Tomebound

Woe to him who is born of flesh. Short are his days; small are his thoughts. Suffering is ordained for him from before he is conceived to after the last beat of his heart. He will never understand the thoughts of the gods who were born of essence and have no end, whose forms are beyond the earth, and who shall inherit it after the time of man’s passing. Woe to him who realizes he should never have been born at all.

-The Triptych; Book of Hells, Panel 1

Castle Tern, Dridon

Deliego Goches marched through the towering doors of Castle Tern all alone. The cobblestones outside were wet with a recent rain.

Lucanh shook off the memory of a visitor to the castle two moons prior. Every now and then, it floated back to the surface of his mind. He swung his sparring sword and the flimsy little metal rod wobbled with the force of it. “Stupid child’s toy,” he grumbled under his breath. “This won’t protect anyone!”

“And neither will you,” said Sir Godwald, jabbing the air between them with his own sparring sword, “if you cut yourself in half swinging a real blade before you’re ready. That’s no hero’s death, is it?”

Lucanh frowned and muttered, “Let’s just get on with it.”

“That’s the spirit, my Prince. Now, sheathe your sword.” The boy obliged. “What are the basics I’ve taught you so far?”

The prince breathed deeply to clear his mind. “Establish good footing before you draw your sword.”

The Emissary’s robes of copper and white flowed with his ghostly movement, the specter of a once proud ruler. His eyes were sunken; his cheekbones protruded a little more sharply than they had in the past. He spared no glance at either row of knights flanking the long corridor to the Dridic queen’s throne room. Singular was his focus, anxious his every mannerism.

He stood at the door of the antechamber, carrying a startling silence with him like a cold draft. “I, Deliego Goches, Grand Emissary of Zan Vayonado, Shepherd of the Wandering Tribe and Keeper of Plunders, request a formal meeting with Queen Rhoda of Dridon.”

Godwald nodded once. “And what’s next?”

The heir to Dridon’s throne unsheathed the little practice prop and held it out straight, elbows bent. “Draw your sword the moment you’re ready to engage, no sooner, no later.”

“Why’s that?”

Lucanh pulled his elbows back a small distance to perfect his posture. “A trained warrior can swing his sword much faster than it takes to draw one. You need to be ready in case your opponent brings the fight to you first. But drawing too early can also limit your options.”

“Grand Emissary,” said the Queen, motioning for her scribe to cease his dictation work, “to what do I owe this unexpected visit? I’m afraid I’ve made no arrangements for your arrival.”

“I come like a thief for good reason,” he answered her, entering the throne room. “This visit is of the utmost urgency. I’ve come to request that you honor the Concordat of Gacilia.” One of the knights gasped. “Troops have been spotted at our northern borders—Grackenwell has dispatched soldiers along the Bryche Mountains, some as far south as Lake Arellona. I have come to speak on behalf of my people. We call upon our oldest and most trusted ally in our time of greatest need. War is imminent.”

“So, you’ve drawn your sword. Are you ready to attack?”

“Yes,” Lucanh said confidently.

Sir Godwald wagged a finger of one of his thick gloves. “Remember, a sword is not a bow and arrow. A bow shoots an arrow through the air to hit a target wherever the marksman can aim. It goes where a man cannot go, or at least faster. The sword, however, is an extension of your own body. You’re forgetting one crucial step.”

Lucanh furrowed his brow—he’d been so close to getting it all correct in one go for the first time. “What did I forget?”

“Your surroundings. A swordsman must know the lay of the land. This allows him to prepare for every contingency, make plans and backup plans. Life and death do not always come down to who swings his sword harder, whose blade is stronger or sharper. Sometimes it comes down to the first man who trips on a rock. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded. “I understand.”

“Book of Earth. Panel 38. What’s the last line?”

Lucanh closed his eyes and sifted his memories of the ancient text from the dark well of his mind. “38, is that the... ant and the spider?”

The knight shook his head gently. “‘He who sows only one crop invites famine. He who mines gold and not iron enriches an early grave. The unprepared man invites ruin to his doorstep, gives calamity a seat at his table.’”

“How many soldiers have you lost?” Queen Rhoda asked.

The Grand Emissary looked around nervously, seemingly noticing the room and all its other inhabitants for the first time. “Excuse me?”

“What are your casualties? Has the Grackenwelsh army reached Zan Vayonado proper?”

“No blood has been spilled yet, my friend, and that’s why I’ve come to you today. We have a chance to protect our peoples—a slim chance. And only if we make a preemptive strike.”

Queen Rhoda sighed. “Sir Stepan, please clear the court of everyone but the three of us.”

“I want to hear this,” Lucanh protested. “Let me stay.”

“Sir Stepan, please take him outside gently. He doesn’t need to be here for what’s about to—”

“Be here for what?!” Deliego bellowed. He was the kind of delicate man who at first seemed incapable of such a loud and resounding voice. “For the moment when you honor the Concordat? For the moment when you keep your promise?”

“Grand Emissary, I have every intention to honor the Concordat, and as your only friend in this world, I would advise you to pay me the respect I am owed in my own castle.”

The man was sweating profusely now, even in the rain-cooled air. He took on the demeanor of a criminal pleading with his executioner. “My humblest apologies, Your Majesty. I do not wish to overstay my welcome here. I came only to beg for your promised help in these uncertain times. Grackenwell has already conquered the Grand Archipelago swiftly. With the Qardish emperor dead, the king of Grackenwell is like a rabid dog off his leash. I do not want my land to be next.” He leveled a solemn look at the Queen. “Or yours.”

“Your story is compelling,” said Queen Rodha. “The whole of Dridon’s army and navy will now be on the highest alert. The moment we receive confirmation of Grackenwelsh attacks in your territory, or even word of Grackenwell’s formal declaration of war, I will mobilize a third of my military to come to your aid. That said, I will not, and I cannot, aid you in a preemptive strike.”

“Then you would doom us both. If you refuse a preemptive strike, it will be too late to save anyone—even yourselves!”

“Your concern is noted, Grand Emissary, but I deny your request. What you ask of me exceeds the—”

“You filthy, traitorous—!” A knight stepped forward and covered the unruly Emissary’s mouth.

“Order! This exceeds the bounds of the Concordat of Gacilia! Not only that, it flies in the face of Dridic precedent going back centuries. Most of all, it violates the wisdom of Triad, and that alone is reason enough to deny your request outright.”

“Please!” the Emissary cried out, wrestling his jaw free from the knight’s grasp. “I’ll do anything! Half my riches to the people of Dridon!”

Queen Rhoda waved her hand to dismiss him. “I will hear no more of this matter! If you can control yourself, I will serve you as my guest. Until then, you are free to leave Castle Tern and go back to your people.”

“All of my riches! All of them!” The Emissary bucked and flailed in the grip of two sturdy knights who dragged him out of the castle. “Every last shaving of gold I have is yours! I swear it! Please, Queen Rhoda! Please! You’ve killed us all!”

Lucanh stumbled backward on a stair leading up to the pedestal that housed the Triptych. Sir Godwald stood over him, the harmless bulb at the end of the knight's sparring sword pressed against the side of his neck, cold as the grave. “You fared better this time,” said the knight, “but not quite good enough. You’re improving, though.”

A curly-haired messenger appeared in the doorway. “Prince Lucanh,” she said, “supper is served.” Her sky-blue eyes blinked twice. “Sir Godwald.” And with that, she was gone.

“I believe that concludes my lesson, my Prince,” said Sir Godwald, helping him up. He bowed with respect to the young heir. “We’ll practice again tomorrow.”

“Promise?” Lucanh asked him, sheathing his sparring sword.

The knight smiled. “I promise.”

***

The meal was almost entirely fresh, something Lucanh found unusual. Servers brought wooden trays of roast beef, freshly picked salads, and bread baked just hours earlier. For dessert, a strip of fruit leather imported from the Grand Archipelago. “That’ll be the last of that for a long time,” Lucanh’s mother reminded him.

He savored his first bite of the deliciously sweet leather made of mangoes mixed with other island fruits that he didn’t even know. No potatoes or grains tonight, with the exception of the bread. And he usually requested a pickle spear with each supper which was conspicuously absent. He wondered why.

“Mother,” said Lucanh. A messenger bearing a scroll approached the foot of the three steps before the thrones, but he bowed silently and kept his face downcast as soon as the prince started speaking. “Why did we eat only fresh foods tonight?”

Queen Rodha dabbed at her mouth with a lily-white handkerchief. She’d barely touched her food. “Please salt my leftovers and I’ll have them for breakfast, thank you,” she told a server. “Well, Lucanh, there might come a time when you miss these fresh foods. Things like pickles, potatoes, rice, other grains—they can all last a long time without spoiling. We might need to dip into our stores in the future. So, we need to eat up the fresh food first.”

“Oh,” Lucanh said. “I see.” He didn’t understand his mother’s cryptic words. Maybe it was a lesson from the Book of Earth that he’d forgotten.

The messenger had a scroll in his hand bearing the Grand Emissary’s seal, a camel with Zan script beneath it. Anything related to Zan Vayonado made Lucanh think of his father, the former Grand Emissary, long dead since before he could talk. He’d only met the man once as a baby. Still, he felt the people of Zan Vayonado, who shunned comfort in favor of exploration, who made temporary homes in the wilderness and were rich in experiences and adventures as well as coins... He admired them a great deal more than the culture in which he was raised.

Maybe it was the Zan blood flowing through him.

“Thank you for waiting patiently,” the Queen said, addressing the messenger now. “What do you have for me?”

“Your Majesty, a letter from Grand Emissary Deliego Goches,” the messenger said plainly. Lucanh still vividly remembered the man’s visit two moons earlier, the commotion he’d caused. The messenger reached out to hand her the scroll with another bow.

The Queen took a long gulp from her chalice of wine. “Please read it aloud for me.”

The messenger cleared his throat and broke the Emissary’s seal, opening the scroll. He read the royal correspondence.

“‘Esteemed Queen Rodha of Dridon, I hope my letter finds you well. First and foremost, I would like to thank you for showing restraint in the matter of our shared relations with our neighbors to the north. You see, I have forgotten the ways of the Zan. We have been nomads since the beginning. We must live our lives on the principles that preserved us all these years of wandering the sands. We must be flexible, and twice as resourceful. We must be kind to our neighbors, for it may be our neighbor’s intervention that decides if we live or die one day, after all. How many times did our forefathers rely on the generosity of strangers on their journeys?

“‘You were wise and just not to strike first at Grackenwell.’” Queen Rodha allowed herself a small, satisfied smile before her next sip of wine. “‘I’ve had three quarters of a moon to mull it over,’” the messenger read on, “‘and I realize now the error of my ways. It’s easy for a rich man with no army to make demands and bribes. It wasn’t until I contemplated the potential loss of life that I realized the true cost of such unnecessary conflict. I think, if it ever came to war, the Grackenwelsh might give you a quick death and an honorable funeral pyre.’”

The queen lost a finger of grip on her chalice and it landed on the table with a loud clunk. Lucanh flinched. His mother now gave the messenger her undivided attention, which appeared to smother him. The red-faced man kept reading. “‘F-fate willed it,’” he stumbled forward, “‘that King Brynh Garrotin himself has paid us a visit here in Zan Vayonado. I told him what you said and he is pleased with your hesitation to order military action. There is nothing to fear. The three of us have a long, bright future as neighbors on this great Stone Continent. Please visit soon. Sincerely, Grand Emissary Deliego Goches.’”

“Please hand me that letter,” said Queen Rhoda. Her voice was soft but stern. It reminded Lucanh of the way she sounded on that fateful night five years ago during the riots of the lower class. The terror that her outbursts inspired always paled in comparison to the horror brewing when her voice was small and calculated.

“Your Majesty,” said the messenger, “I’m afraid there is a postscript. Shall I...?”

The monarch sat back in her seat at the head of the dinner table. She drank down the rest of the wine in her chalice and motioned for a refill. “Please go on.”

The messenger’s eyes darted back and forth near the bottom of the scroll. “‘I must add one more thing. The Grackenwelsh slaves are excellent cooks. Their food was so delicious that I broke six of my teeth trying to eat it too quickly. You will find them enclosed with my letter.’” The Queen covered her mouth. “‘Then, like a fool, I ran after one of the serving slaves to request a third helping of roast waterfowl and I stubbed the big toe of my right foot, the nail of which fell off soon after. You will also find it enclosed with my letter. There was a great deal of blood and screaming.’” The messenger unfurled the scroll to its end. He gasped, and Lucanh spied the shadowy silhouettes of six squares and something oval-shaped fastened to the bottom of the letter.

The messenger was trembling visibly now. “‘But I hardly care about that anymore,’” he said with the strongest voice he could muster. “‘Fret not. I am so delighted with my guests, I think I could die.’” The Queen held out her hand as if to stop him and said nothing. “That is the end, Your Majesty.” The messenger rolled up the scroll, handed it to her, and departed with one last bow.

The dining room was silent for a long time until she finally said, “Sir Stepan.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the High Knight replied, and he gestured for Lucanh to follow him.

On his way out the door, the boy scanned his mother’s face for a trace of reassurance that everything would be all right. He found none.