Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms

by Michael DeSousa

  “No,” Fiora said with a strong tone that sounded more like a command from a tutor than advice from a counselor.

  “No?” Zana challenged back, mimicking Fiora’s raised eyebrow earlier.

  “You would legitimize he’s wants,” Fiora said smoothly, but Zana noticed those same rip currents hidden in her words. People from the Demos region weren’t well thought of in any noble land, but there seemed to be something more personal in her tone. “Sitting with Your Highness, imagine what lies he could spread afterwards.” Damn, good point. And a public sitting would be no better than her usual court audiences.

  Zana closed her eyes. “What would Father and Mother do,” she muttered to herself.

  “For what the Demos revolution did to your Mother and her family and nobles, your father would have had him assassinated for subversion of the crown and his assets confiscated. Your mother would have had him arrested, flogged, executed, and sent back to their Grand Forum Complex as an example.” Zana blinked a few times at Fiora’s obviously prepared answer. Yes, her Mother’s lands were taken by the revolution and all the nobles of the Impossible Tower fled to Ladress, but the Rushniks weren’t personally involved in that. How could she justify it? “But your parents had the advantage of a unified kingdom,” Fiora added.

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” Zana said, dryly. “Can we spare more of our food stocks for those people outside the walls?”

  “We may, but winter hasn’t even begun yet, Your Highness.”

  Zana was planning to see Mak; maybe she could strike a deal with him to feed those people. “I’ll bring it up with my advisers, find some why to curb his influence. I don’t know where he gets all that food, but I can’t let him outshine the Holy City in generosity. Alright, what’s next.”

  Fiora looked down at her ledger. “Lunch will be with your guard, going over security, and afterwards, you will be given a tour of the Undergrounds with the Her Holiness, the Doyenne—”

  Zana groaned, the worst part of the week.

  “On your insistence,” Fiora reminded her.

  “No, no, I have to. Some of them were my own subjects.” Oh, but she hated going down there. It felt like she was keeping a terrible secret —it was a terrible secret. But she heard them herself. The Chills speaking. And so, she indulged Gene with more time, time for figure out if they were a mutation, prophecy, or chance. Though Gene seemed to have already made up her mind. Wouldn’t Almighty’s return be a good thing? “Will I have anytime to myself tonight?”

  Fiora scanned her book, mouthing numbers. “Yes, but, I’m sorry, there will be one more guest after your dinner. I thought you might like to have dinner alone for your first night back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you prefer,” Fiora said, drawing out the would ‘prefer.’ That usually meant she preferred. “You can see your last audience with your dinner.”

  “Someone that important? Who is it?”

  “Count Marque Von Marqs from Drakendor—”

  Zana cursed.

  Fiora snapped a scathing look.

  “I’m sorry. I forget about him. I hoped he would come yesterday while we were still traveling. He’s here visiting his son, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Fiora answered. “He will arrive this afternoon. I plan to meet him and see if I can ascertain his motives.”

  “His motives are clear,” Zana said, looking at her empty ring finger. The man wanted to marry her. A low count of a closed off country to a daughter of Ladress? The joke would have been funny, if she didn’t suspect some play against her brother Sig. She should never have agreed on letting his son train here, but at the time, the man had recently lost his wife to an assassin, and his son was in danger. His son, such latent magical ability, she’d never seen before. So, Zana allowed it, a stupid mistake made five years ago when she was more compassionate. And the One-King, Sig’s been trying to undermine his rule since that mistake too. “How is his son progressing? Malek Von Marqs, isn’t it? Still a ‘savant,’ is he?’”

  “Yes, Malek, and yes, his skills are quite superb. The Doyenne is impressed; he’s almost completed —ah.” Fiora’s closed her hand in midair as if catching a fly as wrinkles stretched across her face under a full victorious smile.

  “Ah?”

  She laughed softly. “I believe the Lord Marqs will ask you to allow his son to be trained in the martial magics. That must be why he needs to speak with you.”

  “Ah,” Zana mimicked. Yes, that would make sense. Maybe that was the source of his interest in her all along —his son. That made sense too, but it disappointed her. She was hoping for something grander. Now when she rejects him, she wouldn’t feel the thrill of dashing someone’s selfish ambitions, but the regret of dashing a father’s hope for his son. Shaking her head, she said, “well, the answer is no.”

  “Naturally.”

  Yes, naturally. Zana resisted rolling her eyes. “But a mage of his talent going back to a closed off country…What in the world are they doing up there?” Drakendor was certainly a mystery. Little to no trade to speak of. The home of the Coming Shadows, an assassination group. Home to a despot that made the Demos look like dutiful public servants by comparison, the so-called One-King, a man or woman said to be hundreds of years old. Preposterous, obviously a secession line, but for such stories not to be falsified meant considerable secrecy and isolation…and the resources to do so. Even Gene had tried prying inside, but never found anything other than what Zana already knew. Three castes: the impoverished peasants, the favored foremen and commissioners and the wealthy Counts and Countesses, and on top, the One-King. How does a country stand like that?

  “You can find out more over wine and dinner,” Fiora said, accenting the word ‘wine.’ “What are his plans for his son are. His plans for his future. Perhaps information on his liege would be helpful too.”

  Zana let a grin spread across her face. “And maybe afterwards I can seduce him? Learn more about Drakendor in a half an hour then our best listeners have in years.” She studied Fiora for a reaction. Disappointingly, there was none.

  “A very juvenile joke, Lady Ladress, but wine gladdens the heart and loosens the tongue.” It loosens mine too, she thought, grimacing inwardly. “More information is what we need.”

  Zana leaned back into her seat before taking a sip of her tea. She spit it back out. Yuck, cold. “What we’re going to need is lot of wine,” she groaned. “Count Marque is almost as closed off as…” she glanced at Fiora. “Cyne. I know older widowed men can be…out of practice but even his ‘wooing’ of me seemed… I don’t know—”

  “Artificial,” Fiora suggested.

  “Yes,” Zana answered, thoughtfully. “Lady Fiora, would you like to join us for dinner? You can see how his emotional state changes.”

  “I was planning to,” she closed the ledger book.

  Zana frowned. “Of course, you were.”

  15

  Celeste Casmarus: On the Road to Sat’r

  “Today begins your new journey, Mother Evening Sky. A journey which will take you into the arms of Zandagor, become one of her Valkyries to preserve our world from the evils of the Dark Well. The Almighty has died, but his Vassals live on. Zandagor of the Golden Lady, Randagor of the Red Mountain, Lairgor of the Sea Roar, Eventide of the Veiled Goddess, Hyliagor of the King-Maker, Blekengor of the Black Monolith, and Humenor of the Impossible Tower. Each assigned a duty; each assigned a gift. They’ve walked among us, taught us, guarded us, fought for us and when their spirits come to rest in the Shards, we know it is time to renew our responsibilities. And you, Mother Evening Sky, will continue this duty by becoming the Golden Lady’s handmaid. You will not learn the physical disciplines of a healer, the mental fortitude of telekinesis, the apologetic rhetoric of evangelism. Instead, to you, we will impart the fire, the wind and the storm. You will learn how to compress organs, ignite fires, and cause great streaks of pure light, to become a martial mage for our goddess.”

  “Bah, mu
st you make this sound so melodramatic?”

  “Doyenne, this a very serious matter. Mother Sky must know what she is agreeing to.”

  “Serious matters deserve plain language. Mother Sky, you know what’s asked of you. Seven years from now, after rigorous training, you will be given up to the Golden Lady to fight her battles in the spirit —you will die. Is this what you want?”

  “Yes, …my sister—".

  “Your sister is gone! Forget her. This concerns you and you alone.”

  “Yes, I will do it.”

  -Conversation between Mother Evening Sky, the Doyenne, and High Priest Gracie

  Sil’s feet burned, her back ached, and her stomach growled. Why in all Gen Shemver did they have to walk and walk through such rough country too. Even her hand was tired of pointed her palm-light ahead of her. It made little difference. Rocks and roots. Brushes and tall grass. All seemed to find exactly how to poke her feet in the most painful way, and moreover, they were especially artful in reaching under her dress and nipping fine cuts on her ankles. She should have worn longer leggings or have boughten socks, but that’s what horses were for! To ride comfortably and not have to walk! Sil snickered. She wasn’t making any sense because of that man’s stupidity!

  Markus, a few yards ahead, strode on with a brisk pace as though he knew this back-end of no-where. He would stop now and again to give her a chance to catch up. Ha! Good that she slowed him down. Small vengeance. Oh, Golden Lady, is that what I am now? Petty?

  She spotted a large boulder, and her tired body pined for it. Stumbling, she leaned against it, groaning as her feet thanked her with relief.

  “You alright back there,” Markus asked. Sil straightened her back, chin up in case he turned around. “You don’t need another rest, do you? I’d like to reach Sat’r sometime today.”

  Sil ignored him. The sky had lightened up quite a bit, morning soon, or at least dawn. This rough country of boulders, wild grass, and short shrubs stretched for miles around them with no hint of settlement or animal. No one would be stupid enough to do what they were doing, but Markus ‘knew’ the way. All Sil could discern was that he was following rising smoke, presumably the massive smiths and forge smokestacks of Sat’r. At this point, she would rather have dealt with the border soldiers instead of this walking stupidity.

  Finally realizing Sil had taken a break, Markus stopped walking before waving his hand for her to catch up. Murmuring complaints, she left the stony ‘comfort’ of her boulder and caught up with him.

  “Please tell me we’ve reached it,” she groaned.

  He nodded forward. “No. Look.”

  Sil saw the flat country spread out before her, the brightening dawn above and in between parked in a line were seven carriages, all ruined and toppled, and all smoldering with heavy smoke.

  “What—”

  He cupped his hand over her mouth, placing his finger over his lips. “Shhh,” he sounded, pointing to her previous boulder of respite before rushing over for cover.

  “How dare you,” Sil hissed but followed him. “And who are they? Traders?”

  He squatted down, grabbing her arm and pulling her down with him.

  She yanked her arm free. “I still have use of my ears,” she protested. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Then use them and be quiet,” he whispered, peering over the boulder. “I don’t know who they are…or were.”

  “Highwaymen? You loaf! You led us to them!” Resisting the urge to slap him, she instead grasped at her knife, ready to defend herself. But she let go. She couldn’t risk spending the magic imbued within it. She’d have to rely on her own magic; it’s what she was trained for, wasn’t it?

  “I led us where I thought we should go.” He patted the boulder, then searched the ground around him. “You do have a warding stone on you, right?”

  She shot her hand to her chest, feeling the cool chiseled stone gift that hung from her necklace. “Certainly,” she sighed with relief. How careless of me. She had forgotten all about it since she first put it on.

  “Good,” he said, sounding worried. “Don’t see many around here. Strange, they’re usually plenty this far south.”

  “Is that what you think did this,” she asked, peering over the boulder herself. Smoke rose from the line of carnage, but all seemed still. A quiet scene, Sil had to admit. She didn’t see bodies, either. Maybe they were all incinerated. “The Chills?”

  “It’s possible,” he whispered. “But infected dead don’t burn caravans.” A curious expression creased his brow. “Wait, you’re a priest, and you’ve never seen someone infected?”

  “Uh…no,” she said, looking away. Sil was offered-bound to the Golden Lady, so her vocation took a different track. But for all the other priests, healing was their first duty. And quite often, people would bring their wounded and sick to the Temple for healing, and once in a while, there would appear poor souls who were infected with the Chills. They would come in with hot fevers and speak nonsense, and shortly after, pass on when their burdened hearts gave. The other High Priests would then incinerate the bodies and host a funeral services for the families. If they didn’t incinerate the bodies, they would soon come alive again and speak their nonsense as their flesh decayed. Sometimes they could be dangerous, acting in a random and chaotic ways —so she read.

  “Yea, I don’t believe that,” he said. “You’ve been in that Temple for ten years, there had to be someone infected brought—”

  “How did you know I was there for ten years?”

  He let out a frustrated groan. “We’ve been over this…ah, never mind.” He turned away to spy the caravan again, and good that he did. Prying into Sil’s real function at the Temple wouldn’t lead to anything good. It was a wonder with all the information he had, how he didn’t know about her sacrifice already? It must have been the work of that strange man, Mister Conner, back when she was recovering from being exposed. He had apparently been hired to keep the sacrifices secret. The Night Lady, was that who he worked for?

  Markus tipped his hat down lower over his face, before standing up. He flipped his long coat open, revealing two dark metallic hand-cannons with wooden grips at his hips. “So long as you’ve got a warding stone, I want you to stay here.”

  “Why don’t we just go around,” she pleaded, her hand still gripping her knife’s handle. She hadn’t let go, she realized. “We’re in Landrie’s Princedom. You…you don’t have jurisdiction.” She studied the carriages, gleaming any information that could make her case. “Look, there’s no bodies. It was probably an accident. They all went into town…probably.”

  Markus looked at her with his eyelid drooping and a smirk of disbelief. He chuckled. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? A mage, really.”

  “Yes, and why not.” She blushed. “Is that so unreasonable? Mage or not. We’re only two. There may be more there.”

  “Just a second ago, you said no one’s there,” he said, stepping away.

  Sil grabbed after him but only caught air. “Wait…what am I supposed to do if they find me!”

  He shrugged. “Same thing you did to your coachman. Burn ‘em alive.”

  “You….” That loaf! She turned her back to the boulder, sliding down to sit on the ground. She bent her knees up and hugged them tightly. Maybe there would be someone there, and that loaf would be sorry. Get himself killed…and then she’d escape. No more Markus.

  She frowned. Thinking ill of people too, she scolded herself. All this time away from the Temple, exposed to the outside world, must be corrupting—

  A crash erupted from Markus’s direction and when she turned to look, Markus was on the floor, another man —tattered in smoky burnt clothes— on top of him. Sil raced over, drawing her knife.

  “Ribble,” the man growled, low and husky like a loin about to devour its prey. “Rabble. Rumble. Riddle!” Markus tried to push him off, but he seemed overpowered, the assailant’s hands clawing at his coat and shirt. She glanced at the knife, then at
Markus, who was now holding up the assailant with his hands. But the man kept trying to bash his head against Markus’s chest. No, I can’t use this, she told herself, and a with strange reluctance, she sheathed the knife.

  Sil then extended her palm and conjured up an image of a mighty wind focused at the attacker’s midsection. Quickly, she sent the intention to her palm. Horror struck her suddenly; she forgot the initiation spell, forgot to brace herself from the kickback. It was one of the basic rules of the martial magics: protecting oneself from one’s own magic! But it was too late. The raw magic swirled in her palm for the briefest second before exploding from her palm. Without providing a way for her body to counter the force, her entire arm whiplashed behind her, sending shooting pain up her shoulders and deep inside. She screamed, falling to her knees with her arm slumping down to her side.

  But the gust of wind met its mark, surgically ripping the man off Markus and sending him flying —ripping him into two pieces. But Sil didn’t care. She wished it would have ripped him to dust! With painful tears welling up, she gingerly held her tender arm, unable to move the fingers without pain shooting up again. She felt her shoulder swell with each beat of her heart. Her arm now hung lower too as she felt an odd deformation in her swelling shoulder. “Damn him to the Dark Well,” she screamed. Her shoulder had been dislocated.

  Markus jumped up, his two hand-cannons in hand. He cautiously jogging backwards to her. “What’s wrong? You alright?”

  “No, you loaf,” she shouted, blinking tears away while holding her arm carefully. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Dis..? What? How did you—”

  “Shut up and help me!”

  Markus holstered his weapons before crouching. He felt the length of her arm, and poked and prodded her shoulder. “Are you finished causing me pain,” she seethed, giving him the coldest stare she possible could.