Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  Adrina laughed a soft girlish laugh then as she remembered and saw with Myrial’s eyes. She threw her arms around Myrial and cried, saying, “Where were you when my insides were being torn apart?”

  “I was here,” said Myrial, “right here. I was always right here, but you, you never left that day, and you only remembered what happened later… It is good to have you back Adrina, very good.”

  Adrina wiped tears from her eyes and regained her composure. “I should think that you will address me properly from now on. Do you understand?”

  As if suddenly remembering her place, Myrial’s smile faded. She curtsied and started to pick up the firewood that lay on the floor at her feet.

  Adrina put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “No, I mean, you should call me, Dri.”

  “Dri,” said Myrial smiling as if remembering fondly. “I didn’t think you remembered?”

  “I did and I am sorry,” said Adrina. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “If it is your wish, then it is so.”

  “No, I mean really and truly in your heart and not because it is your place but because it is what you want to do.”

  Myrial was silent for moment. “Dri, I don’t think I can just yet. You hurt me, you really hurt me, and I came to know much more about my place than you can ever know. I sleep in the dirt many nights because there is no straw. I eat if there is food, when there is food. I do the tasks as the housemaster asks of me, even if those tasks take what little dignity I have left.”

  “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

  “My family served yours for generations and in times past we earned some status. When that status was lost, we paid ten fold for every favor we ever got. So now I do whatever I have to and I survive because I am a survivor. I won’t give in or give up as easily as you.”

  Adrina was speechless for a moment. “My mother was my world. I could never understand why it happened and so I could never forget. I am passed the why now, and in time I think I will be able to accept it and perhaps to remember those days as you do. I will try, if you will try to forgive me. I should think there will be many changes around here from now on and starting with the dismissal of the housemaster!”

  “Don’t,” said Myrial. “You’ll only stir up a hornet’s nest and then, and then…”

  “And then what?” demanded Adrina.

  “And then you’ll go off and forget and I’ll be left in a worse place, a place I won’t be able to let myself go back to.”

  Adrina’s expression became determined. She took Myrial’s hand and led her from the room. Myrial tried to speak but Adrina wouldn’t let her. Once they were in the lower level of the palace, she said, “Show me to the housemaster’s room.”

  “Don’t,” said Myrial.

  “Or what? Last time I checked, I was Princess Adrina and my father was King.”

  Myrial pointed out the housemaster’s room. Adrina knocked on the door but didn’t wait for an answer before trying to enter. When she found the door locked and no answer forthcoming, she began shouting, “Guards! Guards!”

  The two knights of Klaive Keep, only steps behind Adrina, were the first to respond. Their presence surprised Adrina for she had forgotten they were even there. “Bust down the door!” she told them. “Bust it down now!”

  The two knights pressed their weight against the door two times before the door crashed inward. Adrina stepped around the fallen door, dragging Myrial behind her.

  The housemaster’s chamber was huge—and rivaled her own lavish living quarters. Adrina found the housemaster in one of the rear rooms, sitting on a fluffy couch with several attendants catering to his whims. The knights of Klaive Keep were right behind her and behind them were many palace guards.

  Adrina glared at the startled housemaster. “Housemistress!” she called out shrilly.

  “Housemaster, Your Highness. Assure you, I didn’t know you’d returned. If I had, everything would’ve been in order. Promise you, if you tell what’s wrong, I can fix it.”

  Adrina turned to Myrial. “Housemistress, what is this man doing in your quarters? I gave you express orders before I left that you are to run the household. If you cannot see fit to replace this man, I will send him to the gallows so that you have no excuse!”

  The housemaster jumped to his feet, screaming, “The gallows? Why whatever for? Assure you I can train, I can train—”

  “Myrial,” said Adrina.

  “Yes, Myrial,” said the housemaster, “I’ll be out of these quarters immediately and I’ll train her. I want nothing of these quarters or this office, I assure you.”

  “Then you shall not mind being Myrial’s man servant?”

  The housemaster swallowed a gigantic lump in his throat. “It shall be an honor to serve,” he said bowing deeply, his eyes betraying his anger.

  Adrina turned to one of the guardsmen. “You, what is your name?”

  “G-G-Garette. Garette Timmer.”

  “Swordmaster Timmer’s son?”

  The guardsman nodded.

  “You are dismissed of all duties, save one. Your duty is to Housemistress Myrial. You are to see that no harm befalls her—ever. No order save mine or Myrial’s shall you heed. It is my wish and my will. Send your captain to me if there is any disagreement.”

  Chapter Five:

  Unexpected Competitions

  Vilmos awoke. He looked around the room, not surprised to find he was alone. A cold breakfast was on the table next to the window.

  He brushed sleep from his eyes, finding no cheer in the new day or the bright sunshine. As he scooped tasteless spoonfuls of thick, pasty gruel into his mouth, allowing it to slide across his tongue and down his throat without chewing, he stared out the window. A blank expression was on his face, and for a long while, as he thought about the shaman, the city below cried out to him. It was his to explore if he dared—the whole of the largest city in all the lands, the whole of the Free City of Solntse, was his.

  The early-day sun shining through the window brought out sudden bravery. It seemed as if the sun was inviting him to come outdoors. Suddenly he was no longer content to sit indoors and wait idly, and so he hurriedly gulped down the last of the cold gruel.

  After stepping out onto the dusty street, Vilmos veered left, ambling around several long blocks before deciding which direction to proceed in. Passing some of the dingier establishments he recalled from the previous day, he quickened his pace, content to continue straight for a time. At the next intersection he paused, unsure whether to turn left, right or proceed.

  “Lost, boy?” called out a gruff voice.

  Vilmos rolled his eyes upward, taking in the tall figure in a single, gradual panning glance. “N-no, not really.”

  “That’s not much of a response,” said the man, laughing.

  Vilmos backed away warily. His eyes never straying from the long blade sheathed at the other’s side. “I have to go now.”

  “Wait! Perhaps, I can help you find the place you’re looking for.”

  “There is a square near here. I must have passed it. Good day to you, sir.”

  “Perhaps we’re going to the same place. Describe the market you’re looking for and maybe I can help.”

  Vilmos wanted to run but didn’t. “It’s not a market. I’ll find it. No need to worry.” Vilmos ran from the outstretched hand.

  “You wouldn’t be looking for the competitions, would you?”

  Vilmos’ eyes lit up as if the man had just offered him a piece of candy. “Maybe. Maybe I am; maybe I’m not.”

  “Not too sure of anything are you? Do you have a name, boy?”

  Vilmos thought about the question; he didn’t see any harm in answering it—or did he? “V-Vil… Vil… Vil-am. My name is Vilam, and yours?”

  “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” said the man, grinning as he tugged at the stubble on his chin. “I’m not supposed to be here either. Maybe we can both do the thing we’re not supposed to be doing together. This i
s no place for a boy such as yourself to be about—and if you plan to go to the competitions, you had best take my hand.”

  Vilmos stepped into the street.

  “If you’re going to the competitions that is the wrong way. I’ll guide you—for a price.”

  “For a price?” asked Vilmos, confident he had finally discovered the man’s ploy.

  “For you, my friend, a one-time fee: good for all time. All I would ask is—” Vilmos took another step away. He had no money and didn’t know what the man would do if he refused the offer. “All I ask is a simple thing. You needn’t be afraid of me. For, you see, when I said I’m not supposed to be here either, I was referring to…” The man switched to a low, whispering tone. “…viewing the competitions.”

  The man switched back to a fuller speech. “Allow me to introduce myself. Bladesman S’tryil, a ridesman by trade, a bladesman by necessity. But please don’t call me by my name, as I said, I am not supposed to be here either. So, I will call you… Vilam… Is that correct?” Vilmos nodded. “You can call me, Greer. Do we have a deal?”

  Vilmos nodded agreement again.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Vilam. Come this way and you’d better walk beside me. As I said before, this is no place for a boy to be alone—” Vilmos glared at the man. “—If I were going to rob you. I’d’ve done that a long time ago. I wouldn’t’ve even bothered talking to a boy. I’d’ve just grabbed you by the ankles. Just like this…”

  The bladesman made a lunging motion with his right hand, reaching low and then flipping his gripped hand up. Vilmos flinched, imagining himself dangling upside down, both ankles gripped firmly by one burly hand.

  “I’d’ve held you upside down until all the coinage dropped from your pockets. But you don’t have anything in your pockets do you, Vilam?”

  “Vilmos. My name is Vilmos.”

  “Vilmos is it?” S’tryil offered Vilmos his hand to seal their pact. “Well I shall stick with Vilam. Is that all right?”

  Vilmos nodded. The two continued down the block, across the next, then turned right.

  “Is this your first time at the competition?” asked S’tryil, not waiting for a response before continuing. “You see that long, high building there with the balcony? That’s City Garrison Central Post. That’s where the competitions take place every year. Now, if you can find that one building, for no other looks like it, you’re there. And look, here we are.”

  Surprised, Vilmos looked away from his companion’s face. The first bouts of the morning were already under way and a fair-sized crowd was gathered. Vilmos pushed his way into the circle beside the man he would call Greer. He reminded himself of this fact.

  “Here stand in front of me, but don’t take a step forward. You see that circle there? Good, don’t break it, and if someone comes lunging at you out of the circle, in the name of the Great Father, jump out of the way!”

  “Who’s going to attack me?”

  “No one, as long as you stick close. I was talking about the combatants. If they start to get too close, back away or you’re liable to get a sharp blade stuck right where you don’t want it.” S’tryil motioned graphically with his hands. “They’ve taken people away every day so far. They just don’t want to move out of the way. So mind my warning… Move, and be quick about it!”

  “How many days does this go on?” asked Vilmos excitedly, swaying his small body to the reactions of the warrior to his right, the one he favored. The two men struggled with great battle swords, the kind Vilmos had seen yesterday.

  “Weeks, until the final competitors are chosen,” said S’tryil. Vilmos jumped back as the competitors battling in the circle came close. “And then those chosen will go on to train for many more weeks. There is a special grudge this year… Do you see the man seated up on the high balcony? He is Lord Geoffrey.”

  “Is he dead?” One of the fighters had just fallen.

  The first match ended. The victor returned his great sword to the long scabbard strapped crossways upon his back, dipping the blade skillfully and quickly over his right shoulder with a casual, fluid motion that made the blade seem unencumbering. Then the victor raised both arms high over his head, waiting for the next challenger to enter the circle. The man on the balcony, the one Greer had called a lord, stood. A voice boomed out across the courtyard.

  “Shalimar takes the first match. Who would challenge?”

  A hush came over the crowd as the waiting began.

  Vilmos pressed close to Greer and whispered, “Why is no one moving?”

  “Stand still and silent!” hissed the bladesman.

  Lord Geoffrey spoke again, “There is no challenger? Are there none worthy?”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Vilmos. “Why has the fight stopped? Is it over already? Did we miss it all?”

  S’tryil snapped a hand to Vilmos’ mouth. “Be still!”

  “You there!” A hand pointed and all eyes followed its path. “Do you take the challenge?”

  S’tryil swallowed hard. “No, my lord,” he said in the gruff voice again, “I was just quieting my… ‘m son. Please forgive me, my lord.”

  All eyes turned back to the balcony as Geoffrey continued, “Then I declare, Shalimar the—”

  “Hold on,” cried out a man from the crowd, hastily appending “My Lord.”

  The man, clad in light mail, entered the ring, removing the chain shirt as he did so. The next bout began, and with its commencement S’tryil removed the restraining hand.

  “During relief you must say nothing,” said the bladesman. “That man there is one of the best in the whole of the Free City. I may bout him one day, though not today.”

  “I am sorry,” said Vilmos. “I didn’t know. Why do you know so much about the competition? I thought you said you have never been here.”

  “Well that’s not quite accurate; I said I’m not supposed to be here. I didn’t say I’ve never been here.”

  The two combatants faced off. The winner of the first bout was clearly tired but this did not slow his attacks. A relentless, heavy arm drove the challenger to the far side of the circle, nearly chasing him beyond the line: a disqualifying step for the challenger.

  “Do you see now why no one wanted to compete with this one?” asked S’tryil.

  Vilmos nodded. He understood.

  “He will be chosen if no others challenge him after this bout. He will join the others on the balcony…” Vilmos’ eyes followed the gesturing hand up to the balcony. “I’ve seen him win five battles in one day. He is good, really good. Today should be his last day. Do you see the weariness in his eyes? He is fatigued. He will not last much longer, especially if there is another challenge, but I don’t expect there to be.”

  Vilmos asked, “How do you know?”

  “We’ll have to wait.” The bladesman smiled. “But only a true fool would enter the ring with so weary and fierce a competitor. Instead of quick victory, such a challenger more often than not ends up being carted away to the death house. They say, if you corner a snake and don’t expect it to strike—to kill—you are to blame and not the snake.”

  “Those three?” Vilmos pointed to the men who stood behind the seated lord. “Did they go through the same… the same…?” Vilmos was unsure what word to use.

  “Yes, they did. Do you see the man standing in the middle? The broadest one?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s the lord’s son—”

  “Then he was assured a spot.”

  “I wish that were the case,” said S’tryil. “I wish that were the case.” After pausing momentarily to regard the sure victor in the contest, he continued. “The test of steel lasted six days for that one, a record I do believe. Many believe the same as you, and every year he teaches them the meaning of the word defeat. No, he is by far my biggest concern.”

  Vilmos was silent for a time. The match ended. The one called Shalimar won again; the challenger was carried out. Vilmos pursued no questions about the defeated man. He wait
ed quietly, eyeing the dark, red stain that marred the hard dirt only a few steps away.

  A new challenge never came. Vilmos saw glee in the jaded face that marched from the courtyard.

  A ruckus erupted from the crowd amidst shouts of applause. Two men were shaking a stout, fat man and behind them another pair faced off about to brawl.

  “Stand close!” shouted the bladesman.

  Unsure whether to remain silent or speak again, Vilmos clung close to S’tryil. “What is wrong?” he whispered.