Sanctuary Denied

“Gil, the captain would like to speak in private.”

Gilvantes straightened and made for the shack when something tugged at his coattail.

“You leaving me with him?” asked Zafini, pointing to Linsk. “He’s going to—”

Gilvantes gave her a cold stare. “Kill you like you tried to kill me?”

“Rest easy, Najar,” deadpanned Linsk. “My captain’s honour preserves you.”

The fetor of spoiled food loitered long after Lisharotte had thrown out the table and the cauldron. The Chamzo woman, however, was too occupied to notice. Still dressed in her scarlet armour, she had a doll on her lap. Her hands, no longer wrapped in steel, were busy knitting the ribbon for a hat. As she worked, she hummed what sounded like a lullaby.

“A gift for your sister?” asked Gilvantes.

“Yes,” said Lisharotte, her eyes fixed on the hat. “Hador told you?”

“Well, he’s saying he doesn’t think there’s a sister.”

Lisharotte laughed. “I’ve been rather cruel to Hador.”

“He appreciates you for making a man of him.”

Gilvantes blushed furiously and glared at the glowing ghost bound to his sword. Lisharotte giggled.

“He proposed to me,” explained Lisharotte, putting down her hat. “Several times, in fact.”

Hador brightened, prompting Gilvantes to speak. “His offer still stands.”

Shaking her head, she packed her sewing away and peered out the door.

“When I first commanded the 7th, the men refused to obey,” murmured Lisharotte. “The older officers wouldn’t even salute me, claiming a Chamzo sorceress had no right to command the cavalry.

“Hador changed that. He proposed, before the entire castle, that he’d take me for his wife should he unhorse me in combat. Linsk threw his name in as well. I spent the entire month fighting off suitors in the 7th, and a couple of footmen too. That was how I won them over.”

“Would you have taken a fall had you met your Prince Bronham?”

With a start, Lisharotte looked to Gilvantes, then Skyrend, and back to Gilvantes again, trying to determine who was the one posing the question.

“You read the Pirate Queen of the North Sea?” she asked.

“In exchange for hiding me from fencing lessons, I read books to the kitchen maids. That novel was the best received.”

“Did you like it?”

Gilvantes smiled. “No,” he said, pausing to bait out her predictable disappointment. “I loved it.”

“Really?”

“Royalties don’t read for entertainment. It’s always dates, names, events, proverbs, laws, and equations,” merely listing off his bugbears had Gilvantes throw up his arms. “Now compare that with the tales of a self-exiled princess that ruled the northern sea with her power, grit, and feminine wiles. It was no contest.”

“I’m shocked, Your Highness,” sang Lisharotte with mocking disapproval. “Such common filth on thy royal shelves diminishes the Empire’s stature.”

They spent the night discussing the exploits of Princess Nadia, from her stunning escape to her first, shaky step onto a fishing boat. Together, they followed Nadia to foreign shores, laughing over her first encounter with an unscrupulous captain, and her awkward meeting with a self-proclaimed prince. This continued until Nadia’s reunion with Bronham, where Lisharotte intimated she had yet to read.

"I won’t spoil,” concluded Gilvantes, “but let’s say Bronham hasn’t quite forgotten—”

“No no no,” repeated Lisharotte, waving her hands in panic. “Don’t. I’ll read it myself once I have time.”

“Sure,” said Gilvantes, his grin fading. Their escapade had only delayed the inevitable conversation. “What did you want to talk about?”

“The demon.”

“Was it that bad?”

The colour fled her cheeks. “I was horrified,” she confessed. “It prattled. I didn’t understand it at first but that changed. It’s... like someone speaking directly into my mind. I’ve never felt such hatred and contempt. It called us Urzu’s maggots and claimed itself a superior being.” She took a deep breath. “I believed it.”

Gilvantes fell into a lengthy silence. Why was Lisharotte telling him this? Somehow, he already knew the answer.

“I wouldn't know what to do if I lost you.”

“Well, Hador would appreciate the company.”

Gilvantes met her eyes. “Lisha, I’m serious.”

“Remember what I said to Zafini?”

“I’m not a warrior like you.”

“You already are.”

“People keep dying on me!”

Angrily, Gilvantes kicked at the door, unhinging the flimsy woodwork. He jumped on it, snapping the panel in half. Still unsatisfied, he tore off a jutting piece of wood and hurled it into the grass. Lisharotte watched him with an unreadable expression, waiting for him to run out of breath.

“Finished?” she asked softly.

Panting, Gilvantes nodded.

“You’re the emperor, Gil. Like it or not, people will die for you.”

Gilvantes glanced at the Worldspire, the dark shaft rising high into the heaven. At its feet slept Melzuriam, his home, and his crown. Yet, despite leaving behind Northshore, surviving multiple demons, and approaching his mother’s homeland, he did not feel any closer. If anything, the throne felt more distant than ever.

“We’ll see you back in Melzuriam,” promised Lisharotte. “But first, you need sleep.”

Skyrend glowed.

“Hador agrees.”

“Not quite,” corrected Gilvantes, averting her gaze.

“What did he say then?”

“He wants me to kiss you goodnight for him.”

Lisharotte flushed. “Who’s actually asking for this?”

“Does it matter?”

Lisharotte stepped forward, bent down, and pecked him on the cheek. “No.”

Gilvantes did not get a wink of sleep that night and spent the following morning dozing off on horseback. Shaking his head vigorously, he stretched and yawned. Their captive Phantom, bound to Lisharotte like a backpack, cast furtive glances between the prince and the cavalry captain. She gave a knowing, smug smile before whispering something to Lisharotte. The Chamzo visibly bristled but kept her lips sealed.

Still drowsy, Gilvantes was all too happy to hear the shrill squawks of the khias. Insisting they took a short break, the prince dismounted and gathered the writing instruments. With the care of a calligrapher, he dipped an old quill into a half-dry ink bottle. The alien touch of the feathered pen gave him pause. Taking a deep breath, he traced arcs over the fraying papers, leaving cursive letters on the yellow pages before handing them to Linsk.

“We’ll start with the letters,” said Gilvantes. “Once you know the sound they represent, reading becomes much easier.”

“Right,” replied Linsk sheepishly.

“You write like an academy wizard,” praised Lisharotte.

“It was a sorceress who taught me to read and write,” chuckled Gilvantes, massaging his knuckles. “She was quick with the cane.” I wonder if she’s still alive.

More awake now, Gilvantes mounted again and closed his eyes. His hawk’s-eye vision had grown considerably wider and clearer. It no longer blurred at the slightest disturbance and the nausea had become an afterthought.

“One day, you’ll be able to do this in combat,” said Hador. “For now, treat it as a scouting skill.”

“Thanks, Hador,” replied Gilvantes. “And sorry.”

“What for?”

“Lisha.”

Hador’s silence made the clopping of horse hooves and the running river deafening. For a moment, Gilvantes looked down at Skyrend, wondering if his disembodied friend had left for the Worldspire.

“I’m dead, Gil,” said Hador. “I need to move on.”

“But—”

“You made her happy, happier than I ever will. I’m glad she met you.”

Gilvantes sighed. Reflexively, his hand went to the glyph on his sheath. He recalled the deluge of memories Wodan left him upon departure and wondered, with no small trepidation, what Hador would show him when the time came.

“I don’t have forever, Gil,” said Hador. “I feel Urzu’s pull every day.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s true, but we can worry about that later.” Hador took on a more urgent tone. “I see Karambell.”

Indeed, the horizon was no longer the unchanging Zandaborough, but the faint outline of pointed buildings. Without a doubt, this was the city of a thousand spires.

“Linsk,” cried Lisharotte, waving an arm. “Scout ahead. Stay hidden.”

The Mengot gave a shout and galloped into the distance. He returned moments later with a grim face. Lisharotte, lifting a fist, summoned Gilvantes to her side.

“Billowing smoke,” reported Linsk, “but no sign of refugees. All four gates closed. No stationed guards.”

Lisharotte murmured beneath her breath as she paced about, her panic visibly growing with each step. Finally, she came to a halt, exhaled, and seized Zafini by her hair. The Phantom, wincing, glared at the knight.

“It’s time you repaid us for our kindness,” deadpanned Lisharotte. “We don’t feed idle hands around here.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” chortled Zafini.

Lightning crackled from Lisharotte’s fingertip. “Okay,” she menaced. “Let’s see if I can change—”

Swish. A blue arc tore through the rope binding Zafini. Both members of the 7th Cavalry threw up their arms and looked ready to protest until they saw the look on Gilvantes.

“Earn a pardon from your emperor,” said Gilvantes, “or spend the rest of your life regretting how your poor judgment doomed your clansman. The blood of Paromitz Godblade runs in me too.”

Her defiant visage gone, Zafini dropped to her knees. Linsk darkened at the mention of the name while Lisharotte, swallowing, took a step back. This was a page in modern history few would dare read, and fewer would forget.

Paromitz Godblade, too, walked a shaky path to the throne, surviving countless assassination attempts from his half Najar brothers. Historians, only after the emperor’s passing, described his bloody vengeance against the eastern folks as a vendetta that permanently scarred Walthuria.

“I w-will—” stuttered Zafini.

Gilvantes pointed Skyrend at her throat. “You will swear fealty to me.”

Mustering what little command she had over her shaking limbs, the Najar rose to one knee and bowed her head.

“In the n-name of Urzu,” began Zafini. “I pl-pledge my life to your sword. I am your… dagger in the shadow.”

Tapping her head with Skyrend, Gilvantes sheathed his sword and quickly turned his back on his dumbstruck companions. He felt sick.