She shrugged despondently. “It was a dream.”
VI
SOLITUDE
“Solitude is the path over which destiny endeavors to lead man to himself. Solitude is the path that men most fear. A path fraught with terrors, where snakes and toads lie in wait.”
- Hermann Hesse
34
The Second Battle for Drian
The day after Trinian sent his family away, Phestite ducked his tall head into the king’s tent and found a young soldier speaking with him. The man was short and slight, with faint traces of stubble on his face, and he walked with an easy, eager grace like a kitten. Phestite remembered how Trinian had singled this boy out before the battle for Mestraff, but aside from that, there was nothing particularly special about him, and he wondered why the king would keep private council with him.
“Footman Kett,” explained Trinian, “has come to me with a plan to infiltrate Drian.”
“Oh?” asked the General, his deep voice rumbling inside the curtained space.
“You see, sir,” explained the young man, trying and failing to reign in his enthusiasm, “my great-grandfather was once the keeper of the sewers beneath the palace, and he took me, when I was only a very young lad, into the vaults below it. He showed me where they used to empty into an outlet running into Rordan River. General, that opening is not far from here. We could use those channels to infiltrate the palace from within!”
Trinian raised his eyebrows at Phestite, who nodded.
“I want you to take us to these tunnels,” said the king.
The sewer tunnels were dry and long unused, six feet tall and the breadth of two men standing shoulder to shoulder. The three men followed the twisting, confused passage-ways, which Kett seemed to remember well, all the way into the inner circle of Drian’s gardens where the opening, covered over with hedges and trellises, had gone unnoticed for years.
The king, peering through the cracks in the trellis, ached to fight the monsters infesting the capitol, and his blood pumped in anticipation of the encroaching battle. He could see nothing except a destroyed garden on the other side, but he could taste victory.
“What about the gates? Do the tunnels lead there?” he whispered to Kett.
“This way.” The short, slight figure, easily standing beneath the low roof while Trinian and Phestite stooped uncomfortably, led them until they finally found themselves behind a grate, spying the gorgan sentries not three paces away.
Trinian smiled with a surge of confidence, and he laid his hand upon the slight shoulder beside him. “With such men in her time of need, Drian is ours already.”
Kett puffed with pride.
* * *
When Trinian’s squad broke through the concealed tunnels into the light of the Korem Courtyard, a grim spectacle met their eyes. In the center of what, only a few weeks before, had been an abundance of flowers and craftsmanship stood the officials of the enemy conducting their own brand of mock justice. In a tapestry of black slime, shriven tentacles of roots and branches, drooping, shrunken blossoms, and clinging, choking life, on a makeshift gallows erected in the center, Lady Adrea and her father Astren were about to be hanged.
A gorgan was fitting a noose about Adrea’s neck and her father was already strung for the drop. Kellan, king of the gorgans, presided over the affair, grinning at his victory.
He had taken Drian, he had pleased his master, and killing the king was an easy step from here.
Full of the revelry of the moment, the villains were completely taken aback by the sudden appearance of the Drinians. They stumbled back before the onslaught of men, tangling their legs in their astonishment. All except Kellan, who recognized Trinian in an instant, and thought his moment of final victory had come. He drew his weapon from where it was stuck in the ground, a spear tipped with a three-pronged spike, and charged for the mortal king.
Trinian rushed forward, leapt to the raised stage of the gallows, stirring a wind that swept warmly against Adrea, and catapulted from the dais, slicing his blade as he descended. It collided with the spear, and the force of the blows together threw the assailants apart. But they were on their feet again in a moment, circling each other, watching for an opening.
Adrea cheered.
Kellan, reminded of her, barked a command, and the gorgan on the stage reached for the lever to drop the steward and his daughter.
Trinian acted. He threw his knife at the gorgan on the platform, hoping to kill him from a distance, then lunged forward and stabbed at Kellan’s stomach, but the beast’s spear came down to meet his blade. Then he twisted away, feigned at the legs, and then stubbed upward at the goat-like chin.
Ice cold blood spilled over his hand and down his arm. He wrenched the blade free, feeling a burst of battle joy, but Kellan was not killed.
The beast lurched back, then lunged forward, and Trinian’s feet skipped back. Gripping his sword with two hands, he dropped beneath the next swipe of Kellan’s spear, and stabbed upward at the groin. Black, boiling, searing hot gunk poured out, covering him from head to foot, and the monster, finally, was slain.
The beast on the platform had stumbled back when Trinian’s knife hit him in the chest, but it did no more harm to him than if a heavy ball hit a man and winded him. When he caught his breath, he reached forward again to pull the lever and Adrea kicked out with her feet and caused such a nuisance that the monster whirled upon her in a blind rage and bit into her arm.
He had nearly bitten clean through when Trinian leapt upon the stage and sliced off his head from behind – the beast fell back, and Trinian let Kett finish him off on the ground. Then he caught Adrea before she fainted, and gently removed the noose. He lowered her to the ground.
“You returned.” Her pale face shone with love and faith. Her eyes were outlined with the darkness of misery, her face haggard from its imprisonment, and about her mouth hung a shadow of the many deaths of her beloved people, but she was steady with resolve.
“The city is ours again,” her king promised.
Most of his men had swept forward into the castle, clearing it of vermin as they went, but Kett had remained with Trinian, and he now freed Astren. The steward shook like a leaf in fear for his daughter, whose arm bled all over the stage.
“You mustn’t touch her,” he cried at Trinian. “That filth will infect her!” Trinian had forgotten about the grime that covered him, and he carefully relinquished Adrea into her father’s arms. “Take her to Gladier’s,” the king said. “I have to call in the cavalry.”
Trinian ran for the bell tower. He climbed the stairs, and at the peak, he saw that his soldiers, led by Phestite, had slain the gorgans at the gate. He rang the bell to summon Afias.
* * *
The cavalry of Drian was lined up behind the ridge of Berhemir. Afias, mounted upon his charger and clad in brilliant armor of steel plating, sat still as a chiseled statue of marble. Just as a carved figure overlooks a battle scene of a hundred years gone, as if contemplating the course of long events past, so was the visage of Prince Afias. Though tense with expectation, he felt removed from the scene, an observer looking down from heaven perhaps, or a historian recording events.
He knew that at that moment, Trinian was emerging from the tunnels in the grounds of the palace, and Phestite at the gatehouse. If events transpired favorably, it would be a short while before an alarm sounded, and he would lead his men in a charge upon the city.
Five minutes passed, then ten. His horse pawed the ground, expressing his master’s tightly controlled anticipation, when at last, the bells clanged over the countryside, sounding the three-beat signal from Trinian.
“Forth Drinians!” he cried from the head of the mounted spears, and with an answering roar, the army surged forward behind him, mounted the ridge, and rode down upon the city. The gates lowered to receive them, and they thundered forward with the confidence of victory.
The returning army flooded into the welcoming walls, carrying their blue and gold co
lors into the mass of black and brown filth. Like a sea of foam, they swept away the gorgan refuse before them.
35
Solitude in Victory
Wizard Gladier had gone unnoticed in the gorgan occupation. They had thought nothing, in the three brief days they occupied the city, of the small, round abode that huddled against the large palace as a small child huddles against its mother’s cloak. Thus, the old wizard had slipped unnoticed from household to household, ministering to the hurts of the people, caring for them and encouraging them until the morning Trinian infiltrated the palace and his brother Afias swept the gorgans out of the city.
He met Trinian in the throne room, where the king stood shuddering as he surveyed the black, oozing filth that coated the beautiful, ancient walls.
“At last,” the wizard proclaimed in his usual cheerful manner. “I knew you would not wait long to save your people.” Trinian turned with a smile, and accepted the other’s warm embrace. “And where is your dear brother, and my own sweet Adlena? We must celebrate!”
Trinian’s face darkened at that, and Gladier frowned. “Why do you frown? What has happened? Surely all your family is safe?”
“They are safe.”
“Then why do you look so mournful?”
Trinian shook himself. “I should not. They are safe, for I have sent them to Kelta where they will remain – until I have defeated this god once and for all. Not until I sever his head from his phantom body will they set foot here!”
At the king’s adamant declaration, the wizard started, and his eyes brightened in anger. “You’ve done what? Sent them away? But Kelta has turned to the god of Karaka! How could you do this? I had not thought you were such a coward!”
Trinian turned pale. “What? Gladier, what have you seen?”
“That Wrelle is overthrown by an evil man who worships our enemy! The stupidity of your actions! You have pulled out your supports from under you, and sent them up the river! How could you be so governed by your fear?”
“I am not controlled by fear! This god will stop at nothing until he kills me and all my family! If he had taken this city and killed me, they would live on.”
“And now it is the other way around,” said Gladier. “You have condemned them.”
“We don’t know that,” Trinian trembled. “Search for them! Tell me what you see!”
“Stop commanding this of me! You know I cannot! It comes when it comes, and I do not control it!”
Trinian looked deep into his mentor’s eyes. “Can you not try? Can you not search for the ones I love?”
“Trinian, never ask it of me. If I do, I will become like Strana.”
Trinian was trembling in terror and guilt, and he turned away and strode out of the chamber. The stench of the filth was clouding his mind. Gladier followed, and together, they gazed over the ruined city. “I am not only driven by fear, you know,” he said after a time. “I have to send Afias to South Drian, and I do not do that from fear.”
“Send another friend away? Shall you send me too? Are you determined to be friendless?”
“Enough,” cried Trinian. “I’ve decided, and it is what I must do. At least I know already that South Drian has fallen to the enemy, and I send a soldier this time – not helpless children. I have no more energy to debate you.”
Gladier patted his shoulder, kindly relenting. “Then I will only advise you not to send the prince alone. Do not condemn him to the same fate you have decided for yourself.”
36
Solitude in South Drian
The throne room, after several scrubbings, still stank like a molding barrel of apples with the filth of its previous occupants. Trinian kept council there, however, because nowhere was free of the lingering stench and filth.
It was the dawn of the next day, for the fighting had waged through the night, when Trinian called Afias before him.
“When we arrived,” he told him, “Kett discovered a prisoner in the dungeons who fled here from South Drian. Already weak and dying when we found him, he passed soon after, but not before he told us what happened there. The gorgans swept through their land, killing everyone as they went, and leaving the land empty to come and attack us. But he begs for our assistance since there are some survivors who are weak and scattered; he begs especially for his brother, who is helping to guard a group of women, wounded, and children in a valley called Kazeel. Since I cannot leave the city, I am sending you to help them.”
“You want me to go to South Drian? To rebuild it?” Afias asked incredulously. “You are going to send me away?”
Trinian trembled, but he kept silent about the fate of Kelta. He knew Afias would insist on sailing up the river to save their family, but the prince was even less a sailor than a soldier, and Trinian felt his talents would thus be wasted; he would send help, but not Afias. “I had to send them away,” was all he said, his voice breaking.
Afias stepped forward, feeling chastised for his anger. “I know. And I don’t blame you. But don’t send me too. Your position requires that you be strong, set apart – I understand. But you can’t maintain strength if you have no one to support you.”
Trinian was silent and paced the room. His heart beat desperately for love, but he felt it was a selfish desire. He wanted his brother so he could lean on him; but when the world depended on him, and he had to give it the best that he had. And Afias was the very best of himself. At last, he said, “I need you in South Drian. There’s no better way for you to support me than to go where I ask and act in my stead. I trust you – more than anyone else.”
“But I don’t understand,” Afias tried another tactic. “Surely there can be no question of it? I’m a farmer; maybe I’m a member of the royal family now, but not a politician or architect or diplomat. I know nothing of how to help these people, and will only lead them awry.”
“First of all, none of that is true. You are a diplomat in your blood and always have been; and any man who can manage his own land can manage a city: it’s just one size larger. I have learned to do it and so can you.”
“You had teachers.”
“And that is why I’m not sending you alone. Lady Adrea will be your companion.”
Afias raised his eyebrows. “Is there no one else?” he asked uncomfortably.
“Lady Adrea is a fine ambassador and a loyal friend.”
Afias sighed. “I’m sure she is. But she and I have never seen the sky as the same color. Besides that, she is unbearably proud. I don’t think she esteems my title as she does yours.”
“Then you will have to earn her esteem, and she yours. Try to respect her please, for my sake.”
Afias bowed. “For you.”
* * *
Trinian lacked the heart to tell Adrea in person that he was sending her to South Drian. He had visited her in Gladier’s Healory the day after the battle, and when he told her he had sent Adlena to Kelta, the disappointment in her eyes stung him so that he nearly broke down.
“Why would you do that?” she had asked.
“To keep her safe,” he had said shortly, cutting off any other questions. But her eyes told her anger all too clearly. In her mind, he was her idol, her perfect king, and she loved him for who she thought he was: faithful, stolid, self-sacrificing, and vulnerable. And she imagined that in his marriage he was godlike and perfect. Adrea’s feelings toward Trinian were paradoxical: because she was in love with him, she was also in love with the idea of his marriage. Adlena must be perfect, for he had married her. And their marriage must be that of two equals, protecting and working for each other - not sending each other away when life grew difficult. She knew in that moment that if he could send Adlena away, then he could send her away. And her heart broke.
So it only wounded her and did not surprise her when her father told her of Trinian’s decision.
“I think he’s right,” Lord Astren told her. “You are healing well, but you always feel better with a task to do. Prince Afias is capable, and there’ll be plent
y of soldiers to care for you, I’ve seen to that. It might even be safer down there than here now.”
Adrea smiled bitterly at that. Her father could only imagine danger when he experienced it. He lacked imagination, and thought that what he had experienced in the Drinian prison – poor food, a cold bed, buffets from their gorgan prisoners, and his near death at the gallows – was the worst danger possible, and he wanted to get her as far from it as he could. He did not think of the gorgans that most likely infested the land, or any of the other dangers that might engulf her in South Drian, so entrapped was he in thinking only of the dangers they had faced in Drian.
What he did not know was the danger she carried within. She hugged herself and frowned darkly out the Healor’s window before turning impatiently back to her gray, proud father.
“Prince Afias is a stubborn innocent, who sulks after his lost fields and country home. Can he really rule a kingdom?”
“Do you think King Trinian rules the kingdom?” he demanded, and she blinked in surprise to hear him speak so bluntly. “He has done well, for a soldier,” he allowed, “but he does not do it alone. He knows he must listen to the counsel of those who have more experience, and he is attentive to mine. Why do you think he sends you with his brother now? He knows you will be the firm foundation behind the throne. And I, too, have confidence in you.”
Adrea shuffled her foot, uncomfortable with her father’s words, but admitting their truth in her heart. Trinian had always listened to someone – Gladier, Astren, herself – refusing to rely on his own counsel. But the truth that he had lacked strength of resolve and firmness of decision saddened her. Very well, she thought, as she straightened her dark head upon her fair neck, if that was the way to rule a kingdom, she would rule as she was asked.
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Trinian Page 18