Chapter Thirty-Five: Deserter

“Section XII: Treason

A person is guilty of treason if they commit or aid an enemy party in an act that would kill, grievously wound or hinder the Sovereign in any way, or if they abandon the Sovereign during a time of need. Penalty: Life imprisonment or death.

Section XII(II): Deserting

A person is guilty of deserting if they are guilty of treason and they are currently a sworn member of the Legion. Penalty: Death.”

— Criminal Deeds Act, 220, 4E

Alend woke with his cheek plastered to the cold, hard floor. He was in a square cell with a bundle of hay in the corner, iron manacles binding his hands behind him. The door and the surrounding wall was lined with iron bars, allowing him to see into the hallway outside. A stream of moonlight shone through a barred window high above.

His body was sore all over, especially his arms and legs, and his head throbbed like it was in a vice. He could feel blood on it, half dried, warm and sticky. He wriggled his way to the wall and sat upright.

Judging by the state of his wounds and the position of the moon, it had been a few hours since the skirmish had occurred. Considering he’d spent those hours lying face down with his hands cuffed, he was lucky to be alive. One of the first lessons a guard, let alone a Kingsblade learned was that people could die when left in uncomfortable positions for too long. The heavier the prisoner, the greater the risk. Aedon—or rather, Illia—clearly didn’t care whether he lived or died.

Alend searched himself as best as he could with his hands restrained, looking for anything he could work with. They’d taken his sword and stripped him of his leather armour, leaving him with nothing but his travelling clothes and his cloak. His purse was gone, though he wasn’t too concerned about that. There’d been barely anything inside it.

What he was concerned about, however, was Talberon’s ring—or the lack thereof.

Someone spoke from outside. Alend rushed to the gate, trying to see what was happening. There were footsteps and voices. Two pairs of leather boots, the standard issue of a Legion guard. One pair of soft slippers, made of a leather that wasn’t a cow’s, and the rustle of exquisite silks. He smelled violets.

Illia Uldan, High Queen of Faengard emerged from around the corner, flanked by two prison guards. She wore a long-sleeved white dress buttoned tightly around her slim waist, the hem trailing behind. Golden hair piled atop her head, held together by a ruby red needle. She was a white rose blooming in the darkness of the dungeon.

But roses had thorns, and this one was no exception.

“Good evening,” said Illia, sending the guards away. “Or should I say, morning?” She tapped a finger idly against her chin.

“What do you want?” Alend growled.

Sixteen years had passed and she was still just as beautiful, with a proud, regal face, bright azure eyes and cherry red lips. White powder hid the lines that were starting to appear around her forehead and the corners of her mouth. She was the very image of beauty and innocence, of purity—yet that couldn’t be further from the truth. Alend saw her real self when he looked into her eyes. Beauty was only skin deep, after all.

“That’s no way to speak to a friend,” she said. “Let alone your Queen.”

“You’re no friend of mine,” Alend spat. “And you won’t be Queen for long if you keep up those shenanigans of yours. This isn’t a game, Illia. I need to speak to Aedon.”

He would have broken through the bars if he still had the power of the Vow, but it was gone now—expunged from his veins. When he tried to draw upon Aedon’s Spirit he found only nothing. They must have drugged him with an inhibitor.

“I was shocked when Gilfred told me you were back,” Illia said. She paced in front of his cell, keeping just enough distance so he couldn’t reach her through the bars. “I thought I’d never have to deal with you again. I’m glad you returned, though. Loose threads are no good untied.”

“Where’s Talberon’s ring?” Alend asked. “Give it back to me. At least let me try and reason with Aedon.”

“Ring? What ring?” she smirked. “You won’t need that, Deserter. You’re a traitor who needs to be executed.”

“You don’t understand,” Alend shook his head. “This is no longer about which House sits on the throne. Haven’t you heard? Aedrasil is dying! She needs my blood to live!”

Illia stopped and turned towards him.

“You think that excuse will save you? There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Alend. Or in this case, to skin a relict.”

“What do you mean?” Alend took a step back, confused.

“The Age of Magic is past us now,” the Queen continued. “There are other ways to fight the relicts, ways which don’t involve restoring a tree that belongs in a faerie tale. Fear not, Alend. Faengard is safe in my hands.”

“Gods above,” said Alend. “What do you have planned?”

He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe his ears. On one hand, the fact that there was a backup plan to stop the Oathbreaker took a great weight off his shoulders. On the other, it meant that they no longer needed him alive.

“That’s not something a Deserter needs to know,” Illia replied. “All you need to do is die for me and take my secrets to the grave.”

She left Alend to his thoughts after that. The scent of violets remained long after she was gone. Alend sat down with his back against the stone wall, turning the exchange over in his mind.

Wyd almighty, he thought. A way to wipe out the relicts on a world-wide scale.

There were three things relicts were weak to. Fire and Soulforged steel were out of the question—there was no way to use fire on a large scale outside of setting the world alight, and Rhinegold was far too precious to be mass-produced. That only left salt, which admittedly was rather common and easily obtained from the ocean—but how did she plan on using it? Salt didn’t kill relicts; it only made them easier to fell in battle. Besides, it would take time and resources they didn’t have to harvest the amounts they’d need.

There had to be something else Illia had discovered.

Another group of footsteps appeared, rattling off the walls of the dungeon. Alend tilted his head to one side, listening.

Hollow metal clanging, too light to be steel. Rhinegold, most likely, and there were three pairs. The third pair belonged to a man that was twice the weight of the others.

They rounded the corner and stopped in front of the cell. It was Gilfred, another Kingsblade he didn’t recognize, and Aedon. Alend felt his breath catch in his throat.

“You’ve changed,” he whispered.

The Aedon he knew had been a handsome, well-built man, slightly shorter and slimmer than Alend himself, with a chiselled jaw and auburn hair. He’d been the very picture of life, a stallion on the battlefield, a whirlwind of death when a spear was placed in his hands.

The Aedon that stood before him now was grossly overweight, his Rhinegold armour stretched to the seams, three chins wobbling around a pudgy face and an unkempt beard streaked with grey. His once-clear eyes hid under layers and layers of fat, shifting nervously like the eyes of a mouse. Dark bags hung beneath them. There was a sickly look to his face, an unhealthy paleness like the skin of a dead person left to rot for a few days. This man would probably fall onto his behind if he tried to wield a spear. Even with the Uldan emblem emblazoned across his breastplate and pauldrons, Alend had a hard time believing he was looking at the High King of Faengard.

“Alend,” the King said. Though his appearance had changed, the pride and authority within his voice had not. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“I… could be better,” Alend answered carefully.

Aedon nodded. “Illia told me you’d returned. She insisted she’d taken care of everything, but I had to come and see for myself.”

Alend felt a surge of hope. Would his old friend listen to him?

“Aedon,” he spoke. “Listen to me. Aedrasil is dying, and she needs my blood. Talberon himself sent me, you have my word on it.”

Aedon sighed. “She told me that much,” he said. “But how am I to trust you, after all you’ve done?”

Alend bit back his tongue. “I had his ring, but I lost it.” He had to be careful. The moment he implied Illia was a liar, he was done for. The damn fool loved his wife so much it blinded him.

“My daughter tells me every day,” Aedon continued. “The Protector is dying, she says. Only the blood of the Three Kings can revive her. I must say, I had no idea the last of the Thorens that Talberon mentioned was actually you. Where have you been hiding these past sixteen years?”

“I… I’ve been living in a secluded village at the edge of Faengard,” Alend answered. “Please, the facts are unimportant. Do you have the blood of the Lachess heir? We mustn’t waste any time—”

“Do you have any children? Any next of kin?” Aedon interrupted. “You know what the treaty says.”

Alend froze.

“Aedon,” he said, feeling an edge creep into his voice. “Stop it. This is no longer about the throne. I couldn’t give a rat’s arse who rules Faengard—”

“Oh yes it is.” Gilfred and the other Kingsblade shifted beside him, but the King raised a hand. “My wife is very resourceful, you see. Her alchemists have forged new technology that will allow us to destroy the relicts without the aid of the damned tree. We don’t need Aedrasil anymore, Alend, or the blood of the Kings.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re just going to let her die?”

Aedon folded his arms. “Any why shouldn’t I? She is a remnant of the past now, Alend. With our new Celesite technology, we can lead humanity to heights never reached before. Aldoran lies on the Heart of the World, the greatest Spirit Font known to man, but almost all of its energy is wasted on maintaining Aedrasil and the Spirit Garden. Think of all the things we could accomplish if we used that energy for other things, Alend. Like making new discoveries, uncovering the mysteries of nature… killing relicts.”

“No,” Alend whispered. “That can’t be… you must listen to Talberon! Heed the advice of the Druids!” He pressed himself against the bars, pleading. “At least consult Talberon, see if Illia’s plan is safe!”

“Oh, I would.” A shadow crossed Aedon’s face. “If you hadn’t killed him.”

He opened his palm, revealing a wooden ring inscribed with the Trinity Wing. Alend paled.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said. “What madness is this? She’s lying, Aedon!” He realized too late what he’d said. Gilfred looked away.

“That’s rich, coming from a Deserter.”

“Aedon, she tried to kill me! That’s the only reason I ran away! She was planning to kill you, and I found her out—”

“Enough!” Aedon roared. The cell shook, and Alend fell back into the darkness. “I’ve had enough of your lies, Alend. I’d hoped you had time to think through your mistakes, but it seems my faith was ill-placed.” He turned to Gilfred. “Send a message to the Cirantheon at first light. Tell the Master I have a present for him.”

“No…”

Aedon tossed something through the bars. It clattered at Alend’s feet, coming to a halt under the square of moonlight.

“A present for you,” Aedon said. “I kept it all this time. Wear it tomorrow with pride, Deserter.”

It was a Rhinegold pauldron. On it was the emblem of House Thoren—an upright sword transposed across an oak tree, tip pointing towards the sky.