by T. G. Neal
Aurelia nodded and watched as the man who saved her life stood up and got ready to go. She had always viewed Vaelen as her friend. The man – the warrior – had been training her since before her twenty-fourth birthday, and before his twenty sixth. They had grown up alongside each other, both being taught each other’s station. When Vaelen started fighting, Aurelia started learning politics and diplomacy and how to be a lady. That had never been her. Vaelen was the side of her life she always wanted: to fight. Now that was her life. She picked up her bow and rolled it in her hands for a moment before putting it across her back.
Once he had everything on him, packs up and loaded, he looked at Aurelia, and she stared back right into his eyes. “Are you ready?” He asked.
“Yes. As I can be.”
Jorvig rose to find his wife already awake. “Miliria, are you well?”
“Aye, I am.” She said, wrapped only in a silken robe. She walked out onto the balcony of their bedchamber. “Oh, look. They must have found Seneg overnight. He is no longer lying below the balcony.”
“You don’t think he survived, do you?” Jorvig said, drinking a glass a wine in one gulp.
“Of course not,” she said. In her mind she thought: You fool, how could he?
Jorvig nodded and turned away from her. “Come, let us be surprised and tell the news to the people of Drachenara.”
Miliria waved her hand at him. “You are the husband, I am but the subservient wife, who bides her time by drinking wine and meeting the lowly people when they have had enough of your tyrannical decisions.”
Jorvig stared at her a moment, as if he were going to get angry, then said: “Of course. Enjoy your day.”
Miliria turned away as her husband dressed himself and set off on his decision-making path.
Jorvig opened the door to his bedchamber and walked down the hall to be met with several chancellors and heralds and the slave he had sent away before. “What is it?”
One of the chancellors spoke “Milord, Seneg killed himself last night. We can only imagine it was due to your father’s… death.”
Jorvig nodded. “I see. What else?”
Surprised by the lack of care, the chancellor stepped aside and motioned Tanys forward. “This is Tanys—“
“I know who he is.”
“Oh,” Stuttered the chancellor. “I see.”
“Yes, you do. Leave us. No, Herald, you stay.” Jorvig motioned everyone else away.
The three of them walked along the upper corridors of the castle. “Tanys, you have a reputation ahead of you of being sterner than your predecessor. You also have a more…” he pursed his lips “keen sense of entitlement.” He nodded. “Yes, I believe that would be the best way of saying it.”
Tanys titled his head. “I’m not sure what you mean, My Lord?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Tanys. I know that you encourage slavery of the lesser races,” Jorvig said, gesturing to the male Elven slave who walked away from them. “I also know that you seek the favor of Ifris, the Charred One. Beyond that, I also offer you riches in payment for your loyalty.”
Tanys was apprehensive, but he quickly realized that he couldn’t argue, then he decided to test his bounds as they came to a stop overlooking the main hall. First though, he waited on Jorvig to speak.
“I’ll take silence as confirmation. Herald, notify the chancellors that the service of bludgeoning me with their opinions will not be needed. Then have them killed tonight.”
The Herald paled.
“Do it, or you will join them,” Jorvig said, looking at his hands. “And post this notification in all common areas of Drachenara.”
The letter read:
Citizens of Drachenara.
Henceforth, slavery is not only the result of a debt owed. You may at any point purchase and buy slaves from the vendors who will be set up to sell you a superior product.
As a human, you may own any slave you so desire and so can afford. Elven slaves will be available immediately.
The herald carried out his job specifically as asked.
Tanys looked to Jorvig quizzically, then spoke. “You are brazen, Milord.”
Jorvig turned his full body toward him to inspect him. “And?”
“And I believe great things will happen while the two of us work together.”
Jorvig smiled, then turned and walked away without a further word.
The trip to Rootsborne was long, and Vaelen was still exhausted from the previous two days’ affairs. He was leaning against the farthest railing of the upper deck of the vessel that could be best described as a schooner. And old man and his son ran the route, and thanks to the flatlands of Greyvale, bordering the bay, the winds could push the ship all the way back into Giltshore.
Vaelen had made this trip before. Before he closed his eyes to reminisce, he made sure he saw Aurelia in front of him, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes more alive now than in the past two days. He smiled and craned his head back, remembering a time not so long ago.
Wraith, when he was still alive, had taken Vaelen and ten other men the full length of the Cedargrove River all the way into Greyever, the capital. Bren Hemund had an issue with the bandits that Wraith and Vaelen had pushed out of the lands of Drachenara. Feeling guilty for such, Bren Drache had sent his twelve best men to remedy the issue.
On board this very same ship, Wraith told Vaelen of a time during the war when the former Bren of Greyvale had been corrupted by the powers of Ifris, the false god of fire. Vaelen had his doubts, but his father very rarely ever told falsities. Wraith told him of the Bren’s ability to conjure fire from his bare hands. Wraith had bested him in combat, but not without getting his forearm burned clean of hair, and there it would never grow again.
Wraith had then helped Bren Drache to decide to institute Bren Arlin Hemund as acting Bren, instead of joining Greyvale with Drachenara, for fear it would stir both peoples.
On the trip that Vaelen had accompanied his father, the boat was hit with arrows from the shore as the boat pulled into town. Bren Hemund had barricaded the capital, but the people outside were still in danger. The night after their arrival, the twelve men, Drachenara guardsmen, marched on the bandit camp and single-handedly slayed forty men. They allowed the women and children to live, so long as they would never return to the land again. Wraith, nor Vaelen, ever followed through, and returned home after a short stay to ensure the city’s safety.
Vaelen opened his eyes to Aurelia who had been watching him. “Day dreaming?” She asked with a smile.
Smiling in return, Vaelen nodded, “Aye, I was. Fond memories.”
She sat down on the deck of the ship cross-legged and leaned forward. “Penance for your thoughts, Master Vaelen. Care to share?”
Vaelen smiled again. This woman brought the good in him to the forefront. She made him more than a warrior; more than a killer. “Sure,” he said placing his hands behind his head against the railing. “I’ve been to Greyever once before. More than once, I believe, once only as a small child in a trip I don’t remember, but once more just two summers past.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Do you recall when we routed the Bandits from Highvein and then again near the mines?”
Aurelia nodded. “I do. I remember worrying for you.”
Vaelen paused a moment longer then continued “Those same bandits turned their attention on Greyever, when they failed near Drachenara. They sacked Rootsborne on the way through but made camp around Greyever. My father and I took this very schooner directly into the city and handled the problem. Of course, we weren’t alone.”
“Ah, I see. Shall I tell you of my time in Greyever?” Aurelia asked with a smile.
“Most certainly.” Vaelen answered.
“Well,” she said, brushing a long fallen ebony lock out of her face, “My father and Bren Hemund were friends. Something about the war long ago. We would visit occasionally, because a trip to Greyever often meant a trip out to the Bay, past the Visik Mountains.” She brushed the sam
e lock out of her face again as the wind blew it loose. “The last time would have been seven years ago, probably. It was only a short trip. We visited, saw the sea, and returned. Something about witches in the marsh.”
As the lock blew loose again, Vaelen pushed it back behind her ear. “The Witches in the Marsh. Stories to scare children, they said to begin with, until children – then adults – started going missing. It wasn’t happening in our lands, and no one could ever prove they existed. But altars popped up here and there in honor of the god Ifris, a demon lord who grew in popularity.” Vaelen chuckled. “We’ll be riding right through their territory along the northern side of the Marsh, right before Greyever.”
Aurelia felt warmed at first by his action, then cold at the mention of the witches. “I always thought it to be a way for my parents to leave early, not that it was true.”
“I didn’t say it was true. Only that people went missing.” Vaelen said.
“And altars appeared!” Aurelia said, raising her voice with slight alarm. “You can’t say things like that and expect me not to be alarmed.”
Vaelen shook his head. “I don’t believe there is any reason to be alarmed. If there is, just make sure you go after them with your bow, not a sword.” With his snide jest, he closed his eyes and tried not to smile.
Aurelia gasped, and it turned into a smile. “You’re a cruel teacher to mock your student.” She then turned and leaned against the railing beside him. “Now you have to deal with my company.”
Truthfully, Vaelen didn’t mind it at all. The two dozed in the warm sun and cool spring breeze as the ship made passage down the Cedargrove River.
Denevim knelt by the Highvein river as it coursed through the forests north of Drachenara. He looked at his reflection in the water, grimacing at the scar that his sister chose to leave him bearing. He knew better than to resist her. He remembered when she came back from learning how to manage her powers, and how that had fully changed her. He remembered the monsters she could suddenly call forth to aid her. He remembered the night she murdered their parents for a blood sacrifice and the pure fear he felt. She offered him safety and solace, so long as he served her without question. How could he resist? With powers as great as hers, how could he stand against her? How could he doubt what she was capable of?
He stared at the scar again; at the ghostly white eye that Vaelen left him with. Vaelen, the guard dog who stole away not only his vengeance, but the woman he was promised. Denevim grit his teeth. He was frustrated, angry, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He closed his eyes and drew all the emotion he felt back behind a wall, and he secured it.
Finally, drawing in some peace from the forest around him, Denevim picked up a bow that he borrowed from the armory, intent to hunt and kill a deer in the cool of the evening. The forests around Drachenara were renowned for their deer; the males were massive, and their antlers were perfect for a knife handle or sword pommel.
Denevim stalked the river’s edge, eyes scanning quietly, placing one side step in front of the other. He had a hard time really focusing on the task at hand. Hunting had always been one of his favorite past times, but there was little in his recent memory that had not been marred by Miliria in some way. His first real memory of her abilities came when she visited home, taking a short leave from her studies. Miliria had often taken long walks in the forests of Stormvale, and they were very similar to Drachenara’s. They sat at a higher altitude, so their winds were cooler, but the tall pine trees struck the same long shadows in the late day. Denevim had hunted those forests, the same as he now hunted Drachenara’s. He came upon Miliria in a glade in the midst of the forest. As he crept up, he saw her within touching distance of a doe that would have been a perfect shot. He was just in line to take the shot, when he watched his sister drain the life from the body of the doe, leaving a mummified remnant of what once was. He was sworn to secrecy, even then, astounded by her powers.
Denevim took a knee by the Highvein river, analyzing a path that had been worn down by the deer who drank from the cool crisp water in this spot. He made a satisfied sound, and rose to his full height, venturing back on the newly-discovered game trail.
Only the sound of cicada and the distant sound of frogs drifted through the afternoon air. For now, he was only Denevim Pardis, son of Giles Pardis, and a hunter. He was the Lieutenant of his sister’s guard, but at this moment, he only had to worry about his own safety – not hers. Not that he would have to fear for her safety. No man had the power to take what she had away from her. Denevim wouldn’t be surprised if Miliria one day ruled the world.
His thoughts ventured back to his sister and her awful power, until a young buck poked his head out of a set of trees. Behind him, two does stood, eating at small green foliage on the forest floor. Denevim paused and let his form go rigid. He closed his eyes only briefly and quietly exhaled. As his breath left his chest, he sighted up on the buck and drew back the string of his bow. As if minutes passed in seconds, he loosed the arrow from almost twenty yards. The buck heard the twang of the string, but it was too late, no sooner than the buck moved, did the arrow sink into the buck’s heart. He took one more step, froze, and fell to his side. The doe, of course, bolted into the thick of the wood.
Denevim rushed to the creature’s side to feel if he still drew breath. A single hand laid upon the beast’s side. He closed his eyes. At times, he still felt the need to do what he had done his whole life and pray the prayer of thanks to the Maker. When those thoughts fell upon him, he questioned his sister’s judgement, and as if he were a life-long sinner, stowed the thoughts in favor of Ifris, the Destroyer, and his own sister, Miliria.
The buck he took weighed close to one-hundred and fifty pounds, but for Denevim, that was nothing. He strung his bow across his chest and tossed the deer around his neck and rested it on his shoulders. He hiked from the place he killed the deer, back to Drachenara, where he dressed the deer and kept the antlers for himself.
By the time Vaelen and Aurelia reached Rootsborne, it was already sunset. The change in terrain was evident. From the sloping valley lands of Drachenara and Giltshore, along the edges of Lake Drachenara, they had now come to a place nearly completely flat and plain-like. For miles you could see in every direction. The river was still plenty wide at this point, but for whatever reason, the old man no longer took the boat into Greyever, and didn’t take kindly to people asking. For Vaelen, it was no matter.
The sun was only halfway visible as the two stepped off the boat and onto the town roads. Packed dirt trails in the hardened soil along the river led to the variety of shops and buildings that Rootsborne offered. Situated right in the bend of the Cedargrove River, before sloping south east off into the marshes, Roostborne had become a sort of Mecca for storytellers and dreamers. It was directly on the path to the southern Brendoms if you were coming from the northern Brendoms on the road that passed the foothills to the east of the Ithnir Glacial Bed.
The whole town was constructed from river stones and wood from the forest across the river headed south. Where the town now sat, once was a vast cedar forest, whose entangled roots and stumps led to the sediment deposits that eventually became the solid ground for the town. It was a very inviting place. Even the laughter from the town’s two taverns could be heard from where the ship had docked.
Vaelen and Aurelia walked together toward the town after paying the captain of the little ship and made their way around. They still had food and basic necessities. They needed to fill their skins and find a place to rest for the night. In this particular case, that probably meant a tavern, while they still could.
As they approached the Well Rooted Tavern, Vaelen counted the sovereigns they still had. Even after buying their supplies back in Giltshore, the two were lucky enough to have forty sovereigns, plenty enough to pay for a night in a tavern and then have some ale whilst there.
Aurelia walked behind him, her bow strung across her back and the quiver beside it. In the back of her mind,
Aurelia wondered if she had ever even been meant to be the child of royalty. She second guessed her thoughts, meaning no offense to her perished parents, but then thought how silly her path of thought had gone. She shook her head in silence.
Ever-watchful, Vaelen passingly examined each patron he saw enter and leave the Tavern. Just before entering he turned back to Aurelia and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Though I have no doubt of your abilities, and know you’re more than capable with that bow, please stay close. I’d rather not have to draw any attention to us by killing someone, whether they deserve it or not.”
Aurelia nodded a simple reply.
Vaelen nodded in return and opened the door. Inside, the pungent smell of spilled mead, smoked hog, and various masking perfumes permeated the thick, warm air. Vaelen was immediately turned off at the smell, but gradually grew accustomed to it as he approached the Barmaid. “Are you the one who I’d talk to about room and board?”
The Barmaid looked up at him. “Aye, are ye lookin’ fer a night with ye lady?”
“Aye, just the two of us.” Vaelen said matter-of-factly.
“ ‘old on.” She stepped away to talk to a fat, greasy man who sat behind the counter eating. He nodded, then she returned. “Aite then, that’ll be ten sovereigns for the night.” Her accent was thick with her uneducated background. She look like she’d been through the ringer a few times and had been left to fend for herself. Vaelen pitied her, but not enough to change his following reaction.
“Ten?” Vaelen asked, looking at the place with a judgmental eye.
“Oi, if you got a problem wit the price, ye can take yerself on down to the brothel. I’m sure they’d be treatin’ yer lady right nice down there.” The woman said, turning her lip up in a bit of a snarl.
Vaelen ground his teeth together but minded his attitude. “Oh, no. I was thinking how it was a perfect steal for such a nice place.”