by Kel Kade
Carpenters, metal workers, soldiers, and mages worked with enthusiasm to complete the tasks assigned to them. Rezkin had thought most of the outworlders on the mainland lacked resolve, but this group seemed driven.
“Why do they work so hard?” he said as he watched the laborers.
Captain Geneve, a fiery Sandean woman nearing thirty, turned to look as well. She said, “They need something to keep their minds off their troubles.”
Captain Estadd said, “Some of them seem to think that if they work hard, they’ll get to go home.”
“You do not believe it?” said Rezkin.
Estadd’s shoulders tensed, and his expression was troubled. “I think too much has changed. It has been changing over the past couple of years, slowly at first. Maybe some of them will return home, but I believe they will not like what they find.”
Rezkin narrowed his eyes as his gaze landed on a man who stood wrestling with a thin rope between two posts from which hung a half-made fishing net. He nodded in the man’s direction. “Who is he?”
Geneve hummed under her breath as she thought. “I believe his name is Connovan. He came here with a woman on the last ship. He’s a Channerían fisherman.”
“What else?” said Rezkin.
Tiny, silver charms twinkled in her short, onyx hair as she shook her head. “He’s good with rope. He’s been making nets and lines for the ships. That’s all I know of him.”
After dismissing the captains, Rezkin watched the man work his way down the row of his net, his movements sure and practiced. After a few minutes, Rezkin stepped into the shade of the warehouse and headed toward the palace. He still needed to choose his companions for the next trip, and it would require careful consideration. If the Adana’Ro truly wanted him dead, he would not prevail against them alone. After witnessing the events at the Black Hall, they were unlikely to offer him the same courtesy.
He entered the palace through the kitchen, sending the staff into a tizzy. They provided him a meal, which he scarfed down quickly. He was still uncomfortable with eating food that he had not prepared; and, in that moment, his concerns were validated. His face heated like the midday sun and the roof of his mouth itched as though swarming with ants. He used his knife to shuffle through the items on his plate—a pile of beans, sliced potatoes, a few chunks of gamey meat, and a green vegetable he did not recognize. He waved to the cook. Before his throat swelled completely shut, he said, “Who prepared this meal?”
The head cook appeared a bit concerned, but he smiled. “It has been my pleasure to prepare your meal, Your Majesty.” He nodded toward the other occupants of the kitchen, a young woman and man, each barely old enough to be considered grown. “My assistants helped.” They both grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
Rezkin fished in one of the small pouches on his belt. He drew out a small packet and dumped its contents into a fresh goblet of water. Then, he opened a small vial and heated it over the candle the cook insisted he have for ambiance. He poured the warm liquid into the goblet, stirred it with the tip of his knife, and then forced the entire contents down his swollen throat. Meanwhile, the cook watched with worry.
Once his breathing eased, Rezkin rose from his seat and strode over to the pots that held the meal. He examined each one and then turned to the cook. “Who placed the beans on my plate from this pot?”
The cook said, “I did, Your Majesty. Is there a problem with them?”
“No,” said Rezkin. “These are fine. Who entered the kitchen between the time you served the beans and I received my plate?”
“Ah, no one, as far as I’m aware. It’s just us three right now. More are scheduled to arrive soon. If there is a problem with the food, it will be my pleasure to prepare you another.”
Rezkin glanced between the three. One of them could be a Master of Deception, perhaps Adana’Ro or a member of the Order, but it was more likely they were innocent. He pointed to his plate and said, “Burn this.” The man’s face fell. Rezkin did not want to cause a panic, so he said, “This food has been tainted. Do not allow anyone to eat the scraps. The rest should be fine.”
He requested an extra plate of scrambled eggs and then headed toward his chamber, only to be intercepted by another woman. Mage Threll stepped into his path with her arms crossed and chin held high.
“I heard you are leaving tomorrow.” Her body language spoke of determination, but he had no idea what she wanted.
“Yes,” he said.
“I”—she glanced at the plate in his hand—“Am I interrupting your breakfast?”
“No,” he said as he lifted the plate of eggs. “This is not for me.”
“Ah.” She flushed and then cleared her throat as she said, “Do you plan to take my uncle?”
Rezkin had no desire to spend more time with the surly striker, but desire was rarely accommodated by necessity. “I have not decided.”
“I am going,” she said.
He tilted his head. “Why should I take you?”
She inhaled deeply and fisted her hands at her sides then said, “I came with you to Cael because I wanted to be a part of your cause. I believe you are trying to help Ashai, and I think you can pull it off. You need help from others, though. You have only just returned, and you are already leaving tomorrow. Since you are in a hurry, I can be of use. As you know, my affinities are for water and fire. I can fight in battle and make the ship travel faster.”
Rezkin tilted his head. “You are trained to use your powers in battle?”
“Well … no, but fire burns. You do not need much battle training to do damage.”
“What does your uncle have to say about this?”
She pursed her lips. “I am an independent woman. I do not need his approval.”
Rezkin glanced at the plate of scrambled eggs and said, “See Journeyman Wesson. He is overseeing the mage force for the journey.”
Mage Threll’s eyes lit with excitement. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Um, would you like me to reheat those?”
He shook his head. “No, that is not necessary.”
She grimaced, glancing again at the cold eggs, then looked back at him. “About Journeyman Wesson. If you do not mind me asking, why do you not raise him to Mage?”
“It is not my place to do so.”
“You are the king.”
“I am not a mage.” He stepped around her but turned back just as she started down the corridor. “Mage Threll.”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Do you love your uncle?”
She appeared surprised but smiled fondly. “Yes, he is the last of my family.”
Rezkin paused and then said, “You are your uncle’s weakness. If you fall, he will break.”
Nanessy nodded slowly. “I know that you are right. I am one of his weaknesses; but, I believe that you are his other.”
“He knows that I can defeat him.”
She shook her head. “No, that is not what I meant.” She started to say more and then seemed to think better of it. “I had best find Journeyman Wesson.”
Rezkin continued down the corridor and finally made it to his quarters where he bathed and dressed. The cat stared at him as he went about his business, although he was not entirely sure it was just a cat.
He settled on the colorful rug someone had woven from scraps of fabric, crossed his legs, and sank into a meditative trance. He was deep in his memories, searching for information, when he was abruptly assaulted by a furry tail in his face. Cat had crawled onto his lap. It mewed and purred as it rubbed against him. He decided this creature was, in fact, the cat and that it desired to have its fur stroked. He picked it up and held it in front of him so that he could stare into its yellow eyes. It blinked lazily as it continued to purr. He had been told that felines could sense danger, and he wondered why it sensed none in him. Setting the cat down, he returned to his meditation. The little beast curled up between his crossed legs as Rezkin shuffled through the scenes of his past. Something—or someone—was out of
place.
When he was satisfied with his conclusion, he donned his armor, secured the Sheyalins at his hips, and strapped the black blade across his back. He collected the plate that been licked clean and returned it to the kitchen. His vassals would have been frustrated with his insistence on performing the mundane tasks of feeding and cleaning up after the cat, but he figured it was his duty, since he had stolen the thing from its home. Even the shielreyah seemed to think it humorous when he had asked them to keep the furry beast out of trouble as it explored the palace. He supposed it did seem like a rather inconsequential task for thousand-year-old dead elves, but it was hardly a burden on them. On the other hand, they seemed incapable of finding the katerghen.
Rezkin turned down a corridor toward the room that had become his office but took only a few steps before he encountered Ilanet, who was accompanied by Xa. He glanced at the assassin suspiciously and then turned to the small-woman.
“Greetings, Princess. Has your escort been with you all morning?”
Ilanet glanced at Xa and said, “Yes, we were visiting the new southern garden. It is beautiful in the early morning light. The ictali are so helpful, now that they are not trying to kill us. They are sweet and kind. I like them very much.” She pulled a letter from her pocket. “I was coming to give you this. It was left by the table in the room I share with Frisha. It has your name on it.”
Rezkin took the missive and examined the outside before opening it. It was a letter from Frisha. He had seen her writing before, and this matched precisely. Still, it was odd that she would send a letter to ask him to meet with her in the garden. He nodded at Xa as he spoke to the princess. “Was he with you when you found this?”
Xa looked at him quizzically and then glanced at the letter with a bit more interest.
“No, he had not come to my room yet,” she said. “We could not find you, so we went to the garden for a while.”
“You are sure he has been with you since then?” This time Xa scowled at him, as if he realized he was being accused of something.
“Yes,” said Ilanet, “since we left my quarters just after dawn.”
Rezkin looked at Xa and said, “Stay with her.”
He turned from his intended destination and headed toward the garden. He had the sense that he was being drawn somewhere, but he could not discount the possibility of paranoia. He had always been sure of himself, but since arriving on Cael, he had begun to see enemies everywhere. He wondered why that would bother him so much. Prior to leaving the fortress, he had assumed that everyone was a potential enemy. What had changed?
There was a chance that Frisha was truly waiting for him. She did not possess the Skills to elude him, so it was unlikely she was the assailant. Shezar seemed to think he had imagined the attack in the woods, and the cook had been equally confused about the poisoning. No one had witnessed those events, and he was lacking evidence. This time, he had the note to prove his sanity.
The moment Rezkin stepped beyond the corveua, he was forced to swipe an arrow from the air. Two more followed. As he spun to avoid them, one cut through the ribbon at his nape, causing his hair to spill over his shoulders. He searched in the direction from which the arrow had come and caught only a glimpse of a fleeing figure. He was careful to remain cognizant of his surroundings as he ran after the assailant. He had no idea how many lay in wait. The cloaked figure scaled a garden wall with ease, glancing back, as if in challenge. Rezkin caught a glimpse of white teeth beneath the hood. The attacker had smiled at him. He followed the intruder over the wall and down the hill into a gully at the edge of the valley. The maze of steep embankments cut back and forth across a swath of dry streambeds. As he tracked the attacker, he caught sight of the figure in a channel adjacent to him. He knew it was only a matter of time before he lost track of the perpetrator.
At the next intersection, Rezkin ran up the face of the embankment, grasping roots, and digging his fingers into the loamy clay. He scrambled atop the broken earth, leaping over the crevices between the grassy blocks of the broken surface. A scuff to his right caught his attention. He leapt to the next block but heard the whistle too late. He was midair when the arrow caught him in the thigh. It was a glancing blow, a flesh wound, but he realized the assailant had somehow gotten behind him.
As Rezkin landed, he flung a throwing star toward his attacker. A hand whipped out from behind a block to catch the star and lob it back at him. Rezkin now knew for certain that the assailant had intentionally missed in the original attacks against him. The open attack, the poisoning, the letter—they were all intended to lure him beyond the corveua, to this place. He hugged the ground as he scanned and listened. Was it to be an ambush? Was it a test? How many intruders had invaded his island, and how had the shielreyah not known of it? He already had suspicions as to who his attacker might be. The method and motive were what eluded him.
The attacker obviously desired pursuit. Rezkin had a choice. He could continue to play the game, or he could wait for the attacker to come to him. If he chose the latter, he risked the intruder disappearing and bringing harm his people. Hugging the ground, he backed to the other side of the block and then slipped over the edge. His feet settled in the loose dirt of the streambed. He focused, casting his senses about his surroundings. His breaths were deep and long as he listened. The musky smell of earth hung strongly in the air. A slight breeze rustled the grass above, and somewhere in the distance, seagulls squawked. Then, he felt it—the slightest tingle. It was barely discernable from the natural buzz of the life that surrounded him. He padded toward the sensation on silent feet, slipping Kingslayer from its fur-lined sheath. The prickle that danced across his skin grew stronger, and its source shifted closer to him.
Rezkin raised his sword and struck as he rounded the block. His blade met steel as he came face to face with his attacker. The man ducked when Rezkin threw a punch. The man rolled to the side, out of Rezkin’s reach and then attacked in an overhanded strike. Rezkin dodged as he brought his sword up under the man’s extended arm toward his exposed side. Rather than twisting away from the strike, as would most, the man twisted into it, smacking Rezkin’s blade away using a previously concealed dirk.
After the failed attack, the man whipped his dirk back, scoring the armor covering Rezkin’s abdomen. Rezkin blocked a low attack, shifted feet, and kicked his leg up, arcing around to hook the man’s neck. He locked the assailant’s head behind his knee and blocked a strike from the dirk with his vambrace. He released Kingslayer and grabbed each of the man’s arms, wrenching them so that they could no longer grip. He and the assailant fell to the ground with Rezkin wrapped tightly around the man.
To Rezkin’s surprise, his attacker squirmed and shifted until he managed to free himself from Rezkin’s grip. The man rolled to his feet, drew another hidden dagger, and stabbed at him several times as Rezkin ducked and dodged. Rezkin grabbed for the man’s arm, but the man was fast. The battle energy simmered just below the surface in his chest. The stone that rested there warmed as he released the energy in a quick succession of hand strikes. Then, he spun low to the ground, sweeping the man’s legs from beneath him. The man recovered quickly and issued his own attack. Rezkin noticed that the man’s speed was dependent on Rezkin maintaining his distance. As he worked his way into the man’s guard, he withdrew two knives. In a flurry of slashes, most of which the assailant managed to block, Rezkin began to overwhelm him. He ducked a punch, and in return, offered a sharp blow to the man’s jaw. With another to the torso, the man went down. He quickly rolled away from Rezkin but remained on his knees looking up at him.
Rezkin was about to launch another attack when the man said, “If you kill me, you will never have your answers.” Rezkin stepped forward, and the man backed away. The man said, “When you did not know who I was, I could excuse the exchange. Now that you do, I shall be forced to fight you to the death if you persist.” Rezkin swept forward with unmatched speed, grabbing the man by the collar and placing a knife to his thro
at. The man said, “You should not close the distance unless you know I am unarmed.”
“I am aware that you still possess multiple weapons. I am also aware that divesting you of those weapons would not make you less dangerous. You did not bring me here for a duel to the death. What do you want?”
The man smiled. “I want to give you answers—in exchange for a price.”
“You are willing to share information?”
“On a few conditions,” said the man. “Let me go.”
“You went to a lot of effort to make me catch you.”
“Yes, I have my reasons, but we should not have this conversation here. Release me, and I will come to your office with my companion in one hour.”
Rezkin narrowed his eyes. “You are more likely to disappear.”
The man shrugged. “If I do, you will catch me again.”
“I do not have time for games,” said Rezkin.
“Nor do I. It is imperative that you and I come to an agreement—for both our sakes.”
Rezkin thought about the man’s proposal for only a breath. While it was dangerous to allow him to live, he might be the only one in any of the kingdoms who could give him answers. He also knew that the man would not, could not, be taken into custody.
Rezkin released him and stepped back. “Very well. One hour.”
An hour later, Rezkin stepped into his office. It was now furnished with a desk made of wood from the forest on the southern half of the bowl. Tam had constructed it for him and had even carved Rezkin’s sigil into the front panel. An inscription of loyalty and friendship adorned the underside. It was truly a beautiful piece, and Rezkin thought that Tam would have had a successful future as a carpenter. Tam had said that he found woodworking to be boring, but Rezkin thought that if Tam had put as much care into his other projects as he had the desk, he would have been lauded a true craftsman.