Chapter Four
Gwynerath, Arkallon’s eastern harbour. As distant from Laria Port as it was from the city of Kalleron, the coastal town was a world of its own. Felicitra disembarked onto the dockside and peered at the terraced steps. Built into the cliff, the tiered town was a rainbow of colour; a harmonious mis-match of architecture and culture. Tiled roofs and stone walls sat alongside wooden cabins topped with bundles of thatch. As varied as the buildings, the people milling around had come from far and wide; traders coming to profit from the close bond shared between Laria and Arkallon. Above all the bustle, seabirds flew in constant patrols, ready to swoop down and snatch discarded foodstuffs; sometimes stealing shiny trinkets and fleeing to the sky.
To be lost in the atmosphere was a typical response; Felicitra gazing all around and taking in the ambience of an Arkallian summer evening. In the air, spices and herbs floated in pungent cascades. The sounds of lazy guitar strings and soft-popping drums complemented the scene.
Felicitra startled as a hand fell upon her shoulder. She turned, smiling to see a familiar face. ‘Larimer!’
A handsome man with a crop of black hair, Larimer was a frequent contact for her Arkallian dealings. Once a captain in Kalleron’s army, his disdain for Kalle’s greed had brought him to the cult. He wore a simple blue tunic wrapped around his body, but Felicitra knew he would carry a weapon underneath. Not a man to cross, but a man to trust; Larimer was a welcome sight in these troubling times.
‘Felicitra, take it all in,’ he said, gesturing to the colourful view. ‘It’ll all be gone soon.’
‘I can see it already.’ She understood the meaning of his words. Gwynerath was the closest port to Laria, and refugees would soon flood the picturesque terraces. Among them, she and her father would be a drop in the ocean. There were hints of distress already visible. One too many boats jostling for position in the water. Smugglers on the harbour wall, ill-fitting among the cheerful crowds, were searching for desperate fares.
‘Still no Petra?’ Larimer asked.
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t an easy decision. I want nothing more than for her to be by my side. If my heart wasn’t involved, I’d still value her protection.’
‘You’ve spoken of her with such devotion. It puzzles me; from everything you say, she seems a perfect recruit.’ He gestured to the void where a feisty Larian ought to be. ‘Yet… she eludes you?’
‘She has crew. They are family. I wouldn’t ask her to give that up.’
‘If she trusts you, she would surely remain anonymous. What better ally than a civilised and dependable pirate? Or is that a contradiction?’
She smiled. His words defined Petra without insult, though Felicitra considered her a trader of opportunity. ‘One day, she’ll be ready. When she is, I’ll ask her.’
Larimer peered at the clifftop. ‘As usual, Gwynerath’s evenings start early, but the sun will be above the horizon for a few hours. We can get you on your way now, or perhaps some rest. Start at dawn?’
‘Tonight. Haste is essential. Horses?’
‘Not Stars, but close enough. Most of the stables have sold their best to the wealthy fleeing Arkalla. We have three mounts, one for you, two for the escort.’
‘And you? You’re not coming?’
Larimer grimaced an apology. ‘Kastane’s orders. Needs me near Etherus.’
‘Etherus? I didn’t think the plans were in place.’
His nod was emphatic. ‘No other reason to be there.’
‘When?’
‘Once I have you on your way to your father, I’ve to head into the Kulkarrons. I’ll be back and forth between here and there, figuring out what our friend in Kalleron has planned for us.’
‘How are they getting inside?’ Felicitra imagined the challenges. The Etherus weapons complex near the peak of the Kulkarrons was a fortress. Not considering the hostile environment, it was well-guarded and remote. ‘Are you going inside?’
Larimer pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘You know Kastane’s paranoia starts with his own plans. I only know what I need to know. I’m just a runner for now.’
‘You think we’re truly ready?’
‘We’ve tried how many times? Four, five? Lost how many people? This time feels different. His secrecy betrays a confidence. I think the infiltration has already started.’ Larimer was quick to raise a finger. ‘Just my opinion. No facts.’
Felicitra wondered if the Queen’s threat was coincidence? Etherus, known for its plumes of black smoke tainting the highest peaks, offered an incredible prize. Kalleron’s sorcerers, engineers with exquisite talent and intelligence, had long-served a higher purpose. Rumours circulated they had achieved the impossible; they had captured the essence of the Wind. They had created a weapon, a tantalising taste of elemental power. It was yet to be shown to the world. Some warned it was propaganda, and in some circles of the Kallerye court, Felicitra understood the work wasn’t in favour. To them, it was blasphemy. Another elemental weapon would not sit well beside Kalle’s singular power. For the cult, though, it would offer a great deal. She wanted to know more, but she had her own immediate problems to overcome.
‘I wish you well with that, Larimer.’
‘To the horses, then?’
Felicitra nodded, glanced back at the ocean, and followed Larimer into the crowds of Gwynerath.
Felicitra and her escort followed the Rivyn west to Arkalla; a single stop required to rest the horses. They had proven hardier than she expected for a mixed breed. Areya, a female mercenary from distant Drohendrir, appeared just as robust. She had already travelled far before arriving at Gwynerath. She was bright and cheerful, though her partner, Hestra, said little during the travel. A diminutive Bruhadian, he stood a shade taller than the average Kallerye man. He rarely spoke, although when he did, his conviction to the cause appeared absolute. Dressed as civilians, their weapons concealed behind unfussy, drab tunics, they had travelled onward, reaching the city at dawn. Arkalla, settled on the northern bank of the Rivyn, sat on a large and fertile plain. The Kulkarron mountains loomed far to the north; the glacial rivers flowing through the foothills painting nature’s canvas with azure and verdant hues. Lush meadows, deciduous woodlands, and fields of crops surrounded the city; all nourished by the waters that flowed into the Rivyn. Arriving a day and a half after leaving Gwynerath, Felicitra was tired but eager to keep moving.
As they approached the walls, she noted the new battlements built along the northern front. It had only ever served as a token defence, but Arkalla had since expanded the feeble barrier outward and upward. Lighter shades of stone sat on top of weathered blocks. The fresh faces of cut masonry lacked the ornate detail of the worn surfaces beneath; rough edges and careless tooling marks contrasting with the timeless and intricate design. Not yet complete, the new wall spanned hundreds of yards.
Areya said, ‘Will it hold?’
Felicitra craned her neck to look as she rode under the main arch. ‘Against soldiers? Possibly, for a while.’
‘Against the Queen?’
She didn’t think so; speaking her thoughts to Areya.
They rode down Arkalla’s historic avenue, where fruit-bearing orange trees lined the cobbled and picturesque thoroughfare. Quaint townhouses with elegant balconies looked onto the street. Ivy climbed the walls and flower baskets hanging under colourful shutters swayed in the gentle breeze.
Areya leaned in and said, ‘You think she’s as real as they say?’
About to answer, Felicitra raised a hand, pulling her horse to a stop.
‘What is it?’ Areya asked.
‘It’s morning.’
‘Yes?’
‘Where is everybody?’
The city appeared abandoned, not a soul in sight. The bright coloured shutters were closed over most windows. It appeared as though the city had forgotten to wake. Near the centre, the towering golden spire above Sinder’s temple cast a plume of grey smoke into the sky. The beacon burned from dawn to dusk; a marker for weary travellers to follow. Arkalla was open to all.
‘What can you see?’ Areya asked.
Felicitra, staring south toward the central square, thought she saw a shape. Hundreds of yards away, in front of the massive statue of Arkana, there was movement. ‘Let’s ride on.’
As they travelled to the square, they passed silent houses and shops without trade. The elegant spires, clustered around the centre of the city, were glinting under amber fire; the sun beginning to break over the eastern horizon. As they neared the statue of Arkana, the noise became clear; the movement recognisable.
‘Is that the Seer?’ Areya asked.
It was. The Seer of Arkallon; preaching to a small crowd of onlookers. Fretful faces and anxious eyes peered at their leader, some staring upwards at their god. It was an ugly statue. As tall as a mansion house, they had rushed the effigy’s construction. When Kalle’s intent had become apparent, the Seer had ordered the old and modest statue removed and this new grotesque had appeared almost overnight. Of plaster, and painted a gaudy yellow, it was incongruous with Arkalla’s aesthetic. Felicitra thought it was a desperate act. A delicate hand raised against the executioner’s sword.
The Seer was telling people to go back to their homes. His words were as honey; his oration warm and reassuring as any golden dawn. Arkana would prevail. The city would not crumble under a heathen Queen and her army of sub-human degenerates. They would be vanquished; Arkana would repay their faith with glory. God would swallow the enemy whole; the rivers would rise and fall upon them, sending their bodies to the Rivyn. Cheers of nervous praise returned from the crowd, voices speaking with uncertainty, repeating a mantra as though it might become real. Arkana would save them. Arkalla would prevail.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Felicitra said. ‘Let’s get my father.’
Away from the square, Areya said, ‘The Seer; he’s persuaded the city to stay?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Kalle hasn’t changed his orders. His Queen, and whatever she commands, is coming.’
Felicitra nodded. It had taken her by surprise—the power of faith. Arkallon had once idolised the elementals. A strange thing, to have piety for the immortals. They were not gods. They were more real; more distant. Yet Arkallon, bolstered by a new way of thinking, had adopted a human god. The roots of this religion grew from a rebellious sect which had appeared many centuries ago. Arkalla’s wealth had increased, and its growing trade brought glory and culture to the city. For many, it seemed God had spoken. Reward followed faith. The elementals had never shown such generosity. They were aloof and cold creatures. It was easy to walk away from such callous indifference and embrace a new spiritual path.
Felicitra said, ‘This place has flourished for more than a century. All under the gaze of their god. I’ve seen other nations and their ways. Some have gods that appear vengeful. Others worship despair.’ She waved a hand at the pretty buildings; to the fruit-bearing trees lining every street. ‘This is what Arkana brings.’
‘But… you don’t believe, do you?’
‘If I had to believe in one; it would be Arkana.’
‘Then, perhaps the Queen will finally find her match?’
Felicitra shook her head. ‘I said, if I had to believe. I cannot believe. Not with what I’ve seen over the years.’
‘Oh.’ Areya appeared disappointed.
‘Do you have a god?’
‘In Drohendrir, we pay our dues to the forest. I’m not sure if a god speaks to us, but I know the wilds do. The animals and their kin share our spirit. But we have room for other meaning.’
‘I understand.’
Hestra, quiet until now, raised his voice. ‘Their god will not save them.’
The Bruhadian faith was unique. They hadn’t worshipped the elementals, but they had built their culture around them. Legends of stone, and prophecies of kings. The narrative wasn’t hindered by the Bruhadian physiology; strong and enduring. Felicitra’s dealings with Kastane and his cult had given her ample insight into the world of a once great nation. It was ironic; the threat of the elemental Queen’s coming had brought Bruhada to its knees. Decades ago, having defeated Kalleron’s ruthless General Te’anor, Bruhada’s legendary King Baza’rad, had fled to an unknown exile. Many had thought it a humiliating disgrace. Felicitra and others knew it had been the only way to save his people. Pondering the moment, she thought of the Seer.
To Hestra, Felicitra said, ‘There is power in faith.’
‘There is no power other than the elementals. It is folly to believe otherwise.’
‘Then you think Arkalla is truly doomed?’
Hestra pointed back toward the effigy of Arkana. ‘If they hadn’t lost their way; they would know what comes. This city should be empty. Left for Kalle’s plunder. With hands we can lift stone and build again. We can’t resurrect the dead from their shattered bones.’
Chilling words. A drop of ice down Felicitra’s spine. She shivered, her thoughts returning to her mission. With a nod to Hestra and heels digging into her mount’s flank, she moved with haste to her father’s house.
Beneath green and slatted shutters, neat flower boxes added a rainbow of colour to the grey masonry of a three-storey townhouse. A tall chimney puffing white clouds into the air capped a red-tiled roof. In a recessed arch, on a single-cut piece of dark timber, an inscribed plaque hung above a bronze ring. The inscription told of an older time, to the place from where her father hailed. Seven Valleys.
Areya pointed. ‘Your father’s house?’
‘Yes.’ Felicitra smiled. More than a few years had passed since she played as a child on the cobbled streets, plucking fruit and hopping across the gaps in the stone. Time had aged her body and mind, but the place remained the same.
‘Pretty,’ the mercenary said.
Felicitra nodded, dismounting and moving to the door. She paused, and turning to Areya, asked, ‘The others?’
‘Others?’
The smallest cloud of doubt crossed Felicitra’s mind. ‘My father is ill. There should be a wagon for him.’ She turned and scanned the street, seeking for signs of other cultists. ‘Where is it? Where are they?’
A creak from the door; Felicitra swivelled around. Joy in her heart, she was expecting to see her father’s kindly face. It was another that greeted her. Her soaring spirits crashed to earth.
‘You!’ she said to her brother.
‘Felicitra,’ he said, not so much a greeting as a confirmation.
Touran’s presence brought anxiety to the fore. What was he doing here? An Arkanian zealot, his faith was absolute. Felicitra’s mind returned to the Seer; his command to the loyal.
‘Father?’ she asked.
‘He is safe.’
Touran’s stance was defensive, his body shielding the door. Felicitra looked to the street. A step taken toward her brother. ‘Touran. A wagon. Did a wagon come?’
‘I sent it away.’
Her stomach lurched; a hole carved within. Felicitra struggled to stay in control of her rising anger. ‘How long?’
‘Long?’
Another step to her brother; Touran inching the door closed. She asked, ‘When did you send it away?’
‘Last night. It is long gone. I told them we had no need of it. Arkana will help us.’
‘NO!’ Felicitra stormed toward Touran, pushing hard against the door and slamming it into his face. He fell backwards, and Felicitra rushed across the threshold of the house.
‘Felicitra?’ It was Areya calling.
She looked at the mercenary and cursed under her breath. ‘You should go.’
‘Go?’
It was over. The wagon had been their only chance. Her father could not ride. His body was brittle; she couldn’t risk hauling him over a horse’s back, let alone journey across hill and meadow. There was a bed within the wagon; Felicitra had organised herbs and medicine for the journey. Without those simple things, her father would perish.
She gestured to the empty street. ‘I needed the wagon. We saw nothing on the way in. All transport has already left. Larimer spoke of the lack of horses; the wealthy buying their passage away from here. We don’t have time to arrange anything else. Leave while you can, both of you. I won’t abandon my father.’
Areya, taking a step forward, was halted by Hestra’s hand. He bowed his head to Felicitra. ‘You are sure you cannot come?’
‘A promise I made myself. I’ll not leave him. If he can’t travel, nor will I.’
‘You understand what will happen?’
A sigh from Felicitra. A realisation of the irony. ‘When she appears, I’ll finally know her truth. Perhaps there is hope yet?’
Hestra stared. If she sought reassurance, his eyes gave none. Empty and cold.
A sudden thought. Of Petra in Laria. Safe across the sea. Felicitra moved her hand to her belt and removed the leather purse. She tossed it to Areya. ‘With haste to Laria Port.’ Pointing to the pouch, she said, ‘That will cover all costs plus more. Find the captain of the Melody of the Sea. Tell Petra of this. Tell her…’ She paused. Words from the heart were so difficult to say. The letter. Petra had promised to read it. ‘The letter. Tell her she will find my voice in the letter. She will understand.’
Areya nodded, although she appeared confused. Hestra, giving one last bow, pulled her away. Without looking back, the two mercenaries mounted their horses and, slapping the riderless beast on it’s flank, they fled Arkalla.
Felicitra turned, ready to berate Touran, who was rising to his feet. Scorn on her face and bitter words on her lips, a thrum of footsteps sounded from the wooden steps. She forced a smile; her nephew and niece were stampeding down the stairs. How they had grown.
‘Jonna, Jadebloom!’ she said, greeting them with open arms, and though her embrace was real, her joy was not. A gentle lie for the children; Felicitra kept her despair hidden from view. Was it not insult enough that Touran had stranded her father? He had brought his children, too.
‘Father said we will see a great day,’ Jonna, in his tenth year, said.
Jadebloom, three years younger, pulled away from Felicitra. ‘Have you come to see the Reckoning, Auntie Felia?’
Her composure strained, Felicitra maintained her cheerful lie. ‘Reckoning?’
Touran spoke, his voice grating on her nerves. ‘To see the heathen Queen repelled. Kalleron’s heresy laid bare.’
Her stare focusing on Jadebloom; Felicitra held the girl by her shoulders. A reassuring squeeze given to the innocent child. ‘Yes, Jade, I’ve come for the Reckoning, too.’ A glance to her brother. ‘Father, is he upstairs?’
‘As ever.’
‘A moment, Jade. I must see grandfather.’
Without another word, Felicitra climbed the stairs. She heard her father’s voice calling as she neared the top. One step before entering his room, she paused. With a hand to her face and a stern thought to scold herself, she donned her mask of control. How long before it would slip? Taking a deep breath to inhale the comforting scents of home, Felicitra stepped into her father’s room.
‘Felicitra, you’ve come.’
She nodded, certain if she spoke, he’d notice the tremor. Felicitra gazed at the old man propped up in bed. He appeared so much smaller than her last visit. Withering. She knew he was ill, but his deterioration was stark. With the shutters closed over, a cosy gloom cradled his tidy chamber. Felicitra crossed the floor to open them. Another glance to the neat room, and Felicitra thought it strange. Touran wasn’t the type to fuss over a mess.
‘Maid?’
Her father smiled. ‘One thing about the faithful: reliable.’
She thought of her brother. ‘Not always true, father.’
With a weak motion, her father patted the bed. After opening the shutters, Felicitra moved to his side, sitting on the edge, careful not to disturb his old bones. His red bleary eyes looking up to her, he nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know what Touran has done.’
‘No matter, I am here now.’
‘Did I hear horses?’
Felicitra nodded.
Her father brightened. ‘There is still time for you.’
‘I sent them away. Messengers to Laria.’
Her father sighed, the brief spark of light fading from his eyes. His hand fumbled across the sheets. He was reaching for her. Felicitra moved her hand to his; holding it with care. His once powerful grip struggled to maintain its form. How long did he have?
‘Father, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell?’
‘The illness. It is eating you. I could have sent more medicine, more herbs.’
‘It happened so quickly.’ He smiled. ‘I’m thankful. Better to fade fast than linger.’
Her smile involuntary, her laugh bitter and brief, Felicitra shook her head. The irony of her situation was a vicious stab, but she wouldn’t share her black humour. Though it appeared her father’s intuition hadn’t diminished with age.
He said, ‘Yes. You’ve travelled all this way to take me to safety, but my days are already done.’ He lifted a finger to point at her. ‘You still have legs, Felicitra. I remember how fast you ran as a child. You might make it if you leave now.’
‘I’ve travelled for days and eaten little. An anxious belly refusing food. I think if I ran, I’d be giddy and faint.’ She thought about his words. The mention of time. ‘Father? I’ve seen no armies on my travel. No sign of any Kallerye activity. There is time yet for all of us, is there not?’
‘My maid?’
‘Yes?’
‘Faithful.’
Confused, Felicitra shook her head. ‘What of it?’
‘Faithful to them, Felicitra; the old ways. Arrabelle, she lives on the northern edge of the city. Two days past she came to me; said she’d seen her. She’d seen God.’
‘She saw Earth?’
Her father struggled to nod his head. ‘Arrabelle’s not one for gossip. A strong woman, like your mother was. As you are. Lived a long life, she’s lost more than most. She was out gathering flowers on the northern meadow when she saw her.’ Her father paused. ‘I don’t know what it means, Felicitra, but she’s real. And she’s already here.’
With affection, she placed his hand on his chest and stood from the bedside. Felicitra moved to the north window and peered out across the streets below. The city, a ghost of itself, appeared calm. Squinting, she sought for any signs. A shiver rattled her body. Leaves were rustling in the wind, but all else was quiet. She thought she saw a lone figure at the distant statue of Arkana, but the foliage obscured her view. The wide northern avenue, flanked by the trees, stretched to the city wall; glimpses of the arches showing between the swaying branches.
‘There is nothing,’ she said, turning to face her father.
A noise. Distant. A low growl of the earth; the smallest vibration. Desperate for a mundane origin, she said, ‘Cannon fire?’
The reply came from her brother, appearing at the bedroom door with Jonna and Jadebloom. ‘The Reckoning has begun!’
‘Can we watch? Can we watch?’ The children, keen to see the spectacle, ran to the window, jostling Felicitra as they passed. They stretched on tip-toes; Jadebloom just tall enough to peek above the frame. ‘Father, father, we can’t see. Where is Arkana?’
Felicitra stared at her nephew and niece. Jadebloom’s pink toes squirming on the floorboards, Jonna’s head bobbing up and down. Such excitement. Such a lie. It was murder. Her teeth clenched, she paced to Touran, offering him a whispered rebuke.
‘You could have left. All of us; we could have left.’
Touran smiled. ‘Sister, you will see.’
Another distant rumble brought a fine powder from the ceiling; cracks appearing in the plaster. White dust falling as tears. Felicitra, looking to the window, stepped to her father. She knelt beside him, taking his hand.
‘Thank you, father, for all that you gave me. For all that you taught me.’
He nodded, a pained effort showing in the shudder of his head. His gaze moving around the room, he smiled. ‘Look at that, Felicitra. I told you one day we’d be a family again.’
A third tremor shook the house. Masonry crumbled from the walls, the ceiling shedding larger flakes. With the dust becoming thicker, her father said, ‘From earth, we come.’
A kiss on his forehead, Felicitra replied, ‘To earth we return.’
He squinted; his eyes tracking to the window. ‘Comfort them.’
Felicitra nodded and moved to the open portal. The children’s bright enthusiasm had visibly dimmed. As she knelt between them, her arms embracing their small frames, her father called Touran to his side. Ever the diplomat, always one to mend bridges, his words to her brother were conciliatory.
‘Stay with me, Touran. Pray for me. Pray for us.’
The fourth clap of thunder shook the house with violence. The children squealed; Felicitra was quick to hold them tight to her bosom. Soothing words spoken to their crowns. Behind her, Touran’s voice was shaking, although his prayer continued. Words to a god Felicitra knew would pay no heed. There was one true power; yet she was not a god. And she had come.
From the cobbled street, now a sheet of fine powder, she appeared. Rising from the ground, her form was exquisite. Distant, but clear to Felicitra’s view, the Terrible Queen of Kalleron was magnificent to behold. A graceful and feminine body, as white as marble, as naked as nature; gems of rainbow colours moved across her flawless frame. Eyes, as red as rubies, stared out from a sculpted face. A modest, jagged crown atop her hairless head.
‘Is that… Arkana?’ Jadebloom asked.
Felicitra turned to her brother, his eyes alert to his daughter’s words. Felicitra shook her head. The moment was upon them. The thought bringing tears to her eyes. Forgiveness found in the end.
‘I’m sorry, Touran. You’re a fool, but know that I love you.’
Her brother nodded, a smile for his sister. He had stopped praying.
Felicitra turned to the view, squeezed Jadebloom, and lied. ‘Yes, yes, Jade. See; Arkana has come. They will save us.’
From all across the city, Felicitra could hear muffled screams. A thick, choking dust filled the air. Her focus shifting, seeking the horizon, she saw the golden spires were gone. The Seer’s Beacon was collapsing; billowing clouds of grey rising in its place. It was one last message to all, far and wide; Arkalla had fallen. Through the growing haze, Felicitra sought the Queen. Saw her. She hadn’t moved. The ground rippled beneath her feet. Strange arcs of stone crackled outward; snakes of rock leaping and dancing as lightning.
A terrible stillness overcame the world. All movement ceasing. The dust suspended without motion. Only the awful cries from the shattered city remained. Felicitra squeezed the children tighter; shielding them from the painful sound. Moments passed; nothing further disturbing the eerie calm. The thunder and rumbling were subsiding. Hope daring to rise in her heart, Felicitra hugged the children tighter. Was it over? She stared, leaning forward to better see the Queen. The strange snakes had become inert; motionless as tree roots. The creature appeared at rest. A bitter contradiction; she appeared serene. A movement to break the spell; the Queen raising her arms to the sky. She paused, as though in salutation to the heavens. The rumbling thunder was gone, and Felicitra noticed the birdsong in the powder-coated trees.
‘What’s happening?’ her brother asked.
‘I think it’s over.’
Felicitra let out a sigh of relief. A smile graced her face as she dreamed of returning to Petra. She squinted as the queen thrust her arms downward. One blink as the earth fractured; a colossal wall of pressure crushing down on them, and in her arms, the children screamed.
.png)