by Michael Karr
“It’ll probably be incredibly boring,” said Skylar, trying to make it sound like he himself didn’t want to go.
“Unlike being locked up inside the castle for days on end,” replied Rolander from behind his book.
“No one is keeping you locked here. Besides, there’s no library on Grüny’s ship.”
Rolander didn’t answer.
“Your new tutor’s supposed to arrive this morning,” said Skylar, wishing to change the topic of conversation. “He used to be a professor at Strybrn. Should be a real smart fellow, a good match for you.”
“If he’s so smart, why is he a tutor now? The university probably dismissed him for lying about his credentials, or something equally scandalous.”
“Actually, I left Strybrn of my own free will.”
Skylar started and turned toward the doorway, where now stood a man with a tangled black beard and mustache, wearing an oxblood robe and poet's cap. The strange man stared at Skylar with beady eyes, through rimless spectacles. The man gave Skylar a queer feeling that he couldn't quite explain. Perhaps because the stranger looked like someone who had just stepped out of another time period entirely.
“I left, young master,” the man went on without introducing himself, “because the university did not thoroughly endorse my research. They wanted me to pursue more commercially-viable research. I felt stifled, unable to achieve my full potential. So, I left. And why am I here?" the man took a few steps into the room. "I was told there was an exceptionally bright pupil to be taught, a library to rival any at Strybrn, and time and funding for my own research. And as the true mark of any scholar is his pedagogical ability, I felt I could not shirk this opportunity.”
The man doffed his cap, revealing a mop of unkempt hair, and bowed low to Rolander and Skylar.
“Professor Laris Jonobar, at your service,” he said, with an air of great dignity.
Skylar thought it very odd that the man had so intruded on their conversation, and even more so that the man had scarcely acknowledged Skylar. Not that Skylar cared one wit for the royal protocols and formalities, which seemed to define his existence. But he was unused to being treated so in his own castle by anyone but those closest to him. He put the thought aside. This professor likely didn’t know who Skylar was, as he wore nothing that betrayed his royalty, only a simple tunic and trousers.
“What did you teach at the university?” asked Rolander, his voice critical.
The professor nodded approval.
“Mustn’t take anything at face value, should we? Very good. I taught a number of topics during my tenure at Strybrn: mathematics, biology, astronomy, chemical engineering—the basics. My expertise, however, is in nanomolecular engineering. If I am not mistaken, this is a branch of science which interests you. Is that not Dr. Hawvine’s text you have?”
Rolander glanced down at the tattered book now on his lap. A look of genuine surprise shown on his face.
“Yes, it is,” said Rolander. “How did you—”
“I studied under Dr. Hawvine when I attend the university as a student. He was my mentor. A great scholar.”
“You knew Dr. Hawvine?”
Rolander voice was filled with astonishment and admiration. That was the end of it, Skylar knew. This strange professor had managed to win over Rolander. The two continued talking, Rolander spilling out question after question for the professor. Skylar, finally realizing there was no point in him staying around, quietly slipped out of the room and made his way to the castle's transport depot. Skylar felt content leaving his friend now. His new tutor would make a good friend for him.
Krom, Endrick, and his mother were all waiting for him at the depot when he arrived. The open courtyard, surrounded by enclosed transport stalls, lacked the usual flow of traffic it usually enjoyed.
“Great Yurik, Skylar!” cried Endrick. “Another minute and I would have left without you. What took you so long?”
Skylar ignored him and checked that his things had been properly stowed in the two-seater’s luggage compartment. Seeing everything in order, he closed the compartment’s hatch with a click, then turned to face Krom and his mother.
Krom stepped forward and placed a strong hand on Skylar’s shoulder.
“Remember your promise. No one outside your party is to know anything of your journey. Least of all, the reason for it. You’re in command of this expedition, Skylar,” he said with marked gravity, even for Krom. “Endrick and Grüny will do what they can to ensure your safety. But you must take care not to make reckless decisions that will jeopardize everyone’s safety, including your own. Don’t let your emotions take over your reason. Your sister may be alive, but she may very well be dead. You must be prepared to accept reality.”
Then he squeezed Skylar’s shoulder, and a crack of a smile shone on his stony face.
“Good luck, Skylar. May the Spirit King speed your journey, and bring you safely back to Ahlderon.”
It was more of an emotional farewell than he had expected from Krom, who seldom wore any face but a scowl. His mother’s farewell, however, was no surprise. Already tears glinted in her chestnut-brown eyes. He could tell she was fighting to hold them back, just as she had the day he fought in the battle on Haladras. Skylar felt a twinge of sadness at leaving her. Now that his father was dead, killed in that same accursed battle, she was the only family he had left. His sister might be alive, but she would be as much a stranger to him as anyone could be. With a gentle embrace, he told her he loved her. How he wished he had done the same to his father! Then turning round, he climbed into the two-seater alongside Endrick and gave him a brusque nod. Endrick brought the transport to life. With a jolt of speed, they raced out of the courtyard gates.
Before they were out of earshot, Skylar heard his mother’s voice call out, “by my birthday!”
Skylar sank back into his seat and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, feeling a pit growing at the bottom of his stomach. He knew they would not be back in time.
The Luna and her captain were ready and waiting for Endrick and Skylar when they arrived at the intercity port. It was the same port they had used when they infiltrated the castle, nearly a year ago. It looked the same as it had that day. Nestled discreetly among the towering buildings of the city, the small port felt it was designed for those like them. Those who wished to come and go without notice. The memories the port stirred up agitated his heartbeat. For a moment, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. He could do this, he told himself. He had to do this.
“Are we really going to take that bucket of bolts?” said Endrick loudly.
“What! The Luna?” replied Grüny. “She’ll do as well as any ship here.”
Grüny Sykes, the Luna’s captain, took the leather cap from his bald pate and attempted to shine one of the thousands of blemishes that covered the Luna’s hull. The old ship’s exterior reflected her master’s, with his leathery skin, worn, pitted, and wrinkled. Both showed evidence of being solidly built once, before age and overuse did their damage. Though he didn’t know, Skylar believed Grüny to be over sixty. He hoped the Luna was not as old.
“I wouldn’t have us fly in anything else,” said Skylar, looking at the Luna fondly. In truth, the ship was little to look at. And it rattled like a toolbox during takeoffs. Yet Skylar felt a debt of gratitude to Grüny and his decrepit ship. Without either, Skylar would likely be dead and Ahlderon still in the grasp of the tyrant King Tarus.
“It’s not that I don’t trust it to fly,” said Endrick, “I just don’t expect it to stay in one piece.”
Grüny grunted in reply and went to work loading their supplies into the ship’s cargo hold. For the size of ship, the Luna was endowed with a capacious cargo hold, which protruded outward at the rear of the craft, much like Grüny’s belly.
Within minutes they were launching off into the Ahlderion sky.
“Setting our course for Haladras,” said Grüny over the intercom.<
br />
Skylar watched as the glittering city and the Castle Ahlderon shrink below them. His eyes drifted beyond the city bounds, to rolling hills, to the forests of the south, and the frosty mountains of the north. Already he felt remorse to leave it. No such vistas awaited him on Haladras.
Yes…Haladras, he thought. What clues did my father leave for us there?
* * *
The gray blot raced across the cloud-scudded sky, growing ever smaller. Rolander watched it intently from the balcony outside his bedchamber. He should be on that shuttle. Why had they left him behind? Instinctively, he looked down at his right hand. After all this time, he was still not used to seeing it gone.
I’m not useless.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” said a voice from beside him that made him jump.
Rolander turned to see Professor Jonobar standing next to him, looking out at the spot in the sky.
“No one likes to be left behind,” said the professor, before Rolander could reply.
How did the professor know he was being left behind? The idea entered and left Rolander’s mind before he had time to consider it.
"I'm sorry," went on the professor, "I didn't mean to intrude on your personal affairs. It was just a humble observation. I've experienced my own fair share of that feeling in my life—the feeling of being unwanted. An altogether lonely feeling. I would never want anyone I cared about to feel so.
“Please, again, excuse the intrusion. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”
Rolander did not respond, but returned his gaze skyward, thinking about Jonobar’s words. Despite the warm sun on face and he felt a sudden coldness creep over him.
Two
The Princess Shahra Hira Minka shot open her eyes and glared at her serving wench. She could have whipped the girl until the flesh tore away from her back.
“I’m sorry, my lady…sorry,” the girl whimpered, as she scrambled with trembling fingers to collect the pieces of the shattered chamber pot she had just dropped onto the floor.
What a clumsy, incompetent…Calm yourself, Shahra. You must focus.
Killing before a fight would only wreck her nerves, cause a premature surge of adrenaline. No, she must refrain from punishing her wench. For now, her energy must be focused on more important matters. She would whip her serving wench another day.
The princess inhaled a slow, measured breath, closed her eyes, and resumed her meditation.
Within a few hours, her first Trial would commence. She must not do anything which might cause her to fail it. Today marked the first day of a month-long test of her worthiness to assume her rank as princess and one day become Empress. No ruler of Gorgoroth may hope to gain the support of her people, armies, chieftains, and warlords without having proven herself. The Trials would test her strength, endurance, willpower, military prowess, and ability to fight. And fight she must…and kill, or be killed herself.
The Trials began and ended with a fight to the death. She’d killed before—many times. This time her opponent would not be a mere slave. No, her challenger would be a great warrior. One worthy to fight her. One accepted by the people. One who sought for power. For indeed, to defeat the heir to the throne in open combat would secure the champion great stature and prominence.
Soon she would meet her challenger. She must be ready. For once she entered that arena, nothing but her own skill would protect her. Not even her own mother, the empress, would stay her opponent’s blade. The empress would watch her daughter die without so much as lifting a finger to stop it.
She must focus.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Let her mind slip into that state between conscious and unconscious, where the body has no control over the mind. There she stayed, reviewing the many lessons her master had taught her.
An hour passed before the princess once again opened her eyes. This time it was not her serving wench who brought her back, but her own sense that the time for meditation had passed. Gradually, she glided out of her semi-dream state, allowing her senses to adjust to the flood of restored sensory data. Inexperienced meditators often sabotaged the effects of their meditation by doing so. The raw heightened awareness must be carefully mixed with the brain’s conscious senses.
Mechanically, she turned her head from side to side as she scanned her room. It was empty. Her serving wench had evidently left her chamber sometime during her meditations. Now that she needed the wench, she was gone. No matter. She would not permit herself to grow perturbed. Not at the expense of her heightened mental state.
In one sinuous movement, she rose from her spot on the floor where only a small rug provided any comfort from the cold stones beneath her. She walked over to the side of her bed, and pulled the flaxen cord which hung over her night table. Ordinarily, she would count the number of seconds it took her serving wench to respond. She enjoyed threatening the girl with a beating any time she took longer than one hundred and eighty seconds to arrive. A pleasure she must forgo today.
Instead, she turned her attention to her knife. It was stowed away in a small wooden box, which she kept atop her night table. The blade always brought her some measure of comfort. She had fought with it many times. A trusted companion. Again today, she would carry it at her side. Though not her primary weapon, She often resorted to it. Most opponents did not expect it. The blood of many skilled slave fighters had been spilled by it.
She held the edge of the blade up to her face and inspected the full length of it, watching for the slightest intimation of light reflecting off the edge; a failsafe sign that there was a spot which needed honing. A subtle smile of satisfaction crossed the princess’ face. The blade looked flawless. Returning the knife to its holding box, she turned her attention to the portal.
Her serving wench was coming. She could tell by the sound of the scurried footsteps coming down the corridor, soft but uneasy. Within a matter of a few seconds, the poor wretch entered the room, bowing obsequiously and asking what the princess desired.
“It is time for me to dress,” she said. “Bring me my armor.”
“Yes, my lady,” replied the serving wench, as she quickly bowed and made to leave.
“Where are you going?”
The serving wench turned and warily replied, "to the armorsmith, my lady?'
The princess suppressed a surge of anger.
“Icca,” she said as if the name were a curse, “what kind of fool goes into a close-combat fight, against a single opponent, wearing plated armor?”
The girl stared back at her blankly.
Sighing, the princess shook her head.
“My fighting skins, Icca,” she said. “Bring me my fighting skins. I need armor which will give me freedom of movement, not protection from arrow tips.”
Icca turned sheepishly toward the princess’ wardrobe. The princess nodded as the girl walked over, opened the wooden doors, and began pulling out pieces of her fighting skins.
As the serving wench dressed her mistress in the thick animal hides that would protect her from grazes and partial thrusts, the princess spoke to the girl.
“You should be grateful to me, Icca,” she said. “Grateful that I keep you. No one else wants you. Not even your own parents—whoever they are. You’d be a street beggar, and likely a bad one.”
“Yes, my lady,” replied Icca meekly, as she laced up one of the princess’ forearm covers.
“Not too tight,” said the princess. “My muscles must not be constrained”
The serving wench loosened the lacing. With her other hand, the princess gripped her forearm, rolled and flexed her wrist, testing the fit. Deeming it well adjusted, she held out her other arm for Icca to tighten the lacing. The girl did so, then moved on to the princess’ breastplate. It, too, was made from animal hide, smooth and formed to her figure.
She could have worn a steel breastplate. In such a fight the upper torso required less freedom of movement than the rest of the body. But she preferred the lightness of the hides
, even though its toughness was no match for the thrust of a blade’s tip. Her trainer had always told her that if any opponent’s blade had opportunity to strike her thus, she deserved to die.
Next, Icca fastened the upper-arm shields. These would protect her arms from her opponent’s deflected blade.
“In your heart, you may wish that I am defeated today,” said the princess. “But if I die, none shall take care of you. That I can promise you, Icca. So, pray to the gods that I win.”
“Yes, my lady. I should never wish you killed.”
“What a fine liar you are, Icca. I never suspected it of you before.”
“No, my lady…I swear—”
“One should not speak of death before a fight,” interrupted a harsh voice, “unless it is the death of one’s enemy.”
The serving wench turned around to see who it was. The princess already knew. Without turning, she answered him.
“Yes, Master Rizain. My words were unbecoming a true warrior.”
“Such language puts doubt in one’s mind,” he went on. “You need neither prayers nor speeches. You need only use what I have taught you and there is no chance of defeat.”
The princess turned to face the man she called master, her trainer, Rizain Du Kava, Imperial Weapon’s Master and Combat Specialist for the Empress. He stared at her with that cold expression that she had never seen warmed by laughter, or smile, or brightness. His one dark eye that wasn’t patched possessed the power to unsettle the nerves of all but the empress herself. It stared at her now, calculating, always calculating.
“You’re mother wishes to speak with you before the fight,” he said abruptly. “You’ll find her in her study.”
Then he turned and strode out of the chamber.
The princess narrowed her eyes and breathed out, “Mother…”
The princess did not rush off at the bidding, but allowed Icca to finish dressing her. Then, securing the dagger at her side, she went to her mother's apartment. Just as Rizain had instructed, she found her mother in her study. Her mother was at her desk, reading a letter, her jet black hair pulled back tightly in a braid. The empress did no look up when her daughter entered, but kept her eyes fixed on the parchment. A terse "come in" was all she said to acknowledge her daughter's presence.