“East, hopefully. Mestraff is so little charted.”
On any given day, Trinian had his personal reasons for being wary of Mestraff, since it sat directly beside the land of Karaka; but this day had brought with it newer reasons to be cautious of that land, and he shook his head. “Not Mestraff. The rumors coming out of it are vague at best, and I don’t intend to send you into a war zone.”
“War? Sire, I know some of the stories have been dire, but that’s only a better reason to go. To learn exactly what’s happening.”
“Now is not the time. I have my reasons. You can travel to Kelta instead. In fact, I want to send a message to King Wrelle. He will be happy to receive you, and you can head straight there from the army camp.”
“Yes, sire. Thank you.” Asbult sighed, attempting not to look as deflated as he felt. Viol shot him a sympathetic glance and Cila took his hand under the table.
When the family rose to depart, Trinian asked Afias to walk with him a moment, and silently, they went through the tall glass doors into the courtyard and paced the flower paths.
The contrast between the two brothers was especially stark in the moonlight. Afias, with his dark hair and skin and slight figure, practically disappeared into the shadows: it would be easy to overlook him at a glance. But Trinian, with his golden hair, fair complexion, and broad shoulders, seemed to carry the sun with him. Whatever light was around him seemed to magnify three-fold, casting a glow from his very figure. Walking side by side now, a stranger glancing upon the pair would have guessed aright which was the king.
“Afias, what would you think if I said that the entire world will fall into war?”
His brother stopped still in the path, his eyebrows drawn low. “Why do you ask?”
Trinian was silent and kept walking so that, after a moment, Afias had to catch up with his long strides.
“Trinian, wait. Trinian, stop walking and look at me.”
With a deep sigh, his brother looked at him, and there were tears in his fearful eyes. Afias shook his head. “Why do you think there will be a war? No one has come against your for being king.” He took his brother by the shoulders. “Trinian, answer me. What are you thinking?”
The answer was halting and slow, but firm. “I do not think it. I know. As certain as I am that I am king, that I love my family, that I have a son – I am certain of this. There will be war, a terrible war that will involve the entire world.”
“And who are we fighting in this war?”
“A spirit — a natural god. A powerful force that is trying to expand itself…” His brother opened his mouth to speak, but Trinian pressed on. “He hates me. With the passion of fire against water, vacuum against air, he yearns for my complete destruction. For hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, he has lusted after my throne, and now I, who aspired for it in no way, rise to it and escape his grasp. As king I have lived and thrived under the sun, and he will not stomach this much longer. I know. He will destroy me and rule over Minecerva.”
The prince was silent now, and Trinian waited impatient and trembling for his response. After a thoughtful silence, he gave his verdict. “Do not dismiss your fears.”
“You believe me?”
Afias looked at his older brother who, despite his fear, stood tall in the moonlight. “I have never known you to be paranoid. And that gives me pause. No one else was present the day you faced the god, no one else could have judged his anger and resolve. Gods cannot leave their domains, but if you think he has found a way, then you need to be wary. If you think he is going to come for your life, then you must trust your gut.” He was silent a moment, then added slowly, “I do not see how it could hurt to prepare against it, anyway.”
“I feared you would say I was crazy. I have been preparing as much as I can, but I have no proof. No justification for preparing for war, and Astren does not believe me. So I must do very little for now.”
“Then I would make a suggestion.” Afias paused, then pressed forward. “Send Asbult to Mestraff. Confide in him, and tell him to determine what this monster is. If it is an organized army, or an animal gone mad, or even the god himself – then you will know how to act.” Relieved, Trinian agreed.
They sought out Asbult and, to no one’s surprise, he was eager and excited to take on the mission, so that Trinian’s mind, for the moment, was at ease, and he felt as though he had done something worthwhile at last.
21
Gorgans in Mestraff
The messenger’s long, lanky legs flashed fierce across the bristly grasses of the Drian wilds. His breath measured, his arms churning, his chest pushing ever so slightly forward into the wind, he raced from camp Saskatchan beside the River Rordan to Drian.
At the city gates, in the stuffy little apartment built right into the magnificent outer wall itself, a stocky little gatekeeper with a bristly face sat squinting into a half-full mug of coffee.
“Half empty,” he mused to himself. “Soon, it’ll be all gone, and after that, I’ll have to make some more. Then, ‘course, I’ll drink half of it again. T’that point, I’d will have made a full circle. Like life. Life’s like that. My life, ‘npaticular. ‘Course, probly most folk’s lives is more’n like that than not. I wonder if –”
But at that moment a call came from the sentry on the wall. “Courier with urgent message for the king!” It was the first time, since Trinian became king, that such a cry had sounded, and the cry of it made the philosophizing man’s ears ring.
Like a flash of lightning, the gate-keeper’s half-filled mug spilled to the floor, and he released the weights and pulleys of Drian’s gates; he saw Horans the messenger leapt, without faltering, through the opening and continue straight toward the palace throne room. The messenger was the only person ever admitted to the throne room without ceremony, for it was a gesture of respect to the unflagging speed of the one who ran from city to fortress to city.
King Trinian received the letter from the sweaty man with a bow.
“Message, sir,” Horans gasped. “Urgent message for the king.”
“Thank you, Horans,” said Lord Astren formally. “Your speed and fortitude are as reliable as ever.”
The messenger bowed, backed up to the door with only a stolen glance now and again at the king, and then disappeared into the outer daylight.
Trinian broke the seal. “It is from Asbult.”
Afias, who was sitting at the table, stood to look over his shoulder. Now that the courier had left, they were the only three in the room.
“Bad news?” asked the steward.
Trinian scanned its contents. “I was right. It’s an army. He says here, ‘These monsters are terrible, huge and fierce. Like animals they tear through the villages, razing homes, fields, and families.’ He describes them in detail; they are like the creatures that captured me at Gladier’s.”
“That does not mean it is an army,” said Astren, closing his over-robe and crossing his arms over it.
“But it does. He continues, “Your fears were as grounded as if you had been here to see it yourself. There is no doubt it’s an organized army, with leaders commanding hundreds of foot soldiers, pushing ever further into the land, wiping out what came before and clearing the way ahead. I have come only as far as the other side of Rordan and sent this letter ahead of me because the enemy approaches the fort of Ringwold and I must stay to help defend it. Trinian, if we do not hold the river, these monsters will be upon Drian within the fortnight. Please advise.”
There was a long silence.
Astren shifted uncomfortably in his seat, for once bereft of ready advice. He was not, and never had been, a man of action; as the steward, his task had always been to preserve with patience, and he had executed that task by ruling with slow, methodical non-committance.
While it had been the responsibility of the kings who came before to protect and enrich all the lands of Mincerva, the stewards had had the resources to care only for those close at home. Since each city in Minecerva had th
ought and cared only for itself for hundreds of years, without seeking to subjugate or subdue anyone else, Drian had not known anything more than small bands of outlaws in all that time. When necessary, Astren had allowed the generals of the army to deal with small confrontations, not considering it his particular area of expertise, and happy to relinquish that responsibility, so that now, the idea that Drian might face an all out war left him at a loss.
Trinian, however, was a soldier – had been so all his adult life – and a new title did not erase his programming. His heart burning in his chest, and without speaking another word, he suddenly marched out of the chamber. Astren took up the letter, his old hands shaky and patient, but Afias followed after Trinian, running to catch up.
“Where are you going?”
Trinian said nothing.
“What are you going to do?”
He was still silent. He made his way to the training grounds, and when he entered the cavern, the loud clangs, shouts, and duels slowly died until all soldiers stood erect and attentive before him. He strode down the ranks, wondering if these men, trained in peace and taught only to deal with vagrant bands of outlaws, were enough to grapple with an army of a god.
He came up alongside a boy, barely sixteen, who was quivering in his boots, his cheeks flushed with excitement.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“Kett, sire.”
“And tell me, Kett, why do you fight?”
The young boy’s high voice proclaimed the formula with ringing tones and a proud heart. “To fight injustice, unite the kingdom, protect the innocent, and serve our lord and king, his family, and all he loves.”
The boy was reciting the new formula – Trinian had heard it before and it held no surprise for him.
“Why did you join the army, Kett?”
There was no longer a formula to recite, and the boy’s overfull vigor felt the release. His words poured over each other. “For you, sire. Ever since I was eleven and you were crowned king, I’ve wanted nothing else. Just as soon as I was old enough, I came straight here.”
Though Trinian stood solidly in place, the chamber spun and his vision went black. He gazed at Kett, young and hopeful, his thin young chest thrust proudly forward, his hand tight around a sword hilt, his eyes shining with love. This boy had taken the new formula and embraced it as his own. He was not fighting for Drian, as Trinian had done when he signed up, but for a man – for Trinian. He fought for the king, and he did it willingly.
“For me?”
“You are our king, sire. It is an honor to follow you. I would follow you anywhere.”
Trinian’s heart pounded with fear and humility. He could never repay such a debt… But all of a sudden, he understood how to fight the war. He stepped back and called out, so that his voice carried strong to every corner. “Why do you fight?” They declared the new formula. Trinian leapt up onto a wooden box full of chain mail and looked out over the army.
“That is your battle cry, and it is good and strong. You say you fight for me – well I fight for you. I make a vow before you today: I will fight to end injustice, unite the kingdom, protect the innocent, and serve my people, their families, and all they love. This I swear to you. Upon the red peaks of the palace Korem, I swear it!”
Oh, that you could have heard the mighty roar that greeted his ears! Even the most cynical and closed chests of men swelled with love at his fervor and opened to his words. The room reverberated with repeated calls of ‘long live the king;’ swelling like a tide, and breaking against the hard, rock walls, echoing and swelling and ebbing like a great ocean of sound. When at last the noise fell, Trinian addressed them again.
“Listen men! I will need all the strength of your souls, hearts, and limbs, for Mestraff is under attack as we speak. There are monsters overriding her lands, killing, burning, and ravaging their way to our city. Mestraff needs our blades, our city needs our courage, our world needs our resolve. I will lead you forth to face this terror, and we will return triumphant to a city that will rejoice in our prowess! Prepare yourselves! We depart at dawn.”
He stepped off the crate to depart in silence, since his heart, at the end, had flooded with regret and doubt at the last moment, but a voice proclaimed again, “Long live the king!” and the room resounded with the cries until he was far away from the cavern, their voices guiding his steps.
22
Blind, Oblivious Old Men
Astren was in no way pleased when he heard of this development. When Trinian returned to the throne room and told his mentor that he meant to lead the army to Mestraff, he cried out against it immediately. He insisted the king should not involve himself directly in the fighting, for he was far too precious a commodity, and he was rushing into this without thinking it through. But Afias interposed.
“Lord Astren, I was there and I saw him rally the men. For the first time since he has been king, I saw my brother again. And I saw why he is king. Any man who can inspire such confidence is a true leader, and I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I know he will defeat the invading army.”
“Army!” Astren scoffed, ignoring the new light of pride shining on Trinian’s face. “This is not an army. It is a group of monsters, nothing more, and it does not need the emperor of Minecerva marching off to destroy it.”
Afias went up to his brother to say softly, “Tell him.”
“I have no proof.”
“What do you need? The evil spirit himself pounding on the chamber doors? Tell him.”
Trinian took a deep breath. “Lord Astren, I believe it truly is an army – sent out against us by the natural god of Karaka.”
“Oh? And why do you think that?”
“When he captured me, his envy filled the room so that it was palpable. He does not just want to destroy me – he wants the throne, the power. This is his preemptive strike and we must treat it as such.”
Astren sat in his chair and folded his hands in his lap, like a teacher who has to deal with an errant student. “You are young, my king. I recognize that. Youth likes to find meaning and reasons for things, but you will soon learn that there seldom is any meaning to chaos. Karaka is a wasteland; it could not support an army, even if the evil spirit desired it. He would never be able to leave, even if he desired it. Natural gods are confined to their realm. It is far more likely, though you may think otherwise, that these are just monsters. And monsters are monsters simply because they have no reason for doing what they do. And they are easily destroyed.”
Trinian flushed and cast a glance at Afias, and his brother pursed his lips. “Nonetheless,” said Trinian, “I will lead the army. I am sorry you do not agree, but it is my decision. I am the king.”
Astren flushed, for Trinian had never yet overruled him on such a serious matter. “You are too young to know what you are saying,” he warned.
“Perhaps,” said Trinian. “But I will do this all the same.”
“And if you die? Do you not see that it will mean the death of Drian, as well as of yourself? You are no longer an individual!”
“Drian will suffer if I do not protect her. And I will protect her.”
Lord Astren, in the face of such unexpected obstinace, and seeing that he could say nothing to persuade the king, threw his robed hands in the air and turned on his heel, gracefully departed the chamber.
The king heaved a sigh and dropped into the throne. “You see.”
“He is an idiot.”
Although he smiled, Trinian was scandalized. “He is not. He has ruled this kingdom his whole life, and he cannot be completely wrong.”
But unlike Trinian, Afias was not a soldier trained to accept the decree of authority, and he paced the room in anger. “He can, and he is. It is a wonder the entire kingdom is not already crumbling at our feet! It’s a good thing you did not cave to him; how can you defend him when he’s such a blind fool?”
“He was not with me in the god’s chamber. He did not feel the hate.”
“He ought to respect your judgment.”
“But the truth is, I am young. And inexperienced.”
“Fine! You want aged wisdom then go to Gladier, at least he will listen to you. He does not have blinders over his eyes and cotton in his ears.”
“That’s enough, Afias. I will not have you insinuate another word against the steward.”
Afias halted, his hand pressed against a cool pillar, and took a hold of himself. “Very well, but I stand by what I said about Gladier – I am going to talk to him.”
Gladier’s Healory, as it was called, adjoined the palace on the eastern side in what had once been some sort of living apartment. It was half-submerged in the earth, with airy windows all around and one large, circular fenestration in the ceiling. An open floor plan, the rooms were barely distinguishable as separate apartments; and while this was good for lighting and air flow, it made for an unusual living space. Gladier’s bedchamber was simply a rounded corner of the room, separated by nothing more than a tan curtain, and his apprentices slept in the main space on the same beds that were intended one day for the patients. But despite the close living quarters, it was a pleasant place, and had the comfortable air of Gladier’s previous home. As eager as the wizard had been to see the prophecies fulfilled, to pass on his craft, and eventually, to die in peace, leaving his forest had been a sad affair for Gladier, and he had declared to Adlena, when she met him on his arrival, that he intended to make his new home as comfortable as the old. He had done it, and this comfort extended not only to his living quarters, but to those with whom he surrounded himself. He had chosen his apprentices with special attention to their compatibility with one another and with himself. He told Afias, to whom he had taken an immediate liking, that it was difficult enough to practice a trade well without discord breeding beneath the surface among its practitioners.
Gladier had always known he would return to Drian when the king was found again. Fate had been clear about that when he appointed him over the Sacrawood, but leaving the forest meant he left it unprotected, and that saddened him. He freed all his magical creatures, allowing them to be their own masters, and the old man departed their company for that of humanity’s.
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