Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (34 page)

Jessica could tell that there was much more to his feelings at the moment than a temporary anger from her recrimination. He was afraid of something, terribly afraid, and she didn’t think it was a fear for himself.

She frowned. “Telling them would have been better than nothing.”

He straightened up and walked toward her. “They wouldn’t have cared what I had to say even if I did. I needed more evidence to go anywhere with it. I got the evidence alright, paid for in blood. And for my part, I’m to be punished-for doing what they wouldn’t.”

“But why did you have to drag Stan and Craig into it!”

She watched Vincent’s brown eyes glisten in the pale, white light. He swallowed before speaking. “Stan and Craig are the ones who discovered Clyde and led us to his camp. They threatened to go without me and were too eager to chase after him. All we could do was try to catch up.” He looked down and to the side. “I’ll probably grieve over their deaths for the rest of my life, always wondering if I could have done something differently. But in the end, it won’t help them. Nothing can.”

Jessica felt a strong urge to console him. If the bars weren’t in the way, she thought she might have. Instead she stood her ground, her eyes beginning to water as well. “You could have told someone,” she insisted in a subdued tone. “You could have told someone and asked them to help you stop those boys from running off.”

Despite his wet eyes, Vincent’s face went from sad to angry. “Don’t you think I know that!” He yelled at her. His suddenly loud voice shook her for an instant. “What was I supposed to do! Sick our guards on them and lose my only chance of finding the cult!”

“What cult?”

“Kargoth, they…look, lots of people have died. If we don’t stop them, far more
are going
to die. And when that happens, Stan, Craig, and even your brother will be the least of it.”

Jessica was thunderstruck. “What do you know about Harold? Did you see him?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I know what became of him. When we were attacked, I saw a lot of the missing people. They were…”

“Then maybe he’s alive!” She interjected quickly. “Where did you see them! Maybe there’s still hope!”

Vincent’s appearance became more weary. His eyes glistened as he stared at her. Several long moments passed and he had trouble keeping eye contact. His expression let her know their fate long before he shook his head. She could tell that he didn’t want to voice it. She pressed him anyway. She had to know what had happened.

When he told her, a fright clutched at her insides. “But you didn’t see him,” she maintained, “maybe he’s somewhere else. Lost.”

Vincent looked troubled at saying what came next. “Jessica, I understand why you want to believe that, but unless there’s another cult I don’t know about that’s been abducting people, it looks pretty grim for him.”

Slowly, the weight of it sunk in. She started crying. Moments passed by that seemed like an eternity while she sobbed at her brother’s passing. “Why Harold…” she whispered to no one in particular.

When things became quiet, Vincent spoke softly to her. “In the short time that I knew him, I began to feel almost as though he were my own little brother. I would have done anything to spare you this. I didn’t get involved at first just because he needed to be saved but because I…”

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked before he could finish.

Vincent said nothing.

Her feelings turned to anger as she looked up at him. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know. They ran away.”

“Why didn’t you try to get more help before you left? Maybe with more people you could have killed them!” She sobbed.

Vincent straightened up and fixed her with a serious stare. “I told the only people I could count on to help me, and they did.”

Jessica wasn’t one of them.

She looked up at his face and heard several pairs of steps approaching from behind as a deep rending sadness swelled in her chest and tears poured from around her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She could barely control her voice enough to get the words out. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

A voice spoke from behind her. “You will now face your inquiry, Vincent Faren,” the man announced evenly. “Open the gate,” he muttered to someone else. The same officer she saw in the room outside responded to the command by walking past her and fumbling with a large ring of keys, trying to find the right one.

Vincent sighed in disgust when it was taking too long. “Don’t bother.” He put his hand near the lock, there was a click, and then he slowly swung the gate inward and stepped out. Jessica was shocked and noticed that the jailor was equally surprised.

“How long have you been able to do that?” One of his guards asked from behind as Vincent came closer to her.

“I have always been able to do that.”

He spoke quietly to the other wizard. “We’ll need to inform the masters to send someone down here to spell the door.”

Vincent turned to her with a sad look and said one last thing before leaving with them. “You’ve been a good friend, Jessica, and I appreciate the time we’ve spent together, but it’s better if you stay out of this,” his tone turned even more somber, “you’ll just get in trouble like me.”

The wizards flanked him while he walked, keeping a step behind to make sure they would have the upper hand. Jessica watched as the jailor followed the three of them, his keys jangling. Her tears lessened, but another type of sadness overtook her, one that was now born of sympathy for Vincent.

She realized what he had been trying to do all this time.

Chapter
XIV

K
ing Glidewell, sovereign of Ryga, sat atop his mighty throne within the great hall of his palace at Doln. Inside the vast chamber, he had been hearing petitioners bring their complaints. The more petty matters were handled by those under him, but when they deemed them something worthwhile, something that was only within his majesty’s power to grant, they were permitted entry. He was a benevolent and enlightened ruler, one that was concerned with the strength and vitality of his nation and who made it his chief aim never to overlook something important. Wars and other disasters could only be prevented in this way, he the sole individual who could mitigate them, and his was the tireless vigilance that ensured the survival and well being of the people throughout his kingdom.

His people.

A golden jeweled crown sat atop his head of brown hair. A red cape tufted with white fur hung at his shoulders. He wore a fine black tunic with gold trimmings above soft black leather pants. On his left hand was a single ring embossed with an emerald, the twin of the one his beautiful queen wore. She sat in a throne to his right, adding her opinion whenever he asked yet was not always present during these the more menial duties of the king. Today she was, for which he was glad. He enjoyed her presence, occasional insights, and she seemed to make the time go by faster. She wore a cape like his, a smaller smoother shaped crown, and a regal and stunning red dress that rose and fell with each of her graceful breaths. Her beautiful dark hair draped over the cape on her back, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap.

Both of their thrones sat atop a raised section of the stone floor higher than the rest by a single step not far from their feet. Before them, the main audience hall stretched out for nearly half a mile
toward the other end, part of its high ceiling supported by a column of massive stone pillars on both sides near the walls that separated it from other rooms of the palace. Each had black iron sconces with pitch-soaked torches flaming brightly on four sides to keep all well lit. Alcoves built into the walls, a mere thirty feet from where he sat, held large fireplaces that gave his portion of the vast chamber that much more light and magnificence. Vast though it was, the court was full as always. A crowd stood gathered in the region near the other end, kept back by halberd-wielding guards in red uniforms who made sure they never crossed the invisibly delineated boundary, well before the king, and that they waited their turn for admittance.

Beyond that section, into the open area near his throne, which was by no means small in comparison, was a spread out collection of lords and ladies, distant relatives, and wealthy acquaintances. There was a constant buzzing hum from their talking. They were all dressed in fine clothes, opulent dresses of bright colors, and lavish tunics. Some had become so accustomed to loitering in his court that they comfortably sipped from wine goblets and socialized in groups of two, three, and five, passing amongst each other the latest bit of inconsequential news. Parasites and sycophants all, Glidewell detested them. He kept his daily routine of hearing grievances partly to keep them at arm’s length, yet many continued to remain. The audience chamber was so vast that even as they did so, mostly wanting the prestige of being near him, they were no hindrance to his official duties. They even stayed clear of the rabble brought before him by his guards so that he might hear their pleas. There were many times when he wished they were an obstacle, just so he would have an excuse to clear them from his hall and send them home. For now, he tolerated them. For now.

After finishing reading the petition before him, he stroked his brown beard twice and absentmindedly glanced once more toward his beautiful queen before lowering his hand. The scraggly old peasant man wearing tattered clothes was bald on top with light gray hair that hung on the sides of his head and had come from a dry farming community in northeast Ryga that was small and quite poor. He was still on his knees, face and arms flat on the ground before him, beseeching his king’s aid.

Glidewell at last spoke. “You claim here that you and your fellow villagers must walk ten miles to the nearest well because yours was built too shallow and has run dry?”

The old man raised himself only enough so that his head was not on the ground. “Yes, your majesty…” he answered in a raspy, weary, time worn voice, “…we are thirsty.”

“Why then can you not dig it deeper yourselves?”

“The ground is too rocky, your highness…we don’t have the tools or the labor…and the drought has kept the ground dry. Please, your majesty, it is not in our nature to beg, but you are the only one who can help us.”

“I see, then in that case…” Glidewell began.

One of his advisors began immediately whispering in his ear. “Beg your pardon, eminence, but wells are a private matter paid for by individuals. If you grant this request, other subjects will only be emboldened to beseech favors upon your treasury.”

He did not dignify the interruption by looking. “This is not about gold, this is about granting aid. By divine right I am their king. To whom else will they turn in their hour of need?”

The king saw in his peripheral vision his advisor bowing his head, not wanting to appear confrontational, and keeping it low. “It is a spurious expense, my liege.”

Glidewell’s tone became harsh. “
I
will decide what is ‘spurious.’” His advisor had become a nuisance of late, never telling him anything useful, just another parasite like the rest.

“Yes, sire,” he replied, taking a step back. The Rygan king had become accustomed to seeing his retainers intimidated by his height and strong voice if not his station.

His eyes, which had been looking at nothing in particular, returned to the pitiable old man. “Your request is granted.”

The weary peasant was so excited and overcome with joy that he raised his head for a tiny instant such that Glidewell was able to see the look on his face. “Many great thanks, your highness.”

“But not to the letter of your petition,” he announced in a loud voice, looking around at others gathered in his vast court. “There will be conditions.” The old man shook with a start. “Instead, my advisor, since he is so concerned about finances, will carry a royal ledger with him to oversee the project himself. He will accompany you and the diggers back to your home, escorted by two of my guards, to ensure that no coin is spent frivolously.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

He didn’t think that his advisor would raise an objection, yet he started to. “Sire, I…”

Glidewell shot him a glare that silenced him. His tone remained harsh. “It is your duty to carry out my will.” He spoke slowly, punctuating his words with an underpinning that only frightened him further. “Is there any good
reason why you cannot?”