by Brandon Barr
“I am fine,” said Meluscia.
The commander scowled. “The swelling looks less than a day old. Who dared strike the daughter of the Luminar?”
“It was owed me,” said Meluscia, looking confidently into the man’s eyes. “Let’s be off. I am eager to present my peace offer to the King.”
The stone streets of Soravell were full and lively. Fruits and vegetables lined the lanes, hawked by merchants beckoning passersby with the best prices. Some she’d never seen before and wondered where they grew in the Verdlands. A blue, pear-shaped fruit looked especially exotic. Shops with open doors of aged wood were busy with people. A pleasant mood permeated the city.
Meluscia caught sight of a bearded man standing in the street—not standing, but scuffing along with purpose, dragging a strange-looking foot. As she neared, she saw one of his eyes was gouged out, and his arms either lost within his cloak, or missing. In his mouth, he held out a strangely-formed cup. The handle ran sideways around the circumference. Before Meluscia had passed him, two passersby had dropped coins inside.
She stared at the strange foot and saw that it was a broom made of straw. He looked at her, then rolled his head around theatrically. “You are the beauty I saw in my dreams,” he cried. Meluscia halted, staring at him. “Red hair and a face too lovely to look upon longer than a blink!” He bent his head, so as not to see her face. “Oh, what a day! The Makers have shown your face to me. It is a good omen. A good, good omen!”
A hand gently grabbed her arm. “Damned street sweeper. His mind is not right,” said the commander. “Come, we are close to the castle entrance.”
Meluscia looked back at the man as she continued forward. He glanced up at her from his bent position, then jumped up laughing and swiveled his head as he had before.
The strange encounter left Meluscia with a sense that she was right where the Makers wanted her. As if her presence in Soravell was foreordained. That the gods were looking after her, and that man—crazy though he might be—he had played their herald.
Beautiful rosewood gates rose sharply amidst the great wall encircling the King’s castle. Ornate figures of two Aeraphim riding on horses were etched into the wood grains. The work of a master artist.
At their approach, the gates opened.
“Here, my men and I will take our leave, Meluscia of the Hold,” said Captain Solvig. “I’ll never forget you putting yourself between your soldiers and mine when we first met. It has been an honor escorting you.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Solvig nodded. “I pray you bring peace between our people.”
“That is my prayer as well,” said Meluscia somberly.
The captain signaled to his men and they departed, back down the streets of Soravell.
Meluscia followed Commander Rhoan through the large gates, flanked by the castle guard. Within the vast courtyard were swathes of low-cut grasses and ornately trimmed fruit trees shaped into ovals.
Here, inside the castle’s inner walls, her excitement began to grow. This moment was what she’d been working toward her entire adult life.
She glanced up at the blue sky above. It held the dark hue of azurite found in the quarries of the Blue Mountain Realm. The Makers were watching her. She sensed it, believing it in her soul.
King Feaor’s throne room formed an oval of smooth white walls punctuated with gold trim. Red satin cloth hung elegantly along the perimeter of the gold molding, rising to a domed ceiling. Waist-high pillars stood before each angled wall that formed the circle. On the pillars were relics—an old tome lay open to her left, a sword, horribly mangled and bent, rested on her right. All the other relics lay indistinguishable against the distant room walls. She wished she could spend time studying each one, but despite her love of scripture and history, she turned her thoughts back to the mission at hand.
The throne room of Feaor was not packed like her father’s. Meluscia guessed there were only thirty people inside, nearly half of them soldiers.
Meluscia glanced at her companions from the Hold. Bezmerenna and Belen held hands and stared at the relics around the room. Terling was fishing in his bag for his ink, quill, and parchment, readying himself to document all that Meluscia requested. Beside Terling stood Praseme, standing quietly, her eyes alert, darting about to observe the people in the room.
Meluscia turned her focus to the throne. Her brows pressed together in surprise. Though she knew King Feaor’s age, the man who sat upon it appeared younger. Feaor, she knew, was fifty-three years old, but his clean-shaven face made him look not a day over forty.
On one side of the King sat a man and on the other, a woman. The man, she suspected, was Taumus, the spy Savarah had warned her about. She had imagined this very scenario and had prepared for it. Still, fear rattled her. The unpredictable was always looming.
Commander Rhoan passed the courtiers who sat in chairs before the King. He knelt beside the throne, waiting for the King to acknowledge him.
Feaor finished speaking to a courtier who stood before him and nodded, then turned to Rhoan.
Rhoan whispered something to the King, and suddenly the King was on his feet.
“Citizens and officials, urgent business has come up. I’m afraid, this evening, I will be unable to hear you. My servants will see you to comfortable beds within the castle, and I will hear you first thing in the morning, at cock’s crow.”
The courtiers were beckoned by servants, who appeared from a side entrance. All the while, the King’s eyes were on Meluscia and her delegation. She felt fire inside her chest and knew she would soon face the danger that Savarah had warned her about. The eyes of the man at the King’s side were upon her, indecipherable.
When the last courtier had disappeared, the King left his throne and strode up to Meluscia. Her knees felt weak. Feaor reached Meluscia, his eyes intimidating and strong. Slowly, he bowed his head, then took Meluscia’s hands.
“Your red hair is legendary,” said the King. “Finally, I have a chance to see it for myself. But, pray tell, who has harmed you? Someone has struck you in the face.”
It was the inescapable question. As long as the marks remained, she would give the same answer.
“It was a strike I deserved,” repeated Meluscia.
A perplexed knot of creases spread across the King’s brow.
“A secret transgression finally came to light,” said Meluscia, feeling the need to give more explanation, yet end the inquisition. She smiled. “Transgressions seem to be a theme of the Hold. I am eager to reconcile any offenses and bring our kingdoms together.”
King Feaor raised an eyebrow as he released her hands. “I am eager to hear your offer of peace. Your father’s delegations, thus far, have insulted me and my people more than they have offered any form of peace.”
“The Hold is on the verge of change,” said Meluscia with confidence. “I will bring a new vision to the Blue Mountains.”
“I want to believe that,” said King Feaor. “But a soldier sits on your father’s throne in his stead. How can you promise peace, when Valcere will be ruling after Trigon passes?”
“There is hope for our kingdoms. If I secure your royal seal on my father’s peace treaty, then I will be made Luminess. My father has given his word.”
King Feaor raised his chin, a frown edging his lips. “In your letter, you promised to deliver a new peace offer, one that will be very different from your father’s, yet you now say I must sign his treaty.”
Meluscia started to respond, but Feaor silenced her with his hand. “Let us sit and be comfortable. This is no way to discuss such important matters. Bring your four companions, and we will dine and talk. I’ll have my advisor and prophet join us.”
“You have a prophet?” she asked.
“Yes. Taumus. He is my eyes and ears. He can see the future.”
Chapter Sixteen
WILUIT
“Stay close,” said Wiluit, holding Shauwby on his hip, arm wrapped around his back. His other a
rm held Seethus’ bag of books. “I do not like the way we are being looked at.”
“We’ve never been welcome here,” said Jauphenna. “There’s something wicked about this city. I bet if they’d let us in we’d have some strong warnings to deliver.”
“I don’t like the fact that someone inside seems to know us,” said Wiluit. “I suspect they want to do more than keep us from delivering prophecies.”
“Quiet!” shouted a soldier, stopping them before a dilapidated wood house. The roof looked like a sagging worm, the wood shingles the worm’s dried, brittle skin. “Go on inside, you soothsayers!” the soldier demanded.
Wiluit glared at the man. Judging by his attire, he bore some rank in the King’s forces. A red gem shone from a ring on his finger. Beyond the soldier stood more than a dozen bearded men. The kind of individuals one avoided when walking down a road. Each man was stone-faced, looking at them with dull, wolfish eyes.
Takmuk growled. “You dare talk to us this way? We are the gods’ anointed!”
“You are deceivers!” said the soldier sharply. “The King forbids you entrance.”
“What is your name?” rasped Takmuk.
“I am a captain in the King’s city defense. You need not know my name. Now get inside, old man, you and your fellow mystics. You are fortunate to be given an abode.”
The moment the door shut, Wiluit watched through the slats as a heavy, wooden beam was placed across the door, securing them inside.
The squalid room smelled of hay and horse urine. Motes of dust swirled in the light cutting through the slats. Shadowy outlines of men surrounded the small structure.
Wiluit dropped the bag of books and set Shauwby on the ground. “Stay close together,” he said, taking up Shauwby’s hand. A tremor of fear passed through Wiluit, the kind of fear he would have felt before the Makers called him to his gift and to this small boy whose hand he held.
They were in grave danger.
He felt a tug on his belt. Shauwby wore a frightened look.
“Don’t worry,” said Wiluit. He knelt beside the boy. “The Aeraphim will protect us.”
Shauwby shook his head. “No, it’s the princess. Someone is going to hurt her. We have to go help.”
Wiluit stared at Shauwby, recognizing that the boy had been given an impression. He glanced up at the walls of their prison. “First we need to get out of here.”
The shadows of the men outside carried large rectangular objects and threw them up against the walls.
“Straw bales,” said Wiluit. “They’re going to burn the building.”
“Fools!” cried Takmuk, clenching his bag of books to his chest. “They’ll never have my writings!”
Wiluit stood frozen. There seemed no human way out. He whispered a prayer to the Makers.
A soft clicking sound echoed all around, like teeth tapping a sinister tune.
“What’s that sound?” shouted Takmuk.
“Can’t you guess?” snapped Wiluit, trying to keep himself calm. “They’re striking flint. We’re in the hands of the gods now.”
“Smoke!” shouted Jauphenna. “There!”
A breath of smoke began to rise from the wood base.
“Another one—no three!” Jauphenna cried, her voice shrill. “There, and there!”
Wiluit spun. On all sides, little wisps of white smoke were floating through the slats. He gripped Seethus and Shauwby, bringing their entire group closer together. The frail smoke slowly transformed, thickening.
“Stay close,” called Wiluit. “Huddle around Shauwby.”
Dark billows began rising to the ceiling. Flames began to lick between the slats.
Jauphenna screamed. Outside, Wiluit heard laughter all around.
Jauphenna sprinted toward one end of the shack and kicked the wood slats through the smoke. Though dry and aged, the wood held. She kicked again.
“Jauphenna!” cried Wiluit. “Stay in the circle!”
She coughed as smoke enveloped her. Wiluit sprang for her, pressing through the heat of the fire. He caught her as she collapsed, and carried her in his arms back to the middle of the room.
He bit back all his reproaches and simply held her in his arms. She was conscious, her eyes full of tears, as she emptied her lungs with deep, hacking coughs.
The fire crackled from every side. Smoke filled the room—all but for the space Wiluit and his four companions occupied. Within the circle, Wiluit did not feel the immense heat roiling from all four walls.
The roof groaned overhead, and suddenly the walls gave way. He braced himself, staring up as the timbers above fell toward them.
Had Wiluit blinked, he might have missed the miraculous. In a flash, the outline of an Aeraphim hovered above them, its muscled arms thrusting the entire roof aside. It was a glimpse he’d only witnessed once before. The rush of seeing such power left him breathless. He stared skyward as the blue sky above filled with billowing smoke that rose in a giant column. His heart was full of praise and gratitude.
Thank you, was the holiest thing he could think to say.
Another tug at Wiluit’s belt drew his head down to the boy.
“The princess!” said Shauwby. “We must hurry.”
Wiluit nodded. “Seethus, Takmuk, stay close. We’re going through the gates.” Wiluit moved out of the fiery wreckage. Every flame and draft of smoke died as they approached, as if time sped before them, and the inferno ceased to exist.
The criminal men outside now wore expressions of fear. All backed away as they neared. Wiluit found the dirt trail that wound along the city walls of Soravell.
Empowered and alive, Wiluit focused on the warning from Shauwby. If Meluscia was in danger within King Feaor’s courts, then the implications were dire. The gods clearly were calling them to save her.
The main city gate lay just ahead. Wiluit still carried Jauphenna in his arms, her breathing now beginning to steady.
“Have the gods given you a way in?” asked Takmuk.
“They always do if we’re called,” said Wiluit.
“It’s a wondrous, wild life we live,” sang Seethus, hobbling along, holding Shauwby’s hand. “The Makers never cease to amaze me. Isolaug be damned—I’m over a hundred years old and walking through fire!”
Wiluit smiled, then threw a serious glance toward the gate. The same man who’d led them to the peddlers’ quarters was standing beside a group of four other soldiers before the gate. When the man saw their party, he startled and took a step back. The other four looked uneasily at one another as they gripped the hilts of their swords.
“Fire cannot harm the Makers’ anointed,” said Wiluit.
“The ruffians you hired to kill us have fled. Now open the gate, Captain, or your life will be forfeit.”
“The prophetess you hold in your hands, she seems to have been harmed by the fire,” said the captain.
Jauphenna, hearing the words, slipped down from Wiluit’s hold. She folded her arms across her chest, her head cocked to the side, silently throwing knives at the captain with her eyes.
The captain frowned.
Wiluit glared at him. “We have urgent business. Give us passage…or face the gods’ wrath.”
The captain, regaining some of his spirit, stepped forward, the red gem gleaming from his ring as he raised his sword to his chest. “You will not enter this city. The King’s orders stand.”
“Orders? We answer only to the Makers and they have given us ours,” said Wiluit. “The title of King or any other name important among men is nothing to us.” He whispered to his small band, “Follow me.”
Wiluit moved forward, advancing on the four soldiers and their captain.
“Kill them,” said the captain. Two of the men stepped forward, swords drawn, uncertainty strewn across their faces. Wiluit took the hand of Shauwby from Seethus and moved him to the front. As they neared, the soldiers cried out as their swords shattered in their hands.
The remaining two soldiers turned and fled through a slit t
hat had been opened in the gate. Their captain was quick on their heels.
“Bar the gate!” shouted the captain, now inside. Wiluit would have liked to have run and slipped through the open doors, but the old men would not have been able to keep up.
As Wiluit approached the gate, he held tight onto Shauwby’s hand. The whiz and snap of arrows sounded all around them as archers frantically tried to cut them down.
Wiluit stopped before the gate and waited. He sensed words coming to him that were not his own.
He cried out at the top of his voice, “By the power of the Makers, bring down this gate!”
A creaking tore the air, and the right door began to warp and crack. The parapets above were filled with shouts. Suddenly, the great hinges ripped free, and the door fell flat onto the ground behind the city walls.
Wiluit marched his companions slowly over the giant gate that now lay prostrate. He saw a hand jutting from beneath the wreckage. A red gem shone from a ring upon the finger. Red light lit the sky as the waning sunlight brooded over the western heights of King Feaor’s castle.
No man dared obstruct their slow journey up the hill to the King’s courts.
Seethus was the slowest man among them, knees damaged by age, half-blind, hobbling along, clinging to Wiluit’s shoulder. Wiluit could have carried him, but only for so long. Instead, he simply helped steady the old man, quickening the pace. He sensed they would arrive precisely when they needed to. The Luminess Imminent was in danger, and they were heading straight for her—but an odd impression told him they weren’t to go to Meluscia first, but to someone else.
Why or who, he didn’t understand.
“Shauwby,” said Wiluit. “Did the Makers impress you to find someone else before we reached the princess?”
“Mmm, I think maybe,” said Shauwby. “But I don’t care about him—I mean, I care more about the princess.”
“Shauwby,” said Wiluit in a scolding tone. “Tell me who you saw.”