The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 27: Warnings and Reactions

[Where we last left off, the pyromancer Durrin Rendhart confronted his conniving employer, Salidar Aram, and rejected Salidar’s cause and the kidnapping he had hired Durrin to perform. Durrin then strode into the woods, intent to ride to the capital city of Saven and raise the alarm about Salidar’s pending attack.]

Later that day.

A bell tinkled as the door to the Dozy Donkey swung open. The red-headed avir at the counter looked up disinterestedly. Then his eyes widened. “You!”

“Me,” said Durrin. He dropped a chunk of silver on the counter. “Twenty shekels—what I owe you for the horse, plus interest.”

Before the avir could form a response, Durrin turned and strode back out the door.

* * * * *

Adara tapped her foot in the antechamber outside Volthorn’s office, looking around. So this is what it’s like to be kept waiting, she thought. As the only child of royalty, she had normally commanded the instant attention of anyone she needed to talk to.

Sighing, Adara surveyed the smattering of military personnel in the room. They sat nervously at various tables around her, scribbling their way through paperwork. As in many bookkeeping jobs—where size or strength didn’t matter—most of them were snippens. They seemed to be doing their very best to look busy and professional with their monarch in the room.

A soldier exited Volthorn’s office and bowed low. “The commander is ready now, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Adara said, giving a slight nod as she walked past him. It occurred to her that she actually wasn’t certain of his exact rank. Interpreting military insignia had never been her strong suit.

Volthorn greeted her inside, showing her the best chair in the room. “Your Majesty,” he said, sounding flustered. “I must apologize. As you know, I just arrived after a long ride, and I needed a few minutes to clean up and change my uniform—”

Adara held up a hand. “Please, Commander. It’s all right. Waiting won’t kill me.”

It was a funny thing to say. The sense of urgency and danger from the night before had stayed with her since she’d woken up. All day, as she had waited for Volthorn to arrive at the capital, she had failed to shake the feeling that yes, too much waiting could put her very life at risk.

Volthorn sat down behind a large desk, clearing away a smattering of parchments. “What do you need, Your Majesty?”

“I’m concerned about my quarters in the royal wing,” Adara said. “I would like to be moved to another part of the palace.”

Volthorn frowned, leaning forward. “What, exactly, is your concern?”

“I feel too exposed,” Adara said. “I’m in an isolated tower, surrounded by open sky. It just feels . . .” She paused, wondering if she should tell Volthorn about her nightmare. Would he think she was acting out of paranoia? “. . . It just feels wrong,” she finished. “Unsafe.”

Volthorn nodded slowly, drumming his claws on the table. “I see. But I must reassure you, Your Highness. You’re in the royal wing for a reason— not just because of the four-poster feather bed. It’s by far the most secure part of the palace. The wing is built at the tallest edge of the acropolis, meaning besides the forty-foot walls of your tower, there’s another forty to fifty feet of nearly sheer cliffs beneath that. There’s only two entrances to the entire wing, and three guarded checkpoints to get to your quarters. The windows in your room are tempered glass reinforced with iron bars, with voidstone inlays to protect them from magical assault.”

Volthorn shifted in his chair. “Now let’s compare that to the rest of the palace. Passages and staircases are everywhere. Security is loose at night and nearly unmanageable during the day. Servants and visitors are constantly coming in and out. None of the windows are enforced with voidstone. Only the treasury is heavily secured, and that’s hardly a place for a queen to sleep, Your Highness.”

Adara frowned. Volthorn’s points made sense—but they failed to quench the gnawing worry inside her. “It still doesn’t feel right, Commander. It’s hard to put into words, but I would feel far more comfortable spending a couple nights away from my usual quarters.”

Volthorn leaned back, absently scratching his scalp as he thought. Finally, he straightened. “Your Highness. You know how much your safety means to me. Perhaps you would feel more at ease somewhere else—but I would not. And neither would my officers. We have had many discussions about ensuring your safety. So please trust me on this one.”

Adara studied the sincerity and concern on Volthorn’s face. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was letting her nightmare, and the emotions from it, cloud her judgment.

“Very well,” Adara said. She cracked a smile. “Besides—I do like that feather bed.”

“It’s better than the hard ground, believe me.” Volthorn rose to his feet. “Is that all, Your Highness?”

Your Majesty, Adara silently corrected. “Your Highness” had been her title while she was a princess. Some of her advisors and officers still used it occasionally out of habit.

“That’s all for today,” Adara said, rising as well. “We’ll have many meetings later, I’m sure.”

Volthorn opened the door for her, and she stepped out. The room beyond was even more crowded than before, as a griffin messenger had arrived, escorted by an intelligence officer. They both bowed deeply to Adara before entering Volthorn’s office.

Poor Commander Skarr, Adara thought, watching as Volthorn admitted the new arrivals and closed the door. He’s probably even busier than I am.

“Ready, Your Majesty?” one of her two bodyguards asked.

Adara nodded, and the guards escorted her from the room, one in front of her and the other behind. Since her coronation, she had grown used to having a constant bodyguard.

In the corridor outside, Adara and her escorts bumped into a band of six soldiers coming the opposite direction. Amid the soldiers strode a tall man clad in chainmail armor and a long sable cloak.

Adara paused, studying him. His face was unfamiliar—this was no guard or servant from the palace. His boots and the hem of his cloak were caked in mud. But it was his bearing that most caught her eye: the way he carried himself, with confidence and vigor, and with purpose in his grim face. He seemed a battle-worn hero come to life from an ancient epic.

The other party stopped well short of them. The soldier in the lead bowed low, voicing a greeting, but the others only briefly nodded, their attention flicking between Adara and the man they were escorting.

Adara caught the gaze of the tall man. As he noticed her crown and robes, a look of surprise flashed across his face, and he dropped to one knee, bowing his head low.

“What do we have here, Captain?” Adara asked, genuinely curious.

“Just a man with a message for Commander Skarr, Your Majesty,” the lead soldier said. “I apologize for delaying you.”

“It’s all right,” said Adara. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but something about this man had piqued her curiosity. The guards around him looked uneasy and on edge. But although he looked like a capable warrior, she didn’t feel like he posed a threat.

“Who are you?” Adara asked, directing her voice at the kneeling man.

The man hesitated. “Durrin,” he finally said.

“You look like you’ve done a lot of traveling today, Durrin.”

He nodded. “The rain has been incessant.”

“You traveled far?”

“Around forty-five miles, Your Majesty.”

Forty-five miles? In the pouring rain? He must have been driving his horse hard the whole day. “What brought you?” Adara asked.

The man glanced to either side at the soldiers around him. He hesitated for a moment, his mouth open but no words coming out. Before he found a reply, the officer answered for him.

“He has an urgent message for our commander, Your Majesty. Now with your excusal, we won’t take up any more of your time.”

The officer moved to pass them, but the tall man stayed where he was, still on one knee. “With your permission, Lieutenant,” Durrin said, “I’d like to say something to Her Majesty.”

The soldier paused, obviously uncomfortable with the request but unsure how to handle it. He looked in Adara’s direction, and she held up a hand reassuringly. “Let him talk.”

“Your Majesty . . .” The man paused again for several seconds, then continued. “. . . You look very much like your father.”

Adara smiled in surprise. “You knew my father?”

The man shook his head quickly. “I did not know him. I only met him. Once. Right before he died. Your Majesty.” He paused for a very long time, then continued more slowly, “I’m sorry about your father. Deeply, truly sorry.”

Adara had been hearing condoling remarks about her father’s death for seven years. Some were sincere, some were not. Some, from close advisors in the days after the accident, had been as charged with emotion as her own poignant feelings. Others, especially from those outside the royal court, were nothing more than meaningless social gestures upon meeting her. That last type had become more and more common over the years. She had come to hate them.

Yet this comment was different from all the others. Yes, it was sincere, but it was something more: this man had an intensity of feeling behind the words, packing each syllable with emotional weight. His voice trembled, as if burdened by the message he was at long last delivering. It was more than a mere con