Less than a fortnight later, Ranald journeyed in the direction of High North. With him was a small retinue of horsemen and archers. He left his men at the base of Ron Jonna and rode alone to the designated bluff. A stick with a rag tied around it was thrust in the ground to indicate he was at the right spot. The clearing was deserted. There was no one in sight nor could he hear approaching sounds. The Warrior King kicked idly at the marker, then stopped, recognizing the scrap of material as a weathered glove. Uneasily, he remembered the story of Creath. Was this the Seer’s idea of a joke? Was he lost as well?
Ranald walked to the edge of the overhanging rock and surveyed the horizon. The sky was bare save for dull patches of clouds; when the rains came it would be cold and penetrating. The men below craned their necks, but Ranald ignored them. The clouds broke apart, revealing more blank sky, and still no one appeared. Ranald felt his anger build. He thought of Fulcruchen and was suddenly glad he’d denied the old man permission to join them. His mood was black, and he’d no use for pious prattle.
Ranald the Warrior strode to the marker and kicked again, splintering the wood. Under his heel, the glove came apart in the dust.
“You are not unlike him,” said a voice.
Ranald whirled about. A man clad in a bluish gray robe stood in the clearing. A bird perched on his shoulder, blinking dry, black eyes. Though he’d never seen one, the Warrior King recognized the species at once. There was no mistaking the unusual pattern on the falcon’s wing.
“I’m my father’s son,” Ranald replied, “if that’s what you mean.”
The Gibbor stepped forward. “My observation wasn’t meant to provoke you. There’s enough war between us.”
Ranald observed the gold chain about his neck. A stone dangled from it, but Ranald only caught a glimpse of blue before it was again buried in the folds of his cowl. Without warning, the bird spread its wings and flew high, higher. Ranald couldn’t resist watching its perfect, effortless flight. When he faced the Gibbor, he felt red-faced and weak. His father had been caught in this trap.
The Gibbor dismissed his embarrassment with a wave of his hand. “You called me here. Tell me why.”
“For peace,” replied the King. “I’m prepared to offer a treaty and, if you accept, know that I’ll honor my terms. But first I must know, how fares my father’s soul?”
“As well as any knocking at the void,” said the Seer. “ He suffers. He burns. King Rand is strong but his spirit slackens. Fulcruchen’s perception was not amiss.”
“How did you—”
“It’s not important,” interrupted the Gibbor, “But be easy, you don’t have a spy in your midst. As for your father, he longs for a path in the Deep.”
His son let out a sigh. “I’ve come to lay down arms. I’ve come to end the war. As for the Eld Forest, will a truce, nay, a solemn vow, never to enter again and to defend her against those who would cause harm, lift the anathema?”
“It would be a start.” Said the Gibbor. “ Once the truce is in effect, I’ll call my Brethren of the Blue Stone and begin the rite to lift the curse.”
“Let it begin now. Providing, of course, you’ve accepted my terms.”
The Gibbor nodded. “I accept, but first you must kneel.”
The Warrior King favored him with a shrewd look. “Is there pleasure in humbling a King?”
“It’s not to me you kneel, but to Jah. I’m merely his vassal. I desire no man’s tribute, but if it’s humbling you chafe at---” Abruptly, the Seer of the Blue Stone fell to his knees. “As the High King of Casoria, chosen city of Jah, I render you the respect and honor due your crown, and as much allegiance as I can give any man. Know also that it’s my deepest desire that our purposes never cross again.”
Ranald stared down at the man kneeling before him, noting the thinness of his neck. No, he wasn’t a warrior, not as Ranald knew them, but the King doubted he could kill him all the same. He probably couldn’t even break the slim chain he wore. What a strange, slight man this was!
“Accepted,” said Ranald, and the Seer rose. There was an awkwardness as they faced one another but relief as well. Pride to the Warrior was no longer such a heavy thing. “There is a sect in my city that swears total allegiance to Jah, yet they consider it blasphemy to pray or speak his name. Work is their salvation,” Ranald confided, almost smiling. “They call themselves the Shivelites. When I wasn’t engaged in the field or at my war table, I thought of them and thought them a puzzle. What do you think?”
“I think there are many lost souls.”
A shadow crossed the King’s face, fleet and sharp. He dropped to his knees.
“My father will soon be one. Let the cleansing begin.”
to be con’t.
I like the King's attitude and comments. It's about time for him to act like a real king.
Well-done, once again, Joan. I like this tale, the give and take between harsh characters and the need for compromise amidst the sorrow. Sounds much like human life! Awaiting the next chapter! Blessings to you, Wendy