The Fall of Shaylar

by River Fairchild

  “State your business.” A second guard spoke, blocking the doors, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword with practiced ease.

  “The King called me here.” The old woman ignored his incredulous look as he gazed at the raggedness of her clothing. She knew she would be admitted and settled on a bench to wait.

  “Your Majesty, an old beggar woman is at the door. She said you sent for her?”

  Camon’s head jerked up from his task. It had been three long weeks since he’d called on the magic to bring him someone who could answer his questions. Each day he’d been disappointed. Could she be the one?

  “Take her around back and through the trap doors. I will speak with her below.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I don’t believe she can walk the distance.”

  “Then carry her!” Camon slammed his hand down on the desk as he stood.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The man left in a hurry and Camon rubbed his forehead, willing the pain to subside.

  He left the room and made his way down to the dungeon from inside the castle, wanting to arrive ahead of the old woman. He’d already prepared the room, knowing his call would be answered, but there were a few final details to attend to.

  The damp confines in the underground walkway disturbed Camon on a level best left buried in the darkest depths of his mind. The mildewed odor worsened the ache in his head. Dread slithered down his spine as he considered what the old woman might say. Even the glow of the mage fire did little to dispel his unease as the wall torches lit the way.

  Doom was upon them, a giant gren with wings spread wide, spiraling down. Taking aim. Feasting on his bones.

  He lit the herbs in the shallow dish, the cleansing aroma calming his nerves and waited for her arrival. Whatever she had to say, the words wouldn’t travel out of this room. Neither would she.

  The guard carried the old woman in, setting her on the ground where she sank to a heap on the floor with a soft moan of pain.

  “Leave us,” Camon said and studied the old crone.

  She gazed around the room with intelligent eyes, gray hair spread around her on the floor like a shroud. Camon’s insides shivered though he hadn’t moved a muscle to indicate his disquiet. Her sharp eyes targeted him anyway, as if she’d felt the tremor too. Strong magic confronted his—different but powerful just the same. She was a lowborn witch—one possessing the wild magic. The magnitude of energy shook his conviction of being in the right.

  “That won’t work on me.” She waved a hand at the bowl of burning herbs. “But I’m here to speak the truth, else why would I have come?”

  “You had no choice, crone. I called you here.” He could kill her now for not addressing him as her King but he let it go.

  She smirked at him, angering Camon further. “You didn’t summon me. I answered your call. But enough of this. Do you want to hear the information you seek?”

  Her impudence burned away the last of his trepidation. Fire ripped through his gut, seeking an outlet. “Get on with it then.”

  “The oracle at your birth spoke thusly: The births of twin boys in the Kingdom of Shaylar shall see its ruin. There will be death upon the land, the peasants shall riot in the streets. What was once a proud and peaceful Kingdom shall turn into a valley of dust and sorrow. The brothers will turn on each other, fighting to the death in their hatred for each other. The magic of the Kingdom shall flee the land, usurping the quality of the soil, destroying the nature of the elements. All of Chandra shall spin out of balance, terminating the other four Kingdoms, where five once stood proud and whole.”

  She fell silent, watching him. He stared back at her, his rigid stance sending no clue that her words flung arrows into the center of his being, each of them drawing blood.

  “Is that all?” He had to make sure he knew every word.

  “The oracle’s words, yes, but there is more. You should know the people in the valley are learning these words. Weighing their value. Killing me won’t stop the flood even now washing against the gates of your castle.”

  “And you have spread this?” Camon’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

  “Not I. There are others with the Sight. Beware, for it is your choices which bring your House down. The love of a woman is more powerful than you imagine. The King who refuses to listen reaps his own doom.”

  Camon drew his sword, the blade weighing heavier than usual in his hand. “May the Old Ones keep you.”

  “I have no use for your gods.”

  His blade sliced through her neck, silencing her.

  The lone fireplace cast flickers of light within the crowded tavern, while still keeping the patrons in heavy shadow. No mage ball here to give off a golden glow; the highborn seldom frequented places such as this humble abode. Sanrev liked it that way. The people here comforted him with their plain speech and simple living. People who valued trust and hard work. People Sanrev could call friends.

  Friends who now suffered because of his brother.

  “I don’ know what to do.” Pershak drained the last of his ale and stared at the empty cup. Sanrev regarded the man with concern. He’d seen many with the same story lately. “Winter’s on us. The harvest’s long gone. With all the new levies an’ taxes your brother, the King, has laid on us, I don’ see how to get through the season.”

  Sanrev had witnessed the changes firsthand in the year he’d been living in the valley. Living as one of them. Although he had the magic of the highborn, he didn’t have any standing with the nobility and they treated him accordingly. He didn’t blame them and stayed away from his former friends.

  Truth be told, living down here had changed Sanrev. Made him a better man, he hoped. The simple life fulfilled him. Granted him peace.

  The little house he called his own satisfied his needs. Sanrev found he enjoyed woodworking and spent many hours carving furniture when he wasn’t working.

  The hours spent in his yard teaching children the art of sword fighting had proved to be his biggest joy. The highborn he charged for his services; the lowborn he often bartered with, taking food in exchange for lessons. If someone couldn’t pay, he didn’t turn them away.

  “Have you heard the last bit of news?” Pershak said. “There’s goin’ to be a register fee for the King to sit at arbitrations. We don’ have the coin for such things.”

  “I’ll arbitrate for you, if you like,” Sanrev said after mulling it over for a minute. These people didn’t need to be paying fees for what should be heard freely. It was the King’s decree that all arbitration come to him, putting the lowborn in a sad position. They had enough problems as it was, without taking what little they earned.

  “That’d be a relief, it would.” Pershak cracked a rare smile, exposing the gap where two teeth once sat. “There’s trouble coming. I feel it as sure as the winter’s chill. There’s been talk…”

  “About what?” Sanrev prompted when the man fell silent.

  “Nothin’. Ain’ right to say such things to the brother of the King.”

  “You’re one of my first friends, for almost a year now.” Sanrev looked Pershak in the eye and held his gaze. “You know you can speak about anything to me. I won’t repeat it.”

  “Well, it’s about the oracle an’ the prophecy. You know it?”

  Sanrev nodded. He’d heard the whispers in the streets. “What about it?”

  Pershak glanced at the nearby tables and lowered his voice until Sanrev strained to hear him. “They say that’s why the Queen ain’ with child yet—because of the prophecy. That Shaylar will fall an’ no heir to right it again.”

  Sanrev closed his eyes at the mention of the Queen. He’d tried to forget about Lamisha. There was nothing he could do to help her anyway.

  Weariness settled over him. He drained his cup and stood, clapping his friend on the back with false cheer. “Pass the word I’ll arbitrate, will you? It’s getting late.”

  Sanrev walked through the door of his small house and lit a fire, its light and wa
rmth doing nothing to dispel the gloom which clung to him with tenacious claws. He’d tried to block Lamisha from his mind after he moved out of the castle. Now, the memories of her flooded back in.

  He hadn’t known her well enough to say he loved her, so what was the source of his melancholy? A missed opportunity? Jealousy over his brother’s great fortune? Neither reason was worthy of him and would be a slight to Lamisha. She deserved better than to be played in a contest between rivals.

  Or had he really seen the potential for a bright future with her? He hoped that was the reason he still thought of her in the dark of night—dreaming of a girl running through the hall, her gown hiked up to her knees and laughing as she went. He shook his head to clear the images and went to bed.

  Sanrev’s first arbitration hearing was held two days later in his yard, to a crowd of curious onlookers. At the conclusion, he felt good about the ruling he’d made and accepted the thanks of both parties involved. As the crowd dwindled away into the twilight, an old woman walked up to him with a slip of paper clutched in her hand. He read it twice, not trusting the words written on it.

  “Who gave this to you?” he asked as his breath quickened, his eyes still on the note in his hand.

  No answer came and Sanrev forced his eyes away from the words to find the woman had melted into the crowd. His lips moved as he read the paper once more, then took it into the house. It burst into flames as he threw it on the fire, the sweet smell of lilac mingling with the scent of wood smoke.

  Dare he meet with her tomorrow? How could he possibly stay away?

  Chapter Eight

  Stolen Hearts

  While the castle sat on the western slope, commanding an eastern view of the valley spread out below, the houses of the nobility hugged the northern foothills, tucked away behind screens of forest or orchard. They lived well, secure and comfortably, all the while knowing their fates rested in the hands of the King. Never had their lives been more precarious than with the present ruler.

  Sanrev was glad his journey this morning didn’t take him north. Too many eyes might spot him there and wonder at his errand. Some, no doubt, would report his travel to the King in hopes of being rewarded for their diligence. No, the directions he’d memorized from the note led him south in this hour before sunrise. South, where merchants and landowners who had coin to spend lived.

  The house he rode up to now was grand enough to belong to a noble and a twinge of unease cramped Sanrev’s belly. What if this was a trap? A plot devised to test his allegiance to the King?

  A servant emerged from the darkness of the trees and waved to him in an urgent manner. Sanrev gave himself a mental shake and followed the man around back. Too late to worry about the consequences now. He’d been spotted.

  The man gestured to a small caretaker’s house far back from the manor. Sanrev dismounted and the man took the reins. “Wait inside,” was all he said before disappearing, taking Sanrev’s horse with him. Only the thought of who he might see inside kept him from turning around and leaving.

  Disappointment weighted his shoulders as Sanrev looked through the empty rooms. The place had an air of disuse about it, as if abandoned for a season or more, though a warming fire burned in the hearth. A creak of the kitchen door opening in back had Sanrev drawing his sword, ready to meet the King’s guards.

  “Tis only me,” the man whispered as Sanrev rounded the corner. The servant didn’t flinch from the sight of a sword aimed his way, but settled the tray he carried onto the small table. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  Sanrev sniffed the air, redolent with spice cakes and mulled wine. “Thank you, but why am I really here?”

  He still felt the trap closing in, for the words on the note could have been written by anyone. This was a fool’s errand. He knew that now but couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. He had to know the truth.

  “Tis not for me to say.” The man bowed. “I only know you must wait.”

  Sanrev watched him go, blending into the reddened hues of dawn as the shadows began to lift. His stomach growled and he sat down to eat. No sense in letting it go to waste. Whatever was coming wasn’t here yet and he’d rather not remain hungry.

  He’d been dozing in a chair, his sword placed across his lap, when the front door opened. Sanrev saw a woman step in, her head covered with a shawl. He stared as she removed it, letting the wrap fall about her shoulders. The scent of lilac enveloped him and she smiled with a hint of shyness.

  Lamisha. “You really sent the note? I thought perhaps it might be a trick.”

  “No trick. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  The sadness in her eyes was more than he could bear. He crossed the room and folded her into his arms without thinking. She yielded to his touch, laying her head against his chest with a small sigh.

  “How…? Where are we?” A hundred questions fought for dominance in his head.

  She leaned back and he reluctantly released her, allowing Lamisha to take a seat. She clasped her hands in front of her, head bowed and not meeting his eyes.

  “The manor belongs to one of my Ladies. I meet with her here each first day of the week to work on clothing for the poor.”

  “Is she to be trusted? What of her husband? Is he in service to the King?” Sanrev no longer considered him his brother and never referred to him as such. He couldn’t deny the truth, though. Lamisha was his Queen, no matter how badly he wished it were otherwise.

  “Winsela is widowed, and yes, I trust her with my life. More importantly, I trust her with your life, for I know I risk us both by asking you here.” Lamisha looked at him then, her misery plain to see. “I owe her a debt of gratitude.”

  “How so?” Sanrev took her hands in his, unable to keep his distance.

  “For months I thought you didn’t care. Then Winsela told me what really happened and suggested this plan so we could meet—that is, if you want to.”

  The voice of reason told Sanrev no, to leave now and forget about Lamisha forever. It was wrong. She was not only wife to someone but the Queen of Shaylar as well. The Old Ones would never forgive either one of them, courting disaster in this manner.

  A quiet sob escaped her mouth and Lamisha fought to withdraw her hands from his grip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”

  Sanrev shuddered as her pain washed over him, mingling with his own until his heart cried out to be heard above the sensible words of his head. He sought her lips. Kissed the tears from her cheeks. Surrendered to the inevitable even as he envisioned the executioner’s axe swinging over both their heads.

  Chapter Nine

  A Restless Mob

  494th year of the Celaka

  The stolen hours of bliss once a week lasted all through the months of winter and spring. Sanrev went about his business the rest of the days with a smile on his face, teaching the art of swordplay and hearing arbitration cases. The number of people wanting their arguments settled swelled as the hardships imposed on them by the King caused tempers to flare more often.

  On a day promising the full beauty of summer’s warm breezes and colorful bounty, the King’s guards rode into his yard as Sanrev got ready for the students to arrive. He tensed, fear for Lamisha’s safety gnawing a hole in his gut. How had they been discovered? He left his sword sheathed—one man against ten guards on horses weren’t the best of odds. Besides, they weren’t his enemies, only messengers bearing bad news. He was the guilty party here.

  “I bring a proclamation from His Majesty, King Camon of Shaylar,” the guard in front said and dismounted, his hand holding a scroll of paper instead of a weapon has he strode forward.

  Sanrev took the scroll from him in puzzlement, unrolling the sheet and reading it where he stood. It was an order to report to the castle as the new Master of the Sword, effective immediately, at a pay of one hundred times what he currently earned. It further stated that Sanrev shall cease hearing cases of arbitration.

  So that was the real reason for the position�
��to sideline Sanrev and remove him from the midst of the peasants. He almost laughed out loud, relief flooding through his body. Lamisha was well, their secret still safe.

  He rolled the paper up and handed it back to the guard, ignoring the look of surprise on the man’s face. “Tell the King I’m honored but I decline the offer. I find I’m happy where I am.”

  He turned from them and walked away, wondering if they might follow and drag him back. The guards knew it was a proclamation and not an offer to be refused. A rustling of horses could be heard but the sound faded as they left without incident. Sanrev let out the breath he’d been holding, knowing he hadn’t heard the last of the matter.

  “You got to do something before people get hurt,” Pershak said to Sanrev a few days later as he and a handful of men crowded around his table in the tavern.

  “Do? About what?” Sanrev studied the group of them. All good men but a couple had been quite vocal lately about the King’s taxes.

  “About the King!” Pershak hissed the whispered words at him, his face twisted with fear.

  “It’s treason to even talk this way,” Sanrev reminded him in a low voice. “Besides, he has much greater magic than I do.”

  “Told you he wouldn’t help,” one of the other men grumbled. “He’s highborn, not one of us.”

  “Shut your mouth.” Pershak turned on the hapless man with a venomous tone which Sanrev hadn’t seen him display before. “Else I’ll shut it for you.”

  “Look, I understand what you’re asking,” Sanrev hastened to say before a brawl broke out. “I’m as angry as you are but my hands are tied.”

  He sipped his ale during the silence that followed, wishing a solution would come to mind—something that wouldn’t tear the Kingdom apart. They were right about one thing. Despite the fact he lived as one of them, he was highborn. They didn’t understand the terrible price to be paid if the King decided to wield magic against them. Sanrev knew all too well and suppressed a shudder as he downed the rest of his drink.