Manipulator's War

Chapter 5: Shadow on the Horizon

Chapter 5

Shadow on the Horizon

Ruarnon: Tarlah City

Memories flooded back when Ruarnon woke the following day. The spark in their father’s eyes as he and mother jested at dinner, and in their mother’s as she told them to sleep well, knowing Lenaris was taking Ruarnon to the Festival of Life. They shifted in bed, triggering sharp pains on grazes from their fall on the road and the duller aches of their bruises from colliding with the gate. Getting up was not a good idea.

They lay back. If their parents had been recovered, Companion Pamoran would have sent word. A Tarlahn ship must be pursuing them at sea, with slim chances of catching up, let alone overpowering the Zaldeaan vessel. They were relieved when a knock on the door interrupted dark thoughts and Uncle Omah entered and sat by their bed.

“When did you get back?” Ruarnon asked.

“This morning,” Omah replied, his eyes downcast. “Assassins attacked our First Trade Official not long after you left. It appears King Kyura feared he could not ensure our safety in his palace, so he sent every Tarlahn resident home while he cleans out his house.”

Omah met Ruarnon’s gaze. “The ship pursuing your parents sails several leagues behind the vessel they are captive aboard, which is of Zaldeaan design.”

Ruarnon’s brows furrowed. “Whoever took my parents could have killed them in their beds, like someone tried to kill me in the Realm, but they didn’t. Do you think my parents’ abductors are different people to the ones who sent assassins after me?”

Omah’s deep blue gaze studied Ruarnon. “The Royal Council suspects so. There may be more individuals or factions at work.”

“But why take my parents alive?” Ruarnon wondered. “Unless... I read in the Zaldeaan Archives how their kings expanded the Realm by taking other kings’ heirs hostage and raising them in Zaldeaa. Could someone have taken my parent’s hostage? If Kyura is committed to peace, does he hope we will pay him tribute and acknowledge him as High King in exchange for my parents’ safety?”

If that were so, Ruarnon’s parents might not be treated too badly...

Omah smiled. “Urmillian underestimated you. You lack war experience, but education has made your mind as sharp as any blade. Do you remember Kyomi the Peacemaker’s second reason, other than our allies, for war being futile?”

Ruarnon considered it. “The revolt your father led. But if they don’t provoke us with military occupation and executions this time, if all Kyura wants is tribute, does he hope that abducting my parents will appease whoever wants to rule us without violating his father’s Peace?”

Omah sighed. “Given that he, too, was raised during the Peace, that is the most likely explanation. But I suspect Kyura is fragile, and I doubt he has been in a fit state to conceive of such a plan in recent weeks. The timing suggests it may have been someone else.”

“Either way,” Ruarnon asked, “would our payment of tribute and acceptance of Kyura as High King satisfy Zaldeaans who oppose the Peace?”

Omah turned away. “That would deprive the army of glory, its leaders of positions of power, and its soldiers of their best retirement plan. It could also undermine power plays within the Zaldeaan court. Whatever the Zaldeaans intend, we will make our own plans to recover your parents.” He paused, then eyed Ruarnon. “Your servants believe your parents contracted the illness which sent you home early from the Zaldeaan Realm. Guards involved in the pursuit and our servants have been sworn to secrecy. I have informed the Royal Council, but common knowledge that our Rulers were abducted will only rouse reckless anger and fear.”

Ruarnon slumped at the authority in their uncle’s tone. Omah had taken up the regency.

Ruarnon had grappled with the fact that someone had tried to kill them in the Zaldeaan palace. It made them nervous about being followed through corridors and of entering large rooms like the dining hall. At other times, it didn’t seem real. It had happened so quickly, in a place they had never been before. They had rushed home like waking from a bad dream. The political implications of the assassination attempt were like one of Companion Tor’s exercises in logic. Ruarnon could accept it on that level. But Omah’s tone and regency made Urmillian and Corina’s absence real. It made the threat of war more than mere speculation. It set Ruarnon’s head spinning.

One clear thought rose from the chaos of Ruarnon’s mind: dangerous times call for decisive action. They had an option. They just hoped it was more successful than their botched attempt to delay the carriage. “Uncle. I wish to take up a seat on the Royal Council. I want to know what is going on and to have the chance to help my parents.”

Omah bowed his head in acceptance.

Within a few days, Ruarnon’s grazes had healed enough for them to attend lessons, but their history lesson with Companion Tor was interrupted by a summons to their first Royal Council meeting. Three days was the fastest time ships could sail between Zaldeaa City and Tarlah City. Ruarnon’s heart drumrolled in their chest as they wondered what news that ship brought of their parents’ fate.

“I suggest you say little in the meeting,” Companion Tor advised, standing tall and broad as the pair strode down the corridor, silver shining amid the sandy hair stretching back into his braid, his expression thoughtful and distant as always. “Former General Monin served under the king before the b****y Occupation. He has advised your father since he became Co-Regent at fifteen. In his eyes, you are a child. Pamoran may be more open-minded than his father, but I suspect he will also see you as little more than a child at lessons until you prove yourself. Learn what you can, but give them no excuse to doubt your ability. The Royal Council exists to advise you, but you will lead us as Co-Regent. When you lead, the Council’s job is to temper the regent’s and co-regent’s decisions. You do not want to give them reasons to doubt your ability to make those decisions.”

Ruarnon swallowed awkwardly. Their only thoughts about the Royal Council had been nervous ones of what they’d learn of their parents. But Tor was right: with their co-regency only months away, they needed to gain the council’s respect. And as Tarlah’s first midlun Heir, that might require more of Ruarnon than it had of male Heirs.

“Thank you,” Ruarnon said, feeling strange speaking to their father’s First Companion as an equal.

The Golden Meeting Hall was imposing. Silver busts of former Companions gazed expectantly across the room from niches lining the left wall. A table dominated the centre, with Ruarnon’s aunt and uncle seated at its head. Silver-haired, scarred Advisor Monin sat on the left side and rugged Companion Pamoran on the right. From a dais behind the table, gold busts of former rulers gazed down on the proceedings. Each was believed to house the spirit of the person it represented, so the Ancestors could offer up their wisdom. As Ruarnon stepped into the Ancestor’s gazes, they felt the weight of past and present Royal Council members judging them settle on their shoulders.

Uncle Omah motioned to the co-regent’s seat on the right. Ruarnon kept their posture upright as Monin’s stern gaze fixed on them. If anyone needed convincing that a midlun could rule as well as a man or woman, it would be the council’s oldest and most conservative advisor, Monin.

Ruarnon sat alertly, marking a young messenger standing beside the table and a taller, grey-haired man, the Spymaster.

“Welcome to the second council of Regent Omah,” Omah said regally once Ruarnon and Tor were seated. “Make your report,” he instructed the Spymaster, who bowed.

“Earlier today, a spy at the Zaldeaan Palace overheard a conversation between nervous soldiers. One insisted that everything would be fine if they never mentioned leaving Zaldeaa City and forgot about ‘that Tarlahn couple.’”

Ruarnon’s body tensed. They had hoped their parents would be hidden in a Zaldeaan country villa. The Zaldeaan palace, in the centre of Zaldeaa City, would be far harder to free the royal couple from. Negotiation might be the only option, and Ruarnon didn’t like to consider what the Zaldeaans may ask for in exchange.

Omah gestured to the messenger, who read from a scroll.

To His Benevolence Omah, Regent of Tarlah,

Our ship reached the seas near Edesinia this afternoon. We were prevented from making port. Two ships barred our way, threatening us with power bows and claiming Zaldeaan ports are closed to Tarlahn ships. They fly no flags. What are Your Benevolence’s orders?

Signed,

Captain Noma, Tarlahn Navy

Ruarnon’s face fell. If Kyura wanted to make demands, he needed to speak to Omah. So why hadn’t he sent his ambassador to Tarlah? Was it Kyura who had Ruarnon’s parents?

“Could warmongers be commanding those ships?” asked Companion Pamoran. “Hiding their identity from their king as well as us?”

“Declaring their ports closed amounts to usurping the king’s power,” Monin replied. “That suggests some Zaldeaans are on the brink of open rebellion.”

“But if they are warmongers, oughtn’t they hold to the Warrior’s Creed, or at least pretend to?” Ruarnon objected.

They braced themself as every face around the table turned critically towards them.

“Abducting my parents from their beds is an act of cowardice, but if they think we will declare war in retaliation, they are out of their minds.”

“Indeed,” said Omah. “If King Kyura did not abduct our Rulers, then who?”

“Sending home our officials while he hunts the attempted killer in his court shows Kyura’s commitment to peace,” Companion Tor replied. “Yet we have heard reports of some Zaldeaans clamouring for war. If he were usurped like his grandfather, who would be king?”

“Syenne has the ability, but many enemies,” Monin replied. “Her cousin Iagl would be more popular and just as likely to want it. His father Derlan, who fought in the Piracy War, may never have taken his eyes off Tarlah. But deposing Kyura would mean a succession war, and in-fighting would weaken Zaldeaan might. Any traitor’s best option is to retain Kyura as king and bully or steer him to invade us.”

Ruarnon struggled to keep up. With advisors making such leaps of logic, it was no wonder their father had seemed all-knowing.

Across Zaldeaan history, ambition had led to all manner of scheming, but now, it might prevent Ruarnon’s uncle from speaking to Kyura. Worse, it might be a warmonger who had abducted Ruarnon’s parents. It couldn’t come to war. With Tarlah’s allies absent, the only question was how long Tarlah could hold against its vastly more powerful enemies before it surrendered to a brutal occupation Ruarnon wouldn’t need to worry about the future then; they’d be executed. The idea made them cold inside.

“I will write to King Kyura by messenger bird,” Omah told the Council. “Tell our spies I want to know who is blocking our attempts to speak to him,” he added to the Spymaster, who bowed and left.

Omah dismissed the Council. Grave faces surveyed Ruarnon as they departed. Monin and Pamoran probably thought the news was too much for the kid at the table, and Monin likely doubted a midlun could handle it. Now wasn’t the time to prove them wrong. Ruarnon was too overwhelmed by the stakes of Zaldeaan politics.

“Come with me, Ruarnon,” said Omah.

Ruarnon paid little attention to where they were going until they entered a room on the castle's southern side, where late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window. A map was strewn across the room’s central wooden desk, with a pursuit at sea, alongside Death Belt Desert’s coast, marked on it. A shelf filled with scrolls stood to one side, and tables topped with scribes’ papyrus and stylus stood empty—the Royal Writing Room.

“Do not give up hope,” Omah whispered, leaning towards them. “There may be much we are ignorant of.”

“Including the extent to which Kyura is losing control of his court?” Ruarnon asked, slumping where they stood.

Omah looked down at them intently, then replied, “Yes. Urmillian has worried about that since Kyura came to the throne. The attempt on your life indicated we were right to worry. Your parents’ a*******n, if it were not by Kyura, is far worse.”

Ruarnon turned away. Their uncle’s confirmation that war was possible made their insides lurch with fear of the unknown.

“Kyura’s grip on power isn’t the only determinant of peace,” Omah added. “I sent a ship to the Timbalen Empire asking for aid. At this time of year, it must use lateen sails angled to catch the wind, which may delay it a week or two, but if our allies send ships, it will prove that war now is as futile as ever, and they may aid us in recovering your parents.”

Ruarnon nodded, but said nothing.

“Take time to consider everything. Discuss it with Lenaris if you need to.”

Ruarnon’s shoulders relaxed slightly and a small smile parted their lips. Their uncle returned the smile. If Omah didn’t expect them to be stone, like King Urmillian did, perhaps Ruarnon could get through this.

They said goodbye to Omah, found Lenaris, and led her to a place they were sure they wouldn’t be overheard, the battlements atop the front castle walls. Commands of captains drilling soldiers rang out behind them while the usual hum of Tarlah City rose before them. Ruarnon gazed across flat mud brick rooftops, the wealthiest adorned with pot plant gardens, wondering how to tell Lenaris the truth after four days of silence.

Below, a boy carried a satchel of messages down a narrow side road, past a girl throwing a stone. The girl’s friends cringed as a woman scolded them for throwing stones, pointing at the shining substance in her window, glass, a new and expensive invention. Double doors burst open ahead, and older children poured out, grateful that another morning of learning was over. How nice it would be, growing up like them, without knowledge or fear of the kingdom’s future.

The thought tempted Ruarnon to soak up the city, delaying the inevitable. Further away, the hum of conversation, bartering, and animal noises rose from the marketplace, a confusing mass of stalls down North Road. Bare-chested farmers pulled wooden handcarts while travelling merchants in colourfully dyed tunics strutted with armed guards and servants of city families scurried about on errands in white linens. The adults of Tarlah also went about their business, their days unshadowed by signs only a few Tarlahns saw: that war with the Zaldeaan Realm might be likely once more.

“I don’t know how long this will last,” Ruarnon said, gazing across the city.

Lenaris eyed them sharply. “Your parents?”

Omah had kept it as secret as Urmillian wanted the attempt on Ruarnon’s life to remain, but Ruarnon was sure she had guessed their father was also missing.

“Father was abducted, too.”

Lenaris' face fell. “I’m sorry.”

Ruarnon grimaced. “Uncle Omah mentioned how long the Timbalens have been absent. I thought the attempt on my life was the Zaldeaan reaction to that. I worried about them attacking Tarlah City, but I never imagined this.”

“Have they located your parents?”

Ruarnon shook their head and gripped the battlements.

“They’re too valuable not to look after for negotiations,” Lenaris assured Ruarnon.

Ruarnon sighed. That was true, but it didn’t calm the accelerated beat of their heart. The question they barely dared think of in the quiet of their mind wasn’t calming either. “How would the people respond if they had to fight?”

“The commoners have a saying,” Lenaris replied, her posture straightening. “‘If he cuts you down, stab him as you fall.’ Companion Gathron put it more eloquently: ‘If you are going to die, let it be with sword, spear, or bow in hand, for the sake of your people.’”

Ruarnon leant heavily on the crenellated wall. “I only thought of it as death, loss, and horror. Not a service to our people.”

They clenched their fists, but their mask of Urmillian’s thoughtful heir remained in place. They kept their voice steady, emulating their older friend’s acceptance of frightening circumstances beyond their control. Still, they couldn’t suppress a shudder as they admitted, “It may come down to our allies. On whether they answer Uncle Omah’s call for aid fast enough to prevent war, or not at all.”