Day 12. Valia at seas, Kit sees royals; and Rogo

Chapter 28. 

   It only took a day after the Ikylong attack for everyone in the party to seem to forget what Hal had done, and by the fifth day he was just the boy again, relegated to the grunt work in the same camp as Ben.

   Valia remembered and tried to treat the boy with some appreciation, for she could not remove the image of him walking pointedly toward the monster from her mind, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. As annoying as Hyg the bard was, it was a moment worthy of song. 

   They were nearly three weeks out from the Citadel and they finally reached the edge of the continent. Seventeen horses and eighteen men stood on a ridge jutting up from the barren plains, looking out over the sloped sandy spread below that ended in ocean far to the right and far to the left, and extended out into the beyond straight before them. 

   “The Quakeslan,” said Captain Oren without the need to point. 

   It seemed, as far as Valia could tell, a mostly straight stretch of landing reaching out into the ocean, a peninsula as wide as a small town, dotted here and there with scrub and trees, rocky boulder strews, and the occasional water filled depression. It stretched south until the horizon hid it. 

   “However many days it took us so far, it will take double,” said Meino, walking his horse closer to Captain Oren. 

   Valia looked at him and saw the red haired man wore a strained expression on his face. Captain Oren must have seen it too for he forced a smile. 

   “It shall be an adventure! There have not been many travelers to this place, as I understand?” 

    The Spokesman nodded. A haunting look shadowed his eyes. “For good reason,” he said. “It is called the Quakeslan due to the ground shaking activity that happens here so frequently. These are two separate oceans, pushing against the land here, and though that may seem the reason for so much of the ground movement, it is really the rock beneath the oceans that causes the issue.” He held up his hands together, palms flat and fingers together, and put the hands next to each other, pressing them hard into each other. “Shelfs of rock are this way, pressed together.” He shifted his hands until they overlapped by one finger. “They move like this, shifting over and under each other, moving the ground, making splits. We may find breaks in the land where a split occurred, a chasm opened that is now filled with ocean hundreds of feet deep. We have no boat and it would be dangerous even if we did, for there is no telling when the land may shake and close once more.” 

   It was the most amount of words Valia had heard from the man and she found a certain charm to his foreign accent, even if he did not mean to be charming. 

   “How many times have you been here?” Valia asked. 

   The man ignored her and continued on. But as he spoke, Valia wondered if he just hadn’t heard her, so locked into his word as he was. 

   “It is not a place of safety if only the land is to be regarded, but there are also monsters beyond our greatest imagining. Creatures from the sea, coming to this place for beaching or death, creatures who fear other places of landfall where humans are and where they might be destroyed. There are creatures of land as well, those who fly and those who burrow and some things of the deep depths who rise to the surface when the lands shift.” His eyes looked out at the strip of land but Valia didn’t think he saw any of it as it was now, only what it had been. 

   “We never planned to return,” said Luc, walking his horse closer and taking over the conversation. He looked as distant as his compatriot. “It was a mistake we even found the relic, perhaps, though it seems the world aligns a certain way and maybe we were always set upon that path. Of course, that means we were set upon returning to this place as well.” 

   Valia’s fear was growing in her, coming in like a snake in the dark, silent and small until it was close enough to bite. Captain Oren must have felt the same foreboding for his face was ashen as he asked a question. 

   “Have you brought us to our deaths?” 

   It was Luc who replied. “Death now or death at the end of the world, what is the difference? If we don’t die in our attempt now at least we made an effort, and at least we found out if we could save things. Hold back the gate, recover the fifth piece.” 

   “Why are there five pieces?” one of the soldiers nearby asked. His voice trembled. 

   Neither of the Spokesmen spoke, and their eyes had taken on a watery, glazed sheen, as though filling with murky tears. Their hands were at their side, four sets of fingers spread out and held wide toward the ground, as though they were holding themselves up in a handstand rather than sitting astride horses. 

   “Not much to look at,” cut in Hyg as he strode over, having left his horse down the line of overlooking soldiers. He looked up at everyone and caught Valia’s gaze for a moment. She saw something new there, an almost brilliant look of complete knowing in his eyes. Then the look was gone and he sniffed and wiped his nose with the end of his pink scarf. “We haven’t reached the bleeding end of the line, I certainly hope?” 

   His words seemed the antidote to whatever spell had been cast over the group, for the Spokesmen sidestepped their horses and stepped back a little, Meino pointing out a dark hand down the miles of beach between oceans. When he spoke his words had a quiet foreign nature to them but sounded as calm and easy as he had every time Valia had heard him speak in the past weeks. 

    “It is impossible to say what remains since our last journey here, but there may be the remains of an old pirate fort two days' ride from here. It was a small Veclian church centuries ago, but I think the priests found it hard to convert the jellyfish, and the place was abandoned for pirates. If it remains, it will be a safe place to take a longer rest.” 

   “Yes,” agreed Oren, though he didn’t sound so sure. Then he cleared his throat and gave a solid nod, and spoke again, his strong timbre once more in his voice. “Carry on, sirs! We are your aids on this venture, and we would follow your guidance.”

   “Dismount should the ground begin to move,” said the Spokesman, speaking loud enough for the whole group to hear. “You may find the need to move quickly this way or that, and it is easier to make such decisions without the fear of the beast beneath you spooked and unsteady.” 

   None of the men replied. Valia could see the fear in their eyes, even those who weren’t near enough to hear the strange sentences from the Spokesmen before Hyg spoke. 

   Valia leaned down to the bard before he turned to go back to his horse. “What do you know of this land?” she asked in a confidential whisper. 

   “Fear stops your heart,” answered the man with a grim whisper. “Blind faith conquers armies. I would rather trust the foolishness I can see than fear what I cannot. It is an unhunted land, for the most part. I trust we will see much before the end, and lose much along the way.” 

   Valia was thrown for a second, not expecting such a concise and stable answer from the silly musician. Her mind scrambled for another question while she had the man in a semi-normal state of being. “Why didn’t we take a ship?” she asked. “We could have avoided the dangerous shifting land and monsters.” 

   Hyg winked at her, the intelligent look gone. “There’s terrible hurricanes on both sides of the landstrip, whirlpools that could pull down an armada, serpents as large as the dragons of old, and eels that fly in the sky and bite you in the night.” 

   He spoke with such a childish air and the things he told seemed so beyond the truth that Valia narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know why we didn’t sail?” 

   The man shook his head vigorously and loped back to his house, springing into the saddle with as much grace as a baby trying to knit for the first time. 

   “I’m scared,” whispered Alett as they rode slowly down the elevated plane to the sandy ground below. 

   “Fear stops your heart,” Valia said, repeating Hyg’s words. She rather liked that saying. “Don’t let your heart stop beating,” she added, trying to grab a bit more. 

   She couldn’t deny that she felt the fear herself. What an adventure. She just hoped it would be a good adventure and not a sour one. 

Chapter 29. 

   They rode in on gray horses, six wide by twenty deep, all wearing silver armor that glowed in the sunlight, spears held at attention. They had golden plumes at the top of their helmets, golden tassels on the horse’s caparisons, and gold symbols marked on their silver breastplates. It was the symbol of the eagle, wings spread and claws gripping a serpent. They walked their horses in unison up the long path through the promenade to turn and pass beneath the built stage where Kit sat on a makeshift seat of purple cushions. Yet, it was not the company that held Kit’s eye, but the woman who rode at their head. 

   The Queen of Midcharia, Ynar the First, sat astride her white steed with head held high, a battle helm set with wings upon her head, though no plume adorned the top but instead a circle of gold ran around the white headpiece. She wore white armor, a set much like Valia’s, though Kit thought it must be proper armor instead of Valia’s ceremonial set, for the way the plates lay seemed far too structured and designed. She carried a flowing white and yellow standard on a long pole, the end put in a holder on her saddle, and Kit found it at once impressive and surprising to see the Queen herself holding the flag of her people. 

   They reached the place where they would turn off, and the entire company stopped their approach without so much as a word or look from the Queen. Townspeople lined the path on both sides, silent in the stopping of the procession. Most of the onlookers were nobles, royals, or at least wealthy citizens as the promenade was in the center of the Eastern Quarter, but Kit could spot a few dirty faces and unwashed tunics in the crowd. 

   Queen Ynar moved some catch in the flag holder and the pole slid down to the ground beside her white horse where it stood in place, the pinion flapping in the faint breeze. Raelle was not a windy place by common standards, and they were perhaps having one of their more blustery days; flags barely flapped. 

   The Queen dismounted and strode forward until she was a few yards from Kit’s platform. She looked up at him, a dozen or so feet above where she stood, and removed her helm with a dip of her head and a toss of her golden hair. It seemed real gold, too; Kit was convinced it was pure mineral coming from her scalp, and the sight was nearly blinding. She was angelic, there was no question about it, and though Kit had appearances to maintain, he wondered if he could maintain his speech as well, should he need to speak many words. 

   “High King Kit,” she said, dropping to a single legged kneel, resting the helm on her thigh, “I am humbled by your welcome to your wonderful city, and I graciously accept your kindness not only to me but to all who come in my company. I trust our alliance will hold as much good favor as it has for generations.” 

  Her voice came with a song from her lips, as though she were speaking to the entire crowd in one part, speaking words of goodness and wisdom. Kit found his heart swelling with pride for his kingdom and city, for the work that had been done to establish the welcome and the coming banquet. The feeling was momentary for he remembered how little he had done to make things as they were, and he knew all the praise rightfully belonged to Rogo. Kit glanced to his right where the advisor sat, a dry look of fatigue on his face. Kit wondered how much sleep the man had in the past week. 

   “You are welcomed,” whispered Rogo from clenched teeth, barely loud enough for Kit to hear, making him realize how long he sat after Queen Ynar’s words. He and Rogo had practiced replies to all of the dignitaries and what they might say, so that his public speech could be recognized by the people as coming from a man who rightly held his place on the throne. 

   “Rise, Queen Ynar the First!” called Kit, stepping from his seat and extending a hand down to her, well out of reach of actually touching. “Our festivities would not be complete without your golden visage, and that of your soldiers and people. Greatly are we for your presence.” He turned to the crowd, both sides, and raised his hands as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Welcome, Midcharia!”

   The people roared and Kit smiled down at the woman, only to see a dangerous look of indifference on her face. Kit maintained his smile but felt his tongue dry up in his mouth. 

   Queen Ynar stood and walked back to her horse, mounted, raised the flag, and the company moved on, turning out of the line of Kit’s platform and out of sight behind a line of trees in the park. They would proceed to the citadel where they would be directed to their quarters and where their horses would be put up. There was enough space for several companies at the citadel, but not if every kingdom brought as many horses as Midcharia. Thankfully, there were only a few.

   “Sit down,” whispered Rogo, and Kit waved to the crowd once more, then sat down. 

   “She was threatening you,” the advisor said, leaning closer to Kit as the next procession moved into view at the long end of the promenade. It was a smaller group, those from the Farra Peaks, large men of the mountain dressed in furs and animal skins. Kit thought they must be sweating terribly. 

   “Did you see her face?” Kit asked from the corner of his mouth. 

   “Which one?” asked Rogo. “The angel or the demon?”

   Kit tipped his head to say that he saw both, the pallid indifference as the crowd roared, and the beauty apparent as she spoke to him at first. 

   “There are talks of a nuptial union between kingdoms,” Rogo whispered as the Farra people neared. 

   It took Kit a moment to realize what was being said. When he did he couldn’t help but turn to Rogo to see the man’s face. There was a bit of humor there, but mostly plain fatigue. “She must be a dozen years my senior,” Kit said. 

   “Age matters little in the affairs of the state,” Rogo answered. “Hush now, we have several more to get through.” 

   Kit smiled down at the mountain men as beneficently as he could, while the herald announced who they were and their leader stepped forward to give Kit and the city his thanks. 

   So the morning would go, and Kit would sit and greet and speak and pretend to be a king much more established and regal than he was, and all the while he would think of the Queen of Midcharia. Not in the scary blank careless look he had seen before she stood, but the kind angelic one as she removed her helm and the light breeze caught her hair. 

Chapter 30. 

   Rogo knew of Borneld’s escape, and knew that it could have only happened via someone within the Knights of Arl. It was likely a group, but either way, Rogo knew Kit wouldn’t want to admit it. He also knew that he hated the assassin he had picked. 

   After his meeting with the Cowl he found that he was forced to make a decision of where his allegiance lay. He didn’t think it was to Kit, not ever, the man was only the current placeholder to wear the crown, and he certainly didn’t think it was to the twins. At least, he hoped not. He knew, ultimately, that his place lay with himself, with his own well being and sanctuary, and as long as he could move things in such a way as to keep that, all would be well. 

   The only question remained: who was best to serve that ultimately served himself?

   He sat in his study with the green envelope the Cowl had given him, the one marked with the open pyramid stamped in wax over the seal. There had been no communication since that night, Rogo hadn’t sent anymore falcons and none had come to him from the Cowl, and most importantly, the man hadn’t appeared in Rogo’s chambers. 

   Almost as important, Rogo thought, was the fact that he hadn’t opened the letter. From anyone else he likely would have. It was easy enough to copy a signet stamp or seal, and melt new wax to reseal a document once the original was removed. He had done it before for Godsmar as well as for the man’s father, and he remained living to think about doing it again. But he had not, and that told him something deep down that he was perhaps afraid to admit. 

   He hadn’t opened the letter because he was afraid the Cowl would know. The man was a demon of the shadows, a creature of the Pits if there ever was one to walk among the living, and Rogo had come face to terrible face with the man. Rogo’s allegiance may have only aligned to himself, but the origin of his fear sat squarely with that man. 

   Rogo hid the envelope in his robes and hurried from his rooms, locking the door behind him. The wing he lived in was adjacent to the King’s, and both were far away from the banquet hall and any of the guest’s quarters where the foreign dignitaries were staying. He was certain he had timed it right and the Midcharian Queen would be in her chambers changing to a dancing gown for the evenings revelry. 

   He had left the promenade not a half hour ago, taking the quickest carriage he could to the citadel and rushing to his chambers. Now he rushed away from their safety toward the guest wings and a hallway guarded by knights in silver and gold armor, spears marked in runes in their hands. 

   Rogo approached as unassuming as he could, a docile smile on his face. “Good sirs, I would request a brief audience with her majesty. Tell her Rogo has a falcon for her.” 

  The men stared at Rogo for a moment, then one of them turned and marched away, leaving the other to fill the gap and block the entirety of the hallway by himself. 

   The first guard returned shortly and waved Rogo through, past the other guard and down a well lit and decorated hallway. Rogo knew all of the decor well, for he had placed most of the pieces himself. He knew the importance of the facade he must show for Queen Ynar, with or without the Cowl’s interference. 

   Rogo was led to the large room at the end of the hall that would lead to the Queen’s chamber, but the man knocked on a side door which would lead to a small waiting room of sorts, or perhaps a coat closet. Rogo had laid an expensive Avri Amur rug in the little room and placed a cushioned bench there, unsure of what the room was supposed to be used for. Some of the older kings had curious eccentricities. 

   “Yes,” said a female voice within, and Rogo’s blood ran cold. 

   The guard nodded to Rogo and then walked away. The entire encounter lasted a minute and the guard hadn’t spoken a single word. 

   “Yes?” asked the female voice again, and Rogo turned the handle and swung the door inward. 

   The Queen knelt before the bench with her elbows resting on the cushion and her hands clasped together flat. She was praying, it was obvious even for an nonreligious man like Rogo to see, and she looked up at him with a strange fervor in her face and drops of water stranding on her brow and running tracks down her nose and cheeks. Droplets shone on her hair and hands, and it was then that Rogo noticed the small dish of water on the bench beside her. 

   Immediately Rogo bowed low at the waist, feeling as though he was entering to see her in her underclothes, such was the privacy many reserved for religious expression. 

   “Rise, Rogo half-herian,” said the queen, and Rogo straightened up, thankful that he had bowed long enough to gather his breathing and his wits, and clear the blush from his cheeks. 

   “I have a missive for you, my lady,” said Rogo, and reached hand into his coat. 

  “Do not move,” said the queen, rising from her kneeling position and smoothing her hands back through her damp hair. It looked darker in the shadows of the room and without the sunlight bearing down on it. Still, the woman was a wonder of beauty and no strange visage had taken over her features. 

   Rogo held his hand in place as the woman stepped toward him, looking down from her royal height. She wore a white dress, plain and without embroidery, and Rogo had a fleeting thought that surely she had another gown for the evening?

   He remained still as the woman placed the first two fingers of her right hand to Rogo’s brow, touching his skin with the backs of the fingers. She stared at his eyes as she did so, and Rogo thought he saw what Kit did and wondered how long it would take for the same spell to be placed on him. Then she removed her fingers and smiled and gave a little nod. 

   Rogo took the acceptance and removed his hand from his shirt, revealing the green envelope. He handed it to the Queen seal side down, not showing her what it really was. 

   A little twist played at the corner of the Queen’s smile as she took the envelope. She turned it over and her face turned pale as parchment and she seemed to age ten years. 

   “You were given this?” she asked. 

   Rogo nodded. He felt like a little boy. 

   “Leave me,” she said quickly, then paused and spoke again, “No, wait a moment.” 

   Without another moment’s hesitation the Queen slipped a nail beneath the wax and broke the seal, then unfolded the envelope. It wasn’t an envelope at all, merely a cleverly folded page of green backed paper. Her eyes scanned the contents and the ghost remained in her cheeks, lost of all color. The blue eyes caught Rogo from the side of the paper, then returned and read it once more. 

   “Who has seen this?” she asked. 

   “Only you, your majesty,” said Rogo, a truth he found strangely comforting to tell. 

   “It seems we have an interested confidential member at this party,” said the woman with a relaxed ease. Color was returning to her face. “Keep your eyes open, advisor,” she warned. “I cannot do it for you.” 

   It was a dismissal without the exact words, and Rogo bowed once more before turning away. The guards let him through and he hurried back to his chambers to freshen his face and prepare for a long night of pretending, and a long night of watching for the Cowl. Whatever was written in the queen’s letter seemed to tell her that the man was at the party, likely not disguised at all. It would be an interesting night indeed. 

   Rogo must make sure his assassin was ready.