Destiny

by Fiona McIntosh

  Gyl knew Saxon would not lie and so knew he must put faith in what the Kloek advised. Even the amazing story of Saxon’s disfigurement and blindness and of being cured in the Heartwood was too fantastical to imagine, and yet he knew the Kloek expected him to accept it because it was the truth.

  Gyl put his troubled thoughts aside as the messenger was virtually carried to where he stood. The man was exhausted and if it were not for the two soldiers holding him upright, he would have surely collapsed onto the flagstones.

  The rider made a dazed salute to his Under Prime. ‘Sir, I bring baleful tidings.’

  Gyl felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. This man was indeed from the Guard which meant the news was brought directly from the King.

  ‘Speak,’ he commanded.

  The breathless man did not have a chance to reply. They were interrupted by the Queen’s arrival on the battlements. Saxon followed.

  ‘I saw this man ride in. He bears the King’s colours. What news?’ Alyssa asked. ‘I’ve been expecting Lorys for hours…why is he so late?’

  Gyl’s eyes flicked to Saxon. The message in that glance said enough.

  ‘Your highness,’ Saxon said gently. ‘Why don’t we —’

  ‘No, Saxon,’ she replied. ‘I want news from this rider. What is your name?’ she asked the trembling man, ignoring all warning glares from her son. Gyl was the man’s superior but she was his Queen and that left absolutely no one of higher rank on this rooftop. She would have news of her husband directly from this messenger’s lips.

  The stricken man was still trying to get his breathing back to normal and he coughed. ‘I am Larkham, your majesty,’ he said, struggling to get down on one knee and pay her correct respect.

  ‘You may stand, Larkham. I can see you are in great need of rest. Please deliver your news of the King and his arrival.’

  Incredibly, the man broke down. No one could believe the tears which consumed him to the point where he could not speak. It was the Queen who went to him and held his hand. Her own eyes were filled with tears now and her face pinched with fear.

  ‘Larkham, where is the King?’ she urged, low voiced.

  ‘He…he is dead,’ was all the man managed to say.

  Herek escorted his King but this time took no joy in it. The blackened, ruined body of Lorys was shrouded in sacking and carried in a cart as they made their slow journey into Tal proper. The men travelled in a shocked silence. They had been like this since the King had been impaled by the lightning strike. Lorys had been dead even before he hit the ground, long before his loyal Prime could reach him.

  With an enormous effort of will, Herek forced his mind from its confused, horrified state to consider what lay ahead. The bulk of responsibility would fall on his and Gyl’s shoulders as the realm would surely spiral into stunned stupefaction, capable of no activity other than grieving at their shocking news. He knew Queen Alyssa would have received the grim tidings by now. How much more punishment could a single person take? He felt his heart ache for Tallinor’s beautiful young Queen— it seemed her whole life was destined to be one of grief.

  More importantly, the King had died without an heir. Tallinor faced very testing times. Herek was a soldier not a politician, but he quaked at the thought of how the question of sovereignty would be resolved now. As far as he could recall, Tallinor’s royal line had always been secured by a single male heir. What in the Light would happen now to their precious Kingdom?

  Word had clearly not yet spread. Tal warmly welcomed its soldiers home, hardly glancing at the contents of the cart…just another footman perhaps who had passed away. And if they did notice the King’s fine stallion at the front, it did not register yet that the horse was riderless. Many would have presumed the King was arriving separately. The Company approached the palace gates, where it was clear that a far more sombre welcome awaited. Herek took a deep breath and silently asked the Light to guide him through this difficult time.

  Queen Alyssa, flanked by the Under Prime, who held her arm protectively, awaited them on the steps of the palace. Herek was quietly relieved to see the Kloek had returned from his wanderings. Saxon stood beside the Queen and would provide much needed support. The entire palace staff had gathered in the bailey and awaited their King in dread silence. Soldiers stood at full attention on the battlements where the colours of Tal flew at half mast. That alone would begin to filter into the minds of the populace and Tal’s people would begin to grasp that death had visited and claimed their sovereign.

  Dignitaries and courtiers, heads bowed, awaited a little further back on the vast steps and Herek’s keen eye roved amongst them, picking up two strangers, standing with the musician, Sallementro. Unlesss his sight deceived him, one looked alarmingly like the physic, Torkyn Gynt —though that was surely fanciful. The other, her head bowed, he could not see in full, but in spite of seeming familiar in that brief glance she was definitely not known to him.

  Herek looked back at the Queen. She appeared composed. Her chin held high, a look of defiance on her face as she dared that composure to fail her. It would not; he knew this. Herek recognised that same strength in her stance that he had witnessed many years previously when she had laid eyes on the corpse of another great love of her life. She had not cried then and she would not cry now in public. He admired her courage; was proud of the dignified figure she presented to her people. She would be the reason all of them would find the strength to move on; Alyssa would be the catalyst which might push them through their grief to the future of Tallinor under a new monarch…but whom?

  The cart he had led rolled to a halt and Herek stepped down from his horse and onto his knee in the presence of his Sovereign. His head held low, he heard her softly approach.

  ‘Your majesty,’ he said, angry to hear his voice catch slightly.

  She touched his shoulder, bade him rise and then he was looking down at the tiny figure—already a former queen, he realised, as she would never be permitted to rule. Herek looked into sad, fathomless grey-green eyes and somehow conveyed his despair that he had brought his King, her husband, back in such a manner. No words were required.

  The Under Prime was snapped to attention. People began to weep now around them but Alyssa remained composed.

  ‘At ease, Gyl,’ Herek said, glad to hear his voice was more steady now. He must take command of the situation. ‘Your highness, may we speak inside?’

  She nodded. Bearers rushed out from the palace to lift the body from its cart but several soldiers growled. No one would bear the King’s body other than the King’s personal Guard. The confused servants looked to their Queen. Herek noted Gyl squeeze his mother’s arm gently. She nodded again at the servants who moved away. Gyl left her side to join the Guard. He would be one of those to carry their beloved King to his resting spot, for the time being, in the chapel. With Saxon close by, Queen Alyssa turned and climbed the stairs back into the palace, a grief-stricken retinue of people following.

  In her private chambers, she held an audience with Herek whilst Gyl made arrangements in the chapel to lay out the man he did not know was his father. The only other person present was Saxon. Alyssa sat, stiff-backed, and after a tray of drinks had been served—which only Herek gratefully touched—she asked him the question he dreaded.

  ‘Tell me how my husband died?’

  The Prime told her everything, spared her no detail in his precise, brief way, from the moment they had spotted the ravens in the field to the second his body had burst momentarily into flame. When he finished speaking the room was enveloped by a frigid silence. No one moved until the Queen finally nodded.

  ‘I saw that hand of lightning, Herek, which you speak of. It lit the entire sky.’

  ‘It was a fearful strike, your majesty.’

  ‘And you say Lorys felt doomed?’

  ‘That’s my interpretation, your highness. He spoke of being marked by the gods…shrouded. I sense this is why he risked sending a man out into the storm.’ Herek cleared hi
s throat. ‘I am guessing it was his way of reaching out to you, my Queen.’

  Alyssa bit the inside of her cheek. She would not permit herself to break down. She must be strong. People would count on her to show courage in the face of such adversity.

  Saxon finally entered the conversation. ‘Arrangements must be made, your highness…er, for the King’s funeral. This is something you might consider entrusting to Gyl.’

  He flicked a look towards Herek which suggested he would explain later. ‘After last night, your boy could use a chance to flex his authority and demonstrate his abilities.’

  A strange, unreadable look flitted across the Queen’s face. ‘I fear the boy has far more responsibility settling on his shoulders than any of us could possibly imagine,’ she said. ‘Herek.’

  ‘Your highness?’ He was glad they were able to slip into familiar roles and duties, away from that sense of confusion.

  ‘Gather the nobles.’

  ‘As you command, your majesty, but should we not lay our King to rest first…if you’ll pardon my presumption?’

  ‘The question of succession is best dealt with immediately, Herek. I suspect it is already the main question on everyone’s lips.’

  There was a soft knock at the door. Gyl entered with the Queen’s private aide, Rolynd.

  Alyssa mustered a smile. ‘Just the people we need.’ They bowed. ‘Rolynd, I require you to assist Gyl, who will take charge of all proceedings surrounding the funeral, burial and feast for King Lorys.’

  She noted Gyl’s eyes flash. This was a proud moment for him.

  ‘As you wish, your majesty,’ said the dour Rolynd.

  ‘Gyl…Rolynd will prepare a full list of neighbouring royalty who will need to be invited to attend. Please make all arrangements for the King to lie in state for the appropriate period of time. In this instance, we will wait for all monarchs who wish to attend to be present before the funeral takes place.’

  ‘I understand,’ Gyl said and bowed. ‘I will take my leave, then, your majesty and get on with my tasks.’

  ‘Gyl.’ He turned back to face his mother, marvelling at her dignity in the face of such grief and turmoil. ‘You will be required to attend a gathering of the nobles.’ She looked at Herek, a question on her face.

  ‘Tomorrow, your majesty. I shall have them assembled in the Throne Room by sunrise.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  Gyl was confused but this was not the time to question the Queen. He nodded and departed with Rolynd behind him.

  Saxon managed to convey a brief smile towards Alyssa. He was pleased she had given Gyl a prominent role.

  ‘Herek, you need some rest. And I must go and sit with Lorys,’ she said, her forlornness profoundly affecting the two men in the room.

  ‘May I accompany you, Alyssa?’ Saxon said, forgetting the protocol just for a moment.

  ‘No. This is something I wish to face myself, and I need some time alone with my husband before the arrangements for his embalming begin. You understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ Saxon replied. ‘Allow me to escort you to the chapel at least?’

  She took his hand and stood. Herek was back on one knee.

  ‘You are a good man, Herek. I am grateful to you for all you’ve done and continue to do. We shall meet tomorrow after sunrise.’

  Alyssa, Queen of Tallinor for the last day of her short reign, left her chambers to kiss her husband for the final time.

  4

  Escape of a Princess

  Orlac glimpsed his first view of the Ciprean capital. In spite of the late hour, it remained a beautiful sight with its houses softly glowing in the light of oil lamps whilst blazing torches splendidly lit the breathtaking palace on the cliff.

  However, his pleasure was soon interrupted by Dorgryl. Time for us to claim a throne.

  How do you propose we take over an entire realm?

  Ah, that’s the messy bit, Dorgryl said. By force. A few will die—certainly enough for the Cipreans to realise there is absolutely no point in opposing us.

  Messy?

  Yes. I shall unleash your powers, boy.

  Orlac seethed privately but bit back on his temper. Surely you mean I shall unleash my powers, Dorgryl?

  Of course. That’s what I meant, his uncle replied smoothly. Come. Let’s not dawdle…now the fun begins.

  Hela had made careful preparations. Now she had to convince the uncrowned new Queen to listen to this mad tale of hers and agree to flee the city. With Sarel still uncommunicative as she mourned the loss of her mother, all other palace staff left the child entirely in her care. Hela seemed to be the only person Sarel could tolerate. Anyone else interrupting her grief would be met by either fury or cold silence. She had been seen by barely more than three of the palace staff since her mother’s death. All her former carers had been left behind at Neame. In fact, she was virtually a stranger to the palace staff who had met her only on rare occasions since her birth, so strong was her mother’s desire to protect her.

  Sylven had been cremated in the Ciprean fashion. Her ugly death had left her once handsome face scarred with purplish welts, her lips erupted with sores. It had been decided to burn the Queen immediately, and the ceremony was pulled together hastily and performed on the Mound where all previous queens had risen from death to afterlife amongst the swirling smoke of their burning pyres.

  Several thousand loyal subjects had gathered to witness the event, all still stunned by the premature death of their Sovereign. Talk had spread that she had been murdered; already whisperings had begun that the deed was connected to the stranger she had publicly humiliated on the last outing of the Silver Maiden. His name was Torkyn Gynt. The grief-stricken had comforted themselves with the thought that at least the succession was safe. A new Queen would be crowned after a suitable period of mourning. Sarel was young but on the few occasions that the Ciprean people had been permitted to share her, they had found her engaging and as seemingly devoted to them as her mother and grandmother before her. The child would be a beauty it was said and the people respected their Queen’s wish for her daughter to enjoy childhood—her time would come soon enough to accept the responsibility of ruling a realm. If only they had known then what would unfold over these next few days, the city fathers would have crowned Sarel on the very day of her mother’s burning.

  But now Sarel was trying to control the alarm which her mother’s closest servant was forcing on her. They were in Sylven’s chambers, standing on the same balcony where Torkyn Gynt had once seduced and ultimately won the heart of a Queen.

  ‘Sarel, have you any reason not to trust me?’ Hela looked at the girl earnestly.

  The new Queen did not return the eye contact; she continued to look out over the city. ‘I do not.’

  ‘Then you must heed my warnings. I have never had such a dream before, child. It was as though this woman was real like you and me. She has visited me each night to repeat the same warning that great harm will come to you if we do not flee.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Hela. These people loved my mother…surely they will love me too.’

  ‘They do. But this Dreamspeaker, Lys, talks of people from foreign lands…bad people who wish us ill.’

  Now Sarel dragged her stare away from the beautiful cityscape in front of her and rounded on her friend. ‘How cowardly, then, of me to flee when Cipres most needs her Queen.’

  At this Hela could not help but smile. ‘Brave, Sarel. Well said. Your mother would be proud of you. But she would not wish you to throw your life away. She would uphold me in this. Let me get you to safety whilst I still can. Don’t you see, you are more of a threat alive. If nothing occurs in Cipres which is untoward, we shall return and you shall be crowned.’

  Sarel, though young by Tallinese standards, was verging on what the Cipreans considered womanhood. She turned back to gaze out at the city she loved fiercely. This was her birthright. She understood that her mother had diligently protected her from royal duties and yet she ha
d secretly craved them. She indulged her mother’s whim to keep her as innocent as possible but her mother had had little knowledge that she had been studying Ciprean history, laws, affairs of State ferociously. She had even engaged her own pair of advisers, based in Neame but with eyes and ears working for them throughout Cipres, who kept her fully briefed on events, political or otherwise. Sarel had known of Locklyn Gylbyt’s call for the Silver Maiden almost as quickly as the rest of the cityfolk had learned it. In fact she had become somewhat infatuated with the notion of the pirate’s son for a short while, dwelling on his bravery and wishing she could ask her mother if she could attend the Kiss. But Sarel had known it was pointless to even ask such a thing. She had been in Neame anyway; closeted safely from the public eye; expected to play with dolls and puppies. Her mother had adored her—she knew this—but her mother had read her incorrectly for most of the past few years.

  Sarel wanted to reign; had an urgent need to learn and absorb all State matters. She deeply wished she could have lived and worked alongside her mother, as Sylven had her mother. But now her mother was gone, murdered; there would be no opportunity to learn anything from the best teacher of all.

  Hela echoed her thoughts. ‘Your mother’s death is our most urgent warning, Sarel. There is treachery afoot and your safety is paramount now. We have no time to lose. We must leave the palace.’

  ‘This Torkyn Gynt. You trust him?’

  ‘I do…yes.’

  ‘I believe I do too,’ she said, bringing great relief to Hela. ‘I met him at Neame, spent some time in his company. Whilst I believe my mother fell in love with his handsome looks and charm, I too was captivated, but by his intelligence. Those eyes are penetrating, aren’t they? Seem to speak volumes whilst guarding so many secrets.’

  Hela was taken aback. Sarel, at thirteen summers, had clearly been hiding the adult she had become. The child was speaking like a grown woman. Had she been fooling them all, especially Sylven, all these years? Pretending to be the innocent youngster who enjoyed nothing more than sugared desserts and a game of throw-ball? Hela looked at the young Queen with a new respect.