Once We Were Kings (Young Adult Fantasy) (The Sojourner Saga)

by Alexander, Ian

  "You shall rule by power," Valhandra said. "But not with authority. Five and twenty millennia, shall I grant you this. And though you shall have liberty to choose to return to me, verily I say unto thee, you shall not."

  Thus did Malakandor plunge the world into darkness, obscuring the true nature of its noble beings and—"

  "What is this!"

  All three jumped.

  Render dropped the book on the floor and looked up.

  There stood Sir Edwyn, his brow snarled and eyes ablaze, holding chain and lock which Branson had used to lock them in. "What are you doing in my quarters?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Standing by the waist-high wall of the open terrace overlooking his dominion, The High King Corigan gnawed on his knuckle. The envoy should have arrived more than an hour ago. "Blast it, why does she insist on tormenting me so?"

  "His majesty's reputation for patience does him no real justice," said Lord Mooregaard, Corigan's trusted advisor and friend. With a smile, he grasped his mail gauntlets with his right hand and gently rapped them against his left palm. Repeatedly. A most annoying habit.

  "My Lord Mooregaard," Corigan said, "Have you been informed of any delay? Such tardiness is most atypical."

  "I can offer no explanation, Majesty." More rapping of the mail gloves, which chafed the King. Corigan grabbed a polished Aluvium flagon and filled two ornate chalices with red Long-Xue, from the vineyards of the forbidden East, though nothing was forbidden the High King of Valdshire Tor.

  "Drink, Mooregaard." Corigan offered him a chalice, which he received with a grateful inclination of the head. They both peered out at the enormity of the citadel and over the massive walls which separated it from the peasant farms towards the edge of the continent. There, over Smyth's Hill, the land plunged straight down into miles of desolate sand only to be interrupted by the mountains which served as a natural barrier between his Kingdom and that of Tian Kuo. His stomach turned at the thought of the ruins the lay on the other side of the peaks, the fabled ruins of the Sojourners.

  "Do you think we've seen the last of them, Mooregaard?"

  "One can only hope."

  "That any rational being could even entertain the idea that humans...spirit beings, all that rubbish! Would they kill innocents over such ideology, because we refuse to pretend? To indulge such childish fantasies?"

  "Your father knew all too well."

  "Indeed." The very mention of his father stung the center of Corigan's chest.

  "As did the scribes of Malkor. Do not doubt, my young King. Your father died at my side, fighting to ensure your freedom. Freedom from religious tyranny. You do well to exterminate those radical, murderous zealots, as well as the very nation which harbors them."

  Corigan set his chalice down. The Long-Xue burned a path down his throat and cooled it painfully as he spoke. "I have...concerns."

  At this, Mooregaard stood tall, his dark countenance etched with care. "Your Majesty does well to remember: For more than a millennium, there has been no peace between the civilized world and those Tianese dogs. How, in all that is decent and true, can anyone give comfort to terrorists who murder defenseless innocents, women and children alike? Nay, my dear Corigan. This cannot be. Honor your father's charge, for they were his last words to you."

  And it would have given Corigan nothing but pleasure to conquer all of Tian Kuo with force, had it not been for that seed of doubt planted in his mind, his heart.

  "Where is that envoy!" He hurled his chalice such that the Long-Xue splashed against the stone wall and bled down in three slow trails. The dented chalice rocked back and forth on the ground on its rim, sending flashes of reflected sunlight into his eyes like daggers.

  Just then, a voice intruded upon the moment. "Your Majesty."

  Mooregaard and Corigan both turned and beheld her. Mooregaard bowed deeply as he took her gloved hand and kissed it. "My Lady."

  "Lady Volfoncé, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Corigan spoke with measured acerbity, for he never liked nor trusted her much. Perhaps it was her eyes. Dark, almost hawk-liked, she seemed to peer straight into his soul. It so disturbed him that he rarely held her gaze, but instead concealed his apprehension behind a wall of regal haughtiness.

  "I intercepted the envoy en route to Talen Wood." Now releasing Mooregaard's hand, Lady Volfoncé stepped forward and handed Corigan an envelope sealed with red wax. The seal of his dove. "The young Tianese feared for his life though I guaranteed him safe passage. But ultimately, he feared too much and after much cajoling on his part, pathetic as it had been, I agreed to take this letter to you personally."

  "You have my gratitude." Corigan inspected the wax seal surreptitiously. It did not appear to have been tampered with. He lifted his eyes and found the lady gazing as if she expected something from him. "Yes?"

  "Your majesty is aware, are you not, that such correspondence threatens the confidence, the stability of our nation, if word were to make it out that—"

  "Have you any questions or remark of consequence, Lady Volfoncé?"

  "Sire, I simply—"

  "You are dismissed with my thanks, then."

  A cold silence remained in the air like gray mist. Lady Volfoncé blinked once, or twice, Corigan could not tell, because it happened so quickly and her entire body stood perfectly still. That piercing gaze once again. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

  Finally, she took Mooregaard's proffered hand. They both bowed and backed away from the terrace and into the palace. Corigan noticed and called out, "My Lord! Pray tarry a while longer."

  "Sire." He stopped, bowed and kissed The Lady's hand once again as she left. When he returned, he stood firm and severe. "Your Majesty?"

  The sealed letter still in hand, Corigan approached his advisor with a purposeful stride. He felt along the stamped edge of the wax seal as he spoke. "You make little disguise of your sentiments for The Lady Volfoncé."

  "She is a fine and worthy Lady, sire."

  "No doubt."

  "Do you disapprove?"

  "Nay, I..." The envelope and its contents began to command Corigan's attention. "Nay, Mooregaard. I just..."

  "Sire?"

  "Something about her gives me pause."

  Mooregaard smiled a broad, knowing smile.

  "And this amuses you?"

  "Please it your majesty to indulge your servant. But I daresay, I know what troubles you about The Lady, though she has never said but a kind or honorable word, nor done anything less than noble in your presence."

  "Pray tell, my good Lord."

  "Sire, I can tell you most assuredly that Lady Volfoncé reminds you of your mother, the queen mother, though you were of much too tender an age to remember her, before her untimely passing." At this, Mooregaard began to laugh, as though any apprehension Corigan felt had been the most childish folly.

  "Yes, yes. It is well said. She reminds me of my mother!" Corigan laughed along, albeit half-heartedly and out of pride, lest he appear insecure. Yet, this was decidedly not the reason Volfoncé distressed him so.

  Mooregaard continued to recite attributes of the deceased queen mother which ostensibly matched those of Lady Volfoncé. But Corigan's eyes floated to the envelope which he was presently opening.

  Struggling to maintain but a shred of dignity, Corigan slid his finger carefully under the seal, though he wanted nothing more than to tear the envelope open and gaze lustfully at the bare letter within.

  "...and then there is resemblance in her laugh," Mooregaard continued. "Oh, did the queen mother's laugh ever warble like the sweet music of a nightingale. So it is with that most noble of ladies, Volfoncé."

  Not heeding the troubador's account of the "fair lady Volfoncé," Corigan lifted the folds of the letter with shortened breath and pounding heart. He reveled in the self-inflicted torture of opening it slowly. Then finally, he read its contents. As usual, his dove corresponded with enigmatic terseness.

  A Fortnight, Your Highness.


  The promise of her words, the anticipation, it all made Corigan's head swim in a sea of pulsing thoughts and urges. He didn't even notice that Mooregaard was calling his name.

  "Sire!"

  "Yes, yes. What is it Mooregaard?"

  "Are you quite all right?"

  "I am, thank you. Mooregaard, I require your counsel, your...perspective."

  "As it has been with your father and mother, to serve is my honor, O my King."

  "Right. Thank you. Mooregaard, do you not think it more wise to pursue less aggressive means of conquest. Was it not Ulrogh, Malkor's prized disciple, who said, "better to win over a kingdom slowly over the years, than with bloodshed over a night?"

  The dark and tall knight rested his massive hand on Corigan's shoulder and the weight of it challenged him to stand still, lest he betray his own weakness under it. "Ah, but you extract these sayings from their true context. Ulrogh meant that in regards to economic warfare, not between two nations with an epic history of bloodshed and rivalry. Of such situations he said, "The quick spilling of royal blood, spares the manifold lives of both nations."

  Corigan recoiled and twisted his brow. "The coldness with which you recite that gives me pause. How very uncivilized and coarse."

  "Coarse, though it may be, this conflict with Tian Kuo will not soon end, nor shall it end easily. But end it must, and you must be the victor."

  Here is where Corigan held the upper hand. Here is where for once, he held his trusted advisor at a disadvantage. "My good Lord, you may find many a surprise with me. I am aware that I lack my father's physical formidability and combat prowess, but I certainly possess all the cunning of my mother, if all you have told me of her is accurate."

  "Truly?"

  "Yea, verily."

  This made Mooregaard stand just a little straighter. "How so, Your Majesty?"

  "One word." Corigan's eyes grew wickedly dim. "Collaboration."

  Mooregaard's smile hung artificially on his face. His eyes shifted to the side and back. "Surely you don't mean—"

  "My dove. You know her not, and that must remain so. But suffice it to say, she has deeper connections, as the sinew and tendons of the Tianese society, the Tianese Government. She can assure that my diplomatic overtures are met with open arms—much to the relief of her people who, she says, are battle-worn and crave and end to the perpetual hostilities of our countries."

  "Sire, I know not to whom you refer, but surely no one, no woman can—"

  "Though I value your great counsel, pray do not underestimate me."

  "I apologize, Sire."

  "No need. But let me assure you, she has influence over the monarchy of Tian Kuo, the emperor himself. They will agree to a mutual cessation of hostilities. And before their soldiers have even put their barbarian swords away, I shall fall upon them with the full force of the mighty Torian army."

  Mooregaard held his bearded chin in his hand but said not a word.

  "You doubt me?" Corigan looked to him, not so much for approval, but for validation.

  "It is not you that I doubt."

  "Fear not. She has more influence than you can imagine. I have already implemented several stages of this plan, none of which you can know of until we make our final move. The empire of the accursed East will first join us in a common goal of ridding this world of those fanatical Sojourners—with our assistance of course. And when they are celebrating our new alliance, which you and I know is about as likely to exist as a ball of snow in the desert, we shall infiltrate their capital and take it by force."

  He expected Mooregaard to congratulate him for his craftiness, his masterful strategy. But instead, Mooregaard shook his head.

  "What now?" Corigan said. "Do you not agree this is the best way?"

  "Not by my counsel, Sire. May Your Majesty be reminded that prior to your 'dove's' ascent in stature, she was—how to put it delicately—? A mere concubine."

  "What good is your counsel, anyway! You are an old fool! You sit around training young recruits to fight battles which you are too old and cowardly to fight yourself."

  "Sire, with respect..."

  "Ah! That is why you disagree. By your words, you profess a desire to spare the innocents, and only spill the blood of their wicked monarchy. But in fact, you are a coward. Yes, that's what you are, a coward!"

  Bristling at the charge, Mooregaard held his composure, drawing a tight line with his lips. Finally he said, calmly, "Please it Your Majesty, to indulge me as I speak my mind with candor."

  "It pleases My Majesty to hear nothing less than the truth!" Corigan was somewhat embarrassed at his own outburst, but too proud to let it show.

  "Admittedly, I know not who this dove of yours is. But you can see why I am skeptical about anyone wielding such influence over the monarchy of the East. They are like stone, unmovable."

  "And since when have you become such an expert at Tianese policy?"

  "As you have permitted your servant to speak freely, may I remind Your Highness that I have many years more experience dealing with—"

  "It matters not, old friend." Corigan placed his hand on Mooregaard's shoulders, unwilling to risk his friendship over something he knew Mooregaard would not dare oppose, regardless. "For all my years as king, I have trusted you."

  "I am honored."

  "And now, my dear Lord Mooregaard, trusted counselor, friend of my father and mother, I ask that you trust me."

  He held Corigan's gaze with severity. And then a smile stretched like a stream across the barren wastelands of his countenance. "You have my trust, Sire."

  "My dove will come to me soon, and all shall be set in place."

  "How soon?"

  "In a fortnight."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sir Edwyn drove forward with angry steps. Render barely managed to step out of the way. The heavyset scholar brushed by and bent down to retrieve the book and the box.

  "The key, if you please."

  Render stared, standing still as a sculpture. Words failed. His back became drenched with perspiration.

  "The key!"

  Startled, Render stood, felt his pants and pockets. Finally, he found it and handed it to his mentor.

  Sir Edwyn snatched it out of his hand. "You've no business going through my personal effects!"

  Staring at his feet, Render said, "I didn't realize—"

  "Had this been someone else's quarters, would it make ransacking and breaking open their locked belongings any more acceptable?"

  "No, but—"

  "Sir, Edwyn, please." Stewan stepped forward, his voice trembling. "It was my fault."

  Render turned an incredulous eye to him. "You had no part in this, Stew."

  "Yes, I did."

  Folen stepped forward. "If anyone is to blame, it's that idiot Branson."

  "But I provoked him," Stewan said. "In fact, since we arrived at Castle Mittelvald...Oh, bother him! For all his nasty insults, he deserved it. But yesterday, I said something about his father not caring enough to stay home to raise him. And rather than strike me, he walked away and cried, I think."

  Edwyn placed his book in the box and locked it. "I can hardly believe that."

  "It's true. So today, he repays it by leading us here and locking us in. If I hadn't been so cruel to him, none of us would be here now."

  "No," said Folen. "I am to blame. I chased the lout and made Render come with me. And I encouraged Render to open the box."

  "You are all trying to take the blame for that which is my own doing." Render put his hands on their shoulders. "I let my curiosity get the best of me, Sir Edwyn. I ignored Stewan's warnings not to touch your belongings. I alone should be punished."

  Without a word, Edwyn shoved his wrapped box under his bed, pocketed the key and went over to the library where he replaced the books that had been removed from the shelf. Render and the twins followed him and waited.

  How he wished his mentor would say something. Chide him, berate him, anything but silence. Instead, S
ir Edwyn went about tidying the library, inspecting his bedchamber.

  When he could stand it no more, Render stood directly in Sir Edwyn's path and said, "You're angry. I understand."

  "I am...disappointed."

  If there were anywhere to crawl, Render would have preferred it than to face his mentor's downcast gaze. He waited until Edwyn finished pacing around before he spoke again.

  "It shall never happen again," Render said. "I promise."

  Sire Edwyn stared and said nothing. And then, with a deep breath he sat at the desk. "Render, it would be disingenuous of me to represent myself as one who had never made a youthful blunder or indiscretion. But you must never come into my quarters again, nor attempt to read my books, without my consent."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well, then. This matter is hereby laid to rest." He stood and turned to the twins, who out of instinct stepped back. "The two of you may report to Lady Justina for your music lessons."

  They were gone before Render could bid them good day.

  "Sir Edwyn," Render said, mustering up the courage to match his curiosity. "That book—"

  Edwyn grunted in disapproval.

  "It's special isn't it?" Render's voice began to rise with excitement. "I can tell, not just because how you guard it, but because of the pictures. Mount Handara. And the words. When I read the verses of Valhandra—"

  "Quiet!" Edwyn rose to his feet and glanced over to the door which had been left ajar. He stepped over and with great care, shut it tight. "Do not ever utter that name again."

  "Valhan-"

  "I said, do not speak it."

  "But why?"

  The otherwise formidable scholar wiped the sweat from his upper lip and glanced around the room. Then out the window and then to the door.

  "Your combat exams begin in ten minutes," Edwyn said and pointed out the window. "You'll go up against one of The Lord Mooregaard's best fighters."

  "Who is Lord—? Sir Edwyn, please. Won't you tell me why the name of Valhandra—?"

  "No!" Edwyn spun around with such tension in his face, Render thought he might scream. "Now get your armor and sword. You know full well what this exam means."