Tales of Dead Kings 3/?

Adelai

Adelai knew that Ev would find her. He always did after all (it did help that she'd sent for him). In fact, she was almost certain if there had been any sort of historical reference to the matter, her brother would have perhaps been the best Prince to ever have played seek and find in this era—if not all the eras. Ever. Perhaps that was slightly biased, all things considered, but Adelai couldn't exactly be bothered with all things. She was far too busy reminiscing about when this part of the castle had last been used—and waiting for Ev to come.

It had been years upon years ago, she knew, sometime during a battle or a war. She had been just over there, sitting on the ledge-work that surrounded what was now an overgrown mass of weeds, but had once been a carefully tended bed within which a flowering tree had grown. Ev had stood half across the yard—they were fighting at the time, yes, over what, she couldn't quite recall—talking to what's-his-face of where-ever and Lord something-with-a-Q. Never mind the details. Whatever it was that her brother was being petty about at that moment had long since stopped bothering her and her full attention had been placed on the newest member of their family. And never mind Tantara, while she was never-minding people. Gods' only knew her sister had thrown this together for a bit of attention. Attention that should have been at Adelai's feet, where her niece gurgled in a very baby-ish (and not to mention un-queenly) manner.

But no one really liked to take note of small things like that until they did something cute or smelly. The latter being taken care of out of sight by some nurse maid or other while the former... Well, it was up to Auntie to take care of that. She didn't mind in the least. Perhaps one day, when her niece was old enough to walk and talk for herself and all of the court fawned over the young Princess, Aunt Adelai could tell them it was nothing new and they had simply failed to notice thus far.

Surely, though, there was one thing they would notice, without a doubt, but most likely never mention in her presence. Thank the Gods her hair is red. It was such a blessing, to be sure, that the girl had not met the same fate as the few of her bloodline... No, the girl's hair—even in infancy—was a deep and vibrant burgundy. She was not a Silver. The Flame had kissed her. She would not end up like her Aunt...

Adelai looked up then, hearing footsteps entering the silence of the bay-side courtyard, and smiled. No matter their youthful bickering of days long past, Evarin was her dearest brother—her smile became a smirk—even if he was copper-headed and herself marred with corn silk. It was their brandy-wine eldest sibling at the source of all the trouble—but that was what too much of the Flame did to you. Rather than silently melding into the background, you went mad.

“Adi?” had white-lashed, blue eyes turning upward to meet ones nearly black. Evarin was nice enough to remove his helm then, in case his younger sister could not recognize him by the familial name.

She returned from the past without much hindrance and offered him a slight bow. “Sire,” addressed him in a joking manner. “Pleasant weather, yes? Though I do hear the sea breeze does terrible things to chainmaille.”

“Adi...” rose again, but with a distinct note of exasperation. Plush lips curved at the tone, breaking to show just a hint of teeth. Yes, it was childish of her to pick on him, but if not him then who?

“Yes, dear brother,” she said, finally standing and brushing at the black skirts of her gown. Admonished, “Of course,” her head dipped again in his direction. Before those blue eyes could raise, however, she was alerted to the presence of their audience by the clacks and scrapes of metal-on-stone as sworn men took the knee in the courtyard. “Sir Anders,” she directed to the first knight. “Sir Rhys. You may leave us. Be assured we are safe nowhere if not here.” The Aavartti men waited an appropriate amount of time before their lead stood with a Sir and My Lady and dismissed himself. Rhys Haele and, what she could only assume were the few and far between men Lord Perquin had been willing to spare, took a bit longer, though. They shuffled to their feet, more than anything—an older gentleman requiring help to rise and Sir Haele, himself, doing the aiding.

And then grinning at her.

Of all the things. It was the sort of grin only achievable by those still doused in youth, as the young knight was. Surely he thought it winsome and, surely, it was quite grand as far as maids of the countryside were concerned. His, “Lady,” though, and the bow that went with it only made her blink, despite.

Once all of the men's backs had turned and vacated the space, she tilted her face to the side and up to study that flat-line expression her brother now wore. He was very good at that stiff, unsmiling-ness. Without hesitation, she took up a line that would have belonged to their father, under different circumstances, “Come, now, hug your sister.” Adelai held out her arms in case he had forgotten how. Evarin thankfully closed the space with no questions and hugged her loosely—and briefly. It was only at her scowl—and patronizing dusting of his attire—that he finally greeted her in earnest.

When the embrace broke, “You summoned me?” was managed on his end.

“I may have exiled myself to be with Father, but I-” unlike someone she knew, “-have retained my place here.” A Silver she was, but as long as their ailing father drew breath, she was still of the Blood. And she could still wield the Aavartti.

He ignored the chance for argument she'd given him. “And how long since you arrived? I've only had word of the King's untimely demise for a week. We rode hard to get here.” She figured he had driven them hard, most likely. If for no other reason than to give Sir Haele the fewest opportunities to speak as possible. His voice quieted to near a whisper, “Even if you had the Fleet at your disposal, Tenate is three weeks off.”

“I have been traveling since before then,” she answered simply, if only for that hint of irritation that crossed his face and had his brow furrowing ever so slightly.

His next concern, of course, would not be her, but, “Father?”

“He is fine,” she assured. “Tenate is an isle of priestesses. There are plenty to keep him safe in my absence.” Rather than wait for further questioning, she tacked on a quiet, “I missed my home. You don't know what it's like... You've only seen him twice.” Ev didn't reply. Still, she had missed her family—home. Not the way it was now, but the way she remembered it.

In the vision, her father stood tall. Nearly black hair—that seemed to catch fire in the room's light—only just beginning to give way to the grays at his temples. His right arm was outstretched, O'duren, his sword, thrust at an imaginary foe. She and Ev watched with nothing less than child-like enthrallment from their seats on the floor, breaking into giggles as their father dropped the sword and quickly fumbled to cover his hand with the white sleeve of his shirt. Waving it in the air, he yelled. “And then the thing bit off my hand!”

“But Papa,” Evarin had objected, “you still have your hand.”

“Magical, Kingly powers of regeneration,” was enough of an explanation, at the time, for Adelai, but Ev had just shaken his head.

Nonetheless, “Tell us about the good dragons, though,” was demanded.

Then, Father had shaken his head, looking tired. “Not tonight, Adelai.”

“Please?” they had chimed in unison. “The sand dragons!” Ev added, smiling.

“Yes, papa, the sand dragons!” she called out, as if it was her idea, jumping onto the bed with a bounce. “After that we'll sleep so soundly you won't even know we're here,” she promised.

“Alright, alright,” he had sighed. Both of them knew he would be telling the short version, but there were no complaints even as their father's voice picked up pace. “It is said that, long ago, the great dragons of the world all converged in the wastes. It was a meeting, of sorts—there were dragons that were Kings-”

“Like you,” she grinned.

“-And dragons that were councilors. Somme were old and wise, while others were young and full of fire. They talked for several days on how to bring peace to themselves and the world of man, but, all was not well. Far, far off, farther than you can think, there was darkness breeding—biding its time and looking for a weak spot. And if found it here.

“Man was young, then. We still relied on the old races and had yet to gain the power to truly defend ourselves. Without the watchful eye of dragon kind, we were helpless. No one will ever know what the darkness had planned, but, instead of simply destroying the people, it went after the minds of the good dragons—attacking mercilessly for days and weeks and months until ever last one turned to stone—and we could not help them.”

“And then they became the sand?” Ev asked, getting a nod in reply.

“Dragons all but vanished from the lands. But that's not the end of the story, for, you see, the Wastes are growing. Some say the dragons are still multiplying—living their lives even as sand—and now the darkness is long gone. Occasionally, a lost caravan will spot one trying to take shape and rise from the desert—bringing them water or protection until they can safely be on their way. The people claim that one day, a great inferno will come to them. It will burn so long and so hot that the sand dragons will all melt. And, what happens when you melt sand?”

“You get glass!” Adelai could remember the awe in her voice—even if she had heard the story several times.

“Yes. And then the glass will cool and the dragons will be whole again. They say that on that day, magic will return.”

She could fell her brother climb into the bed, then, before sleepily asking, “Will I be able to use the magic?”

“I don't doubt it. Magic has run in our family since long before we came to this land.”

“As long as it skipped Tara...” had been her drowsy whisper. Father had simply shaken his head, at that, and kissed their foreheads, not bothering to take Ev to his own room...

Blinking back, she was almost startled by how much her brother had aged. Nowadays, it didn't seem possible that he had ever been the type to enjoy a bedtime story. Although, Adelai assumed, that had been the last one they'd truly enjoyed—after all, she had long since blocked out how that night had ended, but, on occasion, her nose would still prickle with the scent of blood as she drifted to sleep.

“You should go back,” he said, unnoticing of the amount of time that had passed for her since she'd last spoke. “It's not safe here, you know.”

Though, she noted, he would never say why. Adelai knew, of course, and didn't even flinch at, “Because she killed him, you mean?” They both knew their eldest sister was capable. “Because, even though you can't step up without breaking your vows, I could still technically produce a legitimate heir.” It wasn't as entirely unheard of as was thought. There had been a few rare occasions in which the child of a Silver had managed just enough of the flame to sit the throne. “Maybe that's why I left Tenate. The only man there is Father, after all...”

She watched him blink at her for a few, quiet moments.

“The King is dead,” words she had spoken before. “What do you think she will do now?”

His still gloved hands fell to her shoulders, griped them and gave her a small shake. Adelai didn't fight it, though, she knew he was stubborn. “I think it's all the more reason to go back!”

Send her back to the Gods' Shore and Father, yes. There was a possibility that he was right, but was she the only one who felt the sense of imprisonment in it? It wasn't like he had spent the last five years in a foreign land with a dieing man who didn't know anyone anymore... “No,” she said, eyes set on his. “This time we fight.”

The Seas of the Briar 1/?

 The Dirae

Half the world away in a land of forests...

This was war.

At least it would be within the sense that, if the old buck didn't watch his antlers the next time he paced her front room—and if he happened to damage a very old, very important chandelier—Dirae Taormina was going to find herself on the bad end of a trial for bludgeoning the fool. Still, judging by the amount of other refuse that had become wrapped about—or trapped within—the prongs and tines of the yet-to-shed cranial adornments, surely it would not have been the first time.

“The stones do not lie,” she told him in spite of the fear for her belongings. And, yes, the front room of her home was filled with them. The Sunset Fawn was known for garnering the attention of all sorts of peoples across the world, and here sat their attentions in material form. She liked to display them for their prominence—gifts from Kings went near the front, as well as those from so-and-so's that no one had heard of, save her, but had interesting names with which she could weave a story or two. One of these obscurities was a lovely, pale jade urn from some village-level mayor called Tymbeddal. Despite the fact that she, herself, could no longer remember the true tale of its origin, she spared the thing a wince when the buck's pacing jarred the shelf it sat upon.

“That is their nature,” she continued, nonetheless. “The Fiorlien are not unlike two fawns entangled in utero. There is the choice to take them... Or there is the one to save the mother.” Sighing quite pointedly, Taormina took to her hooves—abandoning her seat for the first time since he had entered. “You did ask,” she said, as careful fingers set about untangling the length of white mane that draped over one thin shoulder.

She was well used to the look he gave her then. It was desperation in its simplest form—a look that belonged to Men, not Cervidaen—“What about the staff?” he managed. “Can you ask the staff?”

“The Staff of Dawn has no words.”

Honestly, what did these people take her for? Had she not spent the majority of her life dwelling beneath the same branches as they? Had the old mother does—which, she knew he had a few in his family—not watched her run about the paths with the rest of the children? In the end, of course, she knew it was the title. Titles were bad omens. If you were named King, there were the kingslayers and usurpers to worry over. If you were the last of anything, friends and family forgot that you had once been normal. No one ever remembered that you had been a child, cub or fawn who had stumbled about and learned to walk and talk just as they once had. Unfortunately for her, where her future had once held the promise of husbands and wives and a few offspring just like the rest of them, the Lady Dirae now had titles to take the place of all that.

So, to answer herself, they took her for what she was—which she hadn't entirely figured out herself, just yet, but in the meantime, she was the one who was supposed to fix things for them—answer their questions—and in the final act, bring them to an endless sleep.

“I suppose I must take it then,” he said in a small voice, stepping forward to bow his head and allow her to smear a handful of crushed berries into his forelock.

He supposed? “Yes. That would be for the best,” was managed without a break in demeanor. “You should take a candle to the northern stream and light it for Our Lady. Say the twenty-second hymn.” She led him toward the door as she spoke and held the first veil of beads to the side for him to pass. “When you return home, clean your entryway with lavendar.” And be grateful for such a short list.

When—and only when—he was out of sight would she exit the front room herself. Though not much more than head and long neck peeked out and angled up toward her door-guard. “Let no one else enter,” she said—knowing that he heard her despite his lack of acknowledgment. “I've a bad case of the beckonings.” It was work enough to get herself to a place to lie down before it got too strong. The last thing she needed was having to worry about anyone seeing it happen.

The lack of anyone being there to see, however, was probably why she only made it over the threshold before hitting the floor. Everything in that dim room was suddenly white before a familiar voice—or, rather, combination of voices speaking in unison—filled her ears and reverberated to her bones.

Have I got a job for you.

Tales of Dead Kings 2/?

Sir Evarin Omur

 

Of all the armored men of the world—from the lowliest fighters to the highest Emperor across stars and seas—platinum clad knights were a sight to behold. The Aavartti were no exception, no matter how many times one happened upon them. Every detail of the five mens' suits were delicate to the eye—carefully wrought, shimmering feathers, inlaid jeweled eyes, forged Delan glass visors and fine silk cloaks—but crafted in such a way that not one was even marred by something as simple as a scratch. In failing day light, Evarin remembered likening them to fiery birds. Gigantic, sweeping phoenixes gliding down the hillside on horseback.

“Anders,” he gave the lead a curt nod. “Bear, Llewyn.” The other two he wasn't sure of, so they in turn received a brief tip of his head. “The royal guard as escorts? I do believe I've seen it all.” Anders, he was certain, was stone-faced behind his helm. Not even in youth could he remember the head of the sworn men daring so much as a grin—not even to his father. Bear, however, was a case all his own—one-eighth Ursarian on his mother's side, no one was actually sure of his name. 'Bear' simply happened to fit the oversized, over hairy, warhorse seated knight. He was well known for the rough guffaw that escaped him, though. It went hand in hand with a particular rowdiness that had gotten him a reputation with the towns' women.

Llewyn was silent. Always silent.

“If-” Anders waited for Bear's laugh to die down. Ev could feel the dryness of that raised brow sapping the very humidity from the air. “-you don't mind- we have business. Her Ladyship has sent us to retrieve yourself and your entourage post-haste. That is all.”

Rhys, in the meantime, could be seen rounding up behind the Aavartti men. “Ladyship?” had a few of the horses whinnying out of surprise—they couldn't half turn their heads for the blinders, let alone hear. “Seems you aren't in half the shit I suspected, Sire.” Grin. “Llewyn, how's your mum?”

Thank the gods there were no weapons to be so easily drawn. He was sure even he would regret seeing which shade of red made young Haele so brash with everyone—if for nothing more than the simple fear that it would match his own. “Adelai has already arrived?” How long had she had word? Tenate and the isles of the Masters were half a world away...

Nothing flew that fast.

“She awaits your own in the bay-side courtyard,”came from where Anders had directed his steed between Haele's and Llewyn's. “She claims it to be of the utmost urgency that you speak with her first.”

And, at that, his mind began to work. It sought the seas for Tenate—that white granite island rising from cerulean waters. It searched the ruins, the four ancient Gods' Gates, the priestesses and priests, the farmland, the jungles. Everything. But even if his mind could truly seek out a presence not twenty feet from him, seeking the same across oceans was improbable, unlikely and just plain idiocy. If anything had become of his father, it would not be Adelai who delivered the information anyway.

That was all he could tell himself.

With a snap at Rhys and a toe to his mount, “Lead the way,” was all he could manage even with self-reassurance in full swing. It was not fear for himself or loved ones—had he had any—but power undivided would surely end them all... Two dead kings and one heir-less queen with an empire at her feet. His mind's eye razed the flatlands to flames. It would be war.

Tales of Dead Kings 1/?

Sir Evarin Omur

Days and weeks and months away from home had left a sour taste in his mouth and an even worse smell infused into the leather of his armor. There was something about going back, though. Somewhere in his mind was that child-like sense of returning. Other than the circumstances at hand, it wasn't an awful lot unlike riding back from Lord Perquin's stronghold a hundred summers ago. Back then, he had been Evarin the prince or—more importantly—the boy. Youth was so very, very easy. But, no more. Now he was Evarin the knight—one status exchanged for another, and youth traded for this.

“You should smile more, Sire,” came from his horse's left flank. The lift of a chin and a turn in the saddle would reveal the wide, emphatic grin of an approaching companion. Or, rather, escort, “We've been two days in from the coast and I've yet to see more than dour facades.” Rhys Haele was a good boy, gods save him. He could track and swing a club with the best of them, but being handsome of face and easy with his leisures had made him more than a bit full of himself. “I'm aware that the occasion demands it, but we're still on the grass.” Rhys shifted in his saddle and turned brown eyes to the horizon, “Save your frowns for the ivory streets of the Lady beyond.”

He took it back. That boy was a flea on the flank. Evarin would, however—with a huff—tilt his head enough to acknowledge the youth who'd been sent to fill an empty spot in that entourage and accompany him and his men to the capitol. “I've no reason to smile.” Why would he?

The boy straightened. “We've all heard what's happening, if that's what you're fussing over.”

No response was necessary. He knew that they weren't idiots. Every man from here to the Oldlands knew his tale. Bards sang of it, ladies simpered and spoke of thing like woe at their lost chance of being queen. And Evarin kept riding. He kept his head on his shoulders and his sword sharp.

Above all else, he kept his vows.

“Keosin was my friend,” he said, finally, after they had rode nearly a half mile more. “He was the father of my niece and your king. You wear your black and wipe that grin off your face like the rest of us, Sir Haele.” His voice was quiet, though. Not nearly the force it could have been. He knew it didn't have to be. All it took was for Evarin to catch his reflection and see what they all saw—king's blood; fiery-haired, tan-skinned, prominent, squandered king's blood—dark eyes would return to the youth's, “Respect is not an option.”

As things were, Rhys was not required to take notice of things such as appearance, lineage or—gods forbid—name. The title of “sir” shoved into it all, clumsy footed yet omnipotent, just the way a young prince had once demanded it. Back then, there had been no Rhys Haeles to contend with, though. There had been Sir Amarids and Sir Raynors—good, decent knights; men one could trust with their life; men one didn't mind being of the same standing with—not boys who took vows for the sake of tournament glory. “Our days are numbered, Sire. Do you not see?” He lifted a silver encased hand and pointed down the road. “There-”

Evarin had to squint and lower his visor a bit to catch sight of those glimmering shapes, but once he did, he didn't have to think twice about what or who they were.

Rhys smiled. “Without the king, your dear sister will be slightly more unbearable, I'm sure.” Clucking his tongue, he urged that tidy gray mare toward the front of the group. “Cheer up, Ev,” he called over an armored shoulder. “You'd hate to disappoint your queen by wearing that sour face when she has you piked!”

The Prologue

A canary sang in the center of the arc.

Sweet songs rang of nothing but truth, yet the men surrounding did little more than ignore her. After all, what was the insignificant song of a tiny yellow bird to the noble and wise? It was chatter to some—a background sound that they had grown accustomed to over the months. Others found it more... irksome. None smiled as the melody rose—a shame to the canary, who deserved much more than their grumbling. Smoke would be huffed past tobacco stained, but otherwise white beards—tendony, age spotted fists would slam against table tops.

All was in vain, however, because what was that songbird to do with her day if not sing her spite?

“Light it,” was the command that came on a voice whispery with age and disuse.

“Light it.”

The men turned to look the direction of their master—the noblest and wisest, surely...

...Doubtfully.

One would pipe up. A younger, more foolish member, of course. One who dared to allow such a thing as pepper to mar what should have been an entirely salt white beard. “Light it? Are you certain?” he stood from his workstation to whisk across the room. “No one has given us the command. His lordship is a fortnight's ride from the-”

“Light it,” said the first, with much more certainty.

If anyone had dared to ask the canary her opinion, perhaps the world would not have ended that day. Perhaps those wise men in that grand, circular room with all their age and all their power would have waited... Because on the horizon, riders did ride. Mounts foaming and bloodied from that all out race, they did indeed ride. They rode and rode and whipped their horses raw, sealed letters clasped in armor encased fingers.

Letters that should have saved the world.

“Light it, you thrice damned imbeciles!” But if you wanted something done, it was best to do it yourself. Turquoise robes furled as he strode to the canary—to the arc. She sang as billowy sleeves were rolled to the elbows of arms that had once been strong. Her tune would only falter once as the sparks jumped from hair to hair on those boney limbs, singes left in their wake.

This man could not possibly distract her, though. She had a job to do. The arc sparkled a vibrant yellow as its orb bobbed in response—floating happily to the tune of her music.

Someone shouted a plaintive “No-” but they were most likely too late.

An enchanted little bird had kept that orb happy. A happy orb meant a controllable arc meant stability in all their lives. Now that canary smoked and sizzled on the tiles.

The orb settled on a shivering black.

In silence and darkness the old mages worked, the riders continued to ride and a young king held his breath...

And there, the world stopped.

…

Only to be jump-started by that salt and pepper magician.

“Get me a box,” was said quietly. “Fetch a box,” came a bit louder. A glance over a shoulder would provide him with the reason for no “yessirs” or sounds of rushing foot-falls. He was the only one left—alive that was. The floor was a veritable sea of stinking corpses in vibrant mage robes. What it lacked, however, was the flame broiled canary. And now that he thought about it, the quiet was distinctly song-filled.

A small voice rose to grab at his attention. “What will you give?” it asked.

“Anything. Everything.”

“So be it.”