Hidden Ways: The Year of Veras Book 2

By J. Mark McDonald

PATHS UNCERTAIN, DESTINATIONS UNKNOWN.

Captured after his mentor's death, Jon Crawford must escape a ruthless war to fulfill his promise to return two powerful relics, all while being hunted by the infamous Aridane Knights.

Darcy Fletcher searches for someone in power to hear her chilling testimony of international conspiracy, not realizing the continent's most notorious assassin has been contracted to kill her.

Sar Celio Berganza, a classically trained arcanist, discovers a miraculously preserved document claimed as prophecy by a mysterious cult outlawed by his own organization, the Theocon.

As Captain of the Tomanian Royal Guard, Genaro De LaVena must contend with spies, assassins, monsters, and legends in the making, all while hiding secrets that could jeopardize more than just his career.

Duke Elinar Fairchild, richest man in the world, plots the return of an empire while questioning his own decision to ally with forces he cannot control.

HIDDEN WAYS

Book 2 in The Year of Veras Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685179229

Book preview

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Hidden Ways

The Year of Veras Book 2

J. Mark McDonald

ISBN 978-1-68517-921-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88685-627-9 (hardback)

ISBN 978-1-68517-922-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by J. Mark McDonald

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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About the Author

Characters

90

Jon Crawford

The Front

They had the dagger.

Shaking his head in frustration, Jon immediately regretted the motion. His head still felt like it had been split open, the time spent walking in the sun not helping. At least he wasn't bleeding anymore. How'd he end up in such a desperate situation? With hands tied behind his back and rope around his neck, he felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

I've barely started out on my own, and I've already been captured and lost the dagger. Unbelievable. Ralen would be so proud.

Jon glanced sideways at the man holding the rope. He and his comrades were all Kadmosians and didn't have accents, so they weren't Tomanians. They'd captured him rather than kill him. None of the men cared about the dagger or the manacles, so they weren't with the black knight that killed Ralen. No one pocketed any of his belongings, so they weren't bandits. The only remaining possibility was that they were Bronland soldiers. Why weren't they in uniform?

Are you with the Bronland forces?

Quiet!

I'm not a spy or a deserter. I can prove it!

That's for the general to decide.

Jon continued marching through the field, dodging bushes and briars along the way. Other members of the party led Faro and the packhorse. A dozen soldiers kept their eyes on the horizon, constantly checking for movement, listening for signs of ambush. They wore an assortment of leather and chain mail, none appearing to be a complete set. A few had short bows, but most carried swords and bucklers. Some walked with limps; others had blood-stained field dressings on their arms, and all displayed a variety of scars. They smelled like a bath was a month overdue.

Cresting a knoll, Jon paused. A huge camp stretched out across the valley. Before he could comprehend the scene, the rope around his neck jerked, further irritating the raw skin. Stumbling forward, he tried to catch glimpses at sections of the camp, each large enough to be a small village. White pavilions erected with poles and ropes stood at the center, smoke billowing from most. Blue and gray banners; Bronland. Smaller gray tents formed straight lines in the east, their numbers too great to count. Larger, more colorful tents stood in the west. To the north were makeshift shops of craftsmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, fletchers, and tailors all busy servicing thousands of soldiers. To the south, pens of sheep, chickens, and hogs stood waiting for their inevitable destiny. Even from this distance, the stench wrinkled Jon's nose. The camp was a massive beehive of activity, a great brown blotch on the otherwise green landscape.

He'd been captured by the men Ralen planned to help.

A quarter hour later, Jon stood outside a large pavilion, still in ropes, guarded as a prisoner of war. A young soldier appeared at the flap of the tent. Based on his clean clothes, lack of wounds, complete set of chain armor, and groomed appearance, Jon guessed he was the son of an important noble, assigned to the officers, and protected from combat. He motioned to the guardsmen before they pushed Jon into the pavilion.

The interior of the command center seemed out of place, like it belonged in a castle instead of the western edge of a camp embroiled in war. A great table sat in the middle of the pavilion, large scrolls portraying local maps lay unfurled, weighed down by figurines of men and horses. Three desks lined one side of the tent, seated scribes in tricornes busy about their work. A mahogany bed complete with canopy and furs sat in the back corner next to a matching wardrobe. Huge sheets of fountguard lined the floor, lack of wear suggesting many of the sheets had been recently replaced. A half barrel of ale stood on a platform next to a water barrel.

A man smaller than Jon stood next to the table. Impeccably dressed in Bronland colors, highlighted by a decorative breastplate, he was listening to the report of a commander, dark eyes scrutinizing every word. Curly, black hair, salted by gray, topped a clean-shaven face. Frown lines furrowed deep into his brow. Gold rings, beset with large jewels, adorned the ring finger of each hand. The top part of his left ear was missing, and an ancient scar marred his throat.

Jon and his captors waited for a commander dressed in Bronland colors with a white ruffle around his neck to finish his report. A splash of blood tainted his trousers, but it didn't appear he'd been wounded. His morslet was tan rather than brown or black, apparently faded by years in the sun. The man in the decorative breastplate dismissed the commander before moving to face Jon. What is this?

One of the guards responded, General, we found him on our evening patrol. He had a warhorse and a pack animal. He was armed with sword and dagger. There's a bastard sword, a shield from the Lion Order, and some very large plate armor strapped to the packhorse. As required, sir, we brought him for questioning.

The man glanced at the side of Jon's head. Blood? Did he put up a fight?

Not for long, sir. We caught him sleeping and knocked him senseless before he could mount a defense.

The man nodded, beginning his inspection. Your name? The general's voice was rough, raspy, apparently damaged by the wound to his neck.

Jon Crawford.

The guard to Jon's right elbowed him in unprotected ribs, his arms still tied behind his back. Sir, he commanded.

Gathering his breath, Jon complied, Sorry, sir.

Where are you from?

Nelborg, sir.

The short man with the raspy voice studied his clothes, noticing the pattern of a squire's uniform. What are you doing here?

I was accompanying Sir Ralen Hammond, my knight, to the front, sir. I was his squire. The man's left eyebrow rose. We were ambushed, and he was killed. I buried him and brought his equipment. Jon hoped to avoid additional details.

Ralen Hammond, you say. How is it that you survived this ambush? I see no wounds other than the one my men provided.

We were ambushed by a single knight in black armor. The two knights fought and Ralen killed him, but then died from the wounds he received. Remembering, he added, Sir.

Turning away, the man in the decorative breastplate scratched his chin, murmuring to himself, Aridane. Interesting. Turning back, he motioned to the guard on the left. Are his horses outside?

Yes, sir.

Come, he commanded. They followed the commander outside, the guards pointing to Faro and the packhorse. Open up the packs. Lay them out.

As soldiers untied the packs and spread their contents across the dirt yard, one of the guards retrieved Jon's blades and displayed them. He was armed with these when we found him.

You know how to use them?

Jon could tell the commander didn't think he was much of a fighting man. A little, sir.

We shall see. Motioning with a wave of his hand, he asked, What are those?

Looking down at his wrists, Jon tried to appear unconcerned, but the words came out too fast, Oh, nothing, sir, just some bracers that I, ah, wear.

The soldier held out his palm. This was pinned to his shirt.

Jon held his breath.

A broach? Disdain crossed his face as he glared at Jon. Too fancy for a simple commoner. Did you steal it?

No, sir.

With a wave of his hand, the man dismissed the matter. I care little. It will not help me win this war. Let him keep it. Turning, he inspected Faro, nodding in approval. Quite the stallion.

General, the stallion kicked Ferguson when we captured the boy. He's dead.

Releasing the breath, Jon stammered, D-Dead? They hadn't told him Faro killed someone. He knew the warhorse was powerful, but one kick killed a man? Sir, I'd be careful. That is Sir Ralen's horse, Faro. He's been known to dislike strangers.

He chuckled, still admiring the stallion. Is that so? Well, I am General Hannibal Armbruster, and everything in this camp is mine to command. He turned, facing Jon with hands on hips. And that includes you and this horse.

Jon began to raise a complaint but stopped, unsure how to argue with the leader of the combined forces of Bronland.

Scanning the unpacked items, the general saw the oversized kite shield and recognized its standard. The warhorse, armor, sword, tent, all were trappings of a knight. It appears your story holds water.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you, sir. Can I go now?

The general thought something was humorous. Go? Go where?

Jon swallowed hard, the bottom of his belly rebelling with anxiety, I…Ralen charged me with a mission before he died. I need to complete it, sir.

Be my guest. Armbruster grinned. As soon as this war is over.

What? Wait! I have to go! I gave my word…sir.

The general moved forward to look him in the eye from a handbreadth away. Though the man was actually shorter than Jon, intimidation came naturally. His demeanor made the squire feel small. Commander!

Jon recoiled from the loud, raspy command. A soldier with white ruffles surrounding his neck ran to Armbruster's side, Sir.

This is Jon Crawford. Assign him a unit, get him some armor, and tell his new commander that if he tries to run, kill him.

Yes, sir.

The general continued barking orders to the nearby soldiers. Give him his weapons. Put the bastard sword and shield in my pavilion. Take the tent, armor, packhorse, and the rest of the supplies to the quartermaster. I will take the stallion. He grabbed the reins and started walking, apparently having forgotten the captive already.

A soldier untied the rope around his hands. Jon gasped as the nightmare unfolded, his face flushing with the sudden realization that his quest might be doomed. Finally, unable to contain emotions spiraling out of control, he cried, No! Wait! Please! I have to—

Before he could finish the plea, the soldier holding his weapons hit him in the back of the head with the pommel of his own sword. Collapsing on his hands and knees in pain, Jon felt the injury to his left shoulder flare as if reliving the black knight's attack. Little fireflies danced just before his eyes. He heard the blades rattle on the ground beside him.

Faro neighed, shook his head, and jerked at the reins, rebelling against the assault on the squire. Armbruster yanked on the reins and whipped the stallion across his neck twice in rapid succession, the crack of leather against hide piercing through Jon's concussion-caused delirium. Faro reared, front hooves flying in angry protest. Careful to maintain distance, the general whipped the stallion again and called for ropes.

Jon stumbled to his feet but was overcome by dizziness before falling to his knees again. Grabbing the dagger, he held it to his chest, afraid another treasure would be taken. His head began to clear soon enough to see three men leading Faro off to the side of the general's pavilion. They disappeared behind the huge tent.

Well, Jon Crawford, the commander said, looking down upon the dazed youth. Welcome to the war. He reached down, grabbed Jon's sword, and helped him to his feet. Time to meet your new commander.

Jon slowly regained his balance, the fireflies finally gone. He looked into the eyes of the man with the white ruffle around his neck, wondering who might strike him next or steal another treasure. He wore a brown leather morslet just like Ralen's. Handing him the sword, the commander seemed to read Jon's thoughts. Don't worry. You've seen the worst of us. Come on.

Jon followed the commander east toward the large pavilions stationed at the center of the encampment. One of Ralen's statements offered on the last night of his life suddenly seemed like great advice. Just follow orders, keep your wits, and watch where you are going.

He'd been clubbed for disobedience, lost his wits from the blow, and now seemed to be dodging between men moving in every direction. He tried to keep up with the commander who appeared to have no difficulty navigating the sea of people busy about their business. He was accosted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the camp, all unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Assaulting his senses faster than he could absorb, individual images began to lose clarity, blurring into general observations. The further they walked, the more blood and desperation he saw. Every soldier was scarred, many were missing body parts, and some were disfigured beyond a loved one's recognition. He became nauseous, unaccustomed to the pungent combination of sweat, bile, and excrement.

Apparently unaffected by the grisly images, the commander talked over his shoulder as Jon followed. Your commander's name is Griston Taylor. He's a professional soldier and a good man. Do what he says if you want to live through this. Do you use latris?

No. Jon realized his tone was a bit harsh. He quickly added, Sir.

Good. Griston hates that stuff, so if you can figure out a way to sleep, don't start. Effortlessly weaving through people, he continued as if the orders had been given a thousand times, We run a civilized war here, boy. Whatever you do, don't break any of the rules of engagement without your commander's leave or you will find yourself praying for the End. Men get flogged for less. After a few more paces, the commander pointed to the left. See those two pavilions? Stay away from there. That area is for men the summoners can't heal, with diseases and such.

Realizing he was still cradling the dagger, Jon sheathed it carefully. Sorry, sir, but can I ask a question?

Sure.

Jon dodged another soldier carrying blankets. The horse and my knight's belongings. What's going to happen to them?

The items that went to the quartermaster will be distributed as he sees fit. The items the general took are his now. I would forget them if I were you.

Jon looked back over his shoulder, vainly attempting to see the general's pavilion. He'd never forget Ralen or Faro. Why weren't the men on patrol in Bronland uniforms?

Just in case they run into any Tomanian spies. Don't want to alert them any sooner than necessary.

Continuing to follow, Jon felt light-headed, not from the blow to the head, but from everything happening at once. Unfortunately, he wasn't about to wake up from a bad dream. The nightmare was really happening. Faro had been taken, and it appeared the stallion wasn't going to be treated well. The general stole Ralen's equipment. How was he ever going to get it back? He was no better than a prisoner, in fact worse, as it appeared he was expected to fight, rather than serve a knight. His stomach churned at the thought, the nausea heightened by countless images of men marred with scars and covered in splattered blood. He gulped before asking, Am I supposed to fight in the war? I'm just a squire.

The commander chuckled but didn't answer.

Sar Kadino's barn suddenly looked a whole lot better than being a squire. How could he possibly survive, especially without Ralen? It was hopeless.

Moments later, the commander slowed near the center of an endless line of gray tents. Here we are. He stopped in front of a rectangular tent and leaned toward the flap. Commander Taylor?

Travis?

Yes, it's me. Got a moment?

A short man with dark hair and two days of stubble stepped from the tent. His uniform was the same as that of the man standing beside Jon except that Commander Taylor's was torn, dented, and stained with splatters of dry blood. Jutting beneath his leather morslet, his nose ran a crooked line, like it had been broken at least once. Scars littered his arms. A simple sword hung from his left hip. To Jon, he didn't look like a noble or a knight; he looked like a soldier. His brown eyes moved quickly from Travis to Jon, inspecting him as if he knew the purpose of their visit. What's this?

New recruit. Jon Crawford. He's just been assigned to your command.

Commander Taylor scowled at Travis. I need experienced men, not fresh-off-the-farm boys!

Sorry, it's your turn. Commander Travis flicked a wave goodbye as he began walking back to General Armbruster's pavilion.

The inspection continued. What in Kurg's name is that on your wrists? Manacles? His voice had an unusual pitch, like he wasn't getting any air through his crooked nose.

Yes, sir, Jon answered and hoped he wouldn't probe further.

The commander scowled before noticing the burn around his neck. Captured outside the camp?

Yes, sir.

Continuing inspection, the veteran soldier challenged, Where's your shield, boy?

I don't have a shield, sir. I'm better with the dagger.

Commander Taylor growled, Dual wielding is for experts, boy, and you don't look like an expert to me.

Jon wasn't sure what to say. Sorry, sir.

Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy! Have you had any training?

I was squire to Ralen Hammond.

The commander's voice changed, no longer barking in his face. Was? I know of Sir Ralen. What happened?

Jon tried to suppress the visions of that night. How many times would he have to relive the horror? How long would Ralen's death plague him? Now that he had to fight in the war, maybe not too long. His voice softened. He was killed five days ago.

Sorry to hear that. How long were you his squire?

The time with Ralen had been wonderful, the best days of his life. But that was over now. The worst days of his life just started. Almost three months.

Three months! Flanora's bosom! Try not to die on your first visit to the front.

91

Duke Elinar Fairchild

Draiden Castle, Fairchild

T he gold shipment has been quite helpful, answered the young noble. His hazel eyes were sharp and focused, and he carried himself well. His short hair was peppered with gray, belying his youth. His handsome, clean-shaven face was filled with confidence. Elinar considered it overconfidence, but that was acceptable; it made manipulation easier. He'd dressed in shades of green, astutely avoiding his nation's colors. The young baron continued, We have increased our reserve forces by about 30 percent, including cavalry, spearmen, and archers.

All equipped?

And trained. We can continue recruiting without attracting too much attention for as long as the war lasts.

Concerned the overconfidence might lead to a problem, Elinar asked, How many of your staff are aware?

Just my captain.

Good. Will the others survive the transition or will they need to be replaced?

The steward and master summoner will survive. I have a count that will be a short-term problem, but I have a successor in mind.

Elinar nodded, acknowledging that the baron had given the matter appropriate consideration. But would he be ready to lead his subjects through difficult times? Given his youth and arrogance, could he sway people's loyalty? He didn't exactly look like a man that could influence older generations. Without experienced leaders that could motivate people to change their allegiance, the transition would be long, bloody, and costly. Let's spend a moment talking about the benefits of reunification. I want to make sure you are well-equipped to manage the hearts and minds of people that struggle to understand why their world is changing.

Very well. I am your humble student.

Marciene rolled her eyes as she reclined in the high-backed chair, sipping a snifter of brandy.

Looking above the mantle to the portrait of his father, Elinar wondered if he had ever been so young and naïve. Elinar continued, deciding against rebuking the noble for making light of something so important, Once the dust has settled, reunification will improve the lives of commoners throughout Androvia. Without border constraints, taxes, and negotiated trade agreements, resources will be shared across the empire much more efficiently. The number of soldiers and guards will diminish significantly, enabling those men to contribute to the broader economy rather than being a drain upon it. The expense of operating eight different monarchies will be reduced to one. We will establish a single currency, with no more fees for exchanging coin. With united leadership, concerns about wars will vanish. We will institute one set of laws, and over time, a shared culture will develop, further binding us together. With the elimination of borders, bands of outlaws will have fewer places to hide and people will be able to relocate to where opportunities exist, taking ideas to improve life with them. There will be a transition period, but the long-term benefits are significant.

Duke Fairchild, you make a very convincing argument. Leaning forward, the baron added, I look forward to helping your vision become reality.

Well, he wasn't Ventry, but he could still be useful. Excellent. Your commitment pleases me. Now, regarding the new assignment, is your role clear? Any questions?

No, I understand my role. It will be my pleasure to assist Duke Kendorus. Might even be entertaining.

Good. Please let me know if there is anything you need. Elinar stroked the patterned fur of the lynx lounging in his lap as he considered the baron's capability. Could he and Ventry succeed? If so, the leverage on the Bronland crown would be compelling.

Marciene smirked. I hear she's more mother than queen. Baron, you must tell me about her reaction when she finds out.

The young noble bowed his head slightly, mirroring the sorceress's fiendish grin. I would be more than happy to.

A knock sounded on the door to the duke's private study. Come. Zedra glanced up as if to say she was already in her proper place.

Wisseric stepped in and formally announced, Sir Phaton Richter, sire.

Show him in.

The steward moved aside for an aged man with long gray hair sticking out beneath a black cappello and a full gray beard. The robe swallowed the man underneath from neck to fingertips with drooping folds of fabric. He carried a walking stick but moved with a fluid grace that made the staff seem unnecessary. His eyes were bright blue and sharp. Offering a slight bow, he greeted, Duke Fairchild.

Elinar chuckled. Phaton, I have not seen this one before. Has working with me been so difficult that you decided to join the priesthood? I hope this is not what you are going to look like in a hundred years!

Marciene and the baron laughed politely.

Phaton's lips could barely be seen forming his dry response through the disguise. I would be happy to live that long regardless of how I look. Something about his tone made it seem like he didn't expect to live to a ripe old age. A hazard of his profession, no doubt. The Aridane commander took the fourth seat around the low circular table, adjusting the twin rapiers beneath the oversized robe.

Nonsense, the duke challenged. I suspect you will outlive us all.

Phaton didn't respond to the backhanded compliment. Instead, he studied Elinar's guest.

Elinar noticed his gaze and offered, I assumed you and the baron had already met, no?

The baron's response was filled with so much honey, it was almost edible. The great Phaton Richter. He bowed without rising. I am honored to meet you, sir. The Knights of Aridane are truly in a class of their own, and that is clearly a result of your famed leadership.

Phaton's blue eyes narrowed slightly. Baron, a pleasure. He turned to Duke Fairchild. I have news on our search.

Elinar sighed before responding unenthusiastically, Do tell.

Marciene's teeth clenched, her crimson eyes narrowing. Elinar didn't particularly care about her frustrations, as long as her other master didn't get involved. He still had to develop a plan to position her appropriately. At the moment, she favored her spirit master far too much. The balance had to be shifted in his favor, at least to equilibrium. Killing her might be oddly satisfying but otherwise wasteful, and such a move would no doubt incur repercussions. He needed a strategy where her own desires could be used against her, and it needed to be implemented before Trenton ever got involved. Somehow his son had to be protected, especially if anything happened to him before Trenton could be appropriately trained. What advantage could he fabricate? She had an unusual attraction to Wes Heath, especially for a sorceress. Could that be leveraged? The captain didn't return her admiration, but he'd be willing to play along.

Phaton glanced at the baron before sending the duke an unspoken question. Elinar ceased stroking Zedra to wave off the concern. Go ahead. There are no secrets amongst allies.

We were very close to one of the relics, the dagger. One of my men engaged a knight and his squire. I summoned the spirit traveling with Sir Ristor and heard its report. My man killed the knight, but Ristor was lost.

One of your lieutenants was killed by a single knight?

Phaton leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. Elinar knew the knight commander had taken some measure of offense. Not just any knight. Ralen Hammond.

The duke recognized the name, but the young baron's response was far less subdued, Ralen Hammond! He is, or was, perhaps the greatest knight in Bronland. He was recognized by the king years ago, before I was born, for destroying a legendary beast called the Hendolius. It was called the Hendolius because it killed so many knights and summoners that people assumed Hendir had a special purpose in mind when he created the monster.

Yes, yes, Marciene said, rolling her eyes dismissively as if to suggest everyone knew the story.

The duke motioned toward Phaton. Go on.

I have sent a man to search the scene for additional evidence and to retrieve Ristor's enchanted armor. I summoned the spirit, and it is still following the squire.

The sorceress mused, giving voice to a thought, Good. I will commune with the spirit. We will arrange some fun at the boy's expense. After all, frightened boys have been known to have nightmares.

Phaton continued, dismissing the interruption. He has the dagger.

Marciene leaned forward, almost spilling the brandy, her interest piqued. What of the other two items?

The leads on the other two have grown cold. We will focus on the boy for now. Unfortunately, he has been conscripted into the Bronland force at the front. I have another man on his way to intercept.

The sorceress's crimson eyes flashed, her voice dripping with bloodlust. He must infiltrate the camp and take the dagger! How far away is your man?

Elinar gave Marciene a sideways glance, trying to understand the reasons behind her sudden anxiety. Their intense desire to retrieve the relics was difficult to comprehend. There had to be more to the story than what he'd been told.

Rather than respond directly to the sorceress, Phaton turned to the duke. Daniel can be there in about five days.

Incensed over the commander's slight, Marciene stated with authority, Fine, but we cannot allow him into the interior of Tomania. We must recover the dagger.

Elinar's brow furrowed as he considered the sorceress and her unusual assertiveness.

Once again, she is not telling me something. What is so distressing about the possibility of the dagger finding its way into the heart of Tomania? Observing the sorceress, he wondered about the true objectives of the spirit behind the once lovely face. I must develop some leverage over these spirits. The day is coming when I will need it.

To test the sorceress, the duke decided to change the subject. Marciene, are we ready to remove our guest's counterpart?

The baron smiled wickedly, puffed up by the comparison. Of course, they weren't equals at all. His counterpart was clearly the most powerful man in his entire country, perhaps Elinar's greatest adversary, even if he didn't yet know it.

The sorceress answered, but her tone let Elinar know she wasn't happy with his intentional redirection of the conversation. I have a capable sorcerer in place with a team to support him. I will also arrange for him to have the ability to cast mass spells.

The target will be at the front soon, correct?

Yes, she answered, still fuming. It will not be a problem.

The duke stroked the lynx, musing, Then perhaps we can make this easy on ourselves. Have the sorcerer find the boy after he is done with his primary mission. He can bring back the dagger, and, Phaton, your man can continue the search for the other items.

Marciene seized the opportunity. I agree completely. Excellent idea.

Phaton, on the other hand, stated flatly, I am not in favor. We were contracted to retrieve the items, and we will.

The sorceress accused, If your man had not failed, we would already have the dagger!

The knight commander did not react strongly to the insult. His right hand withdrew ever so slightly into the sleeve of the robe. He was calm, measured, as blue eyes stared into red. I suggest you control yourself.

"Hah! Or what, Commander?" the sorceress spat.

Remaining calm, Phaton answered with a question, Does it hurt when you disjoin?

The sorceress was taken aback by the inquiry. What?

What I mean is, will you feel pain when I kill that body?

Marciene raged in silence, her face turning as red as her eyes.

The young baron's head jerked back in surprise. He blanched with fear over the thought of being caught between the two. He might not have been the bravest guest Elinar had ever entertained, but at least he was smart enough to know when he was in mortal danger.

Elinar watched for a moment, part of him wishing to see the scene unfold. That's enough. And to be clear, I forbid either of you from continuing this later. He met both their eyes to ensure the order registered. He knew Phaton would comply, but the sorceress was a different matter. Her response to the command was completely unpredictable. Once again, he wished Hendir had created spirits with less free will and more desire to serve mankind, if that indeed was their created purpose. Now, Phaton, you will not have failed in your contract if the sorcerer helps. Besides, I suspect you would prefer not to send your men into the middle of a war, correct?

We will go wherever we need to in order to complete the contract.

Nodding, the duke was careful not to sound condescending, We all know that and admire the Aridane commitment. It is part of what makes the Order stand above all others. Elinar turned to the sorceress, intentionally changing the subject to help diffuse the tension. Now that he had given her something she wanted, time to remind her of failure. Marciene, what is the status of finding our runaway? It has taken far longer than I would have expected for such a simple matter.

The sorceress turned from Phaton, the source of her recent rage, to another, the girl that had long been the cause of unanswerable questions and was now, in her absence, an even greater source of frustration. Over a dozen bounty hunters are out, but we have had no word as of yet.

Elinar was surprised at her response. There was something besides her anger that lay hidden behind the statement. Surely you told the bounty hunters where to find the girl. Why would it take this long for so many men to retrieve her?

Marciene squirmed in her chair as if uncomfortable. She stared at the brandy in her hand. We…I do not know where she is at the moment.

Phaton's fake bushy gray eyebrow rose beneath the black cappello.

Elinar realized he was closing in on a hidden truth. So you have not divined her location? Why not?

The sorceress's teeth clenched, contorting her beautiful face. I have. I have reached out more than once. Something akin to confusion replaced the anger clouding her brow. We cannot find her.

There it is, Elinar thought. It seemed he would have a few notes to add to the journal before the day's end.

Shock registered on the baron's youthful face. He stammered, H-How is that possible? I thought the spirits could find anyone.

The duke knew Marciene was struggling to avoid looking weak or, after Phaton's challenge, out of control. She managed to suppress her emotions but just barely, Apparently, there are no spirits near her to report. One must see her to tell us where she is.

It was a lie wrapped up in truth. Elinar spoke as much to himself as to his guests. Hmm, I see. Then I suppose you will have to double your efforts to find her.

92

Captain Genaro De LaVena

Silverstone Palace, Tomania

Sweat trickled down his massive chest and back, powerful muscles glistening in the light of the early morning sun. Beneath his feet, the fount was evaporating, mist rising from the ground. Muddlers squirmed and crawled about, trying to escape the giant's boots. Starting with long sword and shield, then spear, then greataxe, finally with matched war hammers, he moved through the memorized routines with precision, completing his morning ritual as he had for almost two decades. Genaro returned the war hammers to the weapons rack and glanced at the shield. Silver and black with the golden standard of the Order of the Solitaur at its center, the tower shield was dented in more than one place. The guards fostered a rumor that one of the dents was shaped like someone's head. Unfortunately, most of their stories about him had fear woven into their foundations.

Genaro took a seat at the edge of the courtyard in the cool shadows of the palace wall. Using a small towel to wipe his brow, chest, and forearms, he took a deep breath, preparing his mind to begin the newest addition to his morning routine. Remembering what he learned, he meditated, replaying the voices and words in his mind. He saw Veras standing on the side of the hill, talking to hundreds of people, all looking for answers just like himself. He remembered watching one man's crippled leg straighten and grow strong. He saw the face of Martez Sandoval and heard his voice as he taught the small group of huddled followers.

He'd learned so much.

But he'd made terrible mistakes as well.

Ortez's panicked face haunted him daily. The snap of tiny bones breaking under too much pressure still echoed in his mind. Ever since, the guards whispered and cringed, fearing they'd be next. If the king knew, he'd be within his right to order a public execution.

Recalling that terrible day four years ago, he prayed, Changing who I have been for the past fifty years may be my toughest challenge. Am I even focusing on the right things? You said the only way someone could really change was through you. Please forgive me and help me. I want to be like you. How long will it take to become what I am really supposed to be?

Unlike the physical ritual that had been honed to perfection over many years, meditation seemed harder to manage, mastery of the mind more elusive. The body was a tool; it could be wielded like a weapon. The mind was invisible, more difficult to control. Thoughts bounced around, ranging off topic and down unintended pathways. More than once, he shook his head in frustration, refocusing to dive deep into a subject. He needed to be like a master gardener, that could graft the strange new philosophy into his being. Determined to change, he focused on Veras and all he had been taught.

A thought struck, interrupting his focus. Would Gabriela approve of the change he was going through? She loved him for who he was, but would she feel the same way about who he was becoming? He wished she could have seen Veras. Going through this journey with her would have been wonderful. Gabriela's smiling face appeared before his eyes. It had been twenty-five years, and he could still see her as if she was standing beside him. Like himself and most full-blooded Urothians, she wasn't blessed with beauty, but as the age-old description of his race stated, she burned hotter. She'd been so full of life. He still missed her. Would the ache ever go away? He'd never find another like her. If he did manage to fall in love again, would she approve? She would, he was fairly certain, but that didn't mean he could actually allow it to happen. Gabriela was still part of him.

Captain?

Opening his eyes, Genaro found one of his lieutenants and three guardsmen approaching, each in the traditional silver and black uniform of the palace guard. One of the guards was being escorted by the other two, his head hung low. Genaro immediately assumed there was some disciplinary issue that needed his personal attention. Morning, Miguel. What is all this about?

Sir, Guardsman Lopez here was found sleeping at his post this morning. He does not deny the dereliction of duty.

I see. Genaro stood. Donning his specially tailored tunic, he faced the men. Lopez still had his eyes cast downward, but the captain made sure the guard was aware of his approach. Towering five hands over the men, he ordered, Guardsman, stand at attention! Lopez and the other two guards straightened like boards, chins tucked. Taking another step forward, Genaro squared shoulders with Lopez. The guard's eyes were red and puffy as if he had stopped crying a few moments ago. Was he sobbing over the dereliction, or was he terrified of experiencing the same punishment Ortez received? Both probably contributed to his broken state. Positioned at his sides, his hands were trembling slightly. His olive skin seemed a shade paler than it should have been.

Lopez, is the accusation true?

The guardsman maintained his rigid posture. He spoke with clarity and respect. Sir, yes, it is, sir. His nose was running.

Turning to Lieutenant Miguel Aguayo, Genaro asked a question despite already knowing the answer. First infraction, correct?

Yes, sir.

Genaro leaned closer to the accused, lowering his head. His voice became subtly softer. Lopez, why did this happen? You are a good man, so explain yourself.

Lieutenant Aguayo raised an eyebrow, surprised over the question.

Lopez swallowed. Genaro saw his lip quiver. A tear welled in his right eye. Sir, there is no excuse, sir.

There had to be more to it. Lopez was holding back, not telling the whole truth. The guardsman had been part of the troop for almost ten years, and no issues had ever been reported. Something must have caused the lapse. Nodding his head slightly, the captain stated, I will be the judge of that. At ease! The three guardsmen spread their legs slightly, but did not relax. Guardsman Lopez, try again. Why did this happen?

Lopez struggled to regain composure, but something was obviously troubling him, something beyond the accusation. My mother, sir. A…sickness came over her. And…she died yesterday morning. A tear flowed down his right cheek, his face flushing. I…I didn't get my usual rest yesterday afternoon. He looked upward, directly into the searching eyes of his captain, tears now flowing down both cheeks. His voice cracked, I'm sorry I let you down.

Genaro responded in a tone that might have come from a concerned father, his deep, baritone voice magnifying the sentiment, I am sorry to hear about your mother. Turning his back to the men, he took a couple of steps, considering the situation. Genaro turned to find the guardsmen looking to their lieutenant, questions evident on their faces.

Ha! They are wondering why judgment has not been pronounced. I know the punishment, ten lashes, but does he deserve it? He clearly has a good excuse. But then, I never accept excuses. Thinking back to the topics of his meditation, he realized it was the perfect opportunity to apply what he was trying to learn. I have to prove the incident with Ortez will never happen again.

Lieutenant Aguayo took a half step toward Genaro, clearly confused by his unusual indecisiveness. Captain?

Genaro waved him off as if a fly was buzzing near his face. Yes, yes. He stepped back, hands on hips, squaring broad shoulders. Guardsman Lopez. The guards moved to attention.

Sir.

This is not the End.

Sir?

Will you ever fall asleep on duty again?

Lopez's eyes grew wide. No, sir.

Good. Lieutenant Aguayo, see to it that Lopez is removed from tonight's duty roster so he can take care of his family.

Miguel started to respond, but his jaw just fell open.

Dismissed, barked Genaro before turning to the bench to retrieve his towel and