Kiel stood and stretched his back. He was getting too old to be bending over people’s boots. “Aye, but you’ve got Kynell on your side now. Shall I fetch you some breakfast?”
Corfe nodded and ran a hand over his bald head. He had asked the Patroniite
order to shave it as an indicator of his devotion to the god of the Prysm. It was a small token, but he was proud of it. And occasionally, when no one was looking, he would talk to himself, just to remind himself of that great day when Kynell restored his speech. His own voice was evidence that he was no longer bound to the service of Zyreio. So great was his deliverance that sometimes he felt sorry for Amarian. Of course, that was a lost cause: redemption wasn’t an option for some people.
Kiel returned with warm potato cakes, sausage, and tea. It happened to be the same breakfast that the king ate, which Kiel well knew. After setting the tray down on a delicate side table, he tried not to disapprove as the non-royal person sat down to eat. Corfe paid him no attention.
He had just finished the sausage when he heard a knock at the door. At his command, Kiel opened it to reveal a tall, reptilian soldier with sharp eyes and a shock of bright hair, closely cut. Corfe swallowed and tried to receive his guest with grace, but the sight of a Sentry—even a friendly one—was difficult to stomach in the morning. Tarl’s broad ears fanned impatiently as Corfe fumbled for words to let him in.
“Lord Corfe. You wanted to see me?”
Finally, Corfe waved him in. “Any word on Amarian?”
The Sentry gurgled low in his throat. “Sir, you would be the first to know.”
“He’s bound to show up soon.” Corfe rapped his fingers on the table. “After all, the Dedication’s already taken place. He should be up to his eyeballs in Zyreio’s presence by now. What’s keeping him?”
“With all due respect, sir, he has lost his army. We have sought out and killed those Sentries who followed him into the marsh. Unless Obsidian raises the armies of the dead warriors as your Great Book says, it is without allies.”
Corfe shook his head. “But something feels wrong. Besides, what do armies matter if you have Zyreio on your side?”
Tarl shrugged. He was not a theologian. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that’s it. Send Gair in if you happen to see him.”
Tarl did happen to see Gair, who was already on his way to his friend’s chambers for their morning outing. He did not stop to speak with him, however. He was a captain, after all, not Corfe’s runner-boy. Gair could find his own way to the Advocate’s rooms.
Even without Tarl’s assistance, Gair arrived at Corfe’s chamber in time for a stroll. A few more minutes and both young men had stolen out of the palace and arrived at the wide stone thoroughfares that crowned Lascombe’s massive walls. The city was beautiful as always, even in hiverra, but it had suffered extensive neglect. The streets were pitted, their cobblestones stolen away for other purposes, and trash collected against the walls of dirty shops. Once their keepers had taken great pride in their storefronts. But many citizens had lost sons, nephews, and brothers in the border wars; the city’s morale was sapped, not to mention its commercial spirit. The only businesses that seemed to be thriving were the taverns.
As always, Gair commented on the sight. “How long has the city been like this, I wonder?”
And as always, Corfe shrugged. “I was off somewhere fetching Amarian’s slippers.”
Gair watched with concern as a group of teenage boys huddled in a corner, smirking at the few passersby. A detached part of him wondered what why the adolescents were up so early.
Corfe noted the frown on his friend’s face, then cringed as Gair limped up the stairs to the wall’s parapet. As Amarian’s former prisoner, Gair had suffered for following the Prysm god. There was a time when Corfe had thought he would never walk again, but the doctors of Lascombe were known world-wide for their skill. Not two days after they had returned from the battle with Amarian, they had fitted Gair with a prosthetic limb for the leg he had lost and a brace for the other. His friend now walked, albeit with a pronounced limp. But what made Corfe’s gut turn was the tiny scar on Gair’s lip. It was a small thing, given everything else the man had suffered, but Corfe winced every time he remembered the blow he had inflicted. A hundred times he had asked for forgiveness and a hundred times Gair had granted it. Still, the silent testimony to his past life troubled him.
They were on the East Wall, facing south, looking out past scores of small farms to the great Duvarian Range. Gair took a deep breath.
“One of these days, I’ll have a home outside of the city. A small house with some land and maybe a pond.”
“And a wife?”
Gair blushed and looked down, causing his long hair, much of it gray from stress, to flop forward. “The woman I want is unreachable.”
Corfe couldn’t disagree. Verial was indeed an unattainable prize. He had treasured foolish ambitions himself once—nothing so profound as Gair’s attachment—but Verial was an immortal, preserved through time to be the mistress of Zyreio’s Advocates. She
was
beautiful, but the woman had depths of loneliness and anger that no ordinary man could fathom.
“She’ll be all right, Gair,” he mumbled, “I’m sure Kynell’s taking good care of her.”
“I hope so. Last I saw her, Amarian had abandoned her in the woods so that she could seduce that young Vancien. Maybe she’s still with him.”
“Vancien’s dead, remember? I saw his body before Amarian dragged it off into the marshes.” Corfe shook his head. “Poor guy. Bad luck to be the brother of Obsidian’s Advocate, eh? And not be the Advocate for the Prysm, that is.”
Gair was happy to change the subject from Verial. “Wherever he is, he’s out of the way. Besides, you heard what Patronius Supras said about the Advocates being brothers: it’s all figurative.”
Corfe was just about to respond when a messenger arrived with the announcement that he was wanted by the king. How he enjoyed that phrase. Who would have thought that the frightened teenager, who a cycle ago was hiding in
The Shattered Lantern
tavern, was now wanted by the king of Keroul? His conversion to Kynell had granted him a worldly status he would not have thought possible. An added perk, he thought, stepping back toward the palace.
CHAPTER TWO
The boys had departed for another night’s expedition, leaving Teehma to do her chores. She knew why they had all of the adventures, but her spirit still rebelled against it. She was just about to voice these frustrations to Ester for the tenth time when she heard the scuff of a boot outside the curtain. This would normally have been no cause for concern, except it sounded as if the boot had stopped right outside the fort instead of walking by. Swallowing her angry words, she whispered for Ester to keep still.
The scuffing of the boot was soon followed by the scrape of a body sliding along the wall, then the rasp of labored breathing. To Teehma’s active imagination, it sounded like a wounded man who had stumbled over the fort in an attempt to escape the king’s guards. But what was he running from? Perhaps he was a thief? Unlikely. A murderer? Impossible. He had the sound of an honest man. It was more likely that the guards were after him because he had attempted a daring rescue of his true love from the palace and had only just gotten her to a safe place before he himself was seen. Encouraged by this epiphany, she summoned up the boldness to poke her head outside of the curtain—on the far side from the noises—and see how badly the hero was wounded.
There was the figure, just to the right of their small opening, sitting with his back against the wall. She could see puffs of his breath, but when she looked for a pool of blood or further evidence of injury, she could not find any. The man was simply breathing as if from a long run. After a few seconds, he took a drink from a bottle and wiped his forehead. She couldn’t make out much, except that he seemed sort of young, kind of short, and obviously exhausted.
Eager to know more (and happy for any excuse to leave the fort), she slipped out and crept down the alley away from him. Then, about twenty paces off, she turned and walked back in the same direction, whistling casually as she went. She pretended not to notice him until she tripped on his outstretched legs.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Hey, what are you doing here? Don’t you know this ain’t a safe part of town?”
The man looked up, his face dimly lit by the lunos-light. He seemed amused. “You’re right, it’s not a safe part of town. So what is a child doing walking around here? And on such a cold night?
Teehma drew herself up to her full height. “I’m not a child! I’m fifteen cycle—well, never mind that. Anyway, this is
my
neighborhood. If you’re going to be wounded or injured or anything, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”
The man looked down at himself. “I’m not wounded. Just a little tired. I needed a rest from. . .” He paused and looked down the alleyway. .” . .from a long walk.”
“Ain’t there anybody chasing you?”
“Not that I know of. I’m not that important. At least not around here.”
Her mystery hero was turning out to be a disappointment. Teehma began to wish he would go away. After all, she couldn’t get back into the fort with him sitting there. “Well then, if you’ve had your rest, maybe you should be going.”
The man showed no inclination to move. Instead, he continued to look at her, taking in her shabby clothes, thin frame, and dark, tangled hair. His gaze lingered on her face long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. “What’s a girl like you doing out at this hour? And why are you talking to strange men like me?”
Teehma fished around for a quick lie. “I was just out fetching water. There’s a well down that way. And I’m only talking to you ‘cuz I tripped over you.”
He obligingly drew his legs in. “If you’re out to get water, where is your bucket?”
She blushed. “Uh, I must have forgot it.”
He didn’t say anything as he stood, though he kept gazing at her. She could tell he was concerned for her. He was also handsome, with kind eyes and light hair like Lucio’s, except that it was clean. In truth, he did not seem much older than she was.
When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Tell me the truth, girl. Are you in danger?”
Teehma glanced around to make sure that Gorvy was nowhere near. “I’m fine. Just a little lost. But I think I remember my way now.” She started to turn away, but he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Listen to me. I don’t know what your trouble is, but I want to help. You’re too young to be out in the streets like this. My name is Vancien and I will be here again at this time and place in four days. If you need help, you can meet me then.”
Thoroughly alarmed by now, Teehma could only nod and make her escape. She waited almost an hour behind a dump pile before she could be certain the man called Vancien had left, and that she could return to the fort. When she finally did come home, even Ester could tell that she was shaken.
__________
The cold season of hiverra had descended upon other parts of Rhyvelad, as well as Lascombe, though not with the biting intensity it reserved for regions north of the Duvarian Range. In the southwest, over the gentle plains separating the Cylini marshes from the fields of Jasimor, the winter storms melted into regular bouts of driving rain. One particularly intense rainstorm was hammering a cluster of buildings just outside of the marsh’s soggy tree line. The huts were rough but sturdy, organized into an efficient little compound, and inhabited by a mix of Keroulian soldiers, some Keroulian civilians, a handful of Cylini warriors, and even a few Cylini women and children. It was often a lively place, but this afternoon all its inhabitants were tucked away indoors as the rain lashed against the inter-laced broad leaves that formed the roofs of their shelters. The few unfortunate figures who did have to cross from one rude hut to another arrived at their destination soaked, as no one had yet built covered walkways. One such figure was Telenar pa Saauli, Patronius en medio.
“Blast this rain!” he muttered, hurrying into his hut and shutting the thin door behind him. He raised a damp hand to his beard. “I swear I’m starting to grow mold.”
The inside of the small building housed little more than a large pallet and some traveling packs, but at least it was dry. A woman of about thirty-five cycles was tending the fire, allowing the smoke to drift upward and out through a hooded vent. This arrangement worked very well. Today, however, the horizontal winds drove the smoke back inside, creating an unpleasant burnt fog effect. Still, the woman smiled as Telenar came in. At the sight of her, he stopped his complaining, though the smoke stung his eyes.
“Perhaps today isn’t the best day for a fire,” he said.
She frowned and starting rubbing her arms. “But I’m so cold!”
Her pout was charming. He would have responded to it, but the smoke made him cough. He hastily removed his spectacles and rubbed his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “Just let me—”
“No, don’t!”
But it was too late. In a fit of nurturing, she had smothered the fire with a blanket, a rash action that produced even more smoke. Now they were both coughing. He struggled to her side.
“It’s good to see you, darling.”