Authors: Tim Akers
“Oh, I think Dugan was in little enough danger from me,” Ian said. “Besides, that was the point of the exercise, wasn’t it?”
“Little enough danger? Gods, what an idiot you can be.” Sorcha grabbed the sword belt and twisted it off her son’s shoulder, lifting it with ease. “This is not a dummy blade, child.”
“I am well aware what sort of blade it is, Mother.”
“Are you?” Sorcha clattered the tip of the sheath to the ground and grabbed her son’s hand. With a yank she freed his hand from the chain mitt and then drew four inches of blade from the scabbard. Before Ian could react, she laid the meat of his palm against the blade. His flesh parted like fine silk before shears, and blood washed across the steel.
Ian yelped and snatched his hand back.
“What in hells is wrong with you?” he cried out. Sorcha sheathed the sword and then, stepping forward, slapped Ian across the face.
“It’s blood, child. Tenerran blood.” She grabbed his wrist and held the wound in front of his face. “Become accustomed to blood. There will be more, unless you start taking those lessons seriously. Pray the next time it isn’t yours.”
“But…”
His mother shook her head. “Enough. Go and dress properly for our guests.” Then she swept away, leaving Ian alone in the hallway. She stormed down the corridor toward the training yard, probably to tear an equal chunk out of Sir Dugan. Ian wrapped a loose cloth around his hand.
“Too serious, not serious enough,” he muttered. “At least Sir Dugan lets me fight back.”
He sighed and pulled the cloth tighter. The high elector’s visit had everyone on edge. The Allfire was approaching, the highest holiday of Lady Strife, goddess of sun and summer and war. Tension along the border between Suhdra and Tener—never soft—had grown in intensity. His father’s court was filled, day after day, with common folk complaining about abuse from Gabriel Halverdt, the duke of Greenhall, to the south.
He smiled, knowing Halverdt’s court was likely choked with complaints of untrustworthy peasants and pagans in the night. On top of that, the summer had brought another drought, and the fields were yellow with dry wheat and ashen soil.
The celestriarch had invited Ian’s father to celebrate the Allfire in distant Heartsbridge, holy seat of the Celestial church, and Malcolm Blakley had declined. None of the Tenerran lords had accepted that invitation, but quickly thereafter had come word of the visit from the high elector.
The timing was more than coincidence. Ian was certain of it. The church was always willing to let the Suhdrin nobility run roughshod over the north, but recently the people had begun talk of calling banners and riding south. It was half of why Ian had wanted to practice that morning. He wanted to greet the high elector with blade in hand.
The blood from his hand was running in rivulets down his fingers, spotting the floor in crimson. Again Ian pulled the linen tighter, cursing his mother’s will. He would need to visit the apothecary before he dressed.
He hoped the high elector didn’t ask the source of his wound.
* * *
Malcolm Blakley waited patiently in the courtyard. The massive wains of the high elector’s caravan rumbled through the front gate, surrounded by men-at-arms dressed in the colors of the church, joined by a few vow knights. There were a lot of blades inside his castle that had no loyalty to him. Even though they were all gods-sworn men and women of the church, it made him nervous.
His own guard spread out behind him, their armor bright and spears tipped in bloodwrought iron. His wife, Sorcha, stood at his side, and the rest of the family lined up beside her. Ian looked nervous, almost anxious, his fingers plucking at the place on his belt where a sword usually hung. Even Nessie appeared cross. He would have to speak to them later about their manners.
As for Malcolm himself, he wore the armor of his station. Dukes in the north always carried the threat of war, even in a council of peace. He was a heavy man, the muscle of his younger days just beginning to fade away into fat. His braids of coarse black hair were shot through with silver, and the naming day tattoos that ringed his eyes were obscured by wrinkles. The heavy hands that rested on his scabbard were scarred from years on the hunt and the tournament, not to mention the violence of the Reaver War and the unkindness shown him in the court of Halverdt in the days before. He was a gentle man in eye and voice, but his body spoke of war.
The wagons rumbled to a halt and their esteemed passengers got out. The first wagon was full of lesser priests and administrators, their fingers stained with ink and blood. The second wagon disgorged the higher servants of the church, clustered around the bulk of the high elector, his own little court of scryers dousing the air with frairwood incense before he descended. The stinking smoke made Malcolm wince. Did they really trust him so little, that they would sanctify the ground before they risked their precious elector’s skin?
The high elector himself was a large man. In another life he would have been a farmer’s son, the kind of boy who was good at baling hay and lifting stones, but not much good at the finer things in life. But Marcus Beaunair was born to the Church of Strife, and the path of the bright lady suited him well, a path that led him from initiate to frair to high elector before the first white hair graced his thick skull. His hands, born to do hard and thankless labor, were instead as smooth as silk and ringed with gold and silver. When he saw Malcolm standing stiffly to attention, his face broke into a grin as bright as sunshine.
“Do people still call you Reaverbane, Duke?” he asked with a laugh and a clap of those wide hands. “I think I would encourage it, if I were you. Such a fine name. A fine name!”
“Not often, your holiness,” Malcolm answered. “I prefer the titles the gods were good enough to give me.”
“Yet it’s a title you’ve earned,” Beaunair said loudly, his voice echoing off the high walls of the courtyard. “A name given to you by the blood of your enemies and the wailing of their widows.” He took Malcolm’s hand in his own, and slapped the duke heavily on the shoulder. Malcolm winced. “And not just your enemies. Our enemies. The enemies of the church!”
“Yes, your holiness, and we are blessed that you would visit our home. You may find our doma quite humble compared to your seat in Heartsbridge, but I hope you’ll do us the honor of the evensong.”
“There is no truer doma than a humble one,” Beaunair said. “The golden walls of Heartsbridge always seem a bit much to me, don’t you think? I know the builders meant it as a tribute to our Lady Strife, but it’s foolish to think any damned metal could truly stand beside the beauty of dawn’s first light, eh?”
“Perhaps, but doesn’t the light of the sun glimmer more beautifully off gold than any other metal?” Malcolm asked. “Isn’t that the goldwright’s meaning? That we should be as gold, glimmering in the light of our lady’s love?”
“Ha!” Beaunair barked, clearly delighted. “A theologian. A poet! Gods know what I was expecting, but you’re much more than I could have hoped. You should have been a priest, Duke. You might have made something of yourself.”
“Something more than a Tenerran lord, you mean?” Ian muttered to himself, a bit too loudly. Malcolm flushed, but Beaunair smiled more broadly and went to Ian’s side.
“This is the one… This one!” He prodded Ian’s chest with one thick finger before grabbing the boy by both shoulders and shaking him like a sieve. “I have heard much of you at court, Lord Ian! A hunter to rival the wolf, and a swordsman as swift as the wind and twice as kind. Ah, boy, when I was your age I wouldn’t have ventured into these woods for all the peaches in the choir eternal!” Ian fumbled around with the phrasing, finally blushing furiously when he realized what the high elector was implying. “Look at the two of you. Heroes! A family of heroes.”
“Thank you, your holiness,” Malcolm said, “and we are truly honored by your visit. My men will unload your luggage and show you to your quarters.”
“We have little luggage. We are only briefly in Houndhallow.”
“Oh? Then where do your travels take you?” Malcolm asked.
“Back to Greenhall, as soon as you are able to leave.”
“Leave, your holiness? Do you mean to give me Greenhall’s throne as an Allfire gift?”
The high elector laughed, his great chest and belly bouncing under his vestments of gold and red.
“A foul gift that would be, Duke. The getting of which might kill you.” His eyes twinkled, but something harder came across his face. For the first time since Beaunair had gotten out of his carriage, the smile on his face seemed false. “We have some business for you, Malcolm Blakley. Something that needs to be done in Duke Halverdt’s court.”
“Something, your holiness?”
“A task. A peace. A bit of a sacrifice for you, I’m sure,” Beaunair said, “but you’ll do fine.”
He turned to Sorcha and Nessie, and continued with his jokes.
T
HE HIGH ELECTOR
moved away, surrounded by his staff and led by Ian’s mother. Nessie tagged along, contentedly eating the sugar bun Beaunair had produced from the pockets of his robes. Ian stood nervously beside his father.
“What do you think he means?” Ian asked.
Malcolm’s eyes were distant, though looking in the direction of the departing group. He was tapping his teeth together and swaying slowly back and forth.
“Father?”
“Sorry. Yes—what does he mean?” Malcolm’s voice was bitter. “He’ll let us know soon enough.”
“Another tax, do you think? We’ve already given mightily to the church’s coffers, to feed their destitute.” Ian sighed heavily. “Gold that should have gone to Tenerran poor, not Suhdrin. Their crops fail and our vaults empty. I swear, if they mean to bring a levy…”
“It’s not that,” Malcolm said. “Or probably not. They wouldn’t send the high elector to grub for gold. You heard him. They mean us to travel with them… somewhere. Perhaps declining the celestriarch’s invitation was a mistake.” He looked meaningfully at his son. “Be grateful that we have the stores to give. Suhdra has been caught in the grip of this blight for too long. If their people starve, the Circle of Lords won’t be content to sit in their castles. They will come north and take whatever they please.”
“I did not learn the sword to better my charity,” Ian said. “If Suhdra comes north, they will find steel in these forests.”
Malcolm snorted, then rubbed his son’s loopy hair and gave him a shove.
“You’ve been listening to too many ballads. Go, find your mother, and see that Nessie doesn’t spoil her dinner.”
“Where are you going?” Ian asked.
“Council. I need to speak to Sir Dugan before the high elector summons me. He’ll have made it to the kitchens by now. That will keep him occupied for a while.” Malcolm started to march off briskly, then paused. “Ian, don’t let this worry you. This kind of talk comes around every Allfire. Sleep soundly this night, son.”
Ian’s cheeks burned as he watched his father walk away. He clenched his fists and his jaw, then spat into the dirt.
“Sleep I will, but not in your trust,” he muttered. “I can do more than hope for sweet dreams. I
will
do more.”
* * *
A servant pushed open the door that led out to the council yard, backing into the private space while balancing a tray of selected meats, fruits, and a jug of mulled wine. The men who had been talking cut off abruptly.
“Pardon, my lord,” she said, sketching as much of a bow as she dared without endangering her tray. “My lady thought our guests could use some refreshment.”
The duke of Houndhallow was seated on a campstool on the trimmed grass of the yard, his hands folded lightly on a wooden table in the center of the open space. There were five other men gathered around the table. Three of them wore the red and gold of Strife’s zealous sect, flanked on both sides by the master of hearth and master of guard, Master Tavvish and Sir Dugan. The men of Houndhallow looked grim.
The wall around the yard was solid stone, rising twenty feet up, but the yard was open to the sky. An old superstition, tracing back to the days of the Tenerran tribes. Even in the dead of winter, the Blakleys of Houndhallow did their most important business under the open sky.
“Thank you,” the duke said, not disguising his sarcasm as he gestured to the table. “The lady is always considerate in these matters. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to provide food until one of us collapsed from hunger.”
“Hardly fear of that,” High Elector Beaunair said. “Your hospitality has been outstanding. And fresh air! I can hardly get enough of it.”
“The air, or the hospitality?” Tavvish whispered into the duke’s ear. They watched the high elector tucking an ear of charred corn into his mouth. The man was capable of incredible feats of consumption, as had already been demonstrated during the long walk to the council yard. Malcolm had to wonder how such an appetite didn’t lead to a flabbier man. The high elector must have a furnace burning in his belly, he mused.
“Both!” Beaunair agreed, and Tavvish straightened his back. “Both, indeed, but I did not come all this way from Heartsbridge to discuss fatty pork.”
“No, your holiness.”
“House Blakley has been a friend to the church for a very long time. They were the first to lay aside their pagan ways during the crusades. When the reavers came to our shores, it was House Blakley who led the fight to join the faithful of Tenumbra together to throw them off, and when war has threatened between our two countries, it has been House Blakley who has brought us to the common table of understanding.”
“My father felt strongly about his faith,” Malcolm said stiffly. “I try to follow his wise footsteps, where I am able.”
“Yes. He was the one who sent you to Greenhall, was he not? To treat with the Circle of Lords, gathered there to repel the reavers, should their incursion break free of Tenerran borders.” Beaunair leaned forward, hands on his precipitous knees. “It nearly cost you your life.”
“Our houses have not always seen eye to eye. I spent some time as Greenhall’s unwilling guest, and from there was fortunate enough to lead our combined armies, when it became clear that the reaver threat wasn’t merely a Tenerran problem.”