“And?” Tryst seemed impatient. The sound of the people’s celebratory music had begun to fill the room. “What do you make of this?”
“Oh I am sure it is nothing, my prince.” Ramzi prayed the words would slip by without much notice. “Perhaps it was a failed attempt at a rescue by someone outside. There were four guards in that chamber, so two of them were not harmed, and they did not hear any disturbance. We can double the guard, in case someone tries something again.”
Ramzi hesitated before saying more. He wanted to pin as much of this as he could on Sebastian, the prince’s chief spy. He had never trusted the man. Although they were both from Sunan, their purposes never seemed to align.
Sebastian had come to Valemidas without explanation as a teen. Ramzi had tread carefully after seeing Sebastian’s Sunan tattoo, as it included the mark of royal blood—a pyramid the size of a thumbnail by his left eye. Sebastian had risen quickly among the spies, first serving Andor and now Tryst. Ramzi was more consistent. He advised only Tryst, who he identified from the start as a proper vessel of power. His consistency meant that his loyalty would not be doubted until it was too late.
“I should add, my prince, that Sebastian speculates there could have been an escape from the Gloaming. I told Sebastian that was ridiculous. The Gloaming is inescapable. Still, Sebastian insisted that I tell you his theory.” As much as he hated to obey the spy, if Ramzi did not put his spin on this story now, then Sebastian’s later report could spell more trouble.
“Very interesting, Ramzi.” The prince stepped closer and locked eyes with Ramzi. His stare made Ramzi step back. “If that is all, you may go now.”
“What do you think happened down there?” The question slipped out of Ramzi’s mouth before he had weighed it. He was baffled at the report, and he feared Tryst’s fascination with the Gloaming. The prince did not answer quickly, and Ramzi’s mind wandered.
Only a handful knew that the place existed, much less that Tryst had ordered Andor to be banished there, over Ramzi’s objection. The only place for a deposed prince, Ramzi had believed, was the grave. Tryst had said one thing in response to Ramzi on the issue: the Gloaming was worse than the grave, because it degraded the soul to utter despair and depravity.
For once, Tryst had been right. If the little that Ramzi had since learned about the underground city was true, the horrors of the place were being funneled into power through Zarathus. The nature of the connection remained a mystery, except that it was somehow spiritual. That gave Ramzi faith that his god would use the sacrifice of Andor to the Gloaming. A force of light turned into a force of dark, a force that would lead to Ramzi’s ascendancy.
“You are probably correct,” Tryst eventually said. “No one escapes the Gloaming.” He was smiling, sincere and sinister. “I would like to speak with Sebastian tonight, though. Tell him to come to me after I return from the celebration. Have a hot meal and a pretty maid waiting for me, too. I may be overcharged, since I expect quite a night down there with the masses.”
“Yes, my prince.” Ramzi struggled to find a way to exit on better terms. “Please do take care out there. As much as the people love you, there will be opponents who could attack. Nothing you cannot handle, of course.”
“Of course,” Tryst said dismissively as he turned to face the city. “Farewell, Ramzi.”
Ramzi bowed low and fled the room. He told himself that he deserved this victory. Tryst would not have made it this far without him. In return, the prince owed him power. Ramzi licked his lips at the thought of ruling Valemidas.
The people would be controlled, in the name of the prince. Once controlled, the people would destroy the nobles. Once the nobles were gone, nothing would stop his dominion and shaping of the world’s history, as long as he could hold Tryst’s reins.
Chapter 5
THE ENEMY OF A PRINCE
“It was iron and wheat
that civilized mankind
and caused it to be lost.”
“Something about this night feels wrong,” the watchman said to his replacement.
Most night watches in the mountains passed without incident. Maybe a rare wolf howl or a passing hare would interrupt the quiet, but even those moments were muffled by snow. It was still understood among the Icarian rangers that there was constant danger. They garrisoned tiny watchtowers, looking down on the valleys below.
This night, it was not just the cold that made the watchman shiver.
“I feel it too. Unnatural like. The night smells and tastes normal, but my senses tell me that something is shifting.”
The men caught eyes for the first time; they shook off the dread in a quick handshake. Nothing beat the comfort of a comrade in this solitary duty.
“Get to the city and find your wife’s warmth. I have it from here, and I will heed your advice. It is a night to stay alert.” The replacement smiled and patted the left breast-pocket of his heavy wool coat. “I brought coffee with a nip of something special. Whatever is lingering out there will not catch me unawares.”
“Good man. Thank you for the reprieve.” The tired watchman turned, almost forgetting the ritual words.
He turned back and found his comrade’s eyes again. “May our city’s warmth keep you this night. Our fate rests in your eyes and ears. Watch for Icaria, watch until Icaria calls you back.”
They clasped forearms and the replacement answered quietly, “Until Icaria calls me back.”
Without another word the watchman scrambled down the precipitous crag, towards home. He silently cursed the few rocks that scattered below his feet. He had been on duty a day and a night, but that was no excuse for such careless noise.
Something evil truly was at play. It was as if an unseen scheme had been set against his people. He felt that it was nothing a watchman would see. Just as the mountains hid the storms until the moment they struck, this approaching danger would be secret until it was too late.
The night’s darkness was giving way to morning when he caught the first glimpse of Icaria. The bridge to the city was thin, long, and swaying high above a chasm. An open valley led to the bridge. It was the site of farms but no homes.
Across the bridge, his people’s homes clustered on a small peak. The city was like a natural extension of the rock, its lean buildings like a bundle of spears. The peak was an island amidst the surrounding ravines. Every time the watchman crossed the bridge into the city, he left the world for a safe and secure place. He believed that, with this position, no one could conquer Icaria.
The guards nodded a silent welcome as he passed. Just inside the tall gate, he heard the soft bell announcing dawn. Chime, chime, chime, chime. The fourth ring meant a morning meeting. All who could attend would, even a cold watchman returning from the night.
He sighed and pulled out his small silver flask. It had been a gift from his father, who had served and died on the watch, like his father before him. The watchman finished off the last sip and greeted the little fire it stoked in his empty belly. Seeing his leader, the Summit, would be a welcome reassurance of stability and strength.
He began climbing the winding stairs to Icaria’s great hall. Hundreds had already gathered when he entered. Most lived near the hall, saving them from the five-hundred-step climb that was taxing the watchman’s weary legs. The night of standing and climbing had drained his energy. Leaning against a stone pillar ten times his height, he breathed slowly and watched the rest of his city amass. Almost five thousand all together, they were wrapped in heavy furs that replaced the just-removed blanket of peaceful sleep.
The Icarians looked up at their leader, standing at the tip of a ledge of natural stone that loomed above. They waited for his guidance in total trust. The Summit could not be blamed for mistakes made by the Icarian betrayer.
“Morning arises, Icarians.” He spoke from the edge of his perched point. They answered in unison, craning their necks upward, “Day awaits, our Summit.” Forty feet above, he could survey all his people.
; The watchman knew what this meeting would entail. The Icarians had long been seeking a softer home. At last they had discovered the force to acquire it. They believed a warmer and greener land would be more suitable to their collective culture. The watchman felt a deep sadness as he looked on their faces. Their gentleness, bred in the harsh climate, always gave him joy. Like a bear protecting her cub, they were ruthless against outside threats but tender towards each other. Only in this climate could that character persist. They were wrong to have wanted the easy life of lowlanders.
“Icarians,” the Summit began his speech. “Here in the mountains, made strong by the cold, we developed the greatest weapon known to man. We have the seed of amazing power, the power of explosions never seen before. We mined it from the minerals buried deep within our mountains. But, tossed out on the barren rock, the seed died before it could take a breath. If we had kept it hidden in our caves, it would have grown to something invincible.”
“Now it will not to grow in our hands. We let ambition in the form of a stranger’s promise of wealth and power steal our senses. Sebastian boasted great things to us. We were all seduced by his smooth words. How were we supposed to resist the bargain of easy conquest, of easier lives? He told us that we deserved it. Progress, he said, that’s what we needed. Our power gave us the right to all those green lands, starting with Benevia, where softer people had been frolicking for generations.”
“Yet, betraying our way and our faith, an Icarian acted without our vote. He told the stranger the story of our secret science, in exchange for his promise of wealth and power. That Icarian paid with his life, but we too failed. When one of us acts, we all act. It is our way. We also failed by letting Sebastian escape our mountains. No one before had left these mountains against our will. Two of the rangers who pursued him were never seen again. Maybe the hope of a softer life had already weakened us, allowing this to happen.”
“Now we will be the ones attacked. Have you shared my troubling dreams the past two nights? Have they been haunted by what we learned in the recent report from Valemidas? Our impatient ambition has forecasted our death. This is a tragedy.”
“Seeds of greatness must be given time to grow if they are to last.” The Summit cast out a handful of the dark powder over the crowd and shouted. “But these seeds will not last!”
“Our enemy knows us as its enemy.” His voice grew calm. “And now Valemidas will march against us. There are too many signs for it not to be truth.” The Icarians sat in silence as the word truth echoed in the hall.
“We still have a choice,” he continued. “We vote today on our destiny. As is my right, given by you, I have selected the options. There are only three, our elder council has agreed. Discuss, question me, question our council, and choose the course best for us.”
“This will be a full Icarian vote. All who have survived their rite of passage must take a position. Once votes are cast, we follow the prevailing option. This is our pure rule, our freedom. As always, you may choose not to vote. If you do, you must leave this night and never again join our city.”
“Consider these options well, my fellow Icarians. First, we stay in this citadel of stone. We will arm and prepare for the certain siege. Like wolverines, we will take many attackers down with us. Valemidas might send twenty times our number. We might end here.”
“Second option, we retreat tomorrow. We will pack what is necessary and move north and west. Out of the mountains, to the edge of the sea, into colder territory. From there, we would have further votes. Perhaps we build boats and float towards the unknown, or perhaps we settle in harsher, frozen lands.”
“Third option, we attack. We all move out of the mountains and execute our former plan early. We take our great, fledgling weapons with us and press as far as we can. Perhaps we will have more votes. Perhaps we will take more land. The only certainty is that we will face the Valemidans. The recent report told of a strong and harsh new prince, leading a powerful army. In the open field, they will flex their strength and render our mountain skills less valuable.”
“You are a wise people. I trust you will seek the unfolding of these destinies. We will choose our path and run hard on it. That is the only way we exist. Advance, Icarians. Bind our freedom to each other and climb higher.” The Summit bowed, cuing the Icarian’s response.
“Climb higher, our Summit,” the watchman heard himself chanting twice, along with those around him. He pulled his eyes down from the ledge and felt like a vice was crushing him on all sides. The weight of the mountains showed in his people’s steadfast but conflicted faces. Maybe they were hardened enough to handle that weight. The Icarians wasted no time before beginning the debate.
The watchman leaned back against the pillar, exhausted. He had felt something was wrong but had not dreamed it would be this. As surely as the snow falls, he thought, they would fight to the bloody end.
Chapter 6
THE POWER OF A PRINCE
“Those who become rulers
through strength of purpose,
acquire their kingdoms with difficulty,
but they hold onto them with ease.”
About a mile west of the prince’s palace, in the outskirts of the sprawling city of Valemidas, there was a wooden bench that offered a perfect view. Two brothers sat there. They found the bench ideal for observing the coronation festivities. It was far enough away to allow a safe perspective, and it was comfortable in a traditional sort of way. Hewn from some gnarled oak, the bench’s planks were smooth with hundreds of years of use.
The bench was outside the Morning Crest, an old tavern built on the hill that eastbound travelers crested before entering the city. The Crest was built as much by words and tales as it was by stone and wood. Nobles despised it for being too welcoming and too cheap. The travelers and thinkers and traders loved it. Every night it was full and different.
Jon and Wren had begun the evening inside. They had found themselves explaining the city’s elaborate system of nobility to a farmer from the foothills of the Icarian mountains. The fifty noble houses permeated the culture of Valemidas. The leader of each house was elected for life by the other noble patriarchs. The election cursed them to a life spent seeking power—multiplying supporters in their houses, gathering artists and scholars. The nobles would do anything to be important. The more important they were, the more likely their children or others from their house would be elected as nobles if one of the fifty died. The contest for influence and power never ended. The farmer had found it all rather odd and amusing.
After the brothers had bid adieu to the stranger, they retreated with their ales to the old bench outside. They heard the warm clamor of voices inside and the bustle of the city spread out before them. A few minutes passed before either brother spoke a word.
“Are you enjoying this?” Jon pointed toward the palace while glancing back at his brother. They could hear the distant pounding of drums. The beat sounded like a song that had long been one of Wren’s favorites.
“No,” Wren said flatly. He had been in a sour mood ever since Tryst’s coup, and efforts to cheer him up had been futile. Jon was not giving up, though.
“Too bad, because I thought I heard a dragon roaring down and swallowing our new prince.”
“Is that so?” A grin spread across Wren’s face. “Maybe you are right,” he said. “I hope he does not get soot on his beautiful face. He sure looks the princely part, all handsome and dashing, but he has no right to the throne. Worst of all, most of the nobles seem to love him, so we have no hope of ridding ourselves of him. Bring on the dragons, I say.”
“He’s just another prince, Wren. Besides, our city needs help—one more attack or one more bad harvest, and we might not have anything left to sell in our store. Maybe Tryst will not be so bad.”
“That is nonsense,” Wren said. “You should finish that ale. Maybe you will find wisdom in it.”
“I am taking my time with this fine drink—unlike your vile brews, this can be sipp
ed.”
“Good one, little brother. Let’s see your wit help you when Tryst decides he needs to raise the taxes on merchants again—” Wren trailed off as he heard the sound of yells near the palace. “Do you hear that? It is no celebration sound.”
“Sounds like someone is trying to spoil your favorite prince’s night.” Jon figured that Wren would take this seriously enough for both of them.
“We have to check it out,” Wren stood, “that is close to our store. I will beat you there.” He drained the last of his mug, dropped a coin on the bench, and began sprinting down into Valemidas.
Jon marveled at how his brother could turn everything into a competition. He finished his ale and let his brother have a head start. A minute later, Jon had closed the gap and was at Wren’s side as they raced through the city’s gate.
The city streets were empty, so they covered the distance quickly. The brothers had spent most of their childhood chasing each other around Valemidas. They hurdled carts and baskets, ducking through alleys and sprinting whenever they found open spaces. As they drew closer to the palace—and their beloved store—the sound of the celebration grew.
Jon paused to let Wren catch up at the end of a musty alley. The alley turned onto the Path of Princes, the broad road leading to the palace stairs. Blindly sprinting into the busy road was dangerous on a normal afternoon, and even in his rush of adrenalin, Jon was aware enough to stop for a moment here. He tried to catch his breath.
Wren caught up a few moments later. “Che…cheater!” He panted and leaned over a large barrel for support. “You know… for our races we banned…that one alley long ago. It is too nasty and crooked…with nothing but brothels.”
“This is an emergency,” Jon grinned down, “and I would have beaten you anyway.” Wren attempted to stand straight, pretending to breathe regularly.
Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One) Page 4