After a night of agony in which neither the lady nor the prince of Drian slept, the sun at last dawned pale against the morning mist. Afias was himself again: his eyes clear, his step firm, but his brow still furrowed in sorrow. From then on, there would always be a small part of his face that reflected the horror of the Valley of Kazeel.
Without prologue, as he sat down to accept a dish of eggs from Faring, he asked Adrea, “How does a people recover from something like that?”
“I don’t think they do.” She was short-tempered, and once again, her heart clenched within her. “But eventually, they move on. The world doesn’t stop because of misery.”
“How can they move on?” he asked.
She scraped the bottom of her bowl with her good hand, forcing herself to eat, annoyed that he wanted her to have the answers. But he needed guidance, and that was why she had come. She leaned forward, pushing her anger and contempt aside, and looking him in the eye. “But they will – because you will lead them. You were there; you saw it and you felt it. Your compassion does you credit. You feel, and your feelings will connect you to the South Drinians – it will be your strength; and you will raise them from this terror.”
He met her gaze, and the intensity behind her eyes reassured him despite himself. With perfectly concealed condescension, she had voiced what she knew would encourage him, what would motivate him to act.
“Let us go to the palace, then,” he said, rising. “There is work to be done.”
* * *
When they arrived at Varlo, the palace of South Drian, two lords received them: Dargevalor, an elderly gentleman who had been away in Austro at the time of the attack, and Lord Kalaban, a man in his mid-forties, who had charge of a large fiefdom – a land that, thanks to its proximity to the east, had been mostly untouched by the gorgans. They received Afias and Adrea with a combination of gratitude and trepidation.
“Our royal family was slaughtered in the invasion,” explained Dargevalor. “They were farmers, you know, and we aren’t accustomed to receiving state royalty. We’ve heard so much of the mighty Emperor Trinian, and we want to show only the very best service to his brother.”
A hopeful light came into Afias’s eyes and he opened his mouth to explain that any special solemnity for his sake was unnecessary, and he would be very happy to engage with them as farmers, but Adrea cut him off, “Thank you, Lord Dargevalor. It would be my pleasure to answer any questions you might have regarding ceremony or custom. If you would kindly show us to our rooms, we will dress for dinner, and then meet with you to hear about South Drian’s situation.”
Dargevalor, who had introduced himself without the prefix ‘Lord’ and looked uncomfortable when the accomplished lady from Drian used it, shuffled his feet. His lined face was wrinkled with worry. “Of course, of course. Your rooms are all ready. But I’m afraid if will be several hours until dinner is ready. We dine late here… I think.”
Prince Afias leaned forward, trying to put the man at rest. “That’s absolutely fine,” he began.
“Of course,” agreed Adrea, and the men all gave a sigh of relief. “We can just eat in our rooms. If you would bring us some light appetizers, we’ll be perfectly alright.”
Afias blushed with embarrassment. It was clear from the blank, lost look on both faces that the lords had no idea what an appetizer was, but Lady Adrea only smiled her official court smile, and followed the servant to her room.
The palace chambers were in good condition since, although the palace showed signs of battle scarring, there was none of the occupation damage that had ravaged Drian. The enemy had been as interested in occupying South Drian as a wild tornado is to rest in a home. And, between the men and women Trinian had sent with them from Drian, and those who had survived in the castle, Varlo had enough personnel to satisfy Adrea’s requirements for ceremony.
Afias and Adrea held council with the two lords that night, but they knew almost as little as the Drinians regarding the state of their kingdom. Afias lost no time in sending out scouts to the various districts, seeking out villagers and townsfolk and calling for them to make their way to the capitol, where Adrea began organizing a restoration of housing and food. Over the next few days, together, they began to create a home for the South Drianians at Varlo.
Within two weeks, two hundred people occupied the capitol, but no more citizens resided in any of the outlying lands. Afias’s men had gathered from the houses and fields enough food to last only three months. It was autumn, just past the harvest, when the barns ought to have been stacked full with provisions for the winter, but all the silos and barns lay empty to the frosty air, ransacked by the gorgan army that had swallowed all food like a swarm of invading locusts.
40
The Invisible Water Pot Path
Along the bank of the Rordan, on the small hill that nestled neatly within a grove of oak and cypress trees, in a vale surrounded on two sides by water, one side by solid rock, and one side by a horde of gorgans, the morning was bright and cheerful, with no solemn ceremony in the brisk air. To Viol, who awakened early and thought immediately, today is the day I die, the brightness of the day seemed incongruous. She rolled up her bedding, combed her hair, and put on the best of her three gowns, as if to dress for death.
Everyone – aside from Asbult who sat watch on the ridge – was sleeping on the ground, and the littlest princess crept away from them. Since the water pot was dry, she made her way to the edge of the cliff, where a rivulet flowed and dropped off suddenly toward the Rordan in a waterfall. The path of the rivulet was closed in by a rock face, which was so overgrown with foliage that the rocky ledge was concealed behind it.
As Viol waded into the water and bent down to scoop the pot through it, she heard approaching footsteps. Fear gripped her heart, and splashing to the other side of the water, she sank back into the thick overgrowth and almost immediately, met the unyielding surface of the rock face. In a desperate attempt to conceal herself, she moved along the stone until she found an opening, and drew back inside it completely.
The footsteps came up beside the water, and stopped. Viol remembered the water pot. She had left it on the path. Cautiously, peeking out, she saw her brother-in-law standing above it, with a genuinely puzzled expression.
Viol giggled in relief, emerging as if by magic from the foliage, and Asbult laughed at her. “I thought perhaps the pot was an intricate new weapon of the gorgan’s, designed to trip me up as I went for water, and dehydrate me to death.”
“Hey! I was really scared!”
“So was I. Of the water pot.”
“Oh, stop teasing.”
“So where were you hiding?” He pulled aside the underbrush, but then he frowned.
“You found a tunnel?”
“Apparently. What’s wrong?”
The camp was stirring as Asbult charged into the center. He stopped his mad careen when he found himself face-to-face with Queen Adlena, and stood before her with wide open eyes. And she, puzzled, looked back at him. He gaped as though he saw her for the first time.
“What is it?” she asked.
Without a word, he stumbled back and ran to Garrity and foolishly, clutched his arm.
Garrity grabbed him and shook him a little. “What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning at Asbult’s dramatic expression. “What is it?”
Viol came up beside the queen, watching in fascination.
Her brother-in-law pointed back the way he had come. “There are rocks, Garrity. My Queen, there are rocks and there is a hole in them.”
“What?” asked Adlena faintly.
“It’s true,” said Viol. “I don’t know what it means, but there is a tunnel in the rocks.”
“Show me,” said Garrity.
The hole was just tall and wide enough for Garrity, the tallest of their company, to stand without hitting the roof.
At his command, the group packed their belongings, distributing them in bundles among the company, and then made their way into th
e tunnel. They could hear the enemy stirring, preparing to ascend to the camp behind them.
Before disappearing into the deep darkness, Asbult looked at Garrity, but the commander only shrugged. It was possible the tunnel went nowhere, and they would be trapped like rabbits in a warren, but the queen’s dream had been eerily accurate, and it would be foolish not to try. Garrity waited until everyone had slipped into the cavernous depths, then he too followed through the foliage, disappearing before the gorgans had time to see where they had gone.
It was dark and long; twisting, with sharp ascents and descents. They lit torches, but it was a dangerous business in the small space, so they had only one at the fore and one at the rear. All along the way, they jumped at any little sound, afraid that the gorgans would follow them. Afraid they would reach a dead end and have to turn back.
But four claustrophobic hours later, after tramping in single file with the walls brushing against them on all sides, and every little sound or shadow seeming louder and larger than it was, there was light ahead, then clear daylight, and at last, the tunnel led into a large, leafy clearing, and they were deep in Mestraff territory.
The women laughed, the men relaxed, and the little prince danced in freedom. There was no sign of gorgans. Laughing, Asbult picked up Cila and twirled her around.
“I can see the peak of the Yellow Mountain to the northwest!” said Asbult. “Judging by its distance, we should be near the forester dells. Look!” he pointed east, “smoke!”
Sure enough, in the distance, they saw smoke pouring out above the treetops, and they approached cautiously to discover a small hamlet.
Rarks was a lonely dell nestled amongst the wilderlands of Mestraff’s vast forests, wherein dwelt foresters and self-sufficient farmers. Its few huts were all made of stone, with vines growing along the walls and grass sprouting from the roofs. The overall effect was that the village itself seemed to have sprung up from the ground. The only building made of wood was a small inn in the center. This hidden hamlet was friendly and hospitable, and the townsfolk were eager for news from Drian.
The inn-keeper was a tall, skinny man, and when the royal company neared his doors, he stretched out his arms to such capacity that it seemed he would bodily transport the entire group into the tavern himself. He served them drinks and dinner with a warm gusto, and reassured them of beds for the night.
Neither was he the only one with a lively interest in the travelers. Many of the townsfolk stopped in for a late-night beer to catch a glimpse of the distinguished company from the capitol, and maybe pass a few words with them. It appeared that news of Trinian’s salvation of Ringwold had reached even as far as this cloistered dell, and fostered in them a marked gratitude for the new king.
The royals were careful to keep their identities secret, but their homeland they could not, since even their clothing and dialect betrayed them, and they willingly shared information about Drian.When the tavern had at last deposited its final drunken straggler upon the outer road, Asbult lifted his nephew from the bench where he had for many hours lain asleep. “We will depart early in the morning, at sunrise.”
“And go where?” demanded Lavendier. “This is as good a place as any, now that Kelta is no longer an option.”
“We will go where the river god directs. We will travel to the safe haven.”
“Must we?” asked Cila, more gently than her sister. “This does seem safe.”
“Kelta has already joined Karaka, and Mestraff is overrun with gorgans. Who knows what spies may live among the people here. No, it is safer for us to go on.”
“I don’t want to go on,” said Lavendier.
“Then stay here,” said Asbult. “And risk your death, but the rest of us will remain together. No more discussion: good night.”
41
Temptation from the Strange Man with Oily Locks
Lavendier sat in the tavern and watched her sister Cila follow Asbult upstairs to bed. The eldest princess bitterly bemoaned her loss of Dascerice, resentful that she did not have the strong arms of a man to hold her close. How she yearned to be comforted and complimented, but neither Garrity nor Merciec seemed willing to act as her personal companion. It was not fair, she mourned to herself, that war, battle, and strife should deprive any one of happiness, and she was particularly disgruntled at Asbult for forbidding her to tell anyone who she was. She had a right to be a princess, after all, and with that internal decision, the tall princess stamped the ground in anger, and stepped back to the bar.
“Brandy.”
The inn-keeper smiled companionably. “For a pretty thing like you? Ah, miss! You must be feeling pretty low. Everyone else is goin’ to bed.”
“I’m frustrated,” she exclaimed injudiciously. “Frustrated and upset, and need something to calm my nerves.”
“Your life can’t be so miserable, now,” he answered, setting the glass before her, and smiling at her melodramatics.
“Danger and death and misery, that’s what my life is. And my idiot brother-in-law wants to prolong it.”
Unnoticed in the corner, as if forgotten by the force that drove everyone home, a man with yellow circles under his eyes rose from the shadows. Oily black locks hung down past his ears, and he moved with an effeminate grace, almost as if he were thick oil moving through water. He sidled up to her sympathetically. “Well now,” he said, “someone ought to get you out of a fix like that.”
* * *
The night was deeply dark, for Mestraff was a dense forest, and not even the light of the moon could penetrate the overspreading foliage. Merciec was on watch for the first half of the night, and he wandered the halls of the inn, listening for any uncommon sounds and peering through the darkness to catch sight of evil, as if evil could be seen. He completed his circuit of the inn in the main room, and moved to sit by the fire: eager to smoke his pipe and recite poetry under his breath; but as he approached the fireplace, he overheard an oily voice snaking its way toward him around the corner from the bar. “Behind the inn,” said the voice, “there is an alcove beneath an elm, a birch, and a spite. I will meet you there at eleven.”
The voice sent a shiver down his spine. He stepped round the corner and saw the back of a man depart through the front door – a man with black, oily locks and a feline grace. The bartender was cleaning up and Princess Lavendier was heading upstairs. There was no one else in the room.
“Going to bed, princess?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll see you in the morning,” she said coldly, and disappeared.
Merciec went up to the man behind the counter. “Who’s that who just left?” he asked.
The other shrugged. “You know, no one knows. He’s been here a couple days, but don’t talk much with anyone. Surly, he is, and dirty too. Wish he’d wash his hair. No one likes him much, and we all wish he’d move on. He’s not so friendly and well-spoken as your party. Well, I’m going to bed. Help yourself to this coffee if you want anything before morning.”
He put out a jug, then disappeared through a door behind the bar.
Merciec mistrusted the slithery voice he had heard, which was as black as the man’s clinging locks, and he decided to go to the aforementioned alcove. The dark night swallowed him as he exited the inn, and the coven was hard to find, but he stumbled into it after a time, when the wind kindly stirred some branches and the moon illuminated a trio of trees, huddled together liked humped witches, whispering secrets. He settled behind the elm and waited patiently for eleven.
After an hour, a tall, womanly figure entered the clearing; he could not see her face in the darkness, but he guessed who it was, and presently, another person joined her and they spoke in hushed voices.
“You’re ready?” asked the thick, liquidy, oily voice.
“Yes. What are you going to do?” The princess was over-eager, and spoke quickly.
“You only have to trust me.”
“Well? You said you can give me my brother’s throne. Tell me!”
“Ah,
my lady, I am the god of Karaka’s most trusted advocate. I have come here from Kelta to search you out, on purpose to give you your brother’s throne, and you question me? You must trust me.”
“I will when you tell me,” said Lavendier. “What should I do?”
“Take this,” he handed over something and the princess snatched it greedily. “Hold it up to the moon, and repeat aloud: ‘I swear to you, I swear to you …” The princess repeated it after him. “I swear to you my allegiance. Oh god of Power, envelop me in your might, that I may conquer with you. Conquer and rule, and hold power over all of Drian. Come to me, oh god, and take this beautiful vessel – fill me with your might!”
The princess was repeating each word, but before she could say “fill me with your might,” Merciec leapt from his hiding place, drawing his sword in a smooth motion, and falling upon the princess.
“Say nothing,” he cried. “Or I will slit your throat.”
Lavendier became instantly still; the man with the oily locks cursed in the darkness, but he did not run away.
“You need her for something,” said Merciec, “and you do not desire her death. If you wish to avoid it, tell me who you are, whom you serve, and what you are doing here.”
“You sshall not kill your prinss-esss.” His voice was no longer thick and syrupy, but sharp and slithery, full of hissing.
“She is a traitor to her nation and family, and I would have no qualms ending her life here. Whom do you serve?”
Trinian Page 20