In the early morning hours of the day, far to the south and east of the Lyyn Forest, separated by the vast plains of the grassy Shyl and crested at the foothills of the Caltar Mountains, Turyn Andelline was far ready to adjourn the meeting with his council of advisors. In a chamber sparsely lit with lanterns casting shadows across angry faces, five men seated the wooden table high in the castle’s uppermost level discussing the day’s peace talks. On opposite sides on the long table were Lon Ruell, First Captain of Bowmen, and Ern Dwull, army commander, addressing Turyn of the army and the territory they would be battling in should the peace talks fail.
Expressing great concern against the direction the meeting was taking, Wilt Oan voiced a strong debate. Being the King’s advisor in relations with the Races, Wilt tried to force the issue of peace, but it seemed certain that it fell on deaf ears.
“My Lord, send scouts to other regions. Make sure—”
Turyn cut Oan short immediately. “Scouts have been sent as you know. That is how we were informed of the Elves participation. I see no reason to waste more time looking elsewhere. If my son is to be found, then Lord Estrial will have a say in it.”
Wilt Oan didn’t bother masking his displeasure. He ran his thick fingers from his snow-white beard across his bushy eyebrows and through his short pale hair with an audible groan. Shaking his head, he stared to the floor between his legs.
“My men are ready, my Lord. We await your command.” Commander Ern Dwull affirmed, sitting back in his chair and stroking his black beard. He wore a black hunting outfit and his dark, shoulder-length hair was tied behind his ears. He was a veteran soldier-made-commander of the King’s army, and like the rest of the council this night, he was focusing on the beginning of a war.
“My men are not afraid of their magic, my Lord,” he finished. His arms folded into his chest and he stared down Oan.
Wilt pounded a fist into the old wood slab. “Because you underestimate it! Arrows and swords will not be enough! You will not win a war against the Forest Elves.”
“Choose your side now, old man!” Ern Dwull bickered back, growing frustrated.
Lon Ruell rose to his feet at the King’s side, standing tall, commanding their attention. “Enough. It is pointless to argue this matter. Our information confirms our suspicions and if the peace talks fail, then we will have no choice in this matter.” His voice was calm as he spoke, but there was no mistaking the serious nature. “Oan, I appreciate your efforts here, but we need to be prepared for the worst, and I think we have done so.”
Lon patted his old friend on the back and sat down next to him. Oan was merely doing his job, he knew. And up to this point, he had kept the King from an all-out assault against the Elves. Wilt should be pleased, Lon thought. If his own son came up missing, he too would expect swift justice.
King Andelline paid their bickering no response. The hour was late and the meeting was just repeating the few previous. He sat close to the long table with his big hands clasped together out in front of him next to several maps drawn of the Lyyn Forest and the surrounding areas. He took a moment to look into the eyes of those seated around him, staring briefly, as if to measure where they stood, as if he didn’t know already. For the most part, these men were his friends and handpicked to their positions, loyal to him in every way. Wilt Oan had been with him since he took over the throne so many years ago, and couldn’t imagine continuing without him. Wilt’s was the only face Andelline passed. He knew all too well what would be found in Oan’s eyes. And this was the one time where they would not agree.
Sighing, Turyn Andelline unclasped his hands and prepared to stand. “I thank you all, but this night is old and tomorrow will be long.”
Kloe Datris, Head of the Red Knights, the King’s personal protectors, moved from out of the shadows behind the king, knowing his departure was coming.
Wilt interjected calmly. “My Lord, I do wish you to—”
Turyn Andelline stood to his feet. His face was weary, worn. He nodded slowly to his council. “Enough. I have heard all that I can stand. Sleep what little you are offered.”
He turned from the table and walked for the door, Kloe Datris a shadow at his heels, his crimson cloak trailing. A grumbling of mixed emotions arose from those left in the room as they stood and said farewell for the night. Wilt Oan sat with a sour look then pounded his fists into the table.
“Wilt,” Lon began softly, “do not take this personally.”
Wilt said nothing. He rose hastily and exited the room, snorting past Ern Dwull.
Lon leaned over the table and began rolling up the territory maps. He was lean and tall, physically fit, and dressed in camouflage hunting garb. He wore his brown hair short, with a thin blade of hair lining his upper lip. Folding a map into his small pouch, he looked across the table to Ern Dwull, who was busy doing the same.
“I have two hundred men sleeping with their families tonight, maybe for the last time.” Lon’s voice was passive, almost soothing in the late hours.
Ern met his gaze. “They took the Prince. The price for that should be death. It must be.” Ern’s voice was hard and cold. He quickly placed his maps into a long cylinder tube and stormed out of the room.
Lon watched him go, and then prepared to leave as well. “Goodnight to you as well, Ern.” The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly as he left the room empty.
Traveling the brightly lit halls of round stone and wood beams, King Andelline moved purposefully. A Red Knight stood at either side, with Kloe Datris trailing. Turyn wished to retire for the night without further delay. He had wasted away more of the night than he wished, hoping only to review the maps with his council and prepare for the day ahead. But Wilt Oan’s voice sparked several quarrels and left the king exhausted of conversations. Fact was, it didn’t matter what voice was against him. His only son was taken and war was forthcoming.
The hall came to an end and angled left. After seeing the hall was empty, Turyn Andelline walked into the corner, pressed his fingers against a stone block, and a section of the wall opened with a stairwell behind. He ascended the secret passageway without being seen, leaving the Red Knights without, but knowing that Kloe would follow in the shadows. The old king moved slowly up the stone steps to a landing, and followed the narrow hall lit with torchlight. The events that had transpired over the past few weeks had left him exhausted, aching his mind and body. His troubles, it seemed, were only getting worse with each passing day.
After the disappearance of his son, Queen Sienna’s mood had turned viscously foul. She didn’t eat or sleep, and spent most of her time either sending hunting parties out or waiting for them to return. It was actually one of her scouts that had brought the news of Pal Rae’s whereabouts, a man whose body was then suspiciously found filled with arrows only hours later. This also was blamed on the Forest Elves. And it was Sienna who kept pressing the issue to attack the Elves, secretly sending out her own band of men in the night to return the prince: hired thieves and cutthroats at best. None of which brought their son home, but more less were sent to destroy as many elves as they could, the king thought.
And where are you this night, my Queen?
Sienna had left before the sun set, stating that she had some work to finish. Turyn didn’t question, she wouldn’t tell him anyway. They had drifted apart during the past few weeks. It was seldom they were in the same room for more than an hour, especially with the Queen now resting alone in the highest tower. The king didn’t feel as though she wanted to be alone, so much as she wanted to be away from him. It was rare that she even made eye contact, and any involvement other than words in passing was nonexistent. Even though she never came right out and said it, she was letting him know that he was to blame for Pal Rae’s fate.
Feeling himself sink further into the pit he was in, Turyn Andelline knew if the Prince did not return alive, he would lose his wife as well.
The King stopped walking, staring blankly at a stone slab cut into the wall—the secret entrance into his son?
??s room. He traced one hand over the seam before softly patting the cool slab. There was no need to enter. The Prince’s room would be empty, as it had been for weeks now. The King rubbed his aged hands into his white beard, pushing his loose skin back, sighing in anguish.
“Come home to me.”
His head lowered further, and Turyn continued to his own room. If he had a tear left, he would have shed it. But he was all cried out. The worst thoughts of his son’s disappearance had already taken root, and Turyn was beginning to accept that Pal Rae might never come back.
As he moved from the door, he decided that he would not pass near his son’s room again.
Turyn kept to his secret passages for the most part these days, wishing to be left undisturbed. His guards stayed with him, whether he could see them or not, but unless summoned, he didn’t care to see anyone.
“I know you’re hurting,” a voice cut through the silence, bringing the King to a dead halt. A lone figure detached itself from the wall just ahead, walking closer.
“But rushing into war will not solve anything.” The figure came close to the King before stopping. His white beard seemed to shine in the torchlight.
“What do you know of my troubles, Oan? Are you a king with no prince?”
Wilt’s face tightened. “How long have you come to me and how many times have I failed you? Yet, you dismiss me as if nothing I say has any ground.”
The King stiffened. “Have I? Was it not you who insisted in this peace talk? What more would you have me do, Oan?”
“Listen to reason, my Lord. I have met with the Forest Elves and I do not believe that they have your son.”
Turyn Andelline was too tired for another confrontation. “Wilt, I have been informed otherwise, as you already know. I will meet with Estrial, and if he is wiser than he’s been, my son will be joining us home!”
“Don’t be a fool!” Wilt’s eyes were flush with anger. He stepped closer to the King. “They will destroy you. Estrial has sent for a sorcerer to accompany him tomorrow. If you—”
“Enough!” Turyn seemed to tower over Oan. “We have been friends for countless years and I have heard your pleas. If Lord Estrial does not bring forth the whereabouts of my son, then all of my kingdom shall fall upon him!”
Sadness crept into Wilt’s eyes. He waited a moment before saying, “Then shall fall your kingdom.”
“You would fare better advising Lord Estrial if you wish to keep peace. Now go to your home, kiss your son’s head goodnight, and be grateful he’s alive.” The King stared into Wilt’s eyes with a burning sorrow. “Breathe in his scent deep, for when he’s gone, it will haunt you at every turn. You will catch a small piece of it in the air and your stomach will churn and ache in ways you didn’t think possible! Endless scenarios of what is happening to him, of what has happened to him, will run your thoughts tirelessly! You will wait the nights in his empty room for his return, when he is not coming home!”
Turyn Andelline grabbed Oan by his collar and brought him in close, his heavy exhale filling Wilt’s lungs. His voice was raspy and low, filled with anger and something far more dangerous. “Do you know what it feels like for your spirit to die before your body?”
Wilt Oan trembled in his boots. Before he could manage a response, the King released his grasp and swiftly walked away. Wilt slumped against the cool stone wall. Moments later a shadow passed by. Wilt jumped in response, turning in time to see a scarlet robe disappearing in the shadows.
A few turns and a few hundred footfalls later, King Andelline came to the end of the corridor. Pressing his hand against a secret lever along the stone wall, a door swung silently in. Without pausing, he stepped through into his bed chamber. Once in, the door closed quietly behind, the lock configuring back into place.
The room was large with two wood-framed windows and wall-length curtains. A terrace lay beyond the windows, overlooking the courtyard several hundred feet below. Portraits decorated each wall, and a few large candles burned at a small sitting table near the door.
Before undressing, Turyn walked over to an open window and stared out into the night, allowing the cool air to embrace him. From high above the courtyard, he stared without seeing. His mind set on his son, and of what dawn could bring.
His mind drifted in and out of old memories, of people he knew and places he’d been, of things he accomplished and the ache of his losses. He sighed deeply. He would gladly give up all his glories and victories, if it were to bring his son home.
Staring into the night, he said softly, “I am too old to be fighting wars. This is not how it should be.”
He made his way to his bed and disrobed, slipping under the sheets and adjusting his head to the pillow. Sienna’s scent was in the room, he noticed. Gone before he had time to tell her how much he did love her, and that he would do anything to make things right again. He wondered if she would return to speak to him. Probably not, he yawned, deciding that it didn’t matter. Dawn would break before long and he desired what little sleep he could steal.
As he closed his eyes, he thought he heard the door shut, but paid it no mind. Sienna had returned, he thought wearily. But she would let him sleep. And so Turyn Andelline, with all the troubles waging war in his mind, allowed himself to be swept away.
King Andelline was still half awake when the blade cut into his back, piercing through his sternum. The dagger was through his chest again before he could open is eyes. A strong hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his screams. His struggle was short. His mighty chest heaved once more, then fell flat.
It was several hours past dawn when a knock came to the door, followed by the entrance of the chef pushing a breakfast cart. He pushed the cart to the table and prepared the King’s first meal when he noticed a red pool on the floor around the bed. Looking to the motionless body, the chef cried his loudest as he noticed the Elven weapon still buried deep into the back of the King.
“Help! The King’s been slain!”
CHAPTER THREE