-1Chapter 11
Lord Mortimer Younge stood before an ordinary door, in an unremarkable hallway located in the eastern most region of the castle of Mordichan. Without testing it, Younge knew the door to be locked just as he knew he was the one person in the kingdom in possession of the key. Withdrawing that key now, his hand trembled slightly as he slid the metal implement home.
Beyond the door stood nothing more than a silver urn filled with a foreign black liquid, and a chair- both gifts from the king of San Saharia, Krys Belora. On their own, the objects in the room seemed harmless, unthreatening. But Younge knew the truth of the matter, for nothing from that land was harmless or unthreatening.
San Saharia lay tucked away in a small pocketed valley at the Eastern base of the mountains of Mordichan. In the shadow of the great rocks the people of this small country, not more than a large community, lived in quiet seclusion. For all intents and purposes, San Saharia seemed to be an isolationist state. No one could hold claim to having ever crossed its borders. Yet dark rumors ran rampant in Mordichan about the nature of this strange place's population. Some of this gossip had the ring of truth, but most was wildly under-exaggerated.
In Mordichan, only Younge could honestly say he had any contact with a San Saharian. But not just any San Saharian. Younge had firsthand knowledge of the king, himself. And that was a dangerous proposition.
Younge stepped into the small room and took a fortifying breath as he looked at the gift that had been presented to him in the darkest of night- the very night Lord Whitehall had taken possession of the throne.
He had been awakened from a deep sleep by two strange men, with skin that glowed pale in the scant moonlight. Roughly, Younge had been jerked from his slumber, thrust upon the chair, and bodily restrained by one mute intruder as the other took his right arm and thrust it into the oily black liquid contained in the urn. Before Younge could utter his outrage at being so ill-used, he felt a searing pain take hold of his submerged arm. Quickly the agony climbed higher and higher until it reached his shoulder, crossed to his chest, then up his neck as though his body were absorbing the wretched black oil like a cloth in water. His breath gurgled in the back of his throat as his mind began to darken from the intensity, as though his very life were being forcibly ripped through his pores.
At the point when the pain became unbearable, the image of a face materialized in his mind. This quasi-masculine illusion, with its bald head and pale skin, dark hooded eyes and strong nose, cracked its well defined red lips into a terrible smile. Lines that seemed to be drawn in molten silver were etched upon the specter's forehead, bringing to mind the image of flames. Younge sat frozen in the grip of the power of the oil as the face wavered in the pit of his mind. And then a voice reverberated through the halls of thought.
"Mortimer Younge, Krys Belora comes to you in peace and friendship. I send you this gift as a token of my esteem. May it find you well and happily situated in life."
Another gurgle escaped Younge's lips, the torment so intense he was unable to even form coherent thoughts.
Again the voice spoke, but the words were foreign to Younge's mind. They came in the lyrical, singsong quality of a chant and at their conclusion he found the pain had lessened a great deal.
"I do not know you, Sir," Younge managed.
"But I know you. I also know that it is you who gives wise council to your Lord Whitehall and that no decision he will make as ruler will be without your influence. That is why I come to you, and not to him. I wish for you to make known to him that the king of San Saharia wishes to extend his hand in friendship and allegiance."
"Would this offer not be better… in person, Sir," Younge forced out.
"I would not wish to bring the ire of your people, if one such as I were to cross your borders and make myself known. I have heard what is thought of my people in your land," a small frown creased the brow of the disembodied face.
"But is there no other way for us to meet? This pain is… most overpowering," Younge whimpered.
"Pain sharpens the focus of the mind, Mortimer Younge. It expels all extraneous thought. Use it."
"I am not… accustomed to this," Younge gasped.
"Are you weak? Have I chosen incorrectly?" Krys Belora asked, not with derision but as though he were encountering a foreign concept.
Aware enough to be insulted, Younge pulled himself together. "No," was his terse reply.
"Good. We are of like minds, then. Pass along my regards to your regent. I will leave this gift for your use. You may contact me when your Lord Whitehall as accepted my offer. At that time we will discuss recompense."
"Recompense?" Younge was puzzled.
"Nothing of worth comes without price, and my allegiance is of the greatest worth."
At that, Younge's mind had fallen into darkness even as his body tumbled limply to the floor.
Now he stood there again, about to relive this past nightmare. Ready to make a pact with evil itself.
"Well! Finally, Elsydae. I was beginning to think you'd never get him to come around," Farrah rambled as the royal family sat down in their private chambers to partake of the evening meal. As much as Farrah had loved the pomp and circumstance of taking her meals in full view of the public during her rule, Janessa hated it. Wanting some small semblance of a normal life, it was the first change she made when she took the throne.
"Now that you've gotten that man to see sense, maybe you can get him to marry you," Farrah pressed on. "Its time for you to start thinking about these things, you know. You can't play at boyish games your whole life. There are grandchildren that need conceiving."
"Mother!" Janessa gasped at her mother's impertinence in regards to her sister. Around the table, the titters of three younger sisters bubbled from hand covered mouths. Syd stiffened but said nothing, instead choosing to make great mountains and valleys upon her plate. The word 'marry' in conjunction with the man in question struck a strange note within her. An unfamiliar heat spread from her chest to her ears, and she wriggled uncomfortably in her chair as her mother prattled on.
"Oh, hush, you." Farrah turned her attentions to her oldest daughter. "Don't think I don't know about you and that Sir Bausch. And its about time, I say. Its not fitting for the Queen of Faraduen to go so long without thoughts of an heir. Though it's a shame really. I had such hopes you would meet with Prince What's His Name from Quelsham. He came so highly recommended."
"We've been over this a hundred times, Farrah. No king in his right mind is going to send his son here to be bewitched by your daughter. Not a one of them wants to loose their kingdom to Faraduen. Besides, Marcus of Quelsham was no prince, he was a minor duke," Dougan grumbled from the other end of the table. With a great roll of his eyes, he made his younger daughters chuckle. Janessa mimicked Syd in her deep contemplation of the plate before her, glad that her mother's attention had now shifted to her father.
"I'll have none of that from you, Dougan!" Farrah huffed. "Its just the continuation of the bloodline at stake. Such a small matter. There you sit, indulging their slightest whims. They have obligations, I tell you. But Janessa, Sir Bausch is quite handsome and you will have such lovely babies. When do you plan to tell him?"
Janessa could feel a fresh sense of humiliation in the face of such talk. Yet her mother held her gaze, completely unaware of the discomfort she had caused and fully expecting an answer.
"Mother, I don't… I mean, really I…," she fumbled.
"Mother, its not wise for Janessa to enter into any kind of a relationship with Sir Bausch until we have ascertained his true allegiances. If General D'Avrille can go so unaffected by the gift, it is entirely possible that Sir Bausch could be unaffected as well," Syd jumped to Janessa's defense.
For Janessa, this was unwelcome help. It brought to mind the fact that Sir Bausch was indeed uninfluenced by her gift, and that she had been keeping that truth to herself. Overcome, she rose from the table and fled to her rooms. Feeling her turmoil but unable to put a name to it, Syd rose to follow her.
"Now see what you've done!" Farrah scolded. "You have to let her have her own life sometime, Elsydae. She is queen, you know, not you!"
Syd turned hot eyes upon her mother. To be so misunderstood, by her own flesh and blood stung her greatly. What more did she have to do to prove that everything she did was with Janessa and Faraduen's best interests at heart? Did she have to bleed in the streets? And even then would it suffice?
"Enough!" Dougan barked, silencing his wife immediately.
Without a word, Syd slipped from the room, determined to find her troubled sister and to put her mother's rebuke behind her.
She found Janessa crumpled upon her bed. Syd climbed upon the mattress and sat with her knees pulled up and tucked under her chin. For several moments they sat there in silence, communing solely through their shared bond, sensing each other's feelings as if they were their own.
Janessa pushed herself up and dried her eyes.
"Some Queen I am, running off to my bedchamber to cry like a little girl. I wish I had your inner strength, Syd. Things would be so much easier for me, then."
"You have greater strength than you give yourself credit for, Janessa. You've held tight to some secret that troubles you for some time now, and you've given no hint as to its nature. Though I've nearly got it figured, in light of tonight's events." Syd spoke softly, putting a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder.
Janessa dropped her eyes. There was nothing she could hide from Syd, not for any length of time. And though she had cried upon her sister's shoulder that day in the temple, she had kept the true reason for her distress to herself. With this in mind, she told Syd everything: all her thoughts, all her feelings, and the ultimate truth about Sir Bausch.
Syd listened quietly to her sister's story, letting Janessa purge her soul uninterrupted. At the tale's end Janessa fully expected a stern reaction from her purpose driven sister.
"He loves you," was Syd's happy response. Taking Janessa's chin in her hand and forcing the girl to look her in the eye, Syd gave her a genuinely pleased smile. "He truly loves you."
Janessa blushed and nodded, overcome by Syd's unexpected response.
"This is wonderful!" Syd continued.
"It is not wonderful, Syd. What about the gift? How can I ever trust his intentions? Whether he loves me or not he's made it clear he will not join us in Faraduen." Janessa's sadness spilled out with her words.
"But with the General now coming around, maybe he can help Bausch see the way of things. It may be time to let them meet again. What do you think?" Syd offered.
A light of hope burned in Janessa's eyes. This scheme just might be the answer, after all. But a question still lingered in the back of Janessa's mind.
"And you are certain that General D'Avrille has had a change of heart? You've said nothing more than that. What happened today to give you proof?" Janessa inquired.
Syd paused a moment before answering. She thought about the wisdom of sharing the fact that D'Avrille had contemplated killing her with Janessa. With the knowledge of such information, Janessa would be hard pressed to keep it from the graybeards.
D'Avrille had decided against taking her life, which proved to her that he was softening. Two weeks ago, he would have taken any opportunity to escape or inflict as much damage to Faraduen as possible. Yesterday he had pulled himself up short, and she didn't flatter herself to think it was because of any threat she had made against him. She had seen him war with himself behind his eyes. Yet, more than any of these clues strung together one action stood out above all else.
"He saved my life."
It was dusk, well after the remnants of his evening meal had been cleared away, when an unexpected knock rose D'Avrille from his long inspection of the paddock outside of his window. He turned just as two guards stepped inside his room, followed by none other than Syd, herself.
With a reassuring nod, Syd sent the guard out again. Once the door was closed behind them, she made herself comfortable at the table before the fire.
"General, good evening. I hope your meal was to your liking."
D'Avrille nodded curtly, already made suspicious by this unusual visit. "What brings you here?"
"General D'Avrille I owe you a debt of thanks. You saved my skull from an inevitable cracking today. Yet more than that you showed wisdom, and dare I say a change of heart, in not taking my life yourself. With one word, I could have you upon the gallows for even attempting it. But I see no good coming from such a waste of life. Your talent is too great, General, to be cut short at the end of a swinging rope. We could use you here. I truly believe that you will find Faraduen the happiest of homes, and your place here will be no less fulfilling than that you enjoyed in Mordichan. What do you say?"
D'Avrille looked blankly at the girl as she prattled on. What nonsense was she speaking?
"You have me at a loss," was his sole answer.
"Well, of course this is an overwhelming time for you as this promises a big change. If you require a day or two to compose your thoughts, I'm sure the Queen would understand," Syd offered graciously.
Again, D'Avrille could do nothing but stare. Then illumination hit him square between the eyes.
"You think I've changed my mind? That I've gone mad and chosen to forfeit my sworn allegiance to my country to bow down humbly and serve yours? Are you daft?"
It was Syd's turn to wallow in confusion.
"But this afternoon, you…" and here she stopped.
"I what?" he questioned.
"Surely, General, you did not spare me only to lose yourself," she put forth.
"Then you gravely misinterpreted my motives."
"But, you…" she began again, frustration seeping into her voice.
"I have not nor will I ever choose to turn my back on my people or my country," his answer fell with the heaviness of the executioners blade.
"Then you choose death!" she yelled.
"So be it."
Syd jumped to her feet in anger.
"Why? Why do you persist with such a foolish line of reasoning? You have been imprisoned here long enough for several messengers to have come and gone, yet no one comes for you. No negotiations have been made on your behalf. Your people and your country have left you here to die. Why waste your life for such utter disdain? Here you are wanted, your talents appreciated and desired. Make your home here with us, and live!"
D'Avrille watched a flush creep upon her face as Syd gave her impassioned speech. It had not escaped his notice that her words had taken on the tone of a personal plea at the end.
"I cannot," he answered, his voice a little softened by a small trickle of feeling that tried to creep through him.
Syd caught her breath to speak, but let it out unused. Her shoulders drooped a fraction, as well as her gaze. Her mind began to churn, trying desperately to hit upon the magic words that would change his mind.
"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you? Can you not see what a travesty it would be to waste such a life as yours? Mordichan comes at us with no provocation, you must know that to be true. You are a man of honor. Can you not see what misguided use you have been put to by your own ruler? Leave that treachery behind, and join us here where you will be honored, exalted even."
D'Avrille removed himself from his place at the window and took up the chair across from her. With deep and earnest feeling, he looked her in the eyes. There could be no doubt as to the veracity of his words.
"I will not turn my back on my people. If I must die, I will die faithful to my country and my oath. Besides, you will only fortify their cause by making a martyr of me."
There was nothing more Syd could say to this, for he was right. She could not save him from the graybeards forever if he persisted in this choice, and to kill him would indeed make a martyr of him. Trouble settled heavily in her breast, and she felt the need for wise council. With a slight nod, she rose and took her leave of him.
Slowly Syd wended her way through the castle, a hand lightly touching the tapestries that lined the halls she traversed. Soon she found herself outside, and shortly there after she stood before the Temple of Faydn. With a deep dejection, she entered.
"Come child, and let me share your burden."
A thick mist enclosed her, swirled about her and swallowed her up. She gave herself over completely to its loving touch and let it fold her away from the troubles of the world.