Two days came and went, with Vilmos spending most of his time on the opposite side of a playing board from Edward. Although the break was enjoyable, Vilmos was growing increasingly anxious for Xith’s return.
The inn was an unusually empty place, with Edward and Vilmos being the sole occupants. In the three days not a single visitor or traveler arrived. Vilmos would often glance out the window when he heard a noise hoping it was Xith, usually it was the wind rattling the shutters. Edward noticed this and often told Vilmos not to worry, his friend would find him soon enough. Vilmos fretted nonetheless.
Vilmos and Edward were in the middle of yet another game of King’s Mate. So far Vilmos had lost three of his fools and his keeper. Edward had not lost a single piece. Vilmos did, however, have his king in the center raised square, which meant for a time he controlled the board.
Cleverly, Vilmos swung his second swordmaster onto an adjacent raised square, now it could not be taken. Edward thought long and hard and only after careful calculation did he move his priestess diagonally forward to endanger Vilmos’ first swordmaster.
Vilmos rotated the swordmaster around the King, taking one of Edward’s fools. This left Vilmos in a position to take a keeper or swordmaster the next turn.
Edward could not counter the move. He sought to gain by a loss. He moved his swordmaster, hoping Vilmos would claim the keeper.
Vilmos studied the board. The keeper was an easy piece to take, but the bold move was to take nothing and move his priest adjacent to Edward’s king and swordmaster. Vilmos could not take the king while the swordmasters remained. He would wait until Edward tried to claim the priest. The priest was backed up by his own keeper, which in turn was further supported by a swordmaster, which could swing one space further to the left if necessary. The play was tight and tricky, but Vilmos attempted it.
Edward smiled at the move—it was amateurish. He quickly devoured Vilmos’ swordmaster with his priestess. A broad smirk was evident on his face, until in a series of quick and calculated maneuvers Vilmos stripped four of Edward’s pieces: the priestess with which Edward had taken his swordmaster, the swordmaster which had been backed by the priestess, the keeper Edward could do nothing to protect, and, lastly, Edward’s only remaining swordmaster. Now Edward’s king was without protection.
Edward could do nothing to prevent Vilmos from taking the pieces, only sit back and watch with amazement. Wide eyes replaced the smile. Edward couldn’t maneuver his king out of the trap. In another move it was check. In one more, the game was over.
“Where were you hiding those moves? That was brilliant—your best playing!”
Vilmos held the black king in his hand. The ebony from which it was carved was cold and, though the piece itself was smooth, Vilmos felt as if the carved edges could slice into his fingers. “I just did as you said. I sacrificed the priest to gain the king.”
Edward chuckled. “Do you know in all the years I’ve been playing that I’ve never been defeated? I’ve never lost until just now—and it was a grand loss at that! Brilliant play—you finally started to think like a King’s Mate player and not like a boy playing Cross Rocks!”
“You are the one who told me to think five moves ahead. I tried that, honestly—but it took more than five moves to win. It was like I could see the board in my mind, how it would change with each option, and each option’s option. Paths crisscrossed, the checked spaces of the board blurred and then everything become … became—”
“Real,” said Edward. “Real, as if you were living the game rather than playing. Yes?” Vilmos held out the black king to Edward. Edward took the king and started setting his pieces on the board. “One more game and then we’ll call it a night. Okay?”
Adrina had recounted every moment of the attack to Emel and the mere mention of Oshywon was enough to convince him that the attack was much more than it seemed. If there was anything a summer at High Road taught him, it was this: the lost kingdom did not exist and any dim-witted soul who said otherwise ended up at the wrong end of a blade. Gutted, usually neatly—split down the middle like a ripe melon. He had no aspirations to end that way, but he would make inquiries all the same. It was an important tidbit, more so than anything else Adrina had said, too important to let go.
He paced back and forth, his movements erratic. The supply caravan was already a day’s ride away. Ebony could catch them and they could easily make their way to the east—if he was smart, if he would let what was lost stay lost. A few seasons in the Territories, that’s all it would take. He would return, the dark days, the dark desires, would be behind him.
Foolish. Foolish to be sure. Why couldn’t he listen to reason?
He threw up his hands, batted his head against the wall. Crazy. Crazy thoughts—not foolish.
For good measure he batted his head against the wall again but this didn’t bring reason. He picked up his rucksack and went down to the stables, making his way to Ebony. The stalls for the horses of lesser knights and other riders were at the far end.
Ebony was already saddled and bridled. His bedroll, sword and other belongings were in a pack on the ground nearby. The sack he carried now contained mostly food, the necessities of the road: hard bread, jerky, nuts and seed meal.
He checked Ebony’s saddle and rubbed the stallion’s mane. “Soon,” he whispered, “I promise.”
He put the packs in place. The sword went on top of everything, at the ready and, as when riding the High Road, he tucked a half dozen throwing daggers into each side of the saddle. The dagger he tucked into his belt at the back made thirteen. Another thing a summer on the High Road had taught him was how to survive the wilds.
As he rode Ebony out of the stable he shook a fist at the early afternoon sun. He would ride hard, fast. With luck he would catch the caravan near Mellack or Ispeth.
“Chase the wind,” Emel whispered to Ebony as they exited Imtal’s gates, “Chase the wind.” He looked back as he reached the low hills of the Braddabaggon, but by then his resolve was firm.
Ebony reared, turning as if in salute, then carried Emel down the long lonely road ahead.
“Is it or isn’t it?” asked King Andrew. He and Chancellor Yi were the only ones in the council chambers. The others had been dismissed.
“Sire, a moment I beg of you.”
“No more patience this day, Chancellor Yi. Guess if you must—a sensible guess—but a guess all the same! Is it or isn’t it?”
Not one easily bothered, Chancellor Yi maintained his position, the eyepiece fixed in his hand as he studied the parchment paper. “In my opinion—”
“Opinions be damned!” shouted King Andrew, “Tell me!”
“It is. Yes, it is.” Chancellor Yi sat bolt upright and looked directly at the king. He handed Andrew both scrolls, saying, “They are identical. Both penned by the same hand, with the same ink, signed in blood.”
King Andrew handed the chancellor the lamp. “Burn them, burn them!”
“But, sire, the history, these have been—”
Andrew grabbed the scrolls, tossed them into the fire, threw the oil lamp in after to make sure the fire burned hot. “Let fire cleanse this away! We will have not another word of this! Keeper Martin must not know. The elves must not know. Understood?”
Chancellor Yi withstood the king’s glare. “Surely the past cannot be lost forever. The truth of it will be heard. The Alder would not have—”
“The Alder doesn’t have to live in the present. We cannot undo what has been done. Elves and men must remain as they have remained. It is my will—it is also the will of the people. I can feel it, I know this.”
“Their road is a lonely one is it not then? To have come all this way—to have failed.”
King Andrew sighed. The weight of the world was on his shoulders. “It is what it is. No more, no less… Come now, tell me of the spring plans—that’s a subject of less weight.”
Chancellor Yi went back to the table. “The trust deeds for the lands from Heman to Klaive along River Opyl. Your quill, sire.”
King Andrew nodded as he signed the trust deed. Chancellor Yi pressed the royal seal into the paper. “Any troubles with Family Heman?”
“Odwynne Heman took the offer well and gave her word to bide by the agreements. She’s the family matriarch, I don’t expect any dissent. She seemed pleased with the landholdings offered and of the fact that you may possibly hold her favor at court.”
“Has the work begun? Adrina is…” King Andrew’s voice trailed off.
“It will be a grand house—a grand house indeed by spring. Klaive masons are building a protective wall around a large courtyard and construction will start soon. The river trade is good, tree and fir. The coast trade abundant with fish and crab. A place to prosper.”
“A place to prosper,” said Andrew. “Imtal will truly be an empty place then, won’t it?”
“It may be wise to call Valam home, sire. South Province has prospered. The people think him wise, generous—and the Battle of Quashan’ has only further endeared him. His presence in Imtal would be a good thing. If he took charge of the councils and day ceremony, it would further prepare him for the crown. King Jarom will surely see this as a sign of strength—and certainty that the crown will go to Valam is a good thing. His daughter will be of age soon and their binding will be as a consummation of his desires.”
“Indeed,” said King Andrew.
Edward pored over every option. There was visible strain in the air.
Vilmos stretched out his arms and shifted frequently in his chair. His backside was sore and numb. They had been sitting for hours. His weariness distracted his attention, but he would not yield.
In the first hours of the game not a piece had been taken or exchanged; the field was held in a careful ballet.
Outside the inn the gentle light of morning was forming on the horizon. Neither noticed. Nor did they take note when dawn gave way to the bright sunshine of a new day.
Edward wiped a dew-like perspiration from his brow without taking his eyes from the board or moving his other hand—the hand that rested on his king. He cursed under his breath, moved the king from the center square.
Waiting for Vilmos to make his next move, Edward watched the board, estimating which pieces Vilmos could move where and how he could counter. When Vilmos made the move Edward surmised he would, another offensive push toward center, Edward was ready for the counter. Before moving, Edward checked the alternatives.
A smile formed when Vilmos saw Edward’s move. Suddenly, weariness and fatigue were replaced by elation. He set in with a precise attack—a series of moves he had been saving for the right moment.
The intensity of the game built as Vilmos claimed his stake of Edward’s pieces. On the run, Edward pulled his pieces back to defensive positions to prevent the capture of his king.
The wind outside picked up, though neither noticed; their attention was lost to the board, each carefully deducing the next move, the next counter. Vilmos was ready to make a claim for victory, soon he would push Edward into a corner from which he could not escape. He grinned, purposefully stalled as he sipped from a near-empty glass, brought his hand to the board, perhaps toying with the expectant expression on Edward’s face. He would move the white priestess diagonally up the board to put the black king in check once more.
Vilmos eyed the dark king as he slowly brought the priestess across the board. He was lifting his fingers from the board and Edward was contemplating his next move when the wind outside surged, and in a sudden sweeping crash, the windows of the inn shattered.
Tattered shards still clattered to the floor as a voice rang out, a savage, eerie voice that slurred the words together into a fervent snarl. “Remain seated or you both die!”
Edward looked up from the board. “Can you not see we are in the middle of a game? And you’ll pay for the windows, there was no need for any of that!”
Three hair-covered beasts stood inside the inn, one at the door, the speaker, with a henchman to either side of him. Edward glared at the intruders. Each was heavily armored in the typical banded mail of their kind, with weapons at the ready.
Edward knew these beasts well. He had seen them many times before, though he had never been a victim of their assault. They were the paid hunters of Under-Earth; the half-animal, half-human race disgusted him. He watched the leader, who was watching him back. Saliva dripping from the beast’s upturned canine fangs as it licked its hair-covered face was a sign. The beast was on a hunt.
“What is it you seek?” asked Edward as he stood, trying both to gain time to think and to place the oddly familiar voice.
“We wish no harm. We seek out the boy. Give him to us,” hissed the beast through its wolf-like mouth, saliva dripping with each word slapping the floor.
Edward turned to Vilmos. “Sorry about this, lad. It is as it must be.”
The beast nodded to his fellows. “Leave the other. Take the boy.”
Edward cleared his throat. “What good is this boy anyway? Not much of a meal. Not much of anything, really. You must be mistaken, maybe the one you seek is upstairs in the far room on the right?”
The beast sniffed at the air. “Upstairs on the right?”
“Came in yesterday from the road. Strange looking, an outrealmer for sure. Not like my servant boy here.” Edward grabbed Vilmos by the scruff of the shirt. “Stole those clothes there, didn’t you?”
Vilmos didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Words wouldn’t come to his lips.
“Didn’t you?” shouted Edward.