Daughter of Fate - Chapter 5
The wailing rose above the clanging of bells as Braidon followed the procession down the streets of Lon...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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The wailing rose above the clanging of bells as Braidon followed the procession down the streets of Lon. Mourners filled every alleyway, spilling out into the broad avenue and hampering those at the front who carried the body of the Lonian King.
It seemed as though the whole country had come to farewell their fallen leader. And no wonder; for over a century, Lonia had been ruled by council. But upon the fall of the Empire and the death of the Gods, the Lonians had called for a new kind of leader. Elections had been held, and Ashoka had become king. He had quickly set about rebuilding the impoverished nation, endearing himself to the people.
That had been twenty-five years ago, when Braidon himself had just been coming into his own as King of Plorsea. Seeking to take advantage of Braidon’s youth, Ashoka had marched on the southern nation, provoking a ten-year-long war that had left thousands on either side dead.
It had taken a marriage pact between Braidon and the young Lonian princess, Marianne, to bring an end to the conflict. She walked hand in hand with him now, and he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze as they continued after her father’s coffin. Her blue eyes shone with unspilt tears and the ocean breeze blowing up the street whipped her auburn hair about her face, but she smiled and nodded her thanks.
Plorsean soldiers marched to either side of them, King’s Guard to his left, the Queen’s Guard on her right, their ranks marked by gold or silver streaks on their scarlet cloaks. Catching the eye of his captain of the guard, Rylle, Braidon offered the slightest of nods. The Plorsean crown weighed heavily on his head, and Braidon was glad of the man’s presence. While there was now uneasy peace between the two nations, an undercurrent of hate still tainted the relationship, leftover from the Tsar’s tyranny.
Braidon might have helped end the Tsar’s reign, but he was also the man’s son, an unforgivable fact for many here. There would be those in the crowd who still wished for Braidon’s death, despite his marriage to their beloved princess—or perhaps because of it.
The crowds, if anything, grew thicker as the procession left the cobbled streets and entered the port. The mourners wore all style of colours: red and white and blue and yellow, and a dozen others, creating a jumbled rainbow that covered the wooden docks as far as Braidon could see. They pressed forward, each desperate for a glimpse of the fallen king. A group of Knights, their Order more populous here than in Plorsea, spread out to form a barrier between the procession and the crowd.
Braidon felt a touch of admiration for his former rival. Though he had loathed Ashoka during the war, it was apparent his people had loved and respected him above all others. He was the man who had raised them up, lifting them from the darkness left by Braidon’s father.
Though of course, there was only so much one man could do, even a king. Looking out over the crowd was a study in inequality. The royal family and their retainers were richly garbed in expensive silks and jewellery—even the king’s body had been adorned with enough gold to feed a small town. Many of the onlookers, though, were lucky to have even thread-worn tunics to protect their fair skin from the harsh sun. More still sported sunken cheeks and withered limbs, as though food were a privilege they rarely enjoyed.
Such starvation was a strange sight in the capital of a farming nation, and Braidon wondered briefly where the food from their crops and livestock had gone. His eyes roamed, spotting child beggars amongst the crowd, some even clutching babies of their own. There were amputees as well, men and women with limbs cut short below the joint, their gaunt frames looking as though they lacked the muscle to even stand.
Yet the eyes of all were filled with tears, and as the procession reached the edge of the docks, a great silence fell over the crowd. Braidon returned his gaze to the body of Ashoka. The Lonian soldiers were carrying him aboard an old ship. Sunlight had warped the wooden boards of the deck and everything of worth had been stripped clean. Even the masts had been taken, cut short to be used for other designs.
The soldiers lowered the Lonian king onto a bed of thatch in the centre of the vessel, then retreated to the docks.
Braidon tightened his hand around Marianne’s. “Are you okay?” he whispered as the crowd began to sing, a mournful tune that was little better than the wailing of earlier.
Marianne nodded, a smile crossing her face. Two soldiers cut free the lines tying the ship in place, and with the soft creaking of timber, it drifted out into the harbour. No other vessel sailed the waters of Jurrien’s Inlet today, and the king’s ship encountered no obstacles. Soon it was a hundred yards offshore, and the eyes of the crowd turned to Marianne.
Releasing Braidon’s hand, she stepped up to the edge of the docks. A longbow was pressed into her hands, its steel arms shining in the noonday sun. Despite the sombre atmosphere, Braidon’s curiosity was piqued by the weapon. He edged sideways for a better view. His own men used bows of yew or oak, but the Lonian weapon had somehow been crafted entirely from steel.
An attendant passed an arrow to the queen and a burning brazier was already set in place. Braidon wondered how anyone could be expected to draw a bow of steel, let alone his wife. While she wore a slim rapier on her waist and had practiced archery as a child, she’d shown no interest in such activities since moving to Ardath. Petite as she was…
Marianne dipped the arrow into a brazier until it caught light, then nocked it to her bow. Her stance shifted slightly, turning side-on. Braidon thought he glimpsed a smirk on her lips as she glanced back at him. Then she drew smoothly, tiny wheels on the arms of the bow turning to assist the movement, and released.
A hush fell over the crowd as the arrow rose, arcing out over the waters of the harbour. Not a single man or woman breathed as they waited to see where it would fall. For a moment it seemed the wind might catch it and hurl it away…then gravity took hold and it fell smoothly to land amongst her father’s pyre.
The wood caught with a great whoosh. Flames spread with unnatural speed across the wooden deck, as though some accelerant had been used, until the entire ship was ablaze. Thick black smoke spewed from the doomed vessel, filling the harbour. A gust of wind carried it over the crowd, making Braidon’s eyes water and his throat burn.
He looked away, and several ships docked at the end of the wharf caught his attention. They were unmistakably war galleys. That in itself was of little interest, for the Lonian coastline was often plagued by pirating Baronians. But there was something different about the galleys. Each sported two large masts, but there were also several smaller masts at the stern and bow. Braidon realised with a start they were made of steel.
Braidon was tempted to take a closer look, but Marianne reappeared beside him before he had a chance. He made a note to ask his emissaries to investigate later, and forced his attention back to his duties.
“You did well,” he said, putting an arm around his wife’s waist.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Did you expect anything else?”
A smile crossed Braidon’s lips at the fire in her eyes. “My love, you could conquer the world if you desired it.”
With that, he turned his gaze back to the harbour. Sadness touched his heart as he watched his rival burn. Ashoka had been a bitter enemy, but he had been a known quality. Who would the Lonians raise as their next king? Marianne might have taken the title once, but she was Plorsean now, and would never be accepted.
Whoever it was, Braidon prayed they would honour the pact between the two nations.
Devon groaned as the sharp light of day dragged him from his sleep. There was a pounding in his temples and an ache in his spine that reminded him of the months he’d spent on the march as a youth. Only now, he was suffering from what amounted to little more than a skirmish.
He hadn’t felt it in the heat of the moment. Facing the Baronians with hammer in hand, it had been as though the clock had been wound back, as though he were a young man again, able to overcome whatever his enemies hurled at him.
It hadn’t taken long for that sensation to fade. Even amidst the rush of battle, he had noticed the dulling of his reactions, the diminishing of his strength. If not for Caledan, he might have been killed in the first seconds, when the charging Baronian had knocked him from his feet.
No, you are Devon. You would have beaten him.
He shivered. Those were the words of a younger man, one convinced of his own immortality. Devon no longer had any such disillusions. Whatever Pela and the villagers and even the Baronians might think of him, he was just a man—an old man, at that. And today he was paying for his defiance.
At least he’d had a proper bed in which to sleep. They’d reached Townirwin before sunset and Devon had settled them all in an inn for the night. He’d slipped a few extra shillings to the innkeeper to keep their presence quiet. There was no point forewarning the Knights of their presence.
The clashing of steel came from outside. Devon rose from his bed and crossed to the window. Down in the courtyard, Pela was already up and running through a drill with Caledan. Their swords rang with each blow as they worked their way back and forwards across the smooth tiles.
Devon sighed, saddened by the sight. Once, he’d held hopes the world might move on from such pursuits, that a new generation might grow up in a world without war. For a while it had seemed his dream might come true, after the fall of the Tsar and the liberation of the Three Nations. Then Lonia had marched south, forcing Plorsean farmers from their lands, and the wars had begun again.
An awful fatigue touched him in a moment of premonition. The world had come full circle. All his long life he’d been a warrior, fighting to keep the darkness in check. But it had all been for naught. Evil had returned to the land, and now his niece would pick up the sword and continue the charade.
The thought left a bitter taste on Devon’s tongue, and silently he cursed the king he had served so faithfully. He had trusted Braidon to bring peace to the land; instead, his friend had allowed the Knights of Alana to spread like a disease, infecting Plorsea with their hatred.
He let out a heavy sigh, then threw off his melancholy and dressed himself. Heading downstairs to the tavern, he was greeted by the sweet aroma of honeyed oats and roasting coffee. He smiled. At least the seaside port was near enough to Skystead to stock the bitter drink; it was rare elsewhere. The plant preferred high altitudes and did not fare well in the harsh winters further north. Only the plateaus above Skystead were suitable for the coffee plantations. Devon had disliked its taste when he first arrived in the small town, but he had become accustomed to it through the years.
After ordering himself a mug and a bowl of oats, he sat down for his meal. It wasn’t long before Pela and Caledan joined him. The double doors to the courtyard squealed as they pushed their way inside—Pela still red-faced and puffing, Caledan with just a hint of perspiration on his forehead. There was no sign yet of Tobias or Genevieve, while Tallow and his crew had opted to sleep on the Seadragon.
Devon waved to the innkeeper for a round of food as they sat down opposite him. Pela grinned when a mug of coffee was placed before her, but Caledan wrinkled his nose.
“How can you drink that mud-water?” he asked.
Devon chuckled. “It grows on you.”
Caledan snorted. There was silence as they broke their fast, before the swordsman leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at Devon.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Ready to storm the Castle?”
“Not quite,” Devon replied, keeping the irritation from his voice. The swordsman’s confidence irked him, and while the aching in his bones had settled slightly, he was in no mood for jokes.
“Oh yes, you wanted to speak with the King’s Guard first,” Caledan replied, eyeing him across the table. “I’m still not sure that’s such a great idea.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Devon retorted. “I’m heading to the barracks after we finish up here.”
Caledan sighed. “Very well. In that case, I’ll make some inquiries around town. If we’re going to go up against the Knights, we’d better at least be sure the prisoners are in the Castle.”
“Thank you,” Devon said with genuine gratitude. He had never been a subtle man and if he started asking questions in Townirwin, it wouldn’t take long for word to get back to the Knights. “And thank you for your aid on the Seadragon,” he added as an afterthought.
A smile crossed the sellsword’s face. “A good thing you didn’t die, or the lot of us would have ended up as croc food. Don’t think the old Baronian would have spared us over your dead body.”
Devon’s melancholy deepened. “He was a good man once,” he murmured. “A coward, but then who could blame him, the way the Tsar waged his wars?”
“He betrayed you, man,” Caledan replied. “If he’d done the same to me, I’d have gutted the pig.”
“And then yesterday you would have died,” Devon commented, drawing himself to his feet. “Better to forgive, if you want the opinion of an old man. Dead men can’t help you.”
“They also can’t stick a sword through your back,” Caledan snapped, his eyes flashing.
Devon waved a hand. “I’ll see you later,” he said, then turned to Pela. “You coming, missy?”
Pela jumped, looking around in confusion before realising he was talking to her. Nodding, she quickly spooned down the last of her gruel, gulped a mouthful of coffee, and raced out the door after him.
“Where did you say we were going?” she gasped as they started through the muddy streets.
Devon smiled. “The guard barracks. The King’s Guards occupy a dorm there—during tax collection, at least.”
As far as he knew, Pela had only been to Townirwin once, and then she’d been little more than a child. Swampy backwater as it was, the town was four times the size of Skystead and all the more exciting for it. It was well past sunup now and the streets were already crowded. Wagons rumbled up the main avenue from the port, winding their way over the narrow bridges that spanned the multitude of canals upon which the settlement had been built. Townirwin was the only port on the western coast of Plorsea that connected with the Gods Road, and most would be bringing their goods farther inland.
The town grew busier as they left the main avenue and continued through a network of unsavoury canals and narrow alleyways. Unlike in Skystead, there was no dedicated marketplace here, and merchant stalls appeared at regular intervals through the settlement, the sellers shouting their wares at the tops of their lungs. Pela spent the entire journey looking around with wide eyes, an equal measure of amazement and fear written across her face.
“Relax, missy,” Devon rumbled, “we’re almost there.”
Pela shook herself. “What was it like, fighting for the King’s Guard?”
Devon smiled. “Tough. Long days on the march, longer nights without sleep. Especially during the war with Lonia.”
“Then why did you keep going back?”
His smile faltered. “I…” He sighed, glancing at his niece. “It was all that and worse, but…there is nothing so thrilling as marching to battle.”
“You fight because you enjoy it?” Pela twisted her lips, and Devon knew what she was thinking.
“Yes, and no,” he sighed. “It is difficult to explain. It was always awful, in the moment. But afterwards, when I returned home and resumed real life…You miss the excitement, miss the comradery. When at war, you know you’re alive, that every moment must be cherished. Later…” He shrugged. “Later…everything else seems ordinary.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” his niece replied, frown still in place.
Devon thumped her on the shoulder and laughed. “I hope you never do.”
“What about my father, was it the same for him?”
A smile touched Devon’s lips. “Derryn was a good man and a canny fighter. But he wasn’t like the rest of us. A King’s Guard is usually ice or fire—cold-blooded killers or berserkers that nothing but death will stop. Derryn though, he was like water, cool in the heat of battle, yet razor quick as well, adaptable. And no, he never enjoyed it. He was there because his king needed him, and afterwards, when he retired, he had no desire to return…” Devon trailed off at that, words abandoning him.
“But he went back anyway.”
“Ay,” Devon croaked. “If ever there was a time I should have spurned the call, it was that day.”
“But you didn’t,” Pela murmured.
“No, and that decision will haunt me to my dying day.”
He drew to a stop in front of an old stone building. They were beyond the canals now and the air was fresher, the stench of stagnant water behind them. Solid and nondescript, the only sign the building was anything different from its neighbours was the king’s emblem carved into the stone above the door. Townirwin was hardly large enough to require a full contingent of guards, but its position between the Gods Road and the coast afforded the settlement certain privileges.
It had not always been so—a century ago, the lower reaches of the Lane River had been deep enough to allow ships passage. But over the decades, sand bars had formed throughout the delta, making the way impassable to all but the most experienced captains. Most now made port in Townirwin and sent their goods overland the rest of the way, to Ardath and beyond.
The change had enriched Townirwin fortunes, and Devon wondered if that was what had brought his old friend so far south. Could the Baronians be planning a raid on the town?
“This is it?” Pela asked.
Devon shook himself, drawing himself back to the present. “This is it,” he confirmed, and thumped a massive fist against the heavy wooden door.
A few minutes passed before a clang came from inside the building. With a squeal of hinges, it opened towards them, forcing them back a step. Beyond, a man in the gold and scarlet tunic and polished chainmail of the King’s Guard stood watching them. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he looked them up and down.
“Well met, Aldyn,” Devon rumbled, a grin splitting his bearded cheeks.
“Devon?” the Guard said, blinking. “What in the Three Nations are you doing here?”
“So this is the daughter of Derryn and Kryssa?” asked Aldyn as they sat in the courtyard of the barracks. “She must be quite the prodigy with a sword!”
Pela’s cheeks grew hot and lowering her eyes, she fiddled with the hilt of her father’s sword. Anger and embarrassment warred within her, but she said nothing. How had she not have known about her father? How could her mother have kept it from her? It was galling to hear such admiration in a stranger’s voice, and know next to nothing about how her father had earned it.
And worse still to know she had none of his talent.
“Her name is Pela,” Devon answered for her, “and Kryssa chose not to teach her the warrior’s arts.”
“You can’t be serious?” Aldryn cried. Pela’s uncle shot him a dark look, and he quickly masked his shock. “A wise choice.” He nodded solemnly, then blinked. “Err, then…why is she wearing Derryn’s sword?”
Devon sighed. “My fault, though it couldn’t be helped. Kryssa’s been taken. We’re here to get her back.”
“What?!” Aldyn leapt to his feet and spun around, as though her mother’s kidnappers might be hiding somewhere in the courtyard. “By who?”
“The Knights of Alana,” Devon rumbled. “They came to Skystead and attacked the old temple, took everyone they found there. One of their Elders, Merak I think his name was, took five of their captives to the town square where he planned to execute them. I stopped him. But the rest were brought here, including Kryssa. I don’t know why.”
“Oh.” While Devon spoke, Aldyn had sunk back into his chair. There was now a wan look to his face. “That’s…bad.”
“Agreed,” Devon grunted, then paused, eyeing his former comrade. “Though I sense you know more about this than we do.”
Aldyn shook his head. “You’ve been away in that backwater awhile, haven’t you?”
Pela would have bristled at the casual way he dismissed Skystead as a backwater…if it hadn’t been true. As it was, the man’s tone sent a chill down her spine.
“The war almost bankrupted Plorsea,” Aldyn was saying. “Braidon had to raise taxes just to keep the Gods Roads in order, but even that wasn’t enough to keep every town and village properly armed against thieves and the resurgent Baronian tribes.”
“You mean there aren’t enough guards here to protect the town?” Devon asked.
“Not exactly…” Aldyn murmured. “The queen had an idea, a few years back. She believes in the Saviour, you see, like many Lonians. Goes to Castle every week. And she saw all these armed Knights, this force that wasn’t being used. She suggested they could take some of the responsibilities from the city guards…”
“What?” Pela shrieked, leaping to her feet.
Aldyn held up his hands in entreaty. “Myself and many others argued against it, but Townirwin was one of the first places they were trialled. We’ve had a lot of trade with Lonia over the years, so the people here were already more comfortable with the Order and their Knights. And for all appearances, they’ve done a good job, kept the peace, so to speak.”
“They murdered our baker!” Taking a step closer to the King’s Guard, Pela pointed a trembling finger at his chest. “They kidnapped my mother!” She slumped back to her chair, suddenly lost, the hope slipping from her in a rush.
“How could Braidon let this happen?” Devon groaned.
“Like I said, Devon, you’ve been gone a long time. But you were there when magic died. You know how it was, the hopelessness, the fear. People have been looking for something to believe in for a long time. If it hadn’t been for the civil war, the Order might have appeared here sooner. As it is, their talk of free will and power for all, it’s proven popular.”
“I refuse to believe cold-blooded murder has become popular with our people,” Devon snapped. He rose and began to pace.
“There have been rumours of a more sinister faction within the Order. There are some who believe Alana’s ‘sacrifice’ must be repeated every year—”
“Nonsense!” Devon bellowed. “I was there. Alana died because…”
Fists clenched, he trailed off, and Pela remembered that other rumour about her uncle. What had Caledan called him, back in Skystead? The Consort of Alana…
“Regardless, they’re only rumours. Nothing ever came of them.”
“Until now!” Pela interrupted.
“Until now,” Aldyn agreed, though there was a hesitant note to his voice.
“What?” Devon growled.
“We’ll need proof,” the King’s Guard replied. “If you want the king to believe…”
“Surely Braidon must see the truth about these Knights.”
“Braidon does not see half as much as he should,” Aldyn replied.
“Then we’ll bring him his evidence,” Pela growled, enraged that the king who professed to protect them would ignore such evil amongst his people.
“Ay,” Devon agreed. “Let’s search their damned Castle and find the prisoners. They might control the streets, but surely they don’t have the authority to refuse the King’s Guard.”
“They don’t,” Aldyn replied, “only…”
Devon gave the man a despairing look, as though to say “what now?” while Pela’s heart sank.
“Yesterday a Raptor sighting was reported on the Gods Road. A group of Knights came calling for our help. It’s…been a while since the men and women here saw any action. Most of our contingent went with them.”
Raptors were a ferocious creature leftover from the time of Archon. They had been driven almost to extinction during the Tsar’s reign, but with the death of magic, they had become…hazardous to hunt, let alone kill.
“Dammit!” Devon slammed his fist into the table. It creaked beneath the blow, and Pela scrambled back in case it collapsed. “When are they back?”
“A week, if they find its tracks. Sooner if it left no sign, but who knows?”
“That’s too long,” Pela whispered. “My mum…”
“No, we can’t afford to wait,” Devon agreed.
“How many Knights were in the group that took Kryssa?” Aldyn asked.
“Two dozen, minus a few we killed.”
Aldyn swore bitterly. “Twenty Knights went with the King’s Guard, but the Castle barracks have forty. We’d still be badly outnumbered.”
Devon let off a string of profanity that made Pela blush. “How did Braidon let things come to this?”
“The treasury vaults are almost empty,” Aldyn said, shrugging. “Even the King’s Guard have missed our pay a few times. Maybe if the border opens with Trola one day, things will get better. Or maybe relations will improve with Lonia, now they’re to have a new king. Either way, Braidon has larger concerns than a few religious zealots in the far south.”
“Damnit, the girl’s father once saved his life. He cannot let this continue. Can you get him a message to the capital?”
Aldyn sighed. “I could, but he’s not even in the country. He went to Lon for Ashoka’s funeral. You won’t want to wait that long.”
“No,” Devon rumbled. “So we’re going to rescue them tonight.”
“That’s more like the Devon I remember,” Aldyn laughed, a grin crossing his face. “Mind if I join you? I wouldn’t mind putting a few of those bastards back in their place!”
Exhaustion weighed heavily on Ikar as he made his way along the corridors of the Townirwin Castle. The Red Seagull had arrived late at the docks, and they had unloaded the prisoners under cover of darkness, ensuring there were no witnesses. There was no need to add to the rumours already swirling about the Order.
By the time the prisoners were secure, the night had been old and Ikar had barely snatched a few hours sleep before being called to the pantheon. Now he would have to hurry if he was not to keep them waiting. At least now he could forgo his armour in favour of a tunic and breeches—only the devout were allowed within the Castle walls, so there was no risk of an outsider learning his face.
The hallways narrowed as Ikar neared his destination, an old design from darker days when the keep had been the last bastion of safety for Townirwin.
But those times were long since passed. The fortifications had been a dilapidated ruin when the Knights of Alana had taken possession. The first brothers to occupy the Castle had reinforced the crumbling mortar and repaired much of the damage, but even after five years, it could not compare to the glorious citadels held by the Order in Lonia.
Turning the final corner, Ikar slowed as he approached the towering double doors leading to the inner chambers. Beyond the iron-studded wood, Merak and his counterparts awaited Ikar’s report on the undertaking in Skystead. Ikar had not yet decided how much to say. He was still angered by Merak’s refusal to avenge their fallen brothers, but it was a dangerous course to criticise an Elder.
The doors had been left unguarded—none in the Order would dare invade the inner sanctum without permission—and Ikar pressed a shoulder to the heavy oak, pushing them open. The hinges moved with barely a whisper and Ikar stepped inside.
Within was the pantheon—the holy centre of each Castle. Only the most loyal followers of the Order were allowed entrance here—Knights and parishioners who had spent at least five years with the Order. It was here the Elders conducted their cleansings, though Ikar had never witnessed one in the year since his arrival in Townirwin. It was said by many that the Plorseans would not accept such rituals. They would soon find out, for there could be only one fate for the foul blasphemers they had taken from Skystead.
To either side of Ikar, the pantheon opened out into a circular chamber, its high roof held up by thick arches of wood. In Lon, they would have been stone, but here in the south such material was scarce—it had cost a small fortune just to repair the crumbling walls. Thirty feet above, the arches converged in a dome, its cheap plaster concealed by a great painting of the genesis of their Order: Alana towering over the world, three shadows knelt at her feet, begging for their lives. The artist had captured the righteous fury in Alana’s eyes as Ikar had always imagined it, and there could be no doubt what fate awaited the fallen Gods.
The whisper of voices drew Ikar’s gaze down. Pews lined the pantheon, except where a fine woollen rug let up to a raised dais at the end of the chamber. The three Elders awaited him there, seated on three golden thrones that would have made the Plorsean King weep with jealousy.
Ikar’s cheeks grew hot as he found their eyes on him and he quickly strode the length of the chamber and stopped before the dais.
Placing a fist to his chest, Ikar bowed. “Your Excellencies.”
“Welcome, Ikar,” Merak said, his voice echoing through the hall. “Thank you for joining us. We know your duties kept you late last night. We will not keep you long.”
Ikar struggled to conceal a grimace. No sooner had they made port than Merak had bid them farewell, leaving Ikar and the other Knights to oversee the disembarking of the prisoners. No doubt the Elder had enjoyed a full night’s sleep while the rest of them laboured.
“It is nothing, Your Excellency,” Ikar said, keeping the irritation from his voice. “It was my honour to ensure the blasphemous were safely locked away.”
“I’m sure,” the second Elder, Servo, murmured. He wore dark blue robes and was the youngest of the three, barely thirty. It was said he had performed some great task on behalf of the Order as a young man, and been honoured in return, though none could say what it had been. His hazel eyes were soft as he looked down at Ikar. “Though no doubt sleep would also have been welcome after such a journey. Merak tells us you captured the peasants in the midst of worshiping the False Gods?”
“Ay, that is what it appeared, though…one claims they were simply meditating,” Ikar replied, remembering Kryssa’s words.
“They were in the temple of the False Gods?” Servo asked.
“Yes.”
“Then the blasphemers lie!” the third and oldest Elder, Putar, bellowed. His hair and beard were long and greying, and his stomach strained against emerald robes as he rose from his throne. Halfway to his feet, he seemed to think better of it and sat once more. He continued in a calmer voice. “And afterwards, it was you who led the prisoners to the port?”
“Yes.” Ikar’s flicked in Merak’s direction. “The esteemed Elder placed me in charge until his return.”
“So you did not witness the events in the town square?” Servo asked, his voice low, eyes narrowed.
“No.” Ikar bowed his head. “Though I wish I could have stood alongside my brothers.”
“You would not have made a difference,” Merak snapped, anger in his voice.
“Is that why you did not fight with your fellows, brother Merak?” Servo asked pointedly, a smirk on his lips.
Merak scowled. “There were too many. Had I not carried warning to the ship, they might have freed the prisoners. Then we would have had nothing to offer for the Great Sacrifice.”
Ikar raised an eyebrow. His orders had been to depart should Merak not return. The ship had been about to depart when Merak had finally appeared—the Elder had not saved anything. But he kept his lips tight shut, unwilling to brave the Elder’s wrath.
A dry, rasping laughter came from Putar. “You assume any of your prisoners are worthy of such an honour, Merak,” he said. “You stained our Order with your cowardice.”
“Ha!” Merak snapped. “Easy to claim for one as old as you. When did you last go questing beyond the dining hall, Putar?”
“Enough, brothers,” Servo interrupted as the two Elders started to their feet. “This is unseemly.”
Tension hung in the air, before Merak and Putar both sank back into their thrones. Ikar swallowed, aware that disagreements between the Elders were rarely witnessed, and did his best to go unnoticed.
“My apologies, Ikar,” Servo continued. “I trust you shall not repeat any of what you have seen here.”
Ikar bowed his head. “Never.”
“Ikar has shown great loyalty,” Merak proclaimed. “Is that all you have to report from our journey?”
Catching the Elder’s eyes on him, Ikar knew he’d been right to keep quiet earlier. “It is, Elders, and thank you for your praise,” he said, then hesitated. “Though I would ask one favour of you?”
“What would you have of us, young Knight?” Putar asked, his eyes shining as he glanced at Merak.
“Grant me permission to gather my brothers and return to Skystead,” Ikar said, looking each of them in the eye. “Allow me to avenge our fallen comrades.”
The smile fell from Putar’s lips. Merak’s face darkened, while Servo only sighed. “Alas, we cannot act so openly. The king still will not condone violence against the blasphemers, though they threaten all our existence.”
“They murdered our brothers!” Ikar exclaimed. “How can you let them go unpunished?”
“Patience, sir Knight,” Servo replied. “Their penance may be deferred, but their crimes are not forgotten. Justice will find them, sooner than you might think.”
“How?” Ikar pressed, still angered by their dismissal.
“You forget yourself, Ikar,” Servo admonished.
Ikar swallowed, aware he had pushed them further than was wise. “My apologies, Your Excellencies,” he murmured. “I only wish to see justice.”
“And you will, brother,” Putar replied. “For now though, we must bide our time, and honour the king’s wishes.” The Elder’s tone was bitter.
“Yes,” Servo continued. “To that end, a cleansing must be held with all haste. While the blasphemers still breathe, their lifeforce feeds strength to the False Gods. We will take that strength for ourselves, before the king discovers their presence. Though we have time, I would act tonight, before Braidon returns from Ashoka’s funeral in Lon.”
“What?” Ikar gasped, his heart suddenly racing.
“You had not heard?” Servo frowned. “My apologies, Ikar. The Lonian king is dead.”
“How?”
“His heart failed him. His shadow council rules until a new ruler can be elected, since his only daughter is no longer eligible.”
Grief washed through Ikar. He and Asoka had been close, when Ikar had served as his guard. And his daughter…His anger flared as he recalled her marriage to the Plorsean king.
“Marianne would have made a great queen. There is no way to free her from the marriage pact?”
The Elders exchanged glances. “You ask ideas above your station, Ikar,” Servo said finally. “Though we understand your grief for Ashoka, the leadership of Lonia is none of your concern—nor ours. Though it should be enough for you that Marianne’s marriage has brought peace, and allowed our Order to expand into Plorsea.”
“Very well,” Ikar grated, struggling to keep his anger in check.
Even as a youth, Marianne had sat in on Ashoka’s councils, and as a young woman had often spent afternoons debating with her father. Intelligent beyond her years and skilled with bow and rapier, she had been born to rule. It galled Ikar to hear her birth right could be stripped away so easily, all because her father had pawned her off to buy peace. It was the one decision Ashoka had made that Ikar could never understand.
“Now, we must continue preparations for the Great Sacrifice,” Servo was saying. “Half our Order has already gone ahead to make our preparations. We must decide if any of these prisoners of yours are worthy. There must be three, strong of will and soul, to aid the Saviour in her eternal battle with the False Gods. Are there any you would deem suitable?”
Shaking his head, Ikar tore his mind from memories of Marianne and faced the Elders. Quickly he cast his thoughts over the prisoners. They had taken eighteen in total, though only a few were memorable. The rest were timid, unworthy creatures by any manner of definition.
Then Kryssa’s face appeared in his mind, standing strong. Recalling the anger she had elicited from him, he felt a pang of shame. Rarely had he been so cruel, had he so misused his power. Something about her insolence had worn away his self-control. But even after, hair drenched and half-drowned, there had been a glint of defiance in the woman’s eye. He swallowed, and looked up at the Elders.
“There is one…”
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