Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (40 page)

He simply stopped, unable to proceed.  Varlock-Sharron was silent for a moment while he recomposed himself.  Not a soul within the pavilion made a sound, everyone was caught up in his tale.

The King took a deep breath, made ready to continue.  Sometime during all this, he’d released his grip on Lyrra-Sharron’s arm, but she remained beside him, not moving, almost unaware she was free to go.

“Your Mother,” he started again softly.  “Kyrra-Sharron was the most beautiful, graceful, majestic woman I have even known.  She had been so strong, through it all.  I loved her more than anything.  I have never loved another as I did her, and I never will.  Her grief was terrible, for she had loved your brother and your sister more than I could measure.  She had you, she had me.  But it was not enough.  She took to her rooms, as you know, and sank deeper and deeper into depression.  It was she who would not see you, and she would only grant me but a few moments, before she was overwhelmed once more to tears, and sent me away.  The only person she allowed with her for any extended period was Lady Ara Wiram.”

There was an obvious catch in his voice, which he got ahold of, a shiver passing though him with perhaps his most painful memory, before Varlock-Sharron could continue.  “It was Ara who found her that morning, Lyrra-Sharron.  You mother did not simply die from her grief, my daughter.  We did not tell you, for we did not know what to say.  You were barely twelve years old, young as you were, you had already seen enough sorrow for two lifetimes.  Your mother...Lyrra-Sharron, your mother took her own life.”

A tear ran down Lyrra-Sharron’s cheek.  She said nothing.  Silence continued to envelope all within the pavilion.

“Perhaps...perhaps I am a monster, Lyrra-Sharron,” he looked up, and addressed the rest of the Falcon Raiders.  “Perhaps I am not as good a ruler as I could be.  I certainly have been a poor father.  I have come here to try and set things right, for the greater good.  I am asking you to reconsider your actions.  I love this nation, and have shed my own blood time and again to protect these lands.  As I must do once more.  The Medaelians stand ready to invade.  If you continue along this path, in the ensuing chaos, this nation will be destroyed.  Your struggle…will be for nothing.”

Chapter 30

Lyrra-Sharron began to walk away from her father, not towards the flap leading outside, but towards a wall of the pavilion.  The others began to shuffle about, the mood broken.  They looked at one another.  At Cam.  At Varlock-Sharron.  At Lyrra-Sharron.    They looked at their own feet.

She turned, slowly, and looked at the man who had sired her.

“I never...I never saw it that way,” she remarked softly.  She turned back to her father.  “And how do I know that you tell me the truth now?  How do I know you are not lying to me to save the crown for yourself?”

Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms.  “You do not.  But you must ask yourself, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin, which version of these histories is most plausible?  Which story is most true?”

              Lyrra-Sharron placed her hands on her hips once more.  “Does it matter?  What becomes of myself and my Falcon Raiders now that you are here?  In fact, how do I know that outside this pavilion, my people are not already slaughtered by your army?  Mikar!” she ordered.  “Go outside.  Find out if our people are still free.”

Mikar saluted her, and departed swiftly.

“We came alone, Lyrra-Sharron,” stated Cam softly.

“Ah, Cam Murtallan,” Lyrra-Sharron said, her voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm, anger, and disappointment.  “I see I should have listened to Dak.  We should never have freed you.  You will be our undoing.”

Cam tilted his head.  “Truth be told, Lyrra-Sharron, I think you were destined to free me.  This, I believe, is my chance to return the favor.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?” she queried.

“By freeing you from your own anger, and saving you from destroying that which you love the most.”

Mikar returned at that moment.  “Everything is fine.  I ordered our people to be more vigilant, but there is no one but our own out there.”

“So, father, you come to me in the company of a man you had condemned,” Lyrra-Sharron began again.  “You tell me things I have waited most of my life to hear, but to what end?  I never knew...I have not really spoken with you before, my father, never as an adult.  We have never been close.  You did not explain yourself to me.  We have never shared the things most fathers and daughters share.  I believed that which you did was unjust.  I believed you rule unfairly.  I never asked for the truth, I made assumptions based on what I saw, what I perceived.  I truly believed you to be the criminal, the fiend I had painted for myself, and later, for others.  Now…now what am I to believe?”

“You must believe what you know to be true in your heart, my daughter.”

Lyrra-Sharron paced some, before turning to her father again.  “Do you bring any proof?  Have you anything that should lead me to end this, to stand at your side again?”

“I have nothing physical to show, Lyrra-Sharron,” stated Varlock-Sharron earnestly.  “But I may have information that can help you decide.”

“What would that be, father?”

“You have a traitor in your midst,” remarked Varlock-Sharron calmly.

Everyone’s head came around at that, and whispering and muttering began throughout the pavilion.

“A traitor?”

“Indeed,” concurred Varlock-Sharron.  “Someone here has sold out his nation.  Someone among you has been bought by the Medaelians.  One of those, claiming to be yours, in fact bides his time, and will strike when you reach Common, do you and the nation the most harm.”

In the blink of an eye, a knife flashed out, thrown towards the King and the Princess. 

It all seemed in slow motion.  As Cam placed himself between the King and the flying knife, Varlock-Sharron stepped in front of Lyrra-Sharron, placing himself between her and the blade.  But Dak reached up, and the knife imbedded into his left hand. 

A space opened instantly between the attacker and his intended victims.  Baron Tilroan stood, his arm forward, a sheaf at his hip devoid of its blade.

“Too long your family has stood in my way,” he spat angrily.  “Wilnar-Medira offered me all my own lands, and those around me, if I helped him cause a rift to destabilize Sharron.  You Anduins are so arrogant, you have squandered opportunity after opportunity to empower and strengthen Sharron.  You, Princess, so willing to believe the worst about your father…I could not have asked for a more perfect chance to restore my family to its old glory.”

“And so you would stand beside me, before Common, and denounce me to them?” asked Lyrra-Sharron, stepping around her father.

Baron Tilroan only sneered at her.

“Varnon, Delann, restrain him,” ordered Lyrra-Sharron, taking a step to the side of Cam.

As they moved to his sides, Baron Tilroan lashed out, and punched Varnon in the face.  He shoved Delann, and drew another knife from his side.

Tilroan weaved his way towards Lyrra-Sharron, but she ducked down, and as the Baron tripped over her, she came up, her shoulder catching him in the gut.

He stumbled past Lyrra-Sharron, then turned to face her, crouched down.  He threw himself towards her again, but she drew a knife from a scabbard at her side, and dodged sideways, swinging the blade.  Baron Tilroan’s eyes went wide, as his blade dropped, and his hand came up to his throat.  Red ooze seeped between his fingers.

Gasping his last breath, Baron Fornon Val-Cara Tilroan crumpled to the ground.  Lyrra-Sharron stood over him, breathing hard, her knife held tight in her hand, blood dripping off one edge.

Dak dropped to his knees, clutching at his left wrist, the knife still imbedded in his hand.

Cam moved to Dak’s side, as did Torman, Nadav and Neva.  They practically blocked Cam from Dak.

“Don’t touch him, Cam!” cried Torman.

“Let me help him, Torman,” requested Cam.

“You have done enough already,” said Nadav angrily.

“Stop,” gasped Dak.  “Let Cam in.  I...I still trust him.”

They parted, and Cam went to Dak.  His eyes were screwed shut, as he fought back the pain.

“I have to remove the knife first, Dak,” remarked Cam.

Dak simply nodded his head, but gritted his teeth.

“Torman, Nadav, hold him.  Let me remove the knife.”

A look passed between them, and each went to Dak’s side.

“Try and remain still, Dak,” Cam ordered.

He took hold of Dak’s wrist, examined the knife.  It had impacted at an angle, cutting into bone and muscle.  Cam judged the best way to remove the knife, took a deep breath, and took hold of the hilt.

Dak cried out and lurched hard against Torman and Nadav’s grasp.  Cam held up the bloody knife a moment, then dropped it.  He let out the breath, studied the wounded hand.

“Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight,” Cam intoned.  “Heal the wound honorably received, heal this wound so it plagues this man no more.  Close the wound, stop the bleeding, banish the pain, repair this injury by my power - Heal!”

Dak’s hand began to glow, and he cried out again.  Everyone near stared wide-eyed as the bone mended, then the muscle, then the skin.  Soon, Dak’s hand showed not the slightest sign of damage.  The glow faded, and was gone.

Dak flexed his fingers, made a fist, let it go.  He looked up at Cam, the gratitude on his face unmistakable.  “Thank you, Cam Murtallan.”

Cam was at a loss for words.

Varlock-Sharron knelt beside Dak, and offered his hand to the Falcon Raider Second.  “I thank you, Dak Amviir.  I owe you my life.  That was an incredible act of selflessness.  I am in your debt.”

Dak looked taken aback, but took the King’s hand.  “You’re welcome, your Majesty.”

The King stood, and Torman and Nadav helped Dak up.  Everyone in the pavilion still seemed in a state of shock from all that had transpired.

“You would have taken the blade for me,” Lyrra-Sharron almost whispered, looking at her father.  “You put yourself in harms’ way, to protect me.”

“Yes, my daughter,” responded Varlock-Sharron.  “I do not wish to have you killed, but I ordered so to protect our nation from its enemies.  Lyrra-Sharron, if I could take back all the years of pain, all the times I did not tell you what I should have, know that I would.  I could not stand by and let you be harmed, even had it cost me my life.”

*****

She turned to look at the off-white canvas wall of the pavilion.  Never before had her emotions been so conflicted.  “I have always believed you to be this ambitious, self-serving, conniving villain…but I..I have become what I believed
you
to be.  As my ambition grew, my vision clouded further.  My view has become more distorted.  I lusted for the crown, I craved the power.  I saw only what I wanted to see.  I made the distance between us greater.” 

“I allowed you to do so, my daughter,” said The King.  “I did not come to you, made no effort to speak to you.  I kept too great a remoteness from you, for fear of making the same errors I made with your brother.  I am the King.  I need not justify myself to anyone, but that should not have been to the exclusion of my own flesh and blood.  This situation...is not entirely your own making.  I should have been a father to you, as I never was.  I am partially at fault, and I claim my share of the blame.”

His eyes dropped to the ground a moment, before he looked up at her.  His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.  “I am sorry, Lyrra-Sharron.  I never meant to drive you to this.  I should have told you how proud of you I am, how much you mean to me.  How much I love you.  I am sorry.”

Silence, as Lyrra-Sharron looked into her father’s eyes.  She, too, bore unshed tears.  She turned to stare at the pavilion wall again.  She would never have believed such a simple thing could change her outlook completely.  She took a deep breath, and turned back.

“I have needed to hear that a long time now, Father.”

Varlock-Sharron was shaking his head.  “Too long.  I should have told you sooner, I should have shown you my love…before it came to all this.”

“If...if I end this,” Lyrra-Sharron paused, collected her thoughts.  “If I do not march to Mintarn, do not present myself to Common, do not put myself or these people at risk...what is to become of them?  How do we end this?”

The King looked over the faces of the assembled Falcon Raiders.  The leadership of the band that had caused so much havoc over the past couple of years.  He let out a slow, shallow breath.  “They will be free to go home.  I will absolve them of any crimes committed by your orders.  They must, however, swear before me to never again gather as a force such as this, and to live law-abiding lives from here on out.  They believe in you.  I can see that they believe in Sharron as well.  If I do not hold you to account, I cannot hold them to account, either.  They will go free.”

Lyrra-Sharron bowed her head a moment in relief, then noticed the ashen faces of Barons Foltupp and Dovan.  Their eyes were locked on the body of Tilroan.  “What of the Barons, Father?”

He crossed his arms, looking stern.  His voice held its usual conviction once more.  “They must answer to me.  They did not respond to my Invocation of Royal Commission.  Baron Foltupp, Baron Dovan, we will speak further.  You will still have a chance to answer my invocation.  Unless, of course, you shared in Tilroan’s treachery?”

“We...we were completely...
completely
unaware of Tilroans’ deception,” stated Baron Foltupp shakily.

Varlock-Sharron looked towards them both, and crossed his arms.  “I must make my way to the battlefield.  You each have one chance to redeem yourselves.”  Varlock-Sharron went into detail, threatening both men with not only death should they fail him, but also the loss of lands and titles, which would leave their families nothing.  He would take their soldiers under his command.

“Fail me, my lord Barons, and my wrath upon you will never be forgotten for a thousand generations,” he admonished them in conclusion.

“Yes, Sire!  I will not fail you again, my liege!”

“Very well, then.  When I give you leave to depart this place, you will ride like the entire Sharron Army pursues you to the death.”

The each bowed deeply, both ashen-faced.

*****

              Lyrra-Sharron tentatively walked to Varlock-Sharron.  She stopped, only a few feet before him.  She looked up into his eyes.

“Father?” she queried tentatively. 

Varlock-Sharron looked at his daughter.  He slowly raised his arms, held them out to her.

Uncertain, she made no move.  Then, all at once, she fell into his arms, and sobbed.

Tears ran down the face of Varlock-Sharron, tears he had withheld for almost fifteen years.  The tension was well and truly gone.

*****

              Torman looked towards the sorcerer.  “I’m sorry, Cam.  When you brought the King to us...”

Nadav put a hand on Torman’s shoulder.  “I can tell you my heart nearly stopped.”

“Why, Cam?” asked Dak, standing.  “Why did you go to the King?  After all we’ve been through, all he put you through?  He tried to have you killed.  Why would you go to him?”

Cam shook his head.  “The night I left, I regained my power.  All of it.  I saw visions...visions of the future.  I have a destiny I cannot ignore.  That destiny will be ended if Sharron does not remain whole, does not remain stable.  Wilnar-Medira cannot destroy Sharron.  He is an agent of Chaos, and he must be stopped.”