The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Tobias and Kenders drew even with the footman first and nodded quiet hellos to Boah and Tiliah. Jak arrived a moment later, offered a forced smile to them both, yet turned to the captain to speak.

  “The duchess sends her good wishes, Captain Lette.”

  The soldier—who had been staring curiously at Tobias—lifted his gaze to Jak’s face. In a bland, emotionless voice, he said, “Thank you, Corporal.”

  Jak waited for the man to say more, but he did not. The duchess had assured Jak that what Captain Lette lacked in charisma, he made up for in efficiency.

  Looking to Boah, Jak asked, “Is this your tent, then?”

  With a modest shrug, Boah said, “It’s where I’m at from before sunrise to past sunset, if that’s what you’re asking. I sleep under the stars like the rest of us, though.”

  Nodding to the tent entrance, Jak asked, “May we step inside?”

  “Of course,” said Boah, stepping aside. “Please.”

  Jak motioned for Tobias and Kenders to enter first. The tomble deferred to Kenders, and after a moment, she stepped forward. Tiliah stared hard at her as she moved past, but Kenders did not meet her gaze.

  Steeling himself, Jak asked, “Tiliah, will you join us as well?”

  The furrow in her brow deepened.

  Quickly shifting his gaze to Boah, Jak added, “Can you send for Zecus’ mother, please?”

  Boah flinched as though someone had started to throw a punch at him. He glanced at Tiliah, nodded quickly, and said, “I’ll fetch her myself.”

  “What’s wrong?” pressed Tiliah, her voice turning hard. “If something happened, I want to know now.”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” said Jak quietly. “I promise.” He nodded to the tent. “Inside.”

  Tiliah stared back in the direction from where they had come.

  “Where’s Zecus? He promised to come as soon as he could after the battle.”

  Jak’s heart felt as if it was being squeezed by an oligurt’s fist.

  “Please, Tiliah,” he muttered.

  Tiliah lingered a moment longer, shot a questioning glance to Tobias, but remained silent as she turned and stepped back into the tent. Tobias let out a heavy sigh and followed, leaving Jak alone with the two soldiers and Boah.

  Captain Lette asked, “Am I right in assuming this meeting has little to do with the camp’s organization, Corporal?”

  Without taking his gaze from the slit of the tent flaps, Jak murmured, “You are, sir.”

  “Then I’ll leave you alone,” said the captain. “Footman, you’re with me.” He moved away, toward one of the other tents. Footman Bienne followed.

  Jak looked to Boah.

  “Go, Boah. Debrah only, not the children.”

  The skin around Boah’s eyes tightened. He nodded in silence, turned, and jogged away. All alone now, Jak stared at the entrance for a long moment before stepping forward. Slipping a hand between the canvas flaps, he slid one to the side and moved into the darkened interior.

  The grass inside had been trampled to the point where Jak could see dirt. The air was warmer in here than outside, laden heavy with both moisture and tension. Two small flaps in the canvas ceiling were pulled back, letting in two sunbeams that lit the square table and three chairs that sat in the middle of the tent. Tiliah and Kenders already occupied two of the seats, the third stood empty. Not seeing Tobias, Jak looked around and found the tomble standing in the corner to his left, his eyes cast downward.

  Jak moved to stand beside his sister and placed a hand on her shoulder. Kenders reached up, grabbed it with one of her own, and squeezed so tight that Jak wondered if a bit of Horum’s gift of strength had slipped into her blood along with Gaena’s.

  Tiliah stared at their clasped hands a moment, looked to Kenders face, then lifted to Jak’s before speaking, her voice firm and demanding.

  “One of you had better start talking. Soon.”

  Jak muttered, “We should—”

  “Talk,” ordered Tiliah. “Now.”

  He was determined to wait for Debrah. He did not want to have to go through this once with Tiliah and then a second time with her mother. Yet the stubborn, demanding glare from Tiliah told him she would not stop asking until he started answering. Therefore, he decided to talk, just not about why they were here.

  “What have you heard about the battle so far?”

  Tiliah shook her head.

  “Nothing much. Only that we won.”

  A quiet, cynical huff slipped from Tobias. “Won?” repeated the tomble. “We did not win. We were duped.”

  Tiliah stared back to the corner and asked, “What does that mean?”

  Jak took a deep breath and exhaled before saying, “I’ll do my best to explain.”

  He launched into a long tale about the battle, starting with the very first howl of the mongrels. Occasionally, Tobias would interject to add something that Jak left out. Kenders remained silent.

  Jak was describing the intense fighting around the two ports when Boah arrived with Debrah. After quiet, subdued hellos were exchanged, Tiliah’s mother sat in the remaining open chair, opposite her daughter, while Boah moved to the other side of the table to stand across from Jak and Kenders. Once everyone was settled, Jak resumed his story, telling them of Nikalys’ return to the soldiers’ ring and Okollu’s mad charge from the port. After a long pause and deep breath, he then began to describe the resulting battle with the demon Baaldòk.

  “So, there we stood, staring at this blasted horned thing. Nikalys told me and Rhohn to go—”

  “Rhohn?” interrupted Tiliah. Her eyes brightened. “Rhohn was with you?”

  Looking to Tiliah, he paused before answering. This was not going to be easy.

  “Yes. He and the Dust Men had come from Kenders’ tower.”

  Her eyebrows raised a fraction.

  “You’re saying Rhohn helped you kill a demon?”

  When Jak hesitated, Kenders squeezed the hand he still had on her shoulder. In a voice that wavered only slightly, she said, “Let me, Jak.”

  Jak looked down to his sister. He did not have a clear view of her face, but what he could see revealed a determined woman. Nodding, he said, “All right.”

  Facing Tiliah, Kenders said, “Rhohn not only helped kill the demon, he saved my brother’s life. Nikalys would be dead if it were not for Rhohn’s actions.” She paused a moment before continuing. “But in—” She stopped again, her voice catching as the words stuck in her throat. As Jak squeezed her shoulder, she tried again. “But in saving Nikalys’ life, Rhohn lost his.”

  Up to now, Jak’s experiences with death had been direct. His parents. The soldiers on Shorn Rise. The mage at the enclave. The countless dead in Demetus. While handling it never got easier—rather it seemed to be getting harder—he decided then and there while standing in the stuffy tent and watching Tiliah’s face fall as a bit of her withered away forever, that he much preferred it over this. This was infinitely worse.

  “He’s…dead?”

  “Yes,” murmured Kenders. “I’m sorry.”

  Tiliah’s gaze shifted to the table’s center, her eyes unfocused and distant. Debrah stood from her chair, scooted around Boah, and bent to a knee, throwing her arms around her daughter and murmuring quiet words of consolation. Boah looked on, an expression of sympathy mixing with sorrow on his face.

  “I am sorry,” said the Borderlander. “From everything you’ve told us, Rhohn was a good man.”

  Tiliah did not respond at all. Her face was blank.

  A long silence stretched out, filling the tent.

  After a time, Debrah looked up to Kenders and said, “You honor us by coming and telling us yourself. You did not have to do so. Surely, Zecus would have told us later.”

  The knot in Jak’s stomach twisted even tighter.

  He could not see Kenders’ reaction to Debrah’s words, but whatever it was prompted an anxious, worried expression to wash over the Alsher matriarch’s face.


  “What?” muttered Debrah. “What’s wrong?”

  When Kenders remained silent, Debrah’s gaze shot to Jak.

  “Where’s Zecus? Why isn’t he here?”

  Tiliah finally pulled her dead-eyed stare from the table and looked up. Jak wondered how much more sorrow the young woman could take. He was about to find out. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and spoke, trying his best to keep his own voice from wavering.

  “Zecus was last seen with Sergeant Trell, chasing after a group of retreating oligurts.”

  Debrah’s eyes grew wide, her lips parted as she took in a quick breath. Jak pressed on.

  “Most of their group was found in the woods, dead.”

  Debrah began shaking her head, muttering, “No, no, no…”

  “However,” continued Jak quickly. “Neither Zecus nor the sergeant were there.”

  While reaching out to comfort her mother, Tiliah asked, “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Jak honestly. “In the past two days, we’ve managed to recover and account for all of the Manes who lost their lives, and neither of them is among the dead. They are simply missing.”

  A flicker of hope danced in both women’s eyes.

  “Then Zecus might be alive?” asked Tiliah.

  Jak swallowed his initial response that it seemed unlikely, but before he could summon a brighter answer, Kenders spoke, her voice thick and heavy.

  “We can only hope, Tiliah.”

  She dropped her head to stare at her lap.

  “We have to hope.”

  Chapter 60: Aftermath

  The pair of servants exited the great hall, gently shutting the pinewood doors behind them. A low thud echoed through the cavernous hall, a sound everyone clearly heard. Only one individual in the room heard the soft click that followed as the handles engaged, though.

  Sighing, Broedi pulled his gaze from the double doors and ran it along the walls and the few dozen torches that now lit the hall. Night was near and the room had grown dim. Broedi had offered to light the torches for the duke, but Rholeb insisted on having his servants do so. The sovereign did so with diplomatic grace, but the uneasy quiver in his voice was noticeable if one was listening for it, which Broedi was doing. It seemed that even though magic had helped save his city, the nobleman’s distrust of the Strands remained.

  The duke’s misgivings did not bother Broedi. Glaciers did not melt overnight.

  The room remained quiet long after the doors shut with everyone lost in his or her own thoughts, the battle still much too fresh in their mind. There were plenty of things to discuss, but not yet. Not until everyone who needed to be here was.

  Other than a creak of a chair or quiet sigh, the only sound within the hall was the Drept’s mournful baying that drifted through the great arched windows lining the northern wall. A number of the colored glass plates sat propped open to allow the cool evening air to wander through the hall.

  “Gods, how long are they going to keep that up?”

  Broedi looked up, staring at the asker of the question. Duke Rholeb rested in the Sovereign’s Chair, his head tilted back against the thin, dark green cushion back, his gaze fixed on the pine-timber ceiling. Dropping his chin a bit, he stared out the windows.

  “They’ve been at it for almost two days.”

  Broedi rumbled, “If I recall, my Lord, Grif Rol lasts for three.”

  “That is correct,” murmured Khin. The aicenai stood beside one of the open windows, staring into the city.

  Duke Rholeb sat a little straighter, a frown quickly spreading over his face.

  “You mean that will go on for another day?”

  Duchess Aleece, sitting to the duke’s left, glanced over and said, “They deserve our patience, Rholeb.”

  “I know,” muttered the duke. “I simply would like some sleep.”

  Seated in one of the many chairs haphazardly arranged before the two sovereigns, Jak offered, “Perhaps you could ask Okollu if they might howl a little quieter?” The young man’s eyes had been closed for so long that Broedi had thought him asleep. “I expect he’d be happy to accommodate your request.”

  With a flicker of hope on his face and in his voice, Duke Rholeb asked, “Do you think he might?”

  A tiny smile tickled the corner of Jak’s mouth.

  “Gods, no. I already tried. The mon—ah…pardon me, the kur-surus was, shall we say, ‘not amiable to my request.’ Although he might be more open if the request came from someone more important?”

  “So he will listen to me then?” asked Duke Rholeb.

  “Begging your pardon, my Lord,” said Jak. Cracking an eye, he rolled his head over to look at Nikalys. “But I was thinking of someone more important to Okollu’s pack.”

  Nikalys sat in another chair, his right elbow propped on an armrest, holding his chin in hand. He had chosen a seat at the group’s edge, furthest away from the windows and the last light of day. Staring at the flagstone floor, his face blank and his mind clearly elsewhere, he muttered, “No, Jak.”

  Broedi frowned slightly. Nikalys sounded thrice as tired as he looked.

  Jak shifted his gaze from Nikalys to the pair of tombles sitting beside one another. Tobias appeared relaxed in his seat, his walking stick leaning against his chair. He had his eyes closed as well. Nundle was on Tobias’ right, his mass of red hair glowing in the torchlight. The tomble had lost his hat during the battle and had not yet found a replacement.

  The slight, weary smile on Jak’s face spread a little wider.

  “In that case, I nominate Nundle.”

  The tomble’s head snapped up.

  “You what?”

  Jak nodded in the direction of the windows.

  “I think you should be the one to ask Okollu and his pack to quiet down.”

  Nundle’s green eyes went round.

  “Are you mad? How could you possibly think that would be a good idea?”

  “Oh, I don’t,” answered Jak. “I was merely jesting.”

  Relief quickly spread over Nundle’s face, followed a moment later by a good-natured glare in Jak’s direction.

  “I hope a hundred fire ants crawl into your underbreeches tonight.”

  A quiet laughter, welcome by most, rippled through the room. Broedi was glad to see smiles again. There had been too few in recent days. He turned his gaze to Kenders. Sabine sat beside her, holding her hand, patting it lightly. Broedi had hoped Nundle’s quip might summon even a slight smile to Kenders’ face. It did not.

  Broedi shook his head, torn. He should chastise her for her reckless actions atop the tower. She still did not grasp how serious it was to give herself over to Gaena’s gift. There was a terminal limit to her ability. However, now was not the time for sharp words. She was grieving. And as much as he wanted to comfort her, he had remained distant. She—like Nikalys—needed to learn the harsh truth of war. People died.

  He shifted his gaze to Nikalys. The young man had fully recovered from his injuries. Broedi had been wondering if the gift of immortality given to the White Lions by Sarphia had passed to the Progeny, and Nikalys’ condition seemed to indicate that was the case.

  Nikalys sat in silence, undoubtedly brooding over the lives he had taken, just as Aryn had always done. Unlike after the Battle of Shorn Rise, however, Broedi chose to leave Nikalys alone. Wren was right. Broedi could not hold their hands. The Progeny needed to grow up.

  Sensing Broedi’s stare, Nikalys lifted his head and held the hillman’s gaze. Torchlight glinted in the young man’s brown eyes, along with the same sort of agony Broedi had seen far too often in Aryn’s stare. Leaving the young man alone for now, Broedi looked away.

  Wren, the final member of their small assembly sat in his chair, stroking his hair, a frown on his face. The tijul met Broedi’s gaze, gave a quick, disdainful shake of his head, and looked away. Broedi guessed it was taking all of Wren’s self-control not to snap at them for enjoying a moment of light levity.

  A rattle and gentle
creak announced the arrival of another. Looking over his shoulder, Broedi saw a single door along the southern wall open. Gamin strode through the entryway, shut the wooden door softly behind him, and walked toward the assembly. The tall, muscled mage was still dressed in his Shadow Mane robes.

  One more, and the meeting could begin.

  As Gamin reached the small gathering, all eyes turned to him. They knew Broedi had sent for the mage, but—other than Khin—they did not know why. Broedi glanced at the aicenai and found Khin’s cold, blue-eyed gaze already fixed on Gamin.

  Twenty paces from the Sovereign’s Chair, Gamin halted and gave a short bow. “My Lord.” He angled to face Duchess Aleece, sitting in what traditionally was the chair reserved for Rholeb’s wife. “My Lady.”

  After both sovereigns returned the greeting, the duchess turned to the duke and asked, “May I speak first, Rholeb?”

  With a dismissive wave of his hand, the duke said, “Speak whenever you like, Aleece. I have little use for formality—” He cut off as the tone of the Drept’s howls shifted.

  The cries of Grif Rol took on a new harmony, haunting and discordant. Those in the hall stared to the windows and listened quietly. While Broedi thought the strange chorus uniquely beautiful, most in the room wore uneasy frowns.

  Seeing their discomfort, Broedi reached for Strands of Air, knitted them into a quick Weave, and directed it toward one of the windows. Before the pattern had settled over an open pane, Khin was duplicating his effort. Realizing what they were doing, Nundle helped seal the openings as well. Wren, while wholly capable of touching Air, sat and watched. Kenders did not aid either. She did not even lift her gaze from the floor.

  Within moments, the kur-surus’ howls cut off. The gentle evening breeze still wafted through the windows, but the Weaves prevented any sound from passing into the Duke’s Hall.

  Duke Rholeb stared to the north wall.

  “Are they done?”

  “No, my Lord,” rumbled Broedi. He sat upright, his chair groaning in protest at the shift in weight. “Some of us simply put measures in place to quiet their calls. I hope you do not mind the liberty we took.”

  “Mind?” asked Duke Rholeb. His eyebrows arched high. “I am wondering why in the Nine Hells you didn’t do that earlier.”