Destiny (7 page)

‘You need to laugh more, Gyl.’ She had not meant to blurt out her thoughts.

‘Pardon me?’

Lauryn was embarrassed but she pressed on. ‘You take yourself a little too seriously.’

‘Really?’ he said, the tone in his voice telling her he was anything but flattered. ‘That’s very judgemental for someone who has only been in Tal for a little under one day and who knows me hardly at all. What do you know of my life, Lauryn? Or my responsibilities? Has it even occurred to you to imagine how difficult it is to suddenly be told I have half-brothers and a sister and now I share my mother with two…no three others?’

Lauryn felt stupid. He was right, of course. ‘I just meant if you were a little easier on yourself—not so tense all the time…’

‘You don’t know what I’m like. The only time you’ve spent with me has been during rather dramatic circumstances.’ He stood. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, madam, I have a funeral to arrange. My apologies for my loose tongue.’

He strode away, leaving Lauryn mouthing to no one, ‘I just meant you have a wondrous smile which would be nice to see.’

Gyl apparently did not hear her and she did not see him again until the following afternoon under greatly changed circumstances.

Queen Alyssa of Tallinor arrived in the Throne Room of the Tal Palace shortly after sunrise. She was not a bit surprised to see the hall already full of people, and they were familiar faces; almost all of them she could call friends, having won their faith and trust since her marriage to Lorys. They looked tired from the early summons; many appeared shaken with disbelief at the fact that their King, still relatively young in years, lay cold on a marble slab. And if Alyssa was not surprised by their prompt attention to her request, by contrast they were all certainly surprised at this young woman’s composure. They had never doubted her loyalty and love for the King, and had anticipated her reaction might be one of hysteria, having lost him so tragically and so soon after her marriage. They had not been prepared to be summoned so swiftly or for her rigid control as she graciously accepted their muted welcome.

She could see Gyl and Herek standing to one side with
Saxon in attendance. No one seemed to mind this familiar trio being present and she was grateful for their reassuring nods, although she knew Gyl was confused as to what she was hoping to achieve this morning and she wished she had taken him into her confidence sooner than this.

Alyssa had asked Lauryn and Gidyon to be in attendance and she noted them now at the back of the hall, almost hidden beneath a small archway. They had no idea what they were doing there and were strangers to virtually everyone in the Throne Room. She nodded at them.

‘Gentlemen, please, be seated.’

After the noise of chairs scraping on flagstones and the coughs and clearing of throats had settled, Alyssa slowly swept her gaze around the room, deliberately resting on a few. They were the older nobles— harder nuts to crack but most of whom had eventually fallen under her spell. She needed their support now; required their total commitment to her cause.

She spoke clearly, relieved that her voice was steady. ‘Thank you for coming at this early hour and under such circumstances. For those of you who wish to hear it from my lips, King Lorys of Tallinor died as a result of a freak lightning strike which claimed his life last night. Prime Herek was with him when it struck and assures me the King died instantly. No pain was suffered.’

Alyssa paused whilst the murmuring of men, so often heard in this throne room, gradually died back. She continued now, felt her hands turn clammy and her chest tighten with the nervous anticipation of what she was about to announce to this gathering. Too late to turn back now. It must be done.

‘Tallinese law requires succession by an heir. I have no desire to claim any right of sovereignty as Queen to Lorys.’ She noticed relief crossing the faces of many of the older nobles. So, they had come expecting her to change laws. Indeed, she had a greater surprise than that.

‘As you all know, King Lorys and Queen Nyria produced no heir and,’ she sounded regretful now, ‘Lorys and I simply didn’t have time.’ She hoped it might lighten the grim mood but no one so much as twitched a smile.

And so it was time. Alyssa looked to her right where Rolynd stood with a rolled parchment.

‘I am passing around to you a sample of the King’s hand. I would ask for three of our senior nobles to please acknowledge that this is indeed the handwriting of King Lorys of Tallinor.’

She felt her shoulders trembling and steeled herself. She must not fail now. Fresh murmuring broke out as the gathered started to mutter amongst themselves.

Over them she spoke. ‘Sir Deen, would you confirm please that this document bears the handwriting of our King Lorys.’

A grey-haired man from the southwest pushed a monocle in front of his eye and scanned the parchment. He studied it, finally looked up and nodded.

‘I would bear testimony to that.’

‘Thank you, Sir Deen. Sir Gyles—please?’

Another senior man, this time from the north, cast an experienced eye and nodded.

‘I have seen the writing of Lorys many times. This is his hand.’

‘My thanks, Sir Gyles. Lord Ayers—I would appreciate your confirmation.’

A wealthy noble—by far the most influential—from the far west took the parchment and glanced at it.

‘I would gladly swear this is the writing of Lorys.’

It was handed back to Rolynd who walked back to where the Queen stood on the dais. She lifted now from the sleeves of her formal robes, another parchment.

‘This parchment was written by King Lorys on the day of our wedding. It is signed by him and myself and witnessed by the King’s aide, Koryn, and by Cook.’

Fresh, heated discussion erupted.

Alyssa put her hand in the air to soothe the talk. ‘I realise the choice of Cook is unusual but she is known to all of you, loved by all of you and has been at this palace for longer than many of us can remember. As a trusted member of the staff, her signature is an important authority on the authenticity of this document which was read to her by the King. Cook can’t read you see, but she listened in the presence of Koryn and myself before signing her name.

‘Lord Ayers, you are the most senior noble in this room and you were close to my husband. May I ask you to kindly read this document aloud so all can hear?’

The man strode to the dais and took the parchment proffered by his Queen.

‘Your highness, this is most unusual.’

‘These are most unusual circumstances, Lord Ayers…please,’ she said, encouraging him onto the dais so he could face the gathered.

He unrolled the parchment and squinted slightly. ‘Well, this is the King’s handwriting, all right.’ He looked at Alyssa who smiled gently and nodded.

Lord Ayers began to read. ‘I, King Lorys of Tallinor, do make this declaration in the presence of my new wife, Queen Alyssandra nee Qyn, Lyle Koryn and Betsy Charlick, trusted members of staff.

‘If this is being read to my trusted nobles, it means I have gone to the Light and I must ask you to trust my Queen in her decision to make this public and beg the forgiveness of those to whom it comes as a shock.

‘I have kept a terrible secret for the past sixteen years following an indiscretion during my marriage to Queen Nyria. Only two people from the palace knew of it and both Physic Merkhud and Prime Cyrus took this secret with them to their graves. Both helped me to protect it but at my death it is critical I share it with the Kingdom I love and its people whom I have served.’

Alyssa felt the lump form in her throat. She forced it back down; she must cling to her composure just a little longer. Lord Ayers continued once the loud voices of worry had settled down again.

He read: ‘I, King Lorys of Tallinor, sired a son to a woman from Auldgate, more recently of Wytton. Our son was born from a solitary, short encounter. I never spoke to nor heard from her again. Physic Merkhud ensured the child was educated and cared for. Upon my death the throne of Tallinor must pass to him as he alone carries the line of Old King Mort.’

Cries broke out in the Throne Room and the voice of Lord Ayers was drowned. Alyssa felt dizzy from her nerves and the anticipation of announcing the new King of Tallinor. Gyl had arrived at her side to help.

Amongst the noise she heard him speaking to her. ‘Mother?’

‘I’m well, Gyl. A little distracted.’ She looked at him intensely now. ‘Forgive me, son.’

He did not understand; he held her gaze and tried to work out what she meant by it.

He too was shocked by the revelation and glanced around the room as he wondered which of the young nobles was to be the next King. Lord Ayers had quietened everyone, demanding silence whilst he finish reading this dramatic proclamation from their King. The room hushed.

‘The fact that you are reading this in the Throne Room means I have not yet found the courage to declare myself publicly to my son, who walks amongst you—and for that I ask his eternal forgiveness and seek his understanding that I have loved him intensely from a distance, though I never did have the opportunity to tell him so.

‘I ask all of the nobles of Tallinor to gather and pledge their allegiance and support as they crown the new Sovereign of Tallinor, King Gyl of Wytton.’

Shock passed through the Throne Room of the Palace of Tallinor with the same speed and bite as the lightning had through the former King.

It was spoken. Alyssa felt relief flood through her veins as she slid out of Gyl’s grip to her knees. ‘Hail King Gyl.’ She spoke it loud and firm.

Her words were picked up and voices began to chant them in affirmation. People dropped to their knees until there were only three left standing. Herek, as shocked as anyone in the room only followed Saxon when the Kloek pulled at the soldier’s hand, willing him to kneel before his new King.

And now only Gyl remained on his feet, fighting back fear and nausea. Tears pricked but he fought those too and a sense of betrayal and loss enveloped him. The Great Hall was suddenly still and quiet. He looked around it with even more dismay than the Prime had. He felt the glance of his mother and looked down where she knelt.

Knelt! Light! He bent, hardly able to string any coherent thoughts together.

‘You knew? Kept this from me?’

She struggled against the terror of perhaps even losing him.

‘We wanted to tell you. He was taken before we could.’ It sounded pathetic even to her ears.

He felt rage stirring. His father, the King. How many occasions could that man have taken him in his arms and called him son. Gyl, always so in control, felt himself losing his composure. Whether it was by luck or fate, his eyes, searching the room, locked onto the steady grey-green eyes of Lauryn. They snapped him out of his rising temper as he recalled her words. He had heard them; had felt a strange uplifting sensation at hearing her say how nice it would be to see his smile. He did not feel like smiling now but there was something disarming about this woman. A calm countenance washed over him as he stared at those eyes now and she nodded softly towards him. It was an apology for her presumptuousness earlier.

Gyl was suddenly aware that everyone was still kneeling, still waiting. ‘Stand, Mother, please I beg you,’ he whispered.

Alyssa’s eyes now looked up into his and implored
him. ‘You must accept it first. Affirm your sovereignty, son.’

Gyl immediately looked towards Saxon, whose gaze had also surreptitiously lifted towards his. The Kloek nodded slowly at him.

Now the Throne Room was so devoid of noise the silence itself began to overwhelm the young man whose heart was pounding. He must say something. Everyone awaited his words. He would deal with sorrow and disbelief later. Now it was time to fulfil his destiny.

He did not even clear his throat. His voice was steady and strong, as a sovereign’s should be, and he was grateful in that defining few moments that his mind suddenly worked with clarity and the words which came out were well chosen and regal.

‘I would ask the King’s Mother to stand beside me as I accept the mantle to rule this realm. I bid all of you—loyal citizens of Tallinor—raise yourselves to your feet and affirm with your new Sovereign the commencement of a new era for our Kingdom.’ Gyl found his smile, directed it at Lauryn; it was radiant with pride and a sense of destiny.

‘The glory of Tallinor!’ he called strongly towards his new subjects.

And they echoed it with the same power and pride. ‘The glory of Tallinor! Hail, King Gyl of Tallinor.’

Orlac stood before the gates of the Ciprean palace and marvelled at its grace. He could hear the soldiers gathering in the main courtyard, their superiors barking orders. Word had spread furiously of his frightening arrival but he felt in no hurry and instead was taking great joy in admiring the spires of the palace, his head turned upwards away from the frightened glances of the men.

Finally a man confronted him from behind the gates. Orlac presumed this must be the most senior officer and he lowered his eyes to look upon this person now.

‘Who are you?’ the man demanded, no courtesies given.

So be it. ‘I am Orlac.’

It meant nothing to the man, though fear was written across his face. Orlac imagined he must be wondering when he too would begin to bleed.

‘Depart now and you leave with your life,’ the soldier said, not so confidently.

‘Otherwise?’ Orlac asked. He sounded genuinely inquisitive, though there was no spark of goodwill in his expression. Perhaps there was no ‘otherwise’. The man blinked, confused. He was rescued by another, far older man who stepped into view now and answered for him.

‘Or, we will be forced to kill you,’ the new man calmly said.

Orlac stopped himself sneering, summoned the Colours and felt Dorgryl shiver in anticipation of what he might do. Orlac hated the thing inside and promised himself he would learn how to destroy it, but in the meantime he would do everything he could to deny the ghoul within the gratification he sought.

The young god held the soldier’s glare as he curiously pressed himself against the bars of the gates where he held for just the barest of moments before miraculously stepping through them. It was as if he had no body at all, reappearing whole and unharmed in front of the two disbelieving senior officers. He watched, amused, as all the soldiers behind them dropped their weapons as one, in awe of the impossible event they had just witnessed.

‘I think we’ve had enough bloodletting for one night, don’t you?’ Orlac asked of the more senior fellow.

The man was unable to respond. His mouth opened a couple of times but emitted no sound.

Orlac nodded curtly. ‘I’m glad you agree.’ He pushed past the man but turned again. ‘And you are?’

The stunned officer finally found his voice. ‘Bensyn.’

‘Thank you, Bensyn. Dismiss the men and present yourself and your senior officers within the palace shortly.’

Orlac strode away pleased that he could feel Dorgryl’s disappointment within.

It may not pay to be too subtle, nephew.

I shall make my own decision on how to wield my power, Dorgryl.

The senior god held his tongue.

Inside the palace staff were agog. No man had ever had access to the palace in the way this man now strode confidently through the beautiful halls. Word had spread fast enough that none were willing to risk their lifeblood to stop him yet the staff, including the senior courtiers, gathered to witness his entrance. What else could they do? Cringe in their rooms? Bleed? Or find the courage to look upon this towering, golden man who brought death and destruction to their beautiful city?

Orlac sensed their fear and indecision. He took command. ‘All senior palace staff, courtiers, advisers, officials should gather. You!’ he said, pointing to a petite young woman with dark hair he found himself attracted to. She bowed but would not meet his eyes.

‘Which room did the Queen take audiences in?’

She cleared her throat and looked around at the others.

‘Answer me.’ Orlac spoke firmly.

‘In the Golden Room…er, sire,’ she suggested, then pointed down a corridor.

‘Could you lead me to it…please?’

She nodded, surprisingly calmly, he thought. Orlac turned towards the main group of people standing bewildered before him.

‘Would somebody kindly organise some food and wine. I have been travelling all day.’

He did not linger for any sort of answer, presuming his request would be heeded soon enough and turned to follow the small figure of the woman.

Command, damn you! You are a god. Act like one.

I have no gripe with Cipres, Dorgryl,
Orlac replied smoothly
. My revenge is directed at Tallinor alone. I’ll ask you not to give me any further orders.

Or what?
Dorgryl asked, his frustration spilling over
.
There was a nasty edge to his voice.
What can you do to me? Nothing! You are powerless and without me you will spend the rest of your powerless life looking for Gynt or wishing you were dead. That’s how miserable I could make life for you.

Orlac knew this to be true. But he was determined to find a way to rid himself of the insanity living within. They had arrived at what was supposedly the Golden Room and although he wanted to say something cutting in response to Dorgryl, he resisted and instead ignored his uncle in favour of bestowing a smile upon the woman who stood before him. He knew it would rankle Dorgryl if he favoured her. She was attractive too and although he would have preferred a golden-haired partner, she would do for his first night.

‘If you’d kindly wait here, sir, I shall see to your food being fetched.’ Again the calm, steadying voice. It intrigued him.

‘Your name?’

‘Juno, sir.’

‘Ha! Juno. I was too strong for her.’ He winked. His words deliberately intended to confuse. Orlac guessed
she would now be wondering what exactly he meant by such a comment. Instead, her face showed no confusion. If anything, he sensed something behind those clear, steady eyes. Something he could not fathom. It certainly was not fear. The woman forced a polite smile and nodded.

‘Well, thank you, Juno. I would ask that you prepare a bedroom for me…’

‘Yes,’ she said, turning to make haste on his requests.

‘and…await me there,’ he added, leaving no doubt in her mind this time as to what he meant. He noticed how she froze at his words and read it as fear etching itself across her face. It was true that he had no quarrel with these people. On his way into Cipres he had even entertained fanciful thoughts of being liked; admired even. But as always it was the same. People feared his power—just as they had in centuries previous —and he felt the familiar coldness grab him. What was he thinking? He had always been hated. He was the avenger…the destroyer of people and their cities.

Orlac looked tiredly at Juno. ‘Go now. Send in the people waiting.’

They filed in slowly and warily. These were people who had never thought they would see a man sitting on the exquisite gold throne, which for eternity had been the seat for a line of women. When the doors were finally closed behind them and the shuffling had stopped, a dread silence descended on the huge room.

Orlac measured the silence. It was built entirely on fear.

He addressed them. ‘It is regretful that people were hurt today.’ One after another they lifted their eyes to
meet his as he continued. ‘I have no quarrel with the people of Cipres but I must impress on you that you should not attempt to defy me. I am powerful beyond imagination. You have no weapon against me for I have the Power Arts on my side.’

A white-haired man, richly robed, stepped forward.

‘You are?’ Orlac questioned.

‘I am an adviser to our former Queen,’ he bowed before adding, ‘highest ranking courtier in the palace.’

‘What is it you wish to say?’

The man looked grimly around. ‘I speak for all gathered. We know your name but not who you are, why you are here, why you killed one hundred and forty-three of our citizens today with a further eighty, perhaps more, almost certainly still to die from your attentions. What is it you want of us?’

Orlac, about to respond, felt suddenly nauseous. The chamber seemed to spin and the oil lamps gave off light that flickered into and out of darkness as whatever it was that was truly him was pushed aside and trampled upon. He was not ready for this; had no inclination that it was even possible. He was as shocked as the people looked when the answer came, for it was not he who spoke, but Dorgryl.

‘Your throne is what I want,’ replied the deep voice.

People recoiled instantly; not just from the outrageous claim but moreso from the change in the stranger’s voice. It was chilling.

Dorgryl continued whilst Orlac felt he was drowning within himself. ‘Your Queen is dead. Obey me, good people, and we shall rule fairly.’

The people gathered found their voices, overcoming their fright at this man and protesting loudly at what he was suggesting.

Dorgryl smiled showing Orlac’s perfect teeth, even allowing the smile to touch Orlac’s large, strangely violet eyes and blinked his long, beautiful dark lashes. ‘For if you do not obey, I will level your city; I will murder all of your people…whole families—mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, even babes in arms will die horribly…and I shall do it so slowly that each of you will suffer the most grotesque finale of pain and humiliation. Cipres will cease to exist. It will be dust. Forgotten—as will its people.’

The white-haired man looked ashen. ‘Why would you do this?’ was all he could numbly force his voice to ask.

‘Because I can!’ Dorgryl bellowed, his voice reaching way beyond the confines of the room. ‘I am a Prince. I should have been a King. I will rule!’ His tone disconcertingly fell back to its normal level but was no less intimidating. ‘Perhaps I might sweeten this deal between us. I grant you a concession. You require a Queen and I shall provide her. I shall rule through her. Accept this or die…it’s really quite simple.’

People began to look around at one another. They were too terrified to say anything directly to him but he could read the confusion and he loved it. Loved feeling Orlac squirming beneath him, around him, demanding to claim his body back. Well, he could wait. A good lesson was being learned not only by the Cipreans but by his young host tonight.

A figure in black slithered from the fringe of the gathered. A gaunt fellow with a face to terrify children
presented himself, bowing low. Dorgryl considered him. He did not appear as cowed as the others. One eye twitched erratically due to a pronounced tic on one side of his face; the rest of his face looked as though it had been mauled by leprosy. Dorgryl found himself momentarily fascinated by the horror of the face in front of him.

‘And who might you be?’ he finally asked, his interest piqued.

The voice was effeminate. ‘I am Almyd Goth, sire. Also an adviser to the former Queen. I wonder, could I beg a word?’

Dorgryl looked around at the expectant faces, filled with fear. Hold that fear, good folk, he thought to himself, and obey me. He felt Orlac attempting to claw back his mind again. He was strong and Dorgryl would have to be extremely wary of that strength which had stood Orlac in such stead during his battles with the Paladin. The boy was also powerful with magic way beyond his own but he was inexperienced, used to wielding only one particular form of it—killing the Paladin. Mind you, it was taking all of Dorgryl’s concentration to keep Orlac’s power at bay.

Everyone was waiting. ‘Dismissed until I summon you,’ he commanded. ‘You,’ he looked at Goth. ‘Remain.’ He watched the people, now even more confused and wary, shuffling to get away from him as fast as they could.

He noted Goth’s satisfied look and the sneer he threw towards the other adviser, but Dorgryl ignored the fellow in front of him for now. Instead he spoke with Orlac whilst the people dispersed.
You may have your body
back now but remember how this feels and don’t ever forget I can do it to you any time I please.

Dorgryl gave Orlac no chance to respond. He reduced himself in a second to the shimmering red presence as Orlac felt his body become his again. It slumped and he felt behind himself for the throne. Light! He felt weakened. The man, Goth, was talking to him. For a moment he could not hear what he said; could only watch his lips move.

‘Are you sure I cannot get you something?’ Goth repeated.

Orlac pushed the dizziness back.
There will be a reckoning
he growled at Dorgryl who did not respond but he sensed his uncle shimmer brightly momentarily as though in a flash of anger.

The room was empty, save for himself and Goth. Orlac deliberately took another few moments to find his composure. The man sensibly remained still and silent.

‘What is it you wish to say to me?’ Orlac finally said. He gave no explanation for his odd behaviour.

Goth felt unbalanced. He was used to being able to fathom almost every situation. His agile mind and ability to rapidly respond to ever-changing situations meant he could assemble, dismantle and rework a plan in moments. Goth knew he had an uncanny ability to see events from almost any perspective, which was why, he believed, he continued to escape retribution. There was only one situation for which his brilliant and subtle mind had not been able to find an answer and that was the continuing good health and vitality of Torkyn Gynt. He had personally watched him die; watched his body
break and take its last gasp before death consumed it. He had absolutely no explanation for his return to life, if indeed he had left it. But now he had another compelling problem to pick at. Orlac. Where had he come from? Why was this throne so important to him?…Why this realm and not Tallinor, for example? Goth had felt chilled—a rare sensation—when the golden man’s voice had suddenly changed to that deep, detached one.

He, who felt no fear of anyone, had at that moment experienced an awe of something he suspected was so much more powerful and clever than him that he was frightened. The stupid people in the room had muttered between themselves about how to fight this enemy. How ludicrous! Had they not seen the dead and dying in the square? Had they not heard the terrifying tale of this man stepping through iron gates?…More than that,
dissolving
through those gates! Soldiers had thrown down their weapons in submission. There was no fighting a man like this…if he was a man, for which mortal possessed magical powers such as this?

He looked now at the intensely violet eyes which were regarding him. Orlac was brilliantly handsome. Opposite in colouring but similar in stature, he reminded Goth of Torkyn Gynt, of all hateful people. Probably that uncanny height and those broadest of shoulders, he told himself. And that damn wide, bright smile!