King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (11 page)

“I would not call him good,” the king replied, “But I would call him mine… He was a flawed man, but at his heart, not without love…” Rionn sighed. Marrol saw the nascent tears in his King’s eyes. “To risk his life for me, his dying father - that is a love you cannot question.”

"Indeed, you cannot,” said Marrol, who took a seat on the bed, next to his King. They sat for a while, quietly, before Marrol spoke again. "I know this is… poor timing, my friend,” he started, "but there is no best day to discuss what happens when you pass."

The King grunted in disapproval. “No, there is not,” he said. “But let us talk, anyway.”

“It may not have been a simple betrayal," Marrol said, adding, "Royth may have been hired to destabilize us.”

“You don’t know for sure, yet?” Rionn asked. Marrol shook his head. “That’s unfortunate,” the King said, turning back to the window - to the hills and below, ignorant of the people milling about in the castle courtyard in the other direction.

“My liege,” Marrol said, “we will find out who’s responsible.” If Kells and Royth were in bed together, he’d know for certain, but his mind fought that conclusion; Kells was not the type for conspiracies. The truth he bought from that guard assured him of it. But Royth… a man who could see the future, and change it? That was a man to be worried about.

“Of course you will,” Rionn said. To Marrol’s eyes, the King seemed distracted - as if being bound to one place had made his mind restless. Or, perhaps, it had been focused - just not in the way Marrol had hoped the despair might channel it.

“Rionn,” Marrol said, “Your work can still continue, after…” he began, but trailed off.

“Hmm?” The King’s attention was drawn away from the window.

Marrol leaned in, towards the King. “You had hoped we’d be safe, once,” Marrol said. “From every danger. You’d hoped for a shining, golden age.”

“Aye,” the King said.

“You need not let the axe pick your successor,” Marrol said. “Choose someone who will continue your work - a trusted friend, who will honor your goals.”

A shadow of a smile appeared on Rionn’s face, and quickly vanished. “My friend,” he said, “Please. Trust in Peacebringer. Put your faith in it. It will not steer us wrong.” Marrol eyed the axe’s cold metal, which seemed hostile in the noonday sun; it mocked him. It repelled him. Marrol paused, silent longer than he’d expected - he’d not thought Rionn’s simple plea to deeply affect him as it did.

“I can’t,” Marrol said, finally, “Not when we need to beat back the wolves at our gate. We need a leader who can be trusted.”

“It will give you one,” Rionn said. “It picked me, didn’t it?”

“It also picked Petar Rynn,” Marrol said, “and he was a drunken fool.”

“He was,” Rionn said. “But he made the peace with the Erimeni, which has stood strong for eighty years… Each King has been picked for a reason,” he said, adding, “Even the Conoll brothers, Harr and Byll.”

Marrol allowed himself a chuckle. “Yom above,” he said. “The stories my grandfather told about them. The Battle of Caen Boro, the Night of Knives and Candles… and the time they emptied the wine cellar, and brought in whores from all over the land.”

The King shared the laughter. “Even we never matched that, did we?”

“We tried,” Marrol said with a sad grin. “Yom knows we tried.”

They sat on the bed with wordless smiles, until Marrol mustered the courage to speak again.

“Rionn,” he said, “I will miss you, my friend.”

“And I, you,” Rionn’s tired voice replied, “my friend.” He held up a weak, trembling hand, and Marrol took it, with tears in his eyes. He could not resurrect his point - Rionn had made his wishes clear.

And yet
, Marrol thought,
I cannot honor them. I cannot trust them, when I know I am meant for the task. No man can keep Barra safe as I can.

When the servants finally came to put him in the makeshift sling, a strong sheath of cotton set across two carrying poles, Marrol helped the King from his bed, and helped to lay him on the sling. A servant lay a blanket over Rionn’s lower body - one with a hastily stitched Barrish crest on it.

“Shall we depart?” Marrol asked.

The King nodded. Marrol gave the signal to the servants, and they began the walk down the corridor. He felt an odd sensation, knowing that all this would be done again, only too soon.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Marrol found the King still in his bed, a servant nearby, his head tilted slightly towards the window. The bed had been moved with great effort to give him a greater view of the world outside. He had heard Marrol enter, but was slow to respond. The Minister took this to mean he was deep in thought; the Peacebringer axe, once held easily in Rionn’s hands, leaned against the wall near the head of his bed, unused. Once, it gave him pride to serve a man who carried it; now, it unnerved him. It wasn’t an obstacle then.

“It’s a strange feeling, to have to bury one’s own child, and yet be so close to death,” the King said, turning his head to face Marrol. “Knowing I will see him soon does nothing to relieve the agony.”

“I do not envy you,” Marrol said, sadly. “He was a good man.” It was a blatant, bald-faced lie, but Marrol would not be caught speaking ill of the dead.

“I would not call him good,” the king replied, “But I would call him mine… He was a flawed man, but at his heart, not without love…” Rionn sighed. Marrol saw the nascent tears in his King’s eyes. “To risk his life for me, his dying father - that is a love you cannot question.”

"Indeed, you cannot,” said Marrol, who took a seat on the bed, next to his King. They sat for a while, quietly, before Marrol spoke again. "I know this is… poor timing, my friend,” he started, "but there is no best day to discuss what happens when you pass."

The King grunted in disapproval. “No, there is not,” he said. “But let us talk, anyway.”

“It may not have been a simple betrayal," Marrol said, adding, "Royth may have been hired to destabilize us.”

“You don’t know for sure, yet?” Rionn asked. Marrol shook his head. “That’s unfortunate,” the King said, turning back to the window - to the hills and below, ignorant of the people milling about in the castle courtyard in the other direction.

“My liege,” Marrol said, “we will find out who’s responsible.” If Kells and Royth were in bed together, he’d know for certain, but his mind fought that conclusion; Kells was not the type for conspiracies. The truth he bought from that guard assured him of it. But Royth… a man who could see the future, and change it? That was a man to be worried about.

“Of course you will,” Rionn said. To Marrol’s eyes, the King seemed distracted - as if being bound to one place had made his mind restless. Or, perhaps, it had been focused - just not in the way Marrol had hoped the despair might channel it.

“Rionn,” Marrol said, “Your work can still continue, after…” he began, but trailed off.

“Hmm?” The King’s attention was drawn away from the window.

Marrol leaned in, towards the King. “You had hoped we’d be safe, once,” Marrol said. “From every danger. You’d hoped for a shining, golden age.”

“Aye,” the King said.

“You need not let the axe pick your successor,” Marrol said. “Choose someone who will continue your work - a trusted friend, who will honor your goals.”

A shadow of a smile appeared on Rionn’s face, and quickly vanished. “My friend,” he said, “Please. Trust in Peacebringer. Put your faith in it. It will not steer us wrong.” Marrol eyed the axe’s cold metal, which seemed hostile in the noonday sun; it mocked him. It repelled him. Marrol paused, silent longer than he’d expected - he’d not thought Rionn’s simple plea to deeply affect him as it did. “I can’t,” Marrol said, finally, “Not when we need to beat back the wolves at our gate. We need a leader who can be trusted.”

“It will give you one,” Rionn said. “It picked me, didn’t it?”

“It also picked Petar Rynn,” Marrol said, “and he was a drunken fool.”

“He was,” Rionn said. “But he made the peace with the Erimeni, which has stood strong for eighty years… Each King has been picked for a reason,” he said, adding, “Even the Conoll brothers, Harr and Byll.”

Marrol allowed himself a chuckle. “Yom above,” he said. “The stories my grandfather told about them. The Battle of Caen Boro, the Night of Knives and Candles… and the time they emptied the wine cellar, and brought in whores from all over the land.”

The King shared the laughter. “Even we never matched that, did we?”

“We tried,” Marrol said with a sad grin. “Yom knows we tried.”

They sat on the bed with wordless smiles, until Marrol mustered the courage to speak again.

“Rionn,” he said, “I will miss you, my friend.”

“And I, you,” Rionn’s tired voice replied, “my friend.” He held up a weak, trembling hand, and Marrol took it, with tears in his eyes. He could not resurrect his point - Rionn had made his wishes clear.
And yet
, Marrol thought,
I cannot honor them. I cannot trust them, when I know I am meant for the task. No man can keep Barra safe as I can.

When the servants finally came to put him in the makeshift sling, a strong sheath of cotton set across two carrying poles, Marrol helped the King from his bed, and helped to lay him on the sling. A servant lay a blanket over Rionn’s lower body - one with a hastily stitched Barrish crest on it.

“Shall we depart?” Marrol asked.

The King nodded. Marrol gave the signal to the servants, and they began the walk down the corridor. He felt an odd sensation, knowing that all this would be done again, only too soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The mid-afternoon sun flickered through graveyard trees, ignorant and playful, while the black procession drudged to the temple gates.

The Prince's body had been first shown publicly, as was custom - pulled through the town of Alton by horse-drawn cart, surrounded by flowers, followed by loved ones on foot. The king was not among them; he was brought to the temple on a different cart, leaving Caliandra, Eliya, and Sophine to walk behind Valric’s body. The only difference between the two men, it seemed, was the flowers.

Caliandra looked out at the polite, sorrowful faces of the crowd. Some were more mournful than others; their wailing was wild, and their tears came heavy and thick. They had been paid well for their tears, as was custom. It was for that reason she tried to ignore them, but the sounds affected her all the same.

She also heard the murmurs of the crowd -
Where is the king? Why isn’t he walking with them? I heard he can’t leave his bed - he’ll be in that cart next, you know.
Caliandra felt another set of tears come to her eye. Just when she thought she didn’t have any left, a new reservoir was tapped - a new river of salt and pain.

In that moment, all Caliandra wanted was to hold on, just a little bit longer, until they were away from Alton, so that she could have another proper cry without everyone watching. The way she had one in her room that morning, before the ceremony, with Valric’s favorite sword in her hands. She hid it under her bed, along with a different dagger; the damned Erimeni took his favorite in the battle, Kells had said. Only his sword remained, and he had been only too happy to give it to her.

Eliya’s hand found hers, and she looked over. “You can cry, Callie,” Eliya said, with a tear-stained smile. “It’s proper.”

Caliandra choked back her sobs. “I don’t - I don’t want to be seen like this -” she said, to her sister. “Not here.”

“Shhh,” Eliya said, gently squeezing her sister’s hand. “It’s okay.”

Caliandra glanced over at her mother, who wore her funeral silks with proper dignity and sorrow. And yet, the look of pain on her face, it seemed, was inescapable. She was preparing to bury her own son, and as they walked, she could not keep her eyes off the cart. Caliandra allowed herself distractions; she returned nods from the people in the streets, and gave them silent thanks for their signs of prayers for her dead. The wheels creaked over the cobblestones, past what seemed like the last few that lined the sides of the road, on the way out of town. Caliandra had never been so happy for the sight of the forest, and the return to dirt roads.

But the last thing Caliandra saw as they left Alton was a little girl on the edge of the town, whose face was spotted and marked with leper’s spots - her bare feet were caked under layers of mud, and Caliandra could see the telltale gaps where fingers had gone missing. But the girl’s mountain sky eyes remained lucid, piercing, and brimming with sadness. As if, perhaps, her brother lay in that cart.

Or, as Caliandra guessed, that the little leper girl might soon join him.

The service was elaborate, befitting a prince; her father was seated, and wore his blanket with pride. Caliandra, Eliya, and Sophine sat beside him; behind them, the closest members of family who could attend - two of Caliandra’s uncles from her father’s side, and one from her mother’s. Not close ones, either; distant uncles she'd rarely heard mentioned. No grandparents or elderly relatives survived, or were able to make the trip; the Duchess Una, the prior King’s wife, had sent her regards, just as the others had.

After the distant family sat Fenwyn and Josske, Kells and his wife Ostre, Marrol, and Marrol’s wife, Patta. It was Ostre who surprised Caliandra, with a brief tap on the shoulder.