Rogue Legacy: The Secret History of Issalia

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “What happened?”

  “We were deep in the woods north of Sol Polis – me, Donte, and a dozen of my royal guard. We broke into two groups, me leading one group to flush out our quarry, while Donte and the others waited to make the kill. As planned, we found two spotted deer and drove them toward our trap. Unfortunately, the deer startled another animal during their flight. A wild boar exploded from the brush and rammed into Donte before he could defend himself, goring the lad in the thigh and slamming him against a tree. Unconscious and bleeding profusely when we found him, we bandaged the wound and carried him to Sol Polis. The healer there was able to save him, even save his leg. But Donte’s head injury proved to be more significant and he would not wake. Three weeks passed before he finally opened his eyes. Even then, the damage to his brain had changed him…forever. Jessibel blames me for Donte’s condition.” He looked toward the floor. “How could she not? I blame myself.”

  Lyra climbed the dais and hugged Tallinor. “Don’t blame yourself, father. Sometimes things happen. Unless ill will was intended, it was but a twist of fate.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it was destined to happen regardless of what you did.”

  “Thank you, Lyra.” He gave her smile as she stood, and gently squeezed her outstretched hand.

  “However, I don’t see how Donte’s condition makes it acceptable for her to share her bed with another man.”

  Tallinor released his grip, dropping his hand to the arm of his throne. “As I said, Donte’s accident created a chasm between us. Since I have no love for her, I allow that chasm to remain…and I look the other way rather than examine her indiscretions.”

  “Well, she makes me sick.”

  “I can’t change the way you feel, Lyra, but I can’t have you two causing problems either. You don’t have to like Jessibel. You just need to leave her to her own devices. I’ll inform her that she needs to do the same for you.” His steely gaze locked with Lyra’s, the king within demanding she obey, the man within pleading that she acquiesce.

  She signed, “Fine. I’ll stay away from her.”

  Tallinor shook his head and chuckled. “Lyra. Do you forget that I can see lies from this throne?”

  She bit her lower lip in frustration.

  He rubbed his eyes again. “I need this promise from you. I have important business to address over the next few weeks, and I cannot afford your little feud as a distraction.”

  “Fine!” Lyra threw her hands up. “You win. I’ll stay away from her for a month. After that, I can’t promise anything.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll take it a month at a time.” He smiled. “Now give me a hug so I can get back to bed.”

  She leaned in to give the man another hug. “Goodnight, Father.”

  He patted her on the back and released her. “Goodnight, Lyra.”

  Without pause, Lyra walked the length of the throne room, passed through the double doors, and headed toward her room. It was well past midnight, and she needed sleep before her morning duel.

  26

  Blades collided, the clang of metal-on-metal ringing in the courtyard. A sword swept toward Lyra’s head. She ducked and spun, the strike narrowly missing her helmet. When she came around, Lyra thrust her dagger toward the man’s lower back. Her opponent twisted, and his shield deflected the blow past him.

  Lyra spun away, kicking up dirt as she created space before he could strike again. She eyed him warily as he adjusted his shield and loosened his shoulder. At over six-feet, the man stood a full head taller than Lyra and vastly outweighed her. Quickness was her main advantage. Strength was his.

  Her opponent lunged toward her and Lyra raised her blades, crossing them above her head and bracing herself to catch the overhead strike. The shock from the impact made her teeth rattle and strained her shoulders. She pushed his blade to her left and spun to the right, trying to get around his shield. With a swing of his muscular arm, the man’s shield disrupted the path of her short sword, knocking it wide of its target. The shield hit her shoulder, the padding of her leather armor sapping the sting of a blow that knocked her backward. Rather than fight it, Lyra dropped to the ground and kicked her leg into a sweep that struck the man’s heel.

  Rather than fall, he stumbled, righting himself in time to deflect the upward thrust of Lyra’s dagger such that it harmlessly skidded across his cuirass. Overextended, she couldn’t avoid his shield. It slammed into her helmet, knocking her aside with a loud clang. Lyra stumbled, her ears ringing as she struggled to remain upright. She fell to one knee, her eyes watering as the world tilted, and spots invaded her vision, causing it to narrow into a blurry tunnel.

  “Match,” she heard a man’s voice from somewhere distant, somewhere beyond the ringing.

  With her eyes squeezed shut, she fought to keep her stomach under control, refusing to give into the nausea. She opened them to find her opponent squatting before her, his dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his helmet tucked under one arm.

  “Sorry, Lyra.” Mandrick grinned. “It was a good match. You’ve come far.”

  “However, she must control her emotions. Committing to a thrust like that only works if you can poke a hole in your opponent. Once he blocks the thrust, it leaves you exposed.” Lyra turned toward Elan, squinting at the bald man as he approached. “How are you?”

  “My head feels like my brains are trying to escape. I don’t think they enjoy being shaken like that.”

  Elan nodded. “You might be on to something.”

  Mandrick chuckled. “You were always an insightful instructor, Elan.”

  Elan shrugged. “You were not always an apt pupil, Mandrick. But once I was able to cool that hot head of yours, you acquitted yourself quite well.”

  Mandrick patted Elan on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  Lyra tossed her training dagger and sword, the rounded points and dulled edges of the blades bouncing off the dirt floor. After sliding her helmet off, she shook her head to loosen her damp black hair, the motion causing her to stumble.

  “Ugh. I’m dizzy.”

  “It’s a side effect of getting your head clobbered,” Elan noted. “Don’t let it happen, and you won’t have that problem.”

  “Thanks for the sage advice, oh wise Weapon Master.”

  Elan smiled, which was an uncommon event for the aging war veteran. “Go on and get yourself cleaned up. Return tomorrow at sunup, and we’ll work on your technique. I spotted a few small things during your duel that I hadn’t noticed in recent training sessions.”

  “Thanks, Elan.” Lyra held her hand to her temple, which was still pounding. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She turned and walked away, almost making it out of the training yard before Elan spoke again.

  “It’s your emotions, Lyra. You must learn to contain them. You’re smart and you’re quick…maybe the quickest I’ve ever seen. You could be dangerously good or just dangerous. Get your emotions under control before they kill you or someone you care about.”

  Lyra paused, facing the door, pressing her lips together. After a moment, she pushed it open and left the man alone.

  With an underhand toss, Lyra sent her sparring helmet to her sofa as she passed her bed and headed toward the bathing room. She slipped inside and found Tiri in one of the tubs, no different from every other morning since Lyra had moved into the adjoining room. Glynnis sat in a nearby chair, knitting as usual. The woman’s eyes flicked up as Lyra entered and then refocused on the half-finished shawl on her lap.

  “Good morning, Lyra.” Tiri smiled.

  Despite Lyra’s headache, she smiled in return.

  “Hi, Tiri.”

  Lyra unbuckled the straps of her padded sparring jerkin, peeling the sweaty leather off her torso before tossing it to the floor. Her breeches and shift followed, joining the growing pile of garments before she added hot water to the cool liquid waiting inside the tub. She stepped in, and a long sigh seeped out as she melted into the steamy bath.

  “How did your du
el with Mandrick go?”

  Lyra opened her eyes and looked at Tiri, finding a layer of soapy lather coating her smooth skin.

  “It lasted much longer than last time. For a moment, I thought I had him beat, but I overcommitted and he smacked me with his shield. My head is pounding like it might pop right off if I breathe wrong.”

  Tiri frowned. “That sounds horrible. I don’t understand why you insist on combat training. You certainly don’t have to do it. There are plenty of other things you can do without placing yourself in harm’s way.”

  Lyra sighed, a common practice when this subject arose. “I can’t rely on others to protect me, Tiri. I’m not a princess, like you.”

  Tiri sat up, the morning sunlight beaming down on her shapely physique.

  “But, you are a princess. Father loves you and calls you his daughter. He’s the king and that makes you a princess.”

  Lyra snorted. “He might be the king, but a king calling a beetle a butterfly still doesn’t make it a butterfly.” She shook her head. “I can’t afford to think that way, Tiri. I learned the hard way when my father was killed…you cannot control fate. Things change. I prepare my mind and body for a life beyond these walls because I don’t know how the bones might fall in the future.”

  Tiri frowned. “The bones again. Not everything equates to a game of knucklebones. I think we have more control over our lives than that.”

  “Are you done with that soap?” Lyra asked, accepting the foamy bar as Tiri handed it to her. “I’m not saying that you shouldn’t try to make your own life, influence your own fate. I’m just saying that things happen that you can’t foresee. I never expected to end up living in a castle. While I love it here, and I love both you and your father, the events that brought me here aren’t something I’d choose to relive.”

  Lyra shivered as she thought of the army of giant soldiers and their magic-enhanced screams. Surviving that confrontation was a near thing, with an amazing blend of bravery, luck, and magic required to prevent disaster. She remained amazed that they were able to send The Hand’s army, along with its Arcanists, through Cal’s portal.

  After wetting the bar of soap, Lyra began scrubbing her body. “Perhaps I’m being overly negative and nothing will happen. Maybe I’ll just live here for the rest of my life, sharing this amazing castle with my sister, the Queen. If I’m wasting my time learning how to fight, I can live with that.”

  “I guess, but I don’t like you getting hurt. Just thinking about getting hit in the head with a shield makes me nauseous.” Tiri lowered herself into the water, dunking her head beneath the surface. When she resurfaced, she ran her hands through her hair, squeezing excess water from it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that Father has an important dinner arranged for tonight…with Baron Clavelle and the Artisan Guild Master. He requested that we attend.”

  “Let me guess, I’m to wear a dress and do something with my hair,” Lyra said with a sarcastic tone. She paused and turned toward Tiri. “Am I to…play?”

  Tiri nodded. “Yes. He wants to know why the artisans recently raised their rates. They claim that they must do so to survive, but Father is doubtful.”

  “I wish he would just use the throne instead.”

  “The throne might tell him that they’re lying, but it doesn’t necessarily reveal the truth. Besides, it has…become somewhat famous, and people know what it can do now. They are careful not to lie in front of it, instead saying things that are true, yet hiding the real answer behind duplicity.” Tiri rose from the water and Glynnis wrapped a towel around her. “In addition, your playing allows him to get the info he needs without anyone remembering the conversation. It helps to prevent unnecessary friction.”

  Leaving a trail of water on the stone floor, Tiri padded toward the door to her bedroom. She turned toward Lyra as Glynnis opened the door.

  “Will you join me for lunch and a walk in the garden?”

  Lyra smiled, nodding. “You know I will.”

  Tiri’s bright smile appeared. “Wonderful. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  The two women exited through the doorway, leaving Lyra to herself. She closed her eyes and sank deep in the tub, her temple still throbbing from the blow to her head.

  27

  Sixteen candles mounted to a massive circular chandelier lit the center of the room, the lighting fixture hovering above a dark oak table. At each end of the room, torches mounted in wall sconces straddled a pair of closed doors, their flame dancing wildly each time a nearby door opened.

  An old man sat on a stool in the corner, plucking at the strings of his lute, the music quiet enough to allow the coexistence of easy conversation. Lyra resisted the urge to comment on his playing, finding it serviceable but uninspiring. Seated at the long dining table, she found herself wishing the meal to end, although it had barely begun.

  Baron Clavelle sat beside her at one end of the table, opposite from Tallinor at the far end. The queen sat in the chair beside him, as far from Lyra as possible. Donte and Tiri sat between Lyra and Jessibel as added buffer. Guildmaster Vernon, his wife, Ursula, Lady Gariella, and Tallinor’s advisor, Hamilton, occupied the chairs across from Lyra.

  “You see, Your Majesty, despite the fact that our tax rate has remained steady, the cost of raw materials has increased,” Vernon droned. “Without responding with increased prices, the Artisans would yield lower profit margins, something that they cannot suffer due to already living on the edge of poverty.”

  Tallinor finished his drink of wine and set his chalice down, the gems embossed within the gold cup gleaming in the flickering light. Lyra’s focus shifted from Tallinor to Vernon, noticing the man’s bushy eyebrows below a forehead that extended deep into his gray-peppered black hair. The eyebrows shimmied each time the man shifted his eyes, as if they were alive and had a mind of their own.

  “So you say, Vernon. However, the other guilds have not complained, and many use the same materials.”

  A server approached with a carafe and refilled the king’s cup before circling the table, doing the same for the queen and the king’s guests. Lyra took of a drink of her cider as she stared at Vernon, trying to read the man.

  “It is but a matter of time before they, too, must raise their prices.”

  Vernon appeared confident and at ease, despite his present company. Lyra had never seen the man before, making it at least three years since he had dined with the king, if ever.

  Tallinor nodded. “If what you say is true, I expect that will, indeed, happen.”

  Clavelle chuckled, drawing everyone’s attention. The man’s wavy brown hair was combed to the side, the ends of his thick mustache waxed and curled per the latest trend. Despite the pleasantly cool evening, his green doublet was half-unbuttoned, exposing his chest hair. Lyra frowned as she recalled catching the man in bed with Jessibel. He clearly thought highly of himself, likely more so after bedding his queen.

  “I’ve often considered the Artisans underpaid for the work they perform.” Clavelle spread his arms wide. “Consider this palace, a work of art that has stood for nearly two centuries. Were those men paid for two centuries worth of work? I highly doubt it.”

  Tallinor frowned. “Paying a man for how long their work might survive is ridiculous. You pay him for his time, effort, and skill, not for the duration of his creation.”

  “Hmm…” Jessibel put her finger to her chin. “Perhaps Clavelle is on to something here.”

  Vernon grinned, obviously sensing leverage.

  Tallinor’s frown deepened and his gaze shifted to Lyra. Their eyes met and he gave a small nod. Lyra returned his nod and pulled her lute from beneath the table.

  “Clavelle, Vernon, Lady Gariella, have you ever heard Lyra sing?”

  The king gestured toward Lyra, her gaze shifting toward the guests as they turned toward her. She gave a shy smile and pulled her lute above the table for the others to see. The man in the corner stopped his strumming, and all fell quiet.

  Tallinor nodded toward Lyr
a, more deliberate this time. “Lyra, could you please grace us with your gift?”

  Lyra pushed her chair back and stood. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  As she strummed, her gaze fell on Jessibel and found anger flashing in the queen’s green eyes. If looks could kill, Lyra would have been struck dead at that moment. The next moment, however, belonged solely to Lyra.

  As she strummed, the eyes of everyone in the room began to glaze over, her audience falling beneath the spell of the magic lute.

  Having performed in a similar capacity on a regular basis over the past three years, Lyra had grown accustomed to the results. She rarely even bothered singing any longer, knowing that the lute and a few suggestions would yield the same result.

  “Vernon, please tell me the real reason why the Artisan Guild has raised their prices.”

  The Guildmaster stared at Lyra blankly as he spoke. “We have struck a deal with the Artisan Guilds in Sol Polis, Sol Gier, and Yarth, all agreeing to raise our prices twenty percent so we can increase our profits.”

  Lyra nodded, expecting that response. “Was the reason truly driven by increases in raw materials costs?”

  Vernon shook his head. “No. The costs have remained steady. That was only a guise for the guild to use as an excuse.”

  The man’s response was exactly what Tallinor had suspected, and it had come far too easily once Lyra began playing. Her gaze shifted to the man seated beside Vernon. She stuck her tongue out at Clavelle, knowing that he wouldn’t remember her doing so. Her brow furrowed in thought, deciding that she needed to leverage the opportunity before her.

  “Clavelle, why did you sleep with the queen?”

  “When the queen pursued me, how could I not capture the opportunity? Not many men can say they have had a Queen in their bed.”

  Lyra laughed. “I believe that Queen Jessibel is on a mission to change that perception.” She continued strumming to the blank faces surrounding her. “Clavelle, if Jessibel approaches you again, you are to turn her down. In fact, you are to tell her that she disgusts you. Tell her that you now feel so unpure after your tryst, you find yourself bathing five times a day in an attempt to wash yourself of her.”