by A. Wrighton
The sun blistered across the exposed northern walls of the Palace. Even from atop the Knall Plateau the bustle of the Middle and Outer Rings of Knall City were easy to hear. The voices of merchants, peddlers, and farmers struggling to secure their holdings before winter hardened the southern swampland floated in the humid air.
The Creitalli Palace was a unique architectural oddity in that none could tell it actually ruled from atop swampland. Its walls were smooth and straight. Its roofs were stylistically short-pointed in a shimmering shade of clay red. The only indication that the palace was nestled in the oozing swamps was the creeping mass of vines that clung to the bottom of its walls. What the vines actually clung to defied explanation, since the smoothness of the walls intimidated any living thing from daring to scale it. The core stones were stacked precisely and coated in a fine, crack-filling sheen that repelled the marshy wetness of the swamps and any intruder. In common knowledge, the design worked impeccably well. But the Rogues had never been for the commonplace, and as the sun continued its mid-day ascent, they took advantage of a well-guarded, nearly forgotten secret.
Gripping onto some purposefully uneven and mismatched stones that composed the northern tower, they scaled the massive walls quickly, making sure they did not burn their fingertips from the stowed heat. The stones led to the largest window of the Northern Tower on the side that did not face the city or have a standardized patrol. The Rogues moved faster the higher they climbed, the stones growing hotter with height.
Callon paused to curse at his gloves, which did not protect his melting fingers, before continuing his rambling rant of everything wrong with the palace – the slipperiness of the rocks, the cold of the coming winter, the utter lack of security and safety precautions, and the searing heat of the stones.
“King Lynde should be beaten for pompous naivety or at least scale this himself… even his daughters could do it….” Callon scoffed at the thought of Lynde doing anything for himself. “Typical.”
“Cal.”
Callon looked down at Lanthar’s unamused face. Lanthar pressed one finger to his lips and nodded towards their destination. Callon shrugged at the reminder, mouthed a quick apology, and disappeared through the massive window into the King’s Library.
Callon had always admired the vast room of floor-to-ceiling books and musty wood, for reading was a pastime he had never been able to understand or share. It was the King’s favorite sitting place and it came as no surprise that with Callon’s gentle tuck and roll, the King rose to greet him with sword and sidearm drawn.
“With you, your Majesty.”
“Identify yourself,” said King Lynde who, despite being shorter than Callon, commanded an awful presence. His blonde hair and dark brown eyes seemed to have aged an extraordinary deal since the Rogues had last spoken with their old ally. For the first time, Callon realized from the graying of his fair beard that King Lynde was old enough to be his father, despite him not having the stomach to nurture sons.
“Callon McKafrey, Commander of the Second Dredth, Rogue Dragonics.”
Lanthar rolled in along beside Callon and rose swiftly. “Lanthar Reynat, Commander of the Third Dredth, Rogue Dragonics.”
The King blinked. Twice. “You two have some audacity showing your faces. You have but a few seconds before I tire of your presence and call my guards to deal with you murderers.”
“Sire, you know it wasn’t us or you’d have called them already,” Lanthar said.
The King tucked a loose, graying blonde hair back behind his ears before squinting at Lanthar. Callon had long admired, though never fully understood, how Lanthar could so often resist speaking, but when he did, he nailed the matter square in the face. He sent an appreciative glance to the blond giant, but Lanthar did not respond. Lanthar's eyes remained on the King until he uncocked his sidearm and returned it to its holster.
King Lynde left his sword at the level of their kidneys and neither Rogue dared move – not for fear of orders or fear of any physical repercussion, but out of respect and lack of willpower to disarm the King. This was not the Alderon Lynde, King of Creitall, of their fathers. He was fragile and old. Broken.
“You may not have been the one whose hand ended the life of my daughter, but it is your fault.”
“Sire?” Lanthar asked.
“That rotten child Paine begged me to hide. Never should I have accepted.” The King exhaled and squinted into the shadows the Rogues resided inside. If Lynde could see their faces, he made no attempt at acknowledging it. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it? That is who they meant. It has to be.”
“Yes,” Callon said without pause.
“Where is she, your Majesty?”
“I wouldn’t know. I rid my family of her problem and presence days after her arrival. I don’t even think the maidenhand I gave the task to is still around.”
“You were entrusted by Commander Paine with this duty,” Callon said. “A rather simple duty…”
“Watch your tone with me, boy. Do not forget who you are addressing.”
Lanthar sent Callon a scathing look before turning back to King. “Ignore him, your Majesty. We are just trying to understand why you would have delegated away a child like a mere thing. You gave your word.”
“I gave my word to Kai Paine. No one else. Paine is dead.”
“We are what is left of Commander Paine. You gave your word and allegiance to us. All of us.”
“You fight for a world that will never exist again. Carissa’s death should show you that. Defenseless angel… do you know what they did to her?”
“We will find them, your Majesty.”
“And what? Avenge the wronged? You Rogues and your Cause... It is dead. It died when all the good in this world died. When Carissa died. I can no longer sit and wait for you to sort this out. I have to trust that the Council…” King Alderon laughed. “Trust that the Council will find them before you will. For all my attempts of remaining free of their grasp, your Cause has delivered me into it!”
“But the child…”
“I met your dead Commander’s quarry. He asked only that I keep the child safe. She was kept safe – safe in a place where her presence could not cause political upheaval and distress.”
“The child had no one but you and you turned her out?” Callon demanded an answer – any answer.
Lanthar nudged the instep of Callon’s boot, but the King already prickled with raw anger. He pulled on his gray beard as he spoke – the words spitting, cutting through their leather vests and black and burgundy cloaks with anger and hate. Callon had been conditioned to this sort of rant, but it struck a deep chord with Lanthar. The blond giant’s face fell. His features softened as his eyes remained fast on the crumbling King.
“That thing... That murderous child was kept at an orphanage until her eighteenth cycle under the compensation of the Crown. After that, I cannot say.”
“How long ago was that, Sire?” Lanthar asked.
“Five cycles this coming lunar eclipse…”
Callon thumbed his dual rapier hilts. “Betrayal.”
“Watch your tongue closely, boy. If I had half a brain, I would call my guards on you two and send them to find that wretched child… Spill her blood like they spilt my beautiful Carissa’s.” The King turned away, hand across his mouth.
Callon started for the King, his mouth open to speak, but then stepped back beside Lanthar. It was pointless. Grief had destroyed stronger men. Callon cracked his neck and gestured towards the window.
Lanthar nodded and began backing towards their escape. “Which orphanage, Sire?”
“Outer circle. By the Baker, I think. Enough. Go now. I have grown tired of your questions. I am sure the Council would eagerly trade information they’ve found for two Rogue Commanders.”
Lanthar exhaled and slipped through the window as silently as he had entered. Callon turned to follow but paused. He turned on his heel and closed the distance between him and Alderon. The King did not mov
e; he remained hunched over, propped by one arm on the corner of his desk.
Callon extended a hand to his shoulder and firmly squeezed. “We’ll find them, Sire.”
“And?”
Callon saw the fractured soul within the King’s eyes. He was wounded, as no man should be. “We will right this. On my honor.”
There was a long silence and Callon took leave of the room. He loathed silence and had nothing more to say. Callon straddled the window ledge and turned around only when he heard the softened words of a once great ally.
“Wind with you, McKafrey.”
“And you, Sire.”
ROSE GARDENS OF CREITALLI PALACE
INNER RING, KNALL CITY, CREITALL
Beneath the Creitalli Palace’s Southern Tower flourished the famous rose garden whose beauty, not of the swamps, was held in such high esteem that the diplomatic gift of a bloom was a feted desire. The garden’s roses and the great oak at its center were the only physical evidence of the Queen Cara Lynde’s Brydellan roots.
Alaister held a deep love for the gardens and was grateful that, for the short time he could as a boy, run about the blooms and their warm musk. Even now, the smells of the flowers brought back what little childhood glee he could find. Fists clenched, he fought the urge to run about the garden as he had so long ago. He called upon his memory of the oak tree with branches nearly touching the ground. It now provided excessive cover with the invasion of rambling rose vines.
Nestled between oak leaves and roses, Alaister climbed down the tree, resting at its base opposite the occupied sitting bench. The air sizzled with an electric charge. The seated girl with tight strawberry blonde curls snapped her head up from her book and froze.
She did not look behind her. She gently shook her head, loosening wayward ringlets that hit her cheeks like shredded ribbons. She sighed too softly and exhaled a baited breath. “You should not be anywhere near here. They think it was you.”
“And, what do your mother and father think?”
“Mother knows better. Father… Father has his doubts.”
Alaister sighed, lingering behind the gnarled trunk. He caught only the portrait of Princess Chloe. Her eyes were red and her nose puffy, but she still held her chin high. Her red-gold curls were laced back in a long, loose braid, a few corkscrew curls dancing about her face. Nearing nineteen, she was growing up to be as beautiful as Carissa, despite her insistence on tomboy longevity and improper princess behavior. Chloe had always been the Rogues’ favorite little princess. Soon, too soon, she would be crowned Carissa’s replacement and be forced to grow up.
“I must speak with your mother.”
“You ask too much, Commander.”
“I know Chloe, but I must.”
The Princess sighed sharply and stood, her eyes transfixed on nothing at all. “Wait here," she commanded as she turned and flashed the teal eyes of the Lynde line. “Stay hidden and for Listener’s sake, do not let Cassidy see you.”
Alaister nodded and watched her disappear into a side door of the palace without glancing back to his position. He missed the child in her already and prayed that youthful innocence had at least been left to the youngest Lynde princess, Cassidy.
Eyes glancing to the sides, Alaister waited silently, praying to the Watcher that Chloe – the rebellious tomboy of the Creitalli princesses – would not betray her favorite secret. That her resolute stance on innocence before guilt would remain steadfast and true. That she was more her mother’s daughter than her father’s.
There was a ruffling of the drapes at the window overlooking the tree.
Whispers.
Movement.
Nothing.
When Queen Cara appeared out the garden door, Alaister thanked her stubborn ways that had often driven his father insane. The Queen was resolute and unyielding. For once, it worked to their advantage.
Queen Cara, her gray-gold ringlets half-kempt and barely covering a tear-scarred face, sat at the bench in front of the tree with her back to Alaister’s hiding place. Chloe checked the garden for any passing guards and when satisfied at their nonexistence, sat down beside her mother.
“I must speak with your mother alone, Princess.”
“Not today, Commander. She must know too.”
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
“Quickly.”
“I am here for the girl… The girl my father left to your family over a ten cycles ago.”
A long silence ensued that made Alaister wish he had chosen to be blatantly obvious about his arrival, so that he could see their reactions – see the Queen’s face. Alaister only saw motionless gray-gold curls and the puzzled profile of Princess Chloe.
“Mama?”
The Queen remained frozen.
“Commander, you are mistaken and perhaps is not the best time to—”
“You think this is over her?” Queen Cara asked.
“Yes.”
“Mama? Her?”
“You were probably too little to remember her, Chloe. But, she was here.”
“And that’s who they meant by Her?”
“We believe so, your Highness.”
The Queen’s sob pierced the confusion between Chloe and Alaister. Her rigid posture shuddered with newfound tears. “I killed her,” the Queen said.
“The girl?”
“No, my darling Chloe, not the girl.”
“I don’t understand, Mama.”
“Your Majesty?”
“When that child came here… I was so angry with Alderon for accepting her without thinking. She looked nothing like us. Golden hair like the light of a sun’s eclipse and eyes like the richest mud and the way they shimmered... She screamed scandal and I would not have it. I did not want to hear the gossip in court. I had heard enough over the lack of a male heir. So… I sent her away. I sent her away and now my Carissa is dead.”
“Mama…”
Alaister watched Chloe cradle the suddenly fragile Queen. For a moment, he considered leaving. But, the questions had to be asked. “Where, your Majesty?”
“Commander…”
“I must ask, Princess.”
“It can wait.”
“No, Chloe. It’s fine.” The Queen’s body straightened though her core lacked the substance of before. “She would have been placed in an orphanage in the Outer Ring of Knall. I couldn’t tell you which one young Paine, I am afraid after my decision, I washed my hands of the girl and her fate.”
“What was her name, your Majesty?”
The Queen sniffled and shook her head, refusing to accept the reappearance of a tear trail.
“Mama?”
“We never actually named her.”
“We will avenge Carissa.”
“I know, Commander. I would expect no less.”
“But…” Chloe coaxed.
“You mustn’t come here as often. It is no longer safe here. We do believe in yours, Commander – darling Alaister – but these are dangerous times. We cannot afford to even imply that we are sympathetic to your Cause – not yet, at least. Please wait for us, Alaister Paine, and forgive us of what we must do with the Council now. We know not another way.”
“Our banner will always provide safety to you and yours, Queen Lynde. Until the last Rogue dies. You have my word. We are with you, your Majesties.”
THE OUTER RING
KNALL CITY, CREITALL
The streets carried the dingy dampness of the swamp that encircled the Knall Plateau. The people hustled about, despite the occasional strip of fog and mist that appeared at times when nothing but the sunlight beat down upon the City's Rings. The Outer Ring was not known for its tidiness and not often was a woman of value or self-worth seen there – something merchants assured by moving all female-inclined shops to the Middle Ring. They had left the Outer for the poor and the craftsmen and, had it not been for orphanages and the occasional peddler, no woman would have ever been seen in the Outer Ring.
Part of Lanthar liked the propriet
y that the arrangement provided, but it unsettled him far more than it ever could, if he had not known why some women still lingered on the streets. Lanthar flushed at their catcalls that Callon prided himself on receiving. Eyes on the ground, Lanthar kept his gaze no higher than thigh level and entangled himself in the peculiar moss that climbed up the base of the buildings, but did not grow above the level of his knee. Lanthar stopped only when Callon’s boots did. Slowly, he pulled his eyes up to the building before them.
It was a crumbling structure of gray, moss-pocked stone.
It was the last orphanage on their side of the Outer Ring and more than likely another dead end full of scared children and dominating matrons. The lengths humans would go to control one another frightened. Had Lanthar thought Callon the philosophical type, he would have mentioned it. Talked about it. Done anything to diffuse the build up. But, Callon was about fighting, swords, and the chase. Callon was an excellent man to consult on flying patterns or weaponry, but a horrible fireside chatter.
Lanthar smirked at the thought of Callon beside a fireplace chatting about anything other than swords and Dragons. Callon might chat, but it was doubtful it would be with him. Lanthar knew Callon to be a firm believer in that, for the most part; he was actually a mute. And, if Callon spoke seriously, it was to Alaister alone. All others Callon met with humor, sarcasm, and a scathing tempered tongue. But his silence carried value, too.
Callon poked the buoyant moss nestled in the walls. He flicked a few green pieces at Lanthar as he kicked the crumbling edifice and finally broke his silence. “They call these places livable?”
Lanthar shrugged.
“Bad form… but at least it’s the last one on this half of Knall, eh Lan?”
Lanthar nodded, looking behind from their perch on the dingy gray doorstep of the orphanage. The building was an amazing feat of architecture, due to the sheer improbability that it still stood. The stones were old, the keystone above the door cracked and weathered, and the wooden door was split and rotting.