Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  But the difficult part was over and Dooley relied on his tree climbing abilities as a young boy to take him farther into the web of rafters. After a short series of acrobatic maneuvers, he wormed his way onto another large beam near one corner of the long back wall, completely out of view of anyone who would be seated at the table. He rested on the wide piece of oak, his back slightly inclined and his legs fully extended. He didn’t have any fears about falling off, but extended an arm through one of the open designs carved into an adjoining piece of woodwork to anchor himself just in case. As an added precaution, he flipped the hood of his coat down over his head so that less of his skin would be exposed. The darkness of his clothes blended in seamlessly with the shadows.

  For the next hour, Dooley closed his eyes from time to time, happy to rest awhile after sampling some of the rich and varied foods at the reception downstairs. He listened to the snapping flames from the fireplaces below. The rising heat soothed him and he found it easy to keep his heavy eyelids closed for longer stretches of time. At one point he was roused awake when several members of the kitchen staff entered through a small door near the larger fireplace carrying metal pitchers of water, wine and honey ale which they distributed along the table. He could clearly hear the monotonous chatter of the workers, though it soon bored him and he happily closed his eyelids once again, drunk with sleep, telling himself that he would wait for the real talk to begin before actually paying attention.

  As the heat and crackle of flames combined with the murmur of voices wafting through the rafters, Dooley easily succumbed to a deep and dreamy sleep, a faint smile forming on his lips as his body relaxed into the wooden beam as if it were a mattress stuffed with feathers and straw. He heard neither the kitchen staff leaving shortly afterward nor the dignitaries later entering the chamber in small groups through both doors along the corridor. They eagerly took their seats and greeted a smiling King Justin who welcomed them to the final stage of the summit.

  “We are gathered together at last,” King Justin said, sitting at the center chair of the table, his back to the fireplace. He clasped his hands together, a thin smile beneath his ice blue eyes and cropped silvery hair as he looked about the room. He wore a light gray woolen shirt underneath a vest of autumn colors. He glanced past his son, Prince Gregory, seated to his right, and stared at a pair of empty chairs next to him. “Well, almost all of us,” the King added, referring to the emissaries from Montavia who had not yet arrived, while at the same time thinking about his granddaughter lost somewhere in the wild. He had dispatched a search team to look for Megan after Samuel returned alone, but the princess’ trail had disappeared. But to get through this war council, he and Prince Gregory, Megan’s father, put her plight temporarily out of mind, a nearly impossible task if ever there was one. But they would have to try as great matters were at stake. “The absence of the Montavian representatives troubles me,” King Justin continued. “I sent out scouts yesterday, but no word has returned. We’ll proceed and hope they arrive soon.”

  “In their stead,” Prince Gregory said, “I have invited one of the captains from King Rowan’s guard.” He pointed out a Montavian soldier seated across the table. “He and a company of his men have been training with some of Arrondale’s finest.” The prince exhibited many of his father’s facial features, and though his hair was long and brown, his eyes were as blue as the King’s.

  The other representatives were dismayed that King Rowan’s envoys had been delayed, knowing that Arrondale had a cordial relationship with its neighbor to the east. A gentleman, nearly the same age as King Justin, leaned back in his chair at one end of the table to the King’s left, quietly contemplating what the absence might mean. His large frame was wrapped in dark blue robes embroidered with faint designs of silver and white. A pair of deep, dark eyes nearly matched his unruly mess of thick, black hair. He furrowed his brow in deep contemplation.

  “Tolapari, you look lost in thought,” the King remarked, eyeing his old friend and advisor. “Though that is hardly unusual for a wizard. Is there anything you wish to say?”

  “Not quite yet, Justin,” he softly said, offering a smile as he lightly tapped a finger to his chin. “In the meantime, shall we proceed with the tale of war and chaos down south that is Rhiál and Maranac? There are some in this room who have not heard the entire story, and it will give your scribes a delightful challenge to record the full account for posterity.” He indicated with amusement the two royal scribes seated at the opposite end of the table, dipping quills into ink bottles and scribbling the official documentation of the war council on parchment sheets.

  “That’s as good a place to start as any,” King Justin replied, pouring some wine into a drinking glass in preparation for a long discussion. He glanced at the nearly two dozen emissaries and their aides seated at the table, representatives of the various kingdoms and nations in Laparia. Several minor officials sat on additional benches and chairs placed along the chamber walls.

  King Justin then introduced Lamar, an emissary from the kingdom of Rhiál who sat two chairs away on his left. Between them sat a pale, worried looking man named Nedry, one of King Justin’s top advisors. Rhiál was tucked away in the lower reaches of the Ridloe Mountains in the southeast and bordered the western shore of Lake LaShear, a long, narrow lake stretching north to south. On the opposite side of the lake lay the kingdom of Maranac, slightly larger and more populated than its neighbor.

  Several decades ago the two nations had been one, but a political war had erupted into a bloody affair, splitting the kingdom nearly in half to the present day. And though that particular war had ended long ago, most of its citizens dreamed of a day when the two kingdoms would reunite in peace despite a signed treaty of separation and the forgotten designs of long-dead politicians. But a current war now brewing between the two kingdoms left many on both sides of Lake LaShear yearning for the functional yet soulless peace they had grown used to over the passing years.

  “Thank you, King Justin, for inviting me here,” Lamar stated graciously, smiling beneath a mop of iron gray hair. “Since Rhiál has been at war for six months with our neighbor, Maranac, I’ll speak briefly of the history that preceded this disaster so everyone is clear on the facts. After which, maybe we can devise a solution to end the madness before it spreads. Without assistance, Rhiál might not last into next spring.”

  “I look forward to your account,” said a man sitting directly across the table. He had traveled from Linden, one of several small nations wedged among the towering peaks of the Northern Mountains near Kargoth. “Linden and my neighbors survive under Vellan’s iron fist, rebelling against him occasionally, but not yet at war. But how did Rhiál become embroiled in your current conflict?”

  Lamar’s countenance was grim. “Simple. King Drogin of Maranac attacked us,” he said. “Drogin received the royal title ten days into this year before even the first efalia blossoms of spring had a chance to bloom. His brother, King Hamil, had been assassinated seven days earlier, and what a tragic loss it was. Hamil was a good and honorable man, quite unlike his sibling.”

  “The newly crowned King Drogin invaded your kingdom without provocation?”

  “Yes. About a month later,” replied Lamar. “The first attacks were near the southern tip of Lake LaShear. That area contains some of our richest farmland. The strikes were designed to disrupt the spring planting and to test our resistance.”

  “But why would King Drogin do such a thing?” asked a curious Len Harold.

  “Because Drogin blames Rhiál for the assassination of his younger brother.”

  Len furrowed his brow. “Younger brother? How did King Hamil earn the crown if he was Drogin’s younger sibling?” Others in the room were just as mystified.

  “It seems that many here are not familiar with the politics of Maranac,” King Justin remarked. “The ascension of Hamil to the throne before Drogin has always intrigued me. Perhaps you can enlighten us with more details.”

  Lamar h
elped himself to some red grapes from a nearby fruit bowl, munching on a few as he told his story. “Hamil’s coronation before that of his older brother of two years is at the center of the current conflict. You see, Drogin, who was rightfully first in line for the throne, was an ardent supporter of reunification of our two nations. Even throughout his youth, I’ve been told, he was always curious about the history of Maranac and how it broke apart sixty-five years ago after a dreary, three-year conflict. When the peace treaty was signed that year in 677, our new kingdom on the lake’s west side was called Rhiál, borrowing the name of the village where our new monarch had been born.

  “King Drogin was a self-taught scholar regarding that war during his youth, curious about its origins, battles and heroes. This would have been admirable in most cases, but Drogin’s interest in the war turned into an obsession. Throughout his early adulthood, rumors existed that Drogin’s father, King Cerone, was skeptical of the young man’s fitness to one day be a leader. A sad thing, I’m sure, for any father to believe about his son.”

  The two scribes busily recorded Lamar’s words as a rapt audience listened in the weighty silence of the chamber, the hush occasionally punctuated by the pop of maple wood burning in the fireplace or the dull clink of a metal pitcher against the rim of a drinking cup. Though the air felt warm and comforting, all in their chairs were wide awake. Even those who were familiar with the recent political history of Maranac paid close attention as if hearing the narrative for the first time.

  “How did Drogin’s father come to that determination?” asked a guest sitting on one of the benches against the wall. “When did King Cerone decide that his older son should be passed over for the crown in favor of the younger Hamil?”

  “Good questions,” Lamar said. “And though I only met King Cerone a few times before he died while I was an ambassador to Maranac, the King in no way confided those personal details to me. Only through a series of discreet conversations and private correspondences with lower officials–plus the occasional rumor or two–do diplomats glean much of the information we work with. Such was the case regarding King Cerone’s opinion of his two sons.” Lamar pulled another red grape off the stem and popped it into his mouth. “Before King Cerone died three years ago, he signed a royal decree stating that his younger son, Hamil, would ascend to the throne upon his death instead of Drogin. Well, this was not a highly publicized law for obvious reasons, but it raised quite a stir in the royal corridors in Maranac. Drogin, of course, was a volcano of emotions, claiming he had been denied his birthright, but most people in Maranac I’ve talked to over the years were privately glad that Hamil should rule them one day instead of his older, reckless brother. Though Drogin never settled down nor had the patience to be an administrator of day-to-day tasks, I guess what troubled his father most was the boy’s warped desire to take back Rhiál at any cost. The older Drogin grew, the more he talked about the possibility, no doubt envisioning the day when he would finally rule and make his dream a reality. But if that meant another war, then King Cerone wanted nothing to do with it, and so the line of succession was altered.

  “Now there are many people in both kingdoms who dream of the day that Rhiál and Maranac become one nation again, myself included,” Lamar said wistfully. “Many stories from my childhood and old paintings recount the wonderful days of the great kingdom of Maranac and the constant traffic of colorful ships sailing east and west across the blue waters of Lake LaShear. And though trade routes still exist, they are few and tightly monitored. The free and spontaneous visits between the shores among family and friends have vanished. A deep regret still pains many in their hearts and souls that, because of long dead, self-serving politicians, a once great nation was transformed into a shadow of its former self. Most realize that if the two sides were ever to reunite and heal, a new bond of trust would need to sprout and flourish, though it would take time. And certain decisions would have to be made as well.

  “For instance, which leader would rule this new nation–one of ours or one of theirs? And precisely where? The old capital city of Bellavon, marking the border at the southern tip of Lake LaShear, was divided in two in 677 as part of the peace treaty. Now Melinas and Zaracosa, the current capitals of Rhiál and Maranac, serve as the political centers on either side of the lake. Without answers to these questions, the two kingdoms will never become one.” Lamar plucked one more grape from its stem. “Unless, of course, a crazed brother tries to grab the other half by force.”

  “And that, regretfully, is where we now find ourselves.” The wizard Tolapari’s quiet but sharp words cut through the subdued chamber. “King Drogin has usurped the throne of Maranac and is blaming Rhiál for the death of his younger brother, Hamil.”

  “And the death of Hamil’s wife, too,” Lamar added. “King Hamil and his wife were returning from an engagement early this year. While on the way back to their residence in Zaracosa, their coach was attacked by a band of horsemen. The King, his wife and all their protectors were killed. Earlier that same day, their only child, Melinda, a teacher in the capital city, disappeared, apparently kidnapped or killed. Of course, Drogin accused Rhiál of her disappearance as well.”

  “You informed me earlier that King Hamil’s guardsmen had slain a few of the attackers before it was over,” King Justin said.

  “That’s true,” Lamar continued, “but unfortunately King Hamil’s men were overwhelmed in the end. After the bodies of the King and his wife were removed from the site, Drogin’s officials allowed observers from Rhiál, including me, to visit the area where the tragedy occurred. They claimed they wanted us to see proof of what we supposedly did. It was all a part of Drogin’s excuse to start a war.”

  “What did you see?” someone asked.

  “Many dead soldiers,” Lamar muttered, keeping a roiling anger in check. “Some had been felled by arrows and others with swords. The few attackers who had been killed were dressed in uniforms of the royal guard of Rhiál. That itself should tell you that the assault was staged. If Rhiál had attacked, why would we so blatantly announce it? But it didn’t matter. Everyone suspected that Drogin was behind the affair. Though he still lived in the royal residence at Zaracosa, Drogin was estranged from Hamil and his family. His denial of power constantly gnawed at him. Drogin only wanted an excuse for war to feed to the public, not caring how flimsy the evidence looked to us in Rhiál.” Lamar paused for a moment and took a deep drink of wine, feeling emotionally spent at having to recount the sad details once again. All eyes were upon him, eager to here more of the fascinating, yet dreadful tale. “But our suspicion alone wasn’t the only evidence to assure us that Drogin was behind King Hamil’s murder,” he continued. “We had verification of another kind, too.”

  “Tell us,” Len Harold said, leaning forward, his elbows propped up on the table.

  “Less than a week after the massacre, a member of King Hamil’s guard who had been secretly in league with Drogin, arrived in Melinas, begging for an audience with King Basil of Rhiál. Of course, the man was apprehended at once and questioned, revealing much about the deadly attack and kidnapping,” he said. “You see, the young solider had regrets about his involvement with Drogin and the plan to kidnap Princess Melinda as a way for Drogin to gain power from his brother. At least, that is what the soldier had been told was the plan. It was not until a day after the kidnapping that he heard of King Hamil’s assassination, learning shortly thereafter that both events had been orchestrated by Drogin. The guard realized that a new king was about to take the throne with blood on his hands, and that knowledge tormented him, especially since he had a part in it, however misguided. The guard fled to Rhiál the first chance he could to confess the plot to King Basil, fearing that war was in the offing.”

  “Where is Princess Melinda?” asked an emissary from the nation of Harlow. “And who really attacked King Hamil and his wife?”

  Lamar shook his head sadly. “Regretfully, there has been no word about the young woman for the last seve
n months. She has been missing since the third day of New Spring, the day of the attack. Whether King Drogin killed his only niece or had her imprisoned, your guess is as good as mine. According to her grandfather’s decree, she would become queen upon the death of Hamil, being the next direct descendent in the bloodline. Drogin needed her out of the way to take the throne for himself. And as to who the men were behind the attack? Well that, too, is a curious matter,” he said with an air of mystery.

  “How so?” someone asked.

  “When I was allowed to travel to Maranac with my observers to visit the murder scene, we closely examined the bodies of the dead guardsmen and their attackers, all still left in place where they had fallen.” Lamar recalled that cold, gray spring day along a dirt road near a thin spread of woods. A steady drizzle of rain dampened the new tufts of green grass sprouting along the desolate stretch of highway several miles from Zaracosa. He could still smell the scent of the fresh soil, pine and blood of that solemn afternoon. “And though the attackers had been disguised as soldiers of Rhiál, one of my men closely examined their corpses and later told me something in confidence. He said that a few of the dead attackers had been armed with daggers with peculiar markings upon them. Two of them also wore rings with similar inscriptions. Apparently the items were overlooked by Drogin’s men who had arranged the attack.”

  Len Harold spoke up as he plucked a small apple from the bowl in front of him. “What was so special about those daggers and rings? What were the markings on them?”

  “The tiny symbols upon the items were of seafarers and shipbuilders, probably ignored by most who only took a casual glance. But that one officer with me was a man of the seas himself,” Lamar said, “and such a thing caught his eye right away.”