Against That Shining Darkness: Boxed Set Trilogy Page 3

  Seth paused, sobered. He wasn't sure he’d done anything to step outside the protection. Perhaps, his enemies just knew where he was. Someone could spy without using magic. After a moment he continued. “That thing that attacked me, was it a manshadow? A baal?”

  “Yes,” Jyrmak said, “a baal. How it got in the keep without my knowing I haven't discovered.”

  “You once told me how those things come into being. Could you repeat it? I want to listen carefully this time.”

  Jyrmak snorted with exasperation. “I wanted you to listen carefully the last time. But, once more... a baal is a possessed human. There is a series of ancient vows used by the cults established by the Dark Hand, wherein they commit soul suicide and feed themselves to a demon spirit.”

  Jyrmak came over to the window to stand by Seth. A hint of green flushed the trees as the light grew. “Let's watch the sun come up from the sea,” he said. Fletch spiraled down from the rafters at the top of the tower where he had spent the night and landed with a sleepy croak on Jyrmak's shoulder.

  ~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

  Eresea, the morning star, was still bright in the west, and the sky and the waves showed its color. Fletch flew to a nearby treetop. They had walked the mile to the peninsular sea cliff that overlooked a rocky beach.

  Seth sat on a rock. Jyrmak gazed at the sea and spoke the ancient language of the Island of Evelon—his voice clear above the rolling waves.

  “The prophet Elihu spoke to Abra of Evelon: In this next age, one will rise from your line to overthrow the power of darkness.”

  Jyrmak turned to Seth and continued. “A great announcement and good news, but it brought a dark fate for Evelon. For prophecy comes to many ears, and this one found its way to the fallen one. From the north he came. We sensed the thunder of it in our hearts from afar. Darkness came before him. My brother Myrrdin, adviser to the king, gathered the council, they prayed to the creator and called on power. Evelon vanished from the world.”

  Jyrmak turned from Seth to the ocean again. “Lucifer followed—fearing to let them escape—he cut himself off forever from this world. And—for a time—the world seemed a better place, but for losing the beauty of Evelon.”

  “Did Lucifer give credit to the prophecy then?” asked Seth.

  “Perhaps he feared the faith that hung on it. While there is still faith, he could never have total dominion. So he would crush it; so faith might die.” Jyrmak sighed. “When Evelon left this world, the council appointed me to stay here. Two of Abra's line were away from the island—Abra's seventh son Bern and Bern’s daughter Jyllanah. So, in this world Abra's line passes to Wyatt and you through your mother. You threaten the dark forces left to this world. So the dark is a danger to you.”

  “But all that happened over three hundred years ago, if the songs are true. How could my mother have been Bern’s daughter?”

  “We of Evelon are an older race than other men, Seth. It is time you know this now. Because of our covenant with Him, our lives are longer, and our responsibilities are greater. I was there when Elihu spoke the prophecy in the Atlas Throne Room. Your mother was twelve.”

  “What about Bern, my grandfather, where is he now?”

  “Bern was a great man, with mighty power given to him, but he always took his own counsel, and my advice would not stay him.”

  Jyrmak bowed his head. “He sought to destroy the talismans Lucifer left behind, power forbidden for us to touch. But someone––something––arrived ahead of him, an heir to the darkness who brought Bern to battle. The struggle shook the ground for leagues away, and the sun shone red for days, but he did not return. I saw the battle as a vision. He lost himself, but I learned from it.”

  Jyrmak bowed his head. “One thing I learned, from his folly,” Jyrmak said. “Never forget, the powers given through our prayer and authority are a gift from the Most High. They are not ours—only given to us for service. That was Bern’s downfall; he accepted a lie because of his pride. As he thought himself conquering, even so, he fell.”

  The air was still now; the sound of sea birds from the rocky beach below them mingled with the sound of the surf. Both men, young and old, sat quiet. Seth pulled the remnants of his flute from his belt and fingered the note holes, thinking. With the blade gone, the instrument would no longer play a true note. He'd never liked the flute with its hidden blade, except that it reminded him of Wyatt. He owned other instruments he liked better. Where had his old pear wood flute gone?

  A wind stirred, sounding a note soft and wild on the ruined instrument's note holes. Power flickered about them in the air. A wind pushed against Seth like it was blowing through his soul.

  A verse of a song came to him, and he sang it out:

  Look to the east, a wind is rising.

  On the deep water, mark its path.

  From the dawn, on the waves, you will see it coming,

  A new wind over the land.

  As though it had waited for a proper time, the sun rose from the waters and sent light scattering over the sea and glinting from Seth's flute.

  Fletch greeted the light with a chorus of caws.

  “Yes, a new wind,” Jyrmak murmured. “But what will it leave in its path?”

  Chapter 3 (Dubious Honor)

  It was the eve of the first day of spring—always a good excuse for a feast. The worst storm of the year lashed sleet against the castle towers, but in the banquet hall a roaring fire threw light and heat around the room. Two boys were turning a huge boar on a spit, and the smell of roasting meat had been wafting through the halls all day. The singing crowd around the fire almost drowned out the wind and ice rattling against the shutters.

  Seth sat close to the hearth and sang like everyone else, but the celebration seemed more distant to him than the sound of the wind. The storm would conceal his departure when he left tonight. No one would find his tracks. He thought no one could follow him anyway, but better not to allow the chance. When the song ended, people passed foaming pitchers of cider around again—singing was thirsty business. The wind outside continued its own song.

  “Where's the bard?” someone shouted. And the crowd took up the cry. The bard had arrived earlier that day. That on its own would be reason for a banquet, but his arriving on a feast day, doubled the excitement. Seth hadn’t seen him yet, so he looked around to catch a glimpse. The banquet hadn’t started yet, nor would it until the King arrived to begin the feast with a toast. But at Springfest, no one waited. Music always preceded Springfest, dancing followed.

  The shouting for the bard grew deafening when a tall figure stepped through the kitchen doorway, finishing a buttered roll. His hair and eyes were the color of a raven's wings; his blue and silver tunic balanced his robe of silver and red. He smiled, winking at a group of girls as he tested his lute with one hand and wiped his mouth with the other.

  With a raucous chord, he started a familiar tune with a chorus for everyone to join. He’d picked a bawdy ballad about the misadventures of a girl whose foolish mother told her it was impolite to say no outright. He sang all the familiar verses, and two new ones that brought cheers of approval from the boisterous crowd.

  Seth turned around at a tap on his shoulder. Daril—one of his father's scribes—cleared his throat. A spare man, his eyes and hair matched the grey robe that blended into the stonework behind him.

  “The king requires your presence in the council chambers,” he said, bending close, his voice measured and somber.

  Seth followed him out and down the corridor. Daril led him with efficient strides to the doors of the throne room's antechamber and rapped. A stolid guard opened the door and let them pass.

  Seth scanned the room. The antechamber was a council room when necessary and tonight it was full of people. The fireplaces on either side flaunted the dragon-and-rose banners of the House of Arod over the wide stone mantles, and both had blazing fires. Most of the time the chimneys drew well, but tonight the wind sent gusts of smoke back into the room.

&n
bsp; ...a lot of important people here.

  On the right, the Larain delegation clustered around Duke Edvard. The duke sat on a bench and sipped from a steaming mug; his snowy hair stuck out in tufts from his head above the collar of his brilliant blue robe. His retainers gathered around him. Seth hadn’t seen him at court for several years. The duke nodded to Seth. Seth touched his hand to his heart and gave a quick bow.

  On the other side of the room, the Kyrdystan delegates lounged on the benches like a pack of wolves. Seth spotted the leader of the Council of Chieftains, the Ihn Wazi—a man of middle years about six feet tall—average height for a Kyrd. Seth recognized him from a drawing Jyrmak had sketched. His dark, chestnut hair gathered in a knot behind his neck. He bore the features of most of his people: light skin, freckles and a wedged shaped face. He didn’t look remarkable, but the other Kyrds, warriors and chieftains, watched him always, cuing from him. His face did not change when he looked up at Seth, but Seth knew the council leader recognized him.

  Seth moved through the room, trying to avoid attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brynd grinning and talking in a jovial voice with the Prime Minister of Ruckland. Shypman Redovan, seemed bored. Though Brynd hid it well, his irritation at the Rucklander's attitude was clear to Seth. Seth frowned; someday Brynd might be co-regent, and trouble with Ruckland again would not be good for Gynt.

  Daril walked straight to the inner door of the throne room; Seth hurried to stay with him. The door opened as they approached, and they were in the King’s private chambers before most of the people in the antechamber even noticed them.

  Seth's father, Arod, King of Gynt, sat in a cushioned chair in front of a low fire on the hearth. He turned, smiling. “Come over by the fire,” he said, motioning to a stool beside him. “I hate this damp cold.”

  For the last few years Arod had seemed tired, bowed by the years. Arod had always been loving and attentive as a father, but—somehow—he remained a mystery to Seth. His father was Evelonian, but Seth knew little else, other than what any boy learns of his father from childhood. He wasn't even sure of his age. Arod's iron-gray hair had been that color as far back as Seth remembered. His large frame spoke of great strength, but for years, there seemed little strength left in him; he weakened with each season’s passing.

  Seth moved the stool to better see the king's face. The fire warmed his legs; his father liked to use ash wood in his personal fireplace. Even with a small fire, it threw off more heat than oak.

  Arod picked up a small, yellow citrus from a bowl on the table and tossed it to Seth. “From A'sool, arrived at the port this morning,” he said.

  Seth smelled it. “They must have made good time up the coast.”

  “Do you remember, when you were younger, you used the juice of these for ink?” Arod chuckled. “You would send messages that said one thing in normal ink, but, when you moved them close to a fire, more letters would appear to change the message.”

  Seth smiled, remembering.

  His father turned back to the fire; his smile changed to a sober look. “In the last few years I have learned something; it is a sad thing to pattern your life after such messages, Seth. Even if the good you expect comes of the act, the lie itself brings about other evils.”

  Arod sighed. “But, by the time I understood what was happening, it might have made a bigger mess if I stepped in to stop it.”

  The King stood and poked the fire. “Even though we all had good reasons for hiding behind our disguises, now I am not convinced such deception is ever worth the final cost. I think it closes many of the doors that need to stay open. I have sensed a danger in it, and it has come to a point now where your charade is in the way of my plans.”

  He sat back down, pulling his robe onto his lap. “So I am now intervening. I’ve had good reports from your teachers on your progress, and I have always known your true character.” He grinned. “You can go back to the feast, I will be down soon.”

  Seth stood and bowed. The King had spoken, even if Seth wasn’t sure what all of it meant. He wondered what his father's plans for him were. Did he know about last night's attack?

  This might turn into a tangle.

  As Seth entered the festival hall again, word came from the throne room that the King was on his way; the whisper network in the castle was efficient. It made it almost impossible to go anywhere in the castle unannounced if you were in charge of anything. Of the royal family, only he had immunity from the chatter that preceded anyone of the slightest importance.

  Brynd and Luca burst through the door followed by the court officials and visiting dignitaries. The captain of the guard shouted, “All hail the King.”

  Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. Each tried to give the loudest individual cheer. The resulting noise was tremendous. Even though the people of the coastal hills were famous for their taciturnity, feast days tended towards giddiness. Arod entered the room and looked at the throng, his green eyes bright. The cheering became even louder. Arod straightened and smiled.

  The crowd grew silent as Arod walked to the head of the table. The King raised his cup high; his voice rang out. “I drink to my sons, both absent and present, and many years of peace through their rule, both now and after my passing... Seth, Wyatt,” the King paused. “... Luca, Brynd.” A hum of excitement went through the crowd. Brynd's eyes glittered cold and Luca scowled. Faces in the crowd turned toward Seth, eyes filled with surprise and doubt. The toast was a traditional one though only delivered once during a king's reign. It held official meaning. Arod had decided the order of succession to the throne and the son named first became co-regent. Seth hadn’t expected this.

  So that's what he meant.

  His thoughts raced; he understood why the King had shoved Brynd and Luca to the back, but now they’d be more dangerous, never resting with him in the way; princes below the co-regent held no real power. They held less threat than the Dark Hand assassins though. If it were only Brynd and Luca, he wouldn't think of leaving. He wondered if his father thought Wyatt dead. Why had Seth been first? He might’ve been safer if Wyatt were first, not much safer, but….

  Seth pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. After tonight, everyone would watch him so much there would be no chance of slipping away unnoticed. Now he’d have to leave in the middle of the festival.

  Arod looked at Seth from across the hall. For an instant, Seth thought he saw something in his father's face. Seth's eyes stung; he wanted to tell his father goodbye, but that might put everything at risk. Seth doubted he’d be able to make his father agree to his leaving, or the secrecy he’d need to stay alive.

  Once again, Arod raised his cup. “To the kingdom: to all of us!” he shouted and drained his cup. The cheering seemed to shake the hall for minutes then the feasting began.

  Seth ate, hiding his impatience and nodding to the people congratulating him. Outside the wind blew, calling him to be away. At last, when everyone seemed intent on their food, Seth got up from the table, mentioned something vague about chamber pots, and wandered out into the hall. The sound of the lute followed him. Once out of sight, he hastened up the stairs to his room. Everything was ready, his gear and provisions were in the stable, he only needed to change and go. He unlocked his room; he’d laid out his clothes, but what...? Puzzled, he walked to his bed. These clothes were not the ones he’d laid there. A note with meaningless scrawls sat atop the pile. He turned it over—Evelonian script.

  I've gone on business. Thought you might need better traveling clothes. Farewell Jyrmak

  Seth crumpled the note and threw it in the fireplace where the coals reduced it to ash.

  He slid into the clothes. The inner tunic and pants were of thick coarse silk—very tough. Outer garments of a wax-rich, tight-woven wool would repel water even better. A hooded cloak of the same wool—only thicker—hung on the bedpost. Under the cloak, lay a sword. Seth recognized it at once.

  Gidrun.

  Where had Wyatt gone that he hadn’t t
aken his sword? Seth caressed the dragon engraving on the hilt and pulled the blade from the sheath. Gidrun, was a medium-weight kryllsword forged in a village where a smithing family passed down secrets of metalwork from generation to generation. No one outside of the villagers knew its location. A Dragonsmith sword cost more gold than ten strong men could carry.

  Jyrmak said the swords contained a virtue knit into the heart of the steel. Seth wondered again how Wyatt had come by it. It wasn’t a family heirloom, and if anyone else knew, they weren’t forthcoming with the story.

  Seth raised the sword in salute to his brother and slung it behind him on its shoulder strap and pulled his cloak over the scabbard. He stepped into the corridor and locked the door behind him. That might give him some extra time if someone came to look for him. The sounds of the feast drifted to him. They should be well into their meal by now, and it might be hours before anyone noticed his absence.

  A movement down the hall captured his attention; he stepped back into the shadow. Seth identified the man coming down the hall from the way he moved—Skorl. The big man reminded Seth of a pig when he laughed—which was too often. With the door locked, it was too late to step back into his room. Seth pulled his robe tighter around Gidrun. He never carried a sword, professing a fear he might cut himself. He’d been so careful to cultivate his reputation.

  Skorl came on with a lurching swagger. “Ho, it's the princeling. Excuse me; I mean the Lord Co-Regent, back from the pot, I see. Well, I need one myself, why don't you help me?” said Skorl, reaching out a hammy hand to grasp Seth by the arm.

  Seth saw the hand coming; he placed his key in it using a sleight of hand pass. “Here's the key to the chamber down the hall, Skorl. You can use that.”

  Skorl stared dumbfounded at the key for a second, and Seth moved to go past him, but Skorl blocked his path, eyes narrowing. With a laugh—recalling for Seth images of the sty—Skorl put his arm around Seth's shoulders, turning him and propelling him back the way he’d come.