Page 4 of Aubade Rising

Dervla continues walking once we’ve reached the top of the stairs and leads me along a long sandstone corridor.

With every step, I watch her compose herself and don a mask of blank neutrality.

She halts abruptly in front of a large, wooden door and releases my hand.

The action causes me to stumble. My hands plunge into the narrow channel of icy water that runs the length of the corridor.

I swear aggressively as the dampness spreads up my clothes, spreading the grime from the dungeons further.

“Sage. This is important.” She pauses in front of the door. “Whatever you do, do not lie to the King. He can tell. Do you understand?”

I nod, not able to bring myself to care that I’m about to meet the most powerful man in Trevesiga in ruined clothing, smelling of the dungeons.

The door partially opens to reveal the guard from the rescue, the first one in the water.

He towers over both of us, his broad shoulders blocking the doorway.

I might be exhausted but I note that he looks as good now as he did in wet uniform.

One of his eyebrows rises at my disgusting appearance but he doesn’t comment, and opens the door widely.

The room is a vast space: large panes of glass cover three sides and I take a minute to absorb the views.

I expected to see the city and ocean beneath me but on the north side is the great expanse of the River Targon, lazily disappearing under and around the floor of the chamber.

I could walk straight out and onto the surface of the water.

To the left and right of the river are the tops of two show- stopping waterfalls which hug the external glass walls before thundering into the city below.

I’m confused. Growing up in Pentargon I remember the river appearing at the base of Chi An Mor, the palace breathing it into existence.

These beautiful waterfalls are completely hidden, disappearing into wide tunnels that are buried between the palace and the cliff-front –another Mordros secret.

This room and the upper floors of the palace are recessed into the cliff and instead of a city view to the west, I can see the curved arm of the archipelago stretching into the distance.

Once I’ve adjusted to the unexpected view, the other people in the room draw my attention.

Dervla smiles weakly, her dark skin pallid and ashen from exhaustion and her hands pulled tight behind her back.

One of the two men sitting opposite me is the old man from the dungeon.

My lungs constrict, feet frozen in place.

Adrenaline rushes through my body, screaming at me to run.

My body listens and I back away, only to find the guard from the rescue blocking my exit.

Trembling, I turn to face my torturer. His face is flushed; he must have set quite a pace to arrive before us but still he manages to look derisively at us. I keep him in my peripheral vision and take in the final occupant sat behind a large reflection pool.

He must be King Cado; a thin metal circlet adorns his head, the pale gold contrasting with his dark hair.

My unease remains as I take him in. He’s tall and long-limbed, classically handsome and looks completely at ease leaning back in his chair, a half-smile playing across his lips.

Actually, I think he’s smirking at my sodden state.

I doubt he’d still be smiling if he got close enough to smell me though.

“Welcome to Pentargon and Chi An Mor,” he says archly, surveying me from head to toe, noting my bedraggled appearance. “I hope you’re feeling well since your ordeal.”

My fear dissipates at his poor choice of words and I work to stifle a sarcastic response. Which ordeal is he referring to? Being bombed in Athnavar, being imprisoned in his dungeons and tortured? It’s been quite the week.

Evidently, he can read my feelings from my face; he laughs softly.

“I need you to confirm a few things for me.” His soft, melodic tones are at odds with the firm line of his full lips. The atmosphere in the room turns frigid. Someone is on thin ice. I nod cautiously, trying to work out who.

“A simple yes or no will suffice. Since your arrival in Pentargon have you been mistreated?”

“Yes.” The water in the pool moves, the current swirling in lazy circles.

“By this man?” He gestures to the old man.

“Yes”I hate how soft my voice sounds, barely echoing in the chamber.

“You were tortured?”

I pause, my throat thick and hot with anger. I look directly at the old man sitting beside him, glaring daggers at me.

“Yes.”

“Did you have any knowledge of the attacks on Athnavar, Porth or Cathair?”

Three separate attacks. The two largest cities in Trevesiga, and Athnavar. I’m floored by the extent of violence that I forget that the King is looking to me to answer.

“No.”

“Are you a traitor to this kingdom, to Trevesiga?” The old man leans forward expectantly, hands clasped tightly.

“No.”

Silence. Both Dervla and the old man look at the King. He is studying me carefully, evaluating my every breath. I square my shoulders to meet his gaze. Despite the reflection pool between us, I make out the amber flecks in his green eyes. Rare eyes indeed, a royal trait I suspect.

Without releasing me from his stare, the King announces, “Lord Bal, you are hereby relinquished of your position as the King’s Almanac.”

Relief pours through me briefly – he believes me.

It is quickly superseded by thick dread.

I was tortured by the second most powerful man in Trevesiga.

All positions on the Concord are meant to be equal but it’s the Almanac that speaks for the King.

The water in the reflection pool goes cloudy and churns between us.

“You cannot do that! Appointment to the Concord is a lifetime position.” Lord Bal is incensed, spittle flying from his thin lips.

“You served my father well, too well. But I have no need for you. I’m allowing you the dignity of resigning.

Don’t make me change my mind.” The King’s voice starts off carefully neutral, his handsome face devoid of all feeling at the mention of his late father, but the lethal threat is apparent when he finishes talking.

I feel the shock radiate through Dervla and barely breathe as Lord Bal walks carefully around the table and stops in front of the guard.

“You’ll regret this,” Lord Bal promises, shouldering his way out of the room. The guard sidesteps as Lord Bal barrels towards him, avoiding his trampling path.

“See he leaves Pentargon by morning,” the King instructs the guard. “I don’t expect him to go quietly,” he adds.

The reflection pool is bubbling, steam rising, water sloshing over the edges. No one else pays it any attention but I ease backwards towards Dervla to avoid the hot spray.

I look round the room, unsettled by the old Almanac lurking in Pentargon.

“When can I go home?” My enquiry is tentative. I do not want to be involved in lethal palace politics.

“That might prove difficult,” a deep voice sounds from behind me. The guard’s arms are loosely crossed and he leans casually against the doorway. “The Academy suffered badly in the attack. Barely half the buildings are standing,” he adds dispassionately. “It may never reopen.”

“Captain Eskar Devath, the King’s Verax,” the King explains, giving the Captain a cautionary look. The Verax is a truth-sayer and the Kingdom’s moral compass.

The Captain continues, ignoring the King’s warning “Your apartment in Athnavar was also a target in the attack. The whole street was destroyed. There’s nothing there for you to return to.”

I sway on my feet, fighting to remain focused and present, my hand automatically pressing into my chest.

“You will need to remain here. Under supervision,” the Captain continues, oblivious to my growing distress.

The King interrupts, “It seems I’m in need of another Concord member.” Dervla twists towards him in surprise but his eyes are fixed on me.

“Would you consider becoming my Alchemist?”

Concern remains etched onto Dervla’s forehead.

She looks at me, desperately trying to communicate something with her eyes, a warning?

The King’s face is carefully neutral, the expression of a polished politician but I catch his eyes flicking to the wounds on my wrists from the manacles which are slowly dripping blood onto the floor.

Reeling from the Captain’s words, I take a moment to think.

My life was at the Academy, everything I owned was in that apartment.

I need somewhere to live, somewhere to work and clearly some protection if the rebels are targeting me.

I don’t know if I can bear to live in this palace, above the dungeons that is, but my options are extremely limited.

Tucking my bleeding wrists behind me, I ask, “I can resign at any point? You won’t force me to stay in the city.”

His smile is unexpectedly warm, as if he knows what’s running through my mind and I’m struck by how much younger and lighter he looks.

He’s the same age as Dervla and I, but a year of ruling has already written fine lines around his eyes.

“Yes, you can resign at any time, although I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t want to. ”

His eyes twinkle at that last comment. Evidently, he is used to getting his way. As he holds my gaze, the reasons I resisted coming back to Pentargon feel distant.

“I accept.”

Dervla’s shoulders sink, resigned.

“Welcome to my Concord then, Alchemist,” the King announces smugly.