Kingdom's Vice Series: A Voyage of Vengeance ( #2 2015)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: An Account From The Wind

The people line up around the Tree, their hands clasped against each other in a harmonious union. The king stands among them, dressed in his finest blouse of silver, buttoned to the neck, the hem falling just at his waist. His diamond brooch rests gently against his breast and he invites Alec to join him.

The king turns to his subjects and smiles, "My fair folk, my dearest kin—my beloved people. The Lunar Traegorn is once again upon us. May The Light shine its favour upon us this day, and upon all days in Alleria, for our kingdom is pure as the moon is white."

The people return a cheerful chirp of agreement.

"Cast aside your troubles, your worries, your fears, for today we share this glorious day, and bask in the Sapphire light that the Tree provides for us." Alec loosens his grip on his hilt and lets it slide to his side when Xertormei shoots him a look, disarming him.

Another cheer.

And with one roar of his velvet voice, a swift baritone, he declares, "Let the festival begin!"

~.~.~

The rest of the guard are just as surprised when they hear of the first warriors to duel. The last duel left the king with his clothes slashed, blood smearing the fabric. The last time Alec fought in a duel—well, he died.

"Come now," Xertormei tsks Alec, chastising him like a father would a son too scared to cross a raging river, "let us give them what they came here for. Let's give them a good show." As he spins the blade in his hand, his eyes find Darvik's figure in the sky, a fleet of silver haired horses floating towards the water and beyond. He shoots Alec a look, "Do not let them see. Strike as best you can, Alec. Just like we practised."

Alec nods and stands in position, remembering the last time he stood in this very arena, forced into a duel with the woman he loved, the woman who became his wife—the woman who is now missing. He grips the pearls on instinct and as the horn sounds, he catches a glimpse of Faeore's hooded face in the crowd.

Shwing! A superb hit. Alec staggers back and falls into the arms of the cheering crowd, who eagerly shove him back into the fight. He finds his footing again and faces the king with a drawn face, already weary. The sword his heavy in his hand, sharp enough to slice off a finger. He let it weave in and about his fingers, lacing them with the cool hilt as his show pleases the crowd. One step forward: a strong hit and a stifled groan escapes the king.

"Marvellous!" the king exclaims, his gloved hand flying to the wound on his shoulder that is weeping with blood. He readies himself for another, "Again!"

Alec charges first, the blade tip set on the king's heart—racing towards it. The king dodges the swift cut and slices the back of Alec's shirt, drawing blood. Alec winces and arches his back, fully exposing his wound to the crowd, who gasps in horror at the sight. In the blur, he sees a mother cover her staring child's eyes. Alec turns and swerves in one, swift motion, making the king dizzy, as if in a daze. The king searches for him frantically, and feels a sharp, tearing sensation claw at his wrist. He feels the blood fill in the inside of his glove, nestle around his fingernails, soak them. He squeezes his eyes shut and all the sounds die out.

The announcer rushes to the king's side, his hands burning to aide him. He rests a hand on the king's shoulder and leans in, "Does the king require respite, My Lord?" he asks.

Xertormei does not open his eyes. He only grunts and reciprocates the gesture, firmly, "No, Guldar. It's merely a scratch,"

The announcer nods, "Yes, My Lord," then retreats. The king exhales and keeps his eyes almost peacefully closed, when a ear-splitting screech awakens him.

"My Lord!" a woman cries, "My King! Help please!"

The crowd gasps and disperses in a panic as the king rushes through them to the scene, where a woman is cradling her child, her daughter not yet fifteen, in her arms. The girl's face is so young, so untouched. Blood trickles from her eyes, the corner of her mouth, her nose. The convulsions start a second later, before her body writhes in her mother's arms, to a halt. She moves no more, her gurgling cries muffled by the sound of nothing. Death.

"Murder!" the woman yells at the top of her lungs, her tears burning against her reddening cheeks. "Murder! Someone murdered my little girl!"

With the pain in his eyes, the king rests a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but she pushes him roughly away from her, so hard that he almost falls over. He watches in horror as the woman drags the body from the scene and sobs over it in the corner, against a broken slab of marble a few feet away. He looks to a horrified onlooker, a fat-bellied man and motions for him to attend to her.

"See that nothing happens to her," he orders him, "no one is to harm her, including herself. Understood?"

The man nods nervously, "Yes, My Lord."

Xertormei struggles to his meet and his eyes instantly meet Alec's. The look they share says it all: this is not the Lunar Traegorn they remembered. Alec takes his hand and pulls him into an embrace, brief, but concerned.

"It seems our diversion has been impeded," the king says casually, watching as the crowd fans out along the field. "They will hide, retreat to their homes." His eyes fall on the woman in the corner, blood smearing her dress. "Some of them," he says sadly. "And I fear treachery lurks among us."

And with that, he narrows his eyes and turns himself to face her direction. He marches forth...a fool, perhaps.

"My Lord," Alec calls after him, but he is too late. He is already by the woman's side, his sleeves draped over her shoulder as he holds in her in his arms. She heaves and screams until her voice gives out, but he stays with her. And at this moment, Faeore steps onto the scene, her face grim with the horror of the sight of the girl soaked in blood...death. She was almost old enough to pledge her oath, but her life was cut short. Too short.

"You have my word," the king whispers to the woman, "that I will bring whoever did this to justice. Your daughter will rest in the Hall of Kings, bask in the Light. She will not be alone, that I promise you." He plants a small, healing kiss atop her hair.

The woman peers up at him, her face red and puffy with tears. "And to what end, My Lord?" she asks. "To what end? How far will you go to bring them down?"

He rises, his face drawn and his jaw clenched, "Until the end of days, My Lady...Until the end of days."

Faeore watches her father move, pace himself up and down the length of the field, his brow furrowed, his eyes burying his plans beneath their calm colours. He clicks his fingers with a loud, "Aha!"

Alec's head shoots in his direction, and marches forward, his hand firm on the hilt, "My Lord?"

Xertormei rushes to him, seizes him by the arms and commands him, his voice a roaring thunder. "I want everyone who stood within a breath from that girl questioned! Every guard, every commoner, everyone. No-one is to be spared. You have until nightfall. The killer has until then to come forward." He turns his back, pleased with himself. "They cannot hide here," he says, "not forever."