The Lost Stories

by John Flanagan

  He checked the copy of the table assignments Desmond had given him and was further reassured. The table set between the buttresses had been reserved for Gundar Hardstriker’s crew of sea wolves. With a score of big, excitable Skandians close by, it would be no place to suddenly produce a weapon of any kind.

  Feeling a little better about things, he set the seating plan aside and reached for his pen and a clean sheet of paper. Perhaps he should make a start on his speech, he thought.

  “Your Majesty, Your Excellency, Your . . .” He paused, not sure what honorific he should use for Erak, Oberjarl of the Skandians. In all the years he’d known Erak, he’d never had to address a formal speech to him. His pen hovered uncertainly and a drop of ink fell onto the paper. He studied it. It was like the mark against the word Dance, he thought. Easy enough for a mark like that to happen. He glanced at the seating plan, then back at the embryonic speech. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he had started the last one. Perhaps that was a good thing, he thought morosely. It couldn’t have been too memorable.

  He clicked the inkwell top shut and set down the pen. “I’ll get on to it tomorrow,” he said aloud. Ebony raised her head and looked at him skeptically. “I will,” he insisted.

  Then he rose from the table and went to bed. But there was still the tiniest worm of doubt eating away at his mind and it took him some time to fall asleep.

  4

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE MATTER WAS DRIVEN FROM HIS MIND BY the arrival of Wolfwill.

  The elegant ship, with its curving triangular sail hauled in hard against a beam wind, fairly flew up the last stretch of the Tarbus. Word had come ahead of its imminent arrival and there was a large crowd gathered to greet it. Erak, standing next to Will, sighed as he watched the graceful ship approach, a bow wave of white at her forefoot.

  “Changing times, young Will,” he said in a lowered tone.

  Will glanced up at the massive Oberjarl and saw a look of regret in his eyes. Erak missed the old days of freedom, when he and his crew roamed the world, raiding and stealing and fighting. Will sensed that Erak would love to go back to those times, and to do so in a ship like Wolfwill. Much as he professed to love his old square-sailed wolfship, the newer design, with all its speed and grace, was something no true sailor could look upon without envy.

  When the ship was less than forty meters from the quay, the onlookers heard a sharp order from the burly figure at the steering oar—Gundar. Sailors moved quickly to obey him and the long, curving boom came quickly down, the wind spilling from the sail as the sail handlers gathered it in and folded it.

  At the same time, a banner was unfurled from the mast top: three stylized cherries on a light blue background. The fast-sailing Wolfwill had been assigned the longest trip of all, bringing the guest with the greatest distance to travel.

  Shigeru, Emperor of Nihon-Ja, had arrived for his friend’s wedding.

  Although his arrival had been expected for some days, the sight of the banner was concrete proof and the large crowd broke into a chorus of cheering. Then the slight figure of the Emperor himself strode quickly down the main deck of the ship to take a position in the bow, watching as Wolfwill ran smoothly up to the quay, the last way falling off her as she reached the timber pilings.

  The ship kissed gently against the quay, and the cheering redoubled as Shigeru leapt nimbly over the bulwark and strode up the rough planks, flanked by the commander of his personal bodyguard. The dozen Senshi warriors who made up that bodyguard were caught unawares by the Emperor’s impulsive action. They scrambled ashore to follow him, hurriedly forming into two ranks, marching behind him with the peculiar stiff-legged gait of the Senshi.

  King Duncan reacted more quickly than they did. Seeing Shigeru leap ashore, he strode quickly forward to meet him. Stopping a few meters short of the Nihon-Jan ruler, Duncan bowed deeply from the waist. A mutter of surprise ran around the assembled Araluens. Most of them had never seen their King bow to any man. Shigeru’s eyes twinkled and he bowed in his turn. Being more accustomed to the action, he took his bow even lower than Duncan’s. The two rulers stood thus, bent at the waist, eyes down, for several seconds. Then Shigeru spoke.

  “I’m not sure about you, Your Majesty, but my back is killing me.”

  Duncan smothered a short bark of laughter, then answered in a low tone. “Perhaps we should straighten up, Your Excellency. If we leave it too long, we may never manage it.”

  The two leaders stood erect and eyed each other. Duncan, tall and broad shouldered, his rust-colored hair beginning to show gray at the temples and in his beard. Shigeru, clean shaven and much smaller, but with a wiry strength and an irrepressible energy and curiosity.

  “Welcome to Araluen,” Duncan said.

  Shigeru nodded an acknowledgment. “It’s a pleasure I have looked forward to for some time.” Then he looked beyond Duncan and his face lit up with genuine pleasure as he saw a tall figure approaching from the crowd.

  “Kurokuma!” he said, and Horace almost ran the last few paces, narrowly avoiding the near-sacrilege of shouldering the King aside as he greeted his friend. The two embraced, the slight figure of the Emperor dwarfed by the young warrior.

  “I was worried you might not make it,” Horace said. There were traces of tears in his eyes as he stepped back and, rather belatedly, bowed to the Emperor. Shigeru smiled and returned the formal greeting.

  “There was nothing to stop me from coming,” he said as they straightened. “My empire is safe in the stewardship of Lord Ni-matsu and his Hasanu warriors.”

  Horace grinned. “It’d take a brave man to argue with them,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he stepped aside to usher Selethen forward. The tall Arridi made his usual graceful salute and greeted the Emperor as an old friend. Then it was time to introduce another honored guest. A little uncertainly, not sure of the possible outcome, Horace made the introductions.

  “Lord Shigeru, Emperor of Nihon-Ja, please meet Erak, Oberjarl of Skandia.”

  Erak stepped forward, feet wide apart, thumbs thrust into his belt. The position of Oberjarl was an elected one and Skandians did not believe in any hereditary right to rule. For this reason, and to demonstrate his independent nature, Erak never referred to Duncan as “Your Majesty,” addressing him instead by his position—King. He was determined not to show any greater deference to this squirrel-size ruler from the east. He gave a perfunctory nod of his head in lieu of a bow and said gruffly, “How do, Emperor?”

  Shigeru’s lips twisted as he tried to suppress a smile. He had learned a lot about Skandians on his journey aboard Wolfwill. He mimicked Erak’s nod and gruff tone perfectly. “I do quite well, Erak-san. How do yourself?”

  Prepared for a scandalized reaction, Erak was somewhat taken aback by the Emperor’s rapid adjustment of manner. Then he laughed delightedly, and turned to Horace. “By Gorlog’s braided beard! He’ll do, young Horace, he’ll definitely do!”

  Just in time, Horace realized that Erak was about to slap the Emperor heartily on the back and he caught Erak’s massive hand. “Not a good idea, Erak,” he said.

  Erak was puzzled for a moment, then realized that six of the Emperor’s Senshi had fallen into a crouch, their curved swords half drawn from their scabbards. “Oh . . . yes. I see. Wouldn’t want to antagonize these bantam roosters.” He turned the gesture into a vague wave in the Emperor’s direction.

  Will stepped forward and greeted the Emperor in his turn.

  “It’s good to see you again, Chocho-san,” the Emperor said warmly. “Is Arris-san here as well?”

  “She’s helping the Princess with her preparations, Lord Shigeru. We’ll see them tonight. Baron Arald has arranged a private dinner to welcome you.”

  Shigeru smiled. “I look forward to seeing them both, Chocho.”

  Behind him, Will heard Erak asking nobody in particular, “Chocho ? What’s this Chocho business?”

  His tone left no doubt that he knew exactly what Chocho meant. Will guessed t
hat Gundar must have told him at some stage. Will’s nickname among the Nihon-Jan people was Chocho, or Butterfly, and it had made him the butt of continuing jokes in the past. Now, he guessed, seeing a mischievous light in Erak’s eye, it was all going to start again.

  The dinner that evening was a happy affair, bringing together old friends who had not seen one another for many months. Master Chubb had decided to assert his dominance and had ruled that he would cater, without the assistance of Jenny. Much as he admired his former apprentice’s skill and ingenuity, every so often he liked to remind the world about who had taught her her craft.

  As Baron Arald observed at the end of the meal, surreptitiously letting his belt out another notch, “This spirit of competition between Jenny and Chubb is one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

  The group broke up early, with most of the guests happy to seek their beds. Duncan was the official host of the dinner and so was the last to leave. As he and Cassandra made their way to the door of the Baron’s informal dining room, Will caught up with them.

  “Your Majesty. Could I have a word?” Then, seeing that the Princess was about to leave them alone, he added, “Please stay, Evanlyn. This concerns you too.”

  Many years ago, he had given up the effort to think of his old friend as Cassandra. She had been Evanlyn when they met and she would always be so to him. They sat at a side table, in comfortable chairs. One of the servants asked if they required wine. Duncan nodded but Will asked for coffee.

  “Couldn’t drink coffee now,” Duncan muttered. “I’d be awake all night.”

  “I don’t have that problem, Your Majesty,” Will said. Then he added, with a hint of a grin, “My clear conscience lets me sleep peacefully.”

  Evanlyn snorted in derision. “If there was ever a Ranger with a clear conscience, it certainly wasn’t you, you schemer. How’s your speech coming?” It seemed everyone had heard about his original speech and its destruction in the moondarkers’ fire.

  Will shrugged. “I’ll get to it tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve been a bit distracted.”

  “So, Will,” the King said, “what did you want to tell us?”

  Quickly, Will laid out his investigation into the death of Robard, the Toscan wool merchants and his suspicions that they might, in fact, be Genovesans. When he finished, Will sensed that neither Duncan nor Evanlyn shared his concern.

  “It’s circumstantial, Will, and the chances are, all these things could be coincidence. Robard may well have killed himself rather than face years of hard labor. And the Toscans could well be Toscans.” He was about to ask Will if he had shared his suspicions with Halt, and if Halt had any opinion on the matter. Then he realized that to do so would be a disservice to the young Ranger. Will’s opinion was as valid as Halt’s, Duncan realized.

  Will shook his head doggedly. “I don’t like coincidences, Your Majesty.”

  Duncan nodded gravely. “Still, they do happen—and more often than we might expect.”

  “Do you have any suggestions as to what we might do, Will?” Evanlyn asked.

  He went to answer, then hesitated. “Well, I did think we might . . .”

  Evanlyn cocked her head at him and frowned. “You’re not going to say ‘postpone the wedding,’ are you?” she said, and he shrugged helplessly.

  “We-ell . . . ,” he began, but she cut him off instantly.

  “Because that is definitely not an option. We are not postponing. We are not shifting to another location. That’s not the way we do things.”

  “Will,” Duncan said, in a more reasoning tone, “we really appreciate how much you care about our safety. But do you have any idea how many false alarms, how many so-called threats to our lives, we receive each year?”

  “No. I—”

  “There must be dozens!” Evanlyn told him. She looked to her father. “When was the most recent, Dad?”

  Duncan thought for a few seconds. “As I recall, less than three weeks ago. We had reports that some of Morgarath’s former cronies were planning to kidnap me while I was out hunting. It all came to nothing, of course.”

  “It’s part and parcel of being the royal family,” Evanlyn told Will. “There are always these rumors and suspicions. Most of them are far more concrete and detailed than this set of circumstances you’ve uncovered. And the vast majority of them—ninety-nine out of one hundred—come to nothing.”

  “As Cassandra says, it’s all part of being King,” Duncan added. “We have to live with it. We take precautions, of course, but we can’t let vague rumors or coincidences like this rule our lives. If we bow to them, we’ll never have any life worth speaking of.”

  “We’ll stay locked in our castle all day and night like hothouse blossoms.” Evanlyn smiled at him. “And you know that’s not my style.”

  At that, Will was forced to smile in return. It was a wan little smile, but a smile nonetheless. The idea of Evanlyn, or Cassandra, remaining locked up in Castle Araluen like a fragile flower in a hothouse was so totally foreign to her nature that he couldn’t begin to consider it.

  Duncan placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not discounting this, Will. We never ignore these things completely. But, as threats to our well-being go, this is way down on the scale of credibility. Keep an eye on things by all means, and if there’s any change, any further information, let us know.”

  “And we still won’t postpone the wedding,” Evanlyn said firmly. Her father smiled at her, then included Will in the smile.

  “As she says,” he affirmed.

  5

  THE DAYS BECAME MORE FRANTIC, AND BEFORE WILL KNEW IT, the day of the wedding had arrived. He dressed in his ceremonial uniform, designed by Crowley some years prior for Halt and Pauline’s wedding, and checked himself in the mirror before leaving the cabin. He patted his jacket pockets to make sure he had everything, and realized with a start that he had never got around to rewriting his speech. He rolled his eyes at his image in the mirror.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “Everyone tells me I should just speak from the heart.”

  It was a beautiful sunny day and the wedding was held in the open—in the courtyard of Castle Redmont, where hundreds of spectators could watch. The battlements were lined with staff from the castle and people from the village, and a section of the courtyard had been set aside by Arald for the villagers and staff to celebrate later. Already, several bullocks and boars were turning on spits over fire pits. The smoky aroma of roasted meat drifted through the courtyard.

  Arald performed the ceremony. The King, of course, was giving his daughter away. Shigeru had been granted the honored position of Patron-Sponsor of the wedding. When he had inquired politely about the nature of his duties, Duncan had grinned and directed him to Lady Pauline.

  “Ask Pauline,” he told the Nihon-Jan monarch. “She invented the position for me at her wedding.”

  Evanlyn, scorning fashionable practice, appeared right on time for the wedding, to the second. As she emerged from the keep, escorted by King Duncan and attended by Alyss, her bridesmaid, there was a concerted gasp of admiration from the assembled crowd.

  “Ooooooohhhhhhhh!”

  Duncan smiled proudly. His daughter did look beautiful. Again, typically, she had ignored current fashion, which called for brides to wear voluminous dresses with long trains and layer after layer of lace.

  She wore a simple but elegant dress of white satin, a narrow dress that accentuated her slim figure. There was a minimal veil in her light hair and she appeared tiny and petite alongside her tall, broad-shouldered father.

  Will, standing beside Horace at the dais where the ceremony would take place, glanced at Evanlyn, nodded approvingly, and then had eyes only for the blond girl walking gracefully behind her.

  Alyss wore a formalized version of her Courier’s uniform, a style that left one shoulder bare. In deference to the bride, the Courier’s normal color of white had been changed on this occasion to pale blue. She was beautiful, Will thought, and his heart s
welled in his chest.

  Beside him, his best friend had his gaze fixed on his bride-to-be. Horace, as befitted his station as a knight, wore ceremonial armor for the occasion—glistening silver mail and a white surcoat bearing his green oakleaf insignia. At his side he wore the sword of Nihon-Jan steel that had been presented to him by the Emperor months before. His left hand tightened on the hilt as he watched the wedding procession approach.

  “My god, she’s beautiful,” he whispered to Will.

  “Indeed she is,” the young Ranger responded.

  Neither of them was aware that they were talking about two different people.

  Arald performed the ceremony with the correct mix of solemnity and friendliness. Fortunately, Lady Sandra had cautioned him against his propensity to crack jokes. Ruefully, he had agreed.

  “I’m afraid my humor is too witty for most folk,” he had said. “It seems to go over their heads.”

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what it does, dear,” his wife had replied, patting his hand.

  It was a short ceremony and it seemed only minutes before he delivered the final words: “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may . . .”

  Horace, without waiting for further invitation or permission, swept Cassandra into his arms and kissed her long and thoroughly. She responded quite eagerly. The crowd cheered with delight, startling the swallows that nested in nooks and crannies along the battlements so that they soared into the air in an apparent avian tribute to the newlyweds.

  Duncan beamed with pride and at the same time surreptitiously wiped away a tear. Alyss and Will exchanged knowing smiles.

  “ . . . kiss the bride—I suppose,” Arald concluded, feeling the words were superfluous in light of the events.

  Then there was a clamor of congratulations. Sir Rodney led the Battleschool staff and students and the other spectators in three rousing cheers for the couple, then three more for the King. Warming to the task, he then led cheers for Shigeru, Selethen and Erak, until his fiancée laid a gentle hand on his arm.