“Perhaps.”
19
oOo
Tertorem gave me this at least—sincerity. I never had to question their intention. They were out to break me, in any way possible. Somehow, while I am with this red-headed jester, I miss that confidence. There is no saying what he will do next or what he is really thinking. His eyes dance far too merrily for me to see anything behind them. I want to call him a liar, the worst of frauds. Yet somehow, I can’t. I hate that. I hate that I want him to be real.
Night hides many secrets and knows many fears. It knew the thoughts of the beggars sleeping in its shadowy arms, it knew how many prowlers stalked along its path, and it knew that somewhere several blocks into the poorest part of the housing district, there hid a certain group of tired fugitives.
The little house was full of crates and cobwebs. A close eye might have noticed the hatch in the ceiling, which led to a shallow attic. The space between attic floor and ceiling was so small that one could not even stand up in it, only crawl around or lie still.
Tellie lay on her mat and stared at the thin, blue starlight peering through the slats of a small door to the roof above her. She tried very much not to notice every distant cry and crash, tried to pretend the night did not prey upon her imagination and create ghastly images for each strange sound. After all, she didn’t need to be frightened. Tryss and Kelm lay a few feet away from her, and she could hear the shifting of Errance in the room below as he changed bandages for his wounds. So there was nothing to fear, nothing at all. And at last, she fell asleep.
Experienced as he was with sleeping under stars and in inns, Kelm had little fear of nightly noises. The floor was a bit uncomfortable, but he was able to use his blanket as an extra cushion as the air was still plenty warm. So he settled himself comfortably and congratulated himself on judging Zizain right, and did Tellie notice this was the second time he’d gotten them all out of a scrape? Hoping she had, he drifted off to dream heroic dreams.
Tryss lay very still, still enough that the night might not have noticed she was there if the night hadn’t been there too. The scratches of the shard burned with a cold fire, and it took all her strength not to fret over them. The pain held the memory of the shard ever near, but she kept pushing it away with a shudder. She hated the city, hated the close, confining walls, hated the way the shadows lurked like predators waiting to pounce. What a terrible thing it was to live in solid stone where flight and hiding were so limited. Thoughts of her endless green forest danced in her mind, but she shook them away with impatience. No, her duty was here to protect the children. And Errance. Errance. What was she even supposed to think about him now? Had he really meant to take an arrow for her, and if so, why? Why for the one he so obviously scorned? It did not fit with any of the behavior he had shown before. And so she fell into uneasy slumber.
Errance climbed stiffly up the ladder, pulled his shirt back over his freshly wrapped torso, and chose the farthest and darkest corner for bed, and when he lay down, his mind drifted…
…but not even the secretive night knew what Errance thought.
oOo
In the taverns of Oolum, the cooling of celestial starlight passed by unnoticed for it was always hot within the crowded bars. Hot and fermented with ale, sweat, and worse—funks of city drudgery.
Daran drew the stench in with each blistering breath, letting it sour in his stomach. The taste of ale on his lips was poor, but he hardly cared for the flavor or the smell around him, only that it fed his ever heating anger. His eyes were nearly glowing orange, though perhaps by the light of the candles, when he looked over the table where his other fellows hunkered.
“One man.” He ground the words between his teeth. “One man, and you all ran, the cowardly lot of you.”
“You ran too,” one of his men growled. He looked like he wished to retract the words, but they were out and on their own.
Daran’s hand dropped to his knife, squeezing the leather pommel till it squeaked. “I ran because I was without support. Because my men fled. From one attacker. When we are on the verge of success! And now, now that elf rat has scuttled loose of the trap again, the minx with him, and the brats, all four of them gone because of just one man!”
No one answered this time. Not one of his own anyway.
But a man a few tables over suddenly stood and laughed, loud and lusty. “A day such as yours deserves better drinks then cheap sewage water. Keeper, a round of Brivani beer for these unlucky scoundrels!”
Scowling, Daran twisted around to have a better look at the stranger who approached. He was a tall, dark man in a dusty, orange tunic and matching turban. The cut of the cloth was fine, but the fabric itself was faded with experience. Daran guessed that came from frequency of use rather than lack of funds. In all his life, he hated the lazy rich, but the rich who didn’t mind working hard with what they possessed…well…he had to respect that. So he gave no protest as the stranger hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it to their table in one sweep.
After all, he couldn’t pass up Brivani beer, not even for the sake of pride. In young days he’d traveled through Oolum, but had been too poor and weak to enjoy its true pleasures. Now, he should have been pursuing the time of his life, for a knife and meaningful look could buy the same as gold. There was no time for any of that tonight, not with the Prisoner still on the loose. But an offer such as this rich stranger made was not one to refuse.
Nevertheless, generosity did not come without a price. “What’s our trouble to you, clothtop?” he snarled.
The man only leaned back, pushing the chair onto its rear legs. “Oh come. You can’t whisper a word like elf without my ears catching it.” His tapering, brown fingers played at the flap of his collar, flashing for one moment a bronze medallion on his chest emblazoned with a symbol Daran knew well—a slave seller.
“He’s our prize, not yours,” Daran snarled.
“And someone else’s too apparently, or so I overheard. Perhaps had a run in with those scurvy smugglers?”
“Smugglers?” Daran took his mug of beer from the tray a maid offered without removing his intense stare from the merchant. “What kind of smugglers? Who are they? Where are they based?”
The stranger threw back his head and laughed savagely, white teeth flashing in the red shadows. “If I knew that, do you think the thieves would still be crawling about? They’ve given me more trouble than a shipload’s worth of slaves, and I’d name anyone my patron saint if they destroyed the bunch. But no, this is a clever rabble, they use secret tunnels and brilliant disguises. Why, I’ve heard tell they even disguise themselves as honest citizens of the city.”
Daran swallowed his fifth sip of beer eagerly, though he hardly noticed the improved taste in light of the man’s story. “The man who attacked us was tall and lean as a whip. Wore a white shirt and had copper red hair.”
At that, the merchant snorted. “What? Sounds like they tried to pass themselves as good Captain Coren. Ah, wait till I tell him, he’ll be fit to be tied. Will these shenanigans never end? But this I have heard rumor of, mates…some say they see ships anchored far from harbor, and it is my belief that they row out their smuggled slaves.”
“Where on the shore do they go exactly?”
The man sat forward suddenly, the front chair legs thudding on the planked floor. A cattish smile curled his lips, and he looked ready to purr. “Ah. I thought you might be interested. It’s about time I found men willing to get the job done. Let me buy you another round of drinks, and we’ll discuss the details.”
The men huzzahed, but Daran shook his head. “No, no, we must be clear-headed in the morning if we’re to catch our prey.”
“They won’t be out immediately,” the merchant said with another laugh as he signaled the barmaid again. “No, lads, you only live once and what better place to live than in Oolum?”
Some time later, the tavern door opened, a burnt orange slice in the darkness, and the slave merchant stepped out into the fre
sh night air. He left the rumble of bawdy ballads and course laughter in the dust of his heels, and his stride down the streets was so purposeful and so sober that neither thief nor harlot sought to sway him.
He passed through many winding streets, neither looking right nor left, nor stumbling once. Without pause, he turned and vanished into the deepest shadows of alley.
A few moments later, Captain Coren stepped back out, and if his skin was browner than usual, who could tell in such lighting? He donned his hat at a rakish angle and then he set off down the street again, whistling and swaying a bit on his ankles, now drunk.
When he’d made his way to yet darker, quieter parts of the city, his whistling and swaying ceased, and he became little more than a shadow blown by the wind. And when come to a certain house, identical among many, the shadow slipped inside and was seen no more.
Coren exhaled once inside the house, and though it was little more than a glorified closet of boxes and crates, he relaxed in it as if it were the most welcoming of homes. With a quick chuckle and flick of his head, he reached into one crate to pull out a rag and started wiping the false layer of brown from his arms.
Ah, such men were easy to fool, and it was a pleasure to do so. But as Coren continued to consider the men he’d hoodwinked, his smile faded and the rubbing rag slowed. The men might have been easy to fool, but it was not the men who were to fear. Throughout his exchange with the villains, his gaze had dropped often to their shadows. Their shade seemed darker and more sinister than most and gave Coren the eeriest sense that someone watched from within.
No, it was not the men themselves who sent such a chill down his spine, but the presence with them, the aura around them…
Many times, Coren had looked east and seen the great, grey mountains so held in fear by folk, and he knew from his days of Aselvia that there was fabled to be a stronghold of Darkness in the lands across the sea. But as far as he knew, he had never met anyone from the legendary Tertorem itself.
There could be no doubt to the markings upon Errance’s chest though or the mortal girl’s wild explanations…the men pursuing the lost heir of Aselvia were touched by a darkness and power beyond their mortal abilities.
A shudder shook his body, and he at last acknowledged the thought lurking in every corner of his mind.
The prince of Aselvia is sleeping up in my attic.
It was so, so very impossible. Seventy years, seventy years, the elf heir had been thought dead, and despite Coren’s childhood fancies, he’d always believed it to be so. But Errance was up in the attic above his head.
He released his breath, long and slow. Just wait till the elves of Aselvia found out. What would they think!
What would they think?
The rush of excitement that surged through his blood passed as quickly as it came, leaving dread to knot his stomach. By all appearances, Errance had been hidden by Darkness for those seventy years. What had been done to him? What was he even like?
Throwing the rag aside, he reached up to the plaster ceiling and caught an iron ring imbedded above. The trap-door opened, a rope ladder unfurled, and Coren sprang lightly up the trusses to the hidden room. It was very dark, but his eyes had already adjusted to the night on the way home, and pale starlight peered through the slats of the flap to the roof. The figures of Tryss and the children curled in the left corner and in the farthest and very darkest corner lay Errance.
He moved towards him, wishing to exude confidence as opposed to sneaking, but that wasn’t exactly easy as he only had the options of crawling on his knees, scooting on his bum, or stalking in a crouch.
As he came within two yards, Errance bolted up with the speed of a snake and stared at him.
Wide awake, Coren thought with a sigh. Has he slept at all?
Neither spoke, neither moved, just stared and studied each other. Or rather Coren studied; Errance’s eyes did not even twitch. He observed how one of Errance’s hands remained under the blanket, and he wagered it held a knife.
“Ah good, you’re awake,” he said, smiling and settling himself into a comfortable position. “Are the new bandages and ointments helping any?” When no answer came, he rambled on. “I can get you some new clothes tomorrow.”
Only silence followed, a very empty silence. In that moment, Coren realized that if he took the wrong move or said the wrong thing, he would be dead before he took another breath. Stiffening, he took a second, sharper look at Errance. If this threat held true for everyone then Tryss and the children could most definitely not stay with him.
But no. The fear straining Errance’s body was not for the children, whom he tolerated well enough, nor for Tryss, no matter how mistrust exuded towards her. This fear was of Coren—a man. An equal to his strength, or rather stronger considering the prince’s wounds. Perhaps the fear had been there from the start or merely overpowered by the shock of Coren’s true identity. This much was true—what the brightness of sunlight concealed, the shadows of night revealed. Errance was afraid of him.
He leaned back on the heel of his hand and scratched the edge of his ear. “It’s the city isn’t it?” He let a moment of silence lapse, or rather allowed the distant sounds of the city to linger in the air. The howl of a dog, the screech of a cat, the clatter of glass. “You’ve never been to a human city,” he pondered aloud. “You didn’t even make it to Dormandy. That place would have been a better impression, at first glance anyway. This isn’t the most flattering city of mortal man, but it is among the most honest, so huzzah for that.”
He could see the handle of the knife now, and the white-knuckled grip on the hilt.
“I’ve been to a lot of the cities in Orim, you know! I left Aselvia thirty years ago at the fresh age of twenty, and traveled from Korince to the far North. Really, Korince is not everything it’s lauded to be, or rather it is, and that’s the problem. Mind you, I haven’t stayed away from home the whole time, I’m not that rogue of a child. Time to time I’ll go back to visit or meet my family at Dormandy.”
“They just let you go, huh?” Errance said, tight-lipped. “When I lived there, leaving was not a popular goal.”
“Oh ho, yes, definitely not popular. My parents pleaded with me not to go, but in the end, it was actually Un…uh…King Rendar who gave his blessing.”
Errance flinched. It took only that name to send cracks through his hard exterior. After a moment, he swallowed hard, and the knife slid back to the floor. “My father? I find that…unlikely.”
“Believe me, I was shocked too. Especially after what had happened…well, to you. But he said if I truly believed Ayeshune called me out to human worlds, then I needed to go. Your father is a good man, Errance, he wants to keep his people safe but he also wants them to live to their potential. You know that.”
Errance stared past him into the opposing darkness. “Do you know that he’s dead?”
Coren couldn’t breathe.
No.
Why.
Was it a test? Of course it was a test, but was it true? He doubted the devastation on his face could be seen in the shadows, but his voice shook. “When? How did it happen?”
“I’m the one whose been locked up for seventy years, I thought you might know,” Errance said bitterly. “The children came with the news. They’re not lying, I can tell.”
“I haven’t been back to Aselvia in a while…if it just happened, the message or messenger might still be on their way. I hadn’t heard he was ill.” Had it been an accident? An assassination? It couldn’t have been old age! But if Errance didn’t know, there was no use in tormenting him with speculation. There was only one thing he could say.
“Errance…I’m…I’m so sorry.” With any other person he would have reached across and held him close, but he knew that knife would be planted between his ribs if he tried. He only hoped that Errance would hear his sincerity and believe it.
“So why haven’t you been back to Aselvia?”
Coren blinked. The interrogative tone was back, the
time for sympathy was gone. He still was reeling from the news, he wanted to go out and learn more and mourn and…but his chance with Errance was now and only now.
He exhaled. “When I came to Oolum…oh…eight years ago…I sort of stuck in roots. And one year in, I rescued Zizain from some slavers. Haven’t been back home since as she sticks to me like glue, and I really don’t want to try explaining her to my parents, because…”
He noticed that Errance’s frozen stance and expression had changed to one that practically screamed judgement. “Because they’d look at me much the same way you’re looking at me now, and how encouraging is that?” Shaking his head, he huffed a quiet chuckle. “You can stop glaring, it’s not what you think. Zizain’s not interested in me like that, or in you, which I thought you might like to know since you bristle if she comes within ten feet. Oh yes, she thinks men very handsome and she’s not afraid to make it clear, but she won’t pursue any relationship beyond that.” His voice drew inwards, hardened to a tight core. “The slavers were sensual sellers. Her own lover pawned her off to them. She was seventeen years old.”
With a brisk shake of his head to banish the dark memories away, he continued. “She treats love like one big silly joke, that’s how she deals with heartbreak. As for you, you shut everyone out. Who broke your heart, Errance?”
In the last few moments, the tension of Errance’s shoulders had begun to fade, but he went rigid as Coren’s last words drove in like a barb.
Coren spoke calm and cool, though he kept one eye on the hand holding the knife. “Perhaps it wasn’t someone, but something. Something that someone didn’t do. A cruel action. A failed ideal.” He saw each of his suggestions hit home, the pain of them revealed in Errance’s eyes. But he looked for one in particular, one scar more vital than all the rest.
Errance opened his mouth, and then seemed to change his mind, for he shut it again and looked down, refusing to make eye contact.
Moonscript (Kings of Aselvia Book 1) Page 23