Kilin’s Celebration

The King’s Mead was a Guard pub, as much as any pub would declare itself open only to one genre of patron. It was usually filled by palace guardsmen and Guards stationed in the capital and was frequented mostly by officers. Guard discipline didn’t forbid the mingling of officers and regulars while off-duty, but the majority of Guards found it simpler to relax without the boundaries of rank at the forefront of their minds. The pub was perhaps a mile from the palace proper, well within the inner wall of Rylar’s double fortifications, sandwiched between a brewery and a tailor’s shop that specialized in Guard uniforms.

The main room was dominated by a polished oak bar, dark from years of wax and spills, that blocked off the entrance to the kitchen behind it. The other half of the room was filled by tables and benches, and there was a fireplace along the wall consuming a stack of logs. The early spring nights were cool enough that the fire was welcome.

When Allen arrived early, he recognized several of the patrons but none of them were the ones he’d planned on meeting. He circulated through the tables and checked the booths in the corners, but his first impression had been correct. Kilin was not there yet.

He could have joined one of the tables of Guards and caught up on gossip about the world and the Guards’ travels. The Guard was always full of tales of patrols and distant lands. But with a trace of regret, he settled on an empty table near the bar and signaled the bartender. He would stake out the table here and wait for Kilin and the three lieutenants to arrive. The pub would fill quickly and he preferred to have a table to themselves. Plus Kilin might bring more people.

He adjusted his falchion to hang comfortably by his side as he sat down. Outside of the palace, the Guard was expected to wear weapons and be at hand to aid the city watch at need, but it was rare that it was necessary. Rylar was fairly quiet, as far as large cities went. Some of the cities along the Aela river would have benefited if they’d been even half as peaceful as the capital.

The barmaid arrived a minute later. She was a year or two older than Allen, with long, curly brown hair and blue eyes. “Evening, lieutenant,” she said, without even a flick of her eyes towards the insignia at his collar. “What’ll it be tonight?”

Allen knew she recognized him, but other than her professional friendliness she had always been a bit distant, which was typical of the relation between the Guard and everyone else. People tended to be polite but nervous around them. It was part of being called, “The King’s Right Hand.” The Guard officers had extensive authority to investigate crime and to carry out the will of the King as they saw fit, without need for outside courts. Their training included an extensive knowledge of the King’s Law and how best to carry it out. Stipulations to their authority were embedded in the Guards’ oaths to their king, and they had to act within the laws themselves, but only the nobles were exempt from the Guard’s authority. Cases involving nobles were always judged by the King himself. The Guard’s broad authority was balanced by execution being the main punishment for a Guard officer who rebelled in any way against his King or who was found guilty of abusing his position.

It was a part of the charm of the pub that the staff knew the Guard ranks, which was a far sight better than most of the inns in town. Half the time the innkeeps called every officer they saw “Captain,” and it wasn’t worth the effort it took to explain the difference to them.

“Good evening, Mara,” Allen replied. “The house mead.” He’d acquired a taste for mead since he’d arrived and he preferred it to ale or wine. The other Guards praised the qualities of beer, but to him it tasted as if it had been brewed through a pair of old socks. The available drinks in the North were usually ale, small beer, cider, and mead. Wine was available, but it was a southern drink and he avoided so he wouldn’t look out of place. The nobles in the north drank it, but it was thought effete by most of the soldiers, and it carried the stigma of being a product of their traditional enemy. He’d tried it a few times on the Dhara and he could say that, unlike beer, wine was at least drinkable.

“Coming right up. Harilon has a pretty good new batch this month. He mixed it up with raspberries.” She returned a moment later, and set the wooden mug on the table in front of him. He waved away the change she held out to him, and she gave him a quick smile before she was off to another table.

Before long, Jeuri arrived with Yeren and Tereil in tow. He caught her eye and waved the three of them over. Like Allen, they’d all changed into clean uniforms and were wearing their blades.

“Kilin should be here soon,” he said. “I’m not sure what he’s been doing today. Captain Ferril is over there by the way, on the left.” Allen nodded toward the bar where the Tactics instructor was sitting. He was sitting around the curve of the bar, and Allen had only noticed him after he’d sat down and looked around the room again. Ferril wasn’t visible from the door.

“Oh, great.” Jeuri glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Time to hide.” That got a round of quiet laughter. When Mara came back, the three lieutenants ordered the beer and Allen hid a wince. Maybe you had to be born here to have a taste for the stuff.

“If Ferril comes over here, we should hide under the table, or, hey, ask him a question first before he can remember us,” Yeren suggested. The third lieutenant was short and muscular, with close-cropped blond hair. He was the quietest of the group, but he sometimes burst out with vigorous statements that belied his usual behavior.

Beyond their small group, the atmosphere in the bar was fairly quiet. It was Alyssa, the first day of the week and first day of spring both. The room was about half-full of Guards sitting in clusters, talking and drinking. Most of them were young and probably in their first assignment to Rylar or recently returned from their first patrol, like Allen, but here and there an older face stood out, sometimes telling a story to an attentive audience.

But despite the relative peace of the bar compared to the training that afternoon, Allen began to feel an edge to the air in the room as they waited. His skin was prickling, and he was aware of his blood rushing and throbbing in his temples. He shook his head trying to get rid of the sensation, but it wouldn’t go away. It was making it difficult to focus on the conversation around him.

He felt a bit tired, but he didn’t have a headache, and this didn’t seem like something that needed to be healed. He tried to ignore it and to focus on the conversation of the three lieutenants, who were still joking about classes and instructors. It was as if he were out of step with the people around him and he had the sensation of being made from bits of paper that swirled in an unseen wind.

He kept up in the conversation as best he could, and the other three didn’t seem to notice anything different.

They finished off the first round and ordered another as Mara came around again, and moved on to talking about their hopes for their first patrols. But as time passed and he tried to ignore the sensation, Allen became concerned. Kilin still had not arrived, and it wasn’t like the lieutenant to be late, not to a celebration. Especially not to one in his honor. It might not have been the kind of celebration the lieutenant could expect from his family, but Kilin had insisted more than once that he didn’t like the obligations that came with the trappings of his station. His father was Baron Vreis, one of the lower-ranking aristocrats and well known for his extensive land holdings and trading interests.

Kilin might have only been delayed, but the strange quality to the air in the room lent emphasis to Allen’s doubt.

His muscles began to twitch as he sat in the chair, and he gripped the edge of the table with an iron hand to still them. There was no sign of disturbance in the room; everyone was talking, drinking, and seemed to be in a good mood, even the three lieutenants at the table with him. Whatever was in the air, it looked like he was the only one who noticed it.

It wouldn’t have been the first time something strange had happened that only he could see or feel. It was ghosts and shadows mostly. Shades of places and things that didn’t exist, whispers at the edge of his hearing, flickers in the corner of his eye. He’d long before learned to associate it with the mark above his left eye. Whatever god had marked him, it didn’t seem content to leave him in peace.

Once, he thought it had saved his life. A pirate had sneaked aboard the Dhara in the night while he was standing guard. He had felt jumpy and ill-at-ease on watch, but the air had been normal. He’d felt the ivy above his eye curl and move under his skin. It had tugged at his gaze, and he had turned to see what was there. He had caught a glimpse of the pirate behind him, his clothes and features darkened to blend into the night and quietly raising his blade, and he had dodged just in time and shouted a warning.

This was different. The ivy mark seemed quiet. Just the air curled around him in stroking tendrils, alternately slow and quick, its substance parting and moving as if blades sliced through it and brushed him with the breeze of their passage.

He was too jumpy to sit here and wait. He would go and see if Kilin was at their room, waiting for him, and look for him on the way to the palace. It was a direct shot up the street to the palace, and if Kilin were out there he would find him.

The other lieutenants fell silent in their conversation as he stood up.

“Is something wrong?” Jeuri tilted her head at him, calm and smiling slightly. “We aren’t that boring are we?”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” he replied. “I’m going to look for Kilin. He should have been here by now. You three wait here, and if he gets here before I do, just wait for me. I’ll be back soon if I can’t find him.”

He headed out the door, and reflexively touched the hilt of the blade to assure himself it was still there. It wasn’t like it would have gone anywhere, but the reminder was reassuring. Who would willingly attack a Guard on the streets of Rylar? Even an unarmed one should have been too threatening for all but the most desperate of thieves. The King did not appreciate his Guards being attacked, and the penalties were harsh. Not to mention that even an unarmed Guard should have been capable of defending himself from common criminals. They might have needed a recommendation from an aristocratic family to be admitted to training at Rylar, but no officer was commissioned by the King unless he could pass the physical training exams in stamina and skill at arms.

Kilin might have been in the lower rank of the Guards with a blade, and not much better at unarmed combat, but that still meant he was a far sight better than anyone without the Guard’s exhaustive training.

Allen moved rapidly up the well-lit, broad Crown Street. Most of the shops were closed and shuttered for the night. Only the pubs, inns, and buildings offering other entertainments were open. The scattered light of the green lanterns that marked the doorways to those places of drinking and eating blended in with the yellow-white of the lanterns that hung from posts every ten paces.

Crown Street was large enough for three wagons to drive abreast, but reserved for foot traffic only. At this hour it was barely half-full and patrons from the businesses along the street mixed and mingled in the crowd, men dressed in the flowing shirt, vest, tapered breeches, and boots of the north and women in long, narrow-waisted dresses with full bodices and long sleeves with embroidered designs. Here and there he could see women dressed similar to the men. Dresses were more formal, but they limited movement. The women on the Dhara had always worn vests and breeches. The clothing along the street was distinguished by a flood of various cuts, colors, embroidery, fine silks, and a mix of scarves and jewelry. Weapons rested on the hips of a few of the men.

Only the Guard, city watch, and the aristocrats were entitled to bear any weapon other than a belt dagger within Rylar, as in most cities of the North. Even the thieves knew better than to be caught with a sword and preferred to carry heavy truncheons and stilettos. The King was merciless in his justice and in keeping peace in the land, and if a thief were caught with a sword, he would be flogged and set to hard labor. The penalties for crime began with fines and hard labor, but stopped short of execution in all but the most severe cases.

As Allen searched the street, the evening’s patrons flowed around him, and he batted away a stray hand that brushed along his belt. Pickpockets were common in the city, as in most large cities. The penalty for it in Rylar was a simple fine or a number of days working for the King and increased with repeat offenses, but the thieves were rarely caught. He’d learned long before while working for Raeli and visiting cities along the Aela to keep his belongings secure and his coins well-hidden.

Kilin was nowhere to be seen in the crowd, and he arrived back at his room in the barracks with his left hand flexing and uncurling spasmodically around his sword hilt. There was something wrong. He knew it. He just didn’t know what it was or if it had anything to do with Kilin. But the missing lieutenant and the edge in the air was too coincidental for his liking.

He questioned the few people he found in the barracks, but none of them had seen the lieutenant since the promotion ceremony that morning. On the way back along Crown Street, his boots rapped a fierce tattoo on the even cobblestones, echoing his building anger and frustration.

A faint noise from a darker alley came faintly to his ears as he passed one of the shuttered chandleries along the street. The sliding grate of wood on stone.

He ducked into the alley and shook his head at the lack of light in it. There should have been lanterns lit in it. He waited with his back to the street for his eyes to adjust.

Neat stacks of barrels and crates along the sides of the alley and a brick wall blocking the end of it shortly became visible. He hadn’t heard the noise again.

Then it was there, a grating sound accompanied by a human groan. It was coming from a stack of crates to his right.

Allen shoved empty crates out of the way, ignoring them as they smashed against the cobblestones. Beneath them was an arm.

He hurried as he threw more crates to the side, uncovering the body that had been concealed underneath. This was no drunk sleeping off the haze in the alley. Someone had stacked these crates here on top of the body.

He caught a glimpse of pale skin and dark hair and threw more crates out of the way until he uncovered the body, and discovered not one, but two people lying there beneath them, covered in blood that mixed with the darkness to conceal their features and stain their clothes.

Ignoring the additional injuries it might cause, he grabbed the first body and dragged it out of the stack of crates into the better light from the street at the mouth of the alley.

He stood in consternation for a split second as he saw the face revealed in the light. Pale skin, long dark hair, flawless features marred by purple and black bruises, and a Guard’s uniform in black and grey…. It was the girl he’d met at lunch. What had been her name? He thought for a moment and it came to him…Jaella. He shook his head. Who would have harmed her?

The next body he dragged out of the alley was one he recognized immediately. Red hair surrounded a mottled and bruised face, a little thin and angular, that was usually lit up with a mischievousness that belied its age. His friend. Kilin.

What had the two of them been doing together, and what had happened to them that they were left lying unconscious in an alley buried under a stack of crates?

He knelt beside them, ignoring the questions he wanted to ask, and held his ear to their chests to hear the beat of their hearts and the movement of their lungs, held the back of his hand near their faces to see if they were breathing. They were, in long, slow breaths.

Their bodies were covered in bruises, mottling their bodies, arms, legs, head. Blood was splattered over their clothing, but there were no open wounds. Whatever damage had been done to them, most of it had already healed.

They would live, as long as they woke up in time to eat something before their bodies’ unconscious attempts to heal consumed all the resources and energy they had. He couldn’t tell how badly they were injured, but the bruises alone would not be enough to drive them to that level of self-destruction. He hoped there was nothing more serious.

He had to get them back to the barracks, and under the care of the physicians. For many wounds, physicians were not required, but the deep wounds caused by weapons were difficult to heal, and there was always a call in the Guard for physicians who could clean, stitch, and bandage. Preventative measures to stop blood loss and help the body conserve energy while it healed. They would do what they could.

A crowd had gathered around him as he examined them. The sight of a Guard dragging two other unconscious Guards out of an alley had been bound to draw attention. He sent two of the crowd for the city watch, and two others as runners to the palace.

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