Portents and Forebodings

Portents and Forebodings

Mephisto smiled at the corpse, well satisfied with his day's work. As always though, grimmer thoughts returned and his ease deserted him. At least this much was done; he had been prepared for a fight, but he had not expected the lizardman to be quite so skillful.

He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. It had been a good battle, he decided, as he squatted down by the body, rifling through the contents of his dead foe's armor. Within short order he found what he was looking for; King Drake's warrant for his death. Mephisto smiled contemptuously. Did that old man seriously believe that a mere mercenary would be enough to kill him?

He glanced over his shoulder at the gaunt figure of Mortred, appreciating the irony. Mephisto had successfully stolen King Drake's finest knight, and still, still the old man sent hired killers after him. If Mephisto had not been quite so tired of being the butt of the god's irony, he would have appreciated the point more.

Still, despite the confidence that everyone had placed in Mortred, the premier knight of Thornwood had not been difficult to sway. His pride had been all Mephisto needed, and once lured to the Labyrinth… Nobody returned from the Labyrinth unchanged. Mephisto returned his eye to the warrant, scanning it critically. Yes, as he had suspected, it would seem that all of Drake's most valued advisors had affixed their seals to this document. He snorted in derision. That was just as well, he supposed.

If there was one thing that Mephisto had learned in his life, then that was never to assume that all one knew was all that there was to know. And so he continued rummaging about the lizardman's corpse. For a mercenary, this one was proving decidedly un-interesting. Mephisto had hoped that this one might, perhaps, have another contract on him. If nothing else, it would be news of some other part of the world. Disappointed, he sat back, his hands brushing out of the traveling pouch.

As he did so, he heard a distinct rustling sound. Trembling with excitement, he jerked forward again, tearing at the seams this time. His hands were unusually clumsy, but at last, he succeeded in tearing the pouch apart. This time, Mephisto was rewarded by a letter falling out of the bag and into his hands. He eagerly scanned the paper, and then forced himself to slow down, reading it more thoroughly. Then he read it again. The more he read, the more the letter interested him.

My dear Palsis,

I rather hope that you won't judge this mess in Barrand too harshly—I've spoken with General Rogan several times and he seems to be a reasonable man. Nonetheless, Benetram sees this as a chance to further amiable relations with Destonia, and a date for the peace conference has been set. Governor-General Garvin has even agreed to host it; I ask you, have you ever heard of anything less likely? In any event, the conference makes a convenient pretext. As all Aspia knows, Conrad cannot possibly come, his health is simply too bad to permit it. Benetram has already put Dantares in his stead, and you know as well as I, that Dantares will bring Synbios with him. After thinking this over, I've decided that this really isn't such a terrible thing, in fact, it may be rather important. So, all in all, I was rather hoping that you might take Synbios under your wing, keep an eye on him, that sort of thing. That's all to your satisfaction, I hope? Oh, and perhaps you can find some use for Gila here. Don't worry, I've specially entrusted this letter to him. The weather here is dreadfully inclement, and my hand seems to be playing me up, so just allow me to say, best hopes for the future. Incidentally, should you see Brutus, give him my regards.

Tybalt

Gila? Mephisto glanced down at his slain enemy. Doubtless, that was what the letter was referring to. For the rest of it… Well, it was very interesting. Suppose that this Gila had betrayed his former master and run of with the letter, hoping to sell it to the highest bidder? Or perhaps he had some unfinished business here in the west, and just hadn't gotten around to delivering it yet. Mephisto sincerely hoped that it was the latter. While he couldn't honestly profess to know any of these people, Mephisto was hardly stupid. He had obviously stumbled upon something rather large; the letter had many words in it, but it said remarkably little. That meant that he had surely stumbled upon something or other. And if he was, in some way, interrupting important communications…

Do you see me now, Mother, he wondered. Do you see how I've accomplished what you could only ever dream of?

It had been years since Mephisto had thought of his mother at all, let alone with any warmth, yet now, he recalled her with a tinge of sardonic pride. For Mephisto, the worst place in the world was his own memory. In the early days, it hadn't been so bad, but even then, Mishalea rarely conveyed any warmth to him. Still he had studied hard, and risen far. That had been before the bad times though. Before Warderer.

How he had hated his mother's whimsical apprentice! It hadn't been enough for Mishalea that he was suitable, no, she had to have a perfect heir. He could still hear her judgmental words echoing off of his ears.

Too slow, she might say, or perhaps, too weak. But worst of all was, not as good as Warderer.

Still, much as he had hated that rather frivolous rival, he was, in a way, grateful to Warderer now. Thanks to Warderer, he had realized that his mother had only ever hoped to use him. It still made him angry. At the time, however, he had waited, and, when he thought he was ready, he had challenged her for his birthright. Unfortunately, at the time, he had underestimated Mishalea. Or perhaps, he acknowledged, in his pride he had overestimated himself.

Be all that as it may, he had never forgiven her, and so he had sought refuge in Thornwood. For a few years, he had peace and he mastered a great deal more of basic sorcery under Xern's teachings before his mother found him. She had nearly ripped Thornwood apart, but, ironically enough, Warderer had stopped her. The then King of Iom had made some rather clumsy overtures of friendship to Mephisto as well, but Mephisto was done being used. The only satisfaction he took from that last encounter with Warderer was seeing how all of the joy had gone out of him. Mephisto didn't know how or why and he honestly didn't care. All he knew was that Warderer and his mother had become enemies somehow, rather than friends, let alone mentor and apprentice. To make certain that his mother couldn't try anything else, he had run to the Labyrinth. Xern had tried to stop him then but…

He gave me no choice, Mephisto thought resentfully. He was just trying to use me too; I had to kill him.

It was positively appalling that his successes now were allowing him to linger on such maudlin memories. Seeing that he was, however, Mephisto allowed himself to take a certain malicious satisfaction out of this moment compared to his mother's failures. The last he'd heard of Mishalea, she was trying to bring a region under the sway of darkness by manipulating outright war.

There are more subtle ways, Mother, such as the one that I've found. Aye, and if this letter's important enough, I may be influencing two countries before I'm done. And all you can resort to is outright war.

Absently tapping his cheek, Mephisto realized that he was done with Gila. Rising ponderously, he beckoned at Mortred. The knight's gaunt face showed no emotion. "I think that it's time we returned our friend here to Thornwood. You know what to do."

--

"Well and good," declared Vyrun. "I would shudder to think of bestowing one of our ancient titles upon an unworthy mercenary."

Theos squinted his rheumy eyes at the pudgy young baron. Though Vyrun himself must be well over 40 by now, Theos had never stopped thinking of him as a young man. "You employed Gila yourself, Baron," he pointed out.

Though it was difficult to be certain with his failing eye-sight, it seemed to Theos that Vyrun flushed. "At the urging of the king, yes, I brought that one in. I did not and I do not approve of this course, but I am as true as any man to a royal command."

"Oh yes," said Theos absently. "How is he?"

"Gila?"

"Oh. No, my apologies Baron. I don't know where my wits are half the time anymore. The king."

"His Grace is… His Grace is most… concerned. I mean, naturally so. With Sir Mortred's disappearance around the Labyrinth."

"If only Xern was still alive. He would have known what to do. He made that place his life study, you know. Ah yes, and I remember the little children playing in the gardens… and the birds. One must never neglect the birds you know."

Thornwood's castle had been a happy place once, Theos remembered. These days it seemed as though a dark cloud hung perpetually over everything. King Drake, though three years younger than Theos seemed ten years the older now. Still, it had been very sad when Crown Prince Felix had died, and so suddenly. Doubtless, that had taken its toll on the king though it had been several years now, to be sure. There seemed to be something else though… something not quite… not quite right at Castle Thornwood anymore. Theos had taken to putting his gloomy thoughts down to his own old age; he was approaching 77 in just a few days. And it was hard to see such a happy place become older, greyer… Still there was something that didn't seem quite right. If only he could remember…

"Lord Theos." The old man blinked, startled out of his reverie by Baron Vyrun's insistent tone.

"Hmmm?" He realized belatedly that the Baron was holding a document before him. He took it, and tried to read the lines, but the words all just ran together. Too embarrassed to ask it to be read, Theos pretended to study the document.

Vyrun finally said, "The king wants your seal on that."

"Mine? Why?"

Vyrun scowled sullenly. "King Drake did not see fit to inform me of that."

"Ah, you were always a bully as a child," said Theos, slipping into reminiscence. "Your lord father despaired of you at times."

Vyrun purpled. "I resent that."

The sight of Vyrun's lack of grace brought the memories strongly back to Theos then. He laughed delightedly, "Yes, that's it exactly." He could remember now; Vyrun had been such a serious little boy, and always in trouble. He had lacked charm as a child, and had rarely been able to earn easy forgiveness for his pranks. Theos sighed, "I remember, you never seemed to love the birds as well as you should. That was a grievous shame." Those had been good days, Theos decided, when he was still young and vigorous enough to join the children at their play. All he could do anymore was to watch them, fondly, when King Drake had no need of him.

Vyrun's face tightened, but he said nothing. The Baron's face was, alas, not a happy one. The muscles were all clenched and his mouth was made for bad-tempered grimacing or curtly-worded commands. He had rarely smiled and was never known to have laughed. He had been a sly child as well, Theos recalled, and he had grown into a slightly displeasing man. And bald as well, at such a young age…

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized. "That was rather tactless of me wasn't it? I do so beg you pardon Baron, it's merely an old man's wandering mind… Yes, I no longer follow thought as I once could. Were we speaking of the birds?"

A hearty voice boomed out, "Ah, gentlemen. Might I join you?" Theos turned, blinking owlishly at the rapidly approaching figure. Sir Tristain carried himself well for such an old knight, though he was younger than Theos to be sure.

"Sir Tristain. We were just speaking of the birds you know." The old man sighed sadly. "I often regret that I was not as attentive to the birds as I could be."

Baron Vyrun said with his customary bluntness, "We were having the larger discussion of Sir Mortred's disappearance. I suppose that will be a burden to you, friends as you were."

"It's true," conceded Tristain. "Mortred's disappearance is a concern to us all." Tristain always looked strong and splendid. Today he had donned his traditional gold-plated armor, and though his increasing age was much in evidence, he had lost none of his grandeur, nor any of his strength. Stroking his chin he murmured, "When it comes to that, gentlemen, I have wondered. I would not have taken Sir Mortred for a suicidal type and I cannot believe that he was kidnapped or that he would shirk his duties…"

"He disappeared near the Labyrinth." Vyrun was too curt, as he always was. "Spelled, I should say."

"There is always that possibility." Tristain tugged at his moustache, looking dissatisfied. "I was wondering if, perhaps, Mortred seemed different in any way? Concerned or something?"

"Perhaps he was a little tired." Vyrun sounded as though he grudged every word.

Theos sighed sadly. "Sir Mortred did seem weighed down I fear, his broad shoulders a little heavier than they usually appeared, but as such a strong man bearing so many burdens, was this not the most natural of things?" He shook his head. "I fear that I must blame myself. If I had only acted on my instinct… Mortred was too young to be feeling so tired."

"Sir Mortred has a son who is evidently old enough to have been knighted," said Vyrun acidly. "I hardly consider that to make him young."

"Ah yes," murmured Tristain. "As regards that, I wondered if perhaps Sir Hiro might not be permitted a hand in the investigations. His own father after all…"

Vyrun had purpled at the suggestion. "Tristain," he blustered, "are you implying that you cannot trust me? His Grace put me in charge of these affairs!"

"Not at all," replied Tristain, unperturbed. "Rather I was thinking of the lad. Whatever ill chance has befallen Mortred, young Hiro deserves the chance to avenge his father, don't you agree?"

As Vyrun sputtered for a reply, Theos decided that it was not Tristain. He had wondered, if perhaps his sense of gloom was by any measure a reflection of a person at the court, but even if that was so… Tristain was the same as he had always been. Strong, courteous and thoughtful. Really, Tristain was very impressive for such an old knight. Theos realized that his thoughts were wandering again.

"All I ask, Baron, is that you think on it."

"To be sure," Vyrun relented with bad grace. "Aye. As you say, sir."

Tugging at his moustache again, Tristain turned to Theos. "In that case, I wonder if we might return to the subject of Mortred. I wonder, did he only seem weary to you, Lord Theos?"

Vyrun muttered, "We have been over this," but Tristain paid the interruption no mind.

Theos thought out loud, "Hmm, yes as best I recall he did speak to me shortly before his disappearance. The day before? Or two days?" He sighed, "I really cannot recall… but he did seem a trifle wearied, yes." Had it been Mortred, he wondered? Had that been where his sense of unease had originated? But no, that wasn't right. Theos had felt like this before Mortred's disappearance. Perhaps not as strongly though… He shook his head in vexation. He was merely an old man, and his mind was prone to maudlin wanderings. "I do remember that Mortred asked for a book, that day. I don't know if that's what you're looking for, Sir Tristain."

Vyrun abruptly seemed to run out of patience. "If you gentlemen will excuse me," he announced, "I fear that I have some rather pressing concerns to attend to." He turned smartly on his heel, his colorful tunic swishing, and then he paused. He said in a grudging tone, "And you will see to that document, Lord Theos?"

"Hmm?"

"Oh, for the gods," muttered the Baron, and he stamped off; his customary scowl much in evidence.

Theos frowned and then it came to him. The document that the Baron had given him of course. He looked to his enormous pockets with a slight sense of guilt. Really, it was too bad that the Baron had been so irritated…

"Lord Theos." Tristain's voice broke gently in upon his thoughts. He peered up at the knight. "Do you, perchance, recall what book Sir Mortred was interested in?"

Theos puckered his lips in remembrance. "Not entirely," he confessed. "I remember being surprised as Sir Mortred was not the studious kind of man." Even as he said that, it started to come back to him. "But yes… it was rather a dry and dusty genealogical volume. Karth's, perhaps?"

Tristain tugged at his moustache. "If you do recall, I should like to see the book, my lord."

Theos bobbed his head immediately. "To be sure, to be sure. I shall see to it immediately, Sir Tristain. If the particulars do not come to me, doubtless the stewards shall know."

Tristain smiled. "My thanks. I fear that I too have other concerns, my lord." With that, he stepped off, again tugging at his moustache.

Theos stood there, watching him for a moment, and then he too turned away, hobbling off as best he could. His back had gotten very bad in the last year; he could no longer go anywhere without being bent far over. As he hobbled his way towards the audience chambers, he paused briefly at a window, peering down at the castle grounds.

They had been happy grounds once, when there had been many children playing, howling, shrieking… Now they were nearly empty, save for those men of Baron Vyrun's that were not searching for Sir Mortred. Theos panted a little, placing his hand against the stone wall, trying to catch his breath.

Nothing could make a man feel old quite so much as memory and Theos had so many. The only person still living in Thornwood who was older than Theos was Old Vyk of the old tavern… and Vyk was not near as feeble as Theos had become.

Useless.

That was what life had made of him. It seemed only yesterday that he had been strong, vigorous, young… and now he was old, useless. Shaking his head, he started forward again. That was what was meant in the appointment of Leonard as the new minister.

He was capable enough for the post, certainly, but Leonard was obviously being groomed to eventually replace Theos. The tragedy of that wasn't that Theos's time was passing; that was natural enough, after all. No, the true tragedy was how solemn Leonard was, how sober and dutiful. With the new mood of sadness dominating the castle, Thornwood needed cheer and laughter, yet Leonard would never be able to provide that. It should be so, he decided, but Theos had become far too feeble to do much and Leonard was replacing him.

Because I have grown old.

Theos resolutely hobbled into the polished audience chamber. King Drake was slumped in his throne, a goblet half-full of wine near his right hand. Leonard was there as well, standing by the throne as was his duty. The newly appointed minister raised his voice slightly to announce, "Lord Theos, Your Grace."

At that, King Drake stirred slightly. "Ah, Theos," he mumbled. "Good, good. Is there any news of Mortred?"

"I fear not, Your Grace."

The news seemed to deflate the king. "No?" He slumped further into his throne. "Hmm." He fumbled for his goblet for a moment, found it, raised it to his lips, and drank deeply. "Come join me, Theos. Have a cup of wine. Baron Vyrun gifted it to me." He patted the bottle on the table happily.

"Might we first open the curtains, Your Grace?"

Though the throne was the highest spot in the room, King Drake was huddled in shadows. "No." He seemed perturbed by the idea. "No, no, no, no, no. Come and join me Theos, as you used to. Let there be no more nonsense about the windows."

He bobbed his head in subservience. "As Your Grace commands."

"Commands," complained the king whilst a servant pulled up a chair for Theos. "Yes, that's right. I'm the king, yet no one heeds me commands. I told them to find Mortred, but did they? And my son too, I told them to heal Felix, but they didn't. Bah." He spat a glob of phlegm onto the polished floor.

Theos frowned, as he sat. He could see Drake more clearly now, and the king's appearance was not encouraging. He was quite an old man now, to be sure, but he had been so strong in his prime… Huddled in the shadows of his massive throne, the broad shoulders were slack, the eyes guileless, the face exhausted, the beard stained. It was as though all of Drake's once considerable strength and energy had just left him.

The change was very nearly alarming. Theos blamed himself for it; the signs had been there to read after Prince Felix's sudden death… but Theos had not heeded them at the time. It seemed clear that Drake's grief over that still affected the king deeply.

"Why are you staring at me like that? Have some wine, the king commands." He waved a magnanimous hand, and immediately, a glass was produced. Theos smiled in resignation as the servant quietly poured the drink. Drake continued amiably, "You know, rather convenient your birthday coming up. It is, isn't it? Gives me that excuse I needed. I'll be staging a feast then, but you'll have known of that, now won't you? Well, what do you have to say, eh? Eh?"

Taking a small sip, Theos said, "A great honor to be sure. I had, however, hoped to discuss the current unrest, Your Grace…"

"Discuss? What is there to discuss?"

"Surely you know, Your Grace. Parmecia is near to going up in flames, and war rages openly in Grans."

"War has always raged openly in Grans," sulked the king. "And anyway, what of it? Parmecia's not turned itself to a funeral pyre, has it?"

"These are our allies that you dismiss, Your Grace."

"Allies? What allies? None of them could be bothered to come to Felix's funeral, now could they? An insult to my way of thinking. All they gave me was condolences, but I wanted respect."

"There has been great unrest in all of the kingdoms, recently, Your Grace," Theos reminded him. "Aspinia and Destonia are on the brink of another border war, and there has been recent fighting in the south. Do we not have a duty to our neighbors?"

"Now you sound like Tristain," Drake complained. "Baron Vyrun thinks differently of these so-called developments."

Theos had heard the Baron's views before and he had no wish to hear them again. "Baron Vyrun is a young man, Your Grace. And his views are… unthinkable, on this matter."

"I suffer your advice; I am entitled to Vyrun's counsel as well. I don't see why you're saying all these things anyway, Theos. They are hardly a concern of Thornwood's."

"Your Grace, you cannot hope to maintain respect if you continue on that course."

"Enough. I will not suffer your rebukes, d'you hear me? I'm the king of Thornwood, not you." He sulkily drank from his goblet. "There are no kingdoms in the west outside of Bedoe. By rights, our rule should extend there, but will those fools listen to me?"

"You might win them over were you seen defending Parmecia as a whole. Or perhaps you could offer Princess Jessa to one of them…"

At that, Drake's fist slammed hard against the arm of his throne. "Silence! I will not hear you telling me to bend my knee to them." His face reddened as he continued, "Nor will I suffer you telling me to sell my daughter!" He took a deep breath and then a deep gulp of wine. As fast as that, his mood seemed to shift from anger back to pensive sulkiness. "If you're just going to regale me with such wisdom, then go." He flicked two fingers in the direction of the door. "Better yet, stay, but only if you intend to enjoy my wine and cheese and stop all discussion of this nonsense. Odegan was the only kingdom worth its salt and Odegan is gone."

Theos struggled upright with difficulty. "Aye, Your Grace. Thank you for your time." He turned then, hobbling out of the room, though he could feel his old friend's eyes burning into his back.

Theos simply couldn't understand it. King Drake had never been a stupid man, but his current course reeked of nothing but folly. Ah, but then grief could do great damage to even the strongest of minds, and his old friend had never been as emotionally strong as he might have. Drake had been the fourth son of old King James, and he had often been lonely.

Poor lonesome Drake, his only son suddenly dead three years past… The illness had come upon Prince Felix a sudden storm and the healers had been helpless to save him. Had Xern still lived at that time, doubtless the wizard would have known what to do, but Xern's bones had been cold in his grave.

Still, that single historical encounter of Thornwood's with the true strength of the darkness had taught Theos that such enemies must always be resisted. It had been he who had suggested that Mephisto could have been behind the current crisis, for indeed, who better? This time it would not have been his mother, but Mephisto was a dangerous man in his own right, and he had not been killed the first time he had caused trouble for Thornwood. He had made that suggestion, how many days ago? And even then, King Drake had seemed so much more stable…

Panting with exertion, Theos managed to lift the heavy bar locking the door to his chambers. He hobbled painfully inside, and immediately collapsed in the chair at his desk. The old man sighed sadly. Castle Thornwood had become a sad place, when once it had been such a happy one… Truly, the disappointments of life were hard to bear. But those who could still find something to love would always be able to bear it. Theos still had the birds, at least. And his memories…

His personal steward came rushing into the room just a moment later. Grak was a tall dark man with a heavily accented voice. He had served Theos for years with unfailing respect and loyalty. "Master," he said in his liquid tones, "my pardons. I did not hear you come in. Is there anything you require?"

Theos considered the question seriously. "Perhaps you could prepare a sleeping draft," he decided. "I believe that I should indeed sleep… after a few other things of course." He rummaged around in his pockets, looking for Baron Vyrun's paper. It wasn't there.

He blinked owlishly, trying to hide his concern. "Grak, have I dropped a paper anywhere?"

"I could not say Master. Shall I look for one or would you rather that I prepare your drink immediately?"

"Oh, I don't know," he muttered in distress, peering at the stack of papers on his desk, awaiting his approval. Once he might have signed them all without a second thought, but King Drake's judgment had become so poor…

That does not matter. These are before then.

"Oh yes," he said suddenly, as Grak stood, awaiting instruction. "Do you have that book that Sir Mortred asked for?"

"Master Karth's Lineage? Yes, indeed, Master. Shall I bring it to you?"

"No, no, no. For Sir Tristain. If you would."

"Of course Master. And the sleeping draft?"

"After."

"Very good Master." With that, Grak moved gracefully out of the room. Panting a little again, Theos quickly picked up his seal; ready to deal with a few of the papers. Unlike other officials, Theos had always kept his seal carefully hidden. To anyone who looked at the desk, they would not see it, because he kept it as the base of a little marble statuette. A bit silly, perhaps, but Theos had learned caution early in life.

He shook his head sadly. Whatever the cause, truly, Castle Thornwood had changed.