by A. Wrighton
The fabric curtain sloshed open as Lanthar, Commander of the Third Dredth, entered. Alaister looked at the overly tall blond and hid a smirk. He too had been up all night by the look of his wrinkled blue shirt and pants. Men like Lanthar Reynat never missed rest without reason, and before Lanthar could explain why he was there, Vylain awoke from his daydream and flagged the giant commander down.
“Did Gage tell the others?”
“About what?” Lanthar asked.
Vylain frowned and then nodded to the scrap of parchment on the table. Lanthar looked from him to Alaister and retrieved the note at Alaister’s nod.
“Where was this found?”
“Princess Carissa’s body,” Vylain said.
Lanthar slunk into his seat to Alaister’s left and frowned. “May she rest in peace. Her husband?”
Vylain shook his head and looked to the floor.
“We managed to discover this before the Council,” Alaister said, “for whatever that counts.”
“Who?” Lanthar asked.
“I can’t place it. The Council had more riding on this marriage than anyone… What was it you needed, Lanthar?”
“Nothing of gravity. Nothing like this.”
Staring at Lanthar’s firm face, Alaister waited for his tell. The celadon gaze did not defer; his tell did not come. The blond giant sat with perfect decorum – a statue of grace that remained silent and anticipated any follow up. Before Alaister could question Lanthar again, there was a loud yawn as heavy footsteps approached and kicked the curtain aside.
Alaister would have known the steps anywhere. They had haunted and punished him every morning since he was a child. They belonged to Alaister’s oldest and closest friend Callon, who – for a moment of their predecessors’ weakness in not realizing Callon’s distaste for mornings – had become the Commander of the Second Dredth. Callon clomped to the seat to Alaister’s right and slouched into it, despite his height and build. His mousey brown hair and scarred face looked partially paralyzed by sleep and, with eyes half closed, his hands fiddled with his dual rapier hilts.
The curtain pushed back to allow Gage, Alaister’s Wing Third, to enter and take his seat beside Vylain. Gage’s dark face held hazel eyes that failed to shine with their normal youthful glee. They were dark and cold. Gage nodded at Alaister and slid into his chair.
Before the men could fall into a mutual silence, Callon’s bass voice hummed with a grumble. “What pleasure may I credit to this early waking, Lord Alaister?” He bowed mockingly from his seat before drooping deeper into his chair.
“Just once, Callon – leave it be. It is too early to deal with your gavasti right now,” Vylain said.
“Agreed,” Lanthar said.
“Well, look who’s chiming in on the Vylain parade today. Good ‘morrow to you, Lord Lanthar. And you, Lady Vylain.”
Vylain rose slightly in his chair. “Caldenian…”
Callon remained motionless. “Brydellan…”
Alaister slammed his fist on the table, startling both Callon and Vylain to respectable seated positions. “Gavasti! You two are like children without your morning tavi. Believe me Callon, no one would dare disturb you this early if it weren’t important, so silence would be appreciated, if you don’t mind.” Alaister exhaled. “We have a problem.”
“Let me guess, Al. We’re outlaws, outcasts, wanted fugitives, and the Dragons have eaten all the nearby food supply, so now we’re going to have to look elsewhere to feed them. Oh! And Vylain ran off all the eligible women last night, so now we’re forced into a life of irreconcilable and serenely blissful celibacy.”
Alaister controlled a smile. “Cal…”
“Just my guess is all. Am I wrong?”
“Yes,” Alaister said.
“Surprise, surprise,” Vylain muttered.
“Wrong about which part?”
Gage kicked Callon’s boots. “Pipe down, Cal.”
“Princess Carissa of Creitall is dead,” Alaister said.
No one moved or spoke for several heartbeats. The silence choked even the fire.
“Married or… dead?” Callon asked.
“Dead,” Alaister said with a glare. “As is the Prince of Pyran. They were murdered last night, along with their entire wedding party during their ceremonial voyage.”
“Gods save Queen Maille and Pyran,” Gage whispered. He was the only Pyranese Rogue and the effect of the news showed. The royals of Pyran were considered more than rulers – they were considered family, kin.
Alaister let the room lull back to silence. The consequences of whoever had committed the crime ran deep. Not only did they send the Soleran people farther into the manipulative and choking hold of the Council, but Pyran was again without an heir and would be forced to comply with the Council now more than ever – despite their Resistance loyalties. And, it was beyond a doubt that the Council would staple the blame squarely on the Rogues’ shoulders. New, insidious propaganda posters would be plastered across the capital cities of the seven Soleran Kingdoms making any recruiting, let alone socializing, near impossible.
Alaister looked to his right and caught Callon’s face. Cold. Upset. Concerned. Commander Callon McKafrey had finally decided to join them.
Callon propped his elbows on the table and read over the parchment before him. He thumbed the words and then tossed it back down. “So, who?”
“I’m sure they’re already saying it was us,” Vylain said.
“Yes, well that’d be a magnificent feat,” Callon muttered.
Lanthar sighed. “The Council had no reason to kill either of them. They needed Pyran to be subdued by the bonds Creitall has with the Council.”
Alaister nodded. Despite their incurable insanity, one thing the Chancellor and his officers were was smart. They were calculating and ever-adapting. They had nearly forced the marriage on the Creitalli and Pyranese Kingdoms before realizing that love had already left its mark. The deaths gave no victory to the Chancellor. No upper hand.
“Gage, were there any sects of the Pyranese Fleet against the marriage?” Alaister asked his only Pyranese officer. “Perhaps—”
Hurt danced behind Gage’s eyes. “We Pyranese may not always get along, but we would never resort to this. Ever. We are kin. We protect each other. Killing another Pyranese is against our natures.”
Alaister bowed his head in acceptance. “So, then who?”
“Lythgorians.”
The word came from Vylain and all turned to stare at the straight face and green eyes. Vylain did not blink at the sudden heat of the stares. He remained confident and resolute.
“Hey, I’m all for blaming my problems on the stories of my childhood, but you Vylain? I am sorely disappointed in your lack of creativity and originality in making up this one. Bad form, Vylain.” Callon tsked Vylain with a smirk. “Bad form.”
Vylain faced Alaister. His intent was matched by Alaister’s undivided attention. “I’m serious,” Vylain said. “We all know that signs of their existence are out there. We all know we have seen and heard things on patrols that we cannot explain. It is as good a reason as any.”
Alaister nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and sat down.
Callon fumbled his breath. “I bretzing hate that look, Al. Spit it out.”
“My father believed in Lythgorians. He even recorded several occurrences where he thought he might have been in the wake of them.”
Lanthar shook his head. “If Lythgorians, why?”
“I don’t know,” Vylain said. “I just know that the note sounds like the stories.” Vylain slid the note toward the others.
Lanthar held it last and tapped out the oddly spelled words of the text.
Return Her to us or paye Her Kinde’s pryce.
“The Lythgorians are a silent, distant people. They’d have no reason to involve themselves here,” Gage said.
The room shifted and turned to stare in unison. Gage’s factual tone startled Alaister less than the others. Kai Paine’
s logbook had long asserted that the Lythgorians maintained contact with the Pyranese, as they were the only sailing Soleran Kingdom and therefore, the only Solerans to have navigated great distances across the Fyllian Ocean. If Lythgor did exist, it had to have existed an ocean apart. If anyone’s opinion on Lythgorians mattered, it was a Pyranese’s opinion – Gage’s. Above all others, he would know the validity of the possibility. Tonight, Gage sat assured that Lythgor existed, but that they had no reason to interfere in Soleran matters now.
Alaister frowned. Lythgor had reason to interfere, if they knew what he knew. “They do have reason,” he said.
“Are we really going with Lythgorians, Al? I mean—”
“The Council missed one.”
“I don’t follow…” Vylain said.
“According to the logs I just decoded… They missed one. My father… he saved one. They live. She lives.”
Lanthar softened. “She?”
“Oh my Gods!” Gage whispered.
“A Runic. He saved a Runic and didn’t bother to tell us?” Callon asked, his hands tightened on his chair.
Alaister sighed. “Looks that way.”
“All due respect to your father Al, since Gods know he was like a father to me, but that is beyond gavasti. Why wouldn’t he tell us that there is a bretzing Runic out there? We could have taken down the Council cycles ago!”
“He had his reasoning...”
“Or he had lost it,” Callon muttered.
Opening the logbook to the proper page, Alaister tossed the text onto the table to let them see his deciphering. “We have to move from what we have now. The logs indicate that Kai left the Runic with King Lynde of Creitall. Now, the Crown Princess of Creitall is dead with that note pinned to her. It cannot be a coincidence. There are no coincidences.”
“Al, King Lynde has only ever had three daughters – all mirror images of their mother. All gorgeous, even if they’re Creitalli,” Callon said.
“Secrets of Kings and Queens run deep,” Lanthar muttered. “There is the probability that she was or still is there.”
“And, that is why we will look there first. The Council will label us as the murderers and conduct a manhunt as such. Put the Dredths on high alert.”
Panic spread in a sickening glaze over Gage and then Vylain. “Do we really want to search for a girl who might be a Runic and take away from patrols with all that’s happened?” Vylain asked. “It’s just before the Season, Alaister.”
“Whether she still exists or not, it is a search we will hold. This is what we have been waiting for and we are not alone in searching. We cannot believe that the Council will not figure out what we have concluded. And, something else is searching for her, as well with a half-day’s start. This girl is our ward and we need her. We will find her.”
“Aye, sir,” Vylain nodded.
“The Recruiting Season will go off as planned, but she is our first priority. Recruiting is second.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Vylain and Gage take the First Dredth to the sea and be our eyes. Callon, send the second to Pyran for more information. Lanthar, send the Third to Aleria – be our ears.”
“Send?” Lanthar asked.
Callon pointed to Lanthar. “What he said, Al. Send?”
“I’ll need both of you in Knall.”
Callon whistled sharply. “I hate that place. Anywhere but Creitall – anywhere. Seriously. Send me to Udlast in the dead of winter. Send me to the Silent Desert in the peak of summer. Send me to Deathwalker Cliffs for a stroll. Just not Knall, Al. Not Creitall.”
Alaister swallowed his budding smile.
“Don’t let Doc hear you say that,” Gage snickered.
“He’s not my Doc and besides, he’s the Creitalli exception.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that gem along, Caldenian,” Vylain said.
“Don’t you have a Dredth to move, Brydellan?”
Callon and Vylain postured until Gage ushered Vylain out of the Commanders’ Meeting Room. The three remaining men returned to their seats in mutual silence. They all wanted to observe a final moment of rest. Alaister stared deeper into the dying flames.
A Runic had survived the Collection.
Alive. She was alive.
Alaister stared through the flames until his eyes grew warm and weary.
“Let’s ride.”
CHANCELLOR’S OFFICE
RYXIA, CAPITOL SQUARE, ALERIA
Xander Druff, Commander of the First Dredth of Council Dragonics, swept into the room followed by Marcus Higath, Commander of the Second Dredth. In Druff’s full regalia, his medals shone and highlighted his black hair just enough to make his scowl and tight lips halfway pleasant. Beside him, in stark contrast to looks and general appeal, Higath stood at attention; his own medals, only one less than Druff, revealed the shine of his golden hair and overly agreeable looks. Though they looked like a pair, as they stood side-by-side in hesitant attention, they could be no more contrasting than night and day.
Druff relaxed in the Chancellor’s office, something Higath did not dare do. Instead, he let his eyes, dark as daggers, scan the corners of the room. It was grander a sight than Druff had led him to believe. The gold gilding on the ceiling and bone white molding looked magnificent in the flood of starlight that entered from the massive arched window at the room's center.
The happy gold and warm butter colors made the Chancellor’s black leather chair seem humorously out of place – an afterthought to the entire room and palace. A laugh rose up in Higath's belly but remained contained. Higath knew better than to marvel at any spectacle the Chancellor created. None questioned the Chancellor and he would not volunteer to find out what might happen to those that did, especially over furniture.
Though they could not see the Chancellor, Higath let his imagination supply a likeness of Chancellor Diesden from the caricatures on the posters littering the Kingdoms. Monstrously tall – fierce. Unrelenting hands creating a protective shadow of compassionate involvement. Control. Chancellor Diesden never turned to dispel Higath’s imagination. He remained sitting, facing the window with the large chairback to the officers. They were underlings of little consequence and were only present because their commanding officer, High Commander Foxun, happened to be in the room as well. The Chancellor's exclusivity was a societal grace that Higath was grateful for and Druff oblivious to.
Druff and Higath stood at attention, waiting for High Commander Foxun to leave the far left corner of the room, abandon his searching of the maps posted there, and address them. But, Foxun did not glance over his shoulder until he had completed tracing some invisible route along the map of the Fyllian Ocean. When he finished, he straightened his back and tugged at his black leather coat that made his rugged, tan skin look sinister and taut. His chestnut-shaped eyes blinked twice, revealing two dark irises framed by dark golden hair.
Foxun stepped forward and lurched still inches from their faces. Failure was etched on their brows. “Do you have the culprits?”
“No, sir. They were gone when we arrived,” Druff said.
Higath waited for Druff to continue with the report but Xander said nothing further. Instead, he looked straight through the window behind the Chancellor’s chair blankly.
Marcus Higath exhaled, shifting his weight. “There wasn’t much evidence, sir. They only left behind this note.” Higath retrieved the bloodied parchment scrap from his pocket and offered it to Foxun.
Foxun looked at Higath and then the note. Foxun’s face softened. Higath's ability to hide instinctive reactions and intuitiveness still evaded him, despite all his training. In his case, it was for the better. Foxun read the look of doubt on his face. “Anything else to report, Higath?”
“The injuries, sir, they were odd. Not from any sword I have seen.”
The High Commander nodded before and turned to approach the Chancellor’s desk. When he reached the side of the wooden desk, a thick hair-clad arm weighted with gems stuck out and snapped up the
parchment note. The chair swayed for a brief moment. Then, as abruptly as before, the ring-laden hand waved the note back to Foxun. When Chancellor Diesden spoke, his voice was deep and unnerving. “Resume with it being the Rogues.”
“Yes, my Liege.”
“And make it stick this time.”
“Of course, my Liege.” Foxun returned to his officers, unaware of his failed attempt to hide the upset the Chancellor’s disapproval caused. Foxun brushed back an unkempt piece of hair and adjusted his belt. “Witnesses?”
Commander Xander Druff still stared blankly out the window. Silent – unwilling to bear any ill news to the High Commander.
Higath sighed. “One, sir. The cook was down below– says he heard voices and words he did not understand. He’s calling them ghosts – it’s a lot of storytelling, sir.”
“Then get to the bottom of it.”
“Aye, sir,” both Commanders echoed.
“Higath – go to King Lynde. We will need to inform him of what has happened and ensure him that we will be the only means of reparations and retribution. Druff – take the First Dredth to search the sea for clues and to sort out the cook.”
Druff's face snapped back to the room. His frozen stare caved into a saggy pout. His ego lay wounded. The Council’s First Dredth always had the higher duties, better priorities. He stared hatefully at Marcus Higath who shrugged off the visual barb. Druff sneered and stepped after Foxun, his voice peaked. “Sir, surely you mean—”
“Silence!” Foxun's voice rumbled with the legendary bestiality that commanded respect and fear. "You seem to have forgotten your place and tongue. Bring me the cook, Druff – before sunset. Dismissed.”
“Aye, sir!” Both commanders turned to depart, a salute in their wake.
“Oh and Higath, try to use the charm and manners that I know runs within your bloodline.”
Higath turned back with pursed lips and nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Wind with you, men.”
“And you, sir,” they echoed.
THE CREITALLI PALACE
INNER RING, KNALL CITY, CREITALL