Day 10. Enemy of the Kingdom

Chapter 23. 

      Valia couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as though the Spokesmen were avoiding her. 

   The adventuring party had been on the road for nearly a week, they had passed into Midcharia on the fifth day and by the end of the sixth they were still a long way from the lower body of the continent, and the two mages hadn’t spoken more than four collective words to Valia. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. 

   She brought them dinner from the campfire on more the one evening, she left Alett several times to go ride next to them, only for them to trot away to another part of the company, and when they had a few hours rest in a small town at a farrier to repair one of the horses shoes, they were nowhere to be found until they were back on the road, and then they rode their horses far away from Valia. 

   The first day after she saw them and overheard them at the creek pond she thought that they had seen her and were avoiding her due to that. But as the next two days came and went, her annoyance with their actions replaced all her fear. 

   Finally, on the eve of the seventh day and the near end of their first week traveling, Valia walked across the camp to where the dark haired Spokesman sat and dropped down next to him. 

   He was alone, a little ways off from the others, running a wet stone across the edge of a narrow blade, one that Eadric would have loved. He looked up at her as she sat down and though his expression didn’t change, she thought she read disdain on his face. 

   “I would like a conversation,” she said. 

   He looked back at the sharpening stone and smoothed across the blade. 

  “Captain Oren has a daughter who has sailed across the White Sea and back,” Valia said. “Did you know that?”

   The dark haired Spokesman, Luc, looked up at her again but continued his silence. Valia went on, turning and pointing to a man with a large blond beard sitting near the fire, smoking happily on a large knollwood pipe. “That’s Ralf, he was born on a cabbage farm in Scaland and moved to Raelle when he was eleven with his mother and grandmother. His older male relatives died in a mining failure, and Ralf was left to–” 

   “What are you after?” cut in Luc, pausing his sharpening and glowering at her. 

   Valia beamed, not willing to let the man ruin her mood. “We have been traveling for almost a week,” she began, “and if I understand correctly, we have many more weeks before we even reach your valley and the relic. We may as well get to know one another.” 

   Instantly she knew she had spoken in error. The only time she had heard any of the four mention a valley was that night when she overheard Luc and Meino in the pond. The Spokesmen had only mentioned the relic before, never where it was exactly. She watched Luc’s eyes and saw them widen just a touch at her mistake. 

   “This is not an adventure,” he said, and her momentary fear faded. “This is not a holiday or a pleasant trip among the landscape. This is a journey that could end or save the world. Journeys such as ours do not come without perils along the way. You are far too generous with your hope.” 

   Valia laughed, scoffed, rolled her head back and tried to be as over the top as she could. “Because it is difficult we must be miserable?” She shook her head. “I refuse.” 

   Luc shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve no reason to cause or prevent any of your misery, I would only prevent us needlessly wasting our time on pleasantries.” 

   “Pleasantries,” Valia mused, letting the word out slowly. “If you won’t tell me about yourself, Spokesman Luc, I will guess.” She put her finger to her lip and tapped it as though thinking, though really she meant to give him time to object. He watched her as he might watch an ant attempting to swim, and Valia smiled wide and began. 

   “You were born in Raelle, but you traveled a great deal before you returned to live in the Citadel. You have six–no, seven–younger sisters, which explains why you are so annoyed with me, and which makes me think they must be splendid company if they’re half as pleasant as I. Your father is Lavnan, the resemblance is uncanny even if some of the handsomeness was lost to the son, and you miss Jovis and blame me for his death in part, and thus hate me and have no desire to speak with me.” 

   The last sentence spilled out of her and when she stopped she found her face flushed and her fingers holding tightly to her legs. She was glad she wasn’t wearing her armor, for she might have cut her fingers on the plate edge for how tightly she gripped. 

   He stared at her for a while, long enough for the blush to not fade away but instead redouble, and when he finally spoke his voice was low and dangerous. “Lavnan is my father,” he said. “And I do hate you for killing my friend.” He looked back down at his sword and began sharpening once more, and Valia knew he wouldn’t look at her again. 

   She stood without another word and walked away on wobbly legs at first, going to where Alett sat near the fire, sipping on a steaming mug of lemon tea. The girl smiled sweetly at Valia but Valia found she could not return the gesture. What had happened? She began teasing the man, saying things that she could have no knowledge of and only made up on the spot, and then when she reached Jovis she couldn’t stop herself. And Luc confirmed it, he did hate her. 

   Valia hugged her knees and wondered why the man’s anger and distance bothered her so greatly. She watched the flames dance as the men talked and laughed around it. Hyg had vanished again that whole day and there was no one to play music, but Valia didn’t mind. 

   She still wanted more with Luc, wanted to find out the truth in where they were going and what they were after, and what was behind their gate. She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched the fire, Alett leaning on her in her horse embroidered bedroll sipping tea. Of all the things she had said about Luc, one thing she knew for certain was a lie: Lavnan was not more handsome than his son. Perhaps that’s what made his hatred so difficult. 

   Valia lay down and stared up at the stars, wondering who named them and how the names had lasted as long as they had. She fell asleep with Alett next to her and the men laughing and the fire crackling down into embers. 

Chapter 24. 

   Far from the southern plain of Midcharia where Valia slept under the open stars, two figures raced through the the streets of Taro Myule, running through the southern quarter, a district of poor dilapidation and visible negligence. The two men were Kit and Ulrig, the latter quickly having become Kit’s right hand man, the proximal guard he could count on for all things. Ulrig wasn’t pleased with their night escapade, but Kit felt that the night couldn’t go on long enough. 

   People milled about more since the curfew had been lifted, and Kit found the poor districts to be more lively outdoors than the wealthy ones in the eastern quarter. Fires burned in pits in the ground and people sang and danced around them, food cooked on grates and people smoked together and played homemade crude versions of stones-crows or oblar, or any other game with dice or cards. 

   Kit ran along dressed in rugged grays, ripped clothes he had one of the servants find for him. Ulrig wore similar attire, and the two men could have laid down on the side of the street and begged for bread for such was the state of their dress. Ulrig protested greatly going out at night at all, but when he found he couldn’t change Kit’s mind, he fought to wear armor beneath the rags. Kit forbade that as well and found some small enjoyment in foiling the soldier’s whiles. He knew the man meant well, but he also knew how cumbersome it would be to run street upon street in plate and mail, with an iron helm over his head. 

   The air was cool and the moon was behind clouds and Kit found he could turn off his mind, let his thoughts slow way down until all he thought about was the next step, the next turn in the street, the motion of his arms and legs pumping, and the steady pattern of his breathing. 

   Kit was fond of Ulrig, the man did his job well and was becoming more of a friend than just a guard, but he couldn’t deny even to himself that he wished it was Eadric running at his side rather than Ulrig. The thoughts faded and they ran on. 

   Kit brought them to a large square in the middle of a ruined tenement area, the buildings missing glass and most of the wood, the latter likely burned to keep other citizens warm, and most of the walls of the structures surrounding the square were crumbling and falling down. Roofs were caved in as though a giant had pushed his hands through. In the center of the square a fountain stood with the statue of a woman in the center, a long spear in her hand pointing to the heavens, her other hand holding a sphere the size of a melon. She wore a crown on her head. 

   No water ran in the fountain and the stone had turned an algae shade of green, marked with white and black where birds had claimed the stone for defecation. Kit stepped up onto the rim of the fountain and walked around it carefully, testing his steps gently in case any of the stone was broken. He made a circuit while Ulrig caught his breath on the ground, hands at his hips. 

   “This is all wrong,” Kit said, spreading his arms wide and turning slowly, his motions indicating the ruined tenement building but his intentions meaning the entire city. 

   “Yes, we should return to the Citadel,” said Ulrig, his words labored by his heavy breathing. 

   Kit shook his head. “Such a gulf between the poor and the wealthy. The luxury and the destitution. Such a difference.”

   “You are the king,” said Ulrig. 

   “Should I be?” asked Kit. 

   The guard removed his hood for a moment to wipe his brow but quickly replaced it. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

   Kit shrugged and dropped back to the ground, then sat on the edge of the fountain. “I do not see each quarter every day, and even if I traveled through each week, I could not see all points. And I haven’t even left Taro Myule to visit other towns. Iebor and Lamfeld and Refton and so many others. So many places where the reach of this kingdom extends and I have seen none of them.” 

   “What have your days in the throne room consisted of?” asked Ulrig. “Do you not see those places in the people who come to you with their problems?” 

   Kit nodded reluctantly. “Yes, and there are dukes and earls who can report to me and city watch captains whose reports I can read, but it is not the same. It doesn’t feel the same.” 

   Ulrig stooped and picked up a broken piece of stone from the ground, turned and threw it toward the tenement building. It went through an open window and landed with a thud inside. The man’s aim was remarkable. “What do you propose?” he asked. 

   “A council of leaders instead of just one king? Scaland has the House of Lords, does it not? Would a similar idea not work here?” 

   Ulrig shrugged. “They have a Holder of the House,” he said. “So even there there is one man who speaks above the rest, settling draws and making final decisions when needed.”

   “It is no different than a monarchy, then?” asked Kit. 

   “You do well as king,” Ulrig said. “But I do not believe there is any one form of governance that supersedes the rest. There can be goodness or corruption at all levels of level and in all ordinances. The people like you, they are pleased with the change in power, you are trying to right certain wrongs and not hoard money or power for yourself. That is good.” 

  Kit nodded, though the man’s words did little to alleviate his concerns. Rogo had informed him of the Queen of Midcharia’s coming visit, and of the banquet and ball that the advisor planned to throw in the citadel, to let other dignitaries come and meet the new king. It seemed like frivolity and romp to Kit and nothing more, but he supposed he could not have those royal meetings without the pomp to go with it. It was all so tiring, and he had only been at the king’s position for a week. 

   “We’ve no more word of the underground?” Kit asked, making his thoughts take a different course. 

   Ulrig shook his head. “No new faces and we have yet to find any other rooms of experiment. There also seem to be no ties to the druids or any other organization. The tunnels beneath the city are vast and it could take months for us to find their entrance.”

   “What are they doing with those bodies?” Kit asked, remembering the marked faces of the men and women wrapped in gray blankets. 

   “We have yet to determine that,” said Ulrig.

   Kit had put the man in charge of keeping an eye on the proceedings below, and he had worked with Rusk’s people to mark the route to the room underground, as well as search for other places of experiment. Though the marks on the faces of the bodies below matched those on Eadric’s face, Kit had no way to approach the Spokesmen and confront them. Not if he wanted to learn the truth first. It was a tight line to walk. 

   “The night is pushing on,” said Ulrig, looking in the direction of the bluff and the palace atop it. All was hidden by the tenement building. 

   “Yes,” said Kit. He stood and stretched his back then his legs and sucked in a deep breath. He dug a small bit of sild from his pocket and held it up before his face. 

   Ulrig did the same and with a joint nod the men chewed the meat and swallowed, waiting for that pressure to build and the speed to burst in. Kit grinned a second before Ulrig did and took off, his legs churning with the power of enhanced goat, his arms pumping in matched speed, blood flowing through his veins at the speed of a rushing river, and he was on his way in a blur through the streets. 

   There were others who drew more from Sild than he, foot messengers and quilters and some scribes, occupations where specifics weren’t as important once you were well versed in the work and it became monotonous. 

   Kit let Ulrig catch him and they sprinted down the streets past men and women laughing and playing in the night, using the last of their night hours before catching a touch of sleep before dawn would bring them back to the world of the worker. 

   Kit’s thoughts slid away and he raced on, neither chasing or being chased by Ulrig, though he felt something else before and behind him. It was perhaps fate or destiny or doom. He only hoped he could outrun whatever it was. 

Chapter 25. 

   “We are everywhere, always.” 

   Rogo heard the man speak but his mouth did not move. There was something wrong about his face, as if it was a mask, and not for the first time that night did Rogo think that. 

   The Cowl stood before him in the dark, falcons sleeping all around them, the lowlights of the Citadel courtyard glowing from below them. Rogo had climbed the falconry tower to find the man waiting there, dressed in midnight black a silver open pyramid pin on the center of his chest. He wore no hood, but the shadows of the tower cast strange shapes on his face, ever making Rogo wonder if the man wore a face shaped mask or if really could speak without movement. 

   “We?” asked Rogo in a desperate attempt to gather his wits. He promised himself that he would be in control and direct the conversation, but seeing the man emerge from the corner of the tower room all his mental strength faded. “There are more of you?” 

   “We are everywhere,” repeated the man. 

   “What is the course of the kingdom?” Rogo asked. “The boy is on the throne attempting to rule with honor, the Queen Ynar and three of the Lords of Scaland arrive next week for our banquet, as well as emissaries from the Southern Eyes.”

   “And the Northern Plains,” said the Cowl. His voice was deep and low, much like what Rogo would have thought a dragon would sound like. 

   Rogo frowned. “The Northern Plains have no emissaries. They are under our rule, it is Raellean land.” 

   “They don’t see it that way.” 

   Rogo nodded, taking in the information. He had feared it for some time, of course. The site of the elevated meat, the greatest weapon in all the land, sold to the highest bidder and guarded by a majority of Raelle’s armies. It was only a matter of time before they rebelled and made themselves their own nation. Surely the exchange of power in Taro Myule hadn’t helped at all. Those rapscallion forest boys!

   “The bards wish to kill the king,” Rogo said, trying to win one over on the man with secret knowledge. 

   “They’re not the only ones,” replied the Cowl, and he spoke in such a way that Rogo thought he must already know. 

   It was impossible how well the man was connected to the kingdom. 

   “What of the grand seer in Midcharia?” Rogo asked. 

   It seemed as though the man’s mouth was smiling then and Rogo thought he might be losing his mind. He frantically thought back through the evening to see if he had eaten something that might have been compromised. 

   “Azelen is training a successor,” said the Cowl. 

   This threw Rogo for an even deeper spin and he thought the man's face was laughing at him without making a sound. It was a cool evening, but Rogo was sweating like a rainstorm. 

   “Is he dying? Leaving his post? Does he anticipate war?” Rogo couldn’t keep the questions to himself. 

   “He serves our purposes,” answered the man. 

   “Who are you?” asked Rogo. “How many cowls?” 

   “There is one Cowl,” came the reply, and the man’s face was as still as stone and Kit was convinced the man wore a mask. 

   “What can I ask that you will tell me? What is the depth of your knowledge?”

   “Search,” commanded the man.

   “How much power does the Restoring Church hold?”

   “Much.” 

   “Can they return life to the dead?” 

   “Only if one is not fully dead.” 

   Rogo searched his brain. “Will the Veclian Church fade away entirely?”

   “Do you wish it?” 

   “No,” Rogo admitted honestly. “Just curious on the loss of faith.” 

   “Of others or your own?” 

   Rogo laughed and hated how hollow the sound was. He changed the subject. “What do the Spokesmen hold at bay?” 

   Silence. Not a pause to answer correctly; silence. Rogo wondered what it meant in the seconds that it lasted. Did the man not know something? Or did he simply wish to not share and was measuring how much he could tell the advisor? 

   “We have an order,” said the man, and the question of the Spokesmen was gone. 

  “Yes?” asked Rogo, perhaps a bit too eagerly. 

  “Do not let the king die, but ensure the Steward of the North is murdered in grand display in your celebration. Make it dramatic, give it a flourish. No secrets on who takes his life, let the murderer be caught and killed that moment as well. We have another in place in the north, you won’t regain power there so easily, but we have motions that must be started and his death is priority.”

   Rogo nodded and wet his lips, finding his tongue had gone dry. He had never hired an assassin before, hadn’t even been in an opportunity to know how to go about such a thing. There were plenty of people he had wished to kill in the past, but wishes and actions were often far from each other in Rogo’s world. 

   “When Queen Ynar arrives, give her this.” A gloved hand came from the shadows and held out a small folded envelope of green painted paper to Rogo.

   Rogo took it. “Why not give it to her when she comes, deliver it yourself?” 

   The frozen face spoke. “We wish for her to know your involvement in this. There are things at play beyond your understanding, but do not be dismayed, for you are a key player.” 

   Rogo nodded and scanned the envelope. It was stamped on one side with a wax seal of the silver open pyramid that adorned the front of the Cowl’s robes. The other side showed nothing. “Am I to open it?” Rogo asked, looking up from the letter. 

   But the man was gone, the shadows didn’t seem as dark and the falcons napped in comfort all around him. Rogo was aware of the smell, then, and though he felt like gagging, he hurried to the four window balconies and peered out, trying to see where the man had vanished. There was no sign of any life, not even in the courtyard below. 

   Rogo tucked the letter into his coat and hurried down the stairs, his mind as much of a turning twist as the steps that led to the ground. 

   He must find an assassin.