Frustrated with living in the shadow of a long-dead hero, Derek flees to infamous ruins and begs his ancestors for a sign. The next day, he is summoned to serve as the personal guard of his family's greatest enemy. The ensuing journey leads him through storied places, the depths of loneliness, and a growing dread over what awaits at his destination.
A reserved and bookish princess unexpectedly finds herself on the throne yet under suspicion. Chandra hardly has time to prepare or to grieve before facing her duties. Aided by a trustworthy few, she must identify and defeat the culprits before the next plot comes to fruition—one in which Derek is unwittingly key.
Derek felt the beast beneath him which galloped tirelessly.
A sacred gust whipped past the horse’s mane and through Derek’s hair; it whistled past his ears. He welcomed the briskness of it against his cheeks. He let himself be so thoroughly consumed by the rush he felt, one which allowed neither time nor space to question where he must so urgently go or why.
Is this how an ancestor felt in a fateful time? Could Derek let himself imagine, even for a moment, that this experience brought him closer to Lenn, someone he could never meet nor forget?
Yes, he could. His imagination bore him ever onward with exhilarating speed just like the horse he urged up the path. The next moment might rob him of joy, but he could feel this now.
He pictured distant figures giving chase, who did so more from duty than any immediate hope of catching him. He had chosen Gale for this ride, a horse with no equal among any he knew.
He suspected that if they knew where he was going, they would give up for the night. If it was not yet clear to them, he expected it should be soon.
I mustn’t slow; they merely wish me to think they’ve given up…
He urged the horse on, not daring to peek over his shoulder. That would reveal little, anyway, once this path curved around a slight hill. The rhythmic pounding of his mount’s hoofs filled his ears.
I’m alone.
The feeling dwindled; he eased up on Gale.
Who do I think I am, that anyone would believe I’m worth chasing?
It was not as if he had stolen the horse. Gale cost a fair deal to borrow, and the stablemaster would want him back in due course.
Would my worried mother beg someone to fetch me home?
The journey brought him amidst what remained of the abandoned capital, on a gravel road that had first been scavenged from the ruined architecture next to it. The place was crowned by a crumbling shell of a keep at the top of a hill. It was just as well that he slowed down to appreciate such sights, and to check such a road for pitfalls.
Well, the law might not care as much if father begged them.
Mirth crept across his face at the thought. The expression was ill-suited for this place, though no other might be there to judge him. The derelict city at dusk revealed an old power long fallen. The wind whistling through the remnants of buildings resonated with all the bitterness and inhumanity and injustice surrounding that fall.
He intended to stay the night among these ruins. Folklore held that he did so at his own peril. His people worried about ghosts because they so valued their history. Both their greatest pride and their greatest agony lay in this place. It was a small leap to suppose that what haunted the minds of a culture could manifest physically.
His mirth vanished out of a far less supernatural concern, and he slowed Gale to a stop. He waited for the wind to subside before judging whether he could believe his ears.
Yes, indeed. Up the road a bit, around that bend. Not birds, nor just the wind.
He scowled. Not for the blink of an eye did he believe those were ghosts, nor was he frightened of what he believed they were.
He quietly dismounted and found a secluded place to tether Gale, too furious to consider the risk he was taking or whether they might have heard his distant gallop over the wind.
Though his anger had yet to cool in such a short time, Derek had the presence of mind to observe them at a distance before he acted. He counted three people.
There’s the donkey which carries their loot. I suspect they haven’t been at this long. Two of them are rather young—or easily pushed around.
While they might not be experts, even Derek could admit the cleverness of taking refuge where no one would wish to look.
Clever, but unwise. And they are just superstitious enough to camp near the road, not particularly deep into the ruins.
Derek crept back around them at a distance and returned to the open road just prior to their encampment, empty-handed as he hoped to appear unassuming. While he approached the three, he heard the leader scoff at the others.
“And neither of you thought to grab some bread. Would have been worth more than what you did manage to get…”
“Hey!” Derek called and briefly waved.
The three cast him a startled glance, then looked at each other. Their leader could not help but look like his day might be made as his gaze returned to Derek.
“Are you from close by?” Derek wondered if he sounded too facile, but continued: “I’m not sure anyone is supposed to camp in these parts.”
“And what brings you here, then, so close to dark?” asked the leader.
Derek halted roughly a stone’s throw away and shrugged as he replied: “I’m just passing through. I’ve no intention of staying; good place to catch a curse.”
The leader paused, most likely evaluating the speaker rather than his statement. Derek perceived himself as comparable to many working men of that land: on the lean side, and not particularly tall or imposing. He had been through a fighter’s customary training, but neither the law nor the army had accepted him.
For once, being refused such work was a benefit: no uniform or special insignia on his riding cloak. If he had looked like trouble, there would have been no conversation.
And yet, I would have much better things to do than be here…
“Well, I’m from close enough by to know you wouldn’t get far past here before dusk. Not on foot, anyway,” said the leader, who stepped forth with open arms and great confidence.
He continued: “You may as well camp with us. Safety in numbers and all that. But you never did give your name…?”
In the Free Plains, as in its predecessor kingdom, the nearest approximation of a handshake involved two people standing square and lightly clutching each other’s forearms just shy of the elbow. It was a rather warm greeting, though less intimate than a hug. In this case, Derek expected it was a trap.
As the man drew near, Derek took a high step with his right foot and stomped at the side of the man’s knee.
More was required, for the man did not immediately fall. The space between them rather close for a good punch, Derek put up an elbow and lurched forth, catching his quarry along the jawline.
Then Derek backed away from the falling figure and swiftly brought his gloved hands up for defense, expecting the others to jump in.
They did not. He observed them trembling in place, their tense shoulders practically by their ears.
“Y-you madman,” one managed to stammer out. “I think you’ve killed him!”
Derek cautiously eased down his guard. He took a courtesy step back and gestured at the prone man. His elbow smarted a bit.
Ignore that feeling. If they realize you’re in pain, they might take advantage.
“No.” Derek cast his victim the quickest glance before his eyes returned to them. “But I certainly hurt him. And you had better get him help, if he matters to you. I’ll let you go without a word to the law, but don’t you ever sully this place with your presence again.”
The rogue balked at that. “Help from where? How far do you expect us to carry him?”
Derek smirked, hiding his concern. For what little thought he had given this plan or its aftermath, he did not wish the man dead.
“Well, one of you takes him by the legs—never mind, use the donkey. Dump your loot and tie him securely on. Take the road in the direction from which you saw me arrive.”
They briefly glared at him, but apparently they had no better idea. Derek casually turned to walk back to Gale but cast one more glance over his shoulder in case they tried something.
As he glanced, the quiet one finally found the nerve to call out: “Yeah, you walk away. Who do you think you are? Acting like you own this place…”
Derek hesitated at the very question he had earlier asked himself. Then he turned toward them again with a scowl, at which they flinched.
“I’m Derek Wancyek.”
They broke off first, needing to help their friend. Satisfied, he turned and headed back down the road to Gale in the waning light. He gave his tingling arm a quick shake.
The ruined keep that crowned this place was his family’s ancestral home. He might not own it, but nobody else had the heart to claim it.
Having once again tethered Gale in the safest place he could find, Derek unfastened from the saddle his travel bag of leather and canvas. Bundled within was a woolen blanket and a small drawstring pouch of salt-cured meat. He strapped the bag on to his back and approached the keep.
The entrance was gaping; he saw no sign of the great doors which must once have covered it.
Fortunately, just enough of the day’s dwindling light leaked into the castle’s lower levels. Where his path was unlit, he would feel around with a hand or foot as appropriate. Much of the main hall lay in shadow, so his route hugged the wall at first. He expected that the parts of the stairs closest to the walls were most likely to remain intact.
He found a wide set of stairs leading to the upper floor and its corridors. Once he had carefully ascended, he checked some of these corridors, only to backtrack after noting where they had collapsed. Eventually, he settled for the highest space in the building that remained accessible.
Like all else he had seen, this was another empty chamber of exposed stone with a window forever open. He guessed that anything valuable in this room which had not burned had been taken just as long ago. The room did, however, seem dry and without infestation.
He unpacked his woolen blanket. Soon after laying upon it, he considered the experiences of that day.
If you really thought your name meant anything to them, you would have given it first. You knew it wouldn’t. Trembling pushovers feared what you could do to them.
He sat up and looked to the window. The night stared back. His surname had become little more than a curiosity to most. When people of this land wished to remember Duke Lenn, it was precisely by that title and first name.
But of all the places in the world, here that name should mean something. This was our home.
In Derek’s youth, his father had regaled him with tales of their family’s lost glory, as had been passed from his father before him. It seemed deeper and more esoteric than what one learned in schooling. He might never otherwise have learned that Lenn kept any kind of diary, whether it still existed; one where Lenn claimed that in times of need, the wind-borne spirits of his parents gave advice. It was common to believe that one’s ancestors persisted in such natural forces.
Derek wished so hard to believe that, yet his prayers had always been met with silence.
He laid back down and heaved a sigh. His elbow still smarted from where he knocked out a thief, for which he could expect no recompense. He was no lawman; merely a jobber.
Have I murdered someone? What should I do?
“Is this not my time of need?” he whispered to the empty room.
A family which once held claim to a throne had been reduced to a woodcutter living with injury, his wife, and his son, each scraping together what they could to maintain a living. Derek had fled the disappointment he felt burning with every glance even when his father refrained from speaking it. The same father who raised him to believe that his family name meant he should do great things, who despite sharing it merely survived from day to day.
The fastest horse could never outpace what Derek hoped to flee.
“I’m here, Lenn. We’re still here,” he whimpered softly, “what’s left of you. We can hardly stand each other, but we struggle on, just hoping. Please…”
There was no advice for him, nor so much as a gust through the gaping window. He uttered soft and bitter sobs until tiredness overcame him.