Kalrys shook his head, his expression plain. “As steward of Andriel and First Knight of Fidralinia, I swear on the fire of life that burns within me that this is no jest. His sword is genuine. It screams with Terei’s Wail, as Ariandi’s sword did, but you can see by the color of the jewel that it is not Xendros.”
You’re serious,” Threis realized. “Stand up, son of Meldehan, and look into my eyes,” Threis requested.
Daecrynn sheathed Oro’quiel as he stood slowly, and returned Threis’ gaze.
“The resemblance to your father is uncanny,” Threis sighed. “Even as a child your likeness to him was unmistakable. But what of Tinarë Falls? You should have died there.”
“I held my breath, and swam to safety,” Daecrynn answered. “Kethral thought it would be wise for those at large to believe me dead, so when I returned to camp, my existence had been kept secret until recently.
“Of course—the new bounty. I have been chasing my head about that for days. Chenylde and Ariandi both claimed you died at the falls,” said Threis.
“One hundred thousand voidans,” Daecrynn whispered coolly, barely masking his pride.
“One hundred fifty thousand,” Threis corrected him. A new fire kindled in Threis’ eyes. His visage grew from grim and tired to lively and hopeful. He grinned, “They say you savagely murdered a team of bounty hunters.
“The only one who was savagely murdered that day was Kidera Tartali,” Daecrynn responded grimly.
“So the tales are true, Lord Tuvitor. I request that you never again refer to me as your Lord, excepting in subterfuge. I lack your royal blood, your courage, and your nobility.”
“Don’t put the crown on me quite yet,” Daecrynn protested.
“That day is coming fast. You are the High Prince, and you are rightly my Lord. All of my men and land are yours,” Threis pronounced. “Vintaeus and his k’vete Emperor will never again see so much as a bead or bauble of tribute from me again. Until you can reclaim Andriel, this throne is yours.”
“That is completely unnecessary,” Daecrynn rebutted. “Pay tribute to the Madroceans as scheduled. Give them no reason to tear this city down.
“Of course,” Threis agreed. “Forgive my enthusiasm. You have made your first kingly decision. Your insight shows. I am not worthy to stand in your presence. I chose to surrender and be annexed, like those traitors in Alvanea. I did not fight back.”
“Father, had you stood up to the Emperor, our city would have burned, and I, your sister, her sons—we would most likely be dead. This has bought us the time we needed to work the way of the Black Dagger.”
“What do you request of me milord?” Threis asked.
“A night’s rest, a full breakfast, and no more,” Daecrynn responded. “My presence is a danger to you and your kin.”
“Tomorrow is the first day of Harvest. There will be festivities in the morning, and through the day. You can leave amidst the celebration and none will notice,” suggested Threis. “In the meantime, appearances must be maintained. You are a visiting cousin from Mindule. What did you say your name was?”
“Derefin Morcossi,” Daecrynn replied.
“Of course,” Threis affirmed.
“When he departs, I will accompany him as protector,” Nadali proposed, stepping forward.
“Absolutely not,” rebuffed Threis.
“Father, it would be unwise to send him off alone,” Nadali asserted.
“It probably wouldn’t be wise to have him travel with an entourage,” Kalrys added.
Daecrynn turned, and faced Nadali. Gracefully, he smiled and bowed his head, “The gesture is an honor, milady. I would welcome your companionship, but only if your father wishes it.”
Threis sat back in his throne, and sighed reluctantly. “Very well, milord. You have my loyalty, and in secret my oath of fealty. When the time is right, my armies shall join your armies. Take care of him, Nadali. Milord, please take care of her. She’s my only heir, and she’s my pride.”
“I am most grateful to you, Lord Threis,” Daecrynn said, dropping to a knee before the King. “May the Song of the Stars be with you, and may your kingdom stand forever.”
III.
An End to Slumber
‘The folly of Madrocea's occupation reached its height the day they set fire to Fidralinia. It was one thing to kill an army, but to kill an entire people?’
–Tiardan Kaewaya
‘Ariandi shall have his revenge.’
–The final words of King Threis
Daecrynn slept—albeit uneasily, in the royal guest chamber. Nadali stood guard, dozing off on occasion. The commotion that the arrival of the Kestiel-elect had created had died down by less than an hour after midnight, but the restful silence couldn’t quiet the mind of the young High Prince.
At morning, sunlight filled the royal guest chamber, built in the eastern terrace adjacent to the throne room. Daecrynn’s eyes opened, and wandered to Nadali as she slept in the chair. Thoughtfully, he smiled and closed his eyes the second he observed her waking. She stood as footsteps approached the door.
Knock knock.
“Yes?” Nadali queried.
“It is only I,” Threis answered from the other side.
Nadali opened the door, and greeted her father with a hug.
Daecrynn feigned having awoken from a deep slumber as he sat up in his bed.
“I see you are well rested,” Threis observed.
“Quite. I haven’t slept that well since Lady Chenylde let me sleep in my brother’s bed while he was off in Tanathiel doing errands,” Daecrynn recalled.
“You should enjoy today’s festivities,” Threis said, turning to an unseen servant adjacent to him on the other side of the doorway. “Bring our guest some new attire. Clothe him in crimson and violet. Make for him a cloak and another outfit, common in appearance, but of the finest, sturdiest linen in our stores.”
“Yes milord,” a feminine voice from behind the doorway answered.
“Milord, I don’t need such amenities. A quiver full of arrows, a bow, and a fresh outfit is all I need,” Daecrynn requested.
“Prepare for him an ass and a steed, mighty but not comely, swift and reliable. Prepare my daughter’s steed as well, they will be leaving the kingdom soon,” Threis commanded.
“Yes milord,” answered the voice.
“A steed?” Daecrynn asked hesitantly. “I have not ridden since I was small.”
“Then you need to re-learn. Your quest has only begun. You will need to ride far and fast,” Threis replied.
“Of course,” Daecrynn submitted.
“The festivities begin with breakfast. You have a little more than an hour to ready yourself. You will be fitted with fresh clothing for the morning-tide festival shortly. By noon, the town should be lively enough to slip out unnoticed. I regret you cannot stay any longer,” Threis turned to Nadali. “And I regret that it will likely be a long time before I ever see you again.”
“It is time for me to move on, father. I will see you again,” Nadali promised, with a tight hug.
Threis nodded, continuing the embrace. “Rhia’li Starwind willing, when the city is liberated, and the colors of the High Kingdom again fly over the Seven Realms.”
Nadali smiled faintly. “Starwind willing,” she agreed.
As the King strode down the hall, Nadali turned, facing Daecrynn who had already slipped into his trousers and was swiftly arranging his possessions in his satchel.
“There’s time to do that later. Father will prepare better provisions for the journey back into Tuitari,” Nadali said.
“Such provisions may attract attention. I intend to be at the edge of the forest by the time he would be done. If you’re to escort me home, I suggest you prepare swiftly, for I am not staying for the festival,” Daecrynn explained.
“You’ll need to regain your strength for the trek to your camp,” Nadali countered.
“At festival, there would be many eyes on me—many who knew my brother, my
father, even me. Chenylde is here; I am certain she’d recognize me. It is premature for my presence to be made known, especially in a place whose very existence hangs at the edge of a j’haene blade. I am leaving. If you wish to escort me, you are welcome to, but we must leave quickly,” Daecrynn clarified, as he closed his satchel and hoisted it over his shoulder.
“Very well, I am sure my father will understand,” Nadali resigned. “We’ll take the north gate, as it sees little traffic.”
She turned and exited, and Daecrynn followed her, into a domed chamber with a circular bed at center, and a crystalline skylight. It was arranged neatly, with clothes folded methodically over chests. Not a speck of dust, nary a strand of lint could be spied.
“Nekhe, I told her not to clean my room. No matter,” Nadali grumbled.
Daecrynn observed the room, his left lip pulled back in a vague half-smile.
Nadali swiftly gathered clothes, and stuffed them into a bag she pulled from a mahogany truck with disregard.
“Need a hand?” Daecrynn offered.
“No! I’m almost ready!” Nadali shouted.
“You do not look ready, my dear. And our honored guest looks like he’s leaving for a long hike in the woods. What is your name, lad?”
Nadali’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Daecrynn turned, and smiled at a woman with long black hair and dark blue eyes, wearing a deep red gown.
“I am Daecr—I am Daen Morcossi,” Daecrynn stammered, in complete recognition of the woman.
“I am Lady Chenylde Murana,” she smiled in greeting. “I knew a Daecrynn once, but he was no Morcossi.” With a knowing glance, she continued. “You’ve grown tall. You aren’t leaving Fidralinia without a bath and a breakfast, I promise you that.”
“I guess not,” Daecrynn resigned, disarmed.
“It’s good to see that you’re alive. Hope is a rare thing in this age, but you carry it with you. How is Kethral?” Chenylde asked.
“He is well, as of three days ago. In the Everwood, change is a constant,” Daecrynn said in a sad tone.
“Change never ceases,” Chenylde responded. “Is something wrong?”
“Kidera was killed several days ago when bounty hunters caught up with our camp,” Daecrynn responded.
“She was a strong woman. I expect she put up quite the fight,” she said.
“She died fighting, and saved my life,” Daecrynn replied sadly.
“She sacrificed herself that Tarligean may again live,” Chenylde sighed. “Without the scepter of the Kestiel, there is no High Kingdom. The last seven years have been a testament to that. You must be made ready for your journey. Follow me.”
She turned and strode down the hall, Daecrynn and Nadali following closely. The halls were built of warped wood, without visible seams or nails. Ornate carvings burned into the woodwork depicted an idyllic era forgotten in the dark age of Madrocean dominance, palaces and kingdoms of Tarligean’s ancient past. The floor was black stone, polished graphite with marble boundaries between the stones. The hall ended at a four way chamber, full of the traffic of Taergeni aristocrats mingling with human bureaucrats representing the Empire to the south. Even the Madroceans stood back and allowed Chenylde passage, as her posture commanded respect. They continued up a large staircase leading into the highest level of the palace, through a doorway with an armed guard in moonsilver chainmail. The doors swung open, and Daecrynn was greeted by three well-groomed older Taergeni women with dark hair of varying lengths, and was escorted into a dressing chamber.
At the far end of the chamber was an archway leading into a room with white tiles. The women measured Daecrynn up and down with leather measuring tape, as Nadali walked through the archway into the bath in the adjacent chamber.
“This won’t take long,” Chenylde said. “When you are finished with your bath, both outfits ordered by His Majesty will be ready.”
“Fine garments won’t be necessary,” Daecrynn protested.
“I understand your fears, but you can leave your outfit for the festivities here when you leave with Nadali later today,” Chenylde explained. “Trust me—you would attract far more attention in commoners’ garb than in fine attire at the festival.”
The seamstresses walked away from him, toward a table where they began cutting lengths of fabric.
“You may clean up now. Your raiment will be ready when you return.”
He walked into the bathing chamber, through the archway. Two separate sub-chambers were partition with what looked like carved ivory stone. The room was steamy, and smelled of fragrance and soap. He heard the water splash lightly in the chamber to his left, so he chose the right chamber, considering Nadali. He approached the circular ivory stone of the bath. Two brass pipes hung over the large bath, with valves at the top of the spout shined to perfection. One was etched with the sun, the other with the moon in a small sigil, to signify “hot” and “cold” water. He turned the water on, cold first, and then hot, and let the bath fill up. The stone from which the bath was carved with a gray stone with a glinting speckle to it, common but elegantly carved.
He closed his eyes as he laid back into the bath, not having used fine soaps and hot water since his early childhood. Memories of Andriel and better days forgotten began to surface, as he washed. He stood up, and reached for linen to dry off. As he stepped out of the bath, Nadali slipped inside the chamber wearing nothing and seeking a towel.
“Oh excuse me—I didn’t think you were still in here. It was so quiet, milord!” she apologized.
Daecrynn wrapped himself in the white towel, and smiled. “There’s no need to apologize. There are a couple extra towels in here.”
Quickly, she glanced over Daecrynn and nodded, swiftly grabbing a towel from the table across from the bath with a face frozen in blush awkwardness. She covered herself quickly, turned, and walked away.
Daecrynn smiled to himself. Pushing locks of hair to the sides of his face, he strode back into the dressing chamber, where Chenylde and a male aide of the House Murana greeted him.
“Your suit is ready, Lord Tu—Lord Morcossi,” Chenylde said.
Two more aides presented him with a suit of fine silk and linen, crimson and violet colors.
“Crimson and violet are not exactly appropriate,” Daecrynn commented.
“Well you are a prince,” Chenylde countered. “And blue would have been insulting.”
“A bogus insult is preferable to a genuine spectacle,” Daecrynn retorted.
“So you’re a prince of Iacala,” Chenylde suggested.
“In Iacala all the men are kings, the women are queens, the young are princes and princesses, and all are as poor as paupers. Do you know how silly that sounds?”
“There will be no Madroceans at breakfast, this I assure you. You can leave afterwards. Threis just wants the other aristocrats to know that there is still a Tarligean to hang on to. He wants to present to them the Son of Meldehan—to give them something to believe in. Anything less would be dismissed as rumor, no matter how much we’ve seen with our own eyes,” Chenylde pleaded.
“If I see one gah’raen at breakfast, can I kill him?” Daecrynn quipped, eyebrow raised.
“You sound like your brother!” Chenylde gasped. “Now get dressed—you’ll be late, and that will surely cause a spectacle!” She stormed off, leaving Daecrynn with his clothes. His eyes darted over to the second outfit—neatly folded a plain black linen pair of trousers, a shirt with a leather vest, and a black linen cloak. He gathered that outfit and slipped into his pants as he noticed Nadali spying him in the corner of his eyes. He turned, and his eyes met hers. Her eyes darted away.
Daecrynn bit his tongue. “See anything interesting?” he asked wryly.
Nadali blushed. Still looking away, she replied, “I was watching the room to make sure—to make sure there were no assassins lurking about.”
Daecrynn chuckled lightly, and replied, “No assassins here. Carry on.”
Nadali turned away from Daecrynn. She was dresse
d in a long, silk dress, indigo in color. He finished dressing, and was escorted by her down the long staircase leading into the Chamber of Festivities where the first breakfast of Harvest was to be held. As Chenylde implied, Daecrynn did look out of place in his garb, and was noticed by the many aristocrats because of such. When they saw the eyes and cheekbones, the very face of the fallen High King Meldehan, their expressions shifted from scorn to recognition.
A long, elegant hardwood table was placed in the center of the chamber, surrounded by seats of ornately carved and finely finished redwood. On the table were a large variety of foods, from vegetable dishes to game hens, to lamb, to veal. The air was thickly scented with the great feast, and with ale and mead.
The Legacy of Tirlannon: The Freedom Fighter Page 4