Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

Stefan peered farther along the walls trying to make out if any of the noblewomen in their frilly, colorful dresses was his wife. Unable to pick her out, he searched among the crowds on the King’s Road before the yawning black gates and the portcullis. Peasants and the less fortunate, many in their feast day best, lined the street, breaths rising in feathery mists with autumn’s chill. Their jubilation brought a fleeting smile to his face. Admittedly, the sweaty stink from the press of so many friendly bodies was something Stefan did indeed miss.

But none were his wife. Not the folk held in check on the street by lines of guards, not the ones at the windows of the shabby buildings, or crowded on the rooftops. Children ran beside the path, waving, and dogs darted back and forth, barking and nipping at the horses as if they too reveled in greeting the Unvanquished.

“Feels good to be home,” Garrick shouted. He clapped Stefan on the shoulder.

“Yes, it does.” Stefan offered a strained smile to his friend.

The procession continued up Benez’s winding streets with the Cogal Drin Mountains looming above and behind, the city ascending on the lower slopes. The crowds grew thicker as they drew closer to the massive amphitheater built squarely between the ending of the slums and the beginning of the middle class’ brick and mortar edifices. People hung out the amphitheater’s windows, cheers rising in a roar to drown out all else. They showered the soldiers with flowers. A few women flashed their privates to the amusement and appreciation of several warriors.

Their surroundings changed to more affluent neighborhoods, cleaner streets and a network of drains to carry the stink of sewage away from the city, and so did the people’s garb. Rich wool and moleskin blends became the main fare among the folk. Choice of clothing again altered as they trekked even farther into the Upper City. The people here wore the most expensive silks and satins but made certain to cover their shoulders in ermine scarves or cloaks. The avenues widened, became pristine, and lined by gardens, fountains, colonnades, and villas, many with spires rising into the sky against the backdrop of the Cogal Drin’s expansive fangs.

The Royal Palace sprouted before them, Seti’s Quaking Forest flying from the highest points. Stefan frowned at the omission of the Tribunal’s Lightstorm banner. The castle reminded Stefan of a delicate off-white flower tinged with blue on its towers, spires, and parapets. The rugged battlements, the guards with watchful eyes, hands on weapons, and the many murder holes lining the castle’s surface proved the appearance to be a lie. The Royal Palace was a fortress.

Still, no sign of his wife. Hopeful that one woman he picked out with velvet hair almost to her waist and a lithe frame could be Thania, he paced a little ways from his men. His heart sank when she turned, and an unknown face greeted him.

“People of Benez.” Nerian’s voice boomed above the din. The King stood on the palace’s walls with his arms outstretched, golden armor glinting. His lone bodyguard, dressed all in black with a long cloak to match, was only a few feet away. The noise from the crowd died. “I give you … the Unvanquished.”

Wild cheers followed. People danced and capered in the streets and threw hats high. Many showered the army with flowers.

“In honor of their return,” the King’s deep voice rose higher still over the cacophony, “games will be held in two months.”

The jubilation pitched to new heights. A tap on Stefan’ arm made him glance down.

“The King requires your presence immediately.” The man who spoke wore black. He was of average height with a face plain enough to fit in anywhere, but Stefan never forgot those eyes. The way the silver flecks within them shifted to hide the green of his irises was disconcerting and made them appear to witness everything at once. The man was Nerian’s bodyguard, Kahar.

How had he gotten down from the walls so quickly? Taken aback, Stefan paused for a few moments before he nodded, tossed his helm to Garrick, then dismounted to follow Kahar.

Without the bodyguard speaking or even making a gesture, the crowds parted before the sinuous man. Each person appeared oblivious to his presence, yet still made room for him to pass. Together, they strode up the steps, into the western tower, around winding stairs, and onto the battlements.

“Stefan,” King Nerian proclaimed. A wide smile on a face still wearing the past summer’s tan made him appear a darker shade than his usual olive. The King did not look as if he aged a day.

“Sire,” Stefan replied, going to one knee.

“Oh, my son, stop, no need for formality. Not here.” Nerian strode over, and they embraced, the King having to bend a ways to get his arms around Stefan.

Stefan was not a small man. At a little over six feet, he was taller than many a Setian, but next to the King he always felt small and not only from the man’s stature. Nerian was at least a foot, maybe two, taller than him. The King often reminded Stefan of the pictures of giants from books in his youth. In the three years since Stefan was last home, Nerian’s chest was wider, face more angular, his eyes harder. When Stefan met the King’s gaze, emerald beads came to mind.

“Let me look at you.” Nerian held him at arm’s length. “Not bad.” He pursed his lips. “A little worse for wear, but you look … healthy.”

“Same to you, sire. You’re more fit than I remember.”

“Ah, if only I felt that way.”

Mind drifting to Thania, Stefan gave a pensive frown.

“What troubles you?” Nerian asked.

“Where’s Thania? She’s never missed a day when I return.”

“Ah. Yes.” Nerian was grinning now. “She is well.” His voice lowered. “I am not supposed to be telling you this, but she prepared a surprise for you.”

Stefan arched an eyebrow.

“Not to worry. Trust me. You will love it.”

“Yes, sire.” Stefan still couldn’t help the trepidation gnawing at him.

“So,” the King’s demeanor became serious, “Cerny said you did not receive his message well.”

“The man’s overbearing and incompetent. Why did you promote him anyway? Because he’s an Alzari?”

“Yes, he can be.” The King paused for a moment. “Still, I had my reasons beyond him being a powerful Matii. Walk with me. Let us escape the crowds.” He nodded out toward the revelers in the streets.

A wind nipping at them, they walked in silence for some time until the palace’s battlements met with the city walls. Guards greeted them, bowing deeply to the King and putting fists to hearts at the sight of their Knight Commander.

They were traveling along the southern wall when finally Nerian spoke. “What do you think of what Cerny had to say?”

“Nothing good,” Stefan admitted, breath rising in feathery mists from the evening’s chill. “Why another war so soon? And against whom?”

The sun played off the King’s resplendent golden armor of interlocking plates as he stopped. His oversized hands gestured out to the vast city from the slums before the gates here in the south to the villas and spires rising up the slopes of the Cogal Drin Mountains to the north. Citizens crowded the streets. “For them of course, the people, the Setian. We deserve to rule all of Ostania as we did in the days of old.”

I thought you’d given up on that. Stefan suppressed a sigh.

A time existed when he and Nerian plotted on how to bring Seti and Ostania to their former glory, holding dominion over most of Denestia. But the Tribunal shattered those dreams when they united the Granadian kingdoms in its present empire under the ideals of Streamean worship. During the Luminance War, when the shade swept out of the Great Divide in Everland, Felan and then Seti itself ceded to the Tribunal for protection and assistance. The Felani, however, had recently broken away from the Tribunal. Still, with its influence stretching far into Ostania, the Tribunal was a near immovable force now.