The weapon was the patriarchal sword of House Trauel and the weapon wielded by his father at the moment of his death. Recovering it from the bank of the Nenasette River had been something of a minor miracle. The explosion blew the sword a hundred feet downstream, the point burying itself into the exposed roots of a large tree. Had it gone into the water itself, Sitrell’s men never would’ve found it.
Sitrell approached the sword, reaching out to trace the flat of the blade with his index finger as it tapered down to join the handle. He had lost his sword in Lisidra and needed a new one. And from the times when his father had let him use this weapon, Sitrell knew that there would be no better blade for him to carry. It was strong, sharp, and perfectly balanced―truly a masterwork weapon. He reached for the handle, but faltered knowing what taking it would mean. By rite of inheritance, the firstborn son of an Amigus military family was to receive the patriarchal sword upon the death of his father, symbolic of the son assuming his father’s place as lord of the house. Sitrell had refused that rite. To accept leadership of the House of Trauel would put a stamp of finality on his father’s death, something he was not ready for.
“I cannot fill your place, Father,” he whispered to himself. “But I do need a sword.” Sitrell bowed his head and a small tear trickled down his right cheek. “I will only borrow it until I return from Hirath.” He had borrowed it before while his father was alive, mostly for ceremony, and so rationalized that this would be no different.
Overcoming one final hesitation, Sitrell reached up and took his father’s sword from the wall. The council had forbidden him to personally engage in the coming battle, but those were orders Sitrell was not planning to follow.
He would know if his father and brother were gone, if indeed there was a place called The Crystal Star. He would know, or he would die.
Whenever Yaokken drew upon the black crown and used its power, his eyes blazed red and his contempt for life grew.
Chapter 17
For the Greater Good
Ashra peered out the small, square window set in the door of her stagecoach. A sea of soldiers stretched out before her, thousands of men in Amigus blue forming up in preparation for their march. Their very long march toward an unknown doom. That bothered her. As princess, she was familiar with the austere ways of military commanders, and their hierarchy of privileges, but that didn’t mean she understood their reasons for withholding from the soldiers vital information, such as that their enemy had acquired a nearly unstoppable weapon.
“To not tell these men what they will be facing is cruel,” Ashra said in a somber tone.
“It is the way of the things, Your Highness.” Gyaden sat on the plush leather bench opposite her. “A soldier knows when he makes his oath to the crown that he is surrendering his life to those he serves, to become a weapon of defense for his country. He does this knowing full-well that he may face uncertainty, hardship, and even death.”
Ashra shook her head, still staring out the window as they passed unending lines of infantry. “And what about a soldier’s wife and children, those he loves and those who love him? They have sworn no oaths.”
“There is honor in sacrificing for the greater good.”
Ashra scoffed. “There is no honor in blind obedience.”
“Not blind obedience, Your Highness.”
Ashra looked at Gyaden. “Then what would you call it?”
“Trust.”
Ashra turned back to stare at the soldiers. “I still don’t like it. These men should know what they’re facing.”
“This isn’t really about the difficulty of a soldiers’ life, is it, Your Highness?” Gyaden said.
“No,” she whispered.
Ashra had come to the camp outside the east gate in order to watch General Valek’s army depart for Hirath under the pretense of giving the fighting men of Amigus a proper send off. The gesture would boost their morale, but that wasn’t the real reason she had come.
Sitrell.
It had been a year since she had seen him, and their parting had not been a pleasant experience. She regretted that, for Sitrell was a good and honorable man, a man she would’ve married had the weight of her destiny not prevented her. He didn’t understand. He thought I was rejecting him. Well hadn’t she? She had chosen the crown over the man she loved, and she still loved him. She had been surprised by that revelation, for until this morning when Sitrell had made his surprise appearance before the court, Ashra had buried those feelings. Odd how in a single moment something she had worked so hard to repress could come back to life so strongly.
She thought back to their first meeting. It had been at an Istran celebration―Sie Kelar, the day of gratitude. The event held at the Alarian Minster featured a feast and dancing. Normally, someone of Ashra’s social rank would never mingle so informally with members of lesser houses, but Istran doctrine ran counter to such traditions and the priests worked hard to ignore the artificial social boundaries upheld by the “worldly.” Consequently, the church and its gatherings provided a kind of social neutral ground in which rank and caste were suspended and everyone was considered equal. So it was that Sitrell had approached her that night and asked her to dance with him when no other man had dared do so. That surprised and delighted Ashra and they spent the evening flirting and laughing.
Their infatuation bloomed into a full-blown courtship, albeit a secret one in order to avoid political controversy. For months they would meet at worship or sneak about in the palace gardens where they would hold hands and trade kisses. It had all seemed like a wonderful dream, but guilt had gnawed at Ashra from the time of their first kiss, knowing that the dream would end. She had been angry with Sitrell when he proposed marriage, not because of the cultural irregularity, but because he didn’t know what he had done. By moving their relationship in that direction, Sitrell had ended it. She tried to explain that to him, to make him understand why she couldn’t marry him, but he was so hurt and angry that nothing she said seemed to get through. He hadn’t believed that discarding what they had was killing Ashra as much as it was hurting him. And she couldn’t blame him. In the end, it was she that had led him on while knowing full well that they could never be together.
“The last time we spoke, I hurt him Gyaden.”
“Then why come to seem him? Why re-open old wounds?”
“This mission is very dangerous. “Ashra shook her head. “If something were to happen to him…” She paused. “I need him to understand why I did what I did, to apologize in case the unthinkable happens.”
“You believe it was your fault, then?”
Ashra nodded. “I refused to marry him even though it was what I wanted more than anything.”
“Why?”
“I am the last of the royal family, Gyaden. If I abdicated the throne it would throw the country into chaos, perhaps even civil war.” Ashra tightened her jaw. “I couldn’t do that no matter how much I loved Sitrell.”
“Then perhaps you understand a soldier’s sacrifice better than you think.”
Ashra returned to staring out the window. “For the greater good,” she said.
Gyaden bowed his head, fist to chest. “For the greater good.”
Sitrell stood inside the command tent listening as Valek and his subordinate generals discussed the logistics of marching thirty-three thousand soldiers across hundreds of miles of untamed wilderness. They had gotten most of the planning out of the way and were now going over a final checklist of supplies. Sitrell surreptitiously massaged his side. He had tried to get more opiate extract from the chief medical officer but had to abandon the attempt when the doctor’s line of questions came close to exposing the severity of his wound. I’ll manage. Sitrell gritted his teeth.
A commotion outside caused Valek’s lieutenant to stop listing the armies’ various species of livestock and the group of generals to look up from their table and maps. To Sitrell’s surprise, Ashra parted the canvas wall and stepped into the tent. She was hooded in a cloa
k of deep blue, clasped together at her neck and falling over her shoulders like a cape. A muscular man dressed in the white uniform of the Royal Guard stood behind her. The generals all bowed their heads and saluted fists to chests. Sitrell hesitated before rendering a half-hearted version.
“Princess.” Valek offered a second reverential nod. “I was not aware you would be visiting the camp. How may we be of service?”
Ashra drew down her hood revealing auburn hair done up in the back in an intricate weave with a net of small pearls. “I have come to see you and your army off, General Valek.”
“That is most kind, Princess.” General Valek said. “I know my men will appreciate the gesture. Can I have someone set up a tent for you to take some refreshment and rest in while you await our departure?”
Sitrell met Ashra’s eyes as she nodded. “That would be appreciated, General Valek. But first I require a moment to speak with Commander Trauel.”
Valek shot him a confused glance. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Valek motioned and he and his men vacated the command tent. Ashra shooed her burly escort outside before turning back to face him.
“Your Highness,” Sitrell said, trying not to sound impertinent. “How may I be of service?”
Ashra stared at him, her eyes falling to the sword sheathed at his left hip. “Your father’s sword suits you.”
Sitrell tightened his jaw. “I lost my blade in Lisidra, and this sword is of superior craftsmanship.”
“So it is strictly a matter of utility?” Ashra raised an eyebrow.
“Why are you here?”
Ashra took several steps toward him. “I wanted to speak with you before you deployed.”
“Why?” Sitrell asked, his voice full of suspicion.
“Because I care about you.” Ashra hesitated. “And we never have had a chance to discuss what happened.”
Sitrell ground his teeth, emotion welling up inside him. “What is there to discuss?”
Ashra stepped closer. “I want to tell you why―”
“Why you spurned me? Why you toyed with my heart and then cast me aside when it became politically inconvenient?”
Ashra shook her head. “This is why I wanted to talk to you before you left. I need you to understand.”
“Oh, I understand. Gaining the crown and sitting yourself upon the throne is more important to you than―”
“Sitrell!” she snapped.
He faltered.
“We both know that this mission is extremely dangerous.” She sighed. “If something were to happen to you before we had a chance to resolve this, it would haunt me forever.”
“Well we couldn’t have that, now could we,” Sitrell said, his tone bitter.
“Sitrell please,” Ashra put a hand on his arm, tears welling up in her eyes. “I need you to listen.”
Sitrell stared at her. She is so beautiful. A mixture of longing, hurt, and anger churned inside his chest increasing in intensity until he could stand it no longer. “I am sorry, Your Highness. Time is short and I have several assignments to fulfill in preparation for our departure.” He paused. “Unless Her Majesty orders me to stay, I must be going.”
He waited for a command, but none came.
“Go,” she whispered, unable to look at him.
Sitrell offered a quick and sloppy salute before briskly walking past her and toward the tent flap.
“Sitrell,” she whispered.
He stopped, keeping his back to her. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Please be careful.”
The genuine concern in her voice briefly cooled his anger. “Thank you, Ashra.”
With that, Sitrell left the command tent, moving at an angry stalk through camp with no particular destination in mind. Seeing Ashra had been both a sweet and agonizing experience. It had been a year since he asked Ashra to marry him. All of his tender love and sincerest longing for her had re-awakened when she walked into the command tent. It was a confusing maelstrom of emotion; giddy infatuation tainted by the bitter pain of rejection, and anger. He’d thought he’d put the fact that he could never haver her behind him.
With roots almost as old as Amigus itself, the House of Trauel enjoyed a social ranking above the working class and even above the merchants. This did make Sitrell a nobleman, but as with all military families, Sitrell’s house ranked below the aristocracy, the only class of nobles eligible to marry into the royal family. It had been for this reason that Ashra had rejected his proposal, had rejected him.
“She had no choice,” Sitrell always told himself, but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was permitted for men to marry women of lower stations, thereby elevating their place in society. Conversely, women could also marry someone of a lower caste, though it was taboo. However, in doing so, that woman would forfeit her dowry, land, and titles. The truth was, Ashra could marry him, she would just have to give up being queen to do it.
After stalking angrily in between two tents and startling a group of workmen pulling up stakes, Sitrell decided that he had better go to the quartermaster to requisition a horse lest one of his superiors see his tantrum and question his fitness for duty. He flirted with the temptation of also asking for a bottle of brandy to dull his pain―physical or emotional he couldn’t decide―but he could not abandon the oaths of his deep Istran indoctrination.
He passed another group of workmen, this one loading cages of chickens into the bed of a wagon. One of the workers stopped as Sitrell passed, staring at him with an intensity that bespoke either familiarity or hatred. Disconcerted, Sitrell met the man’s stare. His eyes were of an unusual shape, like no other Sitrell had ever seen. What country is this man from? He was otherwise unremarkable, dressed in a cotton tunic and simple, brown trousers tied together with a rope. His hair was as black as midnight, woven into a braid that fell to the middle of his back.
“Commander Trauel!” a man’s voice called out to him.
Sitrell turned away from the worker to see an Amigus captain approaching him. The soldier saluted. “Commander, General Valek orders that you acquire a horse, retrieve your things and ride to the east line to join the cavalry.”
Sitrell returned the salute before turning back to look for the workman who was no longer standing near the wagon. Sitrell glanced around the camp scanning pavilions, tents, and passing crowds, but he couldn’t see him. Where had he gone?
Behind Ashra, the setting sun painted the sky an artful mixture of reds, oranges, and purples. Though she stood upon the east wall fifty feet from the ground, the waning light made it very difficult for her to see the columns of soldiers marching into the forest. She was looking at the rearguard now, the front line of the army having disappeared into Jala Tacia hours ago, Sitrell riding with them.
Don’t let him fall, she prayed. Please.
“Your Highness, are you well?” Gyaden asked.
Ashra had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Yes, Gyaden.” She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her right hand.
“It is getting cold. We should get you back inside.”
“Of course,” Ashra said.
Gyaden guided her by the shoulders away from the black metal lip of the wall. “He is one of the finest swordsmen in all of Amigus, perhaps the best,” Gyaden said in a reassuring tone.
“That brings me little comfort, Gyaden, for it is not swords that he faces.”
“He is a soldier, Your Highness. He is ready to sacrifice for―”
“I know.” Ashra held up a hand, and glanced back at the mass of marching soldiers. They looked like a carpet of black in the fading light. “For the greater good.”
Though not a believer in the ways of the Kalyra, Adariel sought out their leader, The Arch Sage. She begged the old man to help her save her husband and turn him from his mad course.
Chapter 18
The Kalyra
Yuiv fidgeted with his snug collar. It wasn’t that it was too tight, it was just tha
t he was not accustomed to having starched cloth surrounding his throat, reminding him it was there each time he spoke, and it itched too. Although the collar was by far the most uncomfortable part of the charcoal-colored suit, wearing the rest of it wasn’t exactly enjoyable either with its long-sleeved, white shirt, suffocating vest, and creased pants. Then there were the shoes, hard stiff things that he had to paint after every use. And what of his hair? With a sigh, Yuiv ran a hand over what was no longer messy and long, but short and parted on one side. He supposed he ought to be grateful for the clothes and the haircut, for they did make him look respectable.
Yuiv shifted on the wooden pew. This was his fourth time attending the mid-week, Istran youth lecture, something he had originally been excited for until he discovered that the boys were educated separately from the girls. He had heard, however, that the Istran priests were planning a celebration specifically for the young people, a celebration that would include the girls and dancing. That sounded fun. Of course, he didn’t put it past Brother Haleth, the priest commissioned with enlightening the Istran youth, the man now droning on, to suck the joy out of something even as fun as a dance.
As they often did, Yuiv’s thoughts turned to Sitrell, now four weeks gone. Naturally that led him to think of what happened in Lisidra. Olan’s lifeless face flashed before his mind causing him a stab of guilt. I didn’t know what Leadren was doing! He had adopted that as mantra to use each time the image of Olan’s corpse surfaced in his mind. At first it had worked, but now it seemed to be losing its effectiveness.
Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1) Page 20