Breaking the Gloaming

by J. B. Simmons

  He composed himself to face his duties. It was draining to stare deep truths in the face, and he needed to be strong for others. It was good to be back in his home.

  His quarters included three rooms, each with more space than he wanted. Years ago, when he had been elected to lead the Cathedral, he had protested the luxuries. Many of the high priests had insisted that he maintain the dignities of the position, for he might be called upon to host nobles and princes. After years of struggle, he had managed to make the space bare. He ordered the thick colorful rugs sold to fund the orphanage. The gilded framed paintings were moved. The four-post bed was donated to the city’s caretaker of widows. All he had left was a small desk, a simple dining table, a few chairs, and a straw bed. The rooms felt especially empty when there were no guests.

  When he entered the dining room, his assistant of many years, the nun Petra, stood beside the table with her hands clasped before her. A feast was spread out, smelling delicious. Yates’ stomach twisted and clenched. Petra came to him and spoke tenderly.

  “Father, you look weak. When did you last eat?” She helped him remove his cloak and took his hand to lead him to the water basin.

  “You flatter me by suggesting I otherwise look strong,” he smiled at her. “It has been a few days, but I am not so weak that I cannot wash my hands on my own.” She stood close to him as he dipped his hands into the cool, clean water.

  “Is Jon expected to arrive soon?” He asked.

  “He has been here an hour or so, Father, praying in the Cathedral’s east alcove.” She held out a towel for him to dry his hands. “Would you like me to bring him?”

  “Yes,” Yates said, but something about Petra’s behavior made him pause. “What is it, Petra?”

  She met his gaze. “Father, please let me come with you next time you visit the Mont. It is a hard journey, miles by foot and by sea. I would like to help you carry your load, draw your sails, prepare your meals.” She hesitated with her wrinkled lips pressed together. “There is little for me to do here while you are away.”

  “Thank you for being open with me, Petra. We shall see. I hardly know what I would do without you here.” Yates held out his arm to escort her. She took it and he walked her to the door. He stopped at the door and raised his hand to bless her. “May you and I always be vessels of the light, blessing the lives of each other.” Joy spread over her face as she turned to go.

  While he waited for Jon, to keep his thoughts from the food, he walked to his office and stood over his desk. Behind it was a wide window looking out on the city and the palace in the distance. The window was obscured by the stack of letters and papers before him. As Valemidas’ power grew, so did his responsibilities for the church. He had much to catch up on, but he could not let that distract him from preparing his guidance to Jon. This conversation could bear many fruits in the coming days.

  A knock at the door announced the knight’s arrival. “You may enter,” Yates said as he returned to the dining room.

  “It is a pleasure to see you, Father.” Jon bowed lightly and kissed the priest’s ring. The knight moved with the powerful grace of a panther, but his face was innocent as a boy’s.

  “And you, my dear Jon. We have shared company in the presence of two princes, but I do not think we have ever dined together, just the two of us. Come, come,” Yates gestured to the table, “let’s eat while the food is still warm.”

  The old priest nodded to Petra. She would wait just outside his quarters, leaving them alone. She already knew much of what Yates planned to ask, but no one would overhear this conversation.

  Yates took his seat and folded his hands in his lap, every instinct screaming at him to devour as much food as possible. Jon sat across from him, smiling but obviously curious about what was behind the priest’s invitation.

  Yates said a blessing over the food and took a bite of bread. His belly rejoiced as he began asking Jon casual, open-ended questions. How do you like the early autumn weather? What is new in the palace? How is Andor doing? What do you know about the Sunans? They settled into easy conversation as they ate. Their plates were clear before Yates turned to the real purpose of the meeting.

  “You are fine company,” Yates said, “and that would be reason alone to invite you here. But I confess I had specific motives for inviting you this night.”

  “I thought you might.” Jon slid his plate to the side and leaned forward. “You have always held Andor’s trust, and so you hold mine. What is it, Father?”

  “Our god, our city, and our prince need three things from you. Our city and our prince do not yet know that they need them,” Yates began. He had chosen his words carefully, beginning with the easiest task and moving to the hardest. “Are you familiar with a woman named Mailyn?” He asked.

  “Yes,” Jon said with surprise. “Why?”

  “I thought you were, and you know whose tent she shared on the march to Icaria?”

  Jon nodded.

  Yates continued in a whisper, “she carries his child.”

  Jon nodded again, this time with his eyes open wide.

  “Every child deserves a good home, a safe home. This child will be important in what is to come. This may seem improper, but I trust your discipline, Jon. Invite Mailyn to live in your quarters in the palace. Protect her there, even from the eyes of others. She does not yet show that she is with child, and no one should learn of it. Do you understand?”

  “I think so, Father, but how will I convince Mailyn this is a good idea?” Jon shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

  “She is expecting you, Jon. In fact, she is here in the Cathedral, and she will leave with you tonight. You—”

  “Why not keep her here?” Jon interrupted. “Or maybe she could stay with my mother. My apologies, Father, but it would be safer for her outside the palace. Why me?”

  Yates had expected some resistance. He hoped Jon’s reputation for obedience would hold true. “Jon, you said that I held your trust. You need to trust me. Will you do this?”

  Jon paused long enough for Yates to second-guess himself. Maybe it was too much to ask. He kept his face calm and sipped his wine, waiting.

  “Okay,” Jon finally said, “I will do as you wish.” Despite his delayed answer, his voice did not waiver in the slightest. “No one will know?”

  “No one will know. Your reputation is safe with me. Are you ready for the next task?”

  Jon took a big swig of wine, emptying the chalice. He then signaled for Yates to continue.

  “The second task involves your brother. When did you last hear from him?”

  “I have not heard anything since he sailed away with Ravien.” Something about Jon’s voice sounded sad. “I do not even know where he is. Ravien kept their destination secret, probably someplace with a white-sanded beach where they will celebrate their marriage.”

  “You are probably right.” Yates filled Jon’s chalice again. He had asked Petra to pick one of the Cathedral’s finest reds from the cellar.

  “A couple days ago,” Jon said, “I met with a Sunan merchant. My brother and I had traded with him before. The man had expected to see Wren, and he had no news about him. I suppose they are far off in the Aerith Sea now. We will not learn more until they show up in Valemidas again.”

  Yates would have to inquire further about this Sunan merchant. He suspected it was Cid, the same man he had met. But he needed to press further with Jon.

  “I think Wren and Ravien will return in a way that you do not expect.” Yates had pieced together enough of Ravien’s plan, despite her attempts to keep it hidden. “They will be with the Sunan fleet.”

  “What?” Jon demanded. “How could that be?”

  “I cannot say right now, but my guess is they will be prisoners of the Sunan leader, one way or another. This will be a hard thing for you. When they arrive, and when you first see Wren, you must restrain yourself. Do not go to him, do not welcome him, do not even smile in his direction, unless he has already arrived within our
walls safely.”

  “None of this makes sense,” Jon said with confusion. “What games are you playing, Father?”

  “This is not a game, and I am sorry that I cannot say more. Here is what I can say: you can save your brother, and can very well save our city and our prince, if you perform this task. It will make more sense in light of the final task. Come, I want to show you something.”

  Yates stood and Jon followed him into his office, to the window overlooking the city.

  “You know by now of the Sunans’ plan to invade?”

  “Yes, Father,” Jon answered.

  “I believe that, if pride and mistrust prevail, our city will be destroyed and a new prince will sit in that palace.” Yates gazed out the window at the palace’s thin towers. They loomed like daggers in the moonlight. “We may also have another traitor in our midst. I am still puzzling out who it is, but we can overcome these threats. If we humbly engage the Sunan proposals and we do not let the thirst for war drive us, there is a way to save thousands of lives and win the war. My fear is that the advisors around Andor, the ones who cram his waking hours with duties, they are filling his mind with hawkish appetites for conquest. Some say we can rout the Sunans and sail out to seize their lands.”

  The priest turned to Jon. The man was so young, like a valiant knight from a fairytale. His straight hair looked almost silver. Yates was pinning many hopes on this man. “The voice of a priest is drowned out in times of war,” he said. “I need you to be my voice to Andor. I will have other messages, but this first one is the most important. You must plant an idea in Andor’s mind, without anyone else knowing of it. All you have to do, whenever the moment is right, is tell him what this note says, as close to its words as you can.”

  Yates pulled a rolled note from his robe and pressed it into Jon’s hand. “You must say the message as if it were your own, with no hint that it is from me.”

  “I do not understand,” Jon said. “Why can you not deliver the message yourself, or through someone else?”

  “I cannot go to Andor, not yet,” Yates answered. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you my reasons, but you must believe me.” The priest followed Jon’s gaze out the window. “What do you see in the skyline, growing up below the palace?”

  “The tree?” Jon guessed.

  “Yes, the great white tree. I foresee troubling things below its limbs, but I also foresee opportunity in those limbs’ long morning shadow. The opportunity is a fight. Not a battle in a war, but a duel to end the war, a duel to bring us peace and allow the Sunans to return in peace, with brighter opportunities on their horizon. You must fight for us, Jon.” Yates’s words came out like a plea. “You must use your physical strength. Read the note now. You will begin to understand.”

  Jon uncurled the thin parchment and said the words aloud.

  “The Lycurgus could defeat the Sunans under your leadership, my prince. The Lycurgus of Tryst, the Lycurgus of tyranny, and its leaders will then push to conquer Sunan. But this will mean the deaths of many thousands. Soldiers and innocents alike. Why not have a fight of each force’s best? This will be a fight to end the war, to bring peace. I will stand beside you, my prince, and our victory will be the dam that stops the horrors of war from bursting forth.”

  Silence hung in the cool air after Jon finished reading. He gazed out the window again, his face solemn. He eventually asked Yates, “You think this will work?”

  Yates nodded with more confidence than he felt. He lifted his hand over Jon’s head. “May you be a vessel of power and light. May you help Andor win this war before it truly starts.”

  In that moment, though the old priest would never know it, his face shined brighter than the moon.

  Chapter 7

  PERILS OF A FOREIGN LAND

  “It is perfectly true, as philosophers say,

  that life must be understood backwards.

  But they forget the other proposition,

  that it must be lived forwards.”

  “Thank god for land.” Wren took two firm steps on the dock. “How many blessed days until we return to the ship?” Men were unloading the merchant vessel behind them, in the harbor of the sprawling city of Sunan.

  “Seven days.” Ravien was pleased to see her husband’s playful wit returning. She had feared he spilled it all out, along with the rest of his insides, over the month at sea. The huge waves had not gone over well, nor would they aid the Sunan fleet anchored in the harbor when it sailed for Valemidas.

  “We have seven days,” she continued, “to find Malam or Ilias, royal priests to his Excellency, to deliver this package.” She patted the sack over her shoulder. “And seven days to purchase your dyes and spices. If it takes more than seven days,” she grabbed his waist, “I may have to drag you back in this sack.” She laughed, one of her rare, real laughs. A chorus of gulls echoed the sound.

  “That might be worth a try.” He smiled, his face still a little pale and green. “The way back may take twice as long, with the wind against us. I would rather live in your sack than put my stomach through that misery again. The last time I was here, many years ago, I vowed to never return. I broke that vow for you, but not again. We also seem to be the only vessel from Valemidas here. All these Sunan vessels are anchored and look empty. The ban on trade has left its mark.” He winked at her. “Good thing I have connections, eh?”

  “I did not marry you just for your looks.” Ravien ran a hand through his hair.

  “My gold could not have bought anything finer,” he answered, holding her gaze. Then he looked away, toward the surrounding city. “Are we still planning to ride straight to the royal quarter like diplomats? How about just one night in a nice inn? You can pretend to be a wealthy merchant’s trophy, his lady for the night.” He dipped her low, as if he were the one leading their dance.

  “One of us will need to play the trophy, my dear. A man earns that status with his money, as much as by his looks. You serve well on both counts. Come on.” She pulled him to walk along the dock toward a crowd of Sunans near the shore. “We need to find that man you arranged to escort us.”

  She had told Wren enough to make the voyage believable, but had held back the core mission—sealed in her pact with Sebastian and Justus. Marriage was not supposed to start with secrets, but this was no ideal world. At least she had lived up to her promise to never lie to him, so far. She admired his penetrating mind. It made her work hard to walk the boundaries of the truth without slipping into falsehoods. Growing up with Tryst and in the noble court, she had learned long ago how to stay in men’s confidences without them ever knowing her true purposes. She would need all that training here in Sunan.

  “Master Wren!” A rotund, bald man pressed his way toward them along the harbor’s edge. “Welcome to Sunan! Last time I saw you, you said we’d never meet again. I knew you would be proven wrong.” Laughter rumbled up from his huge belly and flowed out of his mouth like the grey beard down his chest.

  He looked at Ravien then, and his laughter stopped. “And last time I saw you, a lighter, fairer woman was on your arm, though I admit she lacked this one’s beauty.” He winked at Wren.

  “You’ve said enough!” Wren boxed at him in jest. “It is good to see you again. Ravien, this is Balnor, one of his Excellency’s nine royal merchants, charged with governing trade in Sunan. I call him Ball. He talks more than he travels, and cheats more than he talks. Ball, this is Ravien, my wife.”

  “Your wife!” Ball exclaimed. “The great trader, golden empire builder, spice dealer, Wren Sterling has taken on a wife? And only one?”

  He looked at Ravien again, this time with genuine curiosity and a bow. “I have heard of a lady named Ravien. She is the sister of the new Prince of Valemidas. People say she hides in the shadows, moves like an assassin, and seduces men into devious acts rewarded by the grave.” He stepped back and appraised her with a grin.

  “This wife of Wren’s could not be her. No, you are too refined, too graceful, and too pleasant for my
eyes.” He scanned the length of her body. She wore a slim, purple dress that Wren had given to her. It was comfortable for the warm sea air, but not in keeping with the Sunan women’s practice of revealing nothing but their eyes. Married or not, Ravien had resolved to continue to use her looks to set men on edge.

  “Well met, Balnor,” Ravien said. With her left hand, she tossed a dagger high into the air. Ball’s eyes followed the gleaming blade up and down. She caught it and flung it in one motion, whizzing past his ear and plunging into a wooden carriage at the end of the dock. “You will be guiding us to the king’s palace in that carriage, yes?”

  Ball’s jaw hung open as his head swiveled back to Ravien. He smoothed his face and closed his mouth into a serious, knowing smile. “Impressive, Ravien, or shall I call you princess?”

  “Ravien will do,” Wren interrupted. He pointed to the dock behind them. “Those six crates with black ravens on them are coming with us. We will speak more, Ball, but for now accept my thanks. There is no one I would rather welcome us to Sunan.”

  “You are quite welcome.” Ball bowed again, keeping his eyes on Ravien. “The carriage is ours, and my men will load it.” He gestured toward four bare-chested men standing near the carriage and said something in the Sunan tongue. He said more than seemed necessary to simply order the loading of boxes.

  He turned back to Ravien and Wren. “Follow me.” He waddled away, leading them toward the end of the dock. The carriage was painted black and had sheer ivory silks for walls. Two horses were in reins at the front. Sweat dripped from the driver’s temples, out of the tightly wrapped cloth covering his head. He grinned and blinked his one eye at the newcomers.

  Ravien stepped into the carriage first, keeping her sack with her. Wren entered next, while Ball stood just outside, barking commands Ravien could not understand.

  “I do not like him,” Ravien whispered. “He talks too much, and his smile is fake. Our carriage driver looked too happy to see us. Something is wrong here.” She pointed toward the front of the carriage.