“Nothing at all. It’s a beautiful city filled with tall buildings, markets, palaces, and churches.”
“Then, why wouldn’t you want to go there?”
“In Morcaine, I witnessed the attack on the academy, the deaths of my teacher and many of my peers, and the depths of depression to which I plunged. The only good thing I can recall is the moment when Count Millaird sent me to Westmarch to join the Knights of the Shimmering Dawn.”
“In that case, we’ll have to make a few pleasant memories there.”
She kissed him, creating a new memory right then.
21
Laedron and his companions, along with Victor Altruis and Meklan Draive, rose and dressed at the dawn’s light in their finest garments. They left the safety of Westmarch by stagecoach, bound for Morcaine. Laedron knew the halfway point when he glimpsed the roadside inn where he and Ismerelda had stayed for a night. He and his party slept in the coach, while the drivers endeavored to keep the best pace with respect to the horses’ stamina.
High towers and thick walls greeted them when the coach slowed outside the gates of the capital. Everyone stretched and yawned. I almost feel relieved at seeing the city, for the mere sight of it means that I must wait less time to be reunited with my family. They passed through the gatehouse after a brief inspection, the guards seemingly unwilling to delay a coach laden with persons of such high regard.
Laedron pointed out places of interest to Valyrie along the way. “We’re entering the market now.”
“So many people,” she said, gawking through the window. “Al’Qarans?”
“Almarians, too, and Gotlanders. You won’t be able to tell the Sibelians from the Sorbians, though.”
“Why not?”
“Same people, really,” Brice said. “People have mistaken me for a Sibelian from time to time because of the way I talk.”
“It’s not that, Thimble.” Marac grinned. “They merely find you alien to the concepts of common sense and tact, traits that can be witnessed in any foreigner who possesses such qualities.”
Brice fell back in his seat, his face flushed red.
“Are you always so cruel to your companions?” Meklan asked Marac.
“No… um… I… he knows not to take such things to heart.” Marac swatted Brice’s knee. “Right? Brice?”
When Brice didn’t respond, Meklan said, “It seems that he did take it rather hard. Apologize.”
“But, Master Dra-”
“Apologize.”
“I’m sorry, Thi-Brice.” Marac glanced at Meklan, as if trying to see if his mentor had noticed his slip. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Brice’s lips curled into a grin. “Looks like somebody got in trouble.”
Marac rolled his eyes and turned toward the window.
Laedron pointed and said, “The Wardhouse of Morcaine.”
“You have Heraldan churches here?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have thought Sorbia would allow them.”
Victor cleared his throat. “It was closed during the war, for the king was enraged by the actions of the church. He wanted it burned to the ground.”
“Someone convinced him not to?”
Victor nodded. “Yes, the engineers. If not for the risk of the fire spreading, the king would have likely set it ablaze himself.”
“Not quite what I meant. I thought most of the people here were Heraldan.”
“They are, but when the church attacked and killed so many of our people, faith became second to loyalty. The king’s own son was murdered.”
“He was a sorcerer?”
Victor nodded.
The coach stopped in front of the palace. When the driver opened the door, Laedron stepped out and peered upward at the spires ascending into the heavens. His feeling of homesickness was immediately replaced by intimidation, for no house in Sorbia exhibited such grandeur. Guardsmen with halberds stood at intervals on the steps leading to the palace, their orange and black sashes draped over steel breastplates that sparkled in the sunlight. Climbing the steps, he clutched his stomach, for it churned at the thought of being in the presence of the king. Calm yourself. He’s only a man. Then, the fear took hold again. Yes, a man who can order your death with the snap of a finger. He could tell that his friends were nervous, too, and that made him feel a little better. At least I’m not alone.
At the top, Meklan and Victor opened the thick oaken doors, and from the entry onward lay a fine orange and black carpet. Matching Sorbian flags hung from the ceiling some thirty feet above, their ends nearly touching the floor. The line of guards continued along the walls on either side. Seemingly undaunted, Meklan and Victor led them down the hall, then stopped when a steward neared.
“Greetings, Master Draive and Master Altruis,” the steward said with a slight bow, his hand over his heart. “Have you come to see His Majesty?”
“Indeed. Advise the king that we have brought his long-awaited heroes: Laedron Telpist, Marac Reven, and Brice Warren.”
“And Valyrie Pembry,” Laedron said before the steward turned away.
“I’m no heroine, Lae.”
“You deserve just as much recognition as the rest of us. You worked with us to defeat Andolis, and we would’ve never known about Myrdwyer without your book.”
The steward returned after a while, then gestured for them to follow. “This way. His Majesty will see you now.”
A few halls and a staircase later, Laedron and his party sat in what seemed to be a lounge of some sort. “What is this place?”
“The king’s receiving room,” Victor said.
“I would have thought he would be on the throne when we met him. A bit strange to meet a king in such a manner, is it not?”
“You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales. The throne room is for formal audiences with His Majesty.”
“This isn’t a formal affair?”
“Since we were brought here, I suppose not. He must want to meet you without the watchful eyes of his advisors, nobles, and all the rest.” Victor, as if he were at home and unafraid to help himself, held up a hand to one of the servants holding a large jug. The servant approached, poured him a cup of what appeared to be wine, and handed it to him.
Laedron heard a deep voice, then the king and another man entered the room. Nothing like what I imagined. Pants, a shirt, and an overcoat? I pictured him in flowing robes, scepter in hand, and a crown fixed atop his head. He stood with the others, except Victor, whose back was to the door.
The king asked, “Is the wine to your liking, Victor?”
Coughing on his drink and nearly spilling it, Victor shot up from his chair. “Your Highness, I-”
“I jest,” King Xavier said, offering his hand to Victor.
Victor kissed it, then smiled. “Sire, I would like to present your subjects, recently returned from afar.”
One by one, Victor stated the names of Laedron’s companions, and in turn, they kissed the king’s ring and bowed. Lastly, Laedron did the same when Xavier came to him.
“All of you are so young.” The king eyed them. “From what they tell me of your deeds, I expected an army of seasoned soldiers. Please, sit with me a while.”
Laedron sat like a dog obeying the command of its master. “Thank you, Your Highness.” It’s as if my body obeys before I realize it, he thought, astonished.
“Tell me, Sorcerer, of your experiences.”
What kinds of things would a king want to know? Skip the boring parts. “When we arrived in Pilgrim’s Rest, we set upon a plan to go after Gustav. One companion was captured and another…” He paused briefly, preferring not to tell about Brice’s resurrection. “…seriously wounded. Vicar Jurgen and I went to the cathedral to face Gustav, and I ended up dropping a chandelier on his head.”
“My advisors tell me that Gustav was the priest who perpetrated the attack on our magic academy. When I learned of his death, this grieving father was given the pleasure of knowing that justice had been done, that his son’s killer had not gone unpunished. When I was told that he was actually a Zyvdredi master, his death-and his actions-meant even more, frightening me while also giving me even more delight.”