Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  His two benefactors exchanged uneasy glances. Lord Lionsbury stepped out of the pen. “Farrhaven is almost a week's ride to the northeast in good weather. We have a fresh change of clothes and boots. Rest and eat well.”

  He motioned to Mr. Byrch and the big man lumbered out of the barn. “Your training begins now, Simon. Right this moment. You will follow Mr. Byrch’s instructions to the letter, without question. Do you understand?”

  Simon bowed, his spirits lifted higher than he could ever have imagined. He had never heard easier words to follow. “Yes, Lord, but do you not ride with us?”

  “I have other pressing matters requiring my urgent attention. Should you need my assistance, I will be at the Brackhill Inn the next two days. We will meet again at Farrhaven within a week.” Lord Lionsbury drew his riding gloves from the pocket of his cape. “Heed Mister Byrch’s words, young Blackfyre. You are his charge now. Stay vigilant and safe, for a savage storm is rising and grows ever stronger against us.”

  Simon bowed as his Lordship took his leave. He had carried great burdens before and if there was one hidden by the fortuitous grace of providence this wonderful night, then Simon didn’t have a glimmer of what it might possibly be.

  Nor, if truth be told, did he ever care to find out.

  Chapter 7

  Skullduggery and Secrets

  Early next morning, after a demanding night of maintaining both appearance and pleasure, Niclas finally bade Tarsilla a safe voyage to Varza on the doorsteps of her manor, watching her carriage drive away through the front gates.

  Politely refusing the offers of food and drink from the servants, Niclas returned to the privacy of Tarsilla’s bedchamber and slid the deadbolt into the latch securing the door. I must thank her Ladyship again for her generosity.

  She had recognized the importance of his Council documents and been kind enough to offer her late husband’s locked armoire for his clothing and personal belongings.

  Niclas retrieved the key from his trouser pocket. There’d scarcely been enough time the previous night to undress and secure his mysterious message in a most natural fashion, before Tarsilla had demanded he attend to her in bed.

  When she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d still lain awake there, restless and anxious, wondering if he should creep like a thief in the night to unlock the drawer. The risk of waking her Ladyship was too great, so he’d remained by her side, feigning sleep, so at least he wouldn’t have to tell another lie and continue deceiving Tarsilla beneath her own roof and her tangled sheets.

  Niclas searched through his neatly folded tunic and removed the parchment. Unfolding it into six parts, he read it silently once, then twice, to make certain he’d not misinterpreted the author’s almost illegible writing. What kind of bloody nonsense was this?

  He read it aloud in a soft voice, hoping the sound of the words might reveal some clue as to their meaning, where the mere reading of them did not.

  “The Lost Sacred Writings of Miradora: A Collection of Fanciful Fragments and Entertaining Apocrypha for the Curious Reader is not a book many have heard of and even fewer have read, save for a few including your scholarly Lord Rabek—and for good reason.

  “It is those reasons that will decide the fate of all people and their kingdoms. Miss Euriel Glanduer and I await your arrival. Sincerely, and with most high regard, your loyal brother-in-arms, Count Lubos Borodin of Salak.”

  Niclas studied the six-pointed star, a simple hexagram, that followed the Count’s name. Seeing nothing of significance, he folded the parchment and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. Brother-in-arms? Only a troubled spirit sees the storm of war gathering overhead when the sky is none other than bright and clear.

  From the garden, sparrows and magpies refused to cease their endless chattering, making almost as much sense as the cryptic message in Niclas’s pocket. The title of the book wasn’t familiar, for he seldom had either the leisure or the inclination to read such fanciful tales, all better suited for being told to children and easily-entertained peasantry.

  There were no court scribes or librarians on Kardi, so he would have to wait until his return to Avidene and ask for a search at the Royal Library, though he wasn’t convinced that should be necessary. Niclas shook his head, puzzled and irritated by fatigue.

  He was about to climb back into bed to sleep on the matter when there was a knock at the chamber door.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “There’s a coach for you, Lord,” answered Uray.

  “Who sent it?”

  “The driver insists you must be present, Lord, and alone.”

  A large black coach with magenta felt curtains was waiting outside. The coachman, dressed in dappled brown and white livery, sat on the driver’s box, motionless, staring straight ahead.

  The carriage door opened and Sir Nechtan Razmig, attired in a smoky gray knight’s jacket and black tunic, cast a furtive glance one way and then the other. “Lord Delcarden, if you please.” He motioned for Niclas to enter.

  “Sir Razmig?” Niclas didn’t wish to appear too startled by the young knight’s appearance. “Are you here on the Governor’s business?”

  The knight looked toward the front doors of the manor. “That is what it should appear, my lord. It is a long drive and it is best we arrive before nightfall.”

  “And what is the reason for this urgent journey?”

  “I may only speak of that which I know. Will you accept Count Borodin’s offer or should I depart?”

  There was an acute note of unease in the young knight’s voice. Niclas’s hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. “Where is Bishop Jubert?”

  “He would be present, my lord, if not for the sake of drawing attention to his activities. None will question the travels of a high-ranking King’s Council member and the Governor’s attaché.”

  “But I understand the Count resides at his seaside villa. Surely that is not far.”

  “He is not staying at his villa for reasons that will soon be apparent. Please, my lord. It is a long journey inland.”

  Niclas considered the knight’s reply. Everything surrounding the events on Kardi before and since his arrival were as mystifying signs in a bewildering labyrinth of facts and fancy. He deemed it was time to finally meet this Count Borodin and demand a satisfactory explanation; he wanted nothing more than to put these puzzling matters to rest once and for all. He stepped into the carriage and was seated.

  Sir Razmig shut the door and the carriage rolled forward.

  They sat in silence until they reached a safe distance from the manor gate. Niclas leaned forward. “Now, would you be so kind as to explain what all this means?” He handed the message to Sir Razmig.

  The knight raised his hand. “I have read it, my lord. You should have burned it by now.”

  “Why? What is so important about this obscure book? I am neither alchemist nor scholar, nor do I believe in magical portents the superstitious swear lie within the crumbling pages of Miradora’s arcane texts.”

  Sir Razmig looked out of the open window at the passing tropical forest. “As did I, Lord, yet if you had seen what my eyes have witnessed, then I am certain everything that you believed to be true about our kingdom and its people would be cast in a new… well, a more fearsome light.”

  “You seem to be a rational young man. What have you seen, precisely, my good sir, that would affect such a momentous change upon your view of the world?”

  Sir Razmig uncorked a wineskin and offered it to Niclas.

  “No, thank you, I am light-headed enough after the events of last night and this morning. I will be sober and clear thinking when I meet Count Borodin.”

  “As you wish.” The knight took a deep swig from the wineskin.

  Niclas snatched the skin from the startled man’s hand. “I asked you a question. What did you see?”

  “Some of your questions will be answered in the book, my lord. After you speak with Count Borodin, you must decide if you wish to seek th
e truth further and prepare for what is surely to come. More than that, I am not permitted to speak.”

  Niclas tossed the wineskin back at him. “I could have you charged and brought before a court martial just for refusing to answer my question. They will throw you in the dungeon with common criminals while you await your trial. They do not treat knights and nobles with the same respect they do their own kind.”

  Sir Razmig nodded in deference to his authority. “That is true, my lord, yet I must assume that I have gained a small measure of your trust or you would not have stepped into this coach.”

  “What you have gained, my good sir, for better or ill, remains to be seen. Is there anything else you are permitted to tell me?”

  “Your eyes are heavy without sleep, my lord; may I suggest you rest? I will remain awake and keep watch.”

  “Why? Is there a problem with brigands on these back roads?”

  “No, my lord. Not anymore. They have left the island or turned to common thievery in the towns, which is safer.”

  “How is that?”

  Sir Razmig cleared his throat and looked out of the window, his expression almost haunted. “In the villages, they whisper that the night no longer belongs to the highwaymen. Someone or something else prowls these roads, and those who happen upon it are sometimes found… as were Baerwald Flax and the others.”

  Niclas’s hand instinctively slid over the hilt of his sword. He did not have the temperament for skullduggery and secrets, nor did he trust those who would draw the unsuspecting into their confidence by whispering to them, for pain and misery were often waiting under their concealing veils of silence.

  “Are you saying now, that you know more of the circumstances surrounding his death than you have sworn to in your statement?”

  “No, your Lordship, for I was not there to witness it. My sworn statement is the truth based on first examining the body and its location with the local physician. What I am telling you is what I have heard from the people in the remote villages, the people with whom the Governor does not wish you to speak.”

  “And have any of these good people given you a description of who or what may be lurking late at night on these roads?”

  Sir Razmig looked down at the coach floor and shook his head. “No, my lord, for none have lived to speak of it.”

  “Then there is good reason in the Governor’s decision. I think that is fair to say, would you not agree? Let me clarify: I am not here to investigate peasant superstitions and strange sightings, Sir Razmig. My final report must contain facts and eyewitness testimony only. The future careers of all who are mentioned in it will depend on these specific accounts. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  Sir Razmig bowed. “Of course, my lord, forgive me. I have said more than I should.”

  “Or not enough.”

  The nervous knight offered Niclas a flask. “It is only plain water, Lord.”

  Niclas drank from the flask and leaned back in his plush, leather upholstered coach seat. “I will rest. Wake me when we are near.” He drew the velvet curtain across the window and closed his eyes.”

  If I can sleep but a few hours then my misgivings may yet become as clear as anything else within my sight.

  * * *

  Niclas was shaken on the arm and startled awake. “My lord, please, wake up. Please.” The coach rattled and shook down a stony length of road winding around a hill.

  “What is it?” Niclas felt as though he was waking from a drunken stupor. It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts and orient himself to his surroundings. “Have we arrived?”

  “Almost, my lord.” Niclas drew back the curtain. On all sides, the lush island mountains rose up and towered over the coach and the dark trees. The shadows of evening stole rapidly upon them, making the narrow, winding valley seem as though it was closing in on all sides, forked, silhouetted tendrils of branches reaching out like greedy hands.

  “You should know too, that the driver reported another coach following us at a distance.”

  “Where is it now?” Niclas grabbed the water flask and greedily drank the last of it. He felt a slight pang of unease upon realizing there wasn’t another.

  “It turned off at the fork about a half league ago.”

  “And should I be concerned? The roads are free for all to travel, are they not?”

  “The fork returns directly to the Capitol and the Governor has many informants across the island.” He looked at Niclas, his eyes downcast with dread. “And there are many who covet my position and would gladly like to see my downfall. I have risked much to bring you this far.”

  “You worry needlessly and imagine dire consequences in the most common of things. If you have committed no crime or act of treason against the Crown, then you are protected by your status and the law. None can take that from you save the King’s Council itself.”

  The young knight smiled and lowered his head in gratitude. “Thank you, my lord. I swear to you I will not dishonor your trust.”

  The coach wound slowly uphill, and—upon reaching the top—swerved suddenly into a side lane with a violent jolt, rushing headlong down into a ravine midway between two iron fences and stone walls.

  Niclas shifted uncomfortably in his seat; it was well past the time he wished to relieve himself, and the fastening of his breeches felt about to pop open. He tried to bring his thoughts back to important matters.

  If all this was folly, which it was certain to be, then the worst he could do was issue a stern rebuke against Count Borodin and have it delivered to the Salak senate on behalf of the King’s Council of Miradora. In an effort to ameliorate the embarrassing diplomatic situation, the senate was certain to compensate the Council handsomely for Niclas’s wasted time and effort. And then, with the jolt of a deep and unforgiving pothole, his mind suddenly was cast back to his urgent urinary predicament. He made a panicked clasp toward the fastening of his pants and began to stand before he could embarrass himself on the coach floor.

  “Is there some sort of a problem, Lord Delcarden?”

  “My bladder was calm during sleep but is now in open rebellion. I need a—”

  “Then please unburden yourself.”

  The coach came to a slow rolling stop. Niclas stepped out and promptly relieved himself against the nearest tree, chuckling to himself for his momentary trepidation in doing so. His bladder felt itself reducing to a third of its former size, and he heard the trickle down some nearby rocks as it disappeared into dry, cracked ground.

  It was dark all around, but a narrow and unruly path lit by torches curled its way toward the front door of a huge, pillared stone manor, its tumbling walls overgrown with blood-red flowering vines. Candlelight flickered through the darkened windows.

  Sir Razmig remained in the coach. “Please, follow the path to the house. Someone will meet you at the door.”

  “And why do you not accompany me?”

  “Count Borodin insists you enter alone.”

  “A suspicious man might suspect ill-intent. Should I be such a man, Sir Razmig?” Niclas’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  “No, my lord. I will keep watch out of sight farther down the lane until you are safely inside. Only then will I depart.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “There is an old inn farther down the road. The coach will return tomorrow and take you alone back to Lady Omarosa’s manor.”

  “Well, why do you not stay? This conversation is not at all assuaging my unease.”

  “It is better that I am noticed by the locals so there can be little doubt I was obeying the Governor’s orders.” He did not stay around to discuss it further, closing the coach door and leaning forward on the open window as the coach began to edge forward, slowly.

  “Please remember the oath I have sworn,” Sir Razmig said as the coach gradually sped up. “I cannot say if you will believe what your eyes may yet reveal, but if you choose to see clearly then there shall be no more secrets between any of us.�
�

  Without another word, the coachman pulled on the reins and the horses trotted back down the darkened lane at a good speed.

  Niclas followed the torches up the winding path.

  Surely, this is madness… yet of which kind, I cannot be certain. Senile aristocrats might sift through tea leaves and entrails to foretell the future or hex the neighbor’s dog, their harmless conjurations cast with chicken bones and pigs’ guts yet putting none under a curse save that of embarrassment and pity.

  Niclas knew that harm would only come if, on the very rarest occasion, one with malignant intention delved deeper into the forbidden black arts. It was because of this small, yet unsettling possibility that Niclas worried for Euriel Glanduer’s safety.

  I shall demand to see her immediately and if he refuses or delays, then Count Borodin of Salak will answer before the King’s steel.

  Niclas lengthened his stride, the mix of small sea shells and pebbles crunching under his heel as he neared the front door.

  Chapter 8

  Wonders to Behold

  Niclas, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, stood before the front door of Count Borodin’s manor. He drew a breath and rapped the hawk-shaped brass knocker six times as instructed in the message.

  The door finally opened and a stern, gray-haired woman stood on the threshold. She crossed her rough, red hands in front of her blue apron. “We were expecting you earlier, Lord Delcarden.” She didn’t bow in respect and glanced to either side as though looking for someone. “And I was not expecting to see you alone. Where is Bishop Jubert?”

  “I do not know, my good lady. The Bishop delivered his message last night at the Governor’s feast and I was accompanied here by Sir Razmig at the request of Count Borodin on a most urgent matter, unless I am mistaken and this is all for naught.”

  “In many things, yes, but not this.”