. The men he binds and drags behind him. Please, Lady, help us.”

  Illera turned immediately to Abbadon. One of her friends, she knew not who, threw her to his back. She felt a body thump down behind her and turned her head to see Raven, his face grim urging her back to the castle. The war-horse needed little coaxing, lifting his mighty hooves into a gallop as they thundered back to Seven Spires.

  The gates were closed and locked, and they lost precious minutes as the portcullis was raised and the gates opened. Abbadon raced to the next gate and through. Illera slid from his back and dashed to her room. Quickly donning the armor Sir North had made her, she sprinted back to the courtyard.

  It was a madhouse of confusion. Men were running, and wagons were being loaded. Horses and women were screaming. Farrell, Kenna and Min, young people Orille had chosen for her, were packing a wagon loaded with tents, food and such items as the Major Domo deemed necessary for a Queen.

  Elisa was at Illera’s side, guiding her to the white war-horse she was to ride. He was a more slender build than Abbadon and Appolon, combining the look of speed with power. Gracefully, white feathers flowed up his legs, and his mane and tail were long and silken. The animal rolled a wild blue eye at her as she ran up to him. She stopped her rush and went quietly to his head, talking to him low and rubbing around his swiveling ears. The stallion lowered his head and smelled her. Rubbing his muzzle up and down her face, he accepted her.

  “His name is Commitment,” Elisa told her.

  “Hello, Commitment.” Illera sang to him. He snorted at her and pawed the ground with one hoof.

  “Lady, hurry. The nearer Korul gets to Seven Spires the greater the danger,” called Ashera from her tall gray mount.

  “I’m coming.”

  Elisa gave her a leg up. She turned, checking that her saddlebags of special supplies were in place. Out of the mass confusion of the yard, an army had taken shape. Knights were arrayed around and behind her as supply wagons completed their loading. Turning Commitment’s head to the open gate, she put her heels to him. With a mighty snort, he charged out of the inner gate and then the outer gate, racing to meet the King of Fr
ain.

  The first mad dash to battle slowed; many miles must be covered before they met the opposing army. Light riders on fast horses raced ahead, bringing news of Korul’s whereabouts so they might be able to choose the battleground. Information began filtering back: Korul had smashed all of the small villages visible from the main road. Korul made the captured men of Madean march ahead of his army to protect them from ambush and arrows. Korul had catapult and other war engines pulled by oxen because he was short of horses. Korul had almost a thousand men to fight against them, all armed and trained in warfare. Korul was moving quickly and was already a third of the way to Seven Spires.

  Illera called a halt just before dark.

  Lark pushed Appolon close to Commitment as she was about to dismount.

  “Your Highness, if we push on we can engage Korul before another day has passed. You are allowing him to kill and destroy more of Madean by this halt.”

  Raven cantered up to her other side.

  “If we engage Korul tonight, after dark, we will be at a disadvantage. Let him tire his men and horses by pressing on through the night. We rest and come at him with all our power tomorrow. About five miles ahead, there is a wide grassy meadow beside the road. On either side are tall hills, perfect for hiding troops. Our horses will have room to maneuver, and our men will have a place to retreat to if necessary. Archers should be stationed on the hilltops to shoot down into Korul’s men while sparing our own.”

  “But Illera, there are villages there. What about them?” Lark argued.

  “They will take their chances with the rest of us,” she spat, tired from the long day and the distress of her soul.

  Reining Appolon around, he called back to her, “I hope you don’t regret making such a mistake.”