The Well of Fates

CHAPTER 11

  The Father

  A flash of light erased everything from his vision and a roar filled his ears until there was nothing but white and sound. Then silence. Stillness.

  So this is death. It was less painful than he had imagined it. Perhaps that was because it had been done with the pillars—erased from the world by the pillars of the world. He wondered vaguely if his spirit had passed judgment or if that was later. He certainly hoped the Neverblind would be merciful. I left home for good reason.

  Specks of something floated across the white. Mutters interrupted the silence. A wind marred the stillness. The specks grew, shading out the white, mostly brown and green. Black took over the center of everything. A gleam of silver blinded him again for a moment. Something brushed across his cheek.

  If he was to be pestered for the rest of eternity, he was going to get angry.

  "Is he alive?" someone muttered. Landon frowned. Something jerked his shoulder roughly a few times.

  "I think so." It sounded doubtful. The shapes above him grew and sharpened. Faces. Two men. There were two men kneeling over him. The clasp on one’s cloak gleamed in the sunlight, flashing in his eyes. He blinked.

  "He is alive!" The voice was shocked.

  "I can't believe it. He was so close. . ."

  "I know, and no ashendari. Yurick was twice as far and didn't take another breath." The other nodded solemnly.

  “I saw him get swallowed by the earth itself.”

  "Perhaps she meant it to happen.” The first suggested ominously. “If anyone could do something to save him, it'd be her." They paused, careful not to look at the destruction around them.

  "We should take him to her."

  "She has been anxious over him. It's a good thing he lived, or we might not have." The one with the silver clasp on his collar noted. His fellow gave a vigorous nod.

  "She's alive? Elaina?" Landon croaked. They looked down at him in surprise. He was surprised too, that his throat worked. But if I am not dead, that makes sense. They don’t think I am dead. Or Elaina.

  "That she is, my Lord. Soon as you can stand we'll take you to her. She's in quite a state to see you." The speaker snapped his mouth shut, unsure if he had said too much. You couldn't talk about a Guardian like a fishwife, after all.

  Landon didn't notice and lurched to his feet using the two soldiers to help him up. He was startled to see his clothes hung off him in tatters. Great holes gaped in his shirt and cloak. There was even a slash through his leather boots. Some of the holes showed matching ones in his skin, enough to sicken him. Others showed nothing more than the pink shine of a new burn. The sight made his whole body pulse and ache, as if it had been waiting for visual confirmation to start hurting.

  The two black-coated men rose to their feet after him, one on each side to keep him upright. Watchers. Who knew I’d be escorted by Watchers and not to the headsman’s axe!

  His surprise didn’t make the pain less searing. He felt as weak as a kitten who had tangled with a Cavilnese wolfhound. The only movement that didn't hurt was blinking, and that may have just been relative to everything else.

  The three of them made slow progress toward what the only building standing in sight, Landon letting the two black-coated men hold him upright. The rest of the structures were twisted piles of smoking ruins, bits of smoldering wood sending up trails of smoke, ruined chimneys looking like a small forest of broken black fangs.

  It took the best efforts of both of the Watchers to keep Landon upright as they made their way to the building. The stone-faced Drethlord met them at the door, grey robes looking a little worn and scorched. The Watchers were startled to see him acting the doorman, but only stuttered a moment.

  "M-my lord? Her man is alive, sir.” They hefted Landon forward another half step forward to prove it.

  "Very good. Bring him." Lord Monren turned and allowed them into the room wearing a tightly-reined expression of irritation. Evidently he was displeased as his men were surprised. The room was large, enough to hold the kitchen, table, and open living area of whatever farm family it belonged to, now large enough to hold the wounded. Off to the side, a long narrow hall led to the bedchambers. Two other soldiers moved about dressing the wounds of the men scattered across the floor on hastily-made pallets. Monren gestured to an open pallet in the corner.

  "Put him there. The Guardian will see him when the audience is over." Landon wondered what audience Elaina could be having in a scorched village in the middle of nowhere, but then the Watchers lowered him toward the bed. As soon as they touched him, the blinding pain sent him into merciful blackness.

  In the hall, Mathwen paced restlessly. He had to duck his head to clear the ceiling in the low, dark space, and his shoulders were nearly too broad to allow him to turn in his armor. It was good armor, not his expensive parade gear. The silver plate was chased with gold and the helm he carried under one arm matched.

  The sword at that swung to tap his calf with every step was the only one he had ever used since the death of his father. Its hilt was encrusted with rubies, save the grip, which was gold wire. Gems on the grip would just be foolish—your blade would twist and turn all over the place. His red velvet cape was heavy with a broad band of gold embroidery at the edge, but he didn’t notice.

  The door swung open, last rays of sunlight streaming from the room to catch the gold and the gems, sending red flashes chasing each other over the walls.

  "You may enter," came the command from inside. Mathwen scowled and stalked in. The only occupant was a woman. She was not tall, her head came only to his shoulder. Her dress was only green cotton, and it was faded and stained from travel. Waves of honey brown hair hung loose past her shoulders. Her face and hands were clean, but a cut ran across her cheek and many more showed on her arms, all straight, neat lines.

  For all of it, she stood like a queen behind a simple chair. At first, an observer might see a farmwife greeting a King, until they noted the angle of her chin, the cold gaze full of wariness. No farmwife had that look, like a cornered black leopard of the Southlands.

  He noticed her white-knuckled grip on the back of the chair. Either she’s frightened of me—unlikely being what she was—or she can barely stand. As he studied her the door shut on its own. A reminder that she is not as weak as she looks. He kept from flinching, barely. Casters made him jumpy.

  "You are the one they call a Creator?" he demanded. An eyebrow twitched upward.

  "I am the last of the Guardians. I am Elaina." She replied in as strong a voice as she was able to summon. He noted distantly the flash of resentment at his implication she was only called a Creator even as his rage grew.

  "I am Lord Mathwen Ren'jedal, High Lord of the House of the Seven Stars, Protector of the Eastern Marches, Defender of the Red Lions, King of Loth Daer," He watched as her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

  "And you have kidnapped my son." He growled. If his control was lost to fury, hers was lost to stunned surprise. He did not think it was feigned, but that did not help much. She still has Landon.

  "Truth-drowned spirits of the Neverblind, you're his father!" she gasped.

  "Didn't think I would come for you, witch? Didn't think anyone would challenge you, Truth-blinded coward? Thought you could steal the First Sword of my Kingdom and we would snivel and hide from you? Well there's an army at my back, and we will have Landon or you will die!" He roared as he stepped forward, drawing his great sword from its scabbard.

  It was vital that he catch her off guard, make her think about who he was. Besides, if the way she was gripping that chair was any indication, she couldn't cast anything too strong, she was too tired.

  "Prepare for Evermore, sorceress! I will free my son from your bewitching!" He cried, advancing. She stiffened and stepped behind the chair. Suddenly, he lifted off the ground, feet dangling in the air. Blast! She is not as tired as I thought. She panted from the effort of holding him there, her eyebrows drawn into an angry scowl.


  "Release me! Truth blast you, release me!" He shouted, kicking wildly. He wasn't one of those people that really thought all those who could touch the pillars of the earth were evil spirits that would be sentenced to eternal darkness on the far side of the River Evermind, but that didn't mean he wanted it used on him. Slowly, deliberately, he felt the band of air at his waist lower him until his boots scraped the wood floor. She was tired, not able to hold him in the air. Of course, that might make her impatient too . . .

  "Still yourself, sir, or I will still you!" She snapped.

  There it is—she’s impatient.

  "I could kill you where you stand if I wished. Listen!" Breathing heavily through his hawk-like nose, King Ren'jedal glared at her, but fell silent and ceased kicking. There was no sense in pushing her too far, getting himself killed in a little girl's fit of anger would not help his son. He stilled, but his grip on his sword was as firm as ever. If she tries anything . . .

  "I have traveled with your son, true. I do not deny it." The King took a breath—she admitted it!—but she cut him off, " I do deny that it was against his will, or that I have bewitched him in some way. He told me only his name and House, I did not know he was a prince, or first sword of anything."

  "His name and House! Both show him royal, you lying witch!" The King roared, throwing his sword at her. She ducked it, but the blade splintered the top rail of the chair's high back before it buried itself in the floorboards.

  The stiffness of his back had interfered with his aim. A pity. If she were dead all webs would end, and Landon would be free. The lad gets himself in the most troubling situations sometimes.

  Her face was pale as flour, but she managed to keep from squeaking when she spoke. "Perhaps to someone well-traveled, well-versed in the customs and governments of the nations that would be obvious, but I lived my whole life until these past months on the other side of the Empire from Loth Daer! How was I to know the House of the Seven Stars was the ruling house? Or that its Prince was called Landon?" The girl replied coldly.

  That level tone, that smooth face—her composure was forced, Mathwen could tell. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, clutching her skirts as if to keep from strangling him of their own accord.

  "His name is evidence, fool! Ren'jedal means the royal family Jedal." The King spat derisively. He stopped shouting though, she looked close to snapping. A child throwing a tantrum with the pillars could well kill him, and then who could save Landon?

  "It means royalty to you, but not to me." Elaina spat back, anger flashing in her eyes. "I have done no wrong, yet you would kill me! Me, the person your son has fought with and bled with against the Empire! In defense of your Kingdom and all the nations of Arith!" He knew she was angry. By the destruction that had surrounded this little hamlet, he knew she was at least a caster.

  Truth, she could even really be a Creator—it is possible, though she looks young. But even if she can create and destroy worlds, she also has Landon. It was worth any risk to get him back. She was young enough that volume and temper made an impression, so volume and temper it would be. It was easier than holding it back, anyway.

  "Against the Empire! A Drethlord answers your door, you lying, sneaking—!" He roared, struggling to get at her, as if he would kill her with his bare hands. Perhaps if I get the chance. . . Just then, Lord Monren stepped into the room as if summoned.

  "You see!" The King raged. Here this chit who had stolen his son stood side by side with his most despised enemy. "Filthy, lying, Truth-blasted, Power-cursed—"

  "Enough!" Elaina shrieked. "Enough! Before noon today this man tried to see me dead. Why do you think this is the only building standing where there was a village called Holdbrine at dawn? Why think you there is a ring of cinder and ash for leagues around this place? Lord Monren came to kill me. Landon and I defeated him!"

  "And now he serves you faithfully, is that it?" The King sneered.

  "Yes." The Drethlord said, clearly and coolly, voice cutting through both of theirs and stilling them like ice set to a flame. Truth, but casters made his skin crawl! Here the man interrupted a Creator and a King, and his voice was stone-hard, unapologetic. The eyes don’t help, either.

  "My Brothers and I came to this shore to answer our prophesies, to find the one who will save our people. We sought the one who had the strength to defeat the Gift, the ancient Gift from this side of the Sea." The capital on Gift was clear in his voice.

  "Only the one who could destroy it is strong enough to save Asemal. I have seen it, the fulfillment of the prophesies. The Lady Elaina is the one." He bowed to the young woman solemnly, one palm to his chest, back of the other hand to the small of his spine. It was much like the Antralian's peculiar salute, if Mathwen remembered correctly.

  "Soon the Brothers at Hurndrith will hear the news and answer, for she is the Net-Breaker, the Falcon of the Morning, the One Foretold." He stated solemnly.

  King Mathwen just scowled, though he did not shout. Well that’s news. Did that mean both the girl and the Drethlords would be going back to Asemal? That would be a great opportunity. . . and a great bloodbath. A hole in the ranks of the most powerful always was, sure as a hole in the ranks of soldiers in a battle. But there were more pressing things to be concerned with.

  "Then where is Landon? Where is my son?"

  "He lives. He is in the front room even now." Mathwen caught the flicker of his gaze toward the girl and watched her eyes close as she took a deep breath. He would have guessed that was a prayer to relief—she had not been sure Landon was alive.

  No wonder she had been so uncertain—coldly imperious one minute, hotly angry the next. She was tired, did not know if she had what he wanted, and did not have the energy to stop his army alone.

  But Landon is alive. Truth, the boy's mother would have skinned me if I had come home alone, if I had not taken my own life first. Landon was his only remaining son and his greatest pride. Landon would be King of Loth Daer.

  "Then I will see him!" The King demanded.

  "Yes, as soon as you prove to me you will do me no harm if I release you." Elaina countered, smile fading rapidly. Aha, definitely concerned about my army. She would need time to recover before she could face him like casters did—demanding simply by her presence.

  Normally Creators did not threaten or shout, they just existed and that was enough to require respect and obedience without fail. That was how it used to be anyway, but much had changed since the Invasion.

  "It has been a long day. I want no more surprises." She said with finality. That was an understatement, he guessed, but if Landon was well he did not want any disagreements breaking out that might endanger things before he could get the lad away from this woman.

  "If my son lives and is not snared in your webs, then I swear no harm will come to you or yours by my hand." He granted.

  "Nor at the hand of any you command." Lord Monren added. The girl gave him a sharp, grateful look. One of them, at least, was watching for holes in his promise.

  "Aye, not at my hand nor my command." The King agreed. She peered at him a moment longer, then the Air around him returned to just air, and his cape moved freely behind him. Cautiously, he moved toward the door. Finding himself unhindered, he yanked it open and marched down the hall. Blasted casters make me as jumpy as a crescent frog at harvest!

  Behind him, he heard the girl try to follow after. There was a shuffle, and when he looked back, the Drethlord had her arm over his shoulder and had a hold of her waist as well. He kept walking. If she was too tired to stand properly, then there was little chance she would try to stop him and Landon from leaving, not with the Company behind them.