by Kel Kade
Rezkin glanced down at the katerghen who looked pleased as his leafy feathers danced to the cadence of the music. In that moment, it was almost as if he understood the katerghen’s native language. The secret was just beyond his grasp. He wondered, if he focused long enough, might he learn it? His hunger abated, he felt energized, determined. Rezkin put on the guise of Dark Tidings, strapped on his swords, hooked the mask to his belt, and strode toward the door. He glanced back to the katerghen, but Bilior was gone.
Once on deck, Rezkin was amazed by the vivid dance of hues that pervaded the world. Living things shined the brightest to his eyes, while those that had once been alive appeared dim. Objects that had never lived did not swirl with colors, but rather radiated varying amounts of light. In combination with the sun, it was rather overwhelming. He blinked several times, hoping the previously hidden lights of the world would fade. He focused his eyesight, as if trying to see through a fog. After a few minutes, the lights became less intrusive. He knew not whether they had changed or if his mind hand begun to accept them.
Striker Akris strode up to him. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”
Rezkin looked at the striker, whose colors appeared different from his own. He wondered if the patterns had meaning. “All is well,” he said. “Do you have a report?”
“Yes. This city was alerted of our impending arrival, and a large crowd has gathered at the docks. The governor has issued an invitation, and we have received a request for a meeting with a Leréshi echelon.”
“Which echelon?”
“The missive says the third and fourth.”
Rezkin nodded. “I anticipated a shift in power after Erisial’s daring move. Who is it?”
“House Palis,” said Akris. He looked thoughtful and then said, “Was that not the name of Lord Malcius’s brother?”
“It was,” said Rezkin. The tension between his shoulders released. He had not realized his level of concern over Malcius and Yserria’s disappearance until that moment, but he now knew that at least one of them had survived. He said, “Bring them aboard.”
Less than an hour later, Yserria and Malcius boarded Stargazer, accompanied by their entourage. Frisha pushed past everyone to fling her arms around Malcius while Rezkin greeted Yserria.
“You look well, Echelon.”
Yserria shook her head. “It was a difficult time, and he made it worse with his obstinance, but we prevailed in the name of our king.”
Malcius grinned. “She said that she would show them the might of the Kingdom of Cael, and she delivered.”
Frisha reached up to tug at Malcius’s hair. “What is this?” she said, fingering the red ribbon.
Malcius huffed and snapped at Yserria. “Why did you not remind me to remove this? I cannot believe it has been there all this time.” Then, he looked at Frisha and said, “Some despicable woman tried to claim me as consort, so Yserria was forced to challenge her. It was the Third Echelon—Ah!” Malcius suddenly winced and held his hand to this side of his face. “It burns!” he hollered.
“Malcius!” yelled Yserria. “I told you to never speak of that! We agreed that I would tell the story!”
“What does it matter?” he said as he turned to her. “I was only saying what happened.”
Frisha inhaled sharply and slapped her hands over her mouth as she got a look at Malcius’s face. Alarmed by her reaction, Malcius ran his fingers over the skin along the right side of his forehead down to his cheekbone.
“What is it?” he said. “Was I stung by a wasp? Is it bad?”
Frisha looked to Rezkin, who stared at Malcius with apathy. Upon noticing Frisha’s pleading gaze, he said, “What? I can do nothing about this. They are now married.”
“No!” screamed Yserria. “No, I did not ask for this. It’s not right!”
“You claimed him. That was a statement of willingness on your part. He just recognized the claim outside of Lon Lerésh. The ritual spell has run its course.”
“What are you talking about?” said Malcius. “What ritual spell? And, what is this about our being married?”
Frisha looked to Rezkin. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
He shrugged. “Men have tried for centuries to undo the binding. The ritual is very old. It gains power with time and use. Malcius bears Yserria’s mark. A like one will adorn her face by the end of the day.” He looked to Malcius. “Within Lon Lerésh, you are recognized as her consort. Anywhere else, you are now her husband.” He paused, then said, “You realize that she is still my ward. Since you did not ask permission to marry her, I have the right to challenge you to a duel to the death.” Malcius’s face paled.
Frisha fisted her hands on her hips and turned to Rezkin. “Don’t be cruel. This is not a joking matter.”
“You think I jest?” he said then turned back to Malcius. “Yserria’s mark will prevent you from entering into another union, so you two will have to work things out.”
Yserria rounded on Malcius. “You! This is your fault. Again! You were forbidden from speaking of it. You agreed! Why do you never listen? Always, you are running your mouth.”
“My fault? Why did you not tell me this would happen?”
“I thought you knew! You agreed not to speak of it—ever.” Yserria stormed away, but Malcius followed her into the cabin, presumably to continue their argument in private.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” said Frisha. She looked up at Rezkin. “I am glad you never speak of it, and I’m sorry for berating you. It still doesn’t change what happened, though.”
Rezkin could tell from the pain in her eyes that she would probably never forgive him. A pain struck him in the chest as he decided it was better for her since he would never be able to give her what she wanted. He knew the pain he experienced was one of loss. He had felt it long ago at the northern fortress. He had felt it with Palis’s death, and he had felt it when Malcius and Yserria had disappeared. What he did not understand was why he felt it now. Frisha had not died or disappeared. She was still his friend, and she was standing right in front of him, yet he still felt that he had lost her somehow.
He said, “You should gather your things. You will be moving to the other ship for your return to Cael.”
“You are not going with us?” she said.
“No. I must complete the deal with Privoth.”
As she walked away, he glanced back at the other ships. The former crew of the Ashaiian ship had been imprisoned in Havoth; and the ship, renamed Mystic, had a primarily Ferélli crew. Two Ferélli warships, Atlandisi and Vispania, now escorted Stargazer as well. Farson and Shezar were busy figuring out what to do with Yserria’s entourage, so Rezkin summoned Akris. He said, “Move unnecessary personnel to Mystic. Prepare it and Vispania for a return to Cael. After we have resupplied, Stargazer and Atlandisi will land at Fort Ulep. From there, we will head straight for Drovsk.”
Akris left to carry out his orders, and Rezkin turned to the other two strikers. He waved to the captain to join them. “Moldovan wishes to meet with the governor to assure him this was not a hostile takeover. Assign him a Ferélli guard so that it will not appear that we are forcing him.” To the strikers, he said, “One of you follow and remain hidden as backup. Return as soon as the meeting is concluded. We are leaving as soon as the ships are reorganized and resupplied.”
“No shore leave, then?” said Estadd.
Rezkin looked at the captain. “A secret war is already being waged. Enemies are being recruited and have been placed. It is unlikely that we have encountered so many demons by coincidence, yet I doubt we were being targeted. I believe it is because they are already so profuse. Demons and spies may even be aboard this ship. It is best to assume that, aside from Cael, no port is a friendly port.”
After he saw that everyone was performing their duties, Rezkin went to look for Wesson. The mage was in the storeroom hunched over a crate he was using as a table. Broken pieces of pottery were scattered over its surface, a few having spilled ont
o the floor, and an unblemished specimen was at the center of his focus. Rezkin watched as Wesson designed the structure of a spell, then laid it over the pot. He then cast another at the broken pieces. The shards began to rattle and shift, moving closer to each other and fighting for space. Then, the undamaged pot began to shake, a hollow sound escaping its open mouth. It abruptly shattered, spilling its pieces on top of the others.
“No!” Wesson cried as he buried his hands in his curly locks. He glanced up at Rezkin and said, “I must put it back together. If I can tear it apart, I should be able to put it back together.”
As he began frantically gathering the pieces of both pots, Rezkin moved to crouch at his level on the other side of the crate.
“Journeyman Wesson, you cannot put the Ashaiian ship back together, nor can you recreate the people. They are lost. You must accept that.”
Wesson blinked at him. “I know that. But, I must find balance. For the sake of my sanity, I must be able to fix things, not just destroy them.”
Rezkin stared at the broken pieces with his enchanted eyesight. Although they lacked the swirling colors, their broken disarray reminded him of his own colors of shattered glass. He noticed that the pottery shards still possessed the same glow as the pot when it had been whole. He said, “The pieces have not changed, only their arrangement, their relationship with each other. Before, they possessed a synchrony of purpose, a design; whereas now, they are fragmented, without purpose, and without order.”
Wesson looked at the pieces. “Yes, I see what you are saying.”
Rezkin said, “Some people might prefer them this way.”
“Why would anyone want broken pottery?”
“Because now they can be shaped and combined in any way you want.”
“Like a mosaic?”
Rezkin picked up a piece glazed with blue and white designs, turned it, and then placed it on the crate. He added another and then another. After a few minutes, he sat back and examined the design.
“It is beautiful,” said Wesson. “It looks like a star.”
Rezkin tapped the crate. “It would not have been possible had the pieces remained in their original state.”
Wesson looked at the pieces sullenly. He said, “But it will never again be a pot.”
Rezkin motioned to the open crate beside them. “Does it need to be? We have more pots.”
“But I have no use for this,” Wesson said, motioning to the mosaic. “A pot is useful.”
“Then make it into something useful,” said Rezkin. “Perhaps, with time, you will learn to create things anew. Perhaps you will even learn to fix them. You should not punish yourself for your ignorance, so long as you continue to correct it.”
Wesson still looked at the pieces with disappointment but muttered, “How did you get to be so wise?”
Rezkin said, “I do not know if I am wise, but I think differently than most.” He lifted one of the pots from the crate and set it next to the mosaic. He pointed to the pot and said, “This is most people.” Then, he pointed to the mosaic and said, “This is me. Perhaps someday you will fix me, too.”
Wesson looked up in surprise. “But you are amazing how you are!”
Rezkin grinned and watched as the meaning dawned in the mage’s eyes.
“Oh.”
Rezkin tilted his head and settled a sword on to the crate. “Now, I need you to look at this.”
Wesson lowered his face to peer closely at the weapon. He said, “It is a sword.”
“I know,” said Rezkin. “It is the mythical Sword of Eyre.”
Wesson looked at the sword again. He lifted it from the crate and turned it in every way. “It is only a sword. It is not even enchanted—not in any way. It contains no mage materials. There is nothing special about it. It would be impossible to set it aflame for any length of time.”
Rezkin nodded as his suspicions were confirmed. The prophecy of the Sword of Eyre was a fraud.
Frisha looked in the mirror. For the second time, a stranger stared back at her. “Do you think it’s too much?”
Celise laughed. “This is very not much. You look pretty, but we can have more?”
“No, it’s enough. It’s just that I don’t recognize myself. My eyes look huge and bright, and my lips—do you think it sends the wrong message? I know most of the ladies at court wear face paints, but I never—”
“You must stop this worry,” said Celise. “You are not to be queen, but we still want to have status, yes? We must impress them. If we look to have … um, this is the word for knowing we are good?”
“Confidence?”
“Yes, we must look to have confidence, and they will think we are important. Trust me. This is how it is done. We must hurry.”
“What’s the rush?” said Frisha.
“We are almost the last to leave the ship. It is not good to be last. This shows a worry that we are not good enough to be ahead of others. To be first is to be too eager. We are at a good time now.”
“She has a point,” said Moldovan. Frisha jumped, not having noticed him standing in the doorway. He said, “I have decided to escort you down the gangplank. A lady should never go it alone.”
Celise’s expression fell. “My Wesson is not here to be escort.”
Moldovan smiled, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes becoming craggier. “Then I shall have the pleasure of escorting two beautiful women.”
Frisha watched her feet as she descended the gangplank since she did not want to make a fool of herself by falling into the water. When she looked up, she was confronted by a stern-faced high lord with every reason to be angry. They stared at each other, he the judge and she the accused. Finally, his expression softened, and he said, “I am glad to see that you are well.”
Frisha smiled, but his attention had already moved on to the old king at her side. After Tieran introduced himself, he said, “Do I know you? You look somewhat familiar.”
Moldovan’s expression was hard. He said, “Lord Tieran Nirius, I met you only once, I think. You would have been a small boy then.”
Frisha said, “This is King … ah, I mean Prince Moldovan of Ferélle.”
Tieran’s brows rose, and then he stepped back and performed a courtly bow. “Greetings, Your Highness. I have the honor of offering you Cael’s finest hospitality—such as it may be. I must apologize in advance. Ours is a young kingdom, and the accommodations will not meet the standards to which you are accustomed, but we will do our best to address your every need.”
Moldovan raised his chin and looked down his nose at Tieran in judgment. Then, he winked at Frisha and said, “That is how royalty should be addressed.” He turned back to Tieran. “Thank you, I humbly accept your gracious hospitality, Lord Tieran—or is it prince? Were you not named heir presumptive?”
Tieran’s grin appeared forced. “Well, we have not yet worked out the system of titles and holdings. Lord Tieran will do for now.”
Moldovan nodded and said, “I did not come for the comforts. I came to see my daughter.”
“Of course, I will escort you directly.”
“No, you stay and enjoy the company of these lovely ladies.” He pointed to the personnel running around the dock in newly designed palace livery. “I would be glad to have one of these servants show me to her.”
After Tieran called over a servant to escort Moldovan, Frisha said, “This is Celise, daughter of Queen Erisial. She is … ah … a friend? … of Journeyman Mage Wesson’s.”
Celise’s joy was bright enough to fill the dock as she said, “Yes, I have claimed sweet Wesson as my first consort. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tieran. Frisha has said much of you to me.”
Tieran glanced at Frisha. She released an uncomfortable laugh and said, “Oh, you know, just the little things—nothing serious. I’ve been telling her about our projects and some of our experiences trying to govern together.” He said nothing, at first, only staring at her with eyes the color of the ocean far beyond the influence of land.
She shifted under his silent gaze.
“Yes, I understand,” he said. “It is the little things we often find ourselves pondering. I think, sometimes, that they are thieves, stealing importance from other matters.” Frisha was not sure how to respond, but it became unnecessary as he turned his attention to Celise. He performed a small bow, glanced at the blue ribbon in her hair, and said, “We are honored that you have joined us, Matria Celise.” His gaze darted to Frisha before he looked back to Celise and said, “We have heard only rumors of the events that took place in your queendom. I shall be most grateful to hear an accurate telling.”
Frisha pursed her lips. “What you heard is probably true. Rezkin married the queen and became king of Lon Lerésh. Moldovan abdicated to Rezkin, so now he’s king of Ferélle, too, which makes him emperor of an imaginary place called Cimmeria, and Cael and Ashai are supposed to be a part of it.”
“It is true, then? Rezkin married Queen Erisial? Does he recognize it?”
She huffed. “No, and believe me, we would know if he did. Malcius accidentally recognized Yserria’s claim, and now they’re married.”
His eyes widened. “This is going to be an interesting story, but it will probably best be told when you are both rested. I shall escort you to your quarters.”
As they walked through the corridors, Celise stared in awe at the mesmerizing enchanted palace, reminding Frisha of her first time walking the halls. Eventually, Celise said, “I hope my Wesson will recognize my claim. He did not accept it, but I will show him that it is good.”
Frisha said, “Why did you choose Wesson?”
Celise grinned. “He is not a warrior. He is not scary.”
Frisha looked at her sideways. “You know that he completely obliterated an entire warship?”