Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  “Where is Uncle?”

  “I don’t recall you being a particularly chatty elf. Come, we are near.”

  Their small entourage grew to six as they entered the clearing of Uncle’s camp. Chamack offered to take the horses when they dismounted.

  “Where is Uncle?” Seanchai asked a gray-haired elfe.

  “Go to the fire pit and eat,” the elfe replied, her voice high, “I will call him.”

  They had hardly sat when an unusually large elf approached with two plates of food. “Aah, Sellia, my beauty,” he said. “You never could be bothered to eat at meal times.”

  “Is this fresh, Dvural?” she responded. “Or leftovers from last time I was here?”

  “If it was still from back then, it would have sprouted legs and walked to you unaided,” came the retort.

  They both laughed and hugged awkwardly, careful not to spill the food. Sellia took a plate, but Seanchai shook his head. When Dvural tried to insist, the Wycaan rose and walked away.

  “You were too honest with him about my cooking, I fear,” Dvural said, but this time his laughter was muted.

  Seanchai had his back to them, but was sure an unspoken conversation was taking place behind him. He walked further away from them, but turned as he heard Uncle’s gruff voice to his left.

  “You come alone?” The huge elf demanded, thick, hairy arms protruding from the short sleeves of a green shirt.

  “N-no Uncle,” Seanchai replied. “Sellia is with me.”

  There was silence as Uncle stared into Seanchai’s eyes. He sighed deeply, and then said almost in a whisper: “Walk with me.”

  Uncle turned around and strode off. Seanchai followed, but since the big man made no attempt to wait for him, he kept his distance. They climbed a steady slope for a long time. Uncle’s pace never faltered, but rather quickened. They broke from the forest, and Seanchai saw Uncle now running up to a peak. When Seanchai met him at the summit, he heard a sound that tore his heart. Uncle was sobbing. This bull of an elf, this brave and fierce leader, was absolutely crushed.

  Seanchai sat down about twenty hands from him and gave Uncle his space. He peered across the vista where the plains unfolded from the base of the mountain. He could see the outskirts of Morthian Wood, his home. His realized his village was but a few days at a fast pace.

  It would be easy to stand up, run down the mountain, and keep running until he was home and safe. Safe? He snorted to himself. He would not be safe ever again. Was his village even standing, or had the Emperor razed it to the ground as a punishment? Perhaps his parents were still alive. Perhaps they sat at night by the fire, wondering if their son had somehow survived.

  Even if they were alive, Seanchai thought, the village was no longer his home. The only homes he had known as a Wycaan were with Mhari, and in the arms of his beloved Ilana. As Ilana’s face filled his mind, he buried his face in his arms and wept silently.

  “Seanchai.”

  The elf started as he raised his head and peered into Uncle’s red eyes. Seanchai had not heard him approach. They stared at each other, and then Uncle spoke.

  “Tell me everything. Tell me how it was between you. Leave nothing out, even how she died.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ahad had to wait through a very long week. He had gone to see the Emperor’s clerk, who promised to pass on the request for an audience. From the Crown Prince, he learned that the Emperor was still abroad, and so he refocused on his studies and the impending assassin’s exams.

  His training with Lord Hervarty had been intense. He understood the Assassins Master had objected to training him because he deemed Ahad mentally unsuitable. The Emperor had instructed Lord Hervarty to not only allow Ahad into the assassin’s academy, but to personally train him and condense his training into one year.

  Phineus had told Ahad that Lord Hervarty was furious. He had never been ordered to take a student, much less to compound that student’s studies into a third of the normal time.

  “You have never taught a student so smart, so talented, and so bent on succeeding,” the Emperor had apparently replied.

  The Assassins Master had piled on the studies, always pushing the boy, testing him, and very early on, had sent him on simple but increasingly deadly missions.

  The other students kept away from Ahad. He was favored, had come from the palace, and, most of all, was a scarily brilliant student. Many of those who were already two years ahead of him watched as Ahad devoured their lessons, mastered their exercises, and then came back demanding more.

  He had learned many weapons, including the miniature crossbow and how to fit a variety of poisons to the tips. He learned to use different throwing knives and discs. He excelled in stealth and strategy to such an extent that even his teacher was stretched to outthink him.

  And so it was that Ahad found himself summoned to an audience with the Emperor just a week before his graduation. He bathed and wore his freshly washed assassin’s apprentice clothes–brown cloak, shirt, trousers, and boots. When he graduated, he would wear black, the color of a master.

  He waited for the Emperor in the antechamber, recalling how he had sat here not so long ago, squirming with fear. Now he was calm, even if apprehensive. This time his father was dead and he was a resident of the royal palace. Ahad could not wait to be dismissed–to leave and kill those responsible for killing his father. He was ready.

  As the Emperor held his audiences from behind a veil, Ahad was aware that the Emperor was present, but had no way to distinguish how the Emperor looked. He had seen his ruler only once, when the Emperor had revealed his Wycaan heritage.

  The Emperor’s clerk came into the antechamber and bowed formally. “Are you well, Master Ahad?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I hear good news about your training. You follow in the footsteps of your father. He would have been proud of you.”

  Ahad did not answer. As often happened, he felt a well of anger and noticed the clerk smile. This had all been planned, a warning perhaps. A bell rang.

  “Come. The Emperor of Odessiya awaits.”

  Ahad walked into the room and bowed in front of the veil. He could see silhouettes of figures scurrying about. A wave of a hand from the throne emptied the room. When the last servant had left, the Emperor spoke.

  “Open the veil, Ahad. You may look upon me.”

  As he pulled the heavy material back, Ahad gasped. The Emperor’s skin was smooth and his hair a shiny white. He looked twenty years younger and seemed to be glowing with health. He was also smiling.

  “What can you tell me of my son’s studies? Come sit here and report.” The Emperor signaled to a stool considerably lower than the throne.

  “My lord, what does he tell you?”

  “Aah. We are both equally curious. He is happy in your company. But I need to know whether he is mastering the basic knowledge that the ruler of Odessiya requires to hold court and make sound decisions.”

  “He would probably not excel in academic tests in the traditional sense. But he is smart, my lord, and he understands his destiny.”

  “How, then, should we test him? How do I know what you say is right?”

  Ahad thought for a moment, unsure how his answer would be received. He took a deep breath.

  “My lord. You should engage him in conversation and maybe involve him in ruling.”

  The ruler of Odessiya stared at Ahad, contemplating deeply.

  “You know what you are saying?” he said after a few moments.

  “I do, my lord. Am I so remiss?”

  “Not as long as you remember your position. But I wonder: whose best interests do you serve?”

  Now it was Ahad’s turn to ponder. “Can I not serve both of you?”

  “As long as it remains in the interests of our empire. Do you serve us both in the same way?”

  “No, my lord. I serve you out of duty and privilege.”

  “And my son?”

  Ahad didn’t answer.

&n
bsp; “And my son?” the Emperor repeated more emphatically.

  Ahad looked up. “Out of loyalty and friendship, my lord.”

  “I applaud your honesty, though I question your strategy.”

  “I am sworn to tell you the truth, my lord, and in that alone lies my strategy.”

  The Emperor smiled. “And what is your strategy regarding my son after you graduate?”

  “My lord?”

  “I know about my brother and his little group that included your father. I believe my son might think to follow in his footsteps.”

  Ahad tried to conceal his surprise. “Would it not be strategic for him to bind the best of his generation to him?”

  “A bit young, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ahad’s voice went icy. “And the elf, my lord? And Shayth?”

  The Emperor nodded and sighed. “Would you, in my place, send the Crown Prince of Odessiya to take up arms against a Wycaan or Shayth?”

  “I would not, my lord. You told me that only you can defeat the Wycaan, and you know I live only to kill your nephew. Shayth murdered my father. He will die by my hand.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Move back and draw the veil between us,” the Emperor said.

  When Ahad was again seated, the Emperor rang a bell. An attendant brought a ceramic pot of steaming tea. The Emperor ordered a second cup.

  “Rejoin me, Ahad,” the Emperor said after they were again alone. “Drink with me.”

  Ahad returned and took the cup from the tray. He waited for his liege to drink first and shuddered at the bitter taste. The Emperor laughed, not unkindly.

  “This is dangseng root. It is a rare plant that I have an army of herbalists foraging for all over Odessiya. A Wycaan drinks it to build his strength and facilitate the flow of energy between the earth and himself.”

  “I know little of the way of Wycaans,” Ahad replied when the silence suggested he was expected to respond. “I remember all the children’s stories, of course, but. . .” he swallowed hard. “My lord? Can you not train me to be a Wycaan? I can then fight and kill the elf for you.”

  “Children’s stories,” the Emperor nodded, giving no indication that he had heard the question. “Ahad, bring the book that sits on the table there. Keep the page open and read to me exactly what you see.”

  Ahad moved to the table and, though this book was beautifully bound and the pages gilt-edged in gold, he recognized the story and illustrations.

  “I had a copy of this in my nursery,” he said quietly. “My father would read it to me when he was home.”

  “Which was not often,” the Emperor replied. “That was my fault, I’m afraid. I would apologize, but he was my best general. I am only sorry you did not spend more time with him. Please read.”

  Ahad looked down at the open page. “I call out to the Wind Spirit. Wind Spirit, where are you?”

  “Is that what you see, Ahad? Wind Spirit?”

  “Yes, my lord. That is the story.”

  “Thank you. Please return the book to the table and sit with me again.”

  Ahad returned, puzzled, but did not question the instruction. The Emperor sipped his tea and thought.

  “Would that I could train you, Ahad, but it cannot be so. No one knows for certain why one man is called to become a Wycaan and another passed over. Even the son of a Wycaan is not necessarily destined to become one, my own heir included.”

  “Might I request something else?” Ahad felt emboldened. The Emperor nodded, and Ahad cleared his throat. “Give me leave after the graduation. Let me seek out Shayth and the elf. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  “You will go as soon as the next batch of information arrives, assuming you pass your exams. I do not want you gallivanting around the empire needlessly.”

  “Thank you. When we last spoke, you told me that when I find him–the elf, I mean–I’ll be able to summon you. How?”

  The Emperor leaned over and picked up a small wooden box. It was intricately carved dark wood. “What do you know of the dwarves, Ahad?”

  “They mine. We buy their ores and gold. They live underground in clans. Is this where Shayth and the Wycaan are?”

  “I am unsure,” the Emperor replied. “They were, but now I think they might have gone. I am fairly certain that the Wycaan has left Hothengold, their capital. Dwarves mine not only gold, but also powerful stones. These stones are imbued with the earth magic that the dwarves use. They can be very effective.”

  He offered Ahad the box, and the lad opened it, surprised as he withdrew a smooth, dull stone on a worn leather cord.

  “I could have made it more ornate,” the Emperor said, as though reading Ahad’s thoughts, “but I would rather someone overlook it if they ever waylaid you.”

  Ahad nodded. “Very wise. How do I call you, my lord?”

  “You will take it in a closed fist. The stone will read your intent and do the work. Now, return to your studies.”

  Ahad stood and bowed. He began to withdraw, but stopped. “My Emperor? May I ask one last boon?”

  “He will be well looked after, Ahad. As long as your grandfather lives, he will have a home in my palace. But you should go to him and share your news.”

  Ahad bowed low. “I appreciate everything you do for me and my family.”

  “You are the son of the great General Tarlach. Your grandfather and great grandfather both served my father with distinction. You have nothing to thank me for. But serve me well, Ahad. That is all an Emperor can ask for in return.”

  Ahad wrapped his hand around his grandfather’s withered fingers, steadying the cup at the old man’s mouth. His grandfather slurped, and some of the wine spilt down his face. Ahad tenderly wiped it away.

  “I’m so sad,” the old man muttered after a while.

  “You know I must go, grandfather. My life cannot move on until I have avenged my father.”

  His grandfather nodded. “Would that I could stand by your side; that the long swords of three generations of the House of Tarlach could. . .” Ahad saw the old man’s lips quiver. “Three generations no more. Better you leave me to fall into the mists of my mind, where my dreams are not incarcerated like my body. Oh, Ahad, I am sad because you will remember me like this, and not as the general I was.

  “I led many campaigns throughout Odessiya, often against an enemy that boasted greater numbers. Only the Swords Master could defeat me with the sword, and I made him sweat heavily for the privilege.

  “Your father, my son, was the greatest of generals. Still, his genes came from my loins.” The old man closed his eyes and, after a few minutes, Ahad rose quietly to leave, thinking his grandfather had fallen asleep.

  “Ahad.” The old man’s loud, authoritative voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see the old man summoning all his strength to rise and stand straight. His emaciated body shook from the effort, and his face grimaced with pain. “Stand in front of me.”

  Ahad returned and stood in front of his grandfather. They were now the same height.

  “You have a weakness, Ahad. I see it. You are not a cold killer like Shayth. You are driven by hate and revenge, but it has not consumed you, and it should not. Recognize this as your weakness. Shayth will see it and try to exploit it. You must hide it well.”

  “I will, grandfather,” Ahad said, and they hugged.

  Through blurred vision, Ahad looked upon his grandfather one last time. The old man, teeth gritted, stood even straighter, every ounce of energy pouring into the effort. He pointed to his shield and sword hanging on the wall.

  “Bring me my sword.”

  Ahad did, and his grandfather slowly drew it, rasping, from its scabbard. He held it up, the jeweled hilt glittering in the light of the torches while the blade shook in his grasp.

  “Yes, I am your grandfather,” he said, his voice began softly, but then it hardened. “But I am also a general in the service of the Emperor of Odessiya until the day I die. Show me respect by remembering me this way.”

/>   Ahad’s fist moved across his chest and rested on his heart. The last living General Tarlach stood to attention and raised his sword. His withered fist moved the hilt to his chest. Ahad saw that it no longer shook. He stared and nodded. This is how he would remember his grandfather.

  He turned and left the chambers of the great General Tarlach, his grandfather, for the last time. He did not, could not, look back.

  Chapter Ten

  When Sellia awoke, she felt a brief wave of contentment. She could hear the familiar calls of her friends, the only real family she had ever known. She could smell Dvural’s oatmeal gruel that she had eaten every morning of her childhood, and yet, today, it felt as if she was smelling it for the first time.

  She looked up from her bedding and stared at the canopy of leaves quivering gently in the soft wind and sunlight. A deep sigh escaped her lips. She wanted to remember and treasure this moment.

  She turned to see if Seanchai was awake, remembering that he had sat up late with Uncle and probably wouldn’t appreciate her contentment. Seanchai wasn’t there. He was probably doing his exercises somewhere. She rose and stretched her body, curving it first one way and then the other.

  It was still chilly, and she put her cloak around herself. Seanchai’s cloak was missing. So was his bedroll. She turned sharply and scanned the eating area. When she caught Uncle’s eyes, he looked away, and she knew.

  She ran to where the horses were corralled. This resistance cell kept only a few for emergencies, and she quickly saw that two of the four horses they had ridden in with were gone. Her temper rose and she turned, sprinting back to the eating area.

  Uncle was staring into his bowl. Elves and men sat around him in deferential silence. Their leader was grieving, and though many owed him their lives, they had nothing to offer at this moment except their presence. And there were many too who shared his grief for the playful calhei who had grown up among them.