Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (7 page)

Derac held out a hand to help Kalen to his feet. Kalen considered rejecting the offer, but he reached up and let the other man haul him to his feet. Garint left the side of the Yadesh and approached with a small pouch in his hand.

“I’m sorry for startling you, boy. Do you like sweets?” Garint’s voice dripped with patronization.
 

“How old are you, sir?” Kalen asked, offering his brightest smile. At his side, Derac froze and horror glazed his pale eyes.

Garint replied, “I’m twenty-four. How old are you?”

“Have you considered removing that small animal you have attached to your face? It adds several decades to your years.” It was immature, it was childish, but Kalen couldn’t stop himself from doing it. “Is it the way of the Kelshites to speak down to your elders?”

The moment of silence was broken by a strangled laugh. Kalen glanced out of the corner of his eye at the group of Kelshites he’d traveled with through the forest.

“Don’t laugh, Jarit!” Marist hissed and jabbed one of his companions in the ribs. It was one of the silent men who hadn’t been able to look Kalen in the eye. Jarit coughed.

“I am a Knight,” Garint said, each word ground out between clenched teeth.

“I pity the king you serve and the Yadesh forced to carry you.” Keeping his expression neutral, Kalen met the man’s eyes and ignored the pain in his neck from staring up at someone so close to him. “I was under the mistaken impression that Knights were men of honor.”

Kalen turned to Derac and watched Garint out of the corner of his eye. Garint’s Yadesh stepped forward and draped his head over the Knight’s shoulder. Garint clenched his hands into fists.

“My apologies, Derac,” Kalen said. He even meant it. “We have much to discuss, I expect. If it isn’t too much, perhaps we could after a change of clothes and a cup of tea?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Derac murmured. “Allow me to offer you a late meal for the trouble.”

It was much easier to like Derac and his friends when presented with a more dangerous, if inept, serpent clad in a human’s skin. Kalen nodded. “I accept.”

“Then please follow me, Your Majesty.” Derac glanced at Garint.
 

“What do you mean by
that,
Derac?” the Knight asked.

~You pushed the Rift King down a well,~
Garint’s Yadesh said. Kalen was aware that he’d been allowed to hear the rebuke.

~How unbecoming,~
the feminine voice added.

Kalen somehow managed to keep from laughing at the stunned expression on the Knight’s face.

~~*~~

“You shouldn’t have made an enemy out of Garint,” Derac said in a hushed voice.

Tea, Kalen decided, was truly a gift from some God. Its warmth seeped through him. It was bitter, but just the right amount. It didn’t numb his tongue or deaden his ability to taste everything like the swill they tried to pass off as tea within the Rift did.

“I’ll make sure to be careful,” he replied in a normal voice and didn’t care if the others in the room listened. Kalen took another sip of the tea. It was hard to force himself to care. He was warm, dry, and mostly clean.

And he had his favorite drink, served hot, served fresh, and served just right. There was an entire pot of it, and Derac showed no signs of wanting any of it.

Kalen could almost forget about how every muscle in his body was trying to voice a complaint. He almost felt bad about the clothes; they would be stained with his blood from his injuries and likely ruined by dawn.

The clothes they’d given him were too large, but that didn’t surprise him much. Even the stable hands were taller than him. It was remarkable enough that they didn’t fall off his slim frame outright. His old garb wasn’t even fit for rags, and Kalen had readily agreed to have them burned, if only to keep the stench from polluting the inn.

“There aren’t any inns in the Rift,” he commented. The large room shared by all the guests wasn’t quite empty, but the other folk had taken seats on the far side of the room, including the rest of Derac’s companions and Garint.

“There isn’t? What about travelers?”

Kalen laughed. “Travelers visiting the Rift? The last time I saw a merchant brave the trails was three or four summers ago. He made it in. Didn’t make it out. Didn’t listen.”

“What happened to him?”

“Scoured,” he replied. “Didn’t even leave enough for the nibblers. We tried to warn him. Didn’t find us as hospitable as he’d like.”

“At the risk of sounding ignorant, dare I ask what being scoured is?”

“A funny thing, ignorance. You’re only ignorant if you don’t ask when you have a question. You won’t appreciate the dangers of a scouring until you’ve lived through one. If you live through it, that is. In short, the Danarites can’t seem to keep the sand in their desert where it belongs, so it comes falling down on us. Get caught out in a good blow and you’re scoured. Sand and wind can tear the flesh right off your bones if you aren’t careful.” Kalen poured himself another cup of tea and tried not to think too long on how many good people he’d seen die over the years from the scourings.

The Kelshites wouldn’t believe him if he told them of the serpents of wind that descended from black skies to devour anything in their path. He hadn’t, when he’d been warned of the phenomena. The Danarites’ sand didn’t belong in the Rift, and the Rift saw fit to return it where it belonged, uncaring of those in its way when it happened.

“No offense, but the Rift sounds like a place I’d rather not go.”

“You’re wise,” Kalen replied.

“I trust you understand our position,” Derac said, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of men across the room who stared at them. “If anyone finds out that we did not provide escort for the Rift King and something were to happen to you while in Kelsh, it would cause quite the incident.”

“I’ll be direct. You have two Knights at that table over there. Why are you the one talking to me about this?” Kalen set down the tea cup and drummed his fingers against the table. Each tap hurt where he’d scraped the skin off within the well.

“How did you know Garint wasn’t the only Knight?”

Kalen let out a low snort and stared at Marist. The young man stared into his bowl of stew with rapt interest. “Who else could recognize my sigil for what it is? What do you call them here? Ah, commoners? I don’t think so. I suspect your King would be quite happy if the Rift didn’t exist. For some reason, I doubt he would permit one of his personal retainers to go running out in the woods so far from his throne. That leaves a young Knight. A young Knight, I might add, who is clever enough to know when to speak up and follow his instinct. I wonder if I could talk him into coming back to the Rift with me. I know a few who’d find him rather fascinating.”

He didn’t dare let the man know about the voices he’d heard in his head. There were enough people who questioned his sanity for completely different reasons.

“That does make sense. We are at an impasse, then. It is our law that people of import are brought to Elenrune for interview with the King. You don’t want this,” Derac said.

“You’re a smart fellow. Are you certain I can’t bribe you away from Kelsh? I have no reason or desire to meet your King. I’m certain he’ll express his foul temper in yet another missive that wastes my time. Perhaps it might improve his temperament if he didn’t have to write so often. You can pass that to him, if you’d like.”

“I have a proposal,” Derac said.

Kalen stilled his fingers and met the man’s eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Come with us as far as Elenrune. If we haven’t convinced you to meet with the King by then, I will escort you back to the border myself.”

“This doesn’t benefit me or the Rift,” Kalen replied.

“Marist, Garint, come here!” Derac waved his hand to the two men. Garint’s expression darkened. Marist looked up from his bowl and hurried over. By the time that Garint made his way to the table, the man had managed to force a smile. “I’m not a Knight. You’re the only ones who can bargain with him.”

Garint picked the chair the farthest from Kalen and dropped into it with a scowl. Marist sat next to Derac.

“Law says you must come,” Garint said.

“I’m not bound to your laws, Knight, and it would do you well to remember that,” Kalen said. “I might choose to obey them in respect of your King, but for no other reason.”

~Don’t push,~
the male Yadesh said.
~We need his help.~

Kalen struggled to keep his expression neutral. The Yadesh had let him hear that. While the creature didn’t quite beg, it was close enough he wanted to wince. He’d been taught that they were noble beasts full of dignity and pride.

Garint’s was nothing more than a beast of burden unable to stray from the path it’d been told to follow. The Knight’s expression darkened further. “It might be in our mutual benefit if we could—at length—discuss new trade routes and options. Your people bring goods to Land’s End on a frequent basis. Gems, herbs, bones, things of that nature. They’re always in demand here. The King would be pleased to expand the business between the Kingdoms. Your people would have access to greater wealth and more supplies. Ours would get the goods that can be acquired from nowhere else,” Garint replied.

“That is nothing that couldn’t be discussed by missive. It’s been suggested several times over the years, but your King hasn’t seen fit to take it seriously. Is that going to change by journeying to Elenrune and speaking with him directly? Unlikely.”

Garint’s scowl faded into a smile that sent chills racing up and down Kalen’s spine. “I’ve heard that you are rather notorious for not selecting a Queen, Your Majesty. Perhaps I might be able to interest you in Kelsh’s Princess? She’s quite the beauty, and I have it on good authority that the King may consider extending her hand to the right suitor.”

Kalen made a dismissive, waving gesture. When he rested his palm down on the table, he drummed his fingers and toyed with the wooden handle of his dinner knife. “He’s been trying that for years. Missive.”

“Perhaps you might be interested in discussing a breeding program of horses,” Marist said. “The Rift has horses that men around the world desire, and you don’t sell them. Would you consider allowing us to breed some of our broodmares with your stallions to begin a new line altogether?”

“I don’t see that happening. That is one thing your King asks for often, and the answer is always the same. My predecessor said no, and I too say no.”

Garint leaned over the table and met his eyes. When the man spoke, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps the abolishment of the Council of Six might interest you. Without the Council of Six, wouldn’t your people be more free to pursue that which they desire?”

Kalen lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip. No one knew quite how old the Council was. Not even the archive had the first records announcing its creation. That treatise was what kept him chained to his desk more often than not, and had forced them to have a rather elaborate system of who handled the missives and work when he wasn’t at his desk.

It was a treatise that kept the six largest Kingdoms from slaughtering each other for the sake of power and conquest. It was the treatise proclaiming the Rift as the neutral mediator destined to watch in silence and speak only when the Six couldn’t agree.

It’d been well over a hundred years since the Six had met, let alone needed the guidance of the Rift.

“And this is your King’s wish?”

“It is,” Garint replied.

Kalen wanted to laugh. His throat tickled with the need to, but he swallowed it back and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “And he would not send a missive for something of such importance.”

“You can understand our position, I trust,” Garint replied.

If it was written, the other Kingdoms would have just cause to war against Kelsh. Without the treatise, Kelsh could openly war against Danar without fear of rebuttal.

If Kelsh were to win, it was only a matter of time before they grew too drunk on their own power and force their ideals on the smaller Kingdoms.

He didn’t want to think too hard on what would happen if Danar won that war. There were worse things than men, and the Priests of Danar knew how to summon them. Those were missives from his
Akakashani
spies that he handled himself and didn’t even let the Guardians read.

“I understand your position,” Kalen said. “And if you hadn’t discovered me, would you have sent a messenger to bring such news to my city?”

“We would have. His Majesty has been in discussions with the rest of the Knights to learn who might be the best to brave your trails and speak with you within Blind Mare Run. It is fortuitous that the rumors are false that you never come out of your Rift.”

“Men don’t like to be caged, and I am not different. It is refreshing to see the realms of the Kings with whom I write with frequently. I trust you understand that,” Kalen said.

“I understand. You can trust that no one else will find out of your presence here,” Garint said. The man’s smile broadened.

The back of Kalen’s neck tingled with the same instinctual warning like when he was being hunted, as though the words were a carefully laid trap, and he was about to walk right into it.

“I will go with you as far as Elenrune. I will decide then if I will meet with your King,” Kalen said. Garint nodded his satisfaction.

Kalen stared at each of the men around him until they looked away. Under the cover of his too-large sleeve, he took up the knife.

No matter how many ways he spun the tale and considered every potential conclusion, it ended the same way. If the Kelshite King had his way, Kalen wouldn’t return to the Rift. Then, the Rift would Ride.
 

If he were lucky, Kalen would live long enough to see it happen.

~~*~~

Several long hours after leaving the niche where they’d found Kalen’s pack, Breton was tired, sweaty, and ready for a break. When they came across the shadowy entrance of another niche, he reined Perin in and listened.

He heard the swarm of serpents long before he saw them. The rasp of scales was loud enough to drown out even the restless wind. Their high-pitched hisses chilled him. Alone, a nibbler wasn’t a threat. They could be eaten, they were one of the few things in the Rift that wasn’t venomous, and they were tiny. Their dull, gray forms were shorter than his forearm and thinner than his smallest finger.