Parabolis (34 page)

Yours
,

Selah

Dale folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket close to his heart.

“So? What’s it say?” asked Valkyrie.

“Sanctuary.”

As they walked toward the new day, Valkyrie noticed Dale’s steps liven, his countenance lift.

Duke Merrick Thalian was pacing at the foot of the throne when Eli entered.

“We just received word from General Kilbremmer,” said the royal advisor. “They found the princess.”

“Where?”

“She turned up at the Ancile with the exile.” Eli handed Duke Thalian the note. “They’re on their way here.”

“Send out a detachment of Royal Guards to meet her.”

“I’ve already sent my own Ciphers.”

“Good.” The duke sighed. He wandered over to the crystal windows. Outside the window, he could see the balcony from which the late king often addressed Valorcourt. The duke gazed out and said, “Very good.”

“What will you do?” asked Eli.

“I don’t know. A change in power in the middle of a war could be disastrous.”

“The war is over, Your Highness. Only a small resistance remains in the cities. The provisional government in Brookhaven has already sworn fealty to the throne.”

“I was praying we would find her in good health,” said the duke, “but this is too soon.” He turned and approached the throne. “Do the people know?”

“There has not been an announcement. But news like this travels fast.”

The duke slowly sat on the throne. He ran his fingers over the contours of the armrest.

“Feels wrong to sit here.”

“It suits you, Your Highness.”

The duke smiled. Then he looked to his left where the crown rested on a velvet pillow. It was veiled under a silk cloth.

“The law is the law. And it belongs to her. All of this.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Eli, which is truer? Adhering to the letter of the law or executing its true intent?”

“These are dangerous questions, Your Highness.”

“Yes, they are. We’ve won the war, but there is still much to be done before a united Groveland is to be realized. Much can go wrong. Can we entrust the course we’ve charted to a child? We are so close to securing peace for generations to come. It is too soon.”

“Your Highness, you are regent. There has been no coronation. Until the girl’s formal investiture, your word stands as the Maker’s own.”

“Yes. And the weight of responsibility torments me.”

There was a knock. The duke quickly rose to his feet and stepped away from the throne. “Enter.”

The cupbearer entered with two goblets of wine. “As you requested, sir,” he said, approaching the royal advisor.

Eli removed the goblets from the tray. With a sleight of hand, he sprinkled a pinch of powder into one of the goblets before handing it to the duke. “I thought you may want a drink after hearing about the princess.”

“You know me too well, Eli.”

Just as the cupbearer turned to leave, Eli ordered him to wait. Then he raised his glass and said, “Duke Merrick Thalian, here’s to your reign and the glory of Bale.”

They both took a generous sip. The duke lowered his glass and smacked his lips. With a tilted head, he turned to Eli with a troubled look. He convulsed and doubled over. Gasping for air, he fell to his knees and began to cough. Then he fell over on all fours and spat up blood. His coughs became more violent, strands of blood and saliva hanging from his mouth, his eyes white with terror.

The cupbearer, startled, took a few steps back before Eli grabbed him by the shirt. He shouted for the guards. Just as the Royal Guards rushed in, Eli removed a dagger and repeatedly plunged it into the cupbearer’s belly. At last, he dropped the body and ran to the duke who was by then laying on his side. “Summon the physician!”

“Yes, sir.” One of the guards ran out of the throne room.

He checked the duke’s pulse. “Guard!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Forget the physician. He’s dead.”

“Shall we summon him for you, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“But your shirt, sir.”

Eli looked down and noticed that his shirt had been stained heavily with the blood of the cupbearer.

“Summon the alchemist to analyze the wine before you clean this up, and hold everyone in the kitchen for questioning. I want to know if the cupbearer acted alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have the runner assemble the Royal Court.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eli then removed his bloodied shirt and draped it over the face of the duke. As he left the duke’s side, he held his hand over his chest to hide the tattoo that, like Remy Guillaume’s, marked him as a Shadow of the Samaeli.

The traffic of people and goods through the harbor only intensified with the Balean occupation. New Balean regulations and procedures were introduced to maintain order to the harbor. But it had the reverse affect. Fisherman and merchants who had for generations navigated the harbor by methods handed down from fathers to sons were forced to learn and comply with regulations that made no sense to them. Balean soldiers not properly trained to serve as customs officials only added to the confusion and delays.

Amidst the hectic crowd, Magog stood at the foot of a boarding ramp set off the side of a docked schooner. Aside from the scarf over the lower half of his face, he looked like so many other contracted seamen who wandered the area. He checked his watch.

Magog had not seen the Vengian after sending him off on his final assignment. Although he was not expected to present himself to Magog, the Vengian’s silence coupled with his late arrival for their departure made Magog uneasy.

“Sir, we need you to board now,” said the deckhand.

“According to my watch, there are still seven minutes left.”

The deckhand, unsure as to how to respond, walked away for the moment only to return seven minutes later.

“Sir? It’s time.”

Magog shot him an impatient glare. And just as he was about to ascend the ramp, he caught a glimpse of the Vengian. He stood conspicuously still in a moving crowd. Magog waved him over. He did not move. He just stared down the pier at him from the esplanade. Magog told the deckhand in no uncertain terms to keep the schooner where it was. Then he walked up to the pier to the Vengian.

“What are you doing? The ship is about to sail.” As he drew near, he saw something in the Vengian that made him reach for his blade.

The Vengian already had his blade in his hand, and he lunged at Magog. He grabbed Magog’s arm before he could unsheathe his blade, and ran him through.

“It’s finished,” he whispered into Magog’s ear.

The brazen stabbing was witnessed by the crowd. With yells and screams, the crowd scattered away from the men locked in a fatal embrace. With the Vengian still holding his arm, Magog buckled onto his knees. Balean soldiers rushed to the scene with their rifles ready.

“Drop the blade and put your hands behind your head!” one of them shouted.

Magog’s body fell over as the Vengian released his arm and quietly complied.

“Now get on your knees!”

With his hands interlocked behind his head, there was no thought of running. The Vengian did not try to figure out which was the best of multiple opportunities for escape. He thought instead about the previous night. About his struggle. About her innocence.

“What are you sorry about?” Mosaic had asked. In the silence, she did not avert her glassy eyes or yield to doubt. She had looked at him. And as she had done as a child, she believed in him.

“I said on your knees!” the Balean soldier repeated.

Sparrow looked down at Magog. His eyes were vacant. He thought about Mosaic—how she would live to bring more beautiful songs into the world. Then he fell to his knees and surrendered.

In little over a week, Dale had grown to appreciate nature, both its cruelty and its kindness. He slept in the snow. He walked in the rain. He was well fed with food he did not sow. He learned how to set his own traps, dress game, and cure meat. He learned that Valkyrie’s Grovish name was inspired by Olafur Charles, the father of botany, and Zainah Valkyrie, an adventurer credited with charting the Winter Pass. He was exposed to the disparity of accounts in common history, especially when viewing the Emmainite people through the lens of an Emmainite. He had tested his boots. He had read
The Walgorende’s Last Stand
cover to cover.

Two uneventful passes through Balean checkpoints, three blisters, and countless excursions into the surrounding forests later, Valkyrie and Dale reached the eastern seaboard.

When they finally strolled into Muriah Bay, it was near dusk. The town glimmered with evening lights from the densely stacked buildings built into the slope of a cove. The lights at dusk danced off the slow rippling surface of the water between the many anchored ships. It reminded Dale of Carnaval City’s waterfront. It reminded him of home. But the beautiful scene was abruptly disturbed by the message on the defaced archway leading into town:
Enter at your own risk.

They found the nearest tavern in search of drink and some proper accommodations— things they had not seen in weeks. Before entering, Valkyrie offered Dale a bit of advice.

“Stay away from the women. There aren’t many around. And if they’re not spoken for, they’re probably carrying something you don’t want to catch.”

Once Dale nodded, they walked a few more paces. Valkyrie stopped him again, “One more thing. Everyone is dangerous. Everyone.”

At the lowest part of town, right along the water, was the town’s center. It was a stark contrast to the quiet country they’d been wandering for weeks. They followed the sound of after-work revelry to a local watering hole. Inside the smoke-filled establishment was a decidedly male crowd. There was heavy action at the gambling tables and heavy action at the bar. The few women who braved their company looked meaner than the men.

Valkyrie stopped the first woman that passed by.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Without acknowledging his attempt at charm she asked, “What do you want?”

“Look, sweet thing, we need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

“I’m no tavern wench,
sweet thing
,” she replied curtly.

“My mistake.”

She turned and began to walk away. Valkyrie grabbed her by the arm.

“Look, we’re not from around here. Who can we talk to about some food and a bed?”

“Look around, genius. No one here’s from around here. Try the bar.”

She yanked her arm out of Valkyrie’s grip and walked away.

Dale scanned the eclectic room. There were islanders with their tribal tattoos, traders from Silverland, Azurics with their varying hairstyles, and even some Lorean slavers.

“She wasn’t kidding,” he said.

“Yeah, how about that.”

Valkyrie led them over to the bar where they happily discovered they could order a meal from the kitchen. He ordered a plate of fried fish with a side of oysters, and a couple of pints of beer. The first sip of beer made them turn to each other—their eyebrows raised. They knew what the other was thinking. They ordered a second pint before finishing their first. As they sat talking about boarding options in Muriah Bay, the fried fish and oysters were served. After a steady diet of foraged food, they had forgotten how good a prepared meal was. Neither spoke a word while they ate. On his third pint, Dale leaned away from the bar and looked around the tavern.

Sitting next to him at the bar with his back to Dale was a large man who kept looking over his shoulder at Dale and Valkyrie. After yet another sideways look, the large man said something to his friends down the bar. They all looked over and began to chuckle.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this guy,” he quietly told Valkyrie.

Valkyrie glanced over at the broad-shouldered man and the four others drinking with him at the end of the bar. “Finish your drink,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. There has to be a quieter place in town to sleep.”

Dale stood and was clearing his glass when the broad-shouldered man deliberately stumbled back into him. Dale’s beer splashed his face and spilled onto his shirt. The man turned around with a smirk. Dale looked at him holding his empty glass. Faced with him directly, he was even bigger than Dale had thought. It was difficult to place where he was from. His hair and clothing were non-descript—it was only clear that he made his life out at sea. His skin was dark and thick with deep creases on his neck like a walrus. He had hair all over his face—his beard ran up high on his cheeks and his eyebrows extended near his hairline. On his tightly cropped head, he wore a knit hat that must have come with him from some distant shore. The dark, unruly face highlighted his gray, almost silver eyes.

“Be a little more careful next time, peachy. Now run along and give your Emmainite dog a bath. My mates can smell him from all the way at the end of the bar.”

The end of the bar burst into laughter.

Charles Valkyrie put his arm around Dale. Pulling him away he said, “Yes, yes. I’m perfectly stuffed. I do believe it’s time for us to get going.”

But Dale was tired. He was tired of being attacked, of running, being forced to go here and there. He was weary of people—weary of being subject to their control and abuses of power. He shrugged Valkyrie’s arm off his shoulder.

“I think you owe my friend an apology,” he said.

“No, no.” Valkyrie continued, trying to placate the escalating situation. “I was thinking the same thing. A bath is what I need.”

“I don’t owe anybody anything,” the big man said as he got out of his seat. His four friends did the same. He hunched over Dale and shoved his finger into Dale’s chest. “Now, you listen to your dog and run along before I turn ugly.”

Dale dropped his glass and reached for his sword. The man shoved him. The shove knocked Dale and Valkyrie stumbling against the bar. People cleared the area. All activity stopped as everyone in the tavern turned to see the commotion. The four companions drew their weapons. The instigator grabbed a barstool and wielded it like it was a small stick.