Her Father's Fugitive Throne

by Brandon Barr

  Fear and hysterical rage boiled across Valcere’s face. “You are dying, old man. And to those loyal to me, you are already dead.” Valcere’s sword flashed in his hands. “All who resist—kill them!”

  Another voice shouted out, “If you wish to remain loyal to the Luminar and your future Luminess, join me!” It was Rivdon. He moved beside Meluscia, trailed by other soldiers. When the room stilled, there stood fourteen soldiers with Rivdon, along with the many servants who’d helped Meluscia gain entry into her father’s room. Opposite stood Valcere, with an equal force behind him.

  Meluscia raised her sword and met Valcere’s murderous eyes. “If any soldier behind you drops his sword and abandons you now, he will be forgiven.” Her face became grim. “To you, Valcere, I offer this: surrender or die.”

  “Kill her,” breathed Valcere. “Kill them all. Now!”

  Valcere and his men sprang forward like a tide. Rushing in front of her was Rivdon. His sword clashed against an oncoming soldier. The sharp ringing of steel filled the room. Meluscia saw a handful of Valcere’s men draw back, drop their swords, and flee from the room. She scanned the faces of the fighters, searching for Valcere, her sword undrawn at her side. Her hand resting on the hilt made her feel powerful, confident, as if the blade and her body had practiced swordplay for centuries. And yet, she couldn’t forget the promise the Maker had spoken. If the sword remained sheathed, no weapon could kill her.

  A sword sliced down at her, and Meluscia ducked. Shaken, she whirled to see Valcere, his face white with surprise, for he had thought to cleave her head from her neck. He stepped back, the woven chainmail clinking against his golden breast plate. The sound of shouts and fighting rang loud in Meluscia’s ears. A hiss escaped Valcere’s lips:

  “Run away little princess…while you still can!”

  He lashed out again with his longsword, knuckles pale. Meluscia flung herself against the rock wall, barely escaping a blow that would have sliced her chest open.

  She glanced at her sheathed sword, her right hand frozen, gripping the hilt. She knew Valcere’s strength was three or four times her own.

  But the Maker’s promise wore heavily on her mind.

  She could draw the sword and kill him. The desire vibrated furiously within her. To show him that the woman he deemed a child was able to match him at his own game. To see the look on his cruel face when she thrust the sword through his chest.

  But something called to her. A voice inside, warning her that this choice would define her. A fork in the road, one leading to vengeance, the other to…

  With a fanatic cry, Valcere lunged forward, golden chest plate gleaming in the firelight. Meluscia withdrew her hand from her hilt, relinquishing her fate to the Maker’s promise. Boldly she moved to meet Valcere, as if her body were a weapon.

  Teeth bared in a wrathful grin, his sword slashed a vicious arc, and Meluscia’s breath caught in her throat.

  A sword came between them, slapping aside Valcere’s attempt to skewer her.

  Vigor and fury flushing his cheeks, Meluscia’s father thrust his sword up under the armor of Valcere’s breastplate.

  Valcere stared up at the old man, then at Meluscia. He reached out, clutching her father’s shoulder, his fingers digging through the old man’s cloak and into his skin. She felt frozen there, watching Valcere’s wide eyes stare at her in bewilderment. Thick blood gushed from Valcere’s lips as her father withdrew the sword, then thrust the blade in a second time. Valcere’s eyes glazed over, and he fell dead to the floor.

  Meluscia’s father jerked his sword from Valcere’s body.

  She stared at the red-slicked weapon as her father raised it high.

  “Valcere is dead!” shouted Meluscia, over the din of fighting. Tears stung her eyes. “Valcere is dead! My father has killed him!”

  At those words, men stopped mid-combat. Those still alive who’d been loyal to Valcere dropped their weapons at the sight of his blood-soaked body. There was no reason to fight and risk their lives for a dead leader. Immediately, Rivdon took charge of the treasonous men and shouted orders to the remaining soldiers and the servants. Several bodies lay on the floor both dead and wounded.

  Meluscia looked to her hands and thought of the healing gift. She turned to her father.

  The old man suddenly fell to the ground. She hurried to him, realizing that perhaps she hadn’t finished what she’d begun in him.

  Her father looked up weakly at her. “Mel, you’ve proved yourself right and me a stubborn old man.” He winced as soon as the words were out, and his head sunk to the floor beside Valcere.

  She touched her hand gently to his cheek. Tears came again to her eyes, but this time, it was because she wanted to heal him. Quickly, she placed her hands on his chest. She wanted her father back…but the fire in her fingers was gone.

  Then she knew.

  Her father had received strength, not healing.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to say through gritted teeth. “My precious daughter. My peacemaker.”

  “Don’t speak,” whispered Meluscia, stroking her father’s face.

  “Luminess,” he wheezed before a contorted grimace took hold of his face, but still he gazed at her.

  Meluscia held his hand tight in her grip. Her father said no more. His face relaxed, the suffering gone from his eyes. His spirit had departed.

  Katlel whispered a prayer.

  Meluscia lingered, holding her father’s hand in hers. A hush had fallen over the room at her father’s passing. Finally, she stood from the bedside and looked about. A dozen or more soldiers stood in the room, a look of respect in their eyes. A few bowed their heads when her eyes met theirs, displaying their deference for their new Luminess.

  “I need one of you to fetch Rivdon,” said Meluscia. “Tell him I have chosen him as a counselor and need his advice. I will meet him in the infirmary.” She turned to Katlel and the physicker. “Katlel, you are my other councilor. Don’t worry, my friend, I’ll not require you to leave the Scriptorium often. I think I shall find my way there easily enough, and often.”

  Katlel bowed his head, tears of joy and sadness marking his face.

  “This is a day of new birth,” said Katlel. “Though we grieve today, tomorrow, the Blue Mountain Realm wakes to a new Luminess. The Hold has never been stronger.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  MELUSCIA

  When she entered the infirmary, a tremor of fear came over her, for she didn’t know whose friendly face she might find in pain or close to death. The wounds ranged from dismembered limbs and open chest wounds to minor cuts, and the infirmary housed both friend and foe.

  As she walked down the line, her fingers stirred with power. This time, she knew it was for healing—the gift of strength was gone. She turned, letting the power in her fingers lead. There lay an old soldier who she’d seen fighting for Valcere. The hairless scar that ran through his scalp and the mangled ear where the scar ended were unforgettable. He was the soldier who had harassed her when she’d ridden out with Captain Breccio to try and save the outpost village from the Nightmares.

  Now she understood the man’s insolence. A dog of Valcere.

  She hovered her hand over the man obediently. A cruel gash ran down his chest where a sword had frayed the chainmail.

  “What are you doing?” asked Katlel.

  Meluscia hid a smile, for Katlel didn’t know that his acolyte had encountered a Maker.

  “What does it look like? I’m healing him.”

  Katlel looked on with a frown. Meluscia ignored him, focusing on the warm feeling in her fingers. Little by little, the man’s injuries appeared less severe.

  “You’re serious,” stammered Katlel, his eyes widening. She didn’t reply, only watched, as the wound closed, until the obvious injuries to the man faded as if they’d never existed.

  “Praise the Makers!” cried Katlel.

  The old soldier sat up and felt his chest. Meluscia looked at his face and startled. She’d paid suc
h close attention to the chest wound, she hadn’t witnessed the healing of his scar and ear. His head appeared normal now. The man reached up, touching his face and running his fingers over his ear.

  He stared at her, frightened.

  “The Makers have healed you,” said Meluscia. She frowned. “You were among the soldiers who rode with me to the village slaughtered by Nightmares. I don’t remember your name, but I do remember receiving more than a few of your insults.”

  “I am Heliodor,” said the old soldier, his fingers trembling where they hovered over his vanished wounds. “How have you done this?”

  “It wasn’t I,” said Meluscia. She remembered Jauphenna, and how she could not heal Praseme’s hand. She’d heard it from the band of prophets before. “The Makers choose whom they wish to heal…and when.”

  Heliodor fell at Meluscia’s feet. “Forgive me, Luminess.”

  Meluscia felt the power of being the instrument of the Makers. She looked at the man groveling at her feet, then at the other injured soldiers who’d betrayed the Hold. “I forgive you, and if you foreswear your earlier allegiance, I’ll see that your time in the dungeon is short. When it ends, I will give you the opportunity to rejoin your duties as a protector of our realm.”

  He sputtered his thanks, placing his head on her leather shoes. Then she nodded for him to be taken away.

  “How did this gift come to you?” asked Katlel.

  “A Maker,” she said solemnly. “I’ll write down what I saw and heard, if you think it worthy for the Scriptorium.”

  “Yes, of course!” said Katlel, a delighted grin stretching his lips.

  Meluscia turned and looked down the row of mats where the injured lay. Her hand had ceased its warm burning. In one night, she’d used two of her three gifts. She looked at her sword sheathed in leather, thankful for a gift with the potential to last a lifetime.

  “Luminess,” said Rivdon, entering the infirmary and coming up beside her. “Blessed girl! So it is true.” His words were full of warmth and pride. “It has been a long time. The Makers have finally returned to the Blue Mountain Realm.”

  “I’m hardly able to comprehend it myself,” said Meluscia. “I don’t deserve to be their vessel.”

  “Nothing is further from the truth,” said Rivdon. “We are all unworthy.” His hand fell warmly on her back.

  Meluscia breathed deep, relishing his fatherly touch and wise words.

  “I need your council in a very serious matter,” she said, then paused, knowing the weight of her next words. “I mean to go to war against our greatest enemy.”

  Rivdon’s brow wrinkled in heavy thought. Katlel stared at her, nodding.

  “You speak of Isolaug,” said Rivdon.

  “Yes. I’m awaiting word from King Feaor. It is my hope the Verdlands will join us as one army to march against the Star Garden Realm. But I will also seek out alliance with the Sea Kingdoms. As soon as I hear from Feaor, I’ll send falcons westward toward the great ocean.” She looked earnestly at her two councilors. “Have you any thoughts?”

  They gazed into the distance through glossy eyes. “Of course, we will,” said Katlel. “However, I’ll need some time to think. A move of this magnitude requires a little time for me to gather my stuffy old brain together.”

  Rivdon nodded agreement, a hard look on his face.

  Thoughts. Their eyes were full of thoughts. Questions. She had much to tell them. It would be like one coming out of a pleasant dream only to be told the nightmare of reality.

  The spies, the dire threat of Isolaug…

  Only days ago, she had awakened to that nightmare.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  WILUIT

  The twilight cold bit at Wiluit’s wound as he ascended the slope where Takmuk, Seethus, and Shauwby sat huddled around a roadside fire. He glanced back at Jauphenna. He’d secured her to the mare’s saddle. She rode slouched forward, clutching the horse’s neck weakly. Wiluit hoped her weariness was only the after-effect of the red orb spinner’s poison. Behind the mare lay Harcor, upon a sled of saplings roped to the horse’s saddle.

  Having reached the camp and given Jauphenna into the care of Takmuk and Seethus, Wiluit went to Harcor where he’d left him midway up the slope. He feared bringing him any nearer to camp, for it might mean Harcor’s death at the hand of the Aeraphim. Wiluit made him a small fire for warmth, then covered him with a fur blanket.

  “You are merciful,” said Harcor.

  Wiluit did not answer, for it was only out of moral duty that he cared for the man. Wiluit’s heart desired to leave him in the woods to rot, for all the chaos and murder he’d caused.

  The night was miserable. A cold drizzle seeped down from the overhanging branches. Wiluit found sleep difficult, despite his exhaustion. He kept both fires going throughout the late hours of the night and into early morning. The heat warmed his bones and held his thoughts captive as he stared into the dazzle of the flames.

  He recalled the Maker’s words.

  You are unbound from your small group of prophets. Your role of leader is now only a choice.

  He considered his own desires. Desires that had shifted radically since the Makers brought him out of the life of a bandit. Even as a road thief he’d, wanted better for himself, as he supposed most criminals desired deep down in their soul. He looked at his four friends.

  Takmuk, the surly grandfather, peevish and loveable. Seethus, the optimistic, song-singing grandfather who smiled often and lightened many a moment with his soft humor. Shauwby lay between Seethus and Jauphenna, wrapped in his blanket of black furs, head upon Seethus’ pillow of rabbit pelts. Shauwby, like a son, and Jauphenna…

  …His unpredictable little sister.

  Yet Wiluit couldn’t deceive himself into believing he had no desire for her. Jauphenna’s wild spirit and sharp beauty often called to him. But he was not content to wait for her to grow up. In truth, he feared she never really would. Yet he loved her all the same and would do anything to keep her safe. Anything but surrender his soul.

  Wiluit winced at the pain in his shoulder and looked down the hill to where Harcor lay. His fire would need more wood soon, and the supply he’d hastily cut was running low for the night. Wiluit turned back to his own fire. The embers glowed and the fire fought the soft rain. His thoughts turned to Meluscia as he huddled closer to the flames.

  Meluscia’s solemn beauty hung in his mind, accompanied by what he’d learned of her in five short days. He knew how and why she’d gained the bruise on her face. But what surprised him was her response to all the questioning. That was far more exquisite than the elegance of her features. She was humble. She was resolute, and mercilessly honest. High born, but unashamedly repentant and bold, unwilling to lie or use her station to evade questioning. She said she saw in him a leader, yet he saw the very same thing in her.

  Meluscia’s prevailing virtue through transgression did not fit his experience with leaders of high station. All of this added to the hope in her cause against Isolaug. He saw in it the destiny of the Makers.

  He felt their paths were aligned. The Maker made clear he had a choice, and he knew that in some yet unrevealed fashion, he was to aid Meluscia.

  He feared for his family fast asleep before him, and the Makers almost certain promise of loss. But that was the way of prophets and all gifted by the gods. In fact, it was the way of all people, though most shied away from danger.

  Meluscia, however, was eager to go straight into the storm, and despite his fears, so was he.

  Wiluit woke to a vibrant energy flowing through his shoulder. Warm and freeing. The pain was almost entirely gone. He opened his eyes to find Jauphenna staring off into the woods.

  “Praise the Makers,” said Wiluit.

  Jauphenna turned her head, her eyes cold and distant. A hint of anger passed through them.

  “Are you all right?” asked Wiluit, confused.

  She stood briskly and walked away.

  Wiluit worked his shoulder, feeling
enormously relieved. It was like new.

  The relief he felt brought tears to his eyes, and he said another prayer of thanks to the Makers.

  But what was wrong with Jauphenna?

  She stood by the horses, laying out her wet blanket to dry. She glanced at him again. Her eyes were swollen from crying. After packing his mat, he thought he understood the source of her night’s tears. She was embarrassed and frustrated at having disobeyed him and been proven foolish. When he’d told her to take up the rear with Shauwby, she obeyed, but her eyes and the lack of response echoed her mood.

  The morning sun was bright, but the air was crisp, as they started out on the trail. Oak leaves fell on the road, fluttering and spinning as they descended in the quiet air. Autumn was fully upon these woods. He led the way to the Hold, dragging the makeshift sled with Harcor.

  Trailing far behind was Takmuk with Seethus at his back, and then Jauphenna and Shauwby. Wiluit had made clear to keep a distance, still concerned Harcor might be slain by Shauwby’s unseen protectors. The man, stripped of weapons and his cursed Cherah, seemed harmless enough not to cause trouble, horribly injured as he was. All Harcor had said was a word of thanks to Wiluit, to which he had said nothing in reply.

  Besides Jauphenna’s sullenness, Wiluit had other things to occupy his mind on the long road. Only yesterday, he’d stood face-to-face with a Maker. The memory of the god-woman reaching into tree and earth to form his staff was as clear as the day when he received his calling, years ago, to lead his family of prophets. The presence of a Maker had fallen on him in the room where he’d slept and spoken words into his mind. Words that had softened his thieving heart and broken him down into tears.

  Just as the old encounter had set a new course for his life, this new experience confirmed the Makers were calling for a new direction.

  He gripped his staff and stared at the smooth hardwood, then gazed at the intricate knot at the top. Resting within was the Makers’ judgment. Dormant, for now.