Mordraud, Book One (21 page)

“
Can you read, Mordraud?”

“
Of course,” he responded.

“
And do you like reading?”

The only stories he
’d ever read were fairytales his mother had written for him before she fell ill. He had to make a good impression on Deanna if he hoped to get the job, and so he nodded with confidence.

“
Good, I love reading too. I’ve got lots of books upstairs, in my library. Maybe I’ve got something you might like... What do you usually enjoy reading most?”

“
I couldn’t really say, ma’am...” he replied. “I used to love my mother’s fairytales – stories about the Aelians.”

Perhaps he hadn
’t said the right thing, thought Mordraud, when he felt all eyes on him.

“
Aelians?!”

“
Yes, well... Cambirian the last king, monsters that live in nightmares, warriors in golden armour who defend fair maidens... stuff like that...”

“
I don’t know anything about the Aelians, nothing at all. And then, Cambirian... I’ve never heard of him,” murmured Deanna.

“
Oh, they’re just fairytales my mother used to write for my brother and I, when she was teaching us to read... nothing important...”

“
Excuse me, my boy, what did you say the name was of that king of the... Aelians?” Adraman interrupted, with a dark look on his face.

“
Cambirian, the Ancient and the First. His name means
he who dominates the heart of all things
,” replied Mordraud without stopping to think, simply fishing the information out of his memory. He didn’t yet understand the reason for all that interest. They were just fairytales Eglade had told him a thousand times before putting him to bed. Simple, innocent stories of his people.

“
One day, when I was much younger and was studying in Calhann to fight alongside my father, I asked a well-known history academic who lived there what the word
Cambria
meant. Well, he had no idea. He only knew that it was an ancient Aelian word. I didn’t even know this people existed. Cambirian...
the heart of all things
...” Adraman’s voice drifted, fading out in the room like a wisp of smoke.

“
Did your mother tell you anything else about the Aelians?!” Deanna inquired, finally revealing a sincere smile. “I’d like to know about them...”

“
Well, of course... I still remember lots of fairytales. The Aelian ones were my favourites...”

But was he saying something he shouldn
’t? He certainly hadn’t told them all his mother was an Aelian, concluded Mordraud. Eglade had repeated to the point of exhaustion that he should never tell anybody about her, nobody at all. But the fairytales were different. Mordraud had always believed they were legends all children used to listen to before falling asleep. Perhaps he’d done something wrong – but Deanna’s smile was convincing him quite the opposite was true.

“
Well then, I very much hope you’ll tell me all the other stories too,” she uttered, wiping her lips with a white handkerchief. “I can’t wait.”

Mordraud nodded with satisfaction and turned his attentions back to his plate, overwhelmed by a sudden hunger. The tension gripping him
faded, guided by the wine and those bewitching eyes.

Eyes that could convince him to say anything, should they want him to.

***

“
Aelian?! Listen to me Deanna: it isn’t normal for a boy to know stories about the Aelians! It’s a complicated subject, and not part of traditional folklore! Spirits of the woods – that I could understand... But he seems to know them well!”

The dinner had finished some time ago, and the guests had returned home, accompanied by an attendant. Adraman was undressing for bed, while Deanna was busy removing the make-up from her cheeks.

“And so? I don’t see why you’re so bothered about it. What’s wrong with those stories? You know nothing about them either, but you didn’t grow up in the North, surrounded by peasants and cut off from the world!”

“
Nothing, I suppose. It’s just...” Adraman didn’t actually know how to explain the feeling he had. The name of the last king, Cambirian, was still ringing in his head. Whoever could know something like that, he mused. He’d never heard anyone talk about it. And in the case of Eld, he was probably the most educated person in the fief. He knew the topic of the Aelians was debated, in the academies. Certainly not in the countryside.

“
You’re worrying about nothing. I liked the boy, and I won’t accept a refusal from you.”

“
But there are many children in town who could keep you company...” Adraman tried.

“
I repeat.
I won’t accept
any refusals from you.”

“
Fine, darling... I see,” he rounded off, joylessly. “He can live here with us from tomorrow.”

Deanna was still sitting
before the mirror when Adraman approached her and awkwardly grasped at her shoulders.

“
And what do you want?!”

“
I’ve been away for many weeks...”

“
Don’t even think of it!” she rebuked, rising from the dressing table. Adraman was half-naked, covered only by a cloth around his loins. His body certainly didn’t show signs of the years that had passed, and was invigorated by decades of battle and life out in the open air. A cobweb of scars traced out strange patterns climbing from his wrists to his elbows, becoming broader where the sword-tips had gone in deeper. Deanna felt a shiver of repulsion that was so powerful it made her dizzy.

“
I’m tired,” was all she managed to say, slipping beneath the covers on the large double bed. Adraman was still standing, with his gaze fixed on the mirror. He lifted his hands and began observing his fingers gnarled by strain, the corns, the knuckles that looked like sticks of kindling, and he brushed his face with all the delicateness he could muster. The effect was like rubbing his skin with a piece of dried bark.

“
What are you up to?!”

“
I was just thinking I’m no longer capable of caressing anything with these hands of mine.”

Deanna did not reply. She shut her eyes and slumped into her plump feather pillow.

***

“
So how did it go? Is it true Adraman’s house is amazingly luxurious? What did you eat? I bet they served up dozens of delicacies on large gold platters...”

Gwern was like a river in full spate. Mordraud had found the dinner testing. Trying to seem appealing to Deanna and interesting to the captain had drained him. He wasn
’t sure if he’d managed it entirely, but the outcome was far beyond his expectations. Deanna had smiled at him until the door had closed behind him.

“
I think it went well... I should be starting in the next few days. But there’s no guarantee it’ll happen, so don’t go getting excited!”

“
Larois, what d’you think?” Gwern asked her, tugging at her long wool skirt.

“
I say it went well. Deanna was impressed by your brother’s stories.”

Mordraud could feel the old innkeeper was hiding something from him, but he pretended not to notice. It mu
st be about those Aelian stories and the fairytales, he thought, pulling off his new tunic.

“
I’m going into the courtyard. I’m fed up with talking. My throat’s sore.”

“
You’ll have to get used to it, dear brother! Now you’re page-boy to Deanna, the wife of Eldain’s most important cavalryman!”

Mordraud didn
’t wait any longer and ran into the bedroom, carefully took off his clothes, changed into some dirty old rags, and shot outside. He really felt the need to sweat and toil, after the stiff composure he’d had to observe at table.

“
You managed it, Larois... Are you pleased?”

Gwern had drastically changed his tone of voice. Larois caressed his shoulders, nodding in silence.

“I don’t think though that you’ll be able to keep him away from the war... It’s not easy to get my brother to change his mind.”

“
At least I’m trying, Gwern. Maybe a few years spent with Deanna will cool his simmering spirit.”

“
But isn’t it... well... improper?”

“
No, of course not!” exclaimed Larois with a glower. “He’s so young, and she’s already a married woman... At most Deanna will become fond of him, like an older sister...”

“
Yes... Let’s hope so,” mumbled Gwern. There were a few details about his brother she was unaware of, but they were all unutterable secrets. He’d promised Mordraud and their mother. He’d never be able to tell anyone about their Aelian roots.

Never.

“I’m already missing him... I’ve never been separated from him, I’m worried...”

“
Don’t fret, I’m still here, and he’ll come and see you often. I did it for his good, I’ve already explained that.”

“
Hmm...” he replied, nodding with little conviction. “By the way... what stories were you talking about before? What did he tell Deanna?!”

“
Stories about Aelians.”

Gwern faltered just for an instant.
“Great stories... his favourites. They remind him of our mother.”

“
Was it her who told him them?”

“
Yeah, when he was little, and I hadn’t been born.”

“
There’s nothing wrong in that. Funny though that he knows so many of them. Stories about the Aelians are very, very rare.”

“
Mum really liked them,” was all he said. Larois smiled at him and tweaked his cheek affectionately. “Okay, what’s done’s done... Come on, let’s have something hot to drink. Fancy some herbal tea?”

Gwern opene
d the kitchen door, showing the way like a true gentleman.

“
Only if there’s still a slice or two left of yesterday evening’s almond cake.”

‘
I regret to inform you that the healer whose services you requested has returned to the temple without being able to complete the assignment...’

Dunwich sighed in annoyance, resisting the urge to tear up yet another letter of apology from the Temple of the Merciful. The usual incompetents. He
’d yelled himself hoarse, repeating to that bunch of bunglers not to give in when dealing with Varno. It wasn’t the first time that stubborn mule had gruffly dismissed the doctor Dunwich regularly sent to see his mother.

‘
...Hard as they tried, he and his two guides were unable to locate the house described by you...
’

Even worse. How could they not find a house?! Particularly when they
’d been supplied with a detailed map to reach it. Dunwich had no intention of letting the Master of the Merciful off lightly. That insolent little man would get what he deserved – he could be sure of that.

‘
...Rather than a house, merely a pile of blackened rubble was found beneath the vegetation...’

Dunwich felt his heart sink to his feet.

‘...We will see to refunding part of the payment as soon as possible, to compensate for the inconvenience. Our warmest regards.’

Dunwich ran to the door, grabbed the cloak nearest his hand and the sword hanging on the rack, and rushed outside tripping down the steps. His horse was waiting patient
ly near the fence separating the well-tended elegant garden from the crowded rowdy street. The air was mild and pleasant – a lovely spring day.

‘
...merely a pile of blackened rubble was found...’

Dunwich reached Cambria
’s large brass city gate galloping madly through the throng, stopping just an instant at the captain of the guards, who straightened up immediately on seeing him, awaiting orders.

“
I have to leave town for a few weeks. A serious emergency: I have to check personally that all is well.”

The soldier
’s eyes widened in puzzlement and he nodded, not looking at Dunwich.

“
Notify the palace of my absence. Send someone to inform Asaeld.”

“
Sir... an emergency, sir?!”

“
An objection perhaps?”

“
No, sir.”

Dunwich galloped off, without further ado. The captain
’s dismayed face made him smirk, but only for an instant.

‘
...merely a pile of blackened rubble...’

***

The marks of war had deeply scarred the land, there where the bitterest battles had raged. Stretches of mud and churned-up roots traced out the fields where the Imperial Army and the rebels had fought for days and months. The winter snow had covered the carnage, penetrating beneath the turf and mixing with the mire, making the land a huge lifeless sponge.

‘
The rebels have driven so far from the Rampart?! I’m surprised...’

Dunwich had been riding for ten days, stopping only to let his horse eat or to change it directly at one of the few inns he found at crossroads. There was always a horse available for such an important Lance. There was hardly any traffic along the old paved road. All the merchants from the North and the South used the most concealed cart tracks or paths, protected by a sizeable escort of mercenaries. The reason was sadly well-known. The villages that once prospered along the main road had all been deserted and had turned into dark and dangerous dens for bandits and marauders.

‘We should do something... Cambria’s not far away. We can’t leave these lands to fall apart...’ he reflected, while his eyes followed the distant outline of the houses in a village in ruins. ‘We’re a stone’s throw from Etelan. These areas have to be kept under control. People are too afraid their homes might be eaten up by the front... The countryside around Essar is faring better – there you don’t even realise we’re at war.’

Three years had passed since his triumphant debut with the Imperial Lances, and everything was going wo
nderfully. He was showered in gold, he lived in a sumptuous mansion in the heart of town, and he attended prestigious suppers and salons more often than he could bear. He had access to the rooms where war strategies were discussed, and he could give his opinion when he wished. Alongside Asaeld, he’d taken part in several attacks, he’d been appointed to head a platoon of Lances, and his conduct had been magnificent. Three incredible and lavish years.

Wiped away like a wonderful dream by that damned letter.

Dunwich hadn’t even noticed his mother hadn’t sent news for months. However strange it was that his father rejected the doctors, it couldn’t just be his hot-headedness. He had been too wrapped up in the high life, in planning strategies, the brief battles he’d had the honour of orchestrating without physically taking part. He’d been too busy avoiding the women who tried to seduce him. He’d sunk down into his own ego, without a care for anything or anybody.

‘
I wonder how Silia is.’

He hadn
’t thought about her for a while. Another victim of his success. After just a few months’ career, as soon as he’d moved, he didn’t hesitate in shutting the door in her face. He’d never been very interested in that strapping girl, who was only good for warming his bed. On becoming a Lance, he began nurturing quite different ambitions – the first of these being war. He wanted to go to the front, to travel the Empire’s borders to bring back order, and he certainly didn’t want to keep a woman waiting for him at home.

‘
I could at least have told her what was going on in my mind... But now...’

How had he forgotten his family, he asked himself. The last doctors had come back empty-handed, hounded
out by his father. Why had he failed to take control of the situation? He remembered well Mordraud’s bitter criticism the last time they saw each other.

‘
Go back to your career, Dunwich. As they say, like father like son.’

“
I’m not like Varno!” he hissed furiously. The horse was slowing ever more, overcome by exhaustion. Dunwich dug in his heels and spurred it further on.

‘
My father might have made some mistakes, but Mordraud is being too extreme. What was I supposed to do?! Fester in that forest and grow old on regret?’

That letter meant he
’d miss the Spring Party at the palace – the only one the Emperor attended. He could not work out whether he was sorry or relieved. He could willingly do without the high life, but the Lances had precise social duties to respect. Sometimes he wondered if there weren’t too many of them, compared to the Cambrian army’s real successes on the field. Dunwich had very different ideas on how he’d manage the war. No pointless wastage along a vast front, no pitched battles, no parades and no diplomatic skirmishes with the lands teetering between the two factions.

‘
A well-organised raid, a wedge with a hundred or so Lances to open up the way for the cavalry. We should hammer the Rampart, concentrate our energies on one objective, with the rear ranks fanning out to take control of the areas around the assault head. Targeting Eld, without hesitation. In summer, when their forces are spread thinly in defence of the entire length of the border. My plan’s a good one, damn it all...’

It was a strategy he
’d been mulling over for some time. He’d proposed it to Asaeld – without success – on various occasions. He couldn’t understand why he was so obstinate in refusing to consider it.

“
It can’t be done,” was his simple reply.

“
And why not?! It’s a good plan, and nobody’s attempted it so far...”

“
Why do you think that is, then? If it’s so brilliant, and so linear, why hasn’t it been put into practice yet?” Asaeld was a man of authority, and many people found it hard to endure a long conversation with him, oppressed by his presence. But Dunwich didn’t.

“
Maybe nobody’s thought of it yet...”

“
No, what rubbish! Lots have come up with the same idea. And it’s even been attempted!”

Dunwich flinched, unaware of that important precedent.

“When?!”

“
At the beginning of the war – it was one of the first attempts. But it went badly... very badly. Since then, nobody’s wanted to try an attack of that sort.”

“
But I’ve never come across anything – no books, not even a comment – on that battle! Why’s that?!”

Asaeld shrugged his shoulders in indifference.
“The defeat must have been so crushing that it was decided to leave it out of the history books.”

Dunwich wasn
’t entirely convinced by his commander’s explanation, but he could do little other than accept it in silence. He would come up with something else.

The villages disappeared behind him, and the road leading
up to the northern mountains finally veered off to the east, dipping into the hills cloaked in forest. The front was nearby, but he knew how to get round it. Recently, the line had shifted, closing up the passage he’d used as a boy when returning home. But the front’s knit was still loose in that area. Cambrinn monitored the mountain roads the army passed along, but it couldn’t keep an eye on the most inaccessible paths. He knew quite a few. He opted for the most overgrown and meandering one.

Dunwich followed the route by memory, gradually winding into a
cradle of hills that endlessly rose and fell in all directions. The woods exerted a soothing sway over his strained nerves. When nightfall came, he allowed himself a long refreshing rest, hidden well among the trees and by the earth-coloured blanket he had in his saddlebag.

‘
I feel like I’m back to my childhood... When I used to spend the night out in the garden and dad would get angry,’ he mused, as he stared at the foliage that fluttered in silence.

‘
Three years... Mordraud must be nineteen now.’

He hoped with all his heart
it was merely a misunderstanding. Otherwise what would he do, he wondered in unease.

He dropped off to sleep before he could reach an answer.

***

It was impossible to forget that path. It ascended gently, wrapping itself around the low earth walls riddled with roots, like a groove scored by a plough. When it rained, the pebbles rolled in the streams of water, piling up on the right, where a rounded mass rested. The pathway gradually climbed, until it reached the wooded plain, which was always washed
by a soft westerly wind. If he scrambled up one of those trees, the oak where lightning had split a lower branch creating a strange sort of drawbridge, he’d be able to see the hamlet at about an hour’s walk away. He’d done it tens of times, when he played alone and would make up complex stories of monsters defeated by warriors like his father, who routed them out one after the other. The path swerved again, and passed over a hillock of chipped stones his parents had piled up there while repairing the house. Then he would see the yard where the chickens scratched about, watched over by the black hunting dog whose name he no longer recalled. He was chunky and reeked, but he’d always been a good animal. His kennel was right on the house’s south wall, the one facing the path, which was also overlooked by square windows decorated with white lace.

Dunwich almost believed he could actually see the house, absorbed by his journey into his memories. But instead of the place where he
’d been born was little more than bushes, saplings and dark green moss.

‘
...
merely a pile of blackened rubble
...’

“
All tumbled down,” he murmured, with no strength.

“All burnt.”

Dunwich wandered among the ruins, looking about himself with vacant eyes, occasionally shifting the rubble in the hope of finding something, anything, that could help him understand. How could it have happened, he wondered in despair. Had there been an accident? Had they managed to get to safety? He felt overwhelmed by a roar of questions. He looked at his hands. They were blac
k with soot and were bleeding in several points, where the splinters of wood had pierced his skin.

Dunwich began his music. His voice traced out a sad lament in the air, a funeral chant in barely a whisper, which grew until taking on a disturbing, almost lame, tone and rhythm. The climax came unexpectedly. His eyes became glassy and clear – two marbles
that revealed the blood and nerves enclosed beyond the eye socket. The landscape veered to grey, shrouded in a sudden mist. Not far from the house, Dunwich heard two columns of sound shoot up among the trees, at some distance from one other, and he wasted no time. Resonances of death. He could see them as if they were made of white notes. He leapt over the ruins and ran into the heart of the forest, keeping his eyes trained on the sky, where the two columns rose up until they brushed the clouds with their echoes. He chose the densest one, swallowing down a lump in his throat with difficulty.

At the foot of an old gnarled tree, Dunwich began digging with his bare hands, shaking his head to disperse the sound. Every colour went back to its place, and his eyes reappeared in their sockets.
There was no need to burrow for long. His fingertips hit the unpleasant sensation of touching something soggy and putrid.