Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (36 page)

Cam was appalled.  “Killed his own daughter?”

“It was not by his own hand,” Lyrra-Sharron replied.  “But I believe it was his fault.  We were twins, matching in age, since my mother made certain that none recalled the order of our births, thus we held equal claim to the Crown.   Miara-Sharron, the artist, would not be able to lead the Armies, while I, the warrior, could.  His attentions turned totally away from her, and with my mother always so distracted, the neglect became unbearable.  So she took her own life.”

“So you claim her suicide was murder on the part of your father?”

              “Her death was due to his negligence,” Lyrra-Sharron defended.  “Before Karlock-Sharron’s death, Miara-Sharron and my father had been close, she was father’s little angel.  Had he listened as before, had he paid her some attention, had he shown her the love she desired from him, Miara-Sharron might have wanted to live!  And it was not only her life his indifference would destroy!”

Her tone had been getting more aggressive, her voice louder, and she took a moment to regain her composure, before Lyrra-Sharron continued her tale.  “My mother took to her rooms.  I almost never saw her.  Sometimes she would come to supper, but always she would leave before she could even eat, distraught.  My father would not allow me access to her, claiming she wanted to be left alone with her sorrow.  He was constantly leaving Gara-Sharron, usually claiming military matters only he could handle were arising, and Lady Ara and Guardsmen kept me from my mother, still.  Months later, she was dead, my father claiming she had died of grief.  I do not doubt that his neglect was responsible for her death as well.”

Lyrra-Sharron took a breath, and her tone changed.  “The King and I rarely had any conversations after that.  I took lessons on how to be a queen from my mother’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Ara, and learned what I could from other functionaries about the Palace.  My father plotted battles, and conquests, and was biding his time.  He made plans, laid out invasion routes of our neighbors, building a massive army, awaiting the right time to strike.  I came across numerous diagrams and stratagems, maps marked with invasion routes, proof of his intentions.  He has no care for the people of this land, only his own power.”

She halted again for a moment.  “Until I met Andim, I believed my father burned Tarmollo as an exercise in siege warfare.  The Sharron Army has never been so large as it is now, and they prepare all kinds of tactics and strategies that can only be offensives.  He is preparing invasions, not the counter-strikes he claims.  I have seen many of his so-called ‘defensive’ plans, and in truth they are invasion routes he lays out, and plans to take more land for himself, for his own power, for his own control.”

Lyrra-Sharron’s voice had been rising in volume again, and she paused, catching her breath, and continued more softly.  “My father is responsible for the death of his son, his daughter, and his wife.  He is deceitful, ambitious, unemotional, and he is a young man.  It will be many, many years before I would become queen.  Years when I could do nothing to stop him invading his neighbors, killing his own people, like he killed his own family.  The Council is wholly his.  The only way I could stop him was to rebel against him, and win the support of the people.”

Lyrra-Sharron’s tone changed again, becoming more ominous.  “Sharron is the largest kingdom in the world.  It is a nightmare of bureaucracy and politics to maintain as it is.  And to invade our neighbors, for his own gain, at the expense of the health and welfare of his own people, and, frankly, those he would conquer...it is irresponsible!  I would inherit war-torn lands, starving, dying people, and a crown steeped in blood.  No!  He must be stopped.  That is why I rebel.  That is why I created and lead the Falcon Raiders, in memory of my lost brother.”

*****

              Varlock-Sharron was rapt.  The story his daughter told, as related by the errant Sorcerer, was incredible.  And told from that perspective, he found that, like his own powers of persuasion, his daughter’s tale was captivating.

“So that is how she recalls these things?” he questioned softly.

“Yes, your Majesty.  That is what she believes, and that is what drives her rebellion against you.”

“I never knew she felt like that,” Varlock-Sharron stated defensively.  “That is not at all what happened.  That is the emphasis of aspects of this misfortune from so long ago from only her perspective.  But it is not the truth of the matters.”

“Then tell me, your Majesty, just what did happen?  Let me hear your side of this tragedy?”

The King paused.  He considered things a moment, clearly weighing his privacy against the awkward necessity of explaining himself to this man. 

Varock-Sharron removed his hands from the table, sitting on the edge of his seat, back straight.  He took a breath, then cleared his throat.  “Very well.  I am not certain I understand the reason for all this, and I do not know what good this knowledge will be to you, but I shall tell you the truth.  Know this; all that I speak of now must remain between you and I alone, Cam Murtallan.”

*****

Cam agreed, and sat back to hear the King’s tale.

For the next quarter of an hour, Varlock-Sharron spoke of the past, his version of the same tale Lyrra-Sharron told, while Cam heard him out.  The King had always been a gifted speaker, and Cam found himself riveted, not just by the tale from Varlock-Sharron’s perspective, but also by the tone of his voice, and the obvious emotions involved in the subject matter.

“Is that what you sought?  Does that answer your questions?” questioned Varlock-Sharron softly when he concluded.  It was clear to Cam that he had just freed emotions long buried in the past.

“That explains a great many things, Majesty,” Cam replied.  His eyes went distant a moment, as he weighed the King’s tale against that of the Princess, but when he trained them back on the King, his tone became sympathetic.  “I am sorry for these calamities of your life, Varlock-Sharron Anduin.  They have changed you, affected you as no man could easily endure.  Know that if I could take you back in time, and change them, I would.”

Cam reached for the goblet before him, and took a drink.  He considered his words carefully, before he looked again at the King.

“I cannot take back the past,” stated Cam simply.  “But I can prevent further grief from befalling House Anduin, and the whole of Sharron.  You must come with me.  You must let me take you to Lyrra-Sharron.”

“You are asking that I trust in you implicitly?” queried Varlock-Sharron pointedly. 

“I am, your Majesty.”

Varlock-Sharron stood.  “I have shared with you history I do not give easily.  You have uncovered a secret no other has discovered.  I have granted you this stay of execution, and I have allowed you to speak with brevity I hardly allow from many of my closest advisors…but you ask too much.  How do I know this is not an elaborate trap for me?”

Cam shrugged, holding out his hands, palms up.  “I come to you open handed, Varlock-Sharron.  I grant you, I am a criminal of your land, escaped from my fate, sentenced to death.  Even bearing that, I have come to you, at terrible risk to myself.  I took this chance.  I revealed myself, knowing full-well I could be signing my own death warrant.  Now I ask you to take a chance on me, as I have taken on you.”

Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms, obviously studying the man before him.  “You intrigue me, Cam Murtallan.  I grant you that.  When we met before, you would not be broken.  You cheated death, and marked your time with my daughter and her outlaws.  You cheated fate, somehow reclaiming a power that, once lost, cannot be reclaimed.  Now you have come before me, and reveal everything I asked before, and much, much more.  I do not know you, Cam Murtallan.  I do not understand you.”

He paused, and Cam found himself holding his breath.  “But somehow, and I have no idea how I know this, I cannot say…beyond any logic I can think of, I know I should trust you.”

“Our fates are linked, your Majesty,” Cam stated conclusively.  “We are both agents of Order.”

“You speak of Order and Chaos as one would speak of good and evil,” Varlock-Sharron observed, a note of curiosity in the remark.

“Good and evil involve ideas and intentions, where order and chaos are tangibles.  The two most powerful forces in the world.”

“I have often considered these notions, in actuality,” remarked Varlock-Sharron conversationally.  “I believe this could make for a fascinating discussion for you and I to undertake, Cam Murtallan.”

Cam grinned wryly.  “Certainly, if you don’t choose to carry out my interrupted sentence and have me executed forthwith.”

Varlock-Sharron’s voice dripped with sarcasm.  “You are correct…I should probably send now for a headsman.” The King returned Cam’s grin.  Then his tone changed, become contemplative.  “Though I am sure you would make it hard work.  I am not very knowledgeable of the spells you could cast, apart from what little I have seen, and that which I have read, but I sense you would not be easily taken.”

He grinned again slyly, the tension clearly broken.  “I suppose, then, I must grant you an amnesty instead.”  

Cam’s shoulders sank some, as he also felt the tension break.  His gamble had paid off.  “Though I’d certainly not tell you how to run your Kingdom, that’s a fair assumption, your Majesty.”

“Tulock!” cried the King.

Sir Tulock reentered the study.  His eyes grew wide as he recognized the Sorcerer seated before the King.

“Draw up some official papers, granting Cam Murtallan, here, amnesty.”  Varlock-Sharron commanded.  “Before you ask me too many questions, know that he has returned to us, perhaps with the solution to our current difficulties.”

Tulock nodded his head in agreement, the look on his face as he eyed the condemned man before him a mix of concern and curiosity. 

Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam as well.  “It is getting late.  I do not doubt, after the pains you have taken to come here, you would like to rest.  I will have quarters found for you.”  His tone became facetious.  “I presume you would prefer ambassadorial quarters to the dungeons?”

Cam could not help himself, the elation at his success made him grin, his own response took on a similar tone as he arose from his chair.  “Though I am quite familiar with the comforts and hospitalities of your fine dungeons, your Majesty, I do believe ambassadorial quarters would be much more preferable.”

“Fine,” replied Varlock-Sharron.  He turned to his Seneschal.  “Tulock, call the Council.  First thing in the morning.  We have new preparations to make.”

Tulock finally recovered from his initial shock, curiosity still obvious in his expression.  “Yes, of course, your Majesty.”

Varlock-Sharron walked over to Cam, and spoke in a declarative tone.  “Cam Murtallan, I hereby grant you amnesty from the laws of Sharron, preventing the practice of the arte of Sorcery.  You may remain in the palace, as my guest, with full ambassadorial privileges.”  His tone became more conversational.  “Will that do?”

“Yes, your Majesty.  And thank you.”

“Fine.  Then come with me,” ordered Varlock-Sharron.  “Tulock, see to those papers, and meet me back here right away.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Tulock, almost running, obviously anxious to get his duties completed as soon as possible, so as to learn what had just transpired.

The King gestured to the door.  “Cam Murtallan?”

Cam walked out, followed by the King.

*****

For the first time in over thirty years, a Sorcerer would sleep in the palace of the King of Sharron, in the ambassadorial wing, not the dungeon. 

Chapter 27

Lyrra-Sharron found herself awake just after dawn, moments before she would have gotten up normally.  A Falcon Raider named Tirra gently scratched at the flap of her tent. 

She rolled over, and found the woman peering in.

“What is it, Tirra?” she queried softly.

“M’lady, Baron Tilroan is here.  He has with him almost a hundred men.  Salman and the Baron await you in the meeting pavilion.”

“Thank you, Tirra.  I shall be there soon.”

The young lady bowed, and departed.

Lyrra-Sharron threw off her blankets, and arose.  She stretched, and removed her chemise.  She changed into fresh underclothes, a grey tunic and black breetches.  She pulled on her sword belt, and searched for a brush.  Her hair was hard to control as it was, but the rough life made it doubly so.  More than once she’d considered cutting it down, but admitted privately to herself she was too vain to do that.  It was, she thought, was one of her best features. 

Lyrra-Sharron reluctantly admitted to herself that she missed Dak’s presence in the camp.  Though he’d never taken to her bed, she’d hinted to him more than once she would not mind.  A few Falcon Raiders had enjoyed her favor, in part as bribes to recruit them, and on one occasion from simple boredom.  As much as she could surely bring any man to her chambers, she found there was only one she really considered of late.               

              She shook off the thought, concentrating instead on what lay ahead.  Time for intimacy, and even love, perhaps, after all else was through.  She took the stick she used as a toothbrush to her teeth, then pulled a vest over her tunic.  Satisfied, she left her tent.

The sky was becoming lighter, the sun rising somewhere beyond the overcast.  Small fires were already going, as Falcon Raiders prepared for the morning breakfast.  In a clearing where no tents had been set-up, Andim and Kallan were going through the motions of several sword exercises. 

She slowed, watching them a moment.  She found herself wearing a gentle smile at the image of the two men, the old and the young, both so adept with the heavy longswords. 

She crossed the rest of the way to the large pavilion that had been erected as a meeting tent.  This had come with her when she’d left the palace, nearly two years ago.

Her thoughts took her back to that choice.  Discontent, remembering the long repressed pain of her dearly departed siblings and mother, she’d gathered a great many of her things.  To her father, she’d proposed that she make a tour of southern Sharron, even a return to the family estates in Anduin.  A month away from the palace, her personally selected guards took out those not in on her plan.  They stole away, and successfully disappeared. 

She’d plotted and planned for months, then slowly began to recruit.  She raided small merchants, took supplies quietly.  Left messages that could not be ignored by the King.  After several setbacks, she was ready. 

Less than six months ago, she’d begun the real work that would help her achieve her goal.  Now, albeit ahead of schedule, her plans were near to their fruition.

She entered the pavilion, and found Baron Tilroan sitting in a chair, feet propped up on the table.  In his hand, a wooden tankard with steaming tea.  Salman stood at the head of the table they’d erected here.

“Ah, your Highness,” the Baron said, inclining his head.  He made no move to stand, as was proper.  Lyrra-Sharron chose to ignore this.  “I am here, along with three-fourths of my household guards.  Foltupp and Dovan will arrive this afternoon and tomorrow morning, respectively.”

Lyrra-Sharron looked past the Baron to the Falcon Raider standing nearby.  “All is well, Salman?”

The Falcon Raider started, obviously not expecting to be addressed.  “Yes, your Highness.”

She took a deep breath, let it out.  “Very well, then.  Go and help the Baron’s men find a place to set up camp.  I...trust our new ally, but all the same, have a few of our people keep an eye on his.”

Salman bowed, and exited the tent.

Lyrra-Sharron took a tankard, picked up the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea.  She preferred coffee, but this would suffice, for now.

“I must admit, Fornon Val-Cara, that I am surprised you have still come.”

The Baron smirked.  “I am a man of my word.”

Lyrra-Sharron snorted.  “Hardly.  I recall well the promise of tenfold output from your farmers six years ago.  I understand they did so, but we only saw the original doubled.  You made quite the profit on foreign trade.”

Tilroan shrugged.  “What can I say?  Bordering on Cordianlott and Medaelia as my lands do, sometimes it is easier to make agreements with neighboring provinces than to go through the tedium of Kingdom.”

Lyrra-Sharron smiled sweetly.  “Even when that is not entirely legal?”

“Just so.”

She walked around the table, took the seat opposite the Baron.  “So that we understand one another, Tilroan, let me make our arrangement perfectly clear.  You will speak in my favor to the Common.  When they see me supported by three Barons, they will make me Queen.  I will make you and the others counselors to myself.  If positions become available, I will place you on the Council.”

The Baron frowned.  “I should think you would sweep the Council clean, as they are so ardently supportive of Varlock-Sharron.”

Lyrra-Sharron took a drink.  She looked at the Baron.  “As I can, of course.  Lady Ara will likely remain treasurer, and I may well keep on one of the Generals.  I do not know who sits as Foreign Minister now.  But as opportunities present themselves, we shall do what can be done.”

Tilroan bowed his head, raising his tankard.  “Fair enough.”

“
Our families have had naught but animosity between us a long time, now,” Lyrra-Sharron commented.  “What had brought this on?”
 

The Baron shrugged.  “Perhaps I have come to realize that the time is right for a reconciliation.  For the good of Sharron.”

“For the good of Sharron?” she questioned.  “You have hardly done a thing in your life that was not simply for the good of you and yours. Why this change of heart?”

“A man can change, your Highness,” Tilroan replied.  “I have heard you are more reasonable than your father.  I believe that you will make us all more prosperous, and more stable, than any of the eleven generations that have preceded you.  Sharron needs a change…and I have come to believe that you are the right person to make that happen.”

“You say all the right words, Fornon Val-Cara,” Lyrra-Sharron conceded.  “But I have known you all my life, and you have always been saying one thing and doing another.  I remember not long after my mother died, you offered to personally take a mission to Cordianlott in my father’s name, to improve relations.  And while you went to Cordann, all you did was arrange better free trade between your farmers and those across the border.  My father nearly stripped you of your rank for that, I recall.”

“I came to you as I promised, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin,” the Baron stated pointedly. “That was more than a decade ago, and at the time, the trade tariffs between our nations were killing my farmers.  You may also recollect that your father did change that situation once I made it apparent how bad it was for Sharron.”

“That is true,” she agreed.  “But I do not believe you are surprised at my skepticism.  I am forced by our history to question you motivation in this.”

Baron Tilroan hung his head a moment, before looking poignantly into Lyrra-Sharron’s eyes.  “Your Highness, this hostility between our houses no longer serves either of us, nor our Kingdom.  If we can set this aside, think of all that we can accomplish, for the greater good of the nation.  If you and I can make peace, think of the message that sends, not only to our own kinsmen, but to our neighbors.  I believe it is at last time we set aside the petty bickering, and work together, the two most powerful families in Sharron.”

Lyrra-Sharron saw the sincerity in his eyes, heard it in his voice.  As long as she had known him, sincere is never a word she would have associated with the Baron.  “Alright, Tilroan.  I accept that you have finally chosen to do something for the good of Sharron.”

The Baron raised his glass to the Princess.  “To the end of old rivalries.”

Lyrra-Sharron inclined her tankard to the man, and took a draught, feeling a little better about Tilroan’s presence.

If she could broker peace between the houses of Tilroan and Anduin, she could truly do anything.  The Falcon Raiders would be ready.

*****

The members of the Council were assembling in the customary meeting chamber.  All were here, save General Bodrir and General Sopirr.  Tulock had passed the order, as he’d been requested, but refused to answer the questions of the others. 

Lady Ara had sat on the council since before her Queen’s passing.  Emergency meetings were nothing new, and in light of the present situation, were almost constant.

Varlock-Sharron entered the room.  He seemed less dour, more present than he’d been in a long time to all.  He held his head higher, his step appeared livelier.  He gestured to each of them, as they took up their customary seats. 

The King sat in his place, and cleared his throat, signaling that he was ready to begin.

“I bid you good morning,” he began.  “I am sorry to call you all so early, but a matter of the utmost importance has come before me.  There may be another, more promising solution to the Falcon Raider crisis then that which we have laid ahead for ourselves.”

“We’ve considered all our options well, your Majesty,” stated Sir Garvol. “Did we miss something?”

The King actually grinned.  “No, my friend.  We missed nothing.  But an unexpected envoy has brought us a new hope,” he glanced towards the doorway.  “Cam Murtallan?”

              A man came into the Council, flanked by a pair of guards.  He was of average height, with long, dark hair pulled back and tied off by a leather cord. 

Besides Tulock, only Captain-General Ov Callan and Sir Garvol had seen this man close-up before.  The look of surprise was evident on their faces.

“I should like to introduce you to an envoy who came to us from the Falcon Raiders.  This is Cam Murtallan.”

“Majesty, isn’t this...” Sir Garvol began.

“Yes, Sir Garvol.  This is the very same Sorcerer who escaped us.”

“What?” exclaimed Lady Ara, leaning away from the table.  She’d been caught off guard by things that had happened in these meetings, but this was the first time she was truly shocked.

Lady Marna stared curiously at the Sorcerer.

“Your Majesty, what is this?” questioned Ov Callan.

The King arose, and walked to Cam’s side.  “Cam Murtallan, as you all know, was the Sorcerer we captured and sentenced to death, who was freed by the Falcon Raiders.  He hid with them, trained with them.  Fought with them.  Now, after all these months, he has come before me, with a better, less detrimental solution to this crisis.  I have granted him amnesty, and he will now explain the situation that has brought him here.”

They all turned their eyes to Cam.

For the next quarter of an hour, the Council listened with rapt attention as Cam described his release and subsequent escape, his joining the Falcon Raiders, his place among them, and the current plan they were putting into motion.  He was careful to omit certain details, many of which were private between him and the King.

“By tomorrow or the day after, she will have gathered her full strength.  Along with these Barons, she’ll have the whole of the Falcon Raiders at Tarmollo.  By the end of the week, they march to Mintarn,” concluded Cam.

There was almost a collected release of bated breath.  Each member of the Council reacted in their own manner, considering the words of the Sorcerer.

Lady Ara felt a renewed hope.  Perhaps the Princess, whom she often thought of as her own daughter, having been the motherly figure in the girl’s life for more than a decade, could be spared.

“This leaves us a couple options,” remarked Sir Garvol.  “We can inform our people in place at Mintarn of what they can expect.  Or we can shift our forces, and hit them at Tarmollo by tomorrow night.”

“I can have Guardsman ready to move out, to join the strike force,” added Ov Callan.  “I would lead them myself.”

“No,” said the King.  “That will not be necessary.”

He paused, and looked to the Sorcerer. “What Cam has not told you is that he can get me to Lyrra-Sharron.  I will go to her, tell her what is at stake, and try to dissuade her from this course.”

“This cannot be permitted, your Majesty,” stated Captain-General Callan firmly, standing.

“It will not be safe,” added Sir Garvol.  “She might kill you.”

“No, she will not,” said the King emphatically.  He shook his head.  “She does not wish me dead, else she would have bided her time here, and seen to it.  She knows her history, and remembers well what happened the last time such a ploy was used to take the Crown.”

Lady Ara recalled the records of Walia Val-Cara’s murder, and what had ensued after.

“I must go to her with Cam Murtallan, and try my best to remove her from this course,” remarked the King.  “If we want to avoid losing needed military forces, and disrupting the line of succession, it is our only hope.  This is our best chance to do this with the smallest cost.  It is a chance I simply must take.  I will make preparations, and leave tomorrow morning.”