Book of Kayal: Houses of Light

by S. Nileson

  “No need to bow, Ascilla.” He started walking towards Archer, who avoided making eye contact, and examined the young man intently, showing particular interest to the drawings that marked his face. “I know many things about you, boy, which you do not.” He circled around Archer. “You were supposed to be sent to me after meeting with Duke Constantine, it appears that Commander Chordus either missed it or decided against it. The reason I do not know.” After making one full circle around Archer he stopped, facing him and raising his head by softly pushing against Archer’s chin with his right hand, his left behind him throughout the entire ordeal. “If you are not here for your quest, then what is the purpose of your visit?”

  Archer forced himself to swallow a dry throat and softly said, “My brother decided to take upon this quest in my stead. We were separated some time ago and I hoped that you might know if he’s safe.”

  Alarmed, Prince Iolcus shot a curious gaze across the room to Lyra. She responded in kind and asked of Archer, “Boy, what you say is impossible.”

  “I have this, Lyra,” the Prince silenced her. “Tell me more of your brother, boy.”

  “Balta is everything I’m not,” Archer said, the words flowing easily from his tongue for the first time since the Prince’s appearance. At the utterance of Balta’s name both the Prince’s and Lyra’s tensions eased. “He’s determined and selfless. He’s strong and kind. He acts in the manner he speaks. Balta is everything I hope to one day become, and I’ve only realized this when I lost him. I’m lost without him. I thought it was Keshish who gave me guidance, but it was Balta all this time. I must know of his fate.”

  “He sounds like someone I would like to meet,” Prince Iolcus said, turning and walking away from Archer.

  “So you haven’t heard of him?” Ascilla asked eagerly, her voice escaping her chest in a manner that made her notice only after she had spoken. Again she did not carry herself as she should have in the presence of the Prince.

  “I have not,” the Prince confirmed, “but I know how you can find him. If this Balta truly is as inspirational as you claim, if he is even half such a man, then I have no doubt that he made it through whatever ordeal he faced. He will seek me out in your stead. He will walk that path which you were meant to walk. And if he does not make your mistake then by now he should be in Senna, seeking Duke Constantine.”

  “Lord Prince, if you meet him could you please tell Balta that we are searching for him in Senna?” Ascilla asked. After a moment of silence she added, “I’m sorry for my insolence.”

  “Not at all, Walkyrien, you owe me no apology nor ever will, except for apologizing so frequently.” A smile crossed the lips of the old Prince. “If Balta seeks me out, and I wish he would, I will direct him to you. I will even offer him whatever aid I can in his journey to come.” He gestured at Lyra, who at his command came to stand by his side, and said, “I believe you know where to go next. Seek me out if ever you need anything of me, Archer, Ascilla. I know I will do the same should I ever need your aid.”

  Ascilla raised her right arm to her chest and bowed, Archer mimicking her closely, and said, “It would be our honor, Lord Prince, to serve you.”

  With that both Prince Iolcus and Lyra left the chamber, the guards opening and closing the door for the two to pass and leaving Archer and Ascilla in solitude until they asked to depart. As they walked through the cold stone corridors of Partha, passing by the many purple drapes with gold trimmings, Lyra asked of the Prince, “Should we have told him?”

  “I am sure Starkad will. After all, he raised them as his own and I have no doubt that he will recognize them.” He sighed and his eyes grew heavy for a moment at the memory of his friend and beloved Emperor, Servak, “If only he had lived long enough to tell Starkad of his intentions.”

  “If only he had outlived us,” Lyra corrected.

  3

  “I found a ship setting sail to Senna in two days,” Ascilla said to Archer. They both sat in the Lonely Road tavern, having some bitter ale which they had grown accustomed to.

  Archer wondered how they managed to drink it long enough to acquire the taste and offered no response to Ascilla’s declaration. He knew that they had to be on the ship. There was nothing else for them to do in Partha. “How do you find the ale?”

  Ascilla looked down on her wooden mug and at the little dark ale it contained. “You know, it has grown on me. It’s not that bad once your pellets get damaged enough by a generous dose.”

  Archer laughed loudly, but it earned him no strange looks from the other patrons as many spoke and laughed just as loudly, if not louder.

  A large group of women entered the tavern and mysteriously split themselves across two tables, squeezing on them to accommodate themselves on the only two empty tables. They were an odd bunch, Archer thought as he examined their strange outfits, brown padded armor stained with the stresses of a long journey. They all bore weapons on their black belts, covered in scabbards clearly not intended for them.

  “Who do you think these are?” Archer gestured with his eyes at one of the tables with six of the women on it.

  The Walkyrien turned around, her cloak momentarily uncovering a single feather from her wings which Archer quickly covered with his knee, gently hitting her. She looked down at Archer’s knee and thanked Archer silently with a nod.

  “Worry not when you tarry,” Ascilla said contemplatively, repeating an old saying, when her eyes fell on the women. “I think we’re very lucky.” She looked at Archer with a menacing smile. He hummed in confusion and she added, “We’ve come across the very demon we sought to escape, and they’re in our field now.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “These thirteen women there are Silver Stags. Look closely at their belts.”

  “It’s just a black belt.”

  “It’s not just a black belt, it’s a Silver Stag’s belt. I know of only two groups which fashion their belts to be as thin, to be more fitting for a woman’s form. The Silver Stags and the Walkyriens of the Ichneumon Order. Such a large group of women wearing all padded under-armor and the same exact belt is not exactly a coincidence.”

  “Should we make ourselves scarce?” Archer asked.

  “On the contrary, we should declare ourselves, but not just yet.” She took a look at Archer and noticed how poorly the light fell on his face to reveal his ink. “Hood yourself and make sure they don’t see your face. We won’t want to lose the element of surprise.” She glanced once more at the Silver Stags and said, “Actually it would be best if we pay another visit to Prince Iolcus.”

  Archer looked at the hourglass fastened securely on the wall and said, “At least he won’t be sleeping now.”

  4

  “Prince Iolcus!” Ascilla said, bowing to the Prince ceremoniously and earning herself a sigh. The Prince, she later knew, loathed such behavior and preferred to be spoken to as an equal whenever he gave private audience, a quality he learnt from the Demigod Emperor himself.

  “Arise and never bow to me again,” the Prince said calmly. He sat on his throne, a stone chair etched from a large stone slab which rooted itself firmly into the floor. The throne was padded with rich purple pillows puffing effortlessly whenever the Prince got up. Lyra stood silently beside him.

  Ascilla rose at the command. “I’ve come to report the arrival of our pursuers. I’ve come to report the Silver Stags who snuck into your city.”

  Iolcus’ eyes widened once he heard the troubling news. “How were they not noticed by my guard?”

  “Subterfuge, Lord Prince. They wear no silver armor or scabbards. They come only in their padded under-armor stained with the hardship of travel. Though there is no doubt they are wardens, for their belts betray them.”

  “Malus grows bolder,” Lyra told the Prince. “We cannot allow such offence.”

  “And to think that one day I was his guardian.” Iolcus lowered his gaze and raised his arm to rest his forehead on it, elbow rooted on his knee. After taki
ng a deep breath he raised his head and said, “Ascilla, I want you to lead Lyra and her Ona to them.”

  “I will summon them,” Lyra excused herself and rushed towards the exit, with as quick a pace as she could manage to walk. Her age not affecting it.

  Iolcus remained silent, lost in thought and a daydream which lasted long enough for Lyra to fetch her troop.

  “We are ready, Prince,” Lyra said, nine Parthans wearing the same red armor she wore behind them. They all wore helmets with covered visors, each roughly the same shape and design with minor differences noticeable only to the keenest of eyes.

  “Go and make haste. I do not want you to miss them,” the Prince commanded.

  5

  The Lonely Road was filled with the usual number of patrons it enjoyed during its busiest hour, just after the end of the morning shifts, the one in which half of those who lived in Partha worked. There were no empty tables, only ones overflowing with drunken customers and those close to getting there, save for two tables which had an unusual number of women unaccompanied by men. Several advances were made on some of the women. All were turned away.

  With a loud thump the door opened and Ascilla appeared, her eyes falling on the Silver Stags with no hesitation or momentarily scan. She knew exactly where they would be and made no attempt to hide it. As commanded by the Prince, she made haste.

  “There they are,” Ascilla said to Lyra who in turn commanded her small troop to encircle the Stags.

  “What is this?” one of the women asked, standing before the rest of her sisters and leading the gesture.

  “Who asks?” Lyra retorted, blocking the way to the exit.

  “My name is Qella. We come here in search for refuge from the raiding Gallecians.”

  Lyra violently held Qella’s arm and drew her closer, her companions drawing their weapons in response only to find the Parthans equally ready and far better equipped. At Qella’s command they lowered their weapons, dropping them on the table where Lyra gestured with her eyes alone.

  “Strange for a sister of the Silver Stags to seek refuge.” She pulled up Qella’s sleeve and revealed the etching of a stag’s head on her skin.

  Qella had no response. She shot a glance around at her sisters then unexpectedly towards a woman sitting on the bar. No words were exchanged between the two and only Ascilla caught the momentary exchange of looks. Yet the gesture was not sufficient for her to cast doubt. She looked at the woman on the bar and quickly returned her attention to the Silver Stags when she found nothing out of the ordinary.

  “You are not allowed in here. Do you know of your transgression?” Lyra calmly asked in an unsettling tone.

  “I do,” Qella responded. “We will not resist.” She lifted her arms and held both fists close to allow herself to be cuffed, showing them clearly to Lyra and offering her freedom uncontested.

  “That will not be necessary,” Lyra said. “I would like to give you every possible opportunity to test your skill with the blade.”

  “I apologize, Lady Knight. I shall grant no such opportunity, neither will my sisters.”

  Lyra looked at one of her steel-clad companions and said, “He will lead you to your cells. I will be following.” She looked at Qella intently after her companion left, drawing a formation of submissive Stags to follow him, and only broke the stare when it was Qella’s turn to move, behind all of her sisters.

  The thirteen Silver Stags were taken to prison where they waited patiently for Kari to resolve their situation, praying to Pax that it would not take her long.

  A woman approached Ascilla after the Silver Stags were taken away and the tavern’s liveliness returned. The Walkyrien was sitting on the bar, alone, and ordered a single mug of ale.

  “Serves them right,” the woman said.

  Ascilla looked at the intruder and saw a set of beautifully white teeth decorating the mouth of a hardened woman. “They weren’t always like this.”

  “Wardens will be wardens, hated by all save for themselves.”

  “Not sure I agree to that.”

  “The name’s Kari.” She extended a hand to Ascilla which the Walkyrien took and shook, returning the smile for a moment, conveying no genuine emotion behind it.

  “What are you doing here, Kari?”

  “I’m just passing through looking for work. What about you?”

  “Waiting for three more days until my friends arrive.” Lying came naturally to Ascilla and she did not bother to suppress her training. “But this isn’t what I meant, friend.” She looked at Kari, eyes cold with lack of sleep and many days of having to watch man be man. “I meant what are you doing next to me on this bar?”

  “Oh,” Kari said, disappointed and withdrawing to the comfort of her own ale, hugging her mug closely, acting well enough to fool Ascilla. “I guess I’m just making conversation in a local tavern. It’s not exactly unusual, you know.”

  “Well it is for me,” Ascilla said.

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Excuse me, but I fear exhaustion has gotten the best of me, Kari. Perhaps next time we meet I’ll be in a better mood.”

  “I understand.” Kari raised her mug, smiled and nodded faintly at Ascilla before moving away three seats to the right, minding her own business and making no effort to speak to the Walkyrien again. While she sat alone, thinking of how best to act in three days should Khatar not arrive, she could not help herself from thinking back at that glimpse she caught of Ascilla’s wings before she brought the Parthan Ona to arrest her Stag companions. She decided against taking any action before the three days she had, and against approaching Ascilla under the guise of meaningless tavern talk once more.

  6

  For two days Archer made himself scarce, hiding his face entirely behind a wooden mask whenever he emerged in the streets of Partha. It was Ascilla’s doing, the embodiment of her thoughts in his actions, and a wise suggestion from her part, but it did not stop Kari from reaching an accurate conclusion about who the masked man was. The mercenary followed the two whenever she deemed it unlikely to be noticed. She did her job well save for one minor miscalculation, she assumed that Ascilla had told her the truth about the date of their departure, and one day it made her lose the targets and shift her attentions towards finding adequate justification for Khatar about her inability to deliver on her contract.

  The Sennan ship Provocation set sail from Partha with the tide. It was a small ship designed for speed and ill equipped for battle or transport. Its captain was Vexo Pumilio, a man notorious for his ability to spring alive rumors from thin air and indulge in seeing how far they went. He was, in all ways, a man of words who relished in the purpose he was given, being the bearer of messages between Senna and its allies.

  Aboard the Provocation Archer and Ascilla stood on the deck, enjoying the sea breeze gliding on their skin in silence. It was one of the few times where Archer truly took note of Ascilla’s feminine charms, the way her smile lit up her face and the way a slight chill made her cheeks red. When enough time had passed for Archer to find his idleness boring, he looked around to examine the ship, a luxury he had no memory of ever being offered. His eyes wandered from the diligent crew to the sturdy ropes; from the etched wood to the rusty bolts; from the empty hammocks to the readied fishing nets. Then his gaze settled on a group of people oddly praying not to Pax, but to the deceased Demigod Emperor Servak. They repeated the words, “Servak protect us from the darkness we see and the darkness we don’t.”

  Ascilla took notice of his fixation and said, “When the Demigod Emperor perished no body was found. Some came to believe that he never died and instead ascended into apotheosis. That which you see now is but a small example of a growing faith, a cult of sorts.”

  “I find it strange to pray, let alone to a man,” Archer said, watching the small congregation swing back and forth with the motion dictated on them by the waves.

  “In many ways the Wolf Emperor was not a man. His feats alone make him stand many echelons a
bove even the best of us. He brought salvation to many and alleviated endless pains while expecting nothing in return. No better man ever lived.”

  “So you approve of his deification?”

  “No, but not because he’s undeserving of it, but because he wouldn’t condone it.” Ascilla paused for a moment, smile fading and lips turning downwards. “I don’t have any regrets in life, but one of them is that I never got to serve the Demigod Emperor. I was born too late.”

  Chapter 12: Offer Refuge

  ‘Send the curious traveler to Prince Iolcus of Partha. Tell him of the Unnamed Blade awaiting him there.’ Letters of Sol: to Duke.

  1

  Senna, the biggest island off the southern coast of Nosgard, had been a haven for all those who escaped the clutches of Nosgard’s rulers throughout the ages. Before the Four Kingdoms were formed Senna was a hub for all that was legally not allowed on the mainland. They grew heaven’s weed, a common drug used to remedy certain ailments and often for recreational purposes, and rom, back when alcoholic beverages were frowned upon. They had pirates, outlaws and thieves, even once earning the name of the capital city of the notorious Guild, an alliance of thieves, assassins, pick pockets and murderers. When the golden age of sailing came, with the advent of the large mast ships, Senna became the capital of pirates and raiders, preying on small coastal villages mostly comprised of fishermen. In time, when the island grew civilized and the decree of virtuous men took over, the city became a kingdom and the pirate ships turned into a navy, with all those willing to join granted full pardon for their past deeds. The notion was a success and after a small resistance calling themselves the Free Sailors was quelled, Senna became one of the stronger powers in Nosgard, with dominion over all Nosgardian seas.

  It was on this land, many centuries after it was first named as Senna, that Archer and Ascilla disembarked from Provocation once it was secure in one of Senna’s many ports. Sand was everywhere, Archer noticed. Soft sand was being blown by the wind, whenever a gust blew their way, and the sound of it grazing between the wooden floors and their boots marked every step taken in the port.