by S. C. Stokes
“I guess not. My people didn’t even know it was here. I doubt they will miss it,” Kalifae answered.
“You know,” Syrion began, “you don’t have to remain here alone. You could come with me.”
“And leave Empyrea?”
“Only if you wish to. With your gifts you can return any time you wish. Come with me, and see what King’s Court is like without a war going on.”
“I can’t—your people, they’ll hate me.”
“Not at all, Kalifae. Most of them never met you. After the battle of King’s Court, Tristan was crowned King of Valaar. His word is law. You will be safe—I promise.” Syrion reached down to help Kalifae to her feet.
“Very well,” Kalifae answered with relief. “I’d love to come, but I must pack first.”
“Then it’s settled,” Syrion answered with a chuckle. Summoning his power once more Syrion opened a portal. The jungle clearing and shack soon became visible through the shimmering surface. “Be quick about it, though—if you aren’t done in an hour I’ll leave without you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Kalifae replied playfully.
“Oh, I think we both know I would.”
“Without me you’ll be lucky to end up on the right world.”
“That might be so,” Syrion answered with a laugh, “but I think we both know I’m still foolish enough to try. So you’d best be about it quickly.”
Kalifae shook her head in mock disgust and walked swiftly through the shimmering portal. Syrion scooped up the black pillar that he had carefully wrapped in his cloak and smiled. He was glad Kalifae had agreed to return with him. The thought of leaving her on Empyrea had been preventing him from leaving. The realization of how much he had enjoyed her companionship affected him deeply.
Shaking off the conflict that began to arise in his heart, Syrion tucked the pillar under his arm and leapt through the portal after her.
Chapter 23
A pounding at the door roused Tristan from his slumber. It was still dark. Linea stirred but didn’t wake. Tristan dragged himself out of bed. “I’m coming!” he called quietly as he searched in the dark for his cloak and found it over the back of the chair. He hurriedly drew it about himself and made for the door and turned the key that rested in the lock. It clicked open and Tristan pulled open the door.
Standing in the hall outside his chamber were a pair of King’s Guard with torches. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Sire, but I didn’t think it could wait.”
“What’s happened?” Tristan asked, concerned that the Palace had been attacked once more.
“Sven has returned, your highness. He insisted we fetch you at once.”
“Where is he?” Tristan demanded.
“In the hall, Sire.”
“Fetch him at once.”
“It may be easier for us to go to him, Sire. He collapsed on the Palace steps and the Guard have carried him inside. If you wish I’ll have them bring him up here, but it will take some time and he’s not in a good way. He must have been in a hurry—the horse he rode here isn’t much better. Poor thing almost collapsed beside him.”
“Very well, lead the way,” Tristan answered, gesturing down the hall.
The Guardsmen turned and hurried toward the Grand Hall. Tristan followed close behind, aware that in his haste he had forgotten to fetch his boots. The stone stairways were particularly cool underfoot, at least until the sun came up. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and followed the Guard into the Great Hall.
Sven had been laid on a table, and a number of Palace staff fussed about as they sought to attend to him. As Tristan approached the staff stopped what they were doing as they began to bow for their approaching liege.
“Enough of that—as you were,” Tristan commanded, making a dismissive motion with his hands. He was concerned for Sven as well as still discomfited by others bowing before him. The feeling was accentuated by his current state of dress, there was an air of foolishness to deference being made to a man in his bedclothes.
“What happened to him?” Tristan asked.
“Hard to say, Sire. He wasn’t speaking when the Guard brought him in. At a glance I would say exhaustion, but on closer inspection I’d say he’s been through the wars.”
“What makes you say that?” Tristan asked, moving closer.
The physician raised Sven’s tunic. The Spymaster had clearly taken a blow to the chest, for a solid bruise had formed along his side, an angry purple. “He may have a broken rib or two under there. He’ll certainly be feeling it when he wakes up. He had a few other cuts and bruises that we’ve attended to, and one of them looked surprisingly like he’d been stabbed with a fork.”
“Where have you been, Sven?” Tristan muttered to himself as he examined his friend. “Fetch Malus or my mother. It’s important we know what he was in such a hurry to tell us.”
“I’m already here, m’boy”—called an aged and weary voice from the doorway—”Let your mother rest. She’s had a long journey.”
Malus stood there leaning heavily on his staff. When Tristan had ascended to the throne, the attitude of most of those who surrounded him had changed, respect giving way tangibly to deference—it was the loneliness of leadership. But Malus cared little for station. He was a teacher and Tristan his student, now and always. “I remember a time when my duties were to teach you the arts and sciences,” he said, “not to perform the works of a common physician, who merely prevents those around him from slipping into the next realm.”
“Oh please, Malus—you are many things—but a ‘common physician’ will never be one of them,” Tristan replied earnestly. “The things you have done and continue to do for our family are without price. Linea would be dead if it weren’t for your ministrations.”
Malus crossed the room as he replied: “No price is necessary, Master Tristan—it was paid long ago by your father . . . whom it was most exhilarating to see again last evening. I never thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing him again in this life. I am glad I was wrong.”
“As am I, Malus, but if we could turn our attention to the task at hand . . .”—Tristan gestured toward the table—”Sven is in need of your attentions.”
Malus examined the Spymaster, prodding and fussing over him. “Did someone stab him with a fork?” the magician half-asked, half-exclaimed in bewilderment.
“It appears so,” Tristan replied.
“Sven never ceases to amaze,” Malus replied. “He’s tough to be sure, but he’s taken a beating. To be honest I’ve seen him in worse shape. He’s simply exhausted—perhaps a broken rib or two, but in the scheme of things, hardly worth waking an old man at this hour. Give him time and he’ll come around.”
“I would, Malus, but we must know what he knows,” Tristan implored. “Sven practically killed his horse to get here—clearly he knows something. If he has word of the Prince we must know it and now. Time is of the essence.”
“Very well, Tristan. Just remember people are like trees—they may bend with the wind, but if you apply too much pressure, to tree or to person . . . they break under the strain.”
“I understand,” Tristan assured his mentor. “Once we know what he wishes to tell us, he will rest. You have my word.”
“Very well, Tristan, as you wish. Get what you need quickly—this will not last long.” Malus set his staff aside and raised both hands over the still form of the Spymaster. Malus closed his eyes and began to chant silently, only his lips moving. Power radiated through his frame as a golden light pulsed from his outstretched hands.
The golden light washed over Sven’s still form, completely enveloping him in radiant light.
Abruptly Sven’s eyes opened wide. The Spymaster took a sharp deep breath, the suddenness of the motion taking the onlookers by surprise, and he sat up quickly, the motion driving a sharp growl of pain from his lips. “Arghhh.”
“Easy, Sven,” Tristan said quickly, reaching out a hand to steady his friend and ensure his abrupt movement did no further da
mage to his bruised or broken ribs. Malus took a step back from the table to allow the two to speak.
“Tristan . . . I mean, your highness,” Sven said. “My apologies.”
“Nonsense, Sven. This isn’t the time for such foolishness. You almost killed yourself to get here—now is no time for titles. What have you discovered—did you find the Prince?”
“No, your highness, but you were right. The Night Stalkers’ trail led straight back to Mizumura. I tried to follow him back to their lair but he must have realized I was following him. He led me into an ambush. I should have known better”—he groaned as he put his hand to his ribs—”but I was tired and eager to find the Prince. I let that emotion cloud my judgment. The Night Stalker escaped in the chaos, and when I realized he had slipped away I returned to bring you word. That city is too large for me to search alone.”
“You have done well, Sven, more than any man could ask for. Rest now. We know where they are, and we will find them.”
“I can help, Sire—I just need a new horse. The last one was a little lacking.”
“You have done enough, Sven. Now you must rest.”
“I feel fine . . .”
“Nonsense,” declared Tristan. “The guard had to carry you off the Palace steps, and if it weren’t for Malus you would still be unconscious.”
“Ah, Malus, you’re here?” Sven asked, looking around. As his eyes settled on Malus a look of relief crossed his face. “Malus, my old friend, if you could take care of these ribs for me it would make riding far less painful.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort, Sven,” the healer retorted, stepping forward. He placed a hand on the Spymaster’s chest and laid him flat against the table. “You are almost dead on your feet. Your King has told you to rest and you will do so. If I catch you out of bed I will make you rest.”
Sven exhaled loudly, seeing the futility of his position. “Very well, Tristan. I will join you as soon as I can give Malus the slip.”
Tristan patted his friend on the shoulder. “Rest well, my friend. I will see you when I return with my son.”
“You can’t go alone—there are too many of them!” Sven insisted, still a little delirious from his exertions.
“Oh I won’t be alone Sven. We’ve mustered the army. We will tear their city apart brick by brick if we have to.”
“Very well . . . Sire,” Sven replied as his strength gave out.
Malus stepped forward. “He must rest, Tristan. He’ll be no use to you dead, which is what he will be without substantial rest.”
“Very well, Malus.” Addressing the guards Tristan said, “Carry him to his quarters—he can’t sleep here in the hall—it will do him no good at all. See him safely back to his bed and set a guard. On my orders, he’s not to leave his chamber for the next two days. See that the kitchen staff attend to him there.”
Malus raised an eyebrow as the King gave his instructions.
“Come now, Malus—you know as well as I do that if I don’t set him a guard he’ll be on a horse and after us as soon as he can stand.”
“Indeed. He is a most determined sort,” Malus agreed.
“—One I cannot and will not lose. If he will not take care of himself, we must see to it,” Tristan answered as he shook his head in resignation.
Leaving the King’s Guard to attend to Sven, Tristan departed the Great Hall, beckoning to a guard as he passed by. The soldier fell into step beside his liege. “Yes, your highness?” The guard asked.
“Have Halmir prepare the men to march with the sun at dawn. Then fetch Dariyen to my chambers. I would speak with the Captain before I depart.”
“Very well, your highness,” the guard replied as he attempted to affect an awkward bow while still walking. The guard peeled away and went in search of the Captain and the First Advisor, likely still sound asleep in their beds.
Tristan made his way quickly back to his quarters, opening the heavy door as quietly as he could manage, but in spite of his efforts Linea stirred. The Queen sat up against the headboard as she tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “What are you doing up so early?” Linea asked, still recovering from her long illness.
It seemed the Queen was adrift in the chaos of their grief over their son, and as much as he longed to steady her course, he himself was struggling to find his own mooring.
The loneliness of shouldering alone the burden of their son’s abduction had frayed Tristan’s nerves more than he cared to admit. He didn’t want to raise his wife’s hopes unnecessarily but knew he could not depart without telling her where he was going.
“Sven believes he has found the Night Stalkers’ base of operations,” Tristan said gently.
“Where?” Linea asked timidly.
“Mizumura—they operate from within the city. He is certain.”
“Any word of . . .” Linea’s voice trailed off as she struggled with the emotions within.
“Not yet, my love, but we know he is alive. They seek to trade him for what they want. They will not allow any harm to come to the Prince until they have what they want.”
“What is it they want?” Linea asked.
“Me. This attack was personal. We suspect the once-Lady of the Mizumura to be behind them. This is revenge for what she has lost.”
“What she has lost?” Linea asked, sitting up and balling her fists in frustration. “She is fortunate I can barely move. That wretch has taken my son. Her losses have only just begun,” Linea declared defiantly.
“I will bring him home or die trying, Linea.”
“Don’t say such things,” Linea replied, her voice failing. “I thought I lost you once before, and I could not stand to lose you again. You must come home to me. Don’t leave me alone in this world.”
Tristan swept across the room in three quick strides and was at his wife’s side. Gently he took her in his arms and held her close. “I won’t leave you—I’m taking enough men to lay waste to the city if need be. If Hitomi wants blood she will have to fight for it. Mother and Father will see to that.”
“At least we have that good news—your father’s return, and your mother’s,” Linea mused, a trace of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Indeed, though it is hard to feel anything right now. I have missed Father dearly over these years. He could not have returned at a more fortuitous time—his counsel will be vital as we deal with the Night Stalkers. He has had more than a few encounters with them in his lifetime. His understanding of their movements may give us the edge we need.”
“So they will accompany you?”
“Yes, but do not worry. I am leaving Dariyen in command of the Palace. He will ensure no harm comes to you while I am away. Sven is also recuperating in his quarters. I imagine once he regains his feet you will not be able to be rid of him.”
“I can imagine worse company,” Linea replied, her mind wandering back to Falen, the man she had almost been forced to wed.
“Sven hasn’t forgiven himself for the harm you suffered at the hands of the Night Stalkers. He blames himself for their success.”
“One man cannot shield against all evils, all the time. It is an impossible task,” she said. “If he had been there sooner he would have been killed. By showing up when he did he likely saved my life, according to Malus.”
“That is Sven’s problem. He would have seen the army of assassins and still tried to intercede. His impetuous nature will get him killed one day,” Tristan asserted.
“I wonder which of his friends he gets that from,” Linea replied, elbowing Tristan in the ribs.
“Fair point,” Tristan answered, breaking into a smile of his own.
There was a knock at the door. Tristan knew it was Dariyen but was loathe to get up, and had even less desire to leave his wife’s side. Knowing time was not on his side Tristan let out a deep sigh.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” Linea asked.
“Yes. That will be Dariyen. I need to speak with him before I leave.”
; Linea placed a hand on Tristan’s neck and drew him back in for a tender kiss.
Tristan lingered, not wanting the moment to pass. “I love you, Linea,” He managed, struggling for the words.
“And I, you. Now go. Bring our son home,” Linea replied, her hope revived as she lay down once more.
“Very well, my love. Rest. I will be home before you know it.” Rising from the bed Tristan called towards the door: “Just a moment, Dariyen. I’ll be right with you.” Tristan hurried to dress. In spite of his new role, having an attendant dress him was something he had never wanted to become accustomed to. Getting dressed is something people must do for themselves, Tristan thought as he donned a simple tunic and breeches. Taking up his sword, Tristan fastened the fine weapon to his belt and located his boots, put them on, and walked back to the bed.
“Goodbye my love,” he said softly as he gently kissed her now resting form. The young King hated leaving his wife like this but knew he was not willing to trust his sons’ recovery to anyone else. If they failed he would not be able to forgive himself.
Tristan opened the door to Dariyen, the First Captain of King’s Court, who answered only to Tristan. For years he had served as General of the Crown’s armies and in that capacity had held a place on the King’s Council, the body of leaders who had ruled Valaar in the absence of a King. It was Dariyen who had placed Tristan on the path that led to the Crown. Dariyen himself had happily parted with the power he had held for so long in favor of returning greater stability to the island Kingdom. There was not a man Tristan trusted more to act in the best interest of King’s Court.
“Thank you for coming, Dariyen. I’m sorry to wake you in the middle of the night.”
“Not at all, my liege.”
“Don’t call me that, Dariyen—you’ve been First Captain since I was a child.”
“Ah, but you are not a child now, Tristan. You are King of Valaar. My respect is both for you and for the office you now hold. Never forget that. Your people serve you, and you in turn serve the people.”