The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy Read online

  He paused and said quietly, “That man is you.”

  Seeing Aran’s darkening face, he hastened to add, “Prince, as the rightfully throned King, with the possession of the magecrafted King’s Sword and the Warriormage Ability, and finally with Andur’s blood coursing through your veins we believe you have every chance of success.”

  “But first we must reduce her power,” Aran added, “Otherwise there would be no hope of stopping her.”

  Maran nodded, “Even if you were in the full season of your Kingship and magepower, you would not be able to stand against her.”

  Aran sighed heavily, “I am yet not a king and as a Warriormage, I am but new to my Ability…” he gazed across at the Archmage, “Yet I must do this thing that you say can’t be done.” He paused and his face grew grave, “After all that you have told me and enemy or not, I do not know if I will be able to kill a woman.”

  Alissa had been listening unnoticed to the conversation but finally she could keep quiet no longer.

  “Not to do so would be equivalent to you lying down in the path of their armies and letting them slit your throat!” she stated furiously. “Prince Arantur, this woman seems to have no redeeming qualities. She has taken a Goddess-given Ability and warped it…used it to base and bitter ends. The land will be well rid of her.”

  Aran stared in amazement at the vehemence in her voice.

  “You as a woman would condone the killing of another of your sex?” he asked astonished.

  Aran flinched as he encountered the steel in her eyes, “Aye Aran,” she replied, dropping all formality. “By her actions she has forsaken any kind of allowance or favour from you. Kill her as you would kill a bitch-hound running mad in the streets!”

  The Archmage and the others at the table stared at the young, golden haired woman with new and respectful eyes. Aran, pulling a startled hand through his hair, eyed Alissa nervously, wondering if he would ever really know her.

  Alissa walked up to the high table, “My lords I beg your indulgence. Prince Arantur and I need to talk… Privately”

  Maran veiled a quick smile behind his wrinkled hands and nodded.

  Aran, bemused by the sudden turn of events could only stand and follow Alissa out of the great hall.

  *

  “Where are we going?” he asked, following her swift progress through the Keep.

  “Upstairs!” was her equally swift reply.

  Aran dogged her heels, startled yet again by the mercurial moods of his friend.

  Alissa paused before the great twin oak doors of the throne room. Hesitantly she touched the heavy brass handle, softly the doors swung open.

  “Ah good...” she breathed, “I was hoping it had been unlocked.”

  Aran followed Alissa into the darkened throne room, the magecrafted sword flaring briefly as he entered.

  “Come Aran,” she called distantly “Help me remove these wooden shutters and get these windows open. I warrant it’s as dark and stuffy as a tomb in here.”

  Aran, following her example, began to pull down the wooden shutters from the windows of the throne room, exposing a chamber heavily coated in dust and cobwebs.

  “It needs to be aired,” she explained. “It’s been locked up, and I doubt if it’s been cleaned properly in over three hundred years.”

  Aran coughed as the cool sea breeze began to move the dust around and into his lungs.

  “Why was this place never cleaned?” he asked sneezing.

  “Try not to breathe too deeply,” Alissa advised seriously.

  “But why was it left this way?” he asked yet again.

  Alissa turned and Aran saw a dust smudge mark on her nose, “Because everyone thought the Andurian line had died out, you idiot.”

  Aran tried to frown, “You can’t call me an idiot…I am to be your king.”

  Alissa’s eyebrows lifted at that, and she laughed for the first time that morning.

  “Why what’s so funny?” Aran demanded of her, his mind in confusion at the morning’s rapid turn of events.

  Alissa smiled and shook her head wryly, “Why…nothing at all, my Prince…”

  Aran sighed, if it took him his entire life he would never understand Alissa.

  “Right, now it’s aired,” stated Aran as he stared at the dust motes swirling and spinning through the narrow shafts of morning sun arcing in through the windows. “So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”

  Alissa went and sat on the step of the dais, where the two ornately carved thrones had been placed.

  “Look about you Aran,” she said, “I want you to see your heritage.”

  Aran sneezed yet again, and for the first time stared about him at the throne room. For several long moments he gazed and what he saw took his breath away. The entire room seemed to have been constructed of age-darkened oak with heavy tapestries and banners in rich colours hanging from the walls. The thrones themselves were made from the dark blackish-red bloodwood, additionally each chair had been ornately carved and the carvings highlighted in gold-leaf and blue sapphires. Dark blue, almost black, velvet covered cushions graced the thrones, and embroidered upon the top of each cushion and carved into the back of each chair was displayed the emblem of a spreading oak tree. Aran noticed that many of the banners and hangings featured the oak, and he assumed that it was the symbol of the Andurian line.

  “Look behind you Aran,” Alissa said quietly.

  Aran moved around slowly, taking in the rich magnificence of the room. As he espied the wall facing the thrones he stopped in wonderment. Holding his breath in amazement, Aran walked slowly down to the far wall where a series of murals had been painted upon the wood.

  “Who are they?” he wondered aloud.

  Alissa had got up off her step and had swiftly joined him.

  “You should ask that. You are the very likeness of the first man there,” and she pointed to the far left portrait.

  Aran walked down and faced the mural. It depicted a man in his early thirties with long dark-blond hair falling to his shoulders. The man had a strikingly chiselled face with high, broad cheekbones and a square jaw with an almost imperceptible cleft in his chin. Dressed in chainmail, he was bareheaded and in his hand was a naked blade. It seemed to be the same sword that hung from Aran’s hip. Aran stared at the image of the man, and suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that those narrowed, yet direct grey eyes were gazing back—weighing him, gauging him, judging his ability to be king.

  “Warleader Andur,” Alissa said quietly by his shoulder, “I understand that this was painted just before his coronation as High King.”

  Aran stared at the image of his ancestor.

  “I look like him? I know that we both share grey eyes and fair hair, but…”

  “Then stand beside the mural…I would like to compare you with him,” Alissa said firmly.

  Aran walked over and stood beside the mural of Andur, he looked up at the image for a moment then turned and faced Alissa.

  “Stand straight. I want the sun to fall upon your face,” she instructed.

  Aran did as she asked whilst nervously gnawing his lower lip as he waited for her appraisal.

  “Oh aye, you are his very image,” Alissa replied after a long moment had passed, “There is no doubt that you are of his blood. Even a child could see the resemblance.”

  Aran walked back and stared with new eyes at the image of the man. Then his eyes moved to the next image, a dark haired man with grey eyes that seemed to be lost in dreams.

  “High King Maran,” Alissa said.

  “Archmage Maran,” Aran amended, “Andur’s son still walks this land.”

  Alissa shot him a look filled with amazement, “You joke! You would have me believe that Archmage Maran is one and the same person as yon ancient High King?”

  Aran nodded, “He has told me so and I see no reason for him to lie.”

  Alissa’s jaw dropped, “I always thought he was named for the memory of the King. Why did he not claim the
sword and kingship as his own?”

  Aran stared at the image of a much younger Maran.

  “It would not recognise him,” he explained. “After he abdicated in order to go to Glaive, the sword would no longer recognise his right to wear the crown. I guess that at the time it did not seem to be a problem. He thought the Andurian line would always remain.”

  Alissa also stared at the image, “I can see a little of the Archmage in this man. The eyes are grey like yours and Andur; and there is also something in the face, a look they both share…but there is great age separating the Archmage and his likeness.”

  She turned finally to Aran, “How could this wonder be achieved? Is Archmage Maran immortal?”

  Aran shrugged, “I understand that the highest ranked mages can almost indefinitely extend their lives. It is something to do with their uses of the magepower.”

  Alissa shook her head in amazement, “I wonder why this isn’t public knowledge?”

  Aran stared at the image of his ancestor and Andur’s son, “I don’t know. I told you because I trust you…I think that Maran would not want any more to know of it.”

  Alissa nodded reflectively, “Then he must have sound reasons for his silence. I thank you for your trust, I will say nothing.”

  Aran smiled, “Good, now as to these others, I guess they are the other High Kings and Queens of Andur?”

  “Aye....Trenor, Alicia, Aurac, and Alexi who was the last crowned king,” Alissa stated.

  Aran stared at the images. All were either blond or dark haired and every one of them seemed to have the grey eyes that marked the descendants of Andur.

  “I am glad that the throne room was locked,” Aran stated finally, “Else my resemblance would have been noted and commented on weeks ago.”

  “So you believe now that you are of the Andurian line?” Alissa asked.

  Aran stared at the row of ancestral images on the wall. “How can I not!” he exclaimed. “The moment I arrive here at the Keep I feel an unexplainable connection with the place. Then I am recognised as a Warriormage, the last of that breed in the province. I am told that the Warriormage Ability runs in families, and Andur was a latent Warriormage. Then I am told that I am of the Andurian lineage and in proof of that fact the High King’s Sword recognises my blood, ancestry and right as living first-born to sit upon that throne. Finally I stand before the image of my exulted ancestor and it seems I am the very image of him.”

  Aran turned to face Alissa, “Even though I am Arantur of Leigh…apprentice blacksmith and lately recruited to the Guard. I realise also that I must be Arantur, last of the Andurian line and heir apparent to the Province of Andur. In the face of all this evidence I would be a fool to believe otherwise.”

  Alissa nodded seemingly content, “You are no fool Aran.”

  Aran stared at her, “So how is it you are not surprised or overawed by this sudden elevation of mine? I mean I am still reeling…this whole morning has left me dazed.”

  Alissa said nothing, only gesturing that he should join her on the step. They both sat down on the dais platform.

  “Because you are my friend,” she replied at last, “And I have always believed you to be special. This is only proof to me of what I always believed about you.”

  “You thought I was of Andur’s line?” Aran asked amazed, not quite understanding.

  Alissa smiled and shook her head, “No…although from the very beginning you did have an uncanny familiarity, a resemblance I could never quite put my finger on.” She smiled, “You must remember that the Keep has been my home all my life. I’ve been in and out of the throne room dozens of times. As a child, Andur’s face was well known to me. Then years later Sen went mad and the room was locked up. That is why I did not immediately see the resemblance.”

  “But you believed me to be special.” Aran persisted, “In what way?”

  Alissa shrugged, “It’s hard to explain. Only that you seem to have a charismatic presence about you…“

  She frowned, struggling to find the words, “As soon as you lifted that sword I knew you were to be the king. It was as certain and as clear a fact as the sun in the sky.” She looked across at him and felt again that distinct impression of strength and incorruptibility that seemed to emanate from the young man by her side, “There is no doubt of it Aran…you are Andur’s heir and our next ruling King.”

  “And one that has to go to war,” Aran remembered bleakly.

  He looked across her, “Do you believe that there is no other course of action. Why can’t we resolve this matter peacefully?”

  She shook her head sadly, “No, if what the Mages say is true—and why should they lie, then we have no other course of action. We cannot be gentle with the Thakur, remember who they descend from and the atrocities they performed upon our people.”

  “Aye, the Serat,” Aran remembered, “We cannot allow the province to be enslaved again. I guess we have no other choice, although I would rather be remembered for being an honourable king, than one who killed a woman.”

  “A woman who is no woman,” Alissa firmly reminded him, “One who is a Warleader and who meddles with and corrupts her Goddess-given Ability.”

  “Aye,” Aran quietly agreed, “I must not lose sight of that. She would destroy us before she is destroyed.” He stood up and eyed the left-hand throne consideringly, “Then I am resolved upon this Alissa. The Province needs a king and it seems certain that I am the only man for the job.”

  “So how will you deal with the Thakur Warleader?” Alissa asked staring up at him.

  “She and her armies are a threat to the peace of the province, we must go to war!” Aran grated his resolve building. “Let us return to the great hall. There is much work to be done.”

  Aran strode back down from the throne room, down the flight of stairs and into the great hall. Alissa followed, close upon his heels. Those that gathered at the high table stood at his entrance, chairs clattering back in their haste to stand.

  “Lords,” Aran stated as soon as he was near enough to be heard properly, “I am resolved upon our present course. Please outline to me what is to be done next.”

  Maran nodded, his eyes showing surprise and quiet pleasure at Aran’s change of heart.

  “Prince Arantur,” he said immediately, “We cannot yet rush off to the border. We have an army to assemble and a king to crown. All of these matters take time and luckily, for the moment we have a space of two to three weeks to achieve this.”

  Aran sat back down in the chair he had vacated and indicated that the others should sit as well.

  “So what happens next?” he asked, “Instruct me and I shall fulfil my obligations.”

  Maran and Taran exchanged startled looks, and nodded to each other.

  Captain Taran stood, “Prince Arantur, by the end of this hour I shall send off several mounted Guardsmen to all the major cities and towns of this province alerting their Legion garrisons to prepare for mobilisation, and to alert all to the news of the renewal of the Andurian line. After the crowning we will rendezvous with the southern Legions at Leigh.”

  “How soon the crowning, Captain Taran?” asked Aran.

  “Not more than a fortnight away, Prince Arantur” he replied. “It will take that long for our messengers to get word to the southern cities and return with any who are required.”

  Aran sighed, feeling more than a little relieved. He had felt certain they had meant to crown him that very day.

  “How will the mages be alerted?” Aran asked.

  Drayden stood, “My Lord I will fly to Glaive to let them know. The High Circle was already in expectation of this event. It will not take long for the mages to sail to Haulgard Port where they too will rendezvous at Leigh.”

  Aran stared at the High Earthmage, “What need have we of mages in the upcoming battle?”

  Drayden gazed back his golden eyes unwavering, “Great need my Lord. Glaive is already in accord that our aid is necessary in the fighting of this war. You will s
oon see how the mages of Glaive can assist in the defence of our land.”

  Aran’s eyes swung around to meet the grey ones of Maran. The Archmage nodded in agreement.

  Aran turned back to Drayden, “Then I will give you leave to return to Glaive, Mage Drayden.”

  “Where do my duties lie now, Archmage?” Aran asked finally of Maran when the High Earthmage had left the room to prepare for his journey south.

  Maran stared back at the young man, wondering what in Andur’s name Alissa had said to effect this transformation.

  “For a while there will be little difference Prince Arantur,” he replied after a moment or two. “You will be immediately reassigned quarters within the royal rooms here in the central Keep. Also you will of course continue training with the Guard until you feel that your skills are equal to the task ahead.” He stared into Aran’s grey eyes which were a mirror of his own, “I will personally instruct you in harnessing your magepower; for I see that in weaponscraft you are now advanced enough that you will benefit from my training.”

  “What of Trevan?” Aran asked, thinking of his absent tutor.

  Maran stared out at the hall, “Trevan will soon be arriving from the northern villages and towns. His new duty will lie as personal Healermage to the King—just as Drayden will take on new duties as personal Earthmage and one from the ranks of the Weathermages selected as your personal Weathermage. This was a custom that was practiced during the times of the Archaic High Kings,” Maran explained. “It was never thought to reinstate this practice during the Andurian line—however since the unforeseen attack upon Alexi and his family I believe that it would be of great benefit to have resident mages at the Keep.”

  “What of the Council, Lords?” came a quiet voice and an elderly black robed Councillor stood up.

  “We have been silent and acquiescent during all these proceedings,” the Councillor stated, “What then is the future of the Council at Haulgard?”