The Warlord

Chapter 20: Evelaen

Three days have passed since the little witch disappeared, and we still have not found anything on how to get her back. I tried tracing her magic throughout Serestine, but she is no where to be found. Even the tracking experts did not find a single trace of her. It is as if she simply never existed.

Now I stand before my queen in the throne room, called here to discuss Morella's words. "This has to be Heaven's doing, my queen." The words come out in a snarl; those conniving cowards, spiriting away our only tangible resource. At least Morella managed to tell us something of use, thought it is quite small compared to the wealth of information she could have given us. The forgotten prisoner...

"Worry not, my warlord. I have searched the archives of the queens, and it seems Morella was telling the truth. We have a lead." My queen spreads out a weathered, yellowed sheet of parchment paper onto her desk. The edges are completely frayed and torn, and the smell of must wafts from its surface. I can barely make out the ancient marks of ink on the paper, but I see a scrawling stanza of words, and a map of something resembling Serestine.

"This is dated in ancient times, before the war even started. It seems that it has seen better days. Look, mold and water have ruined the map." Sure enough, the entire bottom half of Serestine is watered away and so faded that the ink is completely gone.

"A ruined map and almost illegible writing. This does not seem like a lead at all, my queen." I had my hopes up that Morella's bit of advice would get us somewhere, but now that I look at the result, I am as skeptical as ever. The queen of the gods is not someone we should trust. We need more information from her, and that can only mean finding the little witch.

"I have already deciphered the writing, my warlord. It is told in an ancient Serestinian tongue, but is readable enough." My queen takes a breath before reading out:

She who forsook the sky. 

She who was cast down by the wind. 

She who came riding on the beams of the Twelve Stars. 

She who was shut away in the caverns of man's heart. 

She who was forgotten and abandoned for Death's claws.

"Absolute rubbish. The Twelve Stars is a happening that is purely myth. No one has seen it in over a millennium. This riddle is too old and flowery to be of use as well. How do we know Morella isn't tricking us and leading us to some sort of elaborate trap?" Surely my queen will not be so foolish as to actually pursue this clear facade. Morella must be planning something, but I will not let her twist us into her human puppets. The gods will never meddle in my life again.

"Maybe this scroll is as old as a millennium then, my warlord. It seems that this forgotten prisoner was cast down from Heaven. Of course she would be someone to turn to for help." I almost do not believe my ears when my queen responds.

"But my queen! This information isn't enough to make Morella's claim credible! She could've easily fabricated this forgotten prisoner's true origin. Maybe we are going after a monster instead of a fallen goddess!" Please, listen to me. My queen could be walking straight into a trap; it is my responsibility to find those traps and keep her safe. Please, listen.

"Enough, my warlord. This parchment gives something solid enough to chase after. Do you or do you not wish to end this war?" She lifts her face and gives me a cold, hard stare, her black eyes now resembling harsh frost and not the warm, welcoming night. I purse my lips, caving into silence, but I am brimming with hot, wild, unsaid words. Why won't you listen, my queen?! She turns back to the parchment, but says in a low voice sharpened with regret, "I forbid you to search for the witch, my warlord. I do not need you going after something completely unnecessary and unimportant." She knows I wish to retort, to challenge her reasoning with my own, but she pins me down with another stare. A master quieting its dog. When she looks back to the parchment the second time, she does not need to tell me that I am dismissed. I leave the throne room, controlling the urge to stomp out of the door.

She is mad. Blinded by that cursed Morella. Sharp, jagged hatred for Heaven's queen pierces through my emotions, and I clench my fists, letting my anger ooze out. I take a deep breath as I march back to my quarters, the world a blur around me. If my queen will not listen to me, I will have to take matters into my own hands. But my hands tremble as I lay out my satchel, and an old, unwelcome feeling spills into my stomach: fear. I have not felt it in a long time: the sudden, oily cold pressing itself onto my skin; the turmoil churning and turning itself within the folds of my body. Regret and dread and confusion and achingly pure fear. I have never disobeyed my queen before; we have always reached an agreement, we have always found a compromise. But she refuses to listen. My hands stop trembling, and I set the satchel down on my bed. Yes, I am doing this for her. I am doing this to save her.

Quietly, silently, I pack away my weapons, supplies, and clothing. I will leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and I will not turn back. All of this is for Serestine. All of this is for my queen.