The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (20 page)

Laris, with a complete disregard for the ravaged condition of his legs, ran down the stairs. 
Legs be damned,
he thought as he returned the bottle to its slot.  When he stepped back into the kitchen, Girard was gone.  Laris rushed to catch up, then followed at a discreet distance.  Unless something had occurred in the short time since it had been out of his sight, the wine remained uncontaminated.

Several turns later, Girard came to a stop before the doors to the king’s bedchambers.  Frowning deeply at the two guards who stood there he said, “Kindly move aside, I am here to give the king his dinner.”

“He’s sick,” Sergeant Strumbald informed him.  “As well you know.  Until he tells us otherwise, our orders are the same as before.”  With infuriating haughtiness, the sergeant gestured to the note on the door, the words of which were scrawled in the king’s own hand.  “He is not to be disturbed.  Not even to eat.”

“That’s preposterous!” Girard declared, becoming red in the face.  “He couldn’t have meant me, too.  I always bring him his meals when he’s not feeling well.  Been doing it for the past twenty-five years.  If he’s ill, the last thing he needs is to starve himself.  Now, let me pass!”

The guards exchanged a quick glance, the meaning of which was obvious.  They were enjoying themselves at Girard’s expense.  Laris supposed he should have been pleased, what with the way his servant had been ordering him about, but he wasn’t.  As a matter of fact, he was beginning to get angry.  As the king’s personal assistant, Girard was due a certain level of respect, more, at the very least, than what he was receiving at the moment.

Sergeant Strumbald inflated his barrel chest and tugged at one end of his thick black moustache, making it clear that it was going to take more than an irate servant to move him.  “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” he said, eyes betraying a hint of mirth.  “Orders are orders.  Besides, the door is locked from the inside.”

Girard just stood there, fuming.  Then, seeming to diminish in stature, he took a step back and set the tray on the floor.  “Very well,” he conceded.  “If it must be, but give him this when he wakes.”

“We would be happy to, sir,” the younger guard assured him, eying the tray with hungry eyes.

“I’m sure,” said Girard.

Going to have to have a talk with them,
Laris thought. 
These two need a lesson in humility, a refresher course on how to respect thy elders.

Attempting to salvage what dignity he had left, Girard straightened his back, set his jaw and, without so much as a nod to the king, walked away.  Laris followed him dutifully.

A few minutes later, Girard stopped in front of what the king could only assume was the door to his private room.  In all the years they’d known one another, it had never occurred to Laris to ask him where he lived.

“Well, Mr. Hasseldelf,” Girard said in a crisp tone, “you performed adequately today.  I will expect you back at the kitchen by four-thirty a.m., not a second later.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

Girard stared blankly at him, opened his mouth to speak, then turned around and inserted his key into the lock.  Opening the door and stepping inside, he said, “Goodbye, Mr. Hasseldelf.  Make certain to get plenty of rest.  Tomorrow, I won’t be so easy on you.”

After the door shut in Laris’ face, he walked to one of the wooden benches along the wall and had a seat.  His old bones thanked him for the rest. 
What now?
he wondered.  All he’d done so far was confirm what he’d already suspected—Girard was no traitor.
 
Heaving a sigh, he leaned his head back and stared up at the frescoed trim separating the wall from the curved ceiling.  A long line of painted faces stared down at him, cherubs in various positions of flight, smiling at him as though they knew something he did not.
“What am I missing?”
he asked them.

Wedding Bells

Andaris opened his eyes to the bright, cheerful sound of ringing bells.  The bed in which he lay was big and comfortable, four-posted and tall.  He groaned as he sat up, feeling as if some deranged gnome were thumping against the back of his head with a hammer.  Someone had taken the liberty of dressing him in a long flannel nightshirt.  He hoped it hadn’t been Trilla, though supposed he couldn’t really object if it had—after all, he had already seen her naked.

     
What happened,
he wondered, placing his head in his hands.  He couldn’t recall.  He was so groggy…as though he’d been asleep for days. 
Think,
he told himself.  The last thing he remembered was riding with Gaven and Trilla towards Sokerra.  He was sick.  It was raining.  And now he was here…. 
We must have made it,
he thought.  Inviting the gnome’s wrath, he straightened his neck and looked around the room.

An elaborate mosaic covered the floor, colorful tiles depicting what he could only assume was a Sokerran battle of great renown.  Bathed in brilliant sunshine, the far wall opened onto a balcony supported by six stone pillars.  Inlaid into each, gleaming sharply in the morning light, narrow rivulets of gold climbed the stone like ivy, crossing and re-crossing before twining together at the top beneath a circlet of silver leaves.

The view beyond the balcony was just as lovely.  Clean blue sky shone above a myriad of reflecting pools, glassy surfaces clustered intimately within an exquisite landscape of manicured hedges and vibrant flora.  Lifelike statues stood at the center of each pool, benevolent faces peering up at the heavens, searching for enlightenment.

The bells rang out again, reverberating through the crisp dawn air with celebratory fervor. 
Bells?
 
But why are there--
  His breath caught. 
Wedding bells!

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Andaris put on the robe and slippers left for him on the nightstand.  As he stood, a wave of dizziness washed over him, filling his vision with brief pinpricks of light.  He held on to one of the bedposts, waited for the room to stop spinning, and darted out the door in the direction of the bells.

When he stepped into the courtyard, he stopped and stared, for the cathedral was easily the most beautiful structure he had ever seen.  Set within its polished, pale-green walls were a total of twenty-four stained glass windows—scarlet slits sparkling like rubies in the sunlight.  From the corners of the building rose four steeples made entirely of worked ivory.  The bells that rang out so joyously did so from within the ornate lattice atop each slender spire.

Andaris tried his best to look amiable as he neared the cathedral’s twenty-foot tall doors.  The guards eyed him with disapproval, but allowed him to pass, conical helms hugging their brows, rectangular shields erect.

He walked in with a thumping heart, feeling nauseated.  Apparently, traipsing about like a lunatic wasn’t the best thing for a person in his
condition
.  Not that he had a clue as to what that
condition
was, mind you.  For all he knew, he was skipping tra la la along the brink of death, about to take that final, fateful dive into oblivion. 
Ah well,
he thought,
too late now.

The cathedral was full near to bursting with all manner of folk.  Its redwood pews could seat thousands, and yet not a space remained.  He would have to stand in the back with the commoners, which suited him just fine.  Having been raised on a farm, he was used to the musty stench of hard work, and to the unpretentious pride that came from earning a living with your hands and your heart.

Of course those with royal blood enjoyed the closest seats.  The king and queen posed like peacocks in gaudily bejeweled thrones on either side of the main dais.  The rows closest to them overflowed with people clothed in the latest and most expensive fashions.  Many of the women wore large, garish hats, the broad brims seeming specifically designed to block the view of those seated behind them.  The closer to the front, the bigger and brighter the hats became.  “Look at us,” they seemed to say.  “Look how stunning we are.”

Andaris shook his head, finding it all remarkably silly. 
In the end
, he thought,
they’re just bones in the ground, like everyone else. 
It was then, as he averted his eyes from the spectacle, that he saw Gaven.  Occupying a place of honor not far from the king and queen, the big man’s nose was no doubt full of much prettier scents than his own—though you’d never guess it by the scowl that he wore.

From the front of the building, a tall, awkwardly built man wearing a white robe raised his hands and, on his cue, a group of minstrels began to play a wedding march.  The light, airy sound of string instruments echoed through the cathedral.  All present watched with rapt attention as the silver doors swung wide.

Gaven walked with stoic resignation to the entrance, and then stood in place with hands clasped behind his back, ready to escort Trilla down the aisle.  Metals and ribbons adorned his borrowed jacket.  Andaris wondered if they were his, or if they had been loaned to him along with the clothes.  Either way, with his hair pulled back into a tight braid, and the collar of his very stylish shirt at least two sizes too small, he looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.  Weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions, yet Gaven’s face could have been carved of granite.  He stared straight ahead, eyes dull and troubled, as though watching a funeral procession.

And then Trilla appeared, wearing a flowing white dress that fanned elegantly on the ground behind her.  Her hair curled in playful ringlets about her face.  Berry juice made her lips glossy.  Passionflower painted her cheeks.  Truly, she looked every inch the princess.

Andaris saw tears shimmering in her eyes as she reached for Gaven’s hand, and he knew her well enough to know they were not tears of joy.  When she saw Andaris, she stumbled…then froze in place, too startled to move.  Gaven and Andaris locked eyes.  Gaven shook his head with a pained expression…and then looked down.

Trilla was only able to meet Andaris’ gaze for an instant, but that was long enough. 
I don’t want to marry him,
her eyes said.
  I want to be with you.  I love you.

Andaris felt his heart stumble.  She loved him, and he, though he hadn’t realized until that moment how much, loved her—desperately so.  And here she was about to marry another.

When the prince took Trilla’s hand from Gaven’s, a deep sorrow filled Andaris.  When her little sad voice said, “I do,” that sorrow turned to hopelessness.  When the prince kissed her full on the lips, the same lips that Andaris had kissed with such tenderness not two days before, that hopelessness turned to anger.

Unable to endure any more, Andaris rushed from the cathedral, lengthened stride upon the flagstones, crossed the courtyard, and headed straight out the main gate.  He ran into the tall grass, into the gently rolling hills made golden by the sun, his robe fluttering behind him.  He ran until his chest burned and his legs shook, until at last he stumbled to the ground and did not rise.

Lying there, with the pale blue sky spinning above, a part of him wished he could simply sink into the earth where it was quiet and dark and be done with it. 
Damn the lot of them,
he thought
.  The whole blasted lot
.

By the time Andaris decided to head back, dusk had bruised the horizon, casting the land into deepening shadow.  He knew it wasn’t fair to make everyone worry, especially after all they’d done for him.  At some point, he would have to face Trilla and apologize for causing a scene.  He couldn’t hide out here forever.  It wasn’t her fault his heart was broken.  She had merely done what she felt she must in order to save her people.

Determined to make amends, he stood—and then spun about and dropped into a crouch.  Something was moving through the grass to his left.  Whatever it was…it was getting closer.  He reached down and pulled out…nothing.  He had no weapon, and for armor, only a cotton robe and silk slippers.

Lovesick fool,
Andaris thought, scanning the ground for something he could use.  He spotted a palm-sized stone a few feet to his right.  A long nose parted the grass.  He dived, rolled, and came up with the stone raised and ready to throw.

Jade cocked her head at him, as though curious to see what amazing acrobatic feat he would perform next.

“Jade!” he cried with relief.  She scampered to him and, with a wagging tail and merry eyes, licked him full on the face.  He laughed and pushed her away.  She plopped down and rolled onto her back.  He scratched her stomach.

“I certainly am glad to see you,” he told her, feeling ridiculous.  “I thought there was a monster out there.”

Jade turned her head towards the castle and barked.

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, noting the sun’s low position in the sky.  “I should have returned hours ago.”

While making their way back through the tall grass, Andaris considered all that had happened.  “I can’t believe I’ve lost her,” he said with a sigh.  “I never even had a chance.”

But Jade just kept walking and wagging her tail, for once seeming completely oblivious.  Had Shamilla been there, he no doubt would have squinted his beady eyes at him, and gone on about how proper it was that Jade was finally behaving like a normal dog.  Andaris, however, was not so pleased—because he had begun to see her as more than that, more like a person, even a friend.

Night fell as they approached the gate, the creatures of the hour heralding in the darkness with eerie calls, soulful and full of desire.  Andaris shivered, grateful to soon be within the solid embrace of mortar and stone.  One of the guards announced the closing of the gate as Andaris and Jade walked through, adding his own call to the cacophony without.  The iron door slid into place behind them and, with a mighty clunk, locked shut.

“Come on,” Andaris suggested.  “Let’s go find Gaven.”  He didn’t think it would be too difficult to locate the man.  After all, he’d walked Trilla down the aisle.  He was famous.

Indeed, almost everyone they passed knew of Gaven.  Unfortunately, no one had any idea as to where he might have gone.  Andaris was about to admit defeat and go to bed, when a man wearing a shabby gray longcoat came stumbling down the hall towards them.

“Excuse me,” Andaris said, holding up his hand.  “Were you by any chance at the wedding today?”

The man wiped his ruddy nose on his shirtsleeve and tried to focus his eyes.

“I’m asking because I need to find my friend, Gaven, the one who walked Tri--uh the princess down the aisle.”

“Yeah, I seen him,” the man surprised him by saying, his voice slurred and stinking of rum.  “He’s at the Loyal Subject, or was a couple of minutes ago.  I just came from there.”

“The Loyal Subject?” Andaris asked.

“Yeah, its back that way,” the man said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.  “Take the second hall to the left, and then the third to the right.  You can’t miss the sign.  Your friend….”  The man started to wheeze and cough.  It took Andaris a moment to realize he was laughing.

“Your friend,” he went on with difficulty, “was boasting that he could beat anybody in the place at arm wrastling.”  He grinned, revealing a wreck of rotting stumps that used to be teeth, then covered his mouth, half hiccupping, half belching, into his hand.  “I wanted to stay to see him go up against Hingar.  He would have taught your friend a lesson.  But the missus….  Well, you know how it is.”

Not in the mood to be chatty, especially with a foul-smelling drunk, Andaris thanked him and walked quickly away, hoping his directions bore fruit, unless it be, that is, as rotten as his breath. 
Though why worry?
he thought. 
If there’s one place a drunk can help you find, it’s a tavern.

Shortly after taking the hall to the right, Andaris heard the sound of Gaven’s robust laughter, seeing the sign he’d correctly been told he couldn’t miss.  “Is that the best you can do?” the big man roared, his voice echoing down the hall.  “Why, I’ve wrestled little girls stronger than you!”

In spite of his troubles, Andaris smiled and, with Jade by his side, stepped into the dimly lit, smoke-filled interior of the Loyal Subject.  Gaven sat at a corner table with a small group gathered around.  The fellow across the table from him was bald-headed and covered in tattoos, his belly even bigger than Gaven’s.

This
, Andaris thought,
must be Hingar
.

Most of the group cheered on their local champion, clearly expecting him to win.  Squeezing shut his eyes, Hingar strained with all his considerable might, until soon his face was the color of an overripe plum.  All the while, Gaven kept laughing and spouting cutting remarks.  Slowly but surely, Hingar’s arm moved downward.  He sputtered and cursed, and somehow, perhaps because his reputation was on the line, managed to stop his hand an inch above the tabletop.

With a complete disregard for his opponent’s championship status, Gaven casually lifted his mug of beer and took a drink.  When he lowered it, he flashed Hingar a smirk that was as smug as it was broad, and slammed down his hand, clacking his knuckles hard against the wooden planks.  Hingar was not amused.  Gaven boomed out another hearty laugh, downed the rest of his beer, and turned to one of the serving wenches to order another.