Secrets of Fathara Read online

  Tika shook her head at her fickle friend. She’d envisioned the tiger sitting tall next to her, staring her father down with her golden eyes, and making the king shift uncomfortably in his chair. (Perhaps even inserting a timely growl here and there.) Her fearsome friend was reminding her more of the Lady Bonner’s cat right now; the creature ate and slept — but mostly slept.

  Tika heard her father say, “I am not to be disturbed by anyone, Hawley. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” replied the captain. The smile Hawley gave Tika was replaced with a scowl as he turned to face the hall, and anyone who dared disturb the king. The soldier folded his massive forearms across his broad chest. Although in his middle years, the Captain of the Guard couldn’t be bested by any of the other soldiers in the king’s guard. He always seemed to have a few tricks up his sleeve. While tough on his men, he always had a ready smile for the princess, and treated her like his own daughter.

  King Maric turned around and said, “Tikorrah, we need to talk.”

  The door clicked ominously behind him. Tika wished she had stayed in bed. Last night’s nightmare suddenly seemed much more welcoming at the moment than having to face her “father.”

  Two

  Winna entered the princess’ bedchamber to retrieve the breakfast tray. The tray sat untouched. What a waste! The uppity girl had slammed the door in her face and then didn’t even eat a bite of it!

  Winna moved around the room muttering and huffing about cleaning up after spoiled girls. A gust of wind blew in from the balcony, swirling around the room and blowing the bed curtains. Was it too much to expect the brat to close the balcony doors? The wind picked up a piece of parchment on the bed, blowing it around the room in circles.

  Winna noticed the letter as the crazy wind whipped the paper around the bedchamber. She tried to grab the paper, but it flew to the other side of the room. Racing back and forth and in circles, the servant chased the letter around the bedroom. Winna began to feel rather silly, and hoped nobody walked in on her while she jumped and hopped around in a crazy manner. Still, the more it eluded her the more determined she was to catch the swirling square of parchment.

  Finally, she snatched the annoying parchment out of the air, and stomped over to put it on the princess’ desk. As she flattened out the now crinkled letter, she recognized the dead queen’s handwriting and rabid curiosity overcame her.

  As a servant in the palace, Winna was required to have basic reading skills. For Winna, however, such knowledge was dangerous as a letter left in the open was just too tempting for her to leave unread.

  Her eyes popped open wide as she read the contents, and she knew she had struck gold — literally, struck gold. She would be paid handsomely to pass on this piece of information as soon as possible. Not wanting the princess to think she was a nosy busy body, Winna returned the letter to the bed and hurried out of the princess’ chambers as quickly as propriety would allow (not that Winna really cared about propriety). Her steps took her down to the castle chapel to meet her other employer.

  Winna slowed her brisk pace and quickly donned her best white gloves as she entered the chapel. Her gloves were now more gray than white after several washings, and the lace had begun to fray at the edges. Just yesterday she was balking at the thought of what it would cost her to purchase new gloves. She smoothed the rough fabric of her skirt, and her heart skipped a beat as she pictured herself in brand new silks and the best lace gloves with the anticipated gold. Maybe now Baery would look twice at her in the fine clothes she would soon be wearing.

  As the maid walked through the entrance of the church, the intricately carved oak doors spanning three times her height failed to awe or inspire her anymore. Instead, she focused on the people in the chapel. Looking around she saw the usual patrons: Duchess Emray (too rich and too pious for Winna’s taste), Shona (a lazy castle maid), and two of the kitchen staff (looking to steal a moment together away from the prying eyes of Cook).

  The Duchess stood at the east wall, with head bowed over a book. She was probably reading a prayer; most likely praying for her wayward son. (He needed more than his mother’s prayers.) Winna sniffed in contempt, thinking of all of the pinched bottoms in the castle and missing items the young man had likely pilfered. Apparently, he couldn’t even squeeze a copper out of his mother to gamble with. So where did the money come from? And yet somehow he always had something to gamble with — and lose. Who knew what other trouble that boy was currently getting into? A lot of good praying would do him. The duchess would be better off locking him up and burying the key.

  In the middle pews sat the kitchen staff and Winna almost smiled. They were holding hands — again. She wondered if they were also praying for mercy in anticipation of the evening meal. She doubted Cook would be merciful with those two.

  At the front of the chapel Keeper Bryain stood with an eager acolyte. They appeared to be setting up the altar for evening prayers, and Winna realized she had better hurry or she would be stuck in the chapel with the devoted saying prayers. She grimaced at the thought.

  The greedy maid pulled out the summoning prayer her employer had given her, and stepping over to the bronze statue depicting The Harvest at the west wall of the church, she bowed her head and quietly read the words. It didn’t take long before another young acolyte arrived, slipping her a folded up piece of paper and leaving without a word. She knew enough not to open the note in the chapel. Others could simply assume that the acolyte had given her a prayer, but she wouldn’t risk drawing any more attention to herself by opening it. One never knew if prying eyes stood close by.

  Winna left the chapel and headed for a quiet corridor to read the message, and as she suspected she was directed to an unused corridor of the castle. It was hard to keep her footsteps measured when the information inside of her was bursting to come forth. She couldn’t believe a secret this big had remained hidden so long, and she feared not being the first to reveal it. Someone else could beat her to it and rise in status with her employer, lining their pockets with gold instead.

  Winna quickened her pace down the darkened corridor of one of King Vestor’s wings. As the oldest wing of the castle still standing, the years had taken their toll on the walls and floors making them deeply pitted and uneven. Even in her haste to meet with her employer, she forced herself to slow her steps in order to avoid a turned ankle in the potholes and loose stones.

  No everglobes shone on the walls in this section of the castle, as the acolytes didn’t come here to say prayers of lighting. Winna pulled out her own hand-held everglobe and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light the small globes provided to the hallway. With a hand outstretched, she carefully made her way further down the hall until she came to her destination. Winna stopped at King Vestor’s ceremonial armor, and waited.

  Although she was only minutes away from the bustling activity in the castle, looking down the silent, dim corridor with its mysterious shadows had her feeling like she was in another place and time. The dust from the ancient armor floated up into her face and she sneezed reflexively and slapped a hand over her mouth in horror, hoping no one heard.

  Still, her feet practically danced back and forth on the spot as she waited. Within moments of her arrival in the darkened corridor someone slipped up behind her and said, “You summoned me, Winna.”

  The sudden voice in the silent abandoned corridor surprised her, and she bit down a scream. It wouldn’t do to be discovered. She turned towards the unknown Keeper. Winna hadn’t yet been able to identify the Keeper she occasionally met with, and to whom she passed information along as he kept his face hidden in the cowl of his robe and hands hidden in the sleeves.

  “Yes, Keeper,” she replied, excitement almost overcoming her fear. And she relayed to him all that she had read in the letter.

  “You have done well to tell me this.” The hooded man tossed her a bag that jingled. “Considering what you have discovered today, there is something further I will need you to do.”

  “Anything, Keeper,” she swore, with a feverish look of devotion in her eyes.

  ***

  Sha’Vhen left the dusty corridor as quietly as he had arrived. The old area of the castle smelled much as he did: old and musty. It amused him to use King Vestor’s corridor as a meeting place. For all of the king’s efforts in fighting Mortan centuries ago, the Human had been killed by one of Sha’Vhen’s own assassins. Vestor had been powerless in the end, and to Sha’Vhen power was everything.

  Of course Sha’Vhen was not really a Keeper. However, he found the disguise useful. He had once been Human, but was now Sha’andari and could no longer walk openly among the Humans without revealing his nature.

  He had the magic to change Winna’s memory, but memories were tricky things and consumed enormous amounts of magic. A sorcerer could wipe a memory completely much easier than changing specific memories, but then again another user of magic could also detect a memory wipe easier, and King Maric had Elven ambassadors at hand to aid him. Therefore, Sha’Vhen found it easier to simply hide his dried out face with Keeper robes and give the woman a plausible story.

  Mortan promised him immortality, but so far it had come at a heavy price. Sha’Vhen looked at his hand with the parchment-like skin sticking to his bones. While Mortan still looked young and — well — moist. Sha’Vhen had dried up. Sha’Yaban was not looking so well either and used extensive amounts of magic to disguise his ever-aging body as a duke in Travanne.

  “Duke Hoforth” would not be able to continue his charade for much longer at the rate he was using up magic. Even the other two Elven Sha’andari, Sha’Nuangar and Sha’Idriina had not maintained their youthful appearance, but appeared more skeletal like him. Sha’Chivok never changed in appearance no matter the pa
ssing of the years and Sha’Vhen envied that.

  Despite changing them and granting them power so many centuries ago; Mortan did not trust his Sha’andari. For the Sha’andari it was ever a race to prove themselves to Mortan. Of the one hundred Sha’andari Mortan had created in the Giddrian War, only five of them remained. Which one would end up as Mortan’s right-hand servant?

  But the search was for the child was finally over. Sha’Vhen grinned and he heard his dry skin crack. The princess was the long-sought child of the prophecies. He hoped he was the first of the Sha’andari to discover the truth of the princess’ identity, but he doubted it.

  The question was — would Sha’Vhen’s servant get to the princess first?

  ***

  Mortan approached the white b’yan door hesitantly and paused momentarily. The Voices whispering in his head clamored for attention. Once he walked through the door he would find relief from Them.

  And They hated that.

  They had been his companions for centuries now, guiding him, counseling him, commanding him. He would not have achieved all that he had without Them. He needed Them, and yet at times he resented Them. He kept that thought carefully hidden, however.

  His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they waved to reveal three red seals on each side of the door. Although he had sealed and unsealed this door many times over the centuries, it still required great concentration to release each seal in the proper order and with the proper words.

  With a final whispered, “Ansriki,” the last seal flared and winked out.

  The heavy b’yan wood resisted the tug of his arm, as though not wanting to reveal its contents. There was an accompanying hiss, as the door slid across the icy floor and a cold white mist billowed out, escaping into the corridor. The ancient Elf took a small step into the room and closed the door to the ice chamber quietly, almost reverently.

  The Voices receded even more as he stepped inside the room. It was difficult for him to visit this room, and he came here less and less as the years passed by. Usually the passing of years meant nothing to an Elf whose life was counted in centuries and rarely ended in death — simply a voluntary stepping into the next level of existence and learning: Loren-Antiek.

  Mortan’s jaw clenched. He felt every year that passed as sharply as a dagger to his heart. He was no closer now than he had been centuries ago to finding a solution to his problem — her problem. He did not care about the bodies littered around the world, the lives he had snuffed out in his search for an answer, or the magical objects expended and ruined forever; their losses meant nothing compared to her.

  Mortan took a hesitant step closer to her body, and his movement disturbed the air, causing the white cloud around his knees to swirl and momentarily rise up. The air settled, and Mortan’s feet were no longer visible. He looked disjointed standing there in the mist — not whole. He stood still, not wanting to create any more disturbances in the room.

  Daliinu lay on the flawless rectangle of ice in the exact center of the large chamber. She was the only adornment in the otherwise featureless icy room. Despite teetering at the brink of death, she remained the most beautiful Elf he had ever known, and it pained him to gaze on her face, knowing that still he failed her.

  He thought back to when they were young — in their early years when she had first discovered her Gift. They were walking through the Forest of Xanti when their ears caught the cry of a toah in pain. Daliinu found the hatchling struggling on the ground with a broken wing. The mother flew with frantic movements overhead, fretting over her baby. Daliinu picked up the baby bird with gentle fingers, making soothing sounds. She looked at Mortan and said, “I wish I could do something for him.”

  Mortan’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at Daliinu, kneeling on the forest floor, her hands cradling the distressed bird and whispering so softly to it. The look of wonder on her face as she carefully touched the injured wing with her hand struck him instantly. He knew something incredible and out of the ordinary was happening to her when her eyes opened wide and her lips opened in shock. The toah’s cries switched from pain to simple distress. The tiny bird now just wanted his nest and his mother.

  “Did you see that? Did you see it!” cried Daliinu.

  He approached with caution as the mother toah still flew in a frenzy over her baby.

  “What did you do?” he asked her.

  “His wing is healed. I did that. That is my Gift! I wished his wing to heal, and it did.”

  She had been right. Healing had been her Gift, yet here she lay, dying and unable to heal herself in the end. He had tried for years to find a remedy for the poison that slowly made its way through her body. Any other creature would have died centuries ago from the poison attacking her system.

  She was an Elf and a healer which prolonging her life; however, it would not prevent her death.

  Mortan would not accept defeat — could not — and had placed her body here in this chamber so many centuries ago at the frozen top of the world, in a room laden with the most powerful spells. Death’s own cup was helping extend her life, and Mortan woke Daliinu only as necessary from a deep sleep to make her drink from the cup.

  Mortan had accepted the Voices into his mind and with their Gift and knowledge he began his experiments with death and dark magic on others, such as the Sha’andari, and the zhobani. However, these experiments had proven less than successful. Using dark magic, Mortan had kept their spirits bound to Fathara when they should have moved on, yet their bodies still decayed. Some of his first Sha’andari had not appreciated his efforts and could not handle their decaying status. They had gone mad and turned against him. So he’d had to make some changes. The current Sha’andari did not particularly like their decaying state, but they could handle it now because they did not remember their former life.

  Mortan hoped that eventually he would find the answer to Daliinu’s problem. He had to before it was too late. And certainly he had not, and would not, let anyone get in his way.

  He approached her quietly, cautiously, “We found her, Daliinu. The girl who would destroy us: Azetha of the prophesies.” He put out a hand as if to stroke the sleeping Elf’s hair, and then retracted it.

  “All this time they hid Azetha in plain sight with a Human family. Clever Elves, and yet not clever enough. I know these Humans. Money and fear override loyalty. I can use that to my advantage. Death is on his way even now, so you need not worry about me.” He paused as though expecting a response. Her still body made no reply.

  “I will have all the time I need to find the answer and heal you. My loyalty will never fail you, my beloved. This girl will not have the chance to come between us. I will make everything right. You will see.”

  Three

  Death’s footsteps echoed in the corridor and he winced slightly at the sound. He adjusted his footsteps accordingly. No servants hurried about carrying trays of food, bearing baskets of clean and dirty laundry, or rushing past him with a note for a lord or lady. The princess wasn’t a social creature, and had kept to her rooms since her mother’s death.

  Death walked now with silent footsteps down the corridor. These halls were so familiar to him that it was almost like coming home, but every place seemed that way to an almost immortal man who had roamed over Fathara for centuries. He recognized when paintings, furniture and servants changed, and although King Maric did his best to rule Rhodea, with the dwindling resources of the land it was apparent to Death (who remembered the opulence of years past) what used to adorn the floors and walls of the castle compared to what he saw now.

  He remembered the Great Hall filled with ornately carved wooden tables and chairs. Why even the servants had had wooden headboards and stools in their rooms! They had eaten out of wooden bowls and with wooden cutlery. The castle that was once so grand now looked rather dull and threadbare. Now they were reduced to using metal bowls, metal plates, and metal cutlery. Trees were just too rare to be used for such things. There were no truly great forests left in Rhodea — at least none that were living or that belonged to the Humans.