Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  “Feel the fear and go for it anyway?” he said. “That could get you into a lot of trouble.” Grog turned. “Now, here we are.”

  We were standing on a bridge, and yet it wasn’t. I could only describe as a road to nowhere. It came from the behind us, from an arched hole in the mountain, bursting out, only to end in a jagged edge some two hundred yards on. The peculiar scene became stranger when I saw a bonfire at the bridge’s end.

  “Are you shi…” I said, as I saw six silhouettes all turn and heard them shout my name. Grog walked brusquely on. “Did you just set me up, Grog?”

  He glanced back. “Mighta.”

  I ran after him.

  Only Petroo and Star were missing. Greman, Shylan, Cronis, Zybandian and Flip were all giving Marista some coins…reluctantly. Marista was smiling at me, nodding. She then gave Grog about half of her stash.

  “You bet on me?” I said.

  “Of course,” said Marista.

  Flip glared at her. “The wager should be null and void. You used the mantilee. Without that, she would have been stuck.”

  Marista held up her hand. “The wager stands. No other would have crawled out of a window a thousand feet up in the air, trusting in dipping her fingers in a paste that, for all she knew could be Croxen crap.”

  “True,” Flip agreed.

  “And who else would jump onto a ladder that led straight into some clouds?”

  “She’s got a point,” Greman said.

  “You bet on me?” I shouted, and stamped my feet.

  “Temper, dear,” said Marista, and she gave me a stack of coins. “Your share.” Marista smiled and winked at me.

  I had money! Though… I’d nothing to spend it on. Still. I had money! I sidled up to the fire and sat next to Shylan. “You’re quiet,” I said.

  He aged eyes peered at me. Though he was youthful in comparison to Greman or Cronis, his gaze betrayed a life long-lived. “In what respect?” he asked.

  “You’re not saying much.”

  “No, no I’m not. I don’t need to hear my voice to be engaged.”

  “What’s bothering you?” I asked, determined to rip him from his melancholy mood.

  His emerald eyes settled on me. Creases radiated to his temples, telling me of some concealed amusement. “What’s not? I envy you your youth, your impetuousness. It once was the tiller of my own fate…once. What’s up with me, Alexa, is that war is looming. What’s up with me is that I had to bury my friend’s empty body, and what’s up with me, Alexa, is that my mistress is incarcerated, and I have no idea where.”

  “War?”

  He huffed and brought out his pipe, priming its pot and then lighting it with a flick of his fingers.

  “Neat trick,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I can teach it to you—it is within your level. War, Alexa, is coming to Irydia. King Muscat is weak. Other lords vie to take his place. That note Flip took from the innkeeper in Merrivale, that was a call from the Port Lords, it was a plea to Zybandian to lead a revolution. Alas, he will turn it down.”

  “Your tongue wags, Shylan,” Zybandian called, from over the fire.

  “As tongues do.” Shylan looked over at the lord. “Has she not proved her worth? Is she not one of us now? She has her 10 attributes now. Whatever was easing her into this world has fled now—that I feel, that I know. She is on her own now, and she will need true companions. She is more than one of us, she is all of us, because we reached out and helped her grow.”

  My jaw dropped. Had Shylan just said what I thought he did? That I was one of them?

  Zybandian tittered. “I don’t deny she has merit. Very well. Yes, Alexa, war is coming, and yes, I have been asked to usurp our king, and yes, I will turn it down.”

  He looked back and along the bridge. A line of folk were bringing ale and platters of food. The lord stood and helped them all, passing out the mugs, setting down the platters, jugs and bowls. Yes, I thought, he would make a good king, so strong, so commanding, and yet so humble.

  “Why?” I asked Zybandian, once the servers had retired.

  He looked over the flames, his face lit by their flickering amber. “Would you believe that I swore an oath of fealty to the king, and I believe in that?” He inclined his head. “In that you would be right. The longer game—never forget that.” He held up the note that Flip had smuggled to him. “The Port Lords are good men, strong men, but their castles point to Tharameer, and they are getting harried daily. Why do they seek insurrection? Because rather than reinforce them, Muscat drafts their bows and swords. Those are not the actions of a king, more a coward.”

  Zybandian threw the note into the fire. “And now their treason is gone. Ask yourself this. ‘Why does a king purposely weaken his longest flank?’”

  “Maybe he’s a dick,” I said, my mouth back on full auto.

  Zybandian roared. Cronis clapped, and Flip looked up and smiled. He was peeling an apple with his knife. “You know, maybe she’s right, maybe he is a dick. Maybe it’s all that simple.”

  “The ways of men are rarely simple,” Greman said. “Any ideas who is actually behind it?”

  Shylan puffed out small clouds of smoke as he ruminated the question. “In order to find out which lord is behind it, we must find out who engaged the services of Cutter. If, as we suspect, The Assassin is on his way to some kill, then that is where the beginnings of a seeded plan shoot to green.”

  “Estorelll,” Flip said. “If he ported in Estorelll, then that narrows it. To sail a small skiff from Lordslaner to the enchanted city is what? Fourteen days? One moon cycle? From there to anywhere of import is a further month. Auspicious, don’t you think?”

  “Auspicious?” Greman queried.

  Flip shifted around to face Greman, holding his knife up. “Auspicious,” he said, “because if he vanished into the Forest of Ledges, then he could be headed toward the site of a tourney that happens but once a year.”

  “The Run of the Bassilisk,” Shylan whispered.

  Flip pointed his knife at the wizard. “The Run of the Bassilisk indeed. I do believe that Waraxion’s proxy is a princess this year. A young lady called Amaya.”

  “If anything were to happen to her…” Greman whispered.

  “Waraxion would be forced to declare…” Shylan added.

  “And…” Flip said.

  “And they’d declare against Lakevale Pass,” Cronis announced.

  “Whose…”

  “Whose lady is the sister of King Muscat,” Shylan near shouted. “It’s quite brilliant. Muscat would be forced to send his soldiers west, away from the Port Lords.”

  “Who could then advance on Brokenford.”

  Shylan looked at Zybandian. “Leaves you sitting pretty.”

  “If it wasn’t all conjecture. All we know is that The Assassin is on the move, no whys, no wherefores,” Zybandian pointed out. “Well,” he announced, “the ways of men are rarely simple, as Greman pointed out. War is inevitable, a weak king attracts usurpers like a moth to a glowsphere. I will think on it. It may be time to prepare.” He jumped up, grabbed his ale and pipe and ambled off to the edge of the bridge where he sat.

  “First things first,” said Greman. “We must return Sakina’s essence to Rioan. All else must wait.”

  Thoughts of Sakina extinguished the last glimmers of merriment, and a glum cloud drifted over us all. I nibbled on my fill of rib and potato. My attention lapsed in and out as their banter went around in circles, plans made were tossed out, and conclusions were drawn and discarded. I pushed my bowl away, grasped my beer and ambled over to Shylan who was sitting with Zybandian. They were actually sitting on the edge of the broken bridge. I sat by Shaylan, dangling my own feet off.

  He slowly looked around. “Meddlesome thing, aren’t you?” He brought his pipe up to his mouth and puffed out a cloud of smoke. It morphed into the shape of a bird and flew away.

  My mouth dropped open. His twisted into a grin.

  I didn’t answer him, just watched
the smoke-bird and looked out over the waning, amber land below. Small campfires pocked the golden spread. The featureless land petered away to black. It was my first real glimpse of the Lowlands, of Tharameer, and it looked a dire place. “What’s it like?” I asked. “What’s Tharameer like?”

  “You should ask Star,” he replied, and it was then that I remembered she wasn’t here.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  He scoffed. “Dungeon running. Trying her hardest to get a trinket like yours. I don’t think you quite understand the importance of that bangle on your arm.”

  “So, tell me.”

  “We have a long journey to the valley of the beggles. She’ll have plenty of time to tell you.”

  “Who was he? Darwanic?”

  “The last true king of Irydia,” Shylan said, his voice thick with melancholy. “Did Petroo tell you that it was Darwanic who rescued him from the spider? You should ask him, it’s a great tale—normally spoiled by an Apachalant’s even voice, but maybe he’ll up his game. That scene you fought in, that was real—the fall of Starellion played out before your eyes. It had the desired effect. It plunged Irydia into chaos.”

  “When was all that?”

  “A hundred years ago, or more.” He tapped his temple. “Memory’s not what it was. Either way, Star’s desperate to get one. She won’t, but she’ll try all night.”

  “Why won’t she?”

  Shylan took a gulp of his ale. “It’s a feeling I’ve got—I can’t explain it. There were seven of those armlets forged, and seven only. I have a feeling there is a significance behind you being given one that as of yet is unclear. Remember the ultimate prize.”

  “Ultimate prize?”

  “The House Of Mandrake, it is what they all fear.”

  24

  Farewells

  Early the next morning, I rode to Sakina’s glade. Though her body had only been buried there the day before, it was already covered in shoots of tiny grass. I knelt by it for a while.

  I didn’t know what to expect, nor did I know why I went. Of all of us, I hadn’t known her, had no reason to love her, nor any to revere her, but I did. It felt like I owed her everything. She had passed on the veils to me—the reason I was still with Greman, Marista, Petroo, and Shylan. The reason I was still with Flip and Star.

  Courage, I think that was what I sought, but her grave was mere mud, and without her, the glade was a glade, just another place. Sakina taught me a further lesson that morning, and that was that I had to forge my own path, make my own glade, and live my own life. I could not possibly fill her shoes. The time of Sakina was over. My time had just begun. I left and returned to the fifth keep.

  The sky was finally blue that morning, and looking over the fifth keep’s parapet, there wasn’t a cloud below either. Tharameer stretched off into the distance, at first burnished, brown and broken, but farther on, lush green and blue. Like Shylan had told me, Tharameer wasn’t all bad, nor Karakator, nor Carmeyour, and whoever was to tie these lands together, whoever was to fight for Darwanic’s vision of a united land, had to accept those lands too. I asked him who would lead, and he’d laughed at that. “You?” he’d said. “Do not put yourself forward for that interview.” I asked him why, expecting him to chide me for being a mere level seven.

  “It is not for you,” he’d said. “Even if fate put you on that throne, you would not be able to sit there for long.” I pressed him farther, more out of curiosity. He told me that it took a certain type of person, and not a thrill-seeker—you had to hanker for that power, and accept the boredom and politics that went with it. No, he was convinced someone random would come along, some random thread that fate would tamper with.

  So that day, we seven were mounted in the courtyard ready to take Sakina’s essence home. Greman drove the cart with Marista at his side. Cronis and Shylan rode their fine horses in front, Flip and Star brought up the rear. Of Petroo, there was no news. Trouble was brewing in Irydia.

  I was reluctant to leave Castle Zybond. Though my time there was brief, it was filled with adventure…and friends. Zybandian called me back as I made to wheel my horse and follow the others into the first tunnel, and I saw Grog was by his side too. My dreary smile burst with joy at seeing them there.

  “Alexa Drey,” Zybandian said, and held out his hands, bidding me to dismount. “I still haven’t given you Sakina’s Quest, and I have one more thing to show you. But first, Grog insisted he needed a word.”

  “Ehhh hum.” Grog cleared his throat. “Alexa Drey, I have not had a more fun day in as many years as I have lived.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the sack of the climbing powder. “For you,” he said, and swept me a bow.

  I took it, and pulled him up, planting a big, sloppy kiss on his brown-tinged cheek.

  Grog has given you a bag of Grasping Powder. Climbing Level bonus +150%

  He shoved me away, until I was at arm's length, and then he looked me straight in the eye. “Never,” he said, “never lose that spirit. Be like the wind and touch countless hearts. And visit soon, please.” I swear I saw tears in his big, round eyes. He nodded, turned and walked away, straight toward the parapet. He turned, raised a webbed finger, and headed off in the direction of the keep.

  “Grog,” shouted Zybandian. Grog turned again. “Nice,” Zybandian said, “dramatic, but we’re going that way too.”

  “Oh,” Grog said. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  I chuckled, and Zybandian took my hand and led me into the keep. Grog filtered off into a side room—I was fairly sure it was a closet, and the Lord of Zybond and me marched on. We strolled to the end of the hallway, and then turned into a smaller, lateral one. After a hundred yards, a small set of spiral steps led up. They wound around and around, and we followed them up.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, and he merely said, “You’ll see.”

  I traipsed up, one step after the next, until we came to a little lobby.

  “Did I tell you that I fully suspect that this place was built by ancients, long before the likes of Darwanic?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice hushed.

  “Well, dotted all over the lands are these impossible structures—the gates to Striker Bay, the whole setup of The Five Isles, Slaughtower, the bridge we gathered on last night…the list goes on and on. This tower is one of those monuments. A tower, too thin to reach the heights it does, and a ring that appears to serve no purpose.”

  A small set of wooden steps led up to a hatchway, and Zybandian climbed up them, popping the hatch. I followed him up and emerged onto a stone roof that spread out around ten feet by ten. In its center was a vast, steel ring, bolted through the tower’s roof. In the center of the ring, a telescope similar to Cronis’s was pointing out and not up.

  “I saw the look of disappointment on your face when Shylan told you that you could not rule this land. I know it was mere fantasy for you, but a dream shattered is a dream no more.” He raised his hand to stop my reply. “The chances of that opportunity coming along are infinitesimal, but like he has a feeling, so do I.”

  Zybandian took my hand and knelt before me, looking straight into my eyes. “Fate,” he said, “has something in store for you. We just don’t know what, yet.” He swept his arm out. “Please. It is a clear day, you should be able to see them.”

  I stepped over the ring, and approached the telescope. I felt Zybandian behind me, and as I bent over and looked into the telescope, he leaned in and put my hand on a small handle. “Its focus should be fine, wind one way to swing west and the other… Well, I’m sure you can work it out.” I felt him back away.

  At first, I couldn’t work out what I was seeing. I saw what looked like the end of a land, a rocky seashore. Black rocks lay tumbled all around, and white horses rode the tips of the waves, but then it all vanished under a cloud, a roiling, swirling, billowing cloud of white, gray, and black, and it rose up and up, and I turned the handle and followed it, but it was without end.

 
“The mists,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” said Zybandian. “The mists that encircle everything. Atremeny, Kobane, Petreyer, Irydia, The Lowlands, all. Going beyond them, Alexa, finding this mythical Poleyna, or staying within them, healing Petreyer, ridding Tharameer of the Combinium. Ventures, Veils and Victories, that should be your motto, your badge, your shield. Many will fight for this so-called Mandrake, but who will fight for Barakdor itself?”

  “But surely to fight for Barakdor, Mandrake must stand,” I said.

  Zybandian took my hand and led me over to the parapet that surrounded the tower’s roof. “I am glad you think that way. Mandrake must stand, and it will only stand if Irydia is strong.”

  “Will you challenge the king?”

  “No,” he said. “Compromising my morals will not make for a strong Irydia.” He pulled me close. “But I will go to my banners, and I will prepare for war. For now, I’ve clung on to you long enough. Now you must take your first task from me, but first, let me escort you to your mount.”

  “My mount?”

  “A gift freely given. It is a charger, a horse bred from the finest of stocks from the north of Petreyer. It will follow you anywhere.”

  I pulled him close, and didn’t want to let go.

  Eventually, we retraced our steps, all the way to the courtyard. There, I mounted my horse, my charger, and he was magnificent, jet black, and magnificent.

  “What will you name him?” Zybandian asked, and I told him Lincoln, after a man I’d met seemingly a long time ago. I was more than sorry to say goodbye to the Lord of Zybond.

  “Come raid my dungeons sometime,” he said, as he handed me Sakina’s note. I read it, mouthed, “I will” to him, bent and kissed his forehead.

  I galloped out of that place, through the courtyards and tunnels and under the lofted gate. I galloped past the slag heaps, the ramshackle houses, the meager inn, and on to the green and tangle that was the road to Merrivale. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, and more than once I unsheathed my sword and shouted “Barakdor.” But my tears were not tears of sadness, nor tears of joy; they were those of determination.