A Solution Through Shadows Chapter XIII

Oren and Cyrus stepped into the large wooden building, quiet and dark, with only the crackling fire filling the ambiance and the darkness with little light. Cyrus led the way a little further, as Oren darted his eyes around for any sign of the aleckso.

“For how protected Caladh is, I’d have thought the King would be surrounded by guards,” Oren remarked as the two stopped before a plain door.

“There is no fear of an assassin to come through and murder the King,” Cyrus whispered, bringing his hand close to the door. “Besides, if they managed to get through to the King, they’ll regret it. The King is … thirsty, to say the least.”

Oren perked his brow, but Cyrus knocked on the door before he could ask.

“Your Majesty,” Cyrus called, making Oren’s gut drop. “I seek an audience with you.”

Silence followed the aleckso’s request, before a knock on the other side relaxed Cyrus, and he entered the room.

Transfixed, Oren looked past Cyrus to a raised pedestal of several figures in high-backed chairs. Cyrus turned back to him and waved him in before facing the King.

“Lord Cyrus,” a man’s voice drew out Cyrus’s name and made Oren’s back shiver. “It has been some time.”

“Indeed,” Cyrus went down on his knee, bowing his head before standing again.

“I do not suppose you have grown weary of your company in Caladh? To come back for a break.”

“There is much to watch in Caladh, Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, turning back to Oren, who had remained in his place and sighed, waving him in again. “Matters, I do not trust another aleckso with, lest we spark conflict with the humanoids.”

“A shame,” the King said in a monotonous tone, humming as Oren stepped close to Cyrus, keeping his eyes to the ground. “I have missed seeing you in these long periods. Your siblings … well, grow restless of waiting for you to return.”

“If I could find it in myself to trust them as family, I would,” Cyrus said, crossing his arms behind his back. “But these matters are mine to address, to ensure the mountain does not crumble to our mistakes.”

“Are you referring to your old friend with the Journey-Men?” A new voice joined the conversation, just as slick as the other two aleckso, if more youthful than Cyrus. “I would be more worried about the heroide the Rogues have in their ranks, given her relationship with Fionnlagh.”

“Being bonded in life to the greatest warrior does not make them great by association,” Cyrus said, waving his hand. “By training, Kentigern was the third generation through Fionnlagh’s tutelage. Kalida only adopted her partner’s more favorable tactics than marry the practice entirely.”

“Is this why you have sought my audience, son?” The King said, pursing Oren’s lips in the thought of the connection the two men shared. “To beg my allowance for your revenge, on a man who may no longer live, or is far from our sights.”

“I have evidence to suggest the contrary,” Cyrus said. “And a plan that will enable Caladh to wipe out the Rogues for good.”

“The same one?” The younger aleckso asked.

“What is your evidence,” the King relented.

Oren glanced at Cyrus, who stepped forward a little to give a look to each of the people present.

“Earlier today, Lord Rey reported a sword stolen from his office, and later an ackan was reported murdered by the Andubhar. After a declaration had been made, the Andubhar had been spotted and evaded capture. The King’s Will captured the Andubhar, after several attempts throughout the day by the Vanguard. Including an elaborate plan by Captain Beornraed, and the efforts of Lieutenant Cinead. The Andubhar refused capture unless his voice would be acknowledged. I interrogated him, who admitted to the theft, but not the murder.

“With my own experience with that particular sword, the one you might recall having certain properties, it was Kentigern who found the sword on one of our explorations and gifted it to the Lord. Lord Rey was quite fond of Kentigern after that and invited him over to share a meal together whenever there was no work to be done.”

“Then Kentigern was the only who knew where the sword would be,” the King finished. “Managed to sneak into Caladh, place the job, and inform the thief of where to go. But what makes you think Kentigern performed the murder, and no other?”

“Clean decapitation to the head of the victim,” Cyrus answered. “A bag the Andubhar left behind contained the means to infiltrate Lord Rey’s manor; hooks, rope, black clothes and a knife too short to pull off such a maneuver.”

No one said anything, allowing Cyrus’s words to hang on the air and Oren to glance up to the man beside him, head held high to the King.

“So, you brought the thief along with you?” The younger aleckso asked. “Though I doubt it is for the King’s pleasure of execution.”

“No,” Cyrus placed a hand on Oren’s shoulder, tensing the human. “Given his conduct with the Vanguard, I thought it would be a waste of talent to kill the man off. I listened to his words, which failed to relay a sense of commitment to the people he was once bound. An uncommon attitude among the thieves lifestyle, ackan or not.”

“Easily swayed, you are,” the King said in a low tone. “By the sad tales of criminals wanting to prolong their lives. With each year passed since I dissolved the Journey-Men, I questioned your curiosity for giving them a notion of redemption. Why? Will they earn it?”

“Redemption is a hard road to travel, I do not make it easy for them; especially since they must meet the standard of the King’s Will of old. But these offenders make an effort to stand from the norm and push a desire to be heard. If anyone is willing to admit themselves acting unjustly, then why not give them a chance to prove themselves? If they are wrong, a liar is worse than a thief by the eyes of Ban Dia, and are worth executing for that alone.”

Oren stood still, listening to the grumbling of the audience before them.

“Raise your head, child,” the King’s voice called out, and Oren, with hesitance, obeyed the instruction.

Four aleckso sat, two men, two women. All with the pale complexion, black hair, and sharp features shared with Cyrus. Clothed the heaviest of them, Oren presumed to be the King slouched in his chair, right elbow on the armrest, and his hand twirling a thin sword straight-up from the ground. A pointed, black goatee twitched with his creased eyes a little.

He averted his gaze to the King’s left; to a woman whose visage matched the King’s, in a dull gray dress, regarding him through an upturned nose.

On the King’s right, was the young aleckso male, back straightened with the chair in similar attire to Cyrus, leaning on his chin, mouth obscured by the cusp of his hand. To his right, a girl just younger than the brother, disinterested of the proceedings, dressed in the simple fashion of the older woman.

“I forget the incident with the Andubhar was six years ago,” the King remarked, dragging Oren’s attention back to him. “Time passes in swift measures when attending to the matters of a stronghold. I did not think the Andubhar would have been an issue after the fact.”

“The Andubhar will ‘die,’” Cyrus continued. “He will be declared executed to the public for his crimes of theft and murder, to deter attention from the new face. Under a mask, of course, ‘Alohn’ will assist me as a Journey-Man, given Kentigern should still be close to Caladh.”

“You named the human after him?” The King whispered, and Oren stepped back from the tension thicken suddenly between himself and the monarch as the four pairs of eyes fell onto him.

“Do you mock our heritage, Cyrus? Giving our ancestor’s name to a human?”

“I changed the spelling,” Cyrus reassured, but Oren doubted the lighter tone was meant for that.

The young aleckso male dropped his hand to reveal a scowl, pulling a sword from the side of his chair before the King motioned him down. Oren watched the bitter exchange between the throned males before the King turned back to Cyrus.

“You wish to revive the Journey-Men,” the King growled in a trembling voice. “After their failures, it is too soon to bring them back. It would be best to wait some time before—”

“It will be under the guise of searching ruins, where we left off sixteen years ago. Cyrus pressed, shocking Oren by the dismissive tone he carried, even before the King. “Then, to sell the act by returning with artifacts as we once did. I already—”

“Deceit is a lie, Cyrus,” the younger aleckso interrupted, picking his hand back over his face. “Those words betray your devotion to Ban Dia.”

“And yet, I cannot not allow the Rogues to keep us holed up in Caladh as they build their forces to enough a degree that allows them to destroy us.” Cyrus argued. “Not when there is something we can do.”

“Your time with the humanoids has withered your senses,” the King started, rubbing at his temple. “If Caladh cannot persevere above the threat posing danger to their lives, then it would be best to let them perish. Allow us time and energy to end the worn enemy.”

“That’s not right!” Oren shot out at King Cenheald, whose eyes widened upon him. “The people of Caladh depend on you for protection. And you’re willin’ to let them die as scapegoats? What kind of bastard takes responsibility for the people, and shuffles it off like a costume once he’s played his part?”

His words echoed in the chamber, and the attention left Oren vulnerable before the family of aleckso. He flushed, opening his mouth to apologize as the King snapped his fingers.

A flurry of motion obscured Oren’s vision on his left, pushed to the ground with a firm hand and grimaced from the sudden impact, struggling for clarity, but caught sight of Cyrus’s body, doubled in size, catch a sword arm with an outstretched hand before widening his stance, and hurled the figure to the other side of the room, through the wooden wall letting in the night and the cries of confusion.

Oren retraced the path of the figure back to the empty throne on the King’s left, shaking as he got up.

“Eager though brother may be to fight, it would seem I am not the only one to have withered in your realm, Father. Have the aleckso not grown lax in your stagnant reign as king?” Cyrus asked, earning the hiss of the woman on the King’s left.

“Choose your next words carefully, Cyrus,” the King grumbled, gripping onto the pommel of his sword and glared to the girl on his right. “Seeing as your sister remains still, it will be my wrath you face next.”

Oren looked to her as well but found she had her eyes on him in turn. Taut lips forming a straight line across her simple face. He averted his gaze and stared down at his hands.

“I have chosen them,” Cyrus said in a leveled tone, his body thinning down as he talked, confusing Oren. “I’ve chosen them after sixteen years of stunted development. I see it, as I’m sure Wren does. And I wouldn’t put it past the people of Caladh as well, given Alohn’s mockery of the Vanguard. But the people have no need to change, as the Rogues do to survive the changing environment. It will be their downfall without inspiration to act against the threat. But if I gave them the inspiration to be provoked; sow the seeds of doubt in the whisperings of a human outpacing the aleckso, then you’ll face rebellion, and won’t be prepared for such treason.”

“Kentigern won’t defeat us,” the Queen rolled her eyes towards the left and kept her gaze there. “There are many of us.”

“I’m not referring to Kentigern,” Cyrus corrected, a twist of amusement in his voice, against a distant crunch of wood. “I’m talking about Alohn.”

“He will not—”

Oren knocked Cyrus down and jumped over the aleckso. Where he stood, the youngest son swung his thin blade across the wood planks without resistance.

Touching the floor, Oren rolled backward as the Prince swung where his chest was, in speed Oren thought impossible. He recovered as the Prince did, and dove to the side as the blade sank straight down.

Oren got up and bent his knees as the Prince pulled the sword up with ease, pointing the tip at him.

“I’d stop now, brother, before you make a fool out of Father,” Cyrus said, drawing the two combatants’ attention to him twice his mass again with his sword drawn. “Alohn’s made enough embarrassment out of Caladh today, you and Father would be adding to it if we continued into the night. Might be interesting gossip to spread, though.”

The King rose from his chair, and his sword poised for Cyrus intimidating Oren by the stiff posture of the King despite Cyrus’s insults. “You would seek to make a mockery out of me? Destroy the power we have worked hard to maintain since Caladh was born?”

“I’m not betraying my legacy, as much as you are,” Cyrus turned back to Cenheald, undeterred by the King’s anger. “If I allow you to continue this course, then history will remember this day. The day the King ignored the clearest of signs of his reign starting to fall to the ‘inferior’ humanoids. To be recognized as the incompetent monarch, rather than the one who quelled a terrible threat in a time survival is imperative.”

The four aleckso looked away from each other in unease before Cyrus shook his head.

“It’s not treason I seek, Father, but the life I saw in Ban Dia’s gifted dreams. Life without walls, bheistean, and Rogues. One of those I can destroy, and I did not wish to provoke your wrath just to accomplish my fanciful vision. I’m doing this for our family. For our kind, to continue our duties to Ban Dia; for Caladh, who will serve Ban Dia; and for whom I wish to continue our legacy for.”

Oren watched the King stare down at Cyrus in huffs of breath, before relaxing into his seat, his family watching the old aleckso staring down at Cyrus, before sighing.

“I allow you to do this, are you sure you can accomplish this task?”

The Queen and the younger son looked back to him in shock.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, his body thinning down again as Oren eased his knees.

“You will allow his actions to take fruit?” The young aleckso whispered, glaring at Oren. “We are better off preparing for the day the Rogues meet us than entrust it to fools who cannot stop one thief.”

“If one part fails in their service to the other, no matter how prepared the other is, everyone will fall,” Cyrus warned. “The Rogues will destroy the people, defeat the aleckso, and slaughter the mair-ee. He will give the Rogues the means to do so, and once they have them, nothing will be able to stop their rampage.”

“Cyrus may be right, I’m afraid,” the King muttered. His youngest son turned back to him with a tightened grip on his sword. “Caladh’s body functions, but her bones are weak. We must address its failings. So long as Cyrus’s operations are financed by someone else, and tends to his former responsibilities, we may end the Rogues and rebirth the Journey-Men to Mazon’s work.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, bowing his head. “But, I will need some help if these matters go on longer than I anticipated.”

“I will send word, but it may be some time before you receive it.” the King turned his gaze back to Oren, studying him in silence as Oren averted his own. “For now, if you can, hunt Kentigern before he disappears into the depths of Air Fhagail once more. When you run into Commander Richard, tell him the Vanguard will need to meet my standards, once I have written them up.”

Cyrus bowed his head. “By your graces, and of Ban Dia, I will make it so.” He turned on the spot and motioned Oren with him out the door.

“Bold of you to make such a claim about me,” Oren growled as they stepped out into the night. “Your brother … I’ve never seen anyone move as fast before. And what happened to your body?”

“Bold as I was, you were too in speaking against the King’s doing.” Cyrus led the two down the dirt path towards the silhouetted tower. “Regardless, Alohn, you’ve passed the test.”

Oren cocked his brow. “What test?”

“Outpacing an aleckso,” Cyrus looked back, grinning at Oren.

“Worse things that my dear father live in Air Fhagail, that will give us a hard time in the future, but tonight you’ve proven yourself capable for whatever may come our way. You’ll be a damn good Journey-Man … if you stay alive long enough.”