Short story: Messenger
I wrote this recently for heyoka! I thought I'd repost here, since there are some readers of TA who might enjoy seeing it.
I know it's been ages since I worked on this novel, but I still do love these characters!
The throne room was all gold and shadows, transformed by the setting sunlight pouring in through the tall, narrow windows. The so-called boy-King, now firmly into his second decade, sat his throne not like a decadent noble but like a soldier: rigidly straight, fingers lightly gripping the armrests, eyes never stopping as they scanned the entering company. There were no courtiers such as mobbed the Yran court, only the still, silent shapes of a dozen men in the dragon armor, and a lone man in court dress standing beside the King. He was the King's Yran consort, who rumor branded alternately a traitor and a loyal spy for the kingdom.
Laril hoped for the latter. His hands were sweaty inside his gloves as the green-gold eyes of the King of Mirivir passed over him. He had been assured that he had no need to worry¬--even if the message sewn inside the lining of his sleeve were discovered, it was written in code. But if Marcus y kess Aury was no loyal man... then Laril had no faith that even a cousin of his own blood was safe.
Laril stiffened as the King spoke.
"What is the meaning of your presence here?"
Laril kept his eyes straight ahead as the company's commander, Kor y kess Kor, stepped forward.
"Her Highness Melyssan yd Rysedess has commanded her loyal servants to bring Your Majesty that which she owes you."
"She is my wife. She owes me her company," the King said in a hard voice.
"Her Highness has insisted that this suffice."
The commander gave a sharp gesture with one hand. Laril and his men hefted the box they had borne all these miles and marched towards the King. At a bark from the commander, they dropped to one knee in unison and presented the box. It was Laril's duty to raise the lid; he was afraid that his hands would shake as he did so, but they did not.
He risked a look at Marcus as the contents of the box were revealed. A shadow passed over his cousin's plain, squarish features before recognition; and then Marcus gave Laril the tiniest of nods.
The King's mad laughter cut through any joy and relief Laril felt.
"Melyssan wishes to buy her way out of marriage?" The King strode forward and gave the box a fierce shove. Laril tried to steady the box, but it tumbled, and gold and jewels spilled across the dun stone floor. "She insults me and she knows it. Tell me, Lord Kor, does she wish war? Is that the message buried at the bottom of this luxury?"
"Of course not, Your Majesty!" the commander said hastily. Laril kept his eyes on the ground, trying to keep his breath even, his heartrate normal. It was said that an Ifuldrin could smell fear as well as any beast.
"Then pick up this filth and be on your way, lest you force me to shed blood and provoke her!"
Laril held his breath and hoped. For a moment he thought that the Queen's faith had been betrayed; then Marcus spoke. Whatever his words, they were soft, too soft for the Yran delegation to hear, spoken with his hand laid gently on the King's shoulder and his mouth nearly to the King's ear. Marcus had always been thus, Laril recalled; a quiet man, who rarely raised his voice beyond what was needed to make himself heard.
"Very well," the King said, looking at Marcus. "A company that cannot endure a night march is no threat to me. Captain!"
One of the dragon-soldiers snapped to.
"Board them in the barracks for the night. They are to be gone in the morning. I do not wish to lay eyes upon them again."
"My deepest thanks, Your Majesty," Kor said, but the King gave no sign of hearing him.
***
It was nearly dawn and Laril had slept not at all, searching his mind for how he might pass his message to Marcus if he did not come. Finally, unable to lie still any longer, he rose to make use of the trenches dug to the south of the barracks. A lantern-bearer in the leather armor and helmet of a novice followed after him; to ensure he caused no mischief, he assumed.
As he unlaced his trousers to relieve himself, the novice spoke.
"Cousin Laril, isn't it?"
Laril turned to see the novice-mask lifted to reveal the face of Marcus. "Cousin Marcus," Laril acknowledged him.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't leave him for some time. And then--I did not wish to be noticed approaching you."
Laril nodded. He reached inside his right sleeve and tore the lining. "She trusts you will understand," he said, handing Marcus the message.
Marcus took the parchment and read it. His face paled. He seemed to read it twice, and then three times. Then he took the lantern he carried and burned the letter. "So Geran was right, after all," he murmured. "She wishes me to leave with your company."
Laril blinked in surprise. He nodded. "Of course. I carry a spare uniform--we're nearly of a size."
"No." Marcus searched the darkness, his brows drawing together. "At times, I think only I keep him sane. If I am, if I can--then perhaps she stands a chance in her endeavors."
Laril felt stunned to consider that Marcus would stay in the face of a war with his own country. He wondered if Marcus was indeed a traitor. "But, cousin, he'll kill you if he finds out." He hardened his body and his voice. "And, I fear, we will kill you if we meet you on his side."
"I don't fear death," Marcus said, but his voice held some tremor. "And I won't fight for him."
"Then why? You really believe you can hold him back?"
Marcus breathed a sigh. "I have to try."
"You're mad!"
"A little," Marcus said. And Laril was disturbed; Marcus sounded only sane and sad. "Please tell her I am sorry. Tell the familly I am sorry, as well." He reached out, squeezed Laril's shoulder, and turned and went.
Laril thought to call out after him, convince him otherwise, but he did not dare. Instead he went back to the barracks.
When the dawn came, the Yran company rose, broke their fast, and went on a fast march home. Laril left with a heavy heart, knowing he was like to see it again, but this time, under the banner of war.
I know it's been ages since I worked on this novel, but I still do love these characters!
The throne room was all gold and shadows, transformed by the setting sunlight pouring in through the tall, narrow windows. The so-called boy-King, now firmly into his second decade, sat his throne not like a decadent noble but like a soldier: rigidly straight, fingers lightly gripping the armrests, eyes never stopping as they scanned the entering company. There were no courtiers such as mobbed the Yran court, only the still, silent shapes of a dozen men in the dragon armor, and a lone man in court dress standing beside the King. He was the King's Yran consort, who rumor branded alternately a traitor and a loyal spy for the kingdom.
Laril hoped for the latter. His hands were sweaty inside his gloves as the green-gold eyes of the King of Mirivir passed over him. He had been assured that he had no need to worry¬--even if the message sewn inside the lining of his sleeve were discovered, it was written in code. But if Marcus y kess Aury was no loyal man... then Laril had no faith that even a cousin of his own blood was safe.
Laril stiffened as the King spoke.
"What is the meaning of your presence here?"
Laril kept his eyes straight ahead as the company's commander, Kor y kess Kor, stepped forward.
"Her Highness Melyssan yd Rysedess has commanded her loyal servants to bring Your Majesty that which she owes you."
"She is my wife. She owes me her company," the King said in a hard voice.
"Her Highness has insisted that this suffice."
The commander gave a sharp gesture with one hand. Laril and his men hefted the box they had borne all these miles and marched towards the King. At a bark from the commander, they dropped to one knee in unison and presented the box. It was Laril's duty to raise the lid; he was afraid that his hands would shake as he did so, but they did not.
He risked a look at Marcus as the contents of the box were revealed. A shadow passed over his cousin's plain, squarish features before recognition; and then Marcus gave Laril the tiniest of nods.
The King's mad laughter cut through any joy and relief Laril felt.
"Melyssan wishes to buy her way out of marriage?" The King strode forward and gave the box a fierce shove. Laril tried to steady the box, but it tumbled, and gold and jewels spilled across the dun stone floor. "She insults me and she knows it. Tell me, Lord Kor, does she wish war? Is that the message buried at the bottom of this luxury?"
"Of course not, Your Majesty!" the commander said hastily. Laril kept his eyes on the ground, trying to keep his breath even, his heartrate normal. It was said that an Ifuldrin could smell fear as well as any beast.
"Then pick up this filth and be on your way, lest you force me to shed blood and provoke her!"
Laril held his breath and hoped. For a moment he thought that the Queen's faith had been betrayed; then Marcus spoke. Whatever his words, they were soft, too soft for the Yran delegation to hear, spoken with his hand laid gently on the King's shoulder and his mouth nearly to the King's ear. Marcus had always been thus, Laril recalled; a quiet man, who rarely raised his voice beyond what was needed to make himself heard.
"Very well," the King said, looking at Marcus. "A company that cannot endure a night march is no threat to me. Captain!"
One of the dragon-soldiers snapped to.
"Board them in the barracks for the night. They are to be gone in the morning. I do not wish to lay eyes upon them again."
"My deepest thanks, Your Majesty," Kor said, but the King gave no sign of hearing him.
***
It was nearly dawn and Laril had slept not at all, searching his mind for how he might pass his message to Marcus if he did not come. Finally, unable to lie still any longer, he rose to make use of the trenches dug to the south of the barracks. A lantern-bearer in the leather armor and helmet of a novice followed after him; to ensure he caused no mischief, he assumed.
As he unlaced his trousers to relieve himself, the novice spoke.
"Cousin Laril, isn't it?"
Laril turned to see the novice-mask lifted to reveal the face of Marcus. "Cousin Marcus," Laril acknowledged him.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't leave him for some time. And then--I did not wish to be noticed approaching you."
Laril nodded. He reached inside his right sleeve and tore the lining. "She trusts you will understand," he said, handing Marcus the message.
Marcus took the parchment and read it. His face paled. He seemed to read it twice, and then three times. Then he took the lantern he carried and burned the letter. "So Geran was right, after all," he murmured. "She wishes me to leave with your company."
Laril blinked in surprise. He nodded. "Of course. I carry a spare uniform--we're nearly of a size."
"No." Marcus searched the darkness, his brows drawing together. "At times, I think only I keep him sane. If I am, if I can--then perhaps she stands a chance in her endeavors."
Laril felt stunned to consider that Marcus would stay in the face of a war with his own country. He wondered if Marcus was indeed a traitor. "But, cousin, he'll kill you if he finds out." He hardened his body and his voice. "And, I fear, we will kill you if we meet you on his side."
"I don't fear death," Marcus said, but his voice held some tremor. "And I won't fight for him."
"Then why? You really believe you can hold him back?"
Marcus breathed a sigh. "I have to try."
"You're mad!"
"A little," Marcus said. And Laril was disturbed; Marcus sounded only sane and sad. "Please tell her I am sorry. Tell the familly I am sorry, as well." He reached out, squeezed Laril's shoulder, and turned and went.
Laril thought to call out after him, convince him otherwise, but he did not dare. Instead he went back to the barracks.
When the dawn came, the Yran company rose, broke their fast, and went on a fast march home. Laril left with a heavy heart, knowing he was like to see it again, but this time, under the banner of war.