"Bishop Draven selected you...you of all people, as a candidate for joining the Order of Calathian Knights?" He scrunched up his face and took another drag from his pipe. "But he saw you kill the Hakkadians and ward off the ghoul with Balensaar. And even worse, you helped Master Loral of the Arcanum...an archenemy of the Calathian Church. You do realize that likely the Bishop was there to witness the slaying of Master Loral by the Hakkadians? They've been colluding for years."
His grandfather clicked his tongue in disapproval. "And you left Balensaar at the Dour Bear Inn to go out and carouse at the Wintertide's Festival? Stupid and ill planned. I don't mind you enjoying women and the wine, just plan better. Keep your sword with you at all times...hasn't that stuck in your head yet? Not only would you still have it with you now, but you'd have something other than the stick between your legs to fight off that little assassin bitch."
Tael winced at his words, knowing they were true and he blamed himself for his stupidity. Only just awaking from his days-long slumber, he knew he had to act quickly and find his sword. If the Bishop was still residing in the Dour Bear Inn...
"The question is whether the Bishop recognized you—he won't recognize the sword. I'm inclined to believe he won't realize whom you are. More likely he'll prize you as a possible champion for the Church. A mystery with a powerful sword...someone worth exploiting." His grandfather arched his back in a long stretch and nodded in some self-agreement. "You must go quickly to the inn where the Bishop is staying. Retrieve your sword and possessions and return here if possible. Though if he asks you to stay with him, agree and sneak back here when you can."
When Tael still sat and thought about what he had said, his grandfather rose from his chair and shooed Tael towards the door.
"Go on now, not a moment to lose. And remember to cloak yourself in shadows if you feel you are in danger or if someone is following you. This is not a safe city, remember that."
Obeying, Tael trod through the now open door, giving his grandfather a glance as he reached the steps. "It's good to find you're still alive."
At the expression of warm feeling in his grandfather's eyes, Tael felt filled with a sense of belonging and purpose, as if now his life had a clear direction. His feet were swift and sure as he made his way back through the merchant quarter, avoiding the looks of hunger and desperation on the faces of the destitute he passed. One change since the last time he'd gone through: vicious-eyed soldiers patrolled along the path to the artisan quarter, clubbing the poor souls with cruel targeting, causing a wide wake as he hurried along the way.
Tael saw an anger and indignation in the eyes of the homeless—an anger so strong and unified across those gathered in this quarter that even the pack of five patrolling guards sensed their unwieldy position. Through the gate with confident eyes he strode, and he benefitted from the retreating pack of soldiers whistling to draw the attention of the guards at the gate.
Mayhem left behind, Tael strode across the busy square to where the wealthy artisans had arrayed their finely lacquered carriages around the Dour Boar Inn. He wrapped his mended cloak around him and made his way to the door. The sour-faced doorman he'd seen before stopped him.
"The Bishop has left. He asked me to give you this in case you returned." The man handed Tael an envelope with his name written in an elaborate, formal script.
Tael thanked the doorman and shuffled off, breaking the blood-red seal stamped with the mark of the Calathian Church: twin cougars, claws outstretched in opposing forces. Inside Tael found the Bishop's card and a letter written in the same flowery script as on the envelope.
You may be dead, drunk, or married—all of which amount to similar states. If you find yourself not in any of the previously mentioned conditions, do pay me a visit at my chambers to the rear of the Illumina Cathedral. Wisely wear white to inform the Calathian Knight at the gate that you are a supplicant. Use my included card when purchasing the robes.
I have your pack and sword safely secured and under my personal protection.
— Bishop Draven
No implied threat, just humor and vulgarity in those words. Tael believed it was better to act quickly and try and see the Bishop tonight. He asked one of the doormen at the Dour Bear Inn where he might be able to purchase Supplicant's Robes this evening. The youthful man scrunched up his face and looked him over, but when Tael produced Draven's card the doorman charged off to talk to an older, sober man who nodded, concerned, and listened to the young man's words. Soon the doorman returned.
"Go to Calathian Vestments on Carver Street." The man sliced the air and aimed a finger north, deeper into the artisan quarter. "They'll help you out."
Tael thanked the man and made his way north and after winding around the quarter and asking for directions a few times, he found himself looking into a small, glass-windowed shop filled with sacred vestments on display. The shop had a closed sign but he could see a man rummaging around inside, cleaning up for the day.
With a knock the shopkeeper waddled over towards the door and frowned, peering out through the window. Tael displayed Bishop Draven's card to the man and his expression brightened to a holy visage. The door unlocked and slid open.
"Blessings to the gods, child, enter and find solace." The bulbous-faced obese man wagged his head in simple-minded fervor, and rotated his fat arm to gesture inside.
Tael stepped in, glanced around at the gaudy silk-and-gold-thread vestments, and suppressed sacrilegious laughter at the obscene display of wealth. "I need Supplicant's Robes—the simpler the finer in the eyes of the gods."
Much to his enjoyment, the shopkeeper blanched at the implied insult, his gape displaying a toad-like tongue, and his mouth clamped shut, beady eyes glancing around his wares. "Simple Supplicant's Robes...now where might I have them stored. Surely the Bishop requires more of his candidates?"
A shake of Tael's head stopped the man. "The Order of Calathian Knights requires martial raiments."
"Ah, of course, now I know exactly. Normally we don't supply such vestments—however I believe I do have a robe in the back room that will suit you."
While the man jiggled away Tael scanned the shop and caught sight of a loose stack of papers on a desk and one that had fallen to the floor. He leaned down and picked up a letter stamped with the seal of Bishop Rathgor of the Illumina Cathedral.
Urgent Request. Full compliment of new vestments needed for the wedding of Princess Sebine to Duke Greerwald's son. Spare no expense. On the order of the King.
—Bishop Rathgor
Chapter Twenty
AFTER DINNER, SEBINE retired to her chambers to free her waist from the constricting corset that choked her breathing. In a more relaxing cerulean blue nightgown, she rested at the reclining sofa and stared outside as the lights of the city danced in the murky haze. The city she once loved as a girl was now tainted by the oppressing hand of the King and his henchmen. The city that he didn't love himself and the city he seemed to torture in his wrath for its lack of accepting him. Ridiculous fool.
Her door flung open, displaying the familiar, fox-and-rat face of King Braxion. He closed the door, a scowl twisting his face into a deeper shade of ugliness. He sniffed and scanned around as he strode the room's perimeter, inspecting the bars on the window, rifling through the notes on the desk, and he narrowed his eyes as he peered into the bathing room.
"You smell like a bitch in heat." The King lifted a perfume bottle to his nose and cringed at the smell. "Why do women insist on wearing such strong smelling perfume? Whom are you hoping to attract?"
Sebine stiffened at his words and fixed a sullen stare at the King, imagining his eyeballs exploding in a burst of heat out of his disgusting eye sockets. "Why suitors, of course, Your Majesty."
He chuckled at that, and raised the corner of his wrinkled mouth in a wry smile. "I've found the perfect alliance. To the west, Duke Greerwald wishes to ally his families with ours and strengthen the Kingdom's position against the Malathians. He has a boy—a kind,
sweet boy—he wishes to be husband to you. The details are all settled."
Duke Greerwald? His children were very young...his oldest boy couldn't be more than ten. The King couldn't be serious. And yet the certainty and disinterest in his eyes told Sebine he was absolutely serious and any questioning to the contrary might return a brutal answer.
"Is he a handsome boy?" Sebine said, trying to keep her voice soft and engaged. She also knew this would be a slight, as the short, ugly King winced at the handsome men about court, charming and entertaining the ladies.
The King fingered the gold and iron medallion at his chest, then cleared his throat and swallowed. "I'd say he has noble features...sturdy...well-studied, and well, a bit awkward, but I'm sure he'll grow out of it. He needs some good military training and discipline. He'll make a fine husband."
"And if I refuse?"
"I'll have you dragged to the sept to stand and say your words." The King looked almost gleeful, as if waiting for her to say that, and he turned and left the room.
Instead of fury, Sebine laughed so hard in mad disbelief that tears streamed down her face. She was merely a tool to be used by the King. A thing bought or sold to use for his advantage. In his mind the King certainly believed that Sebine was his daughter, but how could a father possibly treat a daughter so cruelly? The rueful thought hit her: daughters don't matter in this world. Only her brother mattered to the King, her ugly brute of a brother, and the dragons and war. Only that mattered.
Did she even care about being married to a boy of ten? She'd had freedom for a time, but that wouldn't last. And she'd have to leave the capital. She'd be away from Tael. The truth of her situation hit her with a vicious certainty. Without the light from Tael's eyes filling her with hope, she doubted she'd even had a reason to live anymore. She needed to find some place in this world, a place with solace and freedom and at least a sliver of happy moments. A place far from the mad King Braxion... But would he ever let her go? No, in his mind she was his property, and with his sticky personality and relentlessly obsessive mind he'd never let her go.
Not unless she killed him first.
But they said that the King possessed a power preventing magic from affecting him. And when he fought on the battlefield his blows were always true and his movements blessed by the gods. Some rumored that the King received some blessing or gift from his father, secured from the depths of Naverstrom. How else could he protect himself against the Hakkadians? If she wanted to kill the King she'd have to find a weakness she could exploit.
She had to talk to Tael. He had answers about the King and the Hakkadians that he hadn't told her yet. Would she be able to sneak past the guards outside, especially now the King had tripled the soldiers watching her, and invited Yaez to lurk around inside the palace, unseen and unpredictable? She had to get close to the man she impersonated—be a scholar—and visit the library where Emitt Weylor studied each night.
Throwing on her black cloak, Sebine went to the door and slid on her silk shoes. She opened the door and stared at the fearful guard outside who cringed at her inspection.
"Escort me to the Library of Ancient Tomes. I have some research I need to conduct tonight." The guard clicked his boots and tromped off down the torch lit stone corridor, obediently leading her to the library where Emitt studied each night. Sebine had often wondered what the scholar researched there each night for hours on end, especially considering that on the oft chance of visiting the library in the past, she'd found it empty save the sagging head of Emitt pouring over his dusty tomes. Few people in the palace paid much attention to the ancient leather and human-skin bound tomes. And even the librarian was more interested in his catalog of the collection than the books themselves.
As she entered, she turned a placed a palm to stop the guard from entering. "Scholar's sanctuary...you should know better. Your place is to stand guard outside. Now go on, secure the door and leave me in peace. I'll be here until at least another few hours."
She closed the door and grinned to herself, relishing in the shrinking eyes of the young guard. Inside the dimly-lit, cavernous chamber she found a bubble of light surrounding the table where Emitt Weylor read through a candlelit tome. He glanced in her direction at the sound of approaching footsteps and was about to go back to his studies when he noticed her aiming directly towards where he sat.
"Scholar Weylor, I believe?" Sebine gave him a disarming smile and sat at the chair opposite him, turning the tome he was reading around and inspected the title. "The Naverstrom Campaign, by Master Greyth Shalinor." She frowned, recognizing the name as an outlaw of the Kingdom, an old wizard and wise sage of the Arcanum. A man now banned as a heretic by the Calathian Church and deemed traitor to the King... Someone she'd love to meet.
Emitt Weylor's eyes looked desperate and filled with dread. Sebine placed a reassuring hand on his. "Don't worry, I won't give up your secret. I enjoy reading banned books myself. Though I am curious as to how you found it, considering the librarian was ordered to purge such books from his catalog."
"He has," Emitt said, his voice uncertain and raspy. "Though he is lazy and has left old copies of the catalog in predictable places. And he's too tired and sleepy to bother hiding or removing such tomes from the library. It's really quite easy to find, if one bothers to look."
"And what does Master Shalinor say about the Naverstrom Campaign?"
"He says a lot of things—"
"Don't be coy... What interesting things does he say. And I don't want the official lies from the King's scholars."
Emitt studied her with shocked eyes that held a good amount of awe at her display of power. "Master Shalinor says the old King won an ancient, powerful relic from the defeat of one of the Princes of Naverstrom. He also implies that traitorous events led to the deaths of many of the knights of the Order during the expedition. The old King Salgar asked for help from many of the royal houses, then had each knight slaughtered one by one. The wizard that witnessed much of the campaign was Master Shalinor—who still lives, if you can believe the rumors."
"And you've read all of his books?"
"Read and reread many times over. He hasn't published that many volumes—only seven from what I can find, along with some random letters and essays. Perhaps the libraries in the Arcanum have more, though I doubt it, they've likely been scoured clean. In this library they've practically been forgotten about. It's almost like they don't care anymore. All resistance against the King has fled for many years."
"Why do you care? I'm sure the study of this is nothing in your favor for your career as a scholar. In fact, you're risking your life if someone finds out."
"My parents were poor farmers from the north, murdered while they were mushroom hunting in a cave near the rumored mouth of Naverstrom. We all knew the dire warnings of those caves, but we were poor and the value of those mushrooms was like gold to the local alchemist. That was when I was a boy of seven, and destitute, the same alchemist my parents sold mushrooms to took pity on me and brought me in under his tutelage. When I'd devoured his library and found I was hungry for more, I asked for his help in applying for this position as a scholar and historian. I've never tired in my search since then."
"You're hoping to find something to explain the death of your parents?"
Emitt's face twisted up into a confused and tormented anguish. "I'm trying to give definition to the evil that killed my mum and my pa. They were my whole life, and something, some vile evil force, took them away from me. And in all the years of my secret studying I've gained a clear picture of what that evil is: the Princes of Naverstrom and the Hakkadians, their execution arm." He laughed in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm telling you this, you of all people, the King's daughter."
Sebine winced at his words. "The King and I aren't exactly on good terms. He shares nothing of this to me. I'm just a piece of his property—merely a girl to bargain off to some Duke for a favored alliance. He underestimates me."
"He underestimates the Hakkadians. Witho
ut the relic he wears around his neck he would likely be killed by the them." He leaned in close to Sebine, his voice lowering to a whisper. "The Princes of Naverstrom crave dominion over the whole world. They once held this power—in league with the dark elves—but a unified force of humans and high elves chained those Princes deep in the heart of Naverstrom thousands of years ago. It wasn't until the Hakkadians wandered in and explored those caves that the evil that lurks within was woken from the bonds of its slumber."
At his mention of the dark elves Sebine felt a chill run up her spine as memories of her vision flooded her mind. Kill the King...do my bidding...I am your father. Dakar claimed he was a servant of the Hakkadians and gave her the Ring of Galdora on behalf of the elves, on behalf of her father. If the Hakkadians were servants of the Princes of Naverstrom, and the Princes were in league with the dark elves, then was her father a dark elf? One of the ancients who conspired with the Princes of Naverstrom to rule the world?
A brutal terror possessed her heart and caused it to thump wildly inside her chest until she stood and fled the room, much to the dismay of Emitt Weylor. He stood as well, panic-stricken and followed her to the door.
"What's wrong? Was it something I said?" His eyes flared in fear. "You won't tell anyone about me, will you?"
Sebine stopped and shook her head, resting a hand on his arm. "Don't worry, you're safe. You have a friend in me, a friend who thanks you dearly for revealing this to me. But I must go."
And with that, as she was about to leave, she stopped herself. "One more thing, Emitt, a request. Return to your studies, and don't look this way until you hear the door closed. Please, as a friend."
He nodded and she observed him return to his tablet and once again his mop of a head tumbled over in his reading of the tome. Sebine quickly cast the spell of illusion, and eyes on Emitt Weylor's unmoving form, left the library.
Theft of Dragons (Princes of Naverstrom) Page 14