Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One)

by J. B. Simmons

  The brothers both peeked around the corner toward the vast plaza below the stairs to the palace. It was a stunning expanse, like a wide clearing in the middle of a dense forest. The plaza was made of huge slabs of stone that had supported centuries of footsteps. Nothing permanent was allowed to stand in the square except for an ancient tree that rose straight up from the center. It took eight men locking arms to reach around the trunk. The highest branches towered nearly as high as the palace perched on the crag of stone east of the plaza.

  Tonight, the plaza looked as if it could not hold another person. The crowd churned, the sea of bodies undulated, with no single form distinguishable. There were shouts of joy and strife joining together, most heated around the great tree. The royal band played from the palace stairs above, flooding the space with the rhythm of drums.

  “I have never seen so many people,” Jon said. “There must be tens of thousands. It looks like everyone in Valemidas is here. We should just go to our store the back way.”

  “No,” Wren replied, “let’s wade into this. I think the loudest yells are coming from near the palace steps.”

  Jon nodded. “Fine, someone needs to watch your back if you pick any fights.”

  The brothers rounded the corner and blended into the crowd. They inched forward like worms in plowed soil. Keeping low, avoiding all eye contact, Jon followed Wren as they made their way to the tree. When they were close to its trunk, movement above on the palace steps brought them to a halt.

  A solitary, dark figure stood alone near the top—Tryst. The stairs to the palace were immense, two hundred in all, and between every fifty steps there was a large flat landing. The prince began to descend and paused at the highest of those landings, where the royal band was stationed. The prince raised his arms and the music ceased.

  Every face in the square turned to look up at him. In that moment of focused attention, the prince charged down the next set of stairs. The band followed his descent with a dense symphony on the drums and horns, proclaiming the prince’s arrival. The crowd’s cheers and yells joined the music.

  Wren pulled his eyes away and saw fearful respect and adoration mixed in the people’s faces. He also noticed for the first time that at least thirty large casks ringed the trunk of the giant tree. Men and women huddled around the barrels, which each had a streaming tap. The liquid was dark and smelled delicious and strong. The people pressed in and filled their mugs; some of them stuck their heads directly under the flow, taking a long swallow and bowing away so that another could fill the spot. The ground was soaked.

  “What are they drinking?” Wren asked to no one in particular.

  “The new prince’s own ale,” a woman’s voice shouted from beside him. “Go for it, boy, the stuff’s amazing.”

  Wren turned and saw a small young woman, with plain brown eyes and hair. Her simple white tunic was drenched and nearly falling open. She had a wild, unnerving smile on her face.

  Wren shook his head and laughed. “You must have had a lot of the drink, my lady. Is it really worth that kind of excitement?”

  In an instant, the woman’s face flipped from ecstasy to rage. She screamed and swiped at his face. “Quit your mocking, pretty boy!”

  He easily ducked her flailing arms. She seemed to forget about him a second later, as she stumbled towards one of the streaming barrels.

  Wren muttered in surprise and looked around for Jon. He saw that Tryst had paused again on the lowest landing of the stairs. He figured Jon might have gone that way, caught up with the crowd that was surging up the stairs to get closer to the prince.

  He pushed that direction and was making his way up the stairs when he saw Jon. His brother was locked in heated conversation with a merchant named Catskill.

  “What are you two talking about?” Wren interrupted.

  “Good question,” Jon said in frustration. “I saw our friend Catskill moving suspiciously close to the prince, and I have been trying to figure out what he is planning to do. You know he is far from a supporter of this new regime.”

  Catskill simply nodded in response. He was a slight, wily man, losing his short, brown hair. Nothing about him stood out, an attribute the merchant had long used to his advantage.

  Wren saw some of the dark drink dripping from the corner of Catskill’s mouth. “What are you hiding?”

  “Good to see you, too, Wren,” he said, “but as I was telling your brother, it would be best if you both went back to your store, and now.”

  The brothers did not move, and he demanded again, “I said now. Go!”

  Catskill turned away quickly and moved up the stairs toward Tryst. Jon and Wren exchanged a look of confusion but stood their ground.

  The prince was greeting the crowd that now surrounded him. He stepped down the stairs gracefully, clapping men on the shoulders and touching the faces of women. They seemed in awe of their new prince.

  When the prince made his way to just above Catskill, the brothers saw the merchant pull back his fine cloak and raise a small, loaded crossbow. He pointed it at the prince.

  Just before he pulled the trigger, someone in the crowd gasped. Tryst ducked and drew his sword, Zarathus. He plunged the blade into Catskill as the bolt sailed above its target.

  The prince then swung at another man who moved to help Catskill. As that second man fell, an older man was pulling out his sword. The prince swatted away his blade, swept his feet out from under him, and stabbed down into his chest.

  No one else remained within the prince’s reach.

  “This is our celebration!” Tryst declared. “Does anyone else dare challenge me?” He wore an eerie smile, with his sword held high.

  The crowd around him cowered back. But, after he sheathed his sword and began moving down the stairs again, newcomers continued surging up to greet him, seemingly unaware of the slaughter that had happened just above.

  The brothers were in shock. Tryst or someone loyal to him may have seen them talking to Catskill. They stepped quickly down the stairs, against the flow of people on their way up. When they reached the bottom, they ran through the masses, knocking over drinks and people and leaving angry faces in their wake. They reached their store at the edge of the plaza and slammed shut the massive wooden door behind them.

  “What happened back there?” Wren said between heavy breaths.

  “Catskill was never the type to risk his life,” Jon said, “much less in an assassination attempt. He had been drinking whatever the prince was serving in those barrels.” He shook his head sadly. “I had no idea it could lead to a bloodbath in the blink of an eye.”

  Wren shuddered and sat on the ground, leaning back against the door. Jon sat beside him. “Our prince sure has a way of making an entrance,” Wren said. “I doubt there will be more attempts against him tonight, and if so, it would be some drink-induced fumbling attack. This proves again that Tryst believes the people should either be caressed or crushed. In the midst of tonight’s chaos, some of the caressed may never learn of those he crushed.”

  Jon nodded, and then a woman’s voice boomed into the room. “Where have you two been?” Selia rushed to them. “You are soaked in sweat! Come, you must wash off. I have a meal ready.”

  “Mother,” Wren said, “you must know what’s going on out there. We were lucky to make it back alive. Tryst killed Catskill and two innocent men. Now this wild coronation celebration rages on. The prince is tearing up our city.”

  “Have hope, my boys. These princes come and go. Speaking of which, I have something very important to show you.” With that, Selia wheeled around towards the kitchen.

  Their mother had a way of leaving conversations with her last word lingering. It gave her a sense of control. Since losing her youthful beauty and the power it had given her, she was always looking for ways to preserve her influence. It was not easy for a widow. She talked to every person who crossed her path, and her open way of speaking was disarming. Some people thought her clueless. They found out the truth sooner or
later.

  Jon and Wren rose to their feet to follow her. They moved slowly through their store, the Invisible Hand. Thick wooden beams arched above the main room, and the floors were broad planks accustomed to the feet of the wealthy. The store would have seemed cavernous if not for the thousands of items filling the space. Exotic goods and spices infused the room with a decadent fragrance. Like an old box full of childhood trinkets, the store was a source of comfort for the brothers. But unlike such a treasure trove, the store was open to customers every day. It turned more profit than any other shop in Valemidas, thriving on the gold of nobles and free commerce.

  The two brothers made a perfect merchant team. Wren was gifted at trade, but his ability to acquire wealth caused problems. No one liked dealing with shrewd merchants, even when they were honest. He did not rub his skill or his profits in everyone’s face, but did not hide it either. That’s where Jon came in. He was not much bigger than Wren, but he was a physical force. Jon spent his childhood playing at war against the best, even Tryst. At seventeen, Jon had become the youngest ever to win the royal melee—a yearly bout with over a thousand knights and sellswords from the continent. Despite his success, none of Jon’s victories made him want power or status. He preferred to carouse around the city spreading smiles. People respected and tolerated Wren, but everyone loved Jon.

  “What a strange, unfair fight,” Jon said, pausing before he left the store’s main room. “I would like to see how Tryst would fare one-on-one with me again. Not that I would actually challenge him—” a slight smile touched Jon’s eyes “—but I do not remember him being invincible.”

  “I think there are safer ways to depose a prince,” Wren said, glancing back toward a window overlooking the plaza. “It is clear that the drink in those barrels was spiked. Without their normal restraint, men like Catskill would come out to attack. I fear that Tryst will wipe out more challengers tonight. Why did Tryst do this? The masses have never posed much of a threat to the prince. The nobles must be involved somehow.”

  Wren rubbed his brow, looking tired and stiff in the candlelight. “Besides, I would not want either of us to face Tryst in the open field. We have not sparred with him since we were teens, and he has gained muscle and Zarathus in the meantime. What I just saw out there was more speed than I have ever seen in you.”

  Jon shrugged off the comment, answering with a wry grin that spoke his disagreement. He was modest, except when it came to fighting. “Why, I could—”

  “Are you two still pining after your new prince?” Selia stormed back into the room. “Remember? I requested your presence in the kitchen. There’s something you need to see.”

  Jon and Wren exchanged a look, confirming that neither knew what “something” she was talking about, and they followed after her. They sat on tall stools around a square chopping-block table. Selia seemed to be cooking a feast, far more than they could eat by themselves.

  “Now,” she said, “you two seem very concerned about what was happening out there in the square. It’s going to be fine. In fact, I heard just this morning from my friend Violet that the prince would be joining the celebration tonight. Of course there would be a few fights. And I heard from my friend Rosalyn that….”

  “Are you listening?” Selia folded her arms and tapped her foot, feigning disappointment.

  “What is this something that you are hiding?” Wren asked. “Have you invited guests? You seem to be preparing enough food for a prince’s banquet.”

  Selia pointed to the floor. “I suggest that you open the door to the cellar now.”

  Wren was the first on his feet. He and Jon pulled back a colorful rug from near the back of the kitchen, revealing a small, thick iron door to the cellar. The cellar’s footprint was as big as the whole Invisible Hand, and it was used to hold the store’s most valuable antiquities. Only Wren, Jon, and Selia had a key to the door.

  Lifting the door required the two brothers’ strength. Wren had no time to wonder how his mother could have opened the door on her own. Jon had already darted into the darkness and lit the small torch at the bottom of the ladder down into the room.

  “It cannot be!” Jon stammered.

  Jon was facing a dark figure in the nearest corner. The light from the torch barely reached that far. Wren tensed and walked towards them.

  “It is me, Jon.”

  Wren’s heart raced. “You’re back?” he asked, stunned. He had never expected to see Andor again.

  The man looked terrible. He was deathly thin, with scars all over his arms. His face was hollowed and framed by long, ragged hair and a wiry beard. His hair was lighter than before, almost white. Wren barely recognized him, which made it harder to believe he was real, and not some ghost. But the eyes told the truth. They had the same dark brown luster, dotted with tiny flecks that glittered like gold.

  “Now, now, my boys,” Selia began, “I told you there was something that you needed to see. All that fuss about Tryst was unnecessary. Things will be set aright. We will be out from under his tyranny.”

  “Tryst will pay for what he has done.” Their prince leaned forward, allowing more of the torchlight to catch the angles of his face. He looked so frail. Yet, as he rose to his feet, the brothers coiled back in instinct. His movement had a fierce edge they had never seen in him before.

  “Our prince arrived this morning,” Selia explained. “I fed him and have been trying to send word to you to come to the store. Come, let’s get out of the cellar. The food should be ready.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and climbed the ladder. Jon and Wren offered to support their prince. He declined with a motion of his hand and limped on ahead. They followed him up and out of the darkness.

  Selia was already spooning out the rich lamb stew. She had also drawn the curtains of the kitchen windows. It was a rebellion dinner, as they huddled around the table. Now two princes were in the city—one too many.

  “Are you still fully with me, Jon and Wren? I need you.” His voice was coarse but sincere.

  The brothers both nodded. “Of course,” Wren said, surprised to see relief on Andor’s face. “We are with you as we always have been.”

  “Good, very good. I cannot do this alone.” Andor paused, as if unsure of whether to say more. “I have Father Yates with me, too,” he continued quietly, “and others will follow, even those close to Tryst. I went to Yates first, in the Cathedral. No one is suspicious of a beggar in that place, because Yates never turns them away. So, in the early dawn, dressed in rags, I think I made it undetected. Yates gave me food and talked with me about light and dark, good and evil, and forgiveness. I told him details about my imprisonment that I will spare you two from hearing for now. He said that several months had passed for me in the dark and despair.”

  Andor hesitated again. “But enough of that. Father Yates says I will recover. The old priest is going to use his privileged position to stay close to Tryst and send messages to me. There is much I need to learn.”

  The prince motioned for another serving of stew and sipped a glass of red table wine. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. It sounded like each of his words drained him.

  “I want to hear more,” Wren said, “but there is much to tell you as well. War is afoot, and Tryst and Ramzi have imposed a strict order in the name of defending against our enemies. Men from the mountains have united under some fanatic. Rumor is that he plans to march on the lower lands, killing everyone in his path. Tryst has declared that, within a week, he will lead the army out to battle this threat in the mountains.”

  “That is an old story under a new name,” Andor responded. “Valemidas has never needed a tyrant to prevail against our foes.” Light seemed to glare out of their prince’s eyes. Maybe it was just a reflection of the torch. “We are free citizens. Our men fight by choice, and they are worth dozens of our opponents.”

  “Yes, but no one can stand up to Tryst right now,” Jon said. “He has amassed amazing strength, and the people have made
their decision to elect and coronate him for life.”

  “That is why we cannot linger long. Can you leave the city with me tomorrow?”

  “You have our full support,” Wren said, “but I must say, you do not look ready to leave tomorrow. You will stand out until you rest—and eat a lot. Maybe you could stay hidden here and rest a few days? And why would we need to leave Valemidas? Men here will rally behind you if you declare your return, and your right to the throne.”

  When Andor did not respond, Wren turned and picked something up on the opposite wall. Turning again, he set a small mirror in front of Andor.

  Andor’s eyes opened wide, as if seeing himself for the first time. He sat still for a minute, staring at his reflection.

  “Thank you, Wren,” Andor finally said. He leaned back in his chair and set down the looking glass. “It is a wise suggestion. I will stay here and recover a few days.”

  “Excellent,” Wren said. “You will be safe here. We can begin to rally your supporters.”

  “Not yet, Wren. I need more time to plan. This is a treacherous game. I think we will enlist in this usurper’s army, learn more about his weak spots. I can hide in the ranks as an infantryman. You two can try to get closer to Tryst. Swear fealty to him, become his knights. Jon, my guess is he will want to keep you particularly close. He always respected your skills in battle. And Wren, no matter how much he dislikes you, he will welcome you for your nose for gold and for your brother’s prowess. Tryst must have a way to fund his extravagant march, and I doubt he has paid our city’s long-growing debt to the Sunans. Maybe we can join the army from a town outside Valemidas. Let’s avoid the higher risks of the city. My appearance might also benefit from a journey in the countryside.”

  Andor seemed to breathe easier at the thought. “You will deliver letters for me?”

  “Yes, my prince, to anyone,” Jon said. “I know Valemidas better than ever, and I still have access to the palace. But I still want to know more about what happened to you.”

  Andor did not respond, and an awkward silence filled the room until Selia spoke. “Very well, my prince and my boys, it is settled. There will be more time to talk, but we all need rest. I have a bed made up in our guestroom.” She motioned for Andor to come.