Today especially, Marin wanted to stay clear of home to avoid a lecture from Lanico, since Trayvor had spotted him outside the realm . . . again. Until he could escape from the Great Mist, even if only a few hours, Marin’s heart would yearn and pull for something else . . . but for what? He did not know. He felt this deep yearning and pleading rise from his very soul. He needed something else outside this life in the Great Mist. He knew that there was something more beyond their borders. He couldn’t figure out what it was and that pull, that yearning—it was beginning to make him feel anxious.
There wasn’t much else to bid his time. Marin hadn’t worked on a trade yet. He had no interest in woodworking with the Stoutlet clan, nor hunting with Fenner Bricklebury’s prized sporting grandsons, especially Freck who always seemed to make him the butt of one odd joke or another. Marin’s hands clenched the branches tightly as he thought over this. “Freck can’t even leap . . . none of them can,” he mumbled low. Marin was beginning to feel trapped at his prospects.
He straightened; suddenly he noticed a deep blue figure bumbling into view below. Trayvor, he thought, making a wry expression—a pain in the rump for both Lanico and me.
Trayvor hobbled over the uneven ground to the tavern far beneath Marin. He wore his usual weathered dark blue cloak, holding a portion of it draped over his arm to avoid getting it muddied. His other hand clutched tightly his trusted cane, and of course, he wore his customary smug face. Always.
Trayvor graced the humble tavern with his presence frequently, finding contentment only at the bottom of a large wooden mug of ale. He had been mighty in his day, strong and a noble, but those days were gone, and his painfully hobbling knees showed everyone he was no longer robust.
Watching that cantankerous man below made it difficult for Marin to believe the old stories.
Lanico had once told Marin that before the overthrow, Trayvor had worked at King Oetam’s side, as his trusted Advisor. That Trayvor ever wanted more responsibility and power and had always been envious of Lanico as King Oetam’s son and only living heir. As if confirmation, Marin once heard him grumble about Lanico, “Such a privilege and power shouldn’t have been wasted on a quiet, introverted WynSprign like him.” He had said.
Even now, Trayvor remained bitter. The Great Mist that he had secretly hoped extraordinary things for, was not the Great Mist it had turned out to be. Trayvor selected one of many vacant tables outside, all equally well visited and weatherworn, so the selection wasn’t difficult. He leaned his trusty walking stick against the chosen table, and his great heft made the thick chair creak beneath him as he lowered his weight onto it. He looked around with a sour face, signaling his impatience. Maybell, the tavern’s bubbly serving maid, hurried out and greeted him by promptly setting a large wooden mug of ale in front of his waiting hands. The routine had been practiced countless times, and he handed her a small coin. She smiled, showing her dimples, and quickly made a small bow that jiggled the mop of her dark, curly hair; some of which occupied a nest-like bun at the top. She hurried away without a sound.
Trayvor’s expression remained unchanged, but Marin found himself smiling down at her even from his great elevation in the tree. It seemed only Trayvor was resistant to Maybell’s charm – and cleavage.
Marin took a sharp breath—startled—as he spotted a figure almost out of view. It was a thin wafer of a shadow near a tree across from the tavern, at Ms. Bre Bricklebury’s home. The person was not hidden but almost invisible in the shade, and still. It wasn’t clear whether the dark-hooded figure was looking up at him, or across the way, at the tavern. Who is this? Marin thought.
As if sensing the presence himself, Trayvor looked over, then beckoned the shadowed figure over to the table. Marin watched intently. Without sound, or notice from the few in the area, the man drifted over, then he and Trayvor talked in hushed voices. Normally Marin wasn’t a fan of eavesdropping, but he had unusually good hearing, and though his guardian would disapprove, this was a mysterious situation unfolding below. He leaned in a little . . .
Trayvor looked nervous and glanced around a bit. He took back a big slug of ale and whispered loudly with wetness on his breath, “Okay . . . tell me, what news comes from Odana?” He leaned forward, wiping his mouth with his forearm, setting the heavy mug down with a thud.
The hooded man replied, in a thinner voice, “Well, it seems Odana continues to be occupied by Mysra. Grude has plundered the trillium from the purple mountains for his own power. Taking advantage of the WynSprigns’ natural resistance to the effects of trillium, of course he continues to use the remaining ones to slave in his mining works and forces them to toil endlessly.”
Trayvor seemed oddly unmoved by this horrific and detailed news, as if he had heard it before. In a thick whisper he replied, “Okay, thank you, trustworthy friend.” Looking around, then back at the informant, he said, “Now’s not the time to go into too much detail about plans. At sunup tomorrow, let’s meet at Horse’s Clearing, just outside the boundary, where there’s more . . . privacy.”
His companion nodded in silent answer. He looked around before slipping away into the trees from where he had come. The unassuming Maybell returned to the table with another mug. Curiously, no one else had been around to spot Trayvor’s mysterious friend.
Marin thought this was most interesting. Horse’s Clearing was just outside of the Great Mist boundaries, and it was where secret, a trusted outside Prondolin merchant would meet with a clan leader—usually Trayvor—to exchange money or goods for things that weren’t available in the Great Mist. It was a rare occurrence that he’d venture this way, but Trayvor monitored the clearing daily nonetheless.
Against the rules, Marin was one of the very few WynSprigns that had seen Horse’s Clearing before, though he had never witnessed the surreptitious trading that took place there. He was dazzled at the expanse of golden grass that grew there and wondered what mysteries lay beyond it.
Marin sat in his tree, in awe at this conversation, at the mysteriousness of it all, and at the horrendous thought of slavery. Those few spoken sentences were much to absorb.
Chapter Three
Panic-stricken
Lanico sat in his study, documenting events of the day, and of the details of the meeting last night, and . . . he still needed to talk to Marin. His hands went still, holding the quill, his eyes fixed, deep in thought, the top of the scroll curled over his ink-stained fingertips. His life here had been so different from what he would have imagined for himself all those years ago when he lived as a General Prince. It never would have occurred to him that he would have this life, here, in the wilderness of the Great Mist.
His thoughts swirled, placing him back in time, back with Marin’s father, Izra. Those last moments together, still so raw.
Lanico fought with his whole soul—with everything he had. He always did. That time, it was different. The sounds of shouts and the high-pitched twang of swords still rang in his ear. He could still feel the tingling within, still, after all these years. Reluctant Leader sang, clashing steel to steel with Izra’s own sword at practice. The now-wall-mounted Reluctant Leader flashed a reflection of candle flame from the desk.
Together they had witnessed the great battle, this fight to keep their kingdom, and had themselves, taken many Mysra lives. Lanico’s throat knotted at the thought of his father, King Oetam of the Odana, dying in their castle home. He trembled merely recalling the image of Treva’s unmoving body. Of the arrow that extended from her side. Lanico’s eyes welled as he remembered the lifeless weight of Izra in his arms. He was Izra’s oathed brother, and Izra his Lieutenant General, his most trusted. His right hand.
Devastation gripped him.
Lanico held him firm against his own armored chest. Izra’s warm blood rushed from the back of his head, making Lanico’s hand slippery under his wet tangles. Time was short, and Izra’s wounds beyond healing, and there it was, his friend took his last breath on the unexpected battlefield that day.
/> Lanico still felt the slick black tangled hair between his fingers, the warmth of his ragged breath as he held him close. The intermingled scent of grass and coppery blood were still real. In those final moments, Izra had made Lanico swear to take his days-old infant, Marin, in as his own.
Countless of years of training turned against Lanico that moment. He had never actually considered his friend, dying. He never imagined the way he’d handle this type of blow. Not really. Not ever.
Lanico’s thoughts spun and felt a crack inside his chest when Izra told him from pale blood-splattered lips that Treva had fallen. His eyes darted, searching surrounding the chaos for emerald green, and failing. Too many bodies lying about. Too many . . . His stomach lurched and his mouth quivered, denying him a scream at this revelation. Though forbidden by all standards, he had always secretly loved her.
Time is short, the voice whispered again into his mind.
He managed a sharp inhale and regained his focus onto Izra. “I promise my brother,” he said through stiffened lips. The sob at the back of his throat threatened to escape. He hated these words. Hated. Dreaded what was taking place.
Izra responded in a rasping voice, almost too faint, “Thank y . . .” the rest had been finished in a breath that after one slow blink, time itself stilled. A long, misty exhale rose between them. Izra’s body became limp. His lips slackened and his dark gaze, no longer seeing.
Lanico shook his head. The reality of the moment struck him, a thunderbolt to the heart. Izra, his friend, his oathed brother, died.
He felt his stomach churn, and his lips stretched in a grimace. No.
He inhaled.
“No!” He bellowed to the surrounding chaos. Fire rushed through his veins.
His heart pounded, even now, all these years later. He remembered the brief moments following, the lashing panic he had felt. His heart raced. He had to find Treva. Because Marin was newly born, she would have him somewhere close to her. And by then, Lanico already knew . . . the castle had been breached.
Time is running out! The voice was now shouting.
“Close. He has to be close. He has to be close.”—chanting under his breath, and with no thought or care to any possible surrounding enemies, numbing panic gripped him.
With squelching steps through the blood of the battlefield, he moved over lifeless bodies, searching, Reluctant Leader drawn. Within seconds his eyes landed on her, on Treva, the Knighted, the Second Lieutenant, slain only steps away from her husband but almost hidden behind another. Her arm and hand, outstretched, reaching – for him. She was near - just as Izra had said.
Lanico had to step back a few paces. He recognized her emerald hair flowing over the trampled grass, her lifeless body still glorious in her shiny armor. It was too late to help her. From a distance, she looked merely asleep, save for the arrow in her side. Lanico noticed her trademark tooth necklace loosely hanging around her neck, gleaming in the sun. Going closer to her, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her face, avoiding the paralyzing stare that he wouldn’t be able to break himself free from. He knelt and yanked the necklace from her—for Marin.
Time is running out! The voice screamed.
Lanico stood- whirled, looking. His best soldiers were dwindling in number, by the second. There! The bushes—she would have found a nearby hiding place amongst the brambles. Just then the purple glint of Marin’s tiny eyes sparkled, as if in confirmation, from within the bushy cover. Lanico sighed in relief. Marin was only just newly borne, days old. It was only by the grace of Odan that Marin wasn’t loosing a newborn’s wail at that moment and betraying himself.
Holding Marin against his chest, Lanico looked at the atrocities taking place in every direction as the Mysra slaughtered the WynSprign Soldiers by the dozens. So many of his Soldiers trying to aid the subjects were made vulnerable, and taken down. He was panic-stricken. In shock. So many of his people had been captured, and their screams of terror echoed a nightmare that made him blink feverishly, as if to wake. The surrounding grounds were littered with bodies. Many WynSprigns and some Mysra. I need to go, to help, but . . . He glanced at the baby cradled against him.
Major Stoutwyn had proved himself levelheaded through this disaster. After spotting him, he advanced to Lanico, breaking his bewilderment with shouts that roared in the General Prince’s ear. They needed to move quickly, to gather the nearby remaining WynSprigns to flee—to leave Odana.
Leave Odana?
He knew they had to find safe ground, fast—away from their trillium-filled mountains. Away from the promise of death. He had to move quickly before he and the baby, were discovered and claimed by the Mysra - to whatever fate.
Stoutwyn demanded they head northeast, into the cover of an ancient wilderness. The Great Mist.
Lanico was beside himself with grief at the loss of his father, Izra, and his heart – Treva. All he could manage was a nodded response. He stiffened his countenance and moved quickly, joining Stoutwyn in gathering the remaining, nearby WynSprigns. He fled.
Lanico lost a great deal that day. He lost his family legacy, the throne, his subjects, land, titles, his desire to lead, his secretly beloved Treva, and his soul friend, Izra. He had only Marin now to care for, and the saved WynSprigns.
With a pounding heart, Lanico found himself suddenly whirled back to his present. He heard a sound. His candle flickered.
Chapter Four
A shared longing. A felt call
Marin slowly opened the thick, weatherworn door of their home. It opened hesitantly with a deep creak, releasing the warmth inside. He grimaced—he was caught now.
“Marin! Is that you?” Lanico called from the other room. “Listen, I’d like to have a word with you . . . Please come over and sit for a moment.” Lanico sniffed and righted himself in his chair. He cleared through the lump in his throat. Regality and stoicism—his way. He wouldn’t acknowledge the trembling of his fingers and instead, focused on the wall that Marin was hidden beyond.
“Yes.” Marin responded. He already knew what this was about. He had this talk before. Suddenly his legs felt heavy and his shoulders drooped at the prospect of having to meet with his guardian in the sitting room.
He leaned back to close the heavy door, then slowly made his way to where Lanico waited. The welcoming walls held various maps, sketches of a Fray rendered in yellow dandelion pigment. Other sketches showed galloping horses that seemed to glide over yellowed grasses. These were all things that Lanico claimed to have seen in his years. Though as dull as the older man had seemed, other than on the sword-training ground, Marin didn’t quite believe it.
Lanico sat in the large cedar chair, the largest in their home. His long silver hair faintly reflected the flickering candles in the room. It was dim, and the glow of his azure eyes, fixed on the scroll upon his lap. He had been writing. Again. In this place, Lanico diligently wrote about the rules and daily occurrences of the Great Mist, to keep track of them.
As disciplined as Lanico was, his home was not quite a reflection of this inner orderliness. His home wasn’t dirty, but rather disorganized. When he wasn’t practicing at weapons with Marin, or on patrol, Lanico was usually numbed and preoccupied in thought. All his effort didn’t leave time for housekeeping. Honestly, it was not his priority. He’d place tables and chairs in various places as the notion came to him to stop and write down notes. Because Lanico was ever lost in his writing and in his thoughts, it seemed the countless wandering scrolls, writing quills, and furniture never had a permanent placement in their home.
Marin slowly approached, minding the small table and chairs that blocked his way. He chose a stool across from Lanico and looked down at the woven mat beneath. It was a tired and well-used mat, familiar to the lectures and his feet, as well as the multitude of random scattered scrolls. It was a comfort, being home after having spent the day roaming about their village. The stew from the tavern he had filled himself on earlier still weighed in his gut. He was ready to turn in. Hopefully, Lanico w
ill make this lecture a quick one. He thought.
Marin’s eyes strayed to the one item in the home that dismissed age and dust—Reluctant Leader. Lanico’s large silver sword was never dull or tired-looking and gleamed as usual this evening, in the firelight; placed on its proper mounting on the wall. Marin often felt the sword was watching him. He didn’t like to hold it, practice with it, or actually touch it at all. Every attempt sent a tingling sensation that made the hair on his arms prickle.
After first clearing away the recent, but old sadness from his throat, as if dismissing pesky cobwebs from a hidden place, Lanico began in his usual calm and proper tone, “Marin, you have been spotted again outside our realm.” He wanted to avoid appearing angry—in fact, more than angry he was fearful. He needed to convey the importance of this message but Lanico had difficulty disciplining Marin. And he knew it. And Marin knew it . . . Everyone knew it. Of course, Marin was the perfect combination of Lanico’s two most-loved comrades. With unspoken command, Lanico moved with authority wherever he went and with whomever he encountered—Marin was his only true weakness.
“Now . . . I know that we’ve had this talk before, Marin. I know this is far from your first time sneaking out—I am not that dull.” Lanico began, giving him a sly but knowing look.
“But—" Marin started.
“No, please,” Lanico interjected, raising a weary hand. “Please listen carefully.”
He drew a calming breath and paused. “Alright”—he slapped his thighs— “I have fought to protect you at our meetings—several times now. The rule has always been banishment if one is caught wandering outside the Great Mist. I have rejected this form of punishment for others, and especially for you—my son. Others who were caught wandering close to the border took heed and obeyed, so fortunately we’ve never had to enforce this rule. They seemed to understand the great danger outside our boundaries and the seriousness of banishment. You, on the other hand, have not obeyed. You cannot be above the rules, even if you are my adopted son. Last night,” he breathed, “I agreed, reluctantly, that if caught again, you would be banished.”
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 2