A Solution Through Shadows Chapter XII

An echo caught Oren’s attention, and the man kept his eyes on the room’s entrance when a gaunt man stepped in.

“Watseka told me you worked off that poison quickly,” he said in the silky voice that Oren matched to the aleckso who had caught finally him.

“I would be impressed as my own men weren’t trained to resist the poison … but considering the attention you’ve garnered, I can’t let those impressions influence how you’re dealt with. Then, given who trained you, could be used as an excuse by Commander Richard to reassure Caladh you were just a one-time fluke.”

Oren said nothing, noting the humanoid’s clothing so different from his own. Thicker gray hose and a shorter, loose white tunic bunched up just above his waistline with a black mantle covering his left side to the floor.

“I’m Cyrus,” the aleckso introduced himself as he approached Oren, and sat on the opposite bed. “Enforcing Lord of the King’s Will.”

“Why am I still alive?” Oren asked in a whisper.

“You’ve earned my attention, Oren,” Cyrus said, clasping his hands together as he looked at the human with light tension on his brow. “Or would you prefer, ‘Andubhar’? Very few men I’ve met in my life can outmaneuver soldiers in such a way that diminishes their value as a dependable defense against the threats of Caladh. Given your abnormal adaptation and the training you’ve undergone, I suppose you’ve rightfully earned the Andubhar’s legacy. Even for being dormant six years and learning the herbalist trade in the meanwhile until it was time to strike out again.”

“Earned?” Oren repeated, raising his left hand to the aleckso’s confused expression.

“I didn’t earn this,” Oren said in a tensed tone, letting the limb drop and his head with it to glare at the cuts he made. “I had no one to run to. So I didn’t ‘exist’ for ten years because I was slavin’ for the perfection of the Andubhar’s legacy … endurin’ the pain so that his ideal could become a reality. I was supposed to become the master by the thieves’ tradition of succession when the old one dies. To train an apprentice born with no name, and continue on this legacy.”

“A rigorous time.” Cyrus waved Oren back up, undeterred by what the human had said. “And I’m sure you got your revenge. Just as you’ve undermined the Vanguard, you did the same to the thieves. Destroyed centuries of their tradition as you hold all of the secrets and the andubhar now faces execution. The ackans will curse you until the end of time, forced to return to hard, honest work just to survive. For now, anyway. I don’t believe anything truly stays dead.”

Oren furrowed his brow. “You think I care about them? They were cursin’ me when I lived with them when I abandoned their life. And I’m sure they’re cursin’ me now under the idea I killed their kin.”

“You didn’t?” Cyrus asked, but Oren didn’t hear doubt in his voice.

“No,” Oren stressed, clenching his fists. “I stole the sword from Lord Rey; I’ll admit to that. But to murder another … in such a way the commander described isn’t true. It was the contact … a rogue named Kentigern, who killed Geob.”

Cyrus let a sigh loose, averting his gaze.

“Sounds like Kentigern,” Cyrus said, looking up to the ceiling and muttered a quick prayer to Ban Dia. “Explains why the sword was stolen from Rey’s possession, and the clean cut of the decapitated head to Geob’s body.”

Oren sighed in relief. “Do you believe me?”

“I do,” Cyrus admitted. “Kentigern would try to cover himself up, without leaving such a bloody mess, I’m sure. But if he was deceived, or cornered, he needed to act. So he killed Geob, then left the evidence needed for you to be framed for murder.”

Oren pursed his lips, bowing his head. “That's all I wanted to say. Why I evaded capture. Now that someone knows, though, I’ll accept my fate.”

Cyrus didn’t say anything, and Oren kept his head bowed, waiting for any indication or word the aleckso would execute him. But the silence lengthened, and Oren grew uncomfortable in the way the humanoid before him did nothing.

“So willing to accept death,” Cyrus said, prompting Oren to raise his head up to the aleckso giving him a twisted smile. “There aren’t many like you, especially since your sins will not take you to Ban Dia in her blessed realm.”

“What I did was wrong. And I didn’t want to turn back to thievin’, only forced my hand to save the one who deserved to live,” Oren said, glancing down to his left hand and thought of Jaye. Hoping Sylvan managed to get the herbs to her in light of his accusations. “The last six years, I tried ignorin’ what I did. Focused on livin’ an honest life with a family I’d longed for in the years I served the thieves. But no matter where I looked, the scars on my hand kept remindin’ me. And then—”

Oren’s throat clogged, and he cleared it, closing his tear-filled eyes in the thought of Wilfred dismissing him as a no-named man.

“I don’t have a place I can call home now. And deep down, I never called it such. I don’t think I had a life livin’ with them. Despite everythin’ they’d done for me. No matter how much I tried to cherish it, I didn’t feel like I belonged there. Not for what I’ve done.

“I was corrupted in the wrong doin’s. I chose to obey what I was told, the only choice I could make in the hope of a better life. But I didn’t realize there’d be no direction for happiness I could’ve taken even if I did change my name, my looks. Knowin’ what I’d done, bothers me. Dyin’ to save another … it’s the only choice I made that I don’t regret. Even if my fragile relationships were torn in the process.”

Oren let the weight of his words collapse, and he broke down, covering his face with his hands as he sobbed. Cyrus said nothing as Oren relived the years of his life in a hazy view.

“If I gave you a choice to redeem yourself and find meaning to your life, would you accept it?”

The question forced Oren to collect himself, wiping at his face he met Cyrus’s eyes giving off an edge.

“I’d be willing to give you an opportunity,” Cyrus started, hands tangled to rest on his knees. “A chance the king nor the commander would care to offer, given what has been born from similar notions of redemption in Caladh’s history. But of the Rogues it’s spawned, I believe you won’t become one of them.”

Oren straightened his back as did Cyrus, who crossed his arms and took a breath.

“The Rogues were born of criminals we turned to Air Fhagail, to die by the jaws of the bheistean. They wish to destroy Caladh for what we have done to their predecessors, for committing what they deemed petty crimes. At the time, it was the means of scaring the populace into obeying our laws, but many of the criminals overcame the trials that came with Air Fhagail. There have been efforts to reduce numbers in the past, predominately by a collaboration between the Journey-Men, who would spot small groups and the Vanguard who would execute roaming parties. But after a particular incident made by a bad call and then Kentigern’s departure, King Cenheald disbanded the Journey-Men for their failings and impact on Caladh’s morale. Without a force opposing them for sixteen years and with specific individuals like Kentigern among their ranks, they will destroy Caladh in five years at most.

“It can be stopped, especially with Kentigern so close. With your skills, myself, and several others, we can kill Kentigern and stall the Rogues’ plans for some time until we further scout out Air Fhagail and find the Rogues’ camps, exterminating them over time before they launch an invasion. You can be instrumental in bringing down the biggest thorn to Caladh’s side, and live to tell your tale of redemption.”

Oren allowed the aleckso’s words to sink, his sorrow turning into a glare at the man.

“You’re willin’ to do this for me,” the human’s voice tensed. “But what would I be sworn to?”

“Anonymity,” Cyrus admitted. “No doubt, your face will be recognizable to some, so that must be hidden behind a mask. And I can’t use your name either. Caladh would grow untrustworthy of the enforcing lord and the king for allowing you to continue living. But after a few years, this would give you a slate fresh from the earth, unblemished to live life as you want.”

Oren grimaced in the thought of needing to mask himself from Caladh. “What would happen when I’ve earned my redemption, and I no longer need to wear a mask?”

“Up to you.” Cyrus shrugged. “By then, you’ll have no association with me. You can go back to using your old name. I’m sure people won’t remember who you are when you pull the mask away.”

Cyrus’s proposition hung in the air, and Oren looked down at his hands.

“This sounds too much like servitude,” Oren said in a whisper. “And after what the Andubhar and the thieves did to me—”

“It’d be hard to go back to a life that could very well repeat itself,” Cyrus finished with a sigh, leaning back into the bed, aloof. “I get it, and I’ll not lie to you; this will be harder than being the apprentice of the Andubhar. You’ll need to serve as my soldier. Ready to take orders, but also act on what is expected of you without me shouting orders over your shoulder every waking moment. Such an opportunity is a luxury no criminal will ever earn. But you have value many others fancy themselves with. I believe you won’t turn on us, no matter how terrible a situation becomes. You’ll not be a slave to me. Just an in-debted partner working to become a better man at last.”

Oren eyes Cyrus, the aleckso’s brow loose and a small smirk graced his thin face. Thinking of Cyrus’s words resonated within his chest, and Jaye’s words about being a better man.

“I’ll do it,” Oren said.

Cyrus smiled, tossing a cowl and hood to Oren.

“Then, we have work to do. And that starts with convincing the king of my plan. Cover your mouth, and we’ll be off to the king,” Cyrus instructed, getting up from the bed and moving for the hallway.

Oren followed him as he got the cowl over his nose. He watched the aleckso’s back, relaxed in his venture through the halls. They passed strolling Vanguard who looked upon Oren with confusion but did not say a word when they glanced at Cyrus before continuing without a word.

The hallway opened to a large, square room where Vanguard stood around in conversation or guarding the small wooden door. Oren presumed the door led back to Caladh. He turned his head where he saw a set of large wooden doors loom over everyone else. Cyrus stepped up to those doors and motioned a gesture at the gate to the guard.

With a curt nod, the Vanguard called over the others, and they disappeared into an adjacent room.

“Makes it impossible to get past the wall without a team,” Cyrus turned to Oren, with a muttered tone. “It’s the only entrance and exit to get past the wall.

With a thundering clang, the door raised open, and Oren watched the opening as it widened from the bottom to the sight of the green world beyond the tower.

Oren struggled to breathe as he studied the quiet atmosphere of the forested area Cyrus led him though. Other aleckso meandered through without paying attention to Oren, stepping into their wooden houses similar to the ones in the Farming District, but better maintained.

“You live here?” Oren whispered in the calm ambiance.

“Years ago,” Cyrus said, turning back with a look of amusement. “This is Suathadh Speur, the realm of the aleckso and, farther up, the mair-ee. It’s where we live and train, waiting for the day the walls are breached, to fight whatever dares attack. Some of us don’t care to stay behind these walls waiting, so those few serve as the King’s Will, enforcers of his rule.”

“But, I thought the Vanguard enforce the law,” Oren said as Cyrus continued to lead.

“They do,” Cyrus said, stopping by a large, wooden rectangular building. “However, some circumstances are beyond their control and need a finer touch. Like what you did.”

Oren bowed his head, as Cyrus exhaled a heavy breath. “Now, be careful with the King. Don’t speak unless spoken to. I will now regard you as ‘Alohn’ before King Cenheald, in Caladh, and anywhere else we go. Your time as ‘Oren’ ends tonight.”