Fire And Ice (Book 1) (56 page)

             
Coran stuffed the packages of cheese and dried fruit into one of the leather saddle bags, they were followed by several more filled with dried beef.  A loaf of bread freshly baked went on top, he would have to eat that first.  He buckled the straps to close the full bag.  In the bag that would go on the other side of the horse he placed some folded maps that displayed the land between here and Herrinhall.  A clean black shirt went in as well as his leather wrapped razor, and flint. 

             
He set the bags on the table between the two chairs where his rolled blankets, two torches and a rope sat.  Across one of the chairs lay his armor made up of small connected links.  His black handled sword rested against the chair on the carpeted floor.  It was good to have that back. Without it he felt like a part of him was missing. 

             
He had been squirreling away the food for part of the day and gathering his supplies carefully.  After he was done packing he sat sharpening his sword and inspecting the armor for rust.  He was ready to leave and only waited for the cover of darkness and the absence of people in the last few hours before dawn.  He could be gone from the city and leagues away when the sun rose. 

             
A noise made him turn towards the door.  Standing there was his oldest friend, and he did not look happy.

             
“What is this?”  He pointed to the packed bags.  “Where are you going now?”

             
Coran sighed, it was too late to try and lie completely.  He decided to use the story he and Katelyn had prepared.  “I am going to Tyelin to check on the recruiting.”

             
“Then you will not mind if I go with you,” Devon suggested.  He had closed the door behind him and crossed over to stand by the table.  “I take it we are leaving soon.”

             
“You cannot go,” he told his friend.  “And you cannot tell anyone I am leaving either.”

             
“Why not?”

             
“I have already been a target more than once, I don’t care to be one again if I can help it,” Coran explained.               “No.  I mean why can I not go?  If you are going to Tyelin there would be no reason for me not to.”  He cocked his head to one side and gave Coran an interested glance.  “Katelyn does know that you are leaving, right?  You are not pulling a disappearing act I hope.  She would have my hide, and yours if you tried something like that.”

             
“She knows.”  Saying it straight seemed the best way to shut him up. 

             
“So why can I not go?”

             
Coran was silent as he tried to think of an excuse.  He couldn’t think of anything that might be believed.  “You have to swear not to tell anyone.”

             
“I promise,” Devon assured him.

             
He looked to the closed door that led to the hall outside.  “I am going to Herrinhall.”

             
Devon stared at him for a second.  “I thought they had that meeting going on with the whole ‘no Midians allowed’ thing.”

             
“My grandmother was from Leanesse,” he explained simply.

             
“I did not know that,” Devon stated.  “I can always wait outside the city until you are done.”

             
He could see that his friend wasn’t going to back down.  It might be nice to have him along this time.  “Okay, but if anything happens don’t blame me.  Remember that this was your idea.”   His friend’s face was split by a grin from ear to ear.  It was far too smug.  “I suppose you will want to say good-bye to Alys.”

             
The grin was wiped away and replaced by a faint blush.  “What do you mean by that?” Devon asked innocently. 

             
“Do you think I am blind.  You have been spending more time with her than I have with Katelyn.”              

             
“It is nothing, just a few kisses is all.”

             
“I would not tell that to Katelyn.  If she finds out you are toying with her...”  He left it hanging on purpose. 

             
Devon shuffled his feet.  “Okay, it might be more than that, and you don’t have to tell Katelyn anything.”

             
“Do you really think she does not know?”  He laughed at his friend’s discomfort.  It was only fair after Devon got the information out of him.

             
Uneasy, Devon decided it was time to leave.  “I should get some things packed.”

             
“Just be discreet.”

             
His friend gave him one of those looks that said ‘who me’, opened the door and walked out.

             
It was going to be an interesting trip.

              King Cranus sat in his gilded chair in the ancient hall of Volton as the uniformed officer approached.  Cranus ran a hand through his iron gray hair.  The hall was small compared to the newer palaces of the West.  The stone to build it was old, and as gray as he was.  Wooden beams supported the ceiling above and swords of long gone Kings decorated one of the walls.

             
The only reason the officer found him here instead of his own rooms was because Cranus wanted a place to brood in peace.  His son should have sent word days ago.  Tired of waiting Cranus had sent his own patrols to find out what was happening.  

             
The officer stopped before him and came to attention.  His purple sur coat sported the white stag of Volton outlined in gold.  “Your Majesty.  I have news from the south.”  His voice was shaky, a sign of bad tidings.  “The army of Karands and Makkurans has invaded Voltia.”              

             
Cranus expected as much.  After his initial doubt he started to seriously consider the prospect that Stemis was right and there were invaders in Daes Shael.  A few questions in the right places provided the truth, or as close to it as he could get.  “Is my son well?” he asked evenly.  The truth was that Torvilin was turning out to be a disappointment.  He still would not wish to see him dead.

             
The man swallowed hard.  “The invasion is so far uncontested.”

             
It took a moment for the words to sink in.  He kept his rage in check for the moment.  “How can that be?”

             
“Prince Torvilin is currently to the west, near Milaard.  The forces given to his command are with him.”

             
“What!”  Cranus jumped to his feet, his shout echoed off the stones.  “Who is defending the south?!” 

             
“No one, Your Majesty.”  The officer’s face was pale. 

             
“That fool,” he said.  His son might have just doomed Voltia.  “Ready the army, we leave within the hour.  And send a message to my...son.  He is to join me at Carrington with all his men as quickly as possible.”  They still might be able to salvage the situation.

             
The officer left quickly and with obvious relief.

             
Cranus stepped down from the dais and left the hall quickly.  He ran a finger and thumb down the sides of his mouth, smoothing his oiled mustache.  The corridors of Volton’s palace twisted and turned like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.  There seemed to be no plan or reason to them. 

             
When Volton was first built it was constructed like many Midian cities of old; small and harsh.  Volton’s quick rise to power made the subsequent kings envious of the grander cities of the Sun Plain.  As a result each new king seemed to take to heart the idea of expanding the palace.  But without an overall plan what became of that dream was a patchwork of various styles and materials, many of which contrasted sharply with each other, almost to the point of vulgarity. From the hope of creating something beautiful came ugliness.  Despite the evidence, the kings continued their renovations, each one convinced his would be the crowning achievement that would make the palace a wonder for all to see.  It was often said a trace of madness ran in the Volton line.

             
Cranus saw no need to perpetuate such an idiotic ideal.  The palace was large and confusing enough as it was.  And in truth it was a place for visitors to come and gawk at.  It was just not for the beauty.

             
The King of Voltia turned down another corridor and cool gray stone gave way to rough red walls.  The red hall it was called.  One of his ancestors loved the color red.  The hall, the rooms leading off of it were all built of red stone, including ceilings, walls, floors, and fixtures.

             
Cranus knew the truth of the rumors of madness.  He had seen his own father slowly lose his mind.  He waited for the same fate to claim him but so far it had not.  Then again, if he was mad would he know it?  Perhaps not but he could see in Torvilin what he had seen in his father.  Maybe it skipped a generation. 
Maybe it skipped me and now Torvilin is mad enough for the b
o
th of us.

             
Red stone became white marble complete with columns flanking the walls and arches above the doors, that was soon exchanged for a reddish brown brick, and later on square tiles placed to make pictures on the floor.  That was a style said to come from Cimbria.  How he hated this place.  If his forefathers had just picked one style and stayed with it would have been tolerable, even the red stone, but the variety always made him think of a mush stew.  All sorts of healthy but unappetizing foods mixed and mashed together.  It made him want to puke.  His father had loved living in the palace.  Torvilin loved living in the palace.

             
His son had been so promising as a youth.  So strong and competent, and his skills with a sword were prevalent at an early age.  Even his fits of cruelty could be explained as a young man with a strong stomach and stronger will.  Suitable characteristics for a future king. 

             
Then came that business with the High King’s daughters.  Cranus had agreed that if a fluff like Robert could wed one of those little brats than his son could too.  But Cranus would never have told his son to go to Westhaven.  Not after the debacle at Summerhall.  Torvilin had been embarrassed and he should have left it alone, he should have waited for the proper time to resume his pursuit, but once Torvilin wanted something he never stopped until he got it.  He had been stopped in Westhaven.  For a time. 

             
Cranus never cared much either way about his son’s obsessions.  Whatever Torvilin was doing now though was effecting all of Voltia.  It was affecting him.  

             
At last he came to gray stone again.  As he turned down a narrow corridor, one that would lead him to his rooms he came across his wife.  Bedecked in jewels and a red gown she was the image of what a Queen should be, rich, beautiful, a proper wife to a King.

             
The man walking beside her stopped when she did and bowed his head.  “Your Majesty.  Any news...?”              That was as far as he got.  Cranus’ hard eyed stare cut him short.

             
“Husband?  What is wrong?”  Vilia, his Queen, could always tell when something was wrong.  She usually hid it better though. 

             
“Make preparations for taking the children to Vosburg.”  He made his tone even as not to upset her but he failed.

             
Her eyes went wide at his order.  “What has happened?”              

             
He stared into her eyes for a moment then spoke a single word.  “War.”  He ignored her gasp and turned to the man, a knight and one of his military advisors.  “Roget.  Have my armor prepared.  We ride within the hour.”

             
“At once.”  Roget knew when to ask questions and when to shut up and obey.  Keeping with decorum he did not run but he walked very fast back the way he had come.  Back to Cranus’ rooms to ready his armor for donning.

             
Vilia laid a hand on her husband’s arm.  It was more wrinkled than he remembered.  They were both getting old, but maybe not for much longer.  “Where will you be going?” she asked in a quiet voice knowing he would answer only if he wanted too.

             
He patted her hand, more affection than he had shown in quite some time.  Perhaps he should have been more attentive of his wife.  He gave her a forced smile.  “To save Voltia.  I hope.”                       

              Coran straightened his black and silver shirt in preparation to join his friends for dinner.  His gear was sitting inside the door of his bedroom ready to go.  Turning towards the door of his rooms it opened before he reached it. 

             
Katelyn entered with a bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands.  Behind her several servants followed.  Two carried a square table and replaced the smaller one he had.  Another carried two steaming plates and set them down on the new table along with utensils.  They filed out as soon as they finished their tasks.  He caught a glimpse of a pike held in a hand before the door closed.  Her ever present guards had taken up station in the hall.