The King's Challenge #296 - #298

TKC 296 and 297 and 298

The troubles afflicting Massin becomes secondary to the present. The conflict ever existent between Ilfin and Glonu is now less than what we face.

This is life and death for a father we love. This is also about the convoluted realities surrounding relationships, and thus our entire world is narrowed into one tiny space. Surrounded by the insulating material an engine room requires not only to regulate temperature, but also to dampen sound, we face each other.

Given everything that has happened to this point, we are the final players in a game of survival. We will determine whether the way of life we have known until now will continue, or whether a new order will arise from the ashes of the old.

Somewhere nearby, my father hopes for a cure, while others seek to murder him. In this claustrophobically padded chamber in the bowels of a mighty ship, we must choose a path.

Commander Athol Gennerin is the soldier we will rely on to stand forth on behalf of our armed forces. His nemesis in this is Brigadier Fenn Moravin. That is one relationship, and the two men are a match. I assume Gennerin gives thought to the confrontation ahead and the determined set of his mouth tells me I am correct in my assumption.

This is a quagmire of relationships, for there is Mirlin and Kay, the two surviving westerners that have assumed importance despite ages of divide between the sea and plateau dwellers of Massin. Somewhere in their past they were in positions of responsibility. Thus far both have proven trustworthy, although I still cannot say I like Mirlin much.

Then there is Kay and Siri Mur, as there is Damin and me. I have known Damin a long time, but Kay and Siri are new to each other and to love. With the Marsh Devil watching their every action, it cannot be easy. Speaking of love, there is Enris and Leffandir, and theirs is an ancient connection, one filled with obsession and accusation. I wonder how it will influence this present; my impression of what lies between them is one of an explosive nature. One or the other may create chaos and it may become the kind of chaos difficult to lay to rest again. They now watch each other more than Damin keeps an eye on his sister.

First point of decision is to determine how much time we have available to us and, to that end, I swivel to stand directly in front of my brother. He does not see me, for his focus is with Leffandir. I sense her gaze boring into the back of my skull, however; she is more aware than Enris is.

I jab Enris. “Look at me.”

He blinks and his gaze settles on me. “Why is she here?”

“We can discuss that later. Right now I need to know about our father. Enris, focus! You saw him, you say. How is he? How much time does he have?”

He swallows and passes a shaking hand over his hair. “Bloody hell, this gets way too complicated. Yes, fine! We caught a glimpse of him when Mirlin shifted through a locked door.” Enris points to the left. “That way, a few corridors removed from this space. We needed to retreat when we saw how many soldiers Moravin has around him.”

“By the stars, Enris, tell me about father,” I blurt out.

“He can still walk, but is bent as if enduring much agony,” Enris whispers. “He seems somehow removed from what happens around him.”

“How long?”

“Not long.” Enris closes his eyes. “He will fall into a coma soon.”

“Or Moravin will kill him,” Mirlin states grimly. “And then he will use your father’s body as a trophy to claim power. Whatever the upstart Makar believes back home, he will not be king. Moravin aims to take all power unto himself.”

“You got all that from one glimpse?” I frown in Mirlin’s direction.

He shrugs at me. “I read people. Think what you will, but I am not wrong.”

“Moravin has ever been ambitious,” Gennerin inserts, his tone flat. “With power this close to hand, he will not now relinquish it.”

“What of our uncle?” I ask of Enris.

“We did not see him.”

“He is close,” Damin puts in. “I read a red sun, which is fear and reflects your father’s state of mind, and I also see a silver sword, which can only be Moravin’s ambition. Beyond a host of flitting images, which I assume are the guards, there is also a smoking urn.” Damin draws in a breath and moves to a position beside Enris, from where he looks directly at me. “Iniri, I have seen the black urn wreathed in vapours only on Makaran and only when I was at the healers’.”

Damin has remembered his past self. I swallow and cannot find the words to continue the conversation.

He offers a lopsided smile. “Some of what was returns, but what matters now is the symbol of the urn. That signifies great talent. The presence of sorcery.”

“Uncle Lorn Makar,” Enris states.

“A smoking urn,” Leffandir murmurs. “How enlightening. The night our daughter was murdered a wispy vessel hovered in her chamber.”

Immediately my brother shifts around me. “Are you accusing me of sorcery?”

She braces, her gaze unblinking. “You killed her. Yes, I accuse you of sorcery!” She throws an arm wide. “Are you not perhaps in league with your uncle, Enris? Maybe you are tired of waiting for your throne!”