Day 7. Falcons and Farewells

Chapter 17. 

  The sun rose on a clear day over the kingdom of Raelle, and shone on the smiling face of Rogo half-herian, advisor to the king. 

   He watched the travelers milling about in the grand courtyard from his perch atop the falconry tower, a dozen soldiers in light traveling armor, the Spokesmen in their dark heavy robes, and that blasted sister of the usurper, wearing her white ceremonial armor. 

   “Does she really intend to travel all the way to the bottom of the landbridge with that silly armor on?” asked Rogo to no one, not even the birds who rustled and flapped contentedly behind him.

   Advisor to the king came with many privileges, one of which was Officer in Touch, or so the title read, which really just meant the person tasked with inter-kingdom communications. Falcons were quick, perhaps not as quick as Hyg and Hyn, the bard twins, but quicker in many cases than a rider, and Rogo had full access to the falconry tower and the reception and dismissal of missives. Not all of them reached the ears of the king, and Rogo took the discretion to heart. 

   As Rogo watched the crowd below, loading horses with goods for the journey, he saw the new king standing next to Valia in her shining armor. That was not uncommon, they were essentially siblings, but what struck the short man as odd, was the person they were speaking to. 

   Rogo didn’t have to bring out his optical lenses to know who the man was. 

   “You impuissant old fool,” muttered Rogo, squinting down at the three figures. 

   The one who spoke to Kit and Valia was the royal scribe, Willan Wor, an old figure in the citadel who kept strange traditions such as the surname of some great ancestor of his. He kept perilous notes of as much of the goings on in the citadel and broader city as he could, and though he never seemed to use the archives for his own personal gain, Rogo didn’t trust the man one bit. If there was one person he was afraid of in the land, it was Willan Wor, and he often found himself counting the days until the man died of old age. Rogo had been counting for a long time. 

   What the royals could possibly want with the old man and his impossible to read notes, Rogo couldn’t comprehend. He was a man of infinite friendships, seeming to take every serving girl and butler in the place under his wing and offering them gifts or trinkets or information for open ears and loose lips. Those who were seen as invisible by most nobles were weapons by the old man in his foul library, scratching away at half filled tomes. 

   Rogo had been very careful who heard him speak, and it was because of Willan that he was so careful to not share his room of rabbits. Because, of course, they were not just ordinary rabbits. 

   A gray tufted falcon flapped into view and snatched Rogo’s attention. The bird came in from the south and he watched as she sailed lightly on coils of warm air floating up from kitchens below, and soared to a grand fluttering stop on the railing next to where Rogo stood. He cooed to the creature and handed her nuts from a sack at his belt, and checked the seal of the message canister at her leg. Rogo knew it could not be a reply from The Cowl yet, there simply was not enough time and not a fast enough falcon, no matter how many genetic experiments those people attempted. He looked at the canister closely before opening it, always anticipating something dangerous. 

   It bore the seal of the grand seer of Midcharia, the rival kingdom to the south and southeast, though rival only in trade and commerce, at least publicly. No declarations of war had come forth yet, and Rogo was proud to say he had several hands in keeping it that way. A message from the grand seer might change things. 

   Every kingdom had their own advisor and each one had their own mystery about them that they had cultivated over the years. Some played the intellect card, claiming they knew more about the kingdom than anyone else and thus forcing a place in the royal affairs, while others played the mystical angle, holding a deck of reading cards or the skull of a willow dragon, playing at divination or sorcery for their use. All of it was information and sneakery, and Rogo knew the advisors all had the same powers as he and not one of them sourced through magic. 

   The grand seer of Midcharia was a man whom Rogo despised. There weren’t many men in general that the Kit’s advisor would care to share a drink with, but the grand seer was near the bottom of the list. He called himself Azelen, a silly name for the singular reason that it was a reference to an ancient Midcharian hero who fought the last sky dragon and saved the lands–all of the lands–from the threat of destruction. The grand seer was essentially naming himself a reborn version of this hero, but instead of training to break rocks with a touch of his little finger, he was whispering in the ears of the queen of Midcharia and sending threatening letters to Rogo. 

   Rogo opened the marked canister and unrolled the paper, scanning it quickly for any secret wording or hidden messages, and when he found none, he read through the missive with worry growing down each line. 

   He cursed as he finished the letter, crumpled it in anger, unfolded it with careful fingers, then tore it to shreds and stuffed it in the droppings pail, a place he firmly wished the grand seer belonged. 

   The letter had held no secret code because it held nothing of court intrigue or war ministrations, other than the single line stating that Queen Ynar would wish to meet with King Kit, though she hadn’t told Azelen yet, he was just preparing Rogo for when the invitation came. The rest of the letter told a troubling tale of a magical item at the end of a far journey, and a group of travelers the grand seer himself had found it wise to send after said item. They were competing for the fifth piece of the relic, the very thing the Spokesmen and that impudent woman child were about to travel off to. 

   Rogo did a quick calculation in his mind, noting the location of the Midcharian capital city, and the distance to the southern border of the continent, all in comparison to where he stood right then in the center of Taro Myule. If the grand seer was honest about the departure date of his travelers, Valia and her group would only have a day’s advantage on his, if that. And there was almost no world where the man was honest. 

   “What a great ruiner,” said Rogo sadly. He quickly penned a short reply to the seer’s missive, ignoring any business of the relic and only mentioning that his king would certainly enjoy the meeting of Queen Ynar, and so on and so forth, and then stuffed it into the canister of the bird and left the loft. The royal falcons across the land were all well trained, and he knew the bird would rest for one full hour, eating and perhaps even sleeping, before flying back to her home falconry. The travelers would be gone in the hour as well. 

   “So many puzzles and not enough pieces to fill them,” said the advisor quietly as he climbed down the tower stairs. He had one hour to decide if he should tell Valia of the threat to the relic, or if he should keep the information to himself. One hour was not much time. 

Chapter 18. 

   Kit hugged Valia as a sister and a friend, and potentially as a pair who would never see each other again. He had come to that realization during the night, and found that the thought stole his sleep and kept him replaying the night of Eadric’s death, trying to see an angle where things would have changed and he didn’t have to be king. 

   Valia looked regal and glorious in her white armor, the set made of small plates set together to allow almost no gaps or space between. Of course, it was a ceremonial set, one given to her by Arloth her father, and not for anything beyond dueling. Still, Valia liked wearing it and she stood out as a symbol for the kingdom. 

   “Don’t hurt yourself,” Kit said gently, smiling, trying to put joy and hope into his words. He felt neither. 

   “I won’t,” she answered, and he knew she couldn’t keep such a promise. 

   “You’re certain this is your path?” he asked. 

   Valia nodded, solemn, eyes focused on something through Kit, another place, another time, perhaps even another world. In that moment, she was far, far away. 

  “I’ll not keep you from it,” Kit said, reaching out and gripping her shoulder, feeling the plates flex a little beneath his fingers. He wore no armor, only a rich red doublet and white trousers, with a decorative capelet on one shoulder. It was the sort of thing a king might wear, and Kit didn’t feel much like a king that morning. 

   The willowy figure of the scribe stepped toward them, his arms loaded with scrolls and tomes, barely revealing a smiling set of teeth above the pile. He was a thin old man with bones that must have been made of paper and skin the same, for he seemed almost to float about and might sail away should the wind decide to take him. 

   “The rest of what you’ve requested, my lady,” said Willan with a nod of deference. 

  “Oh my,” said Valia with a hand to her mouth. “We don’t have room, I don’t think.” 

   The man laughed but didn’t give any notion that he would put the volumes down. 

   “I have space in my saddle bags,” a voice came and Kit turned to see a young girl standing behind him a little ways off. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, though Kit had no great grasp of ages. 

   It was the girl Valia had decided to bring along, and though Kit didn’t remember her name, he remembered her face and found it odd, once again, that Valia had chosen a girl rather than a woman, to give her feminine company on the journey. 

  “Very good,” said Valia with a smile. She directed the scribe to follow the serving girl and then turned back to Kit. “He is a kind soul,” she said. 

   “Seems to be,” agreed Kit. 

   A silence fell between them, a strange berth that started slow and seemed to grow and grow in only a few moments. Kit found it difficult to look at her, afraid that he would see her, one of those looks, as the last time. Who knew what the southlands held? The Quakeslan was real, no legend there, but what lived in that narrow strip of continent was surely legend, for it kept nearly all travelers at bay. And what lay further at the end was even more dangerous. Or so the stories told, and the only men he knew who had been there, the four remaining Spokesmen, did not share their stories. Perhaps they would share with Valia. If she made it that far. 

   “Set for the journey?” asked a voice, and Kit looked down to see Rogo walking up, his advisor wearing his usual court smile, his hands resting on his ample belly. He was clothed in expensive emerald attire, gold fringing all of it. 

   “I believe so,” answered Valia, and the berth was gone. 

   “They are leaving by the strike of the bell,” said Kit, glancing up at the clock tower. It was opposite the other high tower of the Citadel, the latter being the falconry, the communications center of the palace. He didn’t care for birds very much, but thought he should at least visit the tower at some point, to see how the messages were sent. 

   “Very soon,” said the short man. “Very soon indeed.” 

   It seemed as though there was more to be said, but he did not speak, only smiled at them, his fingers playing a little rhythm on his belly. 

   “All set,” said Willan, coming close to them and bowing before Valia. “Do not worry about preserving the volumes, they are mostly throwaways anyway, ones I would be set for recycling in the next few years.” The man noticed Rogo and his fatherly smile widened. “Rogo, a pleasure to see you out of your hole on this fine morning.” 

   “Likewise,” answered the advisor, but said no more. 

   “Thank you kindly,” Valia said. “I hope to bring them back in one piece.” 

  The old man bowed first to Valia and then to Kit, and then walked off, not looking at Rogo anymore. 

   “There are so many people I have to meet and know and make judgments upon,” Kit said, more to himself than the other two. Certainly more to Valia than Rogo. 

   “Not all of them are worthy of your time,” said Rogo with a pleased smile. 

   Kit nodded, trying to remember the man’s face and the tone of his words. It was perfectly clear that Rogo was a valuable asset in the running of this kingdom machine, but how far that value went Kit had yet to determine. He knew the nobles treated the kingdom like a business, and the most important part of a business was financial gain. Kit wanted wealth of course, but not for himself, for the people he was now beholden to. He couldn’t assume the same for Rogo. Still, the man hadn’t given him any reason to mistrust him, and that was a good start at the very least. 

   “Ready to ride!” shouted a man at the front of the group of travelers.

   The four Spokesmen moved past Kit and Valia. Percho and Lavnan, the bald one and the old one, remained dressed in their dark robes, while the other two wore comfortable looking riding coats and pants, grays and browns and blues. The red haired one had a wide traveling hat on his head, the shadow of which kept most of the morning sun from his face. The youngest looking of the four nodded at Kit and Valia as he passed, but did not smile or nod and Kit thought he saw a furrowing of the man’s brow. Then they were past and Valia was moving in for another hug. 

   Kit held her for a moment, letting his arms remember her form, the tension of her against him. Then she was pulling away and stepping back, and giving a small wave with her fingers only slightly splayed. 

   “Goodbye Kit,” she said quietly. “Don’t destroy the kingdom while I’m gone.” 

   “Don’t destroy the world,” Kit answered her, forcing another smile. 

   The girl servant helped her atop her horse and then climbed on her own, and the bell rang out the hour clear in the tower above. 

   “Onward!” shouted the lead voice. Kit had picked the soldiers who would travel south, but he couldn’t determine who spoke. 

   The horses bobbed heads and a few whickered as they clipped into a walk along the stones of the courtyard. 

   “There’s no world where I’m left behind!” a silly voice called out. 

   Kit turned as the last rider passed him to see a small white pony trotting along the courtyard from the stables, a man in a multi-colored coat and bright purple pants sitting lopsided on the pony as though it was his first time riding. His hair was blond and flopped about his head almost impossibly, and the tails of a pink scarf flapped around his neck. Musical instruments banged and jingled as they hung from various straps on the saddle. 

   “It is not a sightseeing mission,” Kit said as the bard neared. “We’re not funding a vacation.” 

  Hyg laughed happily and flashed Kit a generous multi fingered wave. It made Kit rather uncomfortable. “I fund myself!” said the bard. “This is the adventure of a lifetime, of several lifetimes, perhaps! One of us must go!” 

   Kit narrowed his eyes as the twin trotted past. 

   “You are allowed to stop him,” said Rogo carefully. 

   “I know,” said Kit. He paused. “Well, I suppose I don’t really know. They seem more in power here than anyone.” 

   “They would like to think so,” said the advisor. “I wouldn’t give them such long necks if I were you.” 

   It wasn’t an expression Kit understood, and he let the half-herian know it. 

   “It’s sort of a way of saying. . .” the man trailed off as though he didn’t quite know himself. “They don’t have free reign,” he said finally. 

   “What’s the worst that could happen?” Kit asked. 

   The bard had ridden past the gate and disappeared, and the square was left only with the servants who were needed to clean up what the horses left and to put away any of the items that the travelers could not pack. The two Spokesmen also remained. 

   Kit walked to where they stood together, closer to the gate looking out over the city barely visible below. 

   “What’s out there?” Kit asked. 

   “Abjuration,” answered Percho quickly, almost as if he was trying to keep the older man from speaking. 

  “You’ve said that word before,” Kit said. “It has to do with an oath, does it not?” 

  “A bond,” corrected the man. “It is an old word for bond. And bond is another term for barrier or defense.” He looked fully at Kit and the king could see storm clouds in the man’s eyes. “You may not trust us, my lord, but I assure you we may be the only four of the old kingdom who believe in the full preservation of everyone, every subject, every courtesan, every man and woman and child. And what we protect would kill them all.” 

   “Why do you not tell me in greater detail?” asked Kit. 

   “To keep you from sending an army instead of twelve men and your sister,” said the old man with a happy smile. “Jovis was killed by your hand, but the rest of us will die of age at some point, if not by the blade. Those boys we’ve sent might take the relic and join us, but that will only buy us a fraction of time. If the kingdoms are not at peace, there will be no one here to stop the world from ending.” 

   Kit stared hard at the older man, trying to read his milky watery eyes. They were as discernable as the bottom of a well at midnight. 

   “My ignorance, and that of my predecessors, is all that is keeping our world from ending?” Kit asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

   “It is what we’ve decided,” said Percho. “We chose to invest in Raelle because it was the strongest at the time, and Meino always dreamed of living here. Do not prove us wrong, my lord.” With those words the bald Spokesman marched off, toward the open gate instead of back into the citadel. 

   Kit and Lavnan watched him go, the older Spokesman scratching his thin beard with two knotty fingers. “He is afraid,” said the old man finally. “We all are, but Percho perhaps most of all. He has carried the weight of leadership since we first joined the gate those years ago. Jovis was the most zealous, perhaps, thus why his hands found your brother, and not ours.” 

   Kit thought of the men and women wrapped in gray blankets and laying on cots in that underground ruin of a city the monk had led him and Ulrig to. “How did he kill him?” Kit asked. “It was just a touch, as far as I could see.” 

   The old man moved his black hand away from his face and uncurled the rest of his fingers to show a sight that once again struck Kit as terribly strange. A hand so opposed in color to the face, the wrist of the same color, all of it disappearing into the robe. Even the other two who left with cloaks on, showed no more skin between their neck and their wrists, and Kit wondered if somewhere in between the colors blended. 

   “Nothing is just a touch,” said Lavnan. “Everything leaves a mark.” His eyes focused on Kit and his hand fell. “We are defensive, attempting to keep a terrible ruin at bay. We are stoppers, to a thing that would go. Long ago, Jovis found the stopping can go to other things as well. Hearts and minds, for example, all with a touch.” He smiled, perhaps the first sad smile Kit had seen from him. “We must be very careful. What we protect is trying to escape, and our duty has become a curse in more ways than one.” 

   Here he stepped away but did not follow his Percho, instead opting to return to the citadel and the Spokesmen chambers, or somewhere else; Kit couldn’t know for certain. He was left alone to stare at the distance, hoping that Valia would be safe. He trusted these Spokesmen, even if they told him little of what they claimed to protect, but he found something terribly frightening in their sincerity. He sighed finally and turned back to the citadel. There was court in a few hours, and he wished to do a little sword training before sitting on that horrible seat for the rest of the day. So far, he was wondering if they had made the right choice in their overthrow. His rear end certainly didn’t think so.