Breaking the Gloaming (4 page)

with an unfree world

 
is to become so absolutely free
 

that your very existence
 

is an act of rebellion.”

The gazelle was not easy to follow as he ran through the Gloaming, but I stayed close at his heels until we entered a building and reached a tiny room at the top, like an attic. It had no windows and a single trap door on the floor, the one we had used to climb into the room.
 

“My name is Mersault,” the man panted, once we were safe in his hiding place.
 

“And you know my name.” I was wary, with my sword Zarathus held tight at my side.
 

“Relax, Tryst. You can thank me later. I think you would be dead right now, if not for me. Lucky for you they kept me around to run errands. That was getting boring.” His voice chirped like a cricket, shrill and quivering. “Cain and his men almost killed you even with my help. Good thing you are handy with that sword, eh?” He wore a bright smile, too bright for a place like this. “You do not remember meeting me before?”

I studied his face for the first time. Underneath the dirt, the beard, and the charade smile, there was a young man I recognized. He was the son of a noble, one of the minor houses, Camden, I thought. Mersault Camden, not even twenty years old, but he looked like he had aged a lifetime.
 

I had ordered his kidnapping months ago. He had kneeled before me, pleading for release, promising riches and his sister’s hand in marriage. His father, Sir Camden, had opposed my rise to the throne. The disappearance of his son had silenced him, because he feared even more my threat that his daughter would be next if he did not obey me. I had sent Mersault to the dungeons, and Ramzi must have sent him here. I never should have given Ramzi dominion over what happened below me.

“Oh good, you do recognize me.” Mersault sat back against the wall and ran his hand through his filthy brown hair. “Sit, Tryst. Let’s talk about what we’ll do next.”

I did not sit. “What
we
will do next?” I asked, almost amused by his confident tone. The fallen noble’s son may have saved me, but that did not mean I would be following his lead.

“
We
are the only ones sitting here,” he replied, “so yes, what
we
will do next.” There was a fanatical glare in his eyes. “You can kill me if you like, but even then,
we
would be doing something. You killing me, me dying,
we
would be doing it together, you see? Why not enjoy this moment of
we
?” His questions were as hollow as his emaciated face.

“How long have you been down here?” Part of me wanted to back away from him, to duck out the door on the floor and face the Gloaming alone. But another part of me prevailed—the part that was tired, unwilling to move, and unwilling to be alone again. I stayed where I was.

“Longer than you, longer than life itself.” He stood and paced. “Long enough to learn the way of things, the meaning of things, or the lack of any meaning. Is there time in the Gloaming? It is like a purgatory of man’s worst, without the excitement of the fires of hell.”

His head snapped toward me. “At least we can eat in purgatory. Let’s find some food.”
 

“That sounds like a fine plan,” I said. Maybe hunger was driving Mersault mad. I was starving.

“More food has been falling lately. It is a little easier to avoid an empty belly.” He patted his bare, flat stomach. “Cain gathered quite a stash under your name. Now it’s his, and you’re gone, a shadow like me.” He stepped close and reached out as if to pat my shoulder in sympathy.

“Sit down,” I said.
 

He pulled his hand back and eyed me curiously. He then began pacing again.
 

“What is the problem, Tryst? Are you still striving for something? You might as well give that up. What will you gain down here?” He turned to me with an unnerving stare.
 

“If you sit, I’ll sit.” He was bouncing from foot to foot.

“
Sit. Now!
” I shouted, my composure slipping, my sword suddenly pointed at his face. He froze in place.
 

“So have you decided that you will kill me?” He looked along the length of the shining blade. “That is what we will do next? I might say, I had hoped for a better reason than my pacing, but so be it. Just do what you like, whatever you feel. That is as much freedom as you can find down here. Now I feel like sitting. See?”

He shrugged and sat down. I lowered my sword and sat across from him. I struggled to regain my composure with his eyes dancing all around.

“
We
shall sit! Yes, let’s sit and chat. A fallen prince and a fallen scion. We make a good team, Tryst. I would almost say we were meant to be here together, if I had any reason to believe in fate and other such fancies.” He hugged his knees and rocked, his eyes looking into me or through me. “You know, we always had this in common: we are likeable fellows, but no one ever liked us. What a riddle! Do you have an answer for that?”

“Enough babbling,” I responded calmly, hoping to settle the man’s nerves and mine. “Why did you speak out for me, to try to save me back there against Cain?”

He looked at me differently, with a hint of sincerity. “We are alike, you and me. I lost my mother when I was young, too. I was always second in my father’s eyes, too. He would have chosen my cousin to lead our house after he died. Just like your own father wanted Andor to be the prince instead of you.”
 

He paused, his gaze distant and blank. No one had mentioned my father’s choice in a long time. It was a memory I had avoided—my father explaining to me, in his always-patient voice, that he supported Andor for the throne, without even mentioning my own eligibility. I had been only a year younger than Andor, with more talent with the sword. My father had known well my desire to rule, and he had rejected me. My own father. Still, it had not been easy to slip poison into his breakfast.

“We handled the pain differently,” Mersault said. He was studying me. “I tried to drown the pain in pleasures and wine, and you tried to overwhelm it with power and success. It worked for a season, didn’t it?” Something like a tinge of lunacy lifted his brows. “But look at us! Together, in pain, in the Gloaming! Maybe
we
should have tried something different—”

I cringed back as he burst out into laughter. A hysteric fit coursed through his body and forced him to the ground as if he had been struck by a seizure. He lay there, cackling, curled like a fetus. His shrieking vibrated between glee and insanity.
 

The sound crammed into every nook of the attic and overwhelmed me. My body tightened. My mind cramped. I was not ready for this. I could not watch a man break like this.
 

“
SILENCE!
” I roared.
 

He cackled louder, writhing on the floor.

“
I will kill you!
”
 

He froze and looked at me. His eyes were perfectly round and brown and open and innocent. They were the eyes of a child, a boy who had no business in a place like this. Something about those eyes shattered my resolve.
 

My face fell into my hands, and I began to weep. I thought of this man’s words, this lunatic telling me we were alike because everyone hated us. I though of my father. All the control I had clenched my fists around began to slip. I began to unravel, powerless to stop it.

I had not wept in years. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I cried for a long time before I realized that Mersault was beside me, patting my back.

“Tryst, Tryst,” he was saying gently. “Tryst, it is okay. Everybody knows life is not worth living. Everyone we know will someday die. Deep down we all know it does not matter. Others will go on living either way. When and how we die does not matter. None of it matters.”

His words washed over me. I gained control over my breath. I stood and paced, trying to steady myself. My soul could not manage the emptiness, the thought that nothing mattered.

Mersault started laughing again.
 

Maybe I was missing something, and thus, everything.

Chapter 6

SHINING UNSEEN

“Then they cry out
 

to the Lord in their trouble,
And He brings them
 

out of their distresses.

He calms the storm,
 

so that its waves are still.

Then they are glad
 

because they are quiet;
So He guides them
 

to their desired haven.”

Father Yates gazed across the waves to the city of Valemidas rising before him. He held his hand over his eyes to shade the golden light of the late afternoon sun. Beyond the water and coast, a rocky hill held up the palace, giving it a domineering perch. Many princes had ruled from that perch, but none had faced quite what Andor did now.

It had been a few weeks since Andor had returned from his failed attempt to bring Tryst out of the Gloaming. After letting him rest for a couple days, the prince’s advisors had smothered him, overwhelming him with each day’s pressing issues. Topping them all was the threat of invasion. Yates knew those threats, but he was unsure of what to do about them. Three days ago he had retreated to the island monastery called the Mont.

The Mont sat on a rock that jutted from the sea. It was outside the bustle of Valemidas, but within its sight. At the lowest tide, a razor-thin causeway connected the island to the city. A man could run across it if he was fast, otherwise he would be caught up in the rising tide. The monastery that sat atop the Mont was an uninteresting and self-sufficient place. It was a world apart. It housed fifteen nuns and five old priests retired from their duties. Yates found solitude there a few times a year.

He spent that solitude on his knees. He prayed for peace. He pleaded for turmoil on the seas, storms large enough to turn back an invading fleet. He begged for vision. Then, the prior morning at dawn, his next step showed up as clear as the rising sun over the Aerith Sea.
 

He had spotted a cloaked figure scurrying up the stairs to the Mont. It happened rarely, but sometimes vessels would find their way to the island’s tiny dock. Usually it was someone looking for safe haven and fleeing something in Valemidas. Yates had met this man at the top of the stairs, before the only door into the monastery. The man had called himself Cid. He was from Sunan, and his harried appearance had left no doubt he was running from something.
 

Yates had introduced himself and invited the man to come inside for a warm meal. After that, Cid became surprisingly open about his story. A Sunan priest named Ilias had told Cid that he could trust a man named Yates. The old priest had smiled at the memory of Ilias, his Sunan friend from long ago.
 

Over dinner Cid explained he had once been royalty in Sunan. Twenty or so years ago, there had been a coup and he had barely escaped with his life. He had taken to the seas and made a fortune running trade between Sunan and Valemidas. Yet, two years ago, when the Sunan ruler died and his young son took his place, things had begun to change.

Three men were ruling as stewards until the boy king reached eighteen. Ilias was one of the stewards. The other two were Malam and Seban. Seban was the boy king’s uncle. Malam was Ilias’s counterpart, a priest who worshiped the boy king. Malam and his radical followers were demanding conquest of those who would not worship the Sunan king. Seban usually sided with Malam over Ilias, for he believed Sunan needed war to avoid growing soft. The stewards had issued an order that there was to be no trade and no contact at all with Valemidas. They were preparing for war, ready for the boy king to turn eighteen and lead them. If not for Ilias, Cid had said, the Sunan people would have already invaded. Yates believed that to be true, for he already knew something about Malam. That dark priest had sent Ramzi to Valemidas, just as Ilias’s mentor had sent Ilias many years past.

Cid then told Yates he would rather die than obey the Sunan stewards or the king. He could not bear a prohibition of trade. He lived for the freedom of the open sees, so he had kept up his voyages in secret. Some called him a smuggler. He called himself a liberator. Yates figured he was a little of both, because he drank and swore like a pirate, while speaking of things like a philosopher.
 

That night, while Cid slept, Yates had toiled over an encoded note for Ilias. He had passed it to Cid this very morning, with strict instructions that no one but Ilias was to break the seal. Cid had stood straighter after receiving the task. He had sailed off with determination, fresh supplies of food, and the smell of rum. Men who have long been denied their honor often find worth in being trusted. Yates prayed his god could use a man like that.

Now here Yates was, docking his dingy in the crescent-shaped harbor of Valemidas. The rocky hill looming to the south blocked the sun and put the docks in the shade. He would dine with Jon Sterling tonight. His stomach rumbled at the thought, as he had fasted from food on the Mont.

Even the docks’ dense smell of fish had some appeal. People had begun gathering in the many taverns lining the harbor. With trade to Sunan shut down, merchants and sailors found themselves at bars rather than on ship decks.
 

As Yates walked further into the city, better smells began to taunt him. Merchants stood on corners selling fresh baked pies. Families gathered inside to dine together. Yates delighted in every window that revealed a young boy dining with his family. These were the boys stolen from them by Tryst and Ramzi. These were the boys ripped from their homes and forced into harsh military service before their bodies had even matured. Now returned, those same boys brought smiles to their parents’ faces. Life was almost returning to normal in Valemidas.

As he stepped into the city’s central plaza, Yates felt familiar awe at the outline of spires in the setting sun. Highest were the towers of the palace, rising from the rocky outcrop above. On the opposite side of the plaza was the single, high spire of the Cathedral. In the middle, the great white tree reached up to the sky, its branches swaying in the wind. The tree bore the scars of Tryst’s laws burned onto its trunk. Andor could not wipe clean the scars, so instead he ordered a new message be posted above them:
Remember tyranny, Valemidans, and always be wary of its advances
. Yates liked the message, but he feared it would take more than words to heal those wounds.