by Peter Wacht
He started to walk down the dimly lit hall, darkened alcoves lining the walkway for as far as the eye could see. His thoughts wandered as they always did upon visiting Ragin, seeking some solution to this latest setback yet failing to find something to grasp hold of, when he stopped abruptly, sensing a presence to his right.
“Lurking in the shadows once again, daughter?”
With a smirk Corelia Tessaril, her blonde tresses fashioned into a series of ever more intricate braids, stepped out of an alcove.
“Good morning, father.”
“I have little patience, Corelia. Especially after speaking with Ragin.”
“I understand, father. It was not my intention to bother you as I know how difficult it is for you to come to terms with my brother’s shortcomings. I was simply …”
“Doing as you normally do,” finished Rodric. “Gliding to and fro, picking up information here and there, all so that you can put it to use at some later date.”
Corelia could have denied it. But she chose not to, deciding that this was her opportunity to perhaps gain an advantage over her now damaged brother.
“Indeed I was, father. It seems that Ragin’s failure on the battlements has affected him in a way that could harm your plans.”
“What do you know of my plans, Corelia?” Rodric’s voice came out in a hissed whisper. Normally he enjoyed conversing with his daughter. She challenged him constantly, though never going too far. But now she was heading into potentially lethal territory.
Corelia noted the change in her father, but she ignored it. Realizing this may be her best opportunity, she stepped closer to him, the intensity of her gaze forcing her father to step back.
“More than you probably want me to know,” she replied. “Yet that’s not something to fear. In fact, it could perhaps work to your advantage.”
“How so?” an intrigued Rodric asked, suddenly wary but also remembering his daughter’s aptitude for untangling, or tangling, intricate schemes as her goals required.
“I know that you have certain allies who are assisting you in your adventures,” she began.
Rodric stepped forward as quick as a striking snake, squeezing her wrist. “Better not to speak of my partners, Corelia. Better not to know more than you already do.”
Corelia could have cowered, playing the frightened girl, in response to her father’s action. Instead, she decided that now was the time to step forward and challenge her father, to show him her true mettle. Yanking her wrist from his grasp, she spoke in a low, commanding tone.
“I know what I know, father. I know about your allies. I know about your arrangements with the various Kingdoms that support you. I know your plans for the Highlands. But most of all, I know that I can help you.”
The strength and certainty of his daughter’s words surprised Rodric, but also secretly pleased him. Perhaps this was an opportunity that could benefit him. Perhaps he had been focusing too much of his attention on the wrong child.
“Tread carefully, Corelia. What you talk of harbors a danger you cannot even imagine.”
“And yet you continue on your course, despite that danger.”
Rodric nodded. “To achieve great power often …”
“Great risk is required,” completed Corelia. “I recall your teachings, father. Remember, I am your daughter, after all. We, two, are much alike. Perhaps we are even more alike than you and Ragin.”
Rodric stepped back from Corelia, looking at her from a new perspective, seeing her in a different light. He realized that she was no longer the young girl who constantly struggled for his attention, competing with her brother in anything and everything. No, she had grown into a clever woman who clearly knew what she wanted and likely knew how to obtain it.
“What did you have in mind, Corelia?”
“An alliance, of sorts,” she replied, chin held high, her voice strong. “I have ways of obtaining information that can be of use to you in achieving your plans. And I can be of use to you as well in other ways. I know that originally Ragin had an important role to play, possibly with respect to Fal Carrach and Gregory’s daughter. That strategy seems to be unraveling as I doubt King Gregory will look kindly on an unstable prince as a match for his precious daughter.”
“Continue,” prodded Rodric, the gleam in his eyes calculating.
Corelia smiled, realizing that the risk she had taken was bearing fruit, that she was succeeding. With renewed confidence, she forged on.
“Ragin appears to be … broken. His failure on the battlements has damaged him, and in turn that has harmed your plans. Assuming that things work out in the Highlands as you wish, I believe there are other ways that we can gain control of Fal Carrach through Kaylie Carlomin. It just requires a little more work and a slightly different tack.”
Rodric eyed his daughter shrewdly, weighing her. He had always viewed his two children as tools. For him, love was never a consideration. Ragin and Corelia had purposes to serve. If Ragin could no longer play his needed role, perhaps Corelia could step into his place.
“It appears that not only have you identified many of the webs I’ve been weaving, but you’ve also been working on several of your own.”
“Yes, I have,” she replied. “But only with the goal of helping you. After all, like father, like daughter.”
For the first time in days, Rodric laughed. Not so much at his daughter’s attempted humor and obvious lie, but rather it appeared that although one door had closed, another had opened. With it, a new opportunity had come to the fore.
“We will speak more of this later this evening, Corelia. You will tell me your plans and we will see what can be done about them.”
“Yes, father,” she replied, her smile radiant. She had won the first skirmish! She had taken the first step toward gaining her father’s trust and, perhaps, supplanting her brother.
Rodric pivoted abruptly, beginning to walk down the hallway once more, before turning back a final time.
“Corelia, a word of advice?”
“Of course, father.”
“Just be careful of the webs you weave. You never know what you might catch. You might not like it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Homecoming
For the first time in a very long time Thomas felt some trepidation. He stepped through one of the massive holes that had been blown through the Crag’s forty-foot thick outer wall almost a decade before, one of the many paths the Ogren had used to assault and conquer the home of the Highland Lord. His home once again.
He stood there in the quiet of the late afternoon, the sun slowly setting in the west and splaying shadows across the stone. Half of the eight towers, joined together by the now pock-marked outer curtain which formed the Crag’s perimeter defense, had been destroyed during the attack that night, now no more than piles of rubble. The central stronghold, except for the gaping maw left by the torn and twisted portcullis, appeared to be in better shape, even with the tops of three towers having been destroyed. The squared walls were unmarked other than for the ivy and vines that had taken advantage of the time the Highlanders had been forced to hide within the upper passes of the Highlands. Putting his hand to his face to block the sun, Thomas stared up into the sky, noting the handful of kestrels drifting on the warm breezes, before focusing his gaze on the Roost, the tallest tower in the Crag. The tower in which he had lived before his grandfather had been killed.
Why he was nervous, he didn’t know. He was the only one here, after all, other than the kestrels drifting in the sky and the ghosts of those who had perished here. Perhaps it wasn’t the place that bothered him so much as the challenges he now faced. When he lived here in the Crag, despite being the grandson of the Lord of the Highlands, he had been an outsider, or at least was treated that way. Because of what the Highlanders took to be his mother’s strange abilities, those same abilities that had begun to materialize within himself at an early age, for the most part he had been ignored at best and shunned at worst. No matter what he
tried, no matter what he did to fit in, he couldn’t change the perception that he was different. That he was something other than what the Highlanders wanted or expected. Only his grandfather and a few Marchers, such as Coban, had accepted him for who he was, his own father always finding some excuse to be away from him.
Benlorin Kestrel had claimed that he couldn’t be with his son because he had responsibilities elsewhere, Talyn having charged him with defending the northern Highlands from the more frequent incursions of dark creatures. But Thomas knew the truth. His father blamed him for the loss of his wife, Thomas’ mother Marya, who had died giving birth to him. He had overheard his father in an argument with his grandfather once confirming it, one of the few times that Benlorin had returned to the Crag from his camp in the Highlands.
After hearing that, Thomas had given up, realizing that trying to fit in wasn’t worth the effort, realizing that he had no control over others’ perceptions of him. He could only be who he was meant to be, not what others may have wanted him to be. So instead he focused on what he enjoyed doing, reading, spending time with his grandfather when time permitted, and exploring the forests surrounding the Crag. At times he was lonely, spending more time by himself than with others. But he had grown used to it.
Thomas tried to jolt himself from his reverie, wondering if his decision to return to the Crag if only for a little while was a good one. There were few good memories for him here, yet for some reason he felt the need to return, if only for a short while. He had become the Lord of the Highlands, taking his rightful place as the successor to Talyn Kestrel. And though his abilities in the Talent still seemed to put many of his Marchers on edge, uncomfortable with the power he controlled, they were practical men and women and they recognized the value of having someone like him in the lead. Someone who could combat the Dark Magic of the warlocks that had tormented them for almost a decade.
Remembering how his grandfather Talyn liked to remind him that there was no point in dwelling on the past, he pushed his thoughts to the side and walked with more confidence into the central keep, slipping between the broken steel pieces of the portcullis with ease. The remnants of the Marchers’ last defense as they sought in vain to protect their Highland Lord were everywhere. Scattered, rusted blades, some partially covered by piles of stone caused by the warlocks who had accompanied the reivers, Ogren and Shades in the assault on that fateful night, littered the stone floor, though the remains of the defenders who had likely fallen here were nowhere to be seen. Knowing the proclivities of the Ogren for human flesh, he guessed at their unfortunate fate and promised their spirits that they would have their revenge.
Shouldering open the large, oak door that led into the keep, he stepped over the piles of stone rubble and splintered wooden beams that had fallen from the ceiling, heading to a darkened entrance, the door torn from its hinges and rotting on the floor. He began to climb the circular stairway that led up into the heart of the Roost, not needing a torch as his green eyes glowed brightly in the gloomy turret, giving him the capability to see easily in the encroaching darkness.
Almost to the top of the Roost, he came out of the circular staircase that lined the side of the tower into a small hallway. The dim light of an open doorway at the far end beckoned. Taking a deep breath, he moved on light feet down the hallway and stepped into the room. A fine dust covered everything. Yet, it was exactly how he remembered it. His bed with its tumble of blankets, now moldy and rotting away. His clothes pulled from his dresser, the one he had to climb in order to reach the very top shelf. His many books strewn about the floor. He smiled briefly at that. His messiness had saved his life when the assassins came for him that night. If not for the book the second assassin slipped on, allowing Thomas to scamper by and out into the hallway, thankfully running into his grandfather, he likely would have died that night. Such was the twist of fate.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, taking it all in, steadying himself. Coming here again, after so much time, he had hoped that he would feel like the Highland Lord in more than name, but he knew now that it wasn’t to be so, at least not on this day. Doubts still plagued him. Doubts about whether he had done the right thing by returning to his homeland. Doubts about whether he was strong enough to do what needed to be done. Doubts about whether his strategy would work, for if it didn’t it would mean the demise of the Marchers and the destruction of the Highlands all the sooner.
Thomas jumped back, hand going for his dagger, as a loud squawk echoed off the walls of his former chamber. He breathed a sigh of relief and felt a sense of wonder as he took in his guest. The massive kestrel had alighted on the windowsill of his room, its orange and white feathers sparkling in the waning light of the day. The bird perched there majestically, its sharp talons digging deeply into the stone.
For several minutes, the two stared at one another, Thomas almost losing himself in the sharp gaze of the kestrel. For some strange reason he felt like he knew this kestrel, as if their paths had crossed before. Perhaps when Rynlin and Rya had taught him how to use the Talent in order to shape change so that he could take on the trials to become a Sylvan Warrior. This kestrel resembled the one that had flown by his side after he had taken on the form of a kestrel himself and flown among the peaks of the Highlands for the first time. There were other times as well that he remembered encountering a kestrel similar to this one, so maybe it was the same predator. Maybe there was some strange connection between them. If so, he was glad for it.
The kestrel with its strong gaze infused him with a sense of calm, a sense of purpose. It was almost as if this majestic bird sought to share its strength with him, knowing of the challenges to come. As he continued to stare at the kestrel his confidence began to grow. He knew the risks he took, the dangers to be faced, and he would go forward as expected and as needed. He would do all he could to free his people, to give the Highlands hope and belief once more. He was the Highland Lord. The only way to feel like it was to act like it, and so he would.
The large kestrel lowered its sharp beak once, as if the bird had served its purpose, and then it used its talons to push itself backwards off the windowsill. Thomas rushed to the window, watching the kestrel as it glided down toward the ground, then with a single flap of its powerful wings launched itself up into the sky and toward the peaks of the Highlands.
Thomas took his time circling back down through the Roost, the darkness of the evening beginning to settle on the Crag. When he reached the main entrance he hesitated just a moment before pushing a door split in two, the damage obviously done by an Ogren battle axe, out of the way and entering the Hall of the Highland Lord. Scorch marks covered the back wall, and a few thick, charred ceiling beams reached down to the floor. Pieces of colored glass lined the eastern and western walls, the intricately designed windows that had allowed streams of color to shoot through the chamber shattered during the attack. Thomas turned his attention to the northern wall, pleased to see the throne of the Highlanders still in place. Though calling it such was a misnomer, for the throne was not a chair but actually was a large, smooth, raised stone upon which the Highland Lord stood when circumstances or his office required it. The Highlanders had never had much need of thrones or the other accoutrements of rank enjoyed and demanded by many of the other rulers in the Kingdoms. They viewed the Highland Lord as someone charged with serving them rather than the other way around.
He closed his eyes and took hold of the Talent, then extended his senses within the hall. His grandfather had died here to give him the time he needed to escape. For a moment, he thought that he could sense his grandfather’s spirit in the room, a feeling of warmth and love spreading over him. But then, strangely, that feeling transitioned to something else, something cold and deadly.
Thomas opened his eyes and dove to the left, tumbling down behind one of the fallen beams as a burst of black energy shot through the air where he had been standing just a second before and struck the southern wall with a deafening boom. Peering over
the beam, he saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the doorway to the hall, inky energy spinning between his outstretched hands. With a flick of his wrist, another burst of black energy shot toward Thomas, and then another, and another. Thomas rolled further to his left, allowing the fallen beam to take the brunt of the attack, but knowing that his strategy would eventually lead to his death if he remained where he was. The cowled figure had entered the hall, cornering Thomas.
A memory of training with one of his instructors in the martial arts came to mind. Antonin, First Spear of the Carthanians, was a simple and direct man. Over and over he had drummed into Thomas a basic philosophy. Attack. Always attack. Even when you should defend, attack. You will never win by defending. Although Thomas had spent hours arguing with Antonin regarding the logic of his advice, he thought that now was an excellent time to put that advice into practice.
Pulling in more of the Talent, Thomas formed a shield of white energy and stepped out from behind the fallen beam. His attacker had shifted to the left, seeking to take Thomas from behind. Momentarily surprised that Thomas had emerged, the cowled figure resumed his assault, balls of black energy streaking from his hands. Thomas raised his forearm, the shield of white energy deflecting the attacks. Then he stepped forward himself, maintaining his shield but with his free hand spinning shards of white, hot energy across his fingertips.
His assailant quickly became the defender as Thomas threw the shards of white energy toward him, the cowled figure raising a shield of swirling black mist to protect against the attack. But it wasn’t a single assault as the shards of white energy became a steady stream, Thomas inexorably stepping forward to close the distance on his attacker, taking Antonin’s advice and never giving the black-robed figure a chance to do anything else but defend. With each step, Thomas pulled in more of the Talent, increasing the intensity of the stream of white energy. And with each step, the black-cloaked figure took a step back. As Thomas continued his advance, pulling in more and more of the Talent, he reached a critical conclusion. He was stronger than his opponent. Smiling with that realization, Thomas released his shield and pushed forward, adding a second stream of white energy to the first.