Gatekeeper’s Deception – Deceiver

“A week after you left on your mission,” Val said, “we received a message from Bartheylen Castle.” Kyer made a quick calculation. Three weeks ago, then. “You will note that Kien is not here to greet you, and he asked me to pass on his regrets.”

Kyer felt like waving her hand to brush the comment aside. Clearly a higher concern took precedence over mere courtesies. But it wasn’t her place to dismiss it.

“He returned in great haste to Bartheylen Castle upon hearing that Lady Alon Maer has been taken seriously ill.”

Alarm seized Kyer’s heart. “How seriously?”

“We do not know. The healers could tell us their observations but have drawn no conclusions. All we know is that it seems her life may be threatened by this illness.”

The dread hung in the chamber like the deep resonance of a gong. The group waited.

Valrayker was not finished. “The other part of the problem is that Alon is pregnant. It stands to reason that if her life is in danger, so is that of the child.” Here, the dark elf turned away, and Kyer saw his shoulder blades contract, controlling the emotion that surged. She scanned her friends and frowned with concern at Derry. He was nearly overcome, with his palm pressed over his mouth. As Val’s captain, he had known Kien and Alon Maer for at least half his life.

“There must be something we can do,” Kyer said. “Do the Healers not have any ideas?”

All five watched their leader expectantly.

Valrayker composed himself. “It is true that there is one idea.”

“Well, let’s have it!” Kyer said.

The dark elf contemplated her. “I confess I’m moved by your depth of feeling for a dear friend of mine, though you have never met her.”

Kyer frowned away her blush. They would never understand why Alon Maer meant so much to her.

Valrayker wandered over to ponder the map on the wall.

“The healers at Bartheylen Castle are the best in Rydris. They have employed the full spectrum of their craft, all the ancient arts, their knowledge of spells and charms, all their energy and internal powers and have come up with nothing but minor, temporary remedies. They cannot even come up with a diagnosis, let alone what they need: a cure. The prime healer here in Shael suggested it, and we all agreed that in order to learn exactly what ails Alon, and to discover a cure, if there is one, we need to consult a higher power.”

Valrayker looked directly at Jesqellan.

Jesqellan is a higher power? Kyer thought doubtfully. But then the mage’s eyes widened in stark contrast to his dark skin.

“You can’t mean that we need to consult Kayme?” Jesqellan murmured, his mouth agape.

The duke nodded gravely. “The prime can think of no other option.”

Kyer looked from one troubled face to another around the room. Nobody seemed happy with the idea. Who’s Kayme?

“No one has seen or heard from Kayme in years!” said Jesqellan. “Why, it has been at least fifteen years since I have heard him utter a single sound from his dark tower way up north, and even then it was a three-word declaration, ‘I am busy,’ that gave us all the strong message that he absolutely does not want to be disturbed! One does not just walk up to the tower of the most powerful wizard in Rydris, knock on the door, and ask for a casual favour as if we were asking to borrow some eggs. It just isn’t done.”

“It’s our only hope.” Valrayker sank wearily into his chair. “If you don’t wish to be a part of it, I won’t blame you or bear any grudge against you. It may be that he isn’t willing or even able to help us. I’m merely asking you to try.”

“I’ll go,” said Kyer without hesitation.

“As will I.” Phennil nodded, though the blond wood elf spoke too confidently for Kyer to believe he wasn’t afraid.

“You know I will,” Captain Derry said quietly to his lord.

Jesqellan stared at the floor and said nothing. Next to him, Janak sat with his jaw crooked in a thoughtful pose and played with his beard.

“It isn’t necessary to make a decision this instant,” Valrayker assured them. “The situation is urgent, but I’m also fully aware of the danger you would be heading into. We’ll talk further in the morning.”

#

Kyer left the chamber as swiftly as decorum allowed. Her teeth felt numb, and no amount of elvish wine had stilled the thudding in her chest. A few hours earlier they had ridden into the city of Shael expecting celebration after their successful mission in the north. Instead she had sensed that a pall had settled over the city. Whatever she had guessed the cause might be, she hadn’t imagined this.

Derry stayed in the room with his Lord awhile longer, but Phennil, Jesqellan, and Janak followed her into the back of the castle foyer. Kyer gulped fresh air, only now aware of how many hours they had been cooped up in the small chamber. It had been midday when they arrived, and now the torches and candles cast warm, flickering light into the shadows that stretched from corner to corner across the stone. The story of how they rescued the people of Nennia had taken several hours. At least two meals had been brought to them as they told their tale.

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining or anything,” said Phennil, stretching his legs with a lunge, “but weren’t you hoping we’d get to rest a bit when we got back here? I suppose we’ll have to leave again in a few days.”

“Of course.” Kyer tried to find a purpose for her hands. “I’d leave now if I could.”

Jesqellan clutched the front of his brown, travel-weathered Moabi robes. “Some of us have not yet decided if we will go at all,” he said softly. “Some of us are more aware than others of the significance of Valrayker’s request.”

Phennil’s forehead creased with concern at the mage’s warning, but Kyer stood her ground. “He needs us to ask a wizard for help. How difficult can that be?”

“My dear girl, Kayme is not just ‘a wizard’.” Jesqellan narrowed his eyes at Kyer. “I was not exaggerating when I said Kayme is the most powerful wizard in all of Rydris. He is arrogant, impatient, and does not like to be disturbed.” His voice remained quiet, but its increased intensity betrayed his fear. “Casual favours will not be entertained. And I shudder to think what the price will be for such an interruption.”

“This is hardly a casual favour.” Kyer matched his intensity with no trace of fear. “A person’s life is at stake.”

Jesqellan drew up his entire five-and-a-half foot height. “Many lives are at stake all over Rydris. War does that.” He tapped his staff on the stone floor in frustration. “Three years ago, a small party sought his help, and he became so enraged at their temerity they found themselves scattered, separately, to the corners of the continent! No food, no horses, no weapons, nothing. Alone. It took my cousin six months to reach home again, and he very nearly perished.” A gusty sigh escaped his lips. “Yes, a life is at stake. Nevertheless, no life is worth the risk of summoning the wrath of Kayme upon myself.”

Janak’s grunt inserted itself between his two comrades. “I’m deciding nothing until I’ve slept in a bed for one night.” He opened the door to the tower stairs. “Val said an instant decision wasn’t necessary—” He darted a backward glance at Kyer, his deadened left eye baleful. “—so, unlike some, I’ll not make one.” He bumped into the doorframe as he shuffled his dwarven bulk into the stairwell. Jesqellan nodded to Kyer and Phennil and went after him.

Kyer did not follow. Earlier she’d have given almost anything to drag her exhausted, travel-weary body upstairs to her cosy guest room in Shael Castle. Instead, the dark elf’s announcement had dispersed her fatigue. There was something she had to do before she would sleep tonight.

Smouldering, she stalked across the stone floor into the shadows of the castle foyer. Granted, she didn’t know this Kayme person; perhaps she ought not to be hasty. Would extra consideration change her mind? Janak knew better than the others how she had been affected by her previous hasty actions. He had every right to caution her about her decision making. This time, though, Kyer’s impulsive choice was not a reckless one, no matter how it came across to her companions. I don’t need to justify my “instant decision” to any of them. She hopped up the first few stone steps of the broad staircase that curved its way up to the second floor.

She stopped partway up and turned to face the massive oak doors that both provided and denied entrance to the keep. Raising her eyes above the doors, she beheld there the image she had wanted—no, needed to see.

The painted version of Lady Alon Maer stood next to her jet black horse, healthy, dignified, her palm resting on her sword hilt. Beautiful and deadly. How many had she killed? How many of those were duels in which the lady had been forced to make a snap decision? How many, Kyer sucked in her breath, were cold-blooded revenge against the direct order of her superior?

Kyer had killed six men since coming into contact with Valrayker. Two had been in self-defence during an attack in the woods. Two had been in Nennia, in defence of her friends. The other two had been one-on-one. Face to face. The first was a duel in which a blackguard named Simon had cheated. He would certainly not have been content to accept his defeat had she left him alive. The other . . . Kyer gripped the balustrade as the tempest of emotion swirled around her again.

In her report to Valrayker a couple of hours ago, Kyer had admitted to killing Ronav Malachite. She couldn’t have avoided telling him. But what she had left out was the manner in which she had killed him. Ronav had made himself her enemy. He had beaten her, flogged her, and very nearly mutilated her. He had done unspeakable things to a village full of innocent people. Oh yes, he deserved to die. And though she had promised Derry she wouldn’t take matters into her own hands, she had disobeyed his direct order because she wanted to be the one to kill Ronav.

There was no glory in it.

Derry had been angrier with her than she had ever seen him. But eventually he had, she thought, understood why she had done it.

Kyer’s vision cleared and she stared at the Lady, a warrior to whom this kind of struggle must not be foreign. Kyer nodded, certain that the Lady’s gaze forgave her. She renewed the vow she had made a short time ago.

“I’ll do it alone if I have to.”

She was startled by the sound of a throat clearing softly. “You won’t have to do it alone, Kyer. Derry and I volunteered, too, remember?”

Phennil’s light-footed steps had traced hers. She had forgotten he was there. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, eerie and ghostlike in the dim light of the dozen or so half-burned candelabra around the stone walls of the foyer. He looked up at her cautiously, politely not intruding upon her space.

She blinked a few times, and a grim smile finally eased the tautness in her forehead. He took it as an invitation, and leapt, two steps at a time, to join her. Kyer sat and waited for him to ask the question she knew was on his mind—the same question Val had already raised. She braced herself.

“What do you think?” He plopped down next to her. “Will they join us?”

She was surprised; that was not the question she expected. “Do you doubt it?”

“I don’t know. Jesqellan seems awfully hesitant, and Janak—”

“Won’t say no to a mission that I’ve said yes to,” finished Kyer. “Janak and I . . . we reached an understanding,” she said thoughtfully. “I imagine things won’t have changed that much.” She rested her elbows on her knees.

“What about Jesqellan?”

Kyer’s jaw jutted out thoughtfully, and she breathed in the faint odours of coal, wood, and stone. “If I’ve learned anything about Jesqellan, it’s that he needs to know he’s useful. He’ll know we need him on this mission.”

Kyer looked sidelong at her friend. Janak and Jesqellan thought she had been impulsive again. Here was Phennil, in perfect position to suggest the same thing, and he hadn’t. Somehow that decided it. Kyer peered up through the darkness to the enormous portrait that was the focal point of the foyer, right above the oaken front doors. The subject of the painting was barely visible in the candlelight, but Kyer knew it by heart. “How well do you know Alon Maer?” The Lady looked down at them out of her exquisitely painted eyes, her pale high elven face surrounded by thick, multihued dark hair.

“I’ve only met her a couple of times,” Phennil admitted. “I think Jesqellan and Janak are both ahead of me.” He turned a puzzled eye to Kyer. “But I’ve met her a couple of times more than you. What made you volunteer? You even beat Derry.”

There it was. The question she’d expected.

Kyer didn’t answer straight away. Instead she rose and studied Alon’s portrait with the same admiration she felt the first time she’d seen it. The sword, the marvellous detail of the Lady’s leather cuirass that reminded Kyer of her own, unequivocal substantiation of something special Kyer shared with her. The Lady’s hand on her hilt revealed the muscles in her wrists and forearms. Kyer clenched and released her fists, sensing her own strength concealed there. This was what Kyer had needed to do before she could retire to bed.

“Phennil,” she began, and her throat tightened. “Remember the first time I entered this castle? It was, what, a month ago? And you had to come and get me from this very spot so we could go meet Kien.”

Phennil nodded. “I had to call you about three times.”

“I have never met another woman who is a swordfighter. A true fighter. Soldiers, troopers, yes, but—” She took a deep breath as she considered whether or not to speak her next words. “I studied the wæpnian, Phennil, I don’t know if you knew that.”

He whistled low. “That would explain a few things.”

“Back home in Hreth, I used to train with another girl my age, but she didn’t take it as seriously as I did. People used to call me a freak and names a lot worse. They’d whisper and stare at me. They’d do everything they could to avoid me.” Kyer pointed at the portrait. “She is a warrior, one of the best. She is—” Kyer’s throat caught as she realized what she was about to say, “—living proof a woman being a fighter is not freakish.” She sat back down. “I have more in common with the Lady Alon Maer than I have ever had with any other woman. That means more to me than I can possibly explain.”

Kyer focussed on the wood elf’s startlingly blue eyes. “Phennil, I know I have never met her. I never will, if she dies.”

#