Once We Were Kings (Young Adult Fantasy) (The Sojourner Saga) (13 page)

"That's got to be it," Stewan said, wiping his nose.  He sat up tall and peered over Render's shoulder.  In no time, Folen stood behind his other shoulder.  All eyes fixed upon the mysterious box.

"What do you think is inside?" Folen said.

"Only one way to know." Render slipped the key into the lock.

"Wait," said Stewan.   Render and Folen both turned to him.  "Hadn't we better leave that alone?"

"What's the harm?" Render didn't take his eyes from the box.

"Well, for one thing, isn't this like stealing?"

Folen shoved his brother in the arm.  "Not like he's taking anything.  We're just looking."

"One look," said Render.  "I promise.  Then I'll lock it up, and put the key back.  They'll never know."

"I don't feel good about this."

"Don't be such a baby," said Folen.

Stewan let out a sigh.  "I'm not a baby.  Open it, for all I care.  Just remember, I warned you not to."  He crossed his arms and turned away.

Render turned the key.

It clicked and unlocked.

His pulse began to race.

He slipped his finger under the latch and flipped it open.  Then, he opened the box.

"Why, it's—!"

"A book?"  Folen said in a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

Stewan turned back and leaned over his brother's shoulders.  "What kind of book?"

Render had already opened the blank cover with no title.  The words on the page gave no indication of the book's subject, or even the type of work it might be.  "I'm not certain."

"Well, why don't you just read something from it?"

"All right."  He began with the top of the page to which he had turned.  A spectral chill crawled up his spine.  Depicted was a drawing of Mount Handara, familiar to him as when he'd seen it in his dreams, in his paintings.  He blinked and looked closer at the page.

"What is it?" Folen said.

At first, Render could not form words.  Though he had taken Edwyn at his word that the Mountain he'd seen and painted did in fact exist, this further confirmed it.  He quickly turned the page and began to read.

And when Valhandra had finished, he wept, for his son had chosen the most painful path, one from which there was no redemption.  But Malakandor had hardened his heart.

"I will rise up.  Above my brother, above my father.  I will take which was not given me, and rule as I please."

"You shall rule by power," Valhandra said.  "But not with authority.  Five and twenty millennia, shall I grant you this.  And though you shall have liberty to choose to return to me, verily I say unto thee, you shall not."

Thus did Malakandor plunge the world into darkness, obscuring the true nature of its noble beings and—"

"What is this!" 

All three jumped.

Render dropped the book on the floor and looked up. 

There stood Sir Edwyn, his brow snarled and eyes ablaze, holding chain and lock which Branson had used to lock them in.  "What are you doing in my quarters?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Standing by the waist-high wall of the open terrace overlooking his dominion, The High King Corigan gnawed on his knuckle.  The envoy should have arrived more than an hour ago.  "Blast it, why does she insist on tormenting me so?"

"His majesty's reputation for patience does him no real justice," said Lord Mooregaard, Corigan's trusted advisor and friend.  With a smile, he grasped his mail gauntlets with his right hand and gently rapped them against his left palm.  Repeatedly.  A most annoying habit.

"My Lord Mooregaard," Corigan said, "Have you been informed of any delay?  Such tardiness is most atypical."

"I can offer no explanation, Majesty."  More rapping of the mail gloves, which chafed the King.  Corigan grabbed a polished Aluvium flagon and filled two ornate chalices with red Long-Xue, from the vineyards of the forbidden East, though nothing was forbidden the High King of Valdshire Tor.

"Drink, Mooregaard."  Corigan offered him a chalice, which he received with a grateful inclination of the head.  They both peered out at the enormity of the citadel and over the massive walls which separated it from the peasant farms towards the edge of the continent.  There, over Smyth's Hill, the land plunged straight down into miles of desolate sand only to be interrupted by the mountains which served as a natural barrier between his Kingdom and that of Tian Kuo.  His stomach turned at the thought of the ruins the lay on the other side of the peaks, the fabled ruins of the Sojourners.

"Do you think we've seen the last of them, Mooregaard?"

"One can only hope."

"That any rational being could even entertain the idea that humans...spirit beings, all that rubbish!  Would they kill innocents over such ideology, because we refuse to pretend?  To indulge such childish fantasies?"

"Your father knew all too well."

"Indeed."  The very mention of his father stung the center of Corigan's chest.

"As did the scribes of Malkor.  Do not doubt, my young King.  Your father died at my side, fighting to ensure your freedom.  Freedom from religious tyranny.  You do well to exterminate those radical, murderous zealots, as well as the very nation which harbors them."

Corigan set his chalice down.  The Long-Xue burned a path down his throat and cooled it painfully as he spoke.  "I have...concerns."

At this, Mooregaard stood tall, his dark countenance etched with care.  "Your Majesty does well to remember: For more than a millennium, there has been no peace between the civilized world and those Tianese dogs.  How, in all that is decent and true, can anyone give comfort to terrorists who murder defenseless innocents, women and children alike?  Nay, my dear Corigan.  This cannot be.  Honor your father's charge, for they were his last words to you."

And it would have given Corigan nothing but pleasure to conquer all of Tian Kuo with force, had it not been for that seed of doubt planted in his mind, his heart. 

"Where is that envoy!"  He hurled his chalice such that the Long-Xue splashed against the stone wall and bled down in three slow trails.  The dented chalice rocked back and forth on the ground on its rim, sending flashes of reflected sunlight into his eyes like daggers.

Just then, a voice intruded upon the moment.  "Your Majesty."

Mooregaard and Corigan both turned and beheld her.  Mooregaard bowed deeply as he took her gloved hand and kissed it.  "My Lady."

"Lady Volfoncé, to what do I owe this pleasure?"  Corigan spoke with measured acerbity, for he never liked nor trusted her much.  Perhaps it was her eyes.  Dark, almost hawk-liked, she seemed to peer straight into his soul.  It so disturbed him that he rarely held her gaze, but instead concealed his apprehension behind a wall of regal haughtiness.

 "I intercepted the envoy en route to Talen Wood."  Now releasing Mooregaard's hand, Lady Volfoncé stepped forward and handed Corigan an envelope sealed with red wax.  The seal of his dove.  "The young Tianese feared for his life though I guaranteed him safe passage.  But ultimately, he feared too much and after much cajoling on his part, pathetic as it had been, I agreed to take this letter to you personally."

"You have my gratitude."  Corigan inspected the wax seal surreptitiously.  It did not appear to have been tampered with.  He lifted his eyes and found the lady gazing as if she expected something from him.  "Yes?"

"Your majesty is aware, are you not, that such correspondence threatens the confidence, the stability of our nation, if word were to make it out that—"

"Have you any questions or remark of consequence, Lady Volfoncé?"

"Sire, I simply—"

"You are dismissed with my thanks, then."

A cold silence remained in the air like gray mist.  Lady Volfoncé blinked once, or twice, Corigan could not tell, because it happened so quickly and her entire body stood perfectly still.  That piercing gaze once again.  It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

Finally, she took Mooregaard's proffered hand.  They both bowed and backed away from the terrace and into the palace.  Corigan noticed and called out, "My Lord!  Pray tarry a while longer."

"Sire."  He stopped, bowed and kissed The Lady's hand once again as she left.  When he returned, he stood firm and severe.  "Your Majesty?"

The sealed letter still in hand, Corigan approached his advisor with a purposeful stride.  He felt along the stamped edge of the wax seal as he spoke.  "You make little disguise of your sentiments for The Lady Volfoncé."

"She is a fine and worthy Lady, sire."

"No doubt."

"Do you disapprove?"

"Nay, I..." The envelope and its contents began to command Corigan's attention.  "Nay, Mooregaard.  I just..."

"Sire?"

"Something about her gives me pause."

Mooregaard smiled a broad, knowing smile.

"And this amuses you?"

"Please it your majesty to indulge your servant.  But I daresay, I know what troubles you about The Lady, though she has never said but a kind or honorable word, nor done anything less than noble in your presence."

"Pray tell, my good Lord."

"Sire, I can tell you most assuredly that Lady Volfoncé reminds you of your mother, the queen mother, though you were of much too tender an age to remember her, before her untimely passing."  At this, Mooregaard began to laugh, as though any apprehension Corigan felt had been the most childish folly.

"Yes, yes.  It is well said.  She reminds me of my mother!" Corigan laughed along, albeit half-heartedly and out of pride, lest he appear insecure.  Yet, this was decidedly not the reason Volfoncé distressed him so. 

Mooregaard continued to recite attributes of the deceased queen mother which ostensibly matched those of Lady Volfoncé.  But Corigan's eyes floated to the envelope which he was presently opening.

Struggling to maintain but a shred of dignity, Corigan slid his finger carefully under the seal, though he wanted nothing more than to tear the envelope open and gaze lustfully at the bare letter within.

"...and then there is resemblance in her laugh," Mooregaard continued.  "Oh, did the queen mother's laugh ever warble like the sweet music of a nightingale.  So it is with that most noble of ladies, Volfoncé."

Not heeding the troubador's account of the "fair lady Volfoncé," Corigan lifted the folds of the letter with shortened breath and pounding heart.  He reveled in the self-inflicted torture of opening it slowly.  Then finally, he read its contents.  As usual, his dove corresponded with enigmatic terseness.

A Fortnight, Your Highness.

The promise of her words, the anticipation, it all made Corigan's head swim in a sea of pulsing thoughts and urges.  He didn't even notice that Mooregaard was calling his name.

"Sire!"

"Yes, yes.  What is it Mooregaard?"

"Are you quite all right?"

"I am, thank you.  Mooregaard, I require your counsel, your...perspective."

"As it has been with your father and mother, to serve is my honor, O my King."

"Right.  Thank you.  Mooregaard, do you not think it more wise to pursue less aggressive means of conquest.  Was it not Ulrogh, Malkor's prized disciple, who said, "better to win over a kingdom slowly over the years, than with bloodshed over a night?"

The dark and tall knight rested his massive hand on Corigan's shoulder and the weight of it challenged him to stand still, lest he betray his own weakness under it.  "Ah, but you extract these sayings from their true context.  Ulrogh meant that in regards to economic warfare, not between two nations with an epic history of bloodshed and rivalry.  Of such situations he said, "The quick spilling of royal blood, spares the manifold lives of both nations."

Corigan recoiled and twisted his brow.  "The coldness with which you recite that gives me pause.  How very uncivilized and coarse."

"Coarse, though it may be, this conflict with Tian Kuo will not soon end, nor shall it end easily.  But end it must, and you must be the victor."

Here is where Corigan held the upper hand.  Here is where for once, he held his trusted advisor at a disadvantage.  "My good Lord, you may find many a surprise with me.  I am aware that I lack my father's physical formidability and combat prowess, but I certainly possess all the cunning of my mother, if all you have told me of her is accurate."

"Truly?"

"Yea, verily."

This made Mooregaard stand just a little straighter.  "How so, Your Majesty?"

"One word."  Corigan's eyes grew wickedly dim.  "Collaboration."

Mooregaard's smile hung artificially on his face.  His eyes shifted to the side and back.  "Surely you don't mean—"

"My dove.  You know her not, and that must remain so.  But suffice it to say, she has deeper connections, as the sinew and tendons of the Tianese society, the Tianese Government.  She can assure that my diplomatic overtures are met with open arms—much to the relief of her people who, she says, are battle-worn and crave and end to the perpetual hostilities of our countries."

"Sire, I know not to whom you refer, but surely no one, no woman can—"

"Though I value your great counsel, pray do not underestimate me."

"I apologize, Sire."

"No need.  But let me assure you, she has influence over the monarchy of Tian Kuo, the emperor himself.  They will agree to a mutual cessation of hostilities.  And before their soldiers have even put their barbarian swords away, I shall fall upon them with the full force of the mighty Torian army."

Mooregaard held his bearded chin in his hand but said not a word.

"You doubt me?" Corigan looked to him, not so much for approval, but for validation.

"It is not you that I doubt."

"Fear not.  She has more influence than you can imagine.  I have already implemented several stages of this plan, none of which you can know of until we make our final move.  The empire of the accursed East will first join us in a common goal of ridding this world of those fanatical Sojourners—with our assistance of course.  And when they are celebrating our new alliance, which you and I know is about as likely to exist as a ball of snow in the desert, we shall infiltrate their capital and take it by force."