Fenturi Fate (Spacestalker Saga Book 1) (5 page)

“Yes, I summoned you,” Zebram said tiredly, sadly. “Our father is dying.”

“
Your
father would not want me here,” he snapped, unwilling to bend.
“I should be off fighting the growing Meklen rebellion, not dropping everything to console Your Highness.”
Come, Brother. Send me away for my impertinence.

Cyka raised a brow at Ren’s aggression but did no more than lean down to whisper in the prince’s ear.
Zebram nodded and kept a steady gaze on Ren’s face.

Zebram rose.
“We go to him now.” He crossed to Ren and simply stopped in front of his brother.
The two stared at each other for a moment.
Younger and not as large in build, Zebram still had a presence all his own in his flowing robes of royal green.
Intimidating in his own right, the young prince’s intelligent gaze seemed to burn through a man, as if seeking the truth from his soul.

Ren turned away from Zebram’s searing stare and bowed. “After you, my liege.”

  Zebram breezed by him, his head held high, his soft Fen-hair cape swirling behind him.
They moved through the palace toward the king’s sick room.
There in the antechamber sat Queen Lesha looking beautiful but pensive, her skin pale but still flawless, despite her years.
Zebram’s cousin sat with the queen, holding her hand.

As Zebram entered, the queen’s eyes lit.
Her
gaze moved beyond her son to Ren, and her expression softened.
Lesha had always held a tenderness for the roughly handled little boy Ren had been.
He’d known and hated her pity,
disdaining her as much as he hated her husband, the king.
Her gentle mien had weakened her son, just as she’d made vulnerable the king, vermin though he was.

“How good to see you, Garen.” Queen Lesha gave a strained smile and nod.

Ren ignored her.
“Where is the king?” He mentally urged Zebram to move along before he forgot his relationship to the prince and left this miserable palace.

“Through here.”
Zebram sighed and gave his mother an apologetic glance over his shoulder before moving into a darkened room.

Sconces holding candles flickered on several walls, giving soft light to the otherwise gloomy space.
The air smelled of death and decay, and personally Ren thought it both ironic and fitting the old man should go out thus, too weak even to stand on his own two feet.

Several elderly council members stood around his bedside, as did the Legion Master, Rorn.
At Ren’s appearance, the small crowd stared in awed surprise. Rorn managed a subdued smile of joy.
Of all his masters and trainers, one-eyed Rorn had commanded—nay, earned—Ren’s heartfelt respect. The man was a fierce warrior who never seemed to tire in battle, and who treasured one’s spirit more than one’s bloodline.

At the crowd’s silence, the old king shifted with a weary groan.
He lay propped up in the bed against several feathered pillows, and his head appeared a great weight on top of his frail, papery neck.

His eyes widened as they took in the sight of Ren, who stood with his arms crossed and his gaze openly hostile.
What more did the bastard king want with him? Perhaps he had more “training” in mind? To torment Ren by clinging to life? Ren swallowed a sigh. He really should have found some release on the pleasure planet, because there was clearly no joy to be found here.

Zedrax felt his heart fill with pride as he looked at his sons:
the youngest so full of passion and intelligence like his mother, and Garen… His oldest looked every bit as harsh and strong as he’d have hoped.
Though it had been years since he’d spoken directly with the lad, now a man, Zedrax had kept his eyes on Garen’s progress.

Now that Garen stood so close, Zedrax could see why the entire Legion quaked before his son.
My
son.
Bitterness and anger consumed him. Why had it taken him so long to see the dominant Bylaran blood running through the boy? For so long he’d only focused on Garen’s hated Fenturi side, blinded by prejudice and fear. Yet as he looked at his children, he couldn’t help noticing their likeness to each other…and to himself.
 

“Well, old man, I have not the time nor patience for such a waste of time,” Garen growled. “If you’ve called us to watch you die, get on with it.” The boy stared at him with dislike bordering on hate.

The others gasped. Zedrax laughed.
Garen had spirit in spades and never failed to amaze him with his aggressive nature.
A fierce warrior like that made a man proud.

“Quite so—” Zedrax wheezed and coughed into a blood-soaked handkerchief.
“Garen, I have called you here, along with our beloved prince and my most trusted advisors, to discuss plans for the return of the Ragil Horde.”

The others murmured their disbelief, but Zedrax kept his gaze on his sons.
Zebram’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, no doubt having heard the rumors circulating about the return of their most dreaded enemy.

“What of it?” Garen asked.

“You have heard?”

“All the System has heard speculation of a Ragil ship floating in the Outworlds, but none give it any credence.”

“They should.”
Zedrax felt the finger of death pulling him closer and hurried with what needed to be said.
“When I heard rumor a year ago, I gathered with other members of the Council, and we decided to send out a secret mission to prove or disprove evidence that the Ragil Horde somehow survived the last battle so long ago.
Only recently have two men in a crew of a hundred survived and returned to us.
The Ragil come again.”

 Zebram scowled. “Why wasn’t I told before?”

  “I’m telling you now, my son.
Soon you will be king, and you will need to act on this.
And you, Garen.”
Zedrax turned to his eldest.
“You must support Zebram and the kingdom in its time of need, or Vinopol may be lost.”

“But the Ragil wars occurred over a millennia past,” Rorn said. “How do you propose we fight them now when our air superiority is still so much in question? Even our Nexian best is barely a match against their starships of long ago.
Now, if we had to fight them in hand-to-hand combat, I grant you our Stalkers would be a force to be reckoned with, but those starships…”

Zedrax agreed but couldn’t do more than cough, and his shuddering body caused the gathering to pause.
The royal healer drew close and soothed him with a rank-smelling ointment.
Then he gently wiped the
blood from Zedrax’s lips and fled to the corner of the room once more.

“Leave us,” Zedrax rasped to the men around the bed.
Garen turned to leave with the rest of them, eager to depart from his king’s distasteful company, no doubt.
“Not you, Zebram, or you, Garen…
my son
,” he added in stronger voice.

The crowd stilled for a moment before the councilmen hurried from the room to announce to one and all that Zedrax had finally acknowledged his eldest son.
But as Zedrax had known, his words had come far too late to influence Garen, who stared down at him with loathing.

“Why did you do that?” Garen asked in a deep voice filled with distrust.

“It was nigh past time I made that right,” Zedrax said tiredly.
He wished he could stop time, that he might take what he had learned through age and experience and apply it to the foolish man who had sired this proud warrior.

Zebram nodded. “Yes, way past time.”
He reached up to pat his older brother on the shoulder, but Garen stalked to the other side of the room.

“What do you do now, old man?
You think to make right a lifetime of lessons burned well into me?” Garen asked in a cold voice.
“I will do my part to fend off the Ragil Horde.
That acknowledgement was completely unnecessary.”

“But Garen, I owed it not only to you but to the kingdom as well.
If not for your mother…” Zedrax ended in another coughing fit.

At mention of his mother, Garen went completely still, his hand perilously close to the hilt of his sword.

The king noted the gesture as well as Zebram’s uneasy glance. “Hold, son.”

“I am
not
your son,” Garen said through gritted teeth.
“And I never will be.”

“Just listen, I have not the time to argue,” Zedrax said before racking coughs shook his frail body.

“So it is that weakness and death lay upon you and you seek some peace?
Find it beyond, Your Grace,” Garen mocked.
“I’ve got nothing but disgust for your pitiful frailty.” He stormed from the room, his temper apparently goaded past reason.

Zedrax watched him go with tears in his eyes.
“I tried.
I did try.” He closed his eyes.
“Zebram, you must tell him how sorry I am that I treated him so poorly.
Make him see that the fault lay not within him, but in me, in my fear of the unknown.
Let him know that I see him now—”
Zedrax gasped as pain sucked his breath from him. He barely managed to whisper, “Know that I will always love and be proud of you,” before he took a final, shuddering breath, and faded into the beyond.

Zebram sat next to his father, tears coursing down his face.
The king had fallen and would never again offer him sound advice, would never cross swords with him on a training field or play Bylaran cross-cards over a round of bitter ale.

And the Ragil Horde would come again.
Yes, he’d heard the rumors and had even gone so far as to try to study the old battle.
But few texts remained on the subject.
He needed advice only the ancients could give.

Zebram sighed and placed his father’s slack hands upon his chest.
Now he not only had to deal with grief over his beloved father’s death, but he had to shoulder the responsibilities of the kingdom as well.
W
ith news that the Ragil Horde was again upon them, he would need everyone’s help, including Ren’s.

With a tired sigh, Zebram moved to the window and pushed aside the heavy drapery concealing the darkness of the room.
He stared down at the kingdom, thinking of his new responsibilities. His father had made many mistakes in his arrogant life, but he had given Vinopol a time of prosperity and even peace.

But at what cost?
Zebram remembered tales from some of his old arms’ masters of the bloody battles fought against the Fenturi.
The Fenturi people had committed no crime save to exist, and for that his father had continued their slaughter.

In all his secretive studies about the Fenturi, Zebram had learned much, and he’d mourned their loss.
Unlike his father, he believed unity with the Fenturi would have made Bylar stronger, not weaker.
The Fenturi had never lived to conquer.
His
studies had pointed to a race devoted to laughter and art, music and the skill of the hunt.

Much like their guidecats, the Fenturi had an almost feline nature and loved to play. They indulged in their inherent sensuality, and though arrogant, did not destroy life around them as the Bylarans had, but embraced what they did not understand and used it to advance their part in the world.

What use is thinking of the past? Now is not the time to put in motion my plans for planetary unity.
He had much to do, especially now. Zebram turned to see his father pale and still in his large bed.

His mother suddenly stepped through the doorway, and he crossed to her to offer sympathy.
She held him long and hard before she gently pushed him away.
He left, giving her the space she needed to deal with his father’s passing.

His head held low, he almost stepped over the messenger bowing before him.

“My lord, Prince,” the young boy said awkwardly. “Er, my king. A missive for you.
I was told it’s of utmost importance.”

Zebram took the message and stared down at the words floating before him, trying to make sense of the garbled text. A vast emptiness overwhelmed him as his grief surged to the surface, refusing to stay buried. Then a name caught his attention, and he stared at it in shock.

Myla had never before contacted him.
Ever.
For her to do so now meant urgency beckoned.
He would have questioned the messenger, but the boy had darted away.