Young Writers Society

As Aria walked down the hall with the small stone in her hand, she lost herself in the thoughts of the mystery they had discovered. Tristen followed her and was silent, thinking mostly of his daily duties than the contents of the box. They both had finished their tasks, but Tristen always went over everything at the end of the day to makes sure all had been completed. They headed back through the halls with the stained glass windows and went their separate ways. There was an hour or so before tea and then bed, and that time was usually spent finishing studies or sorting important documents that had become out of place during the day. The castle was quiet at this time in the evening except for the gentle bustle of servants while they cleaned and tidied, or the cooks as the finished for the day and put the tea on.

Tristen, while pondering the events of the day, walked through the long halls and up or down several flights of stairs until he reached a large room like a library. It was in here that his father did most of his reading and research, and where he and Aria read or studied. His feet made soft tapping noises as he walked on the polished wooden floor and then became silent as he stepped onto a thick rug beneath one bookshelf. He took a book from the table next to him and set it back in its place on the shelf. He was always rather organized with anything he did, and never liked to do something without a sturdy plan. Placing another book on its home shelf, he sorted some papers on the table, which also served as a desk. On it was a finely engraved silver inkpot and a silver pen to match it, gifts from Lord Aeron Wintershaw to his father. They were not only pleasant to look at, they were useful and sturdy for writing and signing documents, letters, papers, and whatever else might require the use of a pen. There was also a wooden slate, a paperweight, and two neat piles of papers. In one pile was the documents that were signed, read, and ready for filing. The other pile – which was a good bit taller – held the unsigned and unread documents as well as notes and excerpts from books. Tristen sighed and adjusted the piles so that no loose ends of papers were sticking out and that they sat ready for tomorrow’s work.

After placing the tiny silver cap on the inkpot and laying the pen by its side, he heard footsteps coming towards the room. The footsteps were heavy but the feet didn’t shuffle clumsily. There was a tap on the door.

“My Lord? Are you in there?” A deep and strong voice spoke from the opposite side of the door.

“Yes, come in.” Tristen looked up from the table and stepped towards the door.

The man who opened the door and stepped inside was of average height but his build was sturdy and muscular. His blond hair was cut short and swept back along the sides of his head behind his ears to keep out of his eyes. His face was well worn and hardened by many battles and his blue-gray eyes were thoughtful and wise. His cloth tunic bore the same emblem as Tristen’s, the silver wyvern on the field of blue, encircling a golden star.

“Sir Orrick.” Tristen nodded with a friendly gesture and a smile. “What brings you here at this hour?”

The knight made a slight bow in return, and then straightened. “My squire Isaac was on an errand to Rogate and just returned with news. I’m afraid it’s not at all good. If what he says is true, then Wayfeld is in grave danger.”

Tristen’s hand went to his chin subconsciously. His eyes narrowed. “What is this danger? Nothing or no one would dare attack the capitol city…would they?” He looked to Sir Orrick for help in his thoughts, knowing he was a skilled tactician in battle as well as politics.

Sir Orrick’s gaze hardened. “Isaac, come tell the prince what you just told me.”

Sir Orrick’s squire stepped through the door behind him. His garb was much like his master’s except for the fact that the cloth of his tunic was brown and its emblem was a falcon with its wings outstretched and curved upwards, the sign of an apprentice knight. He stood straight before Tristen and bowed, then rose again to his stiff position. He seemed much like his mentor in manner, only much younger and much less confident.

“Your Highness," he began, "I brought news from Rogate. Their outposts in the north were burned and everyone inside killed. I saw for myself what the destruction was like. The steward bade me come back to Wayfeld to ask for possible reinforcements and to warn the king.” Isaac took a breath. He looked nervous. “That was five days ago, it will be six tomorrow.” After finishing, he stood before Tristen, not sure what to do. He fidgeted, his hands by his sides.

Sir Orrick looked down at his squire with approval hidden behind his stern eyes. He looked back at Tristen. “Isaac told me that the signs showed a much larger fighting force than a simple raiding party. Multiple attacks on guarded garrisons and then succeeding in torching them and killing the guards is indeed something to be worried about.”

Tristen hadn’t said a word since Sir Orrick had started talking. Though the expression on his face hardly changed during the entire conversation, deep inside he felt a twinge of worry. Here he was, alone in Wayfeld with his sister. He was the one in command and the one responsible for the well-being of the castle. His father was miles and miles away in Rye and wouldn’t be home for over a month. If any danger came upon this castle, it was his duty to stop it. Of course, he had Sir Orrick, who was the most trusted battle tactician and knight in his father’s service. He was practically their kin, though he retained his formality while addressing and conversing with the royal family. Even so, the thought of attack or danger loomed over him like a dark cloud ready to pour out its storm.

“Double the watch and make sure the northern wall is carefully guarded. Inspect anyone that comes in or out and watch for anything that looks suspicious.” Tristen addressed Sir Orrick as he gave the order. His voice had lost some of its fearlessness and though he was not afraid yet, he was cautious.

“Yes, Your Highness. And may I suggest sending men to the villages to the north? They would see any oncoming force before we would and ride to warn us, giving us an advantage.” Sir Orrick replied.

“Yes, make sure that is done as well.” Tristen was slightly put off that he hadn’t thought of it himself, but had to agree that it was a wise idea. He put his arms behind his back and held his hands together. A more comfortable position would have been to cross his arms in front of him, but that action seemed overly confrontational.

Sir Orrick nodded and motioned for his squire to step out of the room. Isaac obeyed and did so. Sir Orrick stepped closer to Tristen and spoke in a hushed voice. His stern demeanor was made sterner by the look in his eyes concerning the current trouble. The beginnings of silver hairs that showed through his blonde made the face of the knight look old and wise, but uneasy.

“There is something else.” Orrick’s face was grave, his brows knitted in apprehension. “My riders were sent to the northern fiefs as well. Before Isaac arrived, I received word of villages being ransacked, you remember. I sent men to see that the problem was taken care of. Yesterday a farmer brought two tired horses to our gates. They were cavalry horses and two of the ten that were ridden into the north. They were exhausted and their saddles were feathered with arrows, and they had no riders.” Orrick produced two halves of an arrow from the pouch on his belt. These he had carefully hidden to keep people from asking too many questions that he couldn’t answer. He set them on the table.

Tristen looked at the arrows and was silent. Finally he picked up the half that was feathered and examined it. There wasn’t anything spectacular about it except that it was slightly different in design from the ones used by the Erland army. The shaft was thinner and lighter, but didn’t seem any less strong. Tristen tested it in his hands and tried to break it, but it resisted him. He plucked at the feathers on the end and looked carefully at them. They were jet black and small, and if he had known better he would have guessed they were crow feathers. The arrow tip was a smooth and had sharp point with small barbs on the end to prevent it from being pulled out easily. Other than that, there was nothing unusual concerning its make. Tristen set it back on the table.

“The archers were not afraid to shoot at our men.” Tristen said.

“No, and I fear that the other arrows found their mark. There was blood on the saddles. More than is healthy for a man to lose.” Sir Orrick’s voice was almost a whisper now.

Now, worry did show on Tristen’s face. He looked at Sir Orrick and whispered. “What do you suggest we do?”

Sir Orrick bit his lip in thought. “Aside from what we’ve already decided to do, not much. I will send word for some more men in the reserves to come here in case of attack. Wayfeld is fairly well fortified, but it isn’t the castle Rye by a long shot. I think we could withstand a siege, but I’m not sure for how long. Then again, there is no real proof or reason to be sure that an attack of that magnitude is going to happen, but caution never hurt the defenders of a castle.”

Tristen nodded slowly. “Yes, Orrick. Send some men as scouts and make sure the walls are double guarded. Aside from that, I’m not sure there’s much else to do.” He reiterated Orrick’s statement of earlier.

Sir Orrick nodded and made a small bow. “It is as good as done, My Lord.” With that, he turned and left the library.

Long after Orrick walked away, Tristen stood alone in the library. His right hand thoughtfully covered his mouth and he stared blankly out the window. The lamps inside the library glared their light off the glass so he couldn’t see outside without getting closer. Only the moon’s light could be seen through the window, as its light just made a dent in the glare of the lamps. He was silent for a long time.

There was a gentle tap on the door as a servant slipped in with his tea. He wondered how they’d known to bring it up here to him, and then guessed that Sir Orrick must have said something to the cook. He nodded acknowledgment to the servant and poured himself a cup. He sat down in front of the desk with his tea in his hand, still quiet in thought. Every so often, he’d mutter something to himself or say something he was thinking aloud to break the silence. He stood up and walked across the room to a section of shelves. He took a book from the highest shelf and laid it on the desk. He opened it and glanced down on the pages. He settled back into his chair and propped one foot up on his knee, then rested the book against it in his lap. He turned up the lamp on the desk and began to read.

High in the sky the moon rose, shining its light over the great city of Wayfeld. The stars too twinkled through the clouds, shining their light down to the world as well. There were few torches lit on the walls and battlements, the light from them would only serve to cast a glare in the guard’s eyes. Only behind and above the guard’s heads hung torches so they could see to pace up and down their assigned section of the wall. None of the windows were glinting in the darkness, except one. The one large window that opened into the library still had a faint glow coming from it. The lamps were out, and only a withered candle remained alight on the desk, its wax streaming down its sides like tears. In the chair by the desk, there was a man asleep, his book dropped subconsciously on the floor. His chin seemed to rest on his chest and one arm was draped over his lap. The other rested at his side. His legs were crossed, the right one on top of the left. On the table lay a pen and inkpot, and beside it a teapot with a half-finished cup of tea, along with a cold biscuit or two. He was sound asleep, and the candle’s light was waning fast.