Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3), C.J. Aaron [book recommendations .TXT] 📗

to maintain appearances. That the King was suspicious of the disappearance of his tribute, he was sure.

The mock funerals, both private and public had taken considerable planning, effort and finances. Silence was costly. The ceremonies and honors posthumously bestowed upon those soldiers and sailors lost at sea were tedious, yet necessary to uphold the ruse. Though he knew not the fate of Andr and Ryl, that all aboard had made it home safely with minimal injuries was a miracle.

Fay absently rubbed his right hand over his opposite shoulder. The wound had healed, yet a profound tenderness remained. The uncontrollable fury of the explosion that heralded the intentional demise of his frigate had nearly cost him his life. Along with the captain, he was among the last to disembark the doomed vessel. When she took to flame, the night sky illuminated with the light of the midday sun. He’d scoured the horizon for a final fleeting sight of the pair his act was meant to save—a distraction that was nearly fatal. A flaming timber thrown from the blast, plummeted from the sky, tearing the narrow skiff into pieces. The battleship that had tracked their course scooped them from the sea a short time later.

Waterlogged, nursing a host of scratches, minor burns and a painfully dislocated shoulder, Fay had faced inquisition at the hands of the King’s councilors. The newly appointed Ambassador to The Stocks, Sir Maklan, was especially volatile. He’d even received a private, verbal lashing at the hands of the ancient King Lunek the Third himself. His obtuse nature at court and carelessness with regard to the safe transportation of his tribute were regarded with unveiled scorn.

There was no question that the increase in aggression and the poorly disguised land grabs along his borders were a direct result of the King and other Houses. House Sarnac, in particular, which bordered the majority of the land directly on House Eligar’s west stood the most to gain.

Lord Eligar had long planned for this eventuality. Not long after the decision to sponsor Ryl, he’d secretly hired teams of Ferro blacksmiths, the indigenous people who occupied the Isle of Mattume off the southern coast of Leremont. In the known world, the Ferro people were far and away the most skilled ironworkers available.

Using the deposits of iron that were abundant on the lands of his house, he’d been able to amass a substantial stockpile of weapons and armor. Armed and armored, his soldiers trained diligently. On short notice, he’d be able to mount an army of nearly six thousand with another two thousand in reserve.

The knocking on the door cut through the morose solitude of his thoughts. Three sharp, quick raps, and a pause before the fourth. The signal was clear; the need was of great import.

The door opened slowly, swinging silently on its massive iron hinges. Lord Eligar was surprised to see Mender Gencep stride through the door. Rarely did the mender have cause to interrupt the calm after his meetings. The wizened face of his elder, most trusted confidant was unusually animated as he shuffled across the great hall. Following closely on his heels was a weary, filthy looking young man.

“I beg your pardon, Fay,” Mender Gencep announced. The lack of formality in the greeting was unexpected. Lord Eligar’s curiosity was piqued. What was the meaning of the intrusion?

The young man trailing in the shadow of the mender appeared to be no older than his mid-teens. He wore the trappings of exhaustion over his body. His face was gaunt and dirty, though Fay could see that he’d tried admirably to clean it before entering his presence—there were undeniable streaks of mud and grime where his hands had missed.

His wavy shoulder-length hair was wet and matted against his face. His clothes appeared too large, yet under the dirt, had the trappings of finery, well above the station of a mere beggar or peasant.

“I trust there’s cause for this interruption,” Lord Eligar announced. He was mildly annoyed, yet the determined fire in the boy’s eyes gave Fay pause.

“I found this one outside the gates,” Mender Gencep recounted. “The young man arrived after the doors were closed for the evening. He says he’s been traveling for nearly a week. Says it cannot wait a moment longer. He claims to have a message of extreme importance, to be delivered to you, and you alone.”

Mender Gencep placed his hand gently on the boy’s back, urging him forward.

“Fay, you’re going to want to hear this,” the mender said quietly.

The boy approached steadily, though his hesitant steps revealed his uncertainty. In his hand, the he clutched a rolled document. He extended it cautiously as he neared. Lord Eligar reached out carefully taking hold of the slightly crumpled paper.

The missive was small, sealed with a single, unmarked dab of red wax. The paper was damp to the touch and warm from where the young man had been holding it.

“What’s so important about this letter?” Fay asked kindly as he slid a thin metal blade from his desk under the red seal.

“I know nothing of the contents, sir,” the young man stuttered as he spoke between breaths.

“I see no marking on the seal,” Lord Eligar commented. “Who’s this from?”

The young man took a breath as he prepared to speak.

“He said he was an acquaintance of yours, that you'd know his name well,” the young man spoke quietly.

“His name is Ryl.”

Chapter 1

The wagon groaned in protest as it skipped over the roots that had overtaken the narrow road. They traveled south along the western bank of the river, sandwiched between the water on one side and the thinning remnants of the forest on the other. Through the trees to the west, the rocky pinnacles of the Haven Mountains thrust into the sky. Their dagger-like peaks formed the jagged top of the range that stretched virtually the entire north south expanse of the Kingdom of Damaris.

Above the tops of the trees to the north, a thin line of smoke still