S R James
Copyright
Copyright © H M Yeo. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
To my wonderful family who have put up with my abstractions for so long, getting these stories into the world – and to those of you who have been so kind, enjoying what I’ve written – I can only hope you enjoy this too. This is especially for Helen, best friend and sister-in-law who has been with this from it’s conception.
Table of Contents
The Flame of Arven I –Betrothal And Prophecy
Characters in Selith & Mendor Continents
Characters in the Jajozeli Empire
Tenarum
Tenum City
King Marrand (45)
Queen Tanallyse (deceased)
Prince Jerryn (16)
Lord Chamberlain Ferman – Member of the Council
Lord Gorman – Member of the Council
Lady Celia of Pellerton Court – Member of the Council
Lord of Calshore – Member of the Council
Earl Orthen of Rothern (26)
Lady of Calshore
Lord Deeme - son of Lord Ferman
Lady Bettana
Commander Vedeigne (head of Tenarean Army)
Private Tymain (18)
Captain Garane – Captain of the Flame Guard
Captain Zecherry – Captain of royal barge
Archpriest Lurco of Tenarum (66)
Ex-Archpriest Bahlien (Razine)
Lord Shan – Marrand’s valet
Lord Karne – Jerryn’s valet
Earl Bennard
Master Pellarse – owner of Golden Star
Farn – barman at Golden Star
Earl Rhane – Derravale Ambassador
Duke Werhend – Amorry Ambassador
Mallie – Lady Celia’s maid
Captain Cheym
Clirensar
Duke Sarant (44)
Duchess Riyala (43)
Lord Pualyn (20)
Lady Ethrayne (16)
Lady Lyria (18) (lady-in-waiting to Duchess)
Dean Pettar – Ethrayne’s tutor
Captain Callin
Reeve Thomur
Steward Pellarse
Master Armourer Queyt – Black Fell
Richon – Owner of Crossed Keys, Black Fell
Sallie – Ethrayne’s maid
Fionn – Ethrayne’s maid
Evvan – Head groom
Tally – Stableboy
Poppy – Maid
Captain Benner – Household Guard
Callorton
Lord Faylls – Lyria’s father
Lady Allara – Lyria’s mother
Dettar + Hella
Heldor + Jenfer
Salyr +Deanne (manage Home Farm)
Lieutenant Sevanter (26) – Lyria’s brother
Orran
Garrison Commander Taess
Lord Kierven of Orran – owns the Sweet Rose & Crimson Rose – Captain Leo (trading ships)
Rothern
Captain Dhell - fisherman
Garrison Commander - Captain Kelbourn
Applegarth
Master Kethar
Mistress Jess
Rosie
Marta
Cassie
Ianto
Ethie
Foston
Captain Chasson
Seplar
Foukes
Mayor Fergus
Mistress Ellysa
Master Banley
Greta (14) – Lyria’s maid
Lieutenant Barnd
Fenton – Priest
Sergeant Remmen
Effram - Farmer
Amorry
Renlow
King Namayomn
Queen Tiarma
Prince Hanamn
Archpriest Ghorhant
Canon Rayse
Duke Agamn
West Port
Derravale
Larrand
King Nemeth
Crown Prince Tarlan
Archpriest Eduard
Colonel Varle
Leskerthorpe
Headman Thwaite
Captain Thurton
Lieutenant Douglas
Orbain
Lerat
High-King Mhezal
High-Queen Nicail
High-Prince Kerrenan
High-Princess Arialle
Archpriestess Gailla
Harbour Master Souden
Cenrayn – Servant
Captain Robard
Lieutenant Harrisen
Commander Greylon
Zoillan
Cerris
Jaece
Hessarth
Rhastten
Runnig
Mador
Amador
Cheass
Perach
Veddock
Lowaith
Protectorate Fleets
Lerat Pearl – Captain Lowther
Orbain Pearl – Captain Ashanner
First Officer Kellen
Lieutenant Hachon
Mador Opal – Captain Phellos
First Officer Lunde
Rynn
Zeron
Fereyne
Veddock Pearl – Captain Skendon
Lieutenant Carron
Jaece Pearl – Captain Eltham
First Officer Vesstelyn
Lowel
Tanag
Syme
Cerris Opal – Captain Amdor
First Officer Forran
Emperor Gregnor – The Betrayer
Zanezli
Ban’Lerracon
Master Cheltor – Weapons Master
General Ackat
General Cavaln - Healer
General Garrtnor
General Thellor – Combat Instructor
General Shaille – Combat Instructor
General Oxttyn
Inajo – Cadet
General Tynsyn – Tutor
General Dahne – Tutor
General Masson – Combat Instructor
Cal’Badon
Commander – General Tequan
General Jaike – logistics
General Owenn
Colonel Macasse - logisitics
Captain Reddessor – scout
Hellear – scout
Lieutenant Ejas
Cal’ Dernal – Captain Scarm (guard fort)
Cal’ Passe – Captain Wesse (guard fort)
Cal’ Lilse – Captain Yellayn (guard fort)
Cal’Itase – To the King’s Lightning
General Jallon
General Harton - Healer
General Whillan – Chef & Logistics
General Sapphor – Chef & Logisitcs
General Bentham
General Khaen
General Allur
General Eduren
General Ollyn
General Harstyn
General Unwynn
‘Phellos’ Folly’ – (Mador Opal)
General Pasqua - Captain
General Tegene
General Rabbonard
General Alach
General Shuim
General Gornen
Enlath
Ban’Ganleth
Lord Governor Doreth
Master Dorwyn – Weapons Master
Her Holiness Timindra
His Holiness Ettomar
Iryan – Head Butler
Penttar – 1
Staipe – 2
Ertam – 3 Spring Equinox - Selith
Rhellay – 4
Atlaire – 5
Shilare – 6 Summer Solstice - Selith
Kharsare – 7
Jawell – 8
Vhisson – 9 Autumn Equinox - Selith
Thurton – 10
Umttarn – 11
Instur – 12 Winter Solstice - Selith
The throng of immaculately dressed courtiers and hangers-on seemed to ebb and flow about the foot of the dais where Lady Ethrayne, Prince Jerryn, her parents and brother, and Jerryn’s father, King Marrand, stood in their finery, raised higher than everyone else and so, of course, the absolute centre of attention. Their location was the old Tapestried Hall in the royal palace in Tenum City, with its tall, narrow, ancient mullioned windows holding rare stained glass of equal antiquity and the far newer, brightly configured tapestries that covered nearly all the whitewashed stone walls between. Bright evening spring sunshine was reflecting off other castle walls in the vicinity, shining through the windows and dotting the tapestries and walls with yet more hues. It was early evening, on a surprisingly lovely spring day.
Even brighter were the finely worked costumes of the guests, of every colour imaginable, in the fashion of the season; the small group on the dais, receiving the best wishes of the throng, were dressed even more exquisitely and – quite deliberately – coordinated in colour. The surrounding noise was baffling; the numerous scents and pomanders that drifted on the air were equally an assault on the nose – but the young woman, feeling suddenly and ridiculously vulnerable and far too exposed, held back a sigh and maintained her smile.
“My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Ethrayne Hallainne Tanallyse, Lady of Clirensar, and now the betrothed of Prince Jerryn Marrath Sarant, heir of the throne of Tenarum.” King Marrand declared with a wide grin and a flourish of his arms, followed by a well-rehearsed burst of a golden trumpet fanfare from liveried musicians against the far wall. “I apologise for not being able to announce a date for their wedding, but the year is young, and I am sure that they will let me know their wishes.”
There was a wave of polite amusement around the hall, and the Duke and Duchess exchanged smiles with the King.
Ethrayne curtsied very politely to the hall at large, a curtsy that was precise in every detail, yet not at all subservient. She wore a gown of pale green satin edged with silver lace and embroidery, deceptively simple, demure rather than revealing, but stunning. Her betrothed, now chatting amiably with her older brother, wore midnight blue brocade, whilst her brother was staid but handsome in doa darker green of a similar cut – and both looked a little uncomfortable in the heavy, tight garments. The King wore black and white, offset by his heavy crown, whilst the girl’s mother was imposing in jade green silk, of an exquisite quality that was clearly imported and her father complemented her in a deep shade of grey velvet offset with silver and black.
“Courage, my dear Ethrayne – the feasting will begin soon enough.” King Marrand quietly assured the girl with a warm smile, squeezing her hand for a moment. “The servants have been working on the occasion for a moon at least – it would be rude in the extreme to abandon this event before time.”
For a moment a genuine smile crinkled her nose and made her blue eyes sparkle - Uncle Marrand obviously knew her too well – and she chuckled. “This would not be too arduous to endure, your Majesty, if I did not know full well that many of these good people wished so plainly that you had chosen their daughter or niece to wed Jerryn and not I.” She glanced at Prince Jerryn on her left, then back at his father. “I am, of course, greatly honoured, your Majesty, but I do remember that little boy sitting high in the apple tree with me, pelting Pualyn with fruit.” She broke off as both the prince and her brother, Lord Pualyn, snorted with evident amusement. “Dereck the gardener was not best pleased with us.”
“So who would be better suited to keep his Highness here in line, my dear?” Marrand enquired with a wink that included all of them.
“Father!” Jerryn protested with false indignation.
There came a second, slightly less musical blast from the trumpets on the far side of the hall, announcing that the guests of honour should lead the procession through to the oak-panelled hall next door, for the well-appointed feast prepared for the betrothed couple.
Prince Jerryn bowed low and escorted his beautiful, jewel-bedecked lady into the banqueting hall, where the wide windows in one long wall looked out over a large garden where bright spring flowers were crammed into beds set between ancient paving and lichen-covered walls. Glorious scents wafted in through open panes, competing with the huge platters of intricately dressed dishes set out for their delight – the first of many courses.
Ethrayne, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clirensar, was sixteen; she was a pretty girl with bright blue eyes, soft, honey-coloured hair, and an amiable manner that quite effectively disguised a strong, clever personality. Of a little more than average height for a young woman, she was a head shorter than Jerryn and a few months younger.
The Prince was just over six feet tall, with dark chestnut curls, hazel eyes and regular, pleasing features. Like most noblemen of his age, his body was lean and well-muscled from years of weapons-training, hunting and summer tournaments – although his father’s kingdom had not been to war for hundreds of years, it was not deemed sensible to abandon the tradition of centuries, although Tenarum was on excellent terms with her neighbours on the Selithian continent.
The newly-betrothed couple had known each other from earliest childhood: their fathers were the closest of friends, and Duke Sarant had been Marrand’s most trusted member of the Council of Tenarum for many years. Indeed, since the death of Jerryn’s mother, Queen Tanallyse in childbirth twelve years previously, the friendship of King, Duke and Duchess had only strengthened – and that of their children likewise.
Course followed course, and wine and ale flowed freely for a time, the volume of noise increasing apace, until a group of musicians began playing, and Jerryn and Ethrayne, laughing, got up and began the dancing alone – mirroring their future marriage. Even those who were jealous of the Lady’s good fortune had to admit that they made a fine couple as they moved through the intricate steps of one of the most popular dances of the year. As the music ended with a flourish from the musicians, and a graceful bow and curtsey from the couple, everyone joined in with enthusiastic applause before other couples joined them below the tables, beginning a hugely popular country tune and a stomping, whirling dance of great antiquity, familiar throughout the realm and danced at all occasions and locations from royal palace to village green.
“They make a good couple, Sarant.” Marrand remarked to his old friend, the Duke of Clirensar. “Ethrayne will be a very good queen for Tenarum, and for Jerryn,” he laughed, “if the next few months do not scare her away from the palace entirely. This union will serve to strengthen the Kingdom as none other could – thank you.”
“The honour is ours, Marrand.” Duchess Riyala answered with a smile, patting his hand. “And she knows all the dangers of court – from cellar to tower, if I remember. Do you recall, when they were small and practically everyone in the palace complex was searching for the three of them, and they were fishing down in the river?” She chuckled, shaking her head at the memory.
“Dear Arven, their clothes were ruined – they were, what? Only seven or so? Pualyn might have been ten or eleven. And now look at them.” Marrand grinned, gesturing proudly to where the youngsters danced – Jerryn and Ethrayne, Pualyn and his yet unofficial betrothed, Lady Lyria, elegant in a darker shade of green than Ethrayne’s gown. “Our children are all grown up! Where have the years gone?”
“Tanallyse would be so proud of you.” Sarant said with a gentle smile. “Jerryn is a fine young man – a worthy heir.”
“As is your son, old friend.” The King added as Pualyn and Lyria pranced past the front of the high table, leading their group in the dance. “They look happy together. I imagine that more congratulations and festivities will be soon in order.” And he bowed his head, still grinning.
Lady Lyria was the Duchess’s principal lady-in-waiting, a small, shapely girl of eighteen with blonde hair, sparkling pale blue eyes and a constant smile. She and Ethrayne were the closest of friends.
“I am certain that the announcement will be imminent, Marrand,” Sarant admitted, “Pualyn has asked for permission from Lyria’s family – they farm the land next to Home Farm, you remember? Her eldest brother runs the stud, the third is in the army.”
“Yes, of course – she’s the only daughter, isn’t she?” Marrand nodded – he enjoyed the quiet times he spent almost anonymously in the south of his realm, where he and Sarant were almost merely local landowners, away from the complications and convolutions of court. “They’re a very good family.”
“She is a lovely young woman – and I will be immensely lucky to gain her as daughter, and she will become an excellent Duchess, in time.” Riyala stated easily and at her smug tone, both men laughed, before they turned their attention to appreciating the dancing again.
*
Much later that night, Ethrayne sat before the ornately framed looking glass in the fine suite of rooms newly assigned to her, adjoining her parents’ apartment in the vast palace. Wearing a soft velvet robe in deep pink, humming a tune as Lyria, in sea-green silk, gently combed out the last of the complex style in which her hair had been confined all day. Their beautiful but heavy and very restrictive gowns had already been unlaced to be hung up in the dressing room by their maids, girls from Clirensar, friends as well as servants, who had now retired.
Ethrayne picked up the jewelled pins that had held the braids so elegantly and placed them in a small silver box, before reaching up to remove the earrings that sparkled on her lobes, matching the delicate-looking tiara and necklace that lay in the centre of the dressing table – a wealth of sapphires, emeralds and diamonds in the colours of Marrand’s standard. The jewels looked like forget-me-nots in graduated shades of blue, with eyes of gold, edged with gleaming grass green and scintillating diamonds throwing the light every-which-way.
“They are lovely, Ethrayne.” Lyria said wonderingly. “You looked so beautiful today – even more so than usual, dear.”
The younger girl laughed a little. “Dear Arven, if that is beauty, I really don’t want to endure it every day, Lyria – my scalp aches: that little tiara weighs nearly as much as a bag of flour, and the gown seriously constricts my breathing. Do you think I’ll be able to wear my old, loose linen dresses for the next month or two?” Carefully she laid the jewellery in the large ebony case edged in filigreed gold and lined with white satin. “But it is lovely. I expect Jerryn likes his betrothal gifts more: the weapons are the best in the kingdom by far; and quite a few young men at court were hugely envious of his receipt of Father’s prize stallion.”
Lyria smiled, shaking her head as she continued working Ethrayne’s hair into one loose, waist-length braid. “A few? Every man in the city would give his left arm to own a horse from the stables of Clirensar, dear – and Vachane is the best by far. He’s the pinnacle of your father’s success to date, you know.”
“Men!” Ethrayne snorted a little resentfully. “They prefer weapons and horses to us!” She turned about as Lyria fastened a ribbon securely about the braid, frowning.
“Now that is certainly not true, dear.” Lyria countered. “You’re tired – you were the complete centre of attention today, Ethrayne, in every way. The prince might have superb weapons and the beginning of his own stud, but he will also have you –.”
“With the accompanying steel and horses!” Ethrayne interrupted, feeling uncharacteristically ungrateful.
“Ethrayne, you know that your marriage will strengthen the kingdom greatly – the iron and steel of the south allied to the kingdom by blood: the risk of one single heir negated by your wedding. And Clirensar will be connected by blood to the throne forever.” Lyria answered firmly. “Your father’s gift is vast – whereas Pualyn will have my hand, and only a token dowry.”
“Oh Lyria, I’m sorry. Not only have we completely overshadowed your own wonderful news, I am moaning ungratefully when you’re tired too. Your announcement and betrothal should have happened first this spring.” Ethrayne said contritely, feeling suddenly spiteful and embarrassed by her burst of bad temper.
“It doesn’t matter, Ethrayne. Pualyn is a member of the Council, after all: he spoke on the matter of your betrothal and voted against Jerryn’s wishes.” Lyria shrugged a little. “Everyone deserves a good party after the winter and the King can afford it, after all.”
The plain truth of that caused Ethrayne to laugh, but a knock at the door to their left caused Lyria to decorously halt her laughter, a mixture of surprise and happy agreement and Ethrayne called entry, before she laughed as well and hugged her friend, bad humour leaving her as suddenly as it had emerged.
“Are you two going to be talking all night long?” The Duchess Riyala asked, sweeping into the room in a fine garnet dressing gown buttoned to her neck, two long braids hanging over her shoulders, followed by her tall husband, imposing in black. “Oh, if only I had your stamina, dears.” And she sighed with apparent weariness.
“Mother!” Ethrayne got up, her own braid swinging, and moved to embrace the duchess, then her father. “Father! Oh, my! I just – I’m sorry, it is very late, isn’t it?”
“Ethrayne darling.” Sarant held her close, and kissed her on the brow. “All grown up now – it seems only moments since you were a toddler – oh, we are so proud.” He reached out and cupped Lyria’s chin as he spoke, including her in the compliment, smiling.
“We have only come to wish you good night, dear.” Riyala hugged Ethrayne again when her father released her, then Lyria also, kissing them both. “Gosh – all this excitement – I am exhausted, even if you two aren’t. Sweet dreams, my dears.”
“Mother, Father – good night and thank you.” Ethrayne said, curtsying and her parents disappeared back into the sitting room beyond, then back to their own apartment.
“Your family is lovely, Ethrayne.” Lyria commented with a smile. “And so is the prince – and King Marrand has been so kind to me. You have nothing to fear here in Tenum City – and you are so clever.”
Ethrayne grinned at that. “Clever doesn’t really count for much, Lyria, not for a girl.” She gestured to her friend to take her place at the mirror, and picked up the comb to un-braid her hairstyle in turn.
“That is not true and you know it – look at Lady Celia: she has now inherited Pellerton Court in her own right, and she has joined the Council. Those scary old men might have been terribly shocked at that, I’m sure.” Lyria stated calmly. “And she was nothing before, was she?”
“Well, that’s true – Lady Celia’s maid came with a note yesterday, asking me to join her for luncheon the day after tomorrow.” Ethrayne said as she combed and unfastened Lyria’s hair. “I spoke with her briefly, earlier – she’s not as scared, speaking and appearing in public as she was last year, when she first came to court. And look at her - Mistress of Pellerton Court, not just that-young-niece-of-Lord-Junnet.” She made a noise of disgust. “Ellett was horrible, Junnet’s nephew. I only ever saw him at a distance, but – gosh – I’ve heard awful stories, so many women of all ranks had trouble with him. He drank, gambled and fought all over the countryside, I think and left debts everywhere. He caused so much trouble that Marrand lost all patience and disinherited him completely.”
“It serves him right. It’s no way for a member of the Council to behave.” Lyria agreed as her blonde hair was deftly plaited. “We are both very lucky, you know Ethrayne: we know our husbands-to-be, which is quite unusual.” She smiled broadly.
“Yes, that’s true.” Ethrayne chuckled. “You have lived in the castle with us for some years, helping Mother, but we’ve known you and your family from early childhood – and we all kept running across the fields between Callorton and Home Farm, me and Pualyn, you and your older brothers, do you remember? And Jerryn and I have known each other for ever, too, I suppose – when we were babies, since mother and the queen were so close. We fell out completely for months when we were ten – can’t really remember why, but I suppose it was over something silly and childish. Jerryn and Pualyn have been close friends for years – and it’s clear that my brother adores you. I just wish that our betrothal had not squashed your plans, dear.” She apologised.
“But it hasn’t – and we don’t mind, Ethrayne.” Lyria hugged her tight. Let’s get to bed, shall we? It’s been a very busy day.”
“Gosh, hasn’t it?” Ethrayne agreed.
*
In his large, well-appointed suite at the other end of the corridor, Prince Jerryn of Tenarum had dismissed Karne, his valet and his other servants, his ears still ringing from the conversations, the music and noise that had filled the halls earlier; thankfully alone, he slowly unfastened his shirt, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and donned the nightshirt laid out neatly on his huge four posted bed; he was weary, but still keyed up after the events of the day, so he poured a small goblet of deep red wine and sipped at it, before taking up the sheathed weapons that had been set rather incongruously on the sideboard, before a bowl of fruit.
He had known that Duke Sarant would present him with weapons, of course, since Clirensar held the best reserves of ore yet discovered in the realm and the best smiths besides – but the quality of the sword, long dagger and table knife, the finish of the steel, hilts and leatherwork was all superb. Bright gold and large emeralds and sapphires reflected the warm lamplight in odd directions – a fortune of gems that balanced the weapons perfectly, if ostentatiously, creating items that would be a good part of a king’s ransom.
The thought made Jerryn smile – this gift certainly equalled the price of the jewellery that his father had commissioned for Ethrayne, and they had only served to enhance her phenomenal beauty – a beauty of which she actually seemed oblivious, a fact that always made him smile.
This marriage was political, of course, but he knew that he and Ethrayne were very lucky: they might have grown apart as they had grown older, moving into their very different roles as man and woman, but they had been pretty-much inseparable as children. They knew each other well, their personalities and moods – and, uniquely, their families were close, too. He, Ethrayne and the kingdom, too, would hopefully all flourish . . . But marriage! It was a huge leap into the unknown. Jerryn wondered, taking another sip of wine, if his betrothed was as nervous as he.
“Well, it’s back to normal again, anyway – well, as normal as it ever gets here.” He murmured with a short laugh, and turned out the lamps about the room before climbing into bed. That was one hurdle out of the way, but he couldn’t really imagine being married, let alone to Ethrayne . . . that was a concept too far, a future that he could not quite envisage.
* * *
The following morning dawned clear and bright, but few of the nobles residing in the palace were up to see the sunrise, unlike the myriad servants who kept the complex of buildings running smoothly – and they were all far too busy to stand and watch the golden globe rising into the eastern sky.
Still, considering what time of night they had all finally retired, the King, his son and heir and Duke Sarant’s family were all up not long afterwards, looking forward to another day and looking not too worn, despite the periodic bouts of yawning that sprang up about the breakfast table, as liveried servants served them with tea, cold milk and a vast range of freshly prepared viands, from porridge to grilled kidneys, there in the preferred private dining room of the royal family.
Discussion between them was light, but Prince Jerryn and Lord Pualyn sat with their heads close and talking quietly in each others’ ear, glancing quickly around at their companions, grinning broadly, then turning their attention back to their plates.
This morning, the ladies wore plainer gowns, looser than their formal robes, a welcome relief after the corsets and lacings that so confined them; Ethrayne in deep green, her mother in crimson and Lyria in a soft blue. At first glance, they were plain, but on closer inspection the fabric was rich with embroidery and other details. The men were informally dressed in fine linen shirts, their doublets unfastened, soft boots on their feet.
“What are you two planning?” Duchess Riyala asked levelly, glancing from Pualyn to Jerryn over her porridge bowl. “I know you are up to something.”
“Us, Madam?” Prince Jerryn asked in a mock outraged tone. “What on Iullyn makes you say that?”
“Because we know you so very well, your Highness.” She replied dryly, smiling. “Come on, spit it out.”
“But of course, your Grace.” Jerryn answered with a flourish of his right hand and an inclination of his head. “My esteemed nearly brother-in-law has tentatively suggested that we ride out up into the hills to clear our heads after the extravagances of yesterday. It’s turning into a lovely day, so far at least.” He flashed them his winning smile, his eyes shining and Pualyn guffawed. “Of course, it might well rain, but the sun is shining and we’ve spent so much time organising for yesterday that we really deserve a day out – don’t we?”
Duchess Riyala and King Marrand exchanged glances and groaned in unison, shaking their heads, whilst Ethrayne, Lyria and Duke Sarant all laughed.
“You just want to try out Vachane, Jerryn, but you’ve certainly thought of an inventive and probably popular way to escape the palace.” King Marrand stated, leaning forwards across the table. “Don’t you dare to deny it, young man -.” He added with a fake glare.
“Deny it? I’d never do that, Father.” Jerryn countered with a broad grin, straightening. “We’ll rouse the other young people in the palace, have some food boxed up for luncheon – and I can finally ride Vachane.”
“Jerryn, you are quite outrageous, do you know that?” Ethrayne declared as his eyes widened in that boyish, enthusiastic way he still had. “Oh, please Mother, Father, your Majesty, may we go?” She asked eagerly, appealing to all the adults.
Their parents exchanged long looks, and maintained a unified silence until the King sighed slightly and glanced from one young adult to another and finally smiled. “Go along with you then – but be back well before dinner.”
“We will, Father, I promise.” Jerryn assured him quickly. “Thank you, Father – come on, you three -.”
*
It took time, of course, to gather together those were eager for the exercise – mostly young people like themselves, but not entirely. There was a certain amount of bustle amongst the various servants of those interested, fetching and carrying, or bearing messages yet, surprisingly quickly, all things considered, they congregated in the main courtyard. The ladies wore the latest in fashionable riding gear, in jewel bright shades; the men were similarly striking in leather leggings and jerkins, and would probably be a lot more comfortable.
Ethrayne wore an elegant, understated outfit in garnet velvet and crisp white silk, a matching velvet cap sat jauntily on her head; Lyria was striking in crimson; Pualyn looked older in black and silver, whilst Jerryn wore deep blue. He was busily organising the group, the very centre of attention, his new weapons resting easily at his hip, shining in the sunlight fighting against a bank of clouds gusting across the sky. He was not the only one armed – Pualyn and most of the other men were similarly weighed down with swords, as was customary.
About twenty-five nobles set out, followed by twenty guards and four servants in charge of the horses that bore luncheon in large baskets strapped to their backs. The clatter of their horses’ hooves preceded them down the winding way from the palace, and the main street of the city cleared of pedestrians as they saw the prince’s company advancing, people stopping at the edge to wave and cheer.
Ethrayne, riding beside Jerryn at the head of the group, heard both blessings and congratulations shouted to them; obviously, the official announcement of their betrothal had been widely discussed since the previous morning. She smiled, waved, and occasionally called back thanks to left and right, gazing down at the faces of those hard-working folk who had paused in their own busy lives to wish her and Jerryn well. Men, women, children – of every spectrum of life in the kingdom passed before her eyes; some nobles despised the ordinary folk, she knew that, but her parents had taught her and Pualyn that everything in their own exalted world was underpinned on two vital foundations: the rural economy, that provided the food on everyone’s tables, and the villages, towns and cities, the base of the network of trade and commerce that spread across the continent and far beyond. Without the dual base, the kingdom was nothing.
Then – abruptly – sharply. A feeling of actual hatred hit her, almost like a slap across the face. Her hands tightened on the reins, and she sat up straighter in the saddle, as the feeling strengthened. But what was it?
“Are you all right, Ethrayne?” Jerryn asked jovially, seeing her sudden change of expression – then he grimaced. “Ow! What is that?”
“You can feel it too?” The girl asked, slightly reassured by that fact. “You can feel that – that hatred, Jerryn?”
“Dear Arven, yes.” He exclaimed. “I can feel fury, too – But how can we feel feelings?”
“Hurry up, Jerryn!” Earl Orthen called from behind Pualyn, for they had both allowed their mounts to slow as they considered the strange feeling that had come over them.
“Yes, sorry everyone.” The Prince answered, turning slightly to grin and wave back at the others in apology as, almost at the same moment, he and Ethrayne both felt a lessening of the unfriendly emotions that beat at them. In a breath, it was gone as if it had never been as they continued at a trot down towards the massive gates in the western wall of the city.
The others laughed and talked together merrily, a broader group on the open highway, but the newly betrothed couple rode ahead in quiet thought, wondering what had happened – doubting uneasily that it had been their imaginations. Then, after a hundred yards or so, the conversations surrounding them began to impinge on their thoughts and Ethrayne and Jerryn began to join in, abandoning the puzzle, riding away from the city, making for the wooded hills over a league away to the west, past crown-owned farmland and neat estates.
It was not until they stopped for luncheon in the shade of a copse of blossom-covered rowan trees, sometime in the early afternoon, that they could begin to discuss that odd event, as the group sorted themselves out, and the servants set out the bread, cheeses, meats and so forth and poured beer and wine with generous hands.
“Did you feel the hatred?” Ethrayne asked, with a shudder, as Jerryn spread his cloak over a fallen log, and politely helped her to sit, a short distance from the chattering group. “Thank you. I’ve never faced antagonism like that -.”
“Nor in such a manner!” Jerryn interjected, smiling as Lady Lyria brought them a platter of food, followed by young Deerne, son of Lord Chamberlain Ferman, who bore pale wine in fine silver goblets. “Thank you, both.” Then he sighed, as their privacy was restored. “I don’t think anyone else felt it, though – else they would be talking about it too.”
“But who could hate us so vehemently, Jerryn? We are prominent – you especially as Marrand’s son –.” He snorted disgustedly. “- Yet we have no real influence over the kingdom – not for years yet, even though you are in the Council.” Ethrayne shrugged and took a bite of thinly sliced beef and pickles on bread.
“Somehow . . . somehow it felt also personal.” Jerryn mused, sipping at his wine. “Oh, I don’t -.”
“Come on, you two!” Lady Bettana called rather shrilly. “There’ll be plenty of time for that when you are safely wed! We’re trying to organise the midsummer pageant over here.”
Rather reluctantly, smiling ruefully, they took their plate and goblets across the grass to where the rest of the group were sat or sprawled with easy nonchalance, unconcerned with anything more.
Looking back across the space to where the horses were picketed and the guards stood, Jerryn caught the smirk of one of the men – Tymain, who had been assigned a few months previously. The young man was perhaps a year or two older than he, and viewed the prince, as far as Jerryn could tell, with contempt. He himself might be Marrand’s son, newly betrothed, rich and powerful, but he was still officially a youth. The young soldier was broader of build, more adept with his weapons, naturally, and ruggedly handsome besides – But Jerryn knew that whatever anyone in the palace thought of him, Tymain included, it certainly did not come close to that mental smack of hatred that had affected him and Ethrayne earlier.
*
Luncheon over, the servants and guards hurriedly eating as the nobles rested again, before the detritus and equipment were lashed back into the baskets on the pack horses, and the nobles rode on, loud and bright, continuing their roughly circular route between the steeply wooded slopes that edged the valley, and the greening hills of the hill country west of Tenum City, winding their way towards one of the many lanes that led, meanderingly, back to the great valley.
Many people worked in the fields, weeding, casting seed or ploughing, but none were so intent on their tasks that they did not lift their heads to stare at the riders. Some, closer to the lane, called blessings, recognising the soldiers wearing the green, blue and gold of the royal family, if not the prince; others pulled their hats from their heads and essayed clumsy bows. Jerryn did his best to respond – halloing greetings across the furrows, and waving cheerfully – “Arven’s blessings on you and yours.”
“You are very good at this.” Ethrayne remarked quietly with a smile, as they passed an ancient, moss-covered boundary wall. “Father always says that it is these informal meetings that can be the most trouble.”
The prince pondered this seriously. “Yes, but I think I prefer it to the official speechmaking our fathers’ performed yesterday. Somehow that feels – too impersonal.”
“But you are not a person, Jerryn, you are the heir of their king, and probably their landowner too.” The girl pointed out.
“So what does that make you, Ethie my dear?” He teased her.
“Oh, you!” She retorted with a toss of her head, the flash of a smile. “I’ll race you, Jerryn – see just how fast Vachane is against Oxalla?” Before he could answer, she urged her mare on with a billowing of skirts, and set off quickly, followed by her cloak spread out like a standard as the horse cantered across the grass. Swearing quietly to himself, Jerryn followed, for Vachane was certainly not tardy – yet the mare was fleet of foot, her burden certainly lighter than his weight on his mount, and he guessed that it would not be easy to catch Ethrayne, though he had outstripped the others in moments.
“Ethrayne, that’s hardly fair – hang on.” He called, laughing.
She heard him, dimly, and glanced back quickly, grinning, the clearest voice amongst the group as the rest milled together far to the rear – Vachane had certainly outstripped them, but she had ridden Oxalla for three years now, and she knew that the mare was as important a part of her Father’s stud as Vachane. She raced on, relishing the cool wind in her face, buffeting at her hat, her cloak, across the smooth grass that bordered the fields, laughing aloud in delight simply because no-one could hear her.
“Ethrayne, wait!” That was Jerryn and Pualyn together, and she raised her left hand in a wave of acknowledgement, as Oxalla galloped onward.
Off to the left, beyond a stand of elms and oaks, was a collection of buildings, most likely a farm – she could hear fowl calling; to the right, a series of fields made their irregular way along the slope – sprouting grain and vegetable leaves just visible and bright above the dark soil. Still some way ahead, perhaps two hundred yards away, was a lane – a meandering, earth-coloured rope winding down from the farm and across her route to the right; bordering that on the far side of the lane was a double line of ancient orchard trees, the gnarled branches a riot of pale pink and white blossom and unfurling new-green leaves.
Slowing Oxalla, Ethrayne approached the deep-set lane at a more manageable rate, noting tumbled moss and nettle-covered remains of walls amid the fruit trees; clearly, at some time in the past, there had been a farm here, but not for a century at least. She reined in some distance above the lane, turning in the saddle to gaze back along her route, but something else caught her eye – a figure stepped out through the mistletoe- and lichen-spotted tree trunks, ignoring the rough undergrowth and the ruined walls.
At first, Ethrayne thought that the one of the locals had become far bolder than was usual, but she instantly discarded that supposition; the man approaching her wore black leather, and jingled as he moved. This was no farm hand. He wore a long sword at his left, a shorter blade on his right; there was a glint of mail from beneath a thick, luxurious dark grey cloak, and his high boots gleamed. He was tall – taller than average, she assessed, even taking her own position in the saddle into account; his hair was blond, shining pale in the sunlight, and his face might have been handsome – but the eyes that burned there were dark, although a bright blue, and the girl was suddenly certain that she had found the source of the intense hatred that had assailed her and Jerryn earlier – for the emotion seemed to radiate from him.
“So we meet at last, Lady, even if only briefly.” The man said in a mild, slightly accented voice, bowing politely – but both the gesture and the look in his eyes made it clear that there was no subservience there.
“Who - who are you?” Ethrayne forced the question out despite the fear that had taken hold of her so abruptly. She kept her grip on the reins tight, every part of her tense and alert, letting Oxalla sidle away a step or two from the stranger. “What do you want?” Somewhere behind, she could hear the voices of her companions, closing all the time – thank Arven! She did not dare to look away from the stranger, watchful – in case he moved closer.
“I am commanded to convey the congratulations of my master to yourself and yonder prince on your betrothal, Lady.” He stated, with a second bow. “But I must warn you that future events may serve to delay your wedding.” He smiled and gestured broadly, his dark eyes glittering with malice. “Until we meet again, Lady – matters would only end in bloodshed on their part, should I have to deal with your silly young friends. Farewell.”
Ethrayne could only stare, alarmed and amazed in equal measure, exceedingly glad that the stranger was striding away, disappearing back through the ancient apple and plum trees; she shuddered in sudden reaction as the chokingly overwhelming touch of his hatred faded, feeling much as hearing the oh-so-welcome drum of hoof-beats closing on her from behind.
“Ethrayne!” Jerryn shouted urgently. “Are you all right?”
Turning, she saw that he led the group, with Pualyn and Private Tymain hard on his heels - and he had his sword in his hand, the pristine steel shining brightly in the sunlight. Her brother and the other lords were also ready for action, whilst the soldiers were already stowing their weapons away – except for Tymain. Everyone looked grim and frightened, and the ladies rode separately to the rear, out of the way with the servants, seeming pale and unsure.
“Oh, Jerryn!” She said, shivering all over, relief making her ridiculously weak and cold. “Dear Arven – I –.”
“Did he threaten you? Touch you? Who was he?” The prince asked, his words tumbling over themselves as he sheathed his sword and jumped down out of the saddle, holding out his hands to help her dismount – and he quickly embraced her when she was stood before him. “I felt that hatred again, it was really strong! Was -.”
“Yes, I think it came from him.” Ethrayne confirmed, feeling so much safer in his arms that it was almost indecent – oh, how she wished that she had faced the strange man at Jerryn’s side. “I rode across to here.” She pointed. “He just walked out of those trees – and he strode back through them, to the left of the twisted apple tree on the right there, before you rode up. He could be well away by now -.”
“Tymain, Pualyn, go on through the orchard – but carefully. See what prints or evidence is there – but don’t follow him if you see him – though I doubt he’s anywhere nearby.” Jerryn commanded at once, stepping back from Ethrayne, taking her gloved left hand in his right as they watched both young men, weapons back in their hands, head across the lane and into the overgrown orchard and out of sight, the noise of the rest of the group behind them not even registering.
“Oh, Ethrayne, when I saw you alone and felt that hatred – I somehow knew that something was amiss.” He squeezed her hand. “It was even as if our horses slowed, but it’s probably my imagination playing tricks. Who was he? What did he want?”
“He wasn’t Tenarean. I don’t believe so, anyway. He was very tall, blonde, looked strong – fully armed, he wore mail. And he was – was chillingly handsome. He spoke with a slight accent – quite musical, I suppose – and he knew who I was, congratulated us.” Ethrayne paused, smiled thinly, and took a deep breath before relating exactly what the man had said, her tone urgent and quiet, determined to keep the details private as the rest of the group chatted and moved about them.
“Your Highness.” The young soldier, Tymain, called, pitching his voice over those of the others and all the conversations died in a moment as everyone turned to stare at him and Lord Pualyn as they came back into clear view, both slightly dishevelled, and still bearing their weapons in their hands.
“Tymain, Pualyn, what have you found?” Jerryn asked with a calm confidence that surprised not a few of the group.
The young soldier was startled by that, by Jerryn’s focus on him; and also by the way that Lord Pualyn, older than he and outranking everyone there, waved at him to speak, the lowly soldier. Trying to hide his surprise, he sheathed his sword, coughed, and glanced from the prince to the lady, Jerryn’s betrothed, pale-faced and solemn.
“Your Highness, my Lady. It seems that the stranger – whoever he was – was alone and had been waiting there in the cover of the trees for some time: there were numerous footprints in the long grass and hoof-prints from one large horse in the scrubland beyond. He had discarded some foodstuffs – bread crusts, apple cores and so on. He approached from the direction of Tenum City, but he rode off into the west – as far as Lord Pualyn and I could discern.” He paused and sighed. “I am sorry that I can tell you no more of substance and sorrier still that that there are no more guards here – but we dare not divide our number to pursue him, for that would leave you with insufficient protection.” And, bowing deeply, Tymain frowned, almost as if it was their fault.
“Yet we know nothing about the man.” Ethrayne noted, startling all of them. “It was a strange encounter – yes, even threatening – but not really dangerous.”
“Humph!” Jerryn snorted. “You don’t pale easily, Ethie, but you were as white as a sheet when we finally reached you. You must not set off by yourself again, dearest – what if he had carried you away?”
“His Highness is correct, my Lady.” Tymain agreed unexpectedly, even as Lord Pualyn opened his mouth to speak and Ethrayne herself took a breath to argue. “As the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clirensar and – more importantly – betrothed to Prince Jerryn, you must -.” He faltered there, fishing for a word – he had spoken as though to his young sister, and now realised his mistake.
“You must behave like a princess.” Jerryn supplied in a gentle tone and grinned quickly at both Tymain and Pualyn for the girl’s disgruntled expression. “We really ought to get on our way back to the city – and speak to my Father immediately.”
“Most decidedly, your Highness.” Pualyn interjected then, giving his younger sister a quelling glance. “Let us return to safety at once.”
Mounting again, with Jerryn’s assistance, Ethrayne sighed deeply to herself, catching Lyria’s eye – the older girl had kept back out of the way during the wait, and she thought her friend looked decidedly tense. Lyria nodded slightly at her compliance, as if approving, but Ethrayne was a little despondent. It seemed that those peculiar golden chains of marriage and propriety had looped and locked tight around her even sooner than she had ever imagined. Still, she admitted to herself, she was very glad to be flanked by Jerryn, her brother, the other nobles and the soldiers all close behind, well armed. She was safe – and, thank Arven, that man had not actually endangered her . . . But another part of her hated her helplessness.
*
It was heading towards late afternoon by the time the very alert group re-entered Tenum City and rode back up to the palace complex – causing a bit of a stir as the armed guards now rode ahead of the rest, clearing the streets in a most peremptory manner. Ethrayne despised herself for breathing a little easier once the palace gates had swung closed behind them – but defiantly acknowledged to herself that she was relieved.
“Captain.” Prince Jerryn accosted the officer as the inner gates of the central courtyard closed behind them. “Where are his Majesty and the Duke and Duchess of Clirensar at present?”
“They are in the royal apartment, your Highness.” The middle-aged man replied with a bow. “A meeting was arranged with the Archpriest.”
“Thank you – we should see them immediately.” Jerryn said.
“Your Highness.” The Captain beckoned to one of the nearby guards, and the young man strode on up the steps and into the palace, as Jerryn, Ethrayne and the rest of the group dismounted, surrendering their mounts to the throng of stablemen who had hurried to assist.
“Pualyn, Tymain, if you could accompany us.” Jerryn did not make it a question, but the young soldier smiled – which surprised the prince.
“Of course, your Highness, but do you really need my presence? Lord Pualyn is far more experienced -.”
“Thanks, I think.” Pualyn interjected dryly.
“You’re the professional, Tymain.” Jerryn answered with a grimace, and turned to the others. “I’m sorry, everyone, you had all might as well go on and get ready for dinner – thank you – Lyria, please, join us.”
“Oh, for Arven’s sake!” Ethrayne glanced around at the milling group causing so much mayhem, and felt her roiling emotions flare into irritation. “Come on -.” She strode away from them, her boots ringing as she ran up the sweeping steps, and aware that Jerryn, Lyria, Pualyn and Tymain were all hurrying in her wake.
They caught up with her as she ascended the ornate staircase to the main private apartments, some distance past the public halls and offices, and the guards on duty all saluted Jerryn as the group passed; the corridor at the top that led to the king’s suite was long and wide, lined with more guards, huge tapestries and the occasional new innovation – large, solemn portraits that were painted in amazingly jewel-bright shades. As the five of them approached the heavy, iron-bound oak doors at the far end, one of the soldiers at attention there bowed low and stepped forward to open them with a flourish, then stepped back.
Jerryn was at the front as they walked into an oak-panelled foyer, facing a second pair of doors, where two more liveried soldiers stood, and again the man on the left bowed, opened the doors, and bowed again as he stood in the doorway. “His Highness, Prince Jerryn, your Majesty, with Lord Pualyn, Ladies Ethrayne and Lyria and Private Tymain.” He announced, and stepped back out, pulling the doors closed quietly behind them.
The king’s private sitting room was pleasantly furnished but rather plain – the walls were palely panelled, the curtains and carpet were of striped blue and green silk, and Marrand and his guests were sat on comfortable blue and green upholstered chairs and settees around a merrily blazing fire in the hearth some thirty feet from the outer doors – a hearth that could have easily roasted half an ox.
“Is something wrong, Jerryn?” The King asked, rising to his feet as he looked from face to face.
“Father. Your Graces – I apologise for intruding so rudely, but something strange happened – we thought it best to tell you at once . . . Ethrayne -.”
“My dear, are you all right?” Duke Sarant also rose and approached them. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at such a loss for words.” He asked with a mischievous wink as everyone but Private Tymain took seats, the young soldier stood at attention there by the door.
“Father, please!” Ethrayne protested mildly, took a deep breath and related her encounter with the stranger, describing his appearance as well as she could, recounting his conversation – for she had hardly said a word – exactly. She did not, however, mention the sharp, clear feeling of hatred that had struck right into her mind. As Jerryn reported his view, Ethrayne noted that he also kept that personal mental assault private – and he quickly passed the duty of explanation to the young soldier, Tymain and then to Pualyn.
“My word!” Marrand remarked, gazing from one serious young face to another, then focussing back on Tymain. “Is that all, Private?” He asked gravely. “Has every detail been reported?”
Tymain took a breath. “Yes, your Majesty, I do not believe that anything has been forgotten. I only wish that we had been closer to Lady Ethrayne – it was strange that her horse got so far ahead, given the equally fine mounts of his Highness and Lord Pualyn.” And he bowed shakily.
“Thank you, Tymain.” Jerryn said earnestly. “I expect you want to go and rest.”
“Thank you, all of you.” Ethrayne added with a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry that I’ve ruined everyone’s afternoon.”
“Ethrayne, my dear, this is hardly your fault.” King Marrand pointed out. “Now, Private, go and report to your commanding officer – and I add my heartfelt thanks to theirs.”
“I am honoured, your Majesty – my Lady, your Highness – your Graces.” The young soldier bowed again, saluted, and quickly left the room.
“My word, what an awful shock.” Archpriest Lurco, who had been sat quietly during the discussion, leaned forward in his chair. “I can see that you wish to discuss this and I am only going to get in the way, your Majesty, my dear Duke and Duchess – I extend my congratulations to you both on your betrothal, your Highness, Lady Ethrayne – and I will commend all of you to Arven’s care and take my leave.” A tall, lean man in his sixties with grey hair and sparkling hazel eyes, Lurco got easily to his feet, followed politely by everyone in the room, who all inclined their heads or bowed and curtsied.
“Thank you, Lurco – we will re-arrange our meeting for a later date.” Marrand said gratefully, his hand on the Archpriest’s shoulder as they made their way to the doors. “Your support means a great deal to us.”
“I am honoured, Marrand – good afternoon.” He bowed, and left with a wave and a smile, nodding pleasantly at a servant who passed him, bearing more glasses, a carafe of wine, and other refreshments.
“Are you feeling all right, Ethrayne, my dear?” Duke Sarant asked earnestly.
“Yes I am, Father, it was such a strange meeting – for how could he have known that we would ride that way, when all is said and done?” The girl frowned, thinking her way again through the events of the afternoon. “He seemed so confident, even though he was alone as Jerryn, Pualyn and the soldiers approached and they were all armed. But who he was, what he wanted, I don’t know at all.”
“Oh, Ethrayne!” Her Mother cried, taking her hand. “How silly you were, to ride ahead of the others!”
“Jerryn and I were racing, Mother.” Ethrayne pointed out mildly. “I had no idea Oxalla had got so far ahead of the rest.”
“Why should she not ride out, Riyala?” King Marrand queried. “How often have our children escaped supervision from their guards and servants, hey?” He shook his head and took a sip of wine. “They were all out hawking eight days ago, remember? We had young nobles all over the countryside – and what about last summer? The children were all by the Sare river, fishing, day after day; visiting Home Farm; helping with the animals – and not everyone was supervised, were they?”
His assertion made Ethrayne feel a little better – but also more like a little girl than ever which, overall, did not really help.
“Ethrayne, my dear and you three, I am afraid that you will all have to stop visiting the markets without your guards – Oh, we are all so relieved that you are safe!” Her Father said, his tone light, but the look in his eyes, on his face, was troubled.
“Yes Father, so am I.” She acknowledged quietly – and Lyria, Jerryn and Pualyn echoed their agreement to the new, expected, restriction.
“Oh, what an afternoon!” Duchess Riyala said, shaking her head. “You had all better go and get ready for dinner – go on now.”
“Yes, Mother.” Ethrayne replied meekly for all of them. “I am sorry to have caused you all so much concern so suddenly, your Majesty – Father, Mother.” She got slowly to her feet and Lyria, Jerryn and Pualyn followed suit, all bowing and curtsying, then quitting the sitting room, leaving their elders talking, heading back down the huge corridor to the stairs that led up to more apartments.
“Well, that could have gone worse.” Jerryn remarked heavily. “Dear Arven, Ethie, when I saw him, my heart thudded with fear.”
“As did mine, I assure you, but he just – walked out of that orchard, out of nowhere.” Ethrayne restated. “If I had thought -.”
“But your father was right, Jerryn.” Pualyn replied gravely. “And Tenarum has no political enemies now – we have no personal enemies, I am sure. Why should any one of us think that a simple race would compromise our safety? We are hardly reckless, any of us . . . But I wonder who he was?”
He shrugged as they walked on.
“We could talk in circles forever, I’m sure.” Ethrayne said with a sigh as she and Lyria headed to the left at the top of the stairs. “We’ll see you at dinner – thank you.”
“Ladies.” Jerryn bowed floridly, Pualyn grinned and they went on, chatting.
*
Their maids separated the young ladies as they entered the suite, and Ethrayne quickly had her hat and snood removed, her dusty riding outfit unlaced by Fionn and Sallie, who chatted as normal, even though she was so uncharacteristically quiet. She washed and her waist-length hair was brushed ruthlessly and rearranged with more of those dreaded pins, as she continued to try not to think too deeply on what had happened – and, perhaps more pertinently, what could have happened.
After the ceremony of the previous day, Ethrayne chose a more understated gown of silvery-green velvet, and a silver circlet and earrings, leaving her magnificent betrothal jewellery locked away.
Lyria came through as she slipped her feet into delicate slippers, the blonde girl wearing creamy-yellow satin and a plain gold chain and bracelets that had been a gift from Pualyn.
“Are you all right, Ethie dear?” The older girl asked earnestly. “You’re very quiet – and I know that you were frightened.”
“Yes, I’m fine, Lyria, really I am.” Ethrayne reassured her, opening the outer door – and ridiculously pleased to see the two guards in the corridor come to attention and then fall in behind them to escort them.
* * *
Ethrayne had not considered it, but of course the news of her irregular adventure during the afternoon seemed to have reached the ears of everyone in the palace by the time that she and Lyria entered the dining hall. Those who were her acquaintances talked loudly, pointing her out to their companions quite unnecessarily; whilst certain others – whom she might have considered friends – stared openly, but were talking behind their hands. This evening was bound to be rather tedious, she realised, taking her seat between her parents; Lyria had been placed between Duke Sarant and Pualyn, whilst Jerryn was sat between the Duchess and King Marrand. He caught her eye and grimaced, rolling his eyes at the universal conversation.
Wine and ale were poured for the King and his principal guests, the golden jugs set down, and the many platters on the top table were broached, as the lower tables were served. The conversations began to fade a little, but some – especially the older members of the court – continued to shake their heads and voice their disapproval or so Ethrayne believed.
“Don’t worry about them, Ethrayne.” Her father advised, speaking quietly in her ear, nodding his head in the direction of the Lord and Lady of Calshore, who regarded her almost as if her hair was green. “A modern-minded miss you might be, with no thought for the proprieties or traditions of your rank and position, but you are safe – and that is what we are grateful for.” He smiled and patted her hand. “How often have even proper young ladies rebelled to ride or walked out alone into the city? Times without mention, I suspect – and no one else would expect to be accosted by a stranger, any more than you did.” He sighed. “Thank Arven!” He added fervently.
“So it is my fault, even though it was only a race? I didn’t expect to outstrip Vachane, Father!” Ethrayne replied in an aggrieved tone, knowing that she was behaving childishly – but feeling a mixture of anger, frustration and helplessness that was quite unsettling. “Dear Arven, Father, sometimes I wish I had been a boy!”
The Duchess laughed aloud at that. “Oh, Ethrayne, sometimes I think that every young woman says that at some point. Honestly though, I think that in the long run you will be glad to be just as you are, female, even if growing up has rather narrowed your horizons a little. Balancing that, of course, you will soon be our princess and one day, you will be our queen and the most powerful woman in Tenarum. So the sense of not riding off alone now that you are grown up is a constraint on your sex generally, not on you personally, my darling.”
Ethrayne wanted to snort and proclaim the whole business completely unfair, but kept quiet – such behaviour would only label her as being more childish than ever and a fool, in the eyes of her elders.
But who had he been, that stranger, and who was his ‘Master’? She mused, picking at her food with little appetite. How had he known where they would be riding, when their route had been largely random – there were so many green lanes through the countryside and around the capital, they could have chosen any of them – one of many routes. And why – and how – had she and Jerryn been able to feel that silent animosity, the hatred that had emanated from him like the heat of a fire?
Eventually, however, as the meal came to an end she decided to stop trying to make sense of the questions: she was getting a headache, whilst getting nowhere at all – she had volunteered not a single answer to her questions all evening. She could only hope that the mystery would become perhaps clearer in time. So, deliberately, she locked the event, the fear and her confusion away in her mind – as described by her tutor, Pettar, the Deacon assigned by her family priest – for consideration at leisure.
Coming out of her introspection, Ethrayne became aware of the conversations flowing about her, most of which hardly seemed to have progressed at all during the sumptuous meal, from what she heard.
“Are you feeling all right, Ethrayne?” Jerryn asked then. “You’ve been very quiet this evening. I’m sorry -.”
“Heavens, please don’t apologise, Jerryn. It’s just that I’ve been trying – and failing – to make any sense of it all. I’m perfectly fine, dear.” And she essayed a smile which failed to reach her eyes. “At least I will be able to continue to perfect my embroidery, won’t I?”
King Marrand, beyond his son, heard both her words and the bitterness in her voice, and chuckled aloud, startling many others on the top table and the servant who nearly spilled the wine as pouring it into his goblet.
“I think that we can do better than that, my dear Ethrayne.” He said, smiling, waving the servant gently away. “I am sure that you know Lady Celia, who has recently joined my Council?”
“Yes, your Majesty, I do.”
“I thought so. Well, I know that you have been a diligent pupil with commendable intelligence – the reports I have received from Deacon Pettar have all been excellent. I believe it is time for you to start to learn what my Council’s purpose is within the kingdom, before you join us upon your wedding.” Marrand grimaced – then grinned at her rather stunned expression. “I freely admit that, generally, it’s rather tedious – Jerryn, your brother and your father will agree, I’m sure – but our work is vital. What do you think, hey? Do you want to sit in with us tomorrow?”
“I, well, your Majesty – I am honoured that you think so highly of me, Sire, and I . . . I am doubly honoured to accept.” Ethrayne replied earnestly, rising to her feet to curtsy very formally. She was stunned, overwhelmed; so much had happened in so short a time that she knew that it was going to take ages to get it all straight in her mind.
*
The Royal Council of Tenarum traditionally gathered in the Painted Hall, a large space in one of the oldest parts of the palace, connected to the throne room by a dim, windowless tunnel of a corridor; the walls and vaulted ceiling were painted – the ceiling and the supporting beams were in contrasting red and yellow, whilst the high walls were a riot of colours and images: of forests, animals, fantastic monsters, hunters, towns, landscapes; contrasting and even clashing themes right next to each other. It had all been painted by hand and was starting to fade and peel with the slow passage of years. There was a vast stone fireplace at either end of the hall, but heat in winter was also usually supplied by large cast iron braziers, spaced around the vast rectangular oak table in the centre of the room. This was so highly polished that its surface reflected firelight, lamplight and almost faces with nearly the clarity of a mirror.
The King’s seat was large and ornate, upholstered in royal blue, whilst the other chairs were plainer, although still padded, covered in dark green leather. Large silver candlesticks were filled with large, sweet smelling beeswax candles, and were regularly spaced along the table and also on the three long sideboards along the long inner wall, on which lay quills, covered inkwells, bottles of ink, stacks of parchment, some innovative pages of new wood-pulp, plus a large number of large, black-leather bound books, and neat, ribbon-bound piles and boxes full of scrolls.
To Ethrayne’s eyes, the vast hall was garishly decorated and it smelled like a school room – a mixture of old wood, beeswax and leather. She walked beside her father as King Marrand led the group into the space, and felt overawed by the spectacle and the faded, old-fashioned grandeur of the place. This hall was one she had not ever thought she might see – this seat of innovative government: the Royal Council of Tenarum, established a century and a half before; even their arrival had been of high ceremony: gathering in the throne room after breakfast, and progressing behind the King into this hall, where men – and now the occasional woman – would decide the future of the kingdom.
“Please, sit down, my Lords and Ladies.” Marrand said, gesturing as he took his seat at the centre of the table, the chair legs grating loudly on the flagstone floor. For a short time, the sound of the moving of heavy chairs was prominent before silence returned and the assembled gazed at their ruler.
Not knowing if there was a seating protocol, Ethrayne had hung back, until Jerryn and Pualyn had guided her towards three chairs arranged at one corner of the left hand side of the table and she found herself sat next to Lady Celia, the heiress of Pellerton Court, a slight, dark haired young woman in her early twenties, who smiled at all of them.
“Ethrayne, we really must arrange to meet to chat.” She said reproachfully. “I mean, dear, I know you’ve been busy, but -.” She broke off laughing, and winked. “Don’t worry – you look just how I remember I felt when his Majesty asked me to join the Council.” She glanced around at the group, now mostly settled. “They won’t bite too much, no matter how fierce they seem.”
Ethrayne felt her spirits lifting a little for, despite all the rather intimidating expressions of most of the older men surrounding her, King Marrand nodded pleasantly at her as Lord Ferman introduced the first item of the agenda in a dry tone. The state of the highway through the North Karne Forest, as reported by a caravan of merchants on their return to the capital occupied some time, and the debate was extensive – as to whose jurisdiction the region was in; whose workmen would be tasked; how much money would be required, once they had established that the road was in fact the Crown’s responsibility, and not the remit of any local landowner. It was rather more mundane than Ethrayne had supposed and this knowledge was startling, as was the next item, which began a discussion on the lawlessness and lax morals of Clorport.
After a short break for refreshments, the conversation turned to agriculture and commerce. Again, Ethrayne was surprised by the depth of details gone into – and the levels of knowledge shown generally around the table. To realise that she would be expected to join in such diverse matters in a sensible and useful manner after her wedding to the Prince was rather alarming – would she have to add general farming, economic and legal matters to her already extensive lessons?
The Council was concluded in the early afternoon, whereupon Lady Celia spirited Ethrayne away, as promised and Pualyn and Jerryn found themselves alone as the older men left the hall in a large group.
“You know, I meant to mention it yesterday – Ethrayne’s horse is incredibly fast.” Jerryn remarked admiringly. “Events rather took the thought from my head – she’s very fleet of foot.”
The young lord grinned. “Another of father’s successes – and Oxalla’s bloodline is separate to Vachane’s. You’ve got the makings of a first class stud, Jerryn, in a few years if you breed from that mare.” He pushed open one of the side doors that took them into a plain corridor, empty of even the customary guards making its way eventually back towards the domestic wings of the palace. “Where do you want to go? Any plans for this afternoon, now the girls have vanished?” And his grin broadened as he gazed at his friend.
“My rooms, I’ve got some rather nice Rothern Red.” Jerryn replied, leading the way – and ignoring the pair of guards who were soon trailing along behind them. Upstairs, in the base of the south tower where his apartment was situated, he held the door wide for his friend, shut the outer door firmly, and went to the old but finely carved sideboard in the large living room, pouring two goblets of wine.
“Pualyn, do you really think that Ethrayne wants to marry me?” He asked, plunging in directly – he trusted the older man, and whom else could he ask? “I know we really don’t count in the matter, but some of her remarks and – oh, I don’t know!” He crossed the soft carpet, handing her brother one of the silver goblets and essayed a rather embarrassed smile as he sat down in a comfortable chair opposite.
“Jerryn, you silly fool!” Pualyn laughed aloud at his expression. “What girl would not want to become your wife? I ask you! Of course she wants to wed you – It’s just,” he paused, “it’s probably that she will lose her freedom.”
“She’ll hardly be a prisoner!” Jerryn interjected in an injured tone.
“Think, Jerryn – you know how it is in Clirensar: Ethie could go down to the kitchens and help the cooks make bread, whatever – you helped enough times, when you were younger. She, Lyria and Mother got stuck into spring cleaning the castle – and the produce laid down through the year, she helped with the lists. They could just take a maid and go shopping – Things like that. And we have Home Farm, where we all ran riot.”
Jerryn smiled a little. “I remember.”
“You have all these extra noble courtiers – fancy servants – here running the palace, and although I’ve been here longer than you have, youngster, it’s unnerving sometimes. Your queen won’t be able to sneeze without everyone in the city commenting on it.” Pualyn continued soothingly. “She’ll get used to it – Mother has been advising her on the protocols, I know, but – she’s still finding it a shock, I suppose. It’s different for women.” He shrugged and made a face. “They carry the babies – we do the lesser job of running everything.”
Jerryn frowned a little, thinking about it. “Mmm, I’d not really considered that.” He allowed. “Just thought that we were all quite lucky – knowing each other all our lives.”
“Yes, especially since you fell out so adamantly when you were ten – never did find out what happened, Jerryn. You wouldn’t speak for months.”
“I broke her doll and she threw my knife into the river.” The prince admitted with a grimace. “It was all so utterly stupid – but we were children. Your esteemed mother eventually persuaded me to buy a new doll for your sister, she gave me a new knife at the Solstice – and we were friends again.”
“Dear Arven, wasn’t it wonderful when everything was so simple?” Pualyn’s tone was almost wistful. “I remember – it seems so long ago -.”
“You’re only just over three years older than me, Pualyn.” Jerryn pointed out. “You were playing with toy boats and soldiers yourself not too long ago. Are you and Lyria getting married before Ethrayne and I?” That event kept intruding into everything, it seemed.
“Our fathers seem to be talking about the Winter Solstice for you two, and perhaps the Autumn Equinox for Lyria and I. These things have to be done in a certain way, it seems. No impromptu jumping over broom handles for the likes of us.” Pualyn laughed. “More of that interminable pomp and ceremony and the accompanying fancy, tight clothing.”
“Ethrayne would look good in sackcloth, let alone satin.” Jerryn grinned. “She is beautiful, as well as clever and very talented.”
“She wasn’t so clever yesterday, Jerryn.”
“Don’t be stupid, Pualyn – we were racing, we’ve all done that sort of thing loads of times, here and at Clirensar. I just can’t work out how she got quite so far ahead of us: that was uncanny. I set off ahead of everyone myself on a ride not so long ago: left my guards way behind.” The prince countered easily, his tone rather firm. “She was always in sight – and how, by Arven, could anyone have expected that? I think a lot of people were rude last night – I really do. I wish I knew who he was and what he wanted.”
“Aye, me too.” The other man agreed. “Now, what do you think of Vachane?” And the conversation turned to horses.
*
Next morning, after breakfast, Ethrayne and Jerryn were both in receipt of identical notes from Archpriest Lurco, requesting their attendance at the Cathedral, apparently ‘on a matter of liturgy’ the next day, likely to discuss the state of their souls, prior to their very public wedding. Since they were still sat in the King’s private dining room, they sent back a joint reply, then decamped to Ethrayne’s private sitting room with Lyria and Pualyn, for it was raining hard and the King had other business than the Council that day.
“That’s it: you can’t escape now the priests are involved.” Jerryn joked.
Ethrayne gave him a haughty look that was marred by the smile quirking her lips. “I don’t think we ever could escape, Jerryn.” She answered seriously. “And I like Archpriest Lurco, he’s a good man.”
“So, Ethrayne, what do you think of the Council?” Her brother asked, setting out Stepping Stones, a popular board game for four.
“I’m too stupid for the Council of Tenarum, no matter what his Majesty says so kindly!” Ethrayne replied with a groan. “I don’t know anything about wheat, or sheep, or trade taxation, Pualyn.”
He laughed. “Of course you don’t, but that is what the group is for: some people know farming, or basic taxation, or making wine or whatever and all those books and scrolls hold reams of information and history for reference. Not even King Marrand could know everything, Ethie.”
“Oh, you know, I hadn’t thought of that.” She admitted, and chuckled, shaking her head. “Are matters usually so ordinary, though?” She glanced from Pualyn to Jerryn, who had taken a seat opposite and had picked up his game pieces. "Can I ask how long you have been a Member of the Council, Jerryn?”
“Since my sixteenth birthday, but I’m generally not very vocal – father wants me fully involved, but I know that most of the lords just think I’m too young yet.” He shrugged and grimaced. “But I’ll be seventeen in the autumn and with Pualyn, Lady Celia and you yourself, at least I won’t feel like a child.” He grinned. “It’s interesting. Now, who’s going to play black, red and yellow?”
After a while, they took a break for refreshments.
“Jerryn, would you teach me how to fight?” Ethrayne asked quietly – completely out of nowhere.
“What?” He stared at her in shock, and Pualyn and Lyria also looked amazed and rather astounded.
“I’ve been thinking, you see: I can use a knife to cut meat and vegetables, but I could not actually defend myself with one – not usefully. I want to learn how to use a sword, and a bow and arrows – please?”
“Surely not, Ethrayne! You’re really not serious, are you? You are joking?” Lyria asked.
“Yes, I am – very serious, Lyria dear.” She answered. “I want to learn how to protect myself, after what happened during our ride. Honestly, I do, Jerryn.”
“Well, you know, I didn’t think of that.” Her betrothed said rather admiringly. “But swords are heavy, you know – the work isn’t easy.”
“I’m strong.” Ethrayne countered, sitting straighter. “I can control any horse I’ve ever ridden, including Vachane, I’ll have you know. And surely I’d get stronger, practising, wouldn’t I? I know it’s an on-going process – you all practise frequently – sometimes daily.”
“Well, yes – But -.” Jerryn stopped, clearly thinking hard. “You’d have to do exactly what you’re told – and exercise and practice daily – And we’d have to be discreet – Arven only knows what the older members of the court will say to this. But – I could teach you, yes, but not alone – Pualyn, would you help me?” He asked.
“Yes, I suppose I could.” Pualyn acknowledged doubtfully. “But this is just theoretical, isn’t it?” Ethrayne only gazed at him, solemn, and did not answer.
“And we would need -.” Jerryn paused and rang the bell for a servant, a maid who quickly appeared and curtsied low. “Can you please send someone for Private Tymain, Cal?” He asked politely.
“Why him?” Ethrayne asked what the small group was wondering.
“He’s a professional.” Jerryn said with a shrug. “And he’s not too old. What do you think, Pualyn?”
“I – I think you’re both mad!” Her brother snapped. “But – if it makes you feel safer, learning such skills – then – all right, you can count me in.”
The young soldier arrived a while later, as Pualyn was stealing half of Lyria’s pieces. He came into the sitting room as quietly as possible behind the maid, and bowed low.
“You sent for me, your Highness?” He bowed again to each of them as they faced him.
“Yes, thank you for coming.” Jerryn paused and took a breath. “Lady Ethrayne has asked us – Pualyn and I – to teach her how to fight – handle weapons and so on. But you’re the soldier, do you think it’s a good idea, Tymain?”
Tymain’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Ethrayne, pretty and elegant and all, for a moment, before shutting his mouth with a snap and turning his attention back to the prince. “I – yes, your Highness, I believe that it might well be.” He said in a rather stunned tone of voice, and nodded his head rather vigorously.
“Excellent, thank you.” Jerryn grinned. “Right, then we’ll sort out the practicalities later – we’ll discuss this with our parents next. Please don’t tell anyone yet, Tymain – you can go. Thank you.”
“Your Highness. My Lord and Ladies. Good day.” Nonplussed, the young soldier bowed again and departed.
*
The next day dawned grey, but the rain had passed overnight, leaving the streets and rooftops gleaming. Ethrayne rose early and looked at her gowns, picking a demure dress of dark blue for their meeting later with the Archpriest, for appearances were of vital importance, something she had learned in early childhood. Her maids organised her hair more loosely than she had worn it of late, so that it spilled down her back, being held from her face with silver combs.
“Oh you do look lovely.” Her mother declared as she entered the dining room, sounding almost surprised – and that made her smile as she thanked her, sitting down to porridge and bread and honey.
“Thank you, Mother.” She said, tucking into her breakfast.
It was nearly midmorning when she and the prince set off through the palace, the guards behind them as always, but ostensibly alone. Making their way to the main courtyard, they quickly entered the small coach awaiting them for their journey to the Cathedral, as it was raining again, which meant that riding or walking would not be appropriate since it was a semi-official meeting with the Archpriest. Their guards, however well cloaked, were on horseback, of course, resigned to the rain.
The Cathedral was set on a smaller hill closer to the river than the palace, an imposing edifice of pale limestone that contained not only places of worship, but the accompanying abbey that provided the Archpriest with his staff and clergy.
The carriage entered the walled complex through an arch beside the Penitents’ Gate, close to the buttressed bell tower, and Ethrayne and Jerryn emerged by the steps to the closest building, where a pair of black-robed priests waited, to be swiftly shown through the place to the Archpriest’s lavish study – a wealth of tapestries and ancient panelling.
Two men were waiting for them. Archpriest Lurco was a short, thin-faced man of indeterminate old age although he was in his sixties, with iron-grey hair and a whiter long beard and startlingly bright green eyes and rosy cheeks; he was such a man as always seemed to be happy and smiling. He wore the traditional plain grey robe of a priest, with the surcoat of his rank and responsibility above – crimson silk, embroidered with gold thread in the elaborate symbol of Arven – a hand cupping a globe, surmounted by stylised flames.
“Your Highness, my Lady.” He greeted them with a beaming smile, striding forward from beside the fireplace. “Thank you for consenting to join us this morning. May I present the ex-Archpriest Bahlien? Bahlien, this is Prince Jerryn and the Lady Ethrayne of Clirensar.”
The other was very tall, taller than Jerryn, with a long face dominated by a beak of a nose, sparse, wavy white hair, dark blue eyes, and a very upright though thin physique covered in an open-fronted robe with a plain dark green tunic and leggings beneath.
“Good morning, my Lady, your Highness.” He said quietly and bowed, then stepped forward to clasp their hands in his. “I am honoured to meet you.”
“The – the honour is ours, your Graces.” Ethrayne answered, with a polite curtsey to them both. She was puzzled by the odd tingling that was coursing through the hand that Bahlien had clasped and through her body; also strange was a feeling – a certainty – that this man was a friend
“Please, do sit down, and I will send for refreshments.” Archpriest Lurco urged with a gesture and another smile, guiding them towards two well padded chairs near the fireplace. “It is a disappointing day, but better indoors by the fire. May I again – on behalf of our Church – congratulate you both on your betrothal. Tenarum is blessed.”
“Thank you, your Grace – as am I, to have such an intelligent and beautiful young lady consent to wed me.” Jerryn said with a sideways glance at Ethrayne to gauge any reaction to his compliment, and a quick flash of a grin when her expression did not change. “And I apologise for our rude intrusion the other afternoon, when you were talking with our parents.”
“Heavens, your Highness! Of course such a strange encounter and the possible threat involved to yourself, Lady Ethrayne, takes priority over other matters.” Lurco waved away the apology. “I hope that you feel calmer, my Lady?”
“Oh yes, your Grace and Jerryn, my brother Pualyn and his guard have agreed to teach me how to defend myself with weapons.” She confirmed with a hint of a mischievous smile.
Lurco, predictably perhaps, spluttered a little at that news, but Bahlien nodded in evident approval. “Good.”
“Good? My dear Bahlien -!” Lurco interjected with an air of unease. “Such a stark departure from the traditional! . . .Really –.”
“Yet we live in uncertain times, good Lurco, and who knows which skills will prove the most useful?” Bahlien answered in a mild, rather conciliatory tone.
Ethrayne and Jerryn exchanged glances at that remark, opening their mouths to ask what he meant by it, but two servants in white swept into the study with silver trays – and the moment passed as drinks and nibbles were laid out on a convenient table by the window, and Lurco and his guests were served with fragrant tea and crumbly sweet biscuits.
“You mentioned uncertain times, your Grace.” Ethrayne turned to Bahlien, sitting across from her in a large armchair, and offered him the plate of biscuits that Jerryn had passed to her. “Might we know what you mean by that? Apparently the kingdom is enjoying excellent relations with her neighbours; trade revenues are fine, and there are no internal troubles that his Majesty’s Council are aware of.”
“Indeed, you are correct, Lady Ethrayne – to a point.” Bahlien replied in a low, grave tone, getting to his feet to set the plate on the table, then moving across to Lurco’s imposing oak desk that dominated the room, where he lifted up a large book covered in faded crimson leather decorated with gold, with three hefty locks holding it secure. He set it back down again the opposite way up, with a thump that told them that the leather covered wood.
“This is an ancient book that has been guarded here in Tenarum for nearly three thousand years.” He said quietly, unlocking the volume with three small silver keys that jingled lightly on a ring attached to his belt by a chain, carefully lifting the cover. “I have a copy of this – but this is the original Book of Days.”
“A Book of Days?” Jerryn repeated, puzzled. “What is that, your Grace?”
“This is Lord Arven’s book of prophecy, your Highness.” Bahlien explained. “It has been my major source of study for quite a few years now – which is why I am here.” He stopped, the look on his face suddenly guarded – and uncomfortable.
“Of which kingdom were you the Archpriest, your Grace?” Ethrayne asked then. “Your accent is not familiar to me – and your clothes are unusual.”
“Most astute, my Lady.” The uncomfortable, guarded look vanished as Bahlien laughed and shook his head. “Yes, my robe is different. Whilst the Selithian Kingdoms generally conform on their regalia and clothes, the Razine Protectorates differ. I was Archpriest of Lerat in Orbain. Our version of the Church is a little different to yours, being considerably older, but we have all been worshipping Arven for thousands of years now.”
Jerryn frowned at that and glanced from Bahlien to Ethrayne and then to Lurco. “Forgive me for being rude, your Grace, but is Bahlien correct?” He asked the older man.
“Oh, indeed he is, your Highness.” The Tenarean Archpriest confirmed. “Little is really known about the razine in most of our continent these days, but it is a widely known fact here in the Cathedral that the Kingdoms of Selith learned most of Arven’s benevolence from the razine. Bahlien has been a regular visitor here over the last few decades. I can promise you that he speaks the truth.”
“The razine are reported to be immortal, and to be some eight feet tall.” Ethrayne said quietly. “And do you not have magical powers, your Grace?”
The ex-Archpriest laughed again at that. “Nay, my Lady, the tales have become garbled over the centuries; although we generally have longer lives than your people, we are not immortal; our tallest people generally don’t top seven feet – and we do have some capabilities beyond the usual in your eyes, say – but not everyone by any means and it isn’t magic.”
“ But – forgive me – we can feel you, sir – and I know that you are speaking the truth.” Jerryn declared. “May I ask why you are here?”
“My purpose here is prophecy, your Highness. Prophecy that concerns you two young people in particular – although we pray that we are alerting you well in advance of any action – hopefully of some years . . . Please, come here and I will read the passage to you.”
They obeyed, one moving across the room to stand on either side of him around the back of the desk. Bowing his head to gaze down at the huge tome resting on the desk, Bahlien turned fully two-thirds of the thick, crackling parchment pages, then lay one long forefinger at the top of a sheet where a greatly detailed painting of a fabulous and mythical dragon was wrapped about an oak tree – it’s scales a wonder of gold and silver leaf, the leaves of the tree shining like emeralds – a work of art. Below this, stylised letters made words that were also more works of art than writing. Bahlien cleared his throat and began:
“And behold, my loyal servants.
In the time following the promise
Of the Daughter of the Iron Duke,
To the Son of the Eastern Realm –
Take Heed.
He, The Betrayer.
He, who stole part of Me –
He, who would Command All,
Ruling the ice of glacier, and jungles hot.
He will seek to gain that which has long
Been guarded – And,
In the hands of this Marriage lie our Hope.
Guard this Couple well.
In the hands of the Betrayer always lies despair.”
He declaimed.
“Dear Arven, is that meant to make sense? It’s just poetry!” Jerryn objected, trying to read the archaically spelled script for himself, but succeeding only slowly.
“Poetry!” Lurco exclaimed. “It is indeed most poetic, your Highness, but this volume details prophecy – the words of our God, and it is far more important in every way than – poetry. Perhaps our very lives may depend upon these words here.”
“Do you believe that this – this prophecy refers to us, your Grace?” Ethrayne asked, stunned. “Am I meant to be this ‘Daughter of the Iron Duke’? And Jerryn ‘The Son of the Eastern Realm’?” She sighed and blushed a little. “But what does it mean, please?”
Bahlien reached up and scratched at his scalp. “It relates to the two of you, I am certain. I am deeply sorry. Arven, it seems, has great need of you both to wield his Flame against the one known as ‘The Betrayer’!”
“But -.” Jerryn stopped, tipping his head to one side, clearly thinking hard – he looked amazed, stunned. “But the Flame of Arven is lost – it has been lost for centuries, ever since -.” He paused again, gulped, then sank down into the closest chair.
“It has been lost ever since ‘The Betrayer’ betrayed our God and locked Arven in the ice at the top of the world, in Car’Agasse.” Ethrayne said very quietly. “Centuries ago.”
Archpriest Lurco chuckled at that moment with an almost unseemly amusement. “Lost? Never, my dears – The Flame of Arven has been kept here in Tenum City amid the tightest security we could devise.”
The story was the central tenet of the liturgy of the Church of Arven, but was never celebrated or turned into the teaching plays that educated the illiterate around the continent. For example, ‘the parable of the hungry child’ – every festival saw it performed; ‘the parable of the good-hearted whore and the robbed man’ – every Spring Equinox; ‘the Creation’ was constantly playing, along with many other interactions between God and worshippers. But ‘The Betrayer’ was really only mentioned at the Winter Solstice and the priesthood wore only black. No bells rang. No songs were sung.
“He was the Beloved Disciple.” Jerryn stated. “He sat at Arven’s feet with his fellows – one of the First Race . . . So does that mean that he was razine?” He wondered, frowning deeply.
“Oh yes, he was razine.” Bahlien replied heavily. “He turned from Arven, hiding his changing heart and blackening soul from our God, craving the power and the might that was Arven’s alone – although Arven was free with his gifts and gave his Disciples abilities that even the razine could only dream of.”
“The Betrayer persuaded Arven to place his power and strength outside of himself – they were discussing the real taste of need and want, apparently – is that right?” Lurco glanced questioningly at Bahlien.
“Were you there, Sir?” Ethrayne asked, aghast, seeing the query in that look. “But -!”
“I was a boy – younger by six years than you are now, my dears. A mere servant – but it was an honour to serve our God, and we were present in Car’Agasse for only three moons before returning to our families – Arven loved having children around, their innocence, their delight in the world.” Bahlien said sadly and sighed. “And Arven placed his power aside, and the Betrayer used his own abilities to confine our God deep in ice there. Then he slew all his fellow disciples in an orgy of bloodlust – even Holy Ayline who had been his own constant companion. I – I was chased by the Betrayer, I was terrified – the halls were full of dead bodies and blood – but the Flame of Arven, contained in a crystal casket, acted of its own volition – called me to it, there in the Iullyn Hall and it and I were transported to Orbain, to the Cathedral there. As the Betrayer wrecked havoc throughout our lands – he was always eloquent – I gave myself over to protecting the Flame and I have done so now for a very long time, in between being Archpriest in Orbain for a century or so. He took his loyal followers after murdering thousands across Mendor – and left to establish his own Empire in Enlath. It was years before we could recover from our losses at their hands.”
“Oh, dear Arven!” Jerryn exclaimed. “Are you actually implying that the – the Betrayer is still alive? – Yet – just a moment!” He stopped and caught at a thread of thought, from something that Bahlien had said earlier, something he had never realised before. “There are legends of the razine, aren’t there? And there are also legends of the jajozeli-razine . . . The Betrayer isn’t the – the Emperor of the jajozeli-razine, is he?”
“But they hold land to the south – Zanezli!” Ethrayne said, and went suddenly very pale. “That man – the man who approached me at the lane when you fell behind, Jerryn – he said ‘I must warn you that future events may soon serve to delay your wedding.’ So – so was he one of the Betrayer’s servants? And – and they are watching us?”
“We are to Wield the Flame of Arven against legends?” Jerryn shuddered. “We know nothing, your Grace. Nothing!”
“It is true that it will take some time for you to learn of your roles and your strength, my dears. Yet you will be surprised how much you will intuit during your training.” Archpriest Lurco said comfortingly. “And I am sure that the enemy are just watching – biding their time – and scaring you.”
“Time is passing.” Bahlien’s face was stern – the two young people privately thought that his lack of platitudes was rather telling. “We have taken up all your morning and I can only apologise. You had better return to the palace and discuss everything that we have said with your families. I am deeply sorry -.”
“You will be speaking to our parents soon, I hope?” Jerryn asked. “I really don’t think that they will believe us, your Grace.”
At that question, the old razine grinned. “Most certainly we will, your Highness, my Lady. I suggest, Lady Ethrayne, that you begin your weapons training – just to be on the safe side, my dear.”
“Yes, your Grace, I will.” She assured him.
“We have a copy of the prophecy for you to take back to the palace and I know that I don’t have to ask you both to only discuss this with your families at this stage.” Archpriest Lurco said. “I think that it may confuse too many people to start discussing religious matters widely. Thank you so much for coming here today.” And he bowed low after handing a small scroll to Ethrayne.
“Thank you for confiding in us, your Graces.” She said, curtsying deeply.
“We will be circumspect.” Jerryn assured them, and bowed. “Good morning.”
“May Arven grant you peace. Good morning, my dears.” Archpriest Lurco said, blessing them, and they were soon escorted back to the courtyard where their carriage and guards waited.
Neither spoke during their return to the palace, both deep in thought – shocked – amazed – and simply overwhelmed at what they had been told. Ethrayne still held the scroll in her hand, swaying slightly with the movement of the coach up the cobbled street to the palace, her gaze lost in nothing as she looked through the leather-clad interior. Jerryn was staring out of the window, again at nothing at all. Thinking.
The coach came to a halt in front of the ornate main entrance, and one of the grooms stepped down to open the door closest to the steps.
It was a moment or two before the Prince looked around, noticed where they were, and got to his feet. “Ethrayne?” He reached out one hand to touch her forearm lightly. “We’re back. Shall we go and find our parents?”
“Oh, dear Arven, Jerryn, what are we going to say to them?” She asked as he stepped down from the coach and turned to hand her down. “Thank you . . . This is -.” She paused and sighed, shaking her head as they headed up the steps.
“But you believe them.” It was not a question.
“Yes.” Ethrayne answered levelly. “And you, your Highness?”
At the top of the steps, Jerryn stopped and gently took the scroll from her hand. “Yes I do. How can I not?” He shrugged. “But – oh my word!”
“I know.” Ethrayne flashed a smile that did not reach her eyes.
*
King Marrand, the Duke and Duchess of Clirensar, and Lord Chamberlain Ferman were having luncheon whilst discussing certain details in advance of planning the expense that would be the spectacle of the marriage between their children, so Jerryn and Ethrayne ate their own luncheon with their friends – neither saying very much of anything at all. They had left word that they would like a private meeting with their parents with one of the servants.
“You haven’t been arguing, have you?” Varlan asked bluntly, making Jerryn jump in his seat when he nudged him hard in the side, for he had completely ignored Varlan’s latest joke.
“Don’t be silly, Varlan.” Ethrayne countered with mild indignation. “It’s just – it’s been an unsettling morning.”
Someone else sniggered derisively.
“There’s no need to laugh.” Jerryn said, patting his left hand to his right breast, where he had secreted the copy of the prophecy in his doublet, safe and out of sight. Suddenly, unreasonably, he found their friends to be irritating and shallow in the extreme and bit back some cutting, hurtful remarks that nearly escaped his control. “Come on, Ethrayne – Shan should be able to tell us when Father is able to see us. We’ll see you later – thank you.” He remembered his manners enough for that, but hurried his betrothed from the room.
“Are you all right?” She asked as he sank down in a window seat along the corridor. “You look just how I think I felt after that ride.”
Jerryn glanced up at her and shivered. “Ethrayne, what are we going to do?”
“Your Highness, my Lady Ethrayne.” A voice said from Jerryn’s left – Shan, Marrand’s personal servant, was approaching quickly along the corridor. “Your honoured parents will join you in your suite shortly, Prince Jerryn. Is that privacy enough?” His tone was faintly disapproving – he spent a lot of each day protecting the King’s free time from all calls for attention.
“Yes, thank you Shan.” Jerryn replied, rising to his feet. “We won’t keep my father or the Duke long from their business – I hope.”
Jerryn’s private sitting room was decorated with the royal colours of blue and green, but the walls were of plain stone covered with tapestries, and the furniture was a century or so newer. Ethrayne went over to the window, as he and his valet tidied furnishings that were neat, and plumped cushions vigorously. She stared out over the palace roofs towards the city beyond, but focussed more on the grey sky above – and paid no attention as Karne assured his master that refreshments were ready if required.
“Calm down, Jerryn.” She said then, turning back and taking a seat – the prince was straightening ornaments on a blocky sideboard. “You saw our parents this morning, after all -.”
The outer door opened and the Duchess Riyala swept in, followed by King Marrand and Duke Marrand.
“Jerryn, Ethrayne, you have been having a busy few days, haven’t you?” The Duchess kissed them both affectionately, and sat down with her usual grace. “What made you ask Shan to ask us to visit you, when we would have seen you later at dinner? You have not decided to do anything precipitous, have you?”
“Mother!” Ethrayne blushed, then paled, completely unaware that she had clasped her hands tightly before her, her fingers moving nervously as she got back to her feet and began pacing. “We met with Archpriest Lurco and – and a colleague of his . . . He didn’t mention anything – anything unusual to you when he visited, did he?” She asked, glaring a little, simply because she could not think of any other way to broach the subject.
“Actually he did mention a prophecy that has been discovered, but only briefly.” The King said. “How remarkable is that? Is this what you want to speak to us about?” He asked, looking from Ethrayne to his son. “What is amiss?”
“At least he referred to it – very sensible of the Archpriest.” Ethrayne muttered. “Would it be considered very rude if I were to throw all his bloody books at him, when we next meet, do you think?”
“Ethrayne, Jerryn, will you please sit down and start talking sense?” Marrand grated, exasperated.
“Your Majesty. Your Graces. Have you ever heard of Arven’s Book of Days? Archpriest Lurco and ex-Archpriest Bahlien of Orbain showed us a page, you see . . .” Jerryn had plunged on in headlong, but was forced to pause, perching on the edge of a seat. “A prophecy – it’s about us, Ethrayne and I, but -.”
“Oh, give me the scroll.” Ethrayne had ignored the request to sit and had still been pacing near the window, but now she strode across the room and yanked the scroll firmly from Jerryn’s hand and cracked the seal, pulling it open. “And behold, my loyal servants –.” She declaimed crisply and the three adults sat up straighter, listening hard. When she reached the end of the passage, she passed the scroll to King Marrand with a curtsy. “Please excuse my peculiar mood, your Majesty.” She snapped with a flash of her eyes. “I’m a little disconcerted, I admit.”
Sarant got to his feet and silently took her in his arms, holding her tight as Marrand and Riyala both leaned over the scroll, reading it quietly, their expressions grim.
“You are scared.” He noted, looking down at her pale face.
“Yes, I am. I had already asked Jerryn and Pualyn to teach me how to wield a sword, father – yesterday. Ex-Archpriest Bahlien actually said that I should begin training as soon as possible – just in case.”
“He did, your Grace.” Jerryn confirmed gravely. “On my life, sir.”
“I haven’t heard of Archpriest Bahlien.” The King said coolly. “Did you say that he was razine, Jerryn?”
“He was – I mean, he is, Sir.” The young man sat up straighter, his face as pale as the girl’s but resolute. “And he was an Archpriest in Orbain. He – he said that he would explain, but – but he was there – there at Car’Agasse, when the Betrayer imprisoned Arven . . . We – we are to wield Arven’s Flame!” Then finally Jerryn slumped down into the chair, his eyes wild. “Us!” And he laughed in a slightly brittle manner.
“Oh my word!” Duchess Riyala murmured in dismay. “My word, Marrand!”
* * *
The courtiers assembled in the dining hall were rather shocked when the announcement was made that King Marrand would be dining privately that evening. When everyone realised that the Duke of Clirensar’s family, Lady Lyria and Prince Jerryn were also to be absent, certain silly stories were fabricated out of thin air – but the servants, knowing far more, of course, were silent.
From Jerryn’s rooms, the king sent Karne for Pualyn and Lyria and escorted Ethrayne, her parents and Jerryn to his own suite, with its private dining room.
“We’ll eat here.” Marrand instructed Shan. “Pualyn and his betrothed will be arriving momentarily – but no one else will be admitted this evening.”
When Pualyn and Lyria arrived soon after, they found the two younger people being poured glasses of a much stronger wine than was usually served and his parents and the King hovering around them with openly worried expressions on their faces.
“What has happened now?” Her brother asked his lady with a flash of childish envy. “Why does she always get all the attention?”
“Pualyn – silly! You couldn’t wed Jerryn after all!” Lyria chided him with a smile. “It’s hardly Ethrayne’s fault -.”
“Oh yes it probably is my fault!” Ethrayne snapped back, having caught their quiet exchange but sounding more frustrated than annoyed. “I think pretty much everything that has happened recently is my fault, brother!” She didn’t see everyone else’s startled stares: none of them had ever seen her behave so erratically.
“I’m sorry.” Jerryn offered. “It’s my fault too – don’t let Ethrayne confuse you. Something has happened, Pualyn – and it’s – it’s frankly breathtaking -.”
Pualyn’s resentments faded almost instantly at the news, of course, but his contribution to the evening’s discussion was really in a more subsidiary role: supporting his best friend and his little sister, all of them struggling to make their minds encompass the fact of – Prophecy – and just what it might mean to them, to everyone else and to the kingdom at large.
Not a great deal of the excellent meal was actually eaten, to the cooks’ chagrin, but quite a lot of wine was drunk throughout the evening.
“We need to speak to Lurco and this ex-Archpriest Bahlien as soon as possible, to coordinate our announcements on this matter.” Duke Sarant said gravely. “I am sure that the crown has never had to work so closely with the Church before. Perhaps Lurco needs to speak first rather than you, Sire.”
“Our children are not the property of the Church of Arven!” Marrand snapped back. “Any religious obligations must be secondary to their roles within our realm! They are prince and noblewoman, not priests!”
“We know, Marrand, dear.” Riyala soothed him, patting his hand resting on the table top. “But apparently this prophecy is ancient. Lurco might expect precedence.”
“What do you think, Ethie?” Pualyn asked her quietly.
“Me?” The girl looked up with dull eyes – not at all her usual demeanour. “I don’t really believe anything that we think or say matters at all. The prophecy is ancient, as Mother said. Is everything predetermined? Are we doomed?”
“Of course we’re not doomed, Ethrayne.” Jerryn disagreed with a short, insincere laugh.
“But what – excuse me your Majesty, Mother – what the hell are we meant to do?” She demanded. “Are we meant to somehow free Arven from that ancient ice, or destroy the Betrayer, or something else entirely?”
“I think that we need to stop speculating, my dear, and wait until we can speak to the Archpriests.” Duke Sarant suggested soothingly. “It’s getting late, Marrand.”
“Yes, you’re right, old friend.” The King acknowledged with a nod. “Let’s leave this for now. Jerryn, Ethrayne – I’m sorry that this has landed on you in this way. Please report here at noon tomorrow. I suggest that you do begin weapons training in the morning – and if the exercise doesn’t clear your mind, my dear Ethrayne, then nothing will.”
*
Early the next morning, Ethrayne was staring at the pile of clothes sent by the prince with some trepidation: shirts, leggings, and a well-worn leather jerkin. Part of her wanted to abandon the whole idea as ludicrous – stupid! But King Marrand himself had approved her request for training, as had Archpriest Bahlien – she could not back out now.
“Right, let’s have a laugh.” She said, discarding her nightgown, and reaching for a chemise.
A short while later, dressed and after her hair had been braided and coiled and pinned securely around her head, Ethrayne went to meet her mother and Lyria across in her parent’s apartment, feeling horribly self conscious and also strangely light – free of the weight and confinement of all those skirts and bodices. Wearing her own riding boots, and the borrowed male clothing – leggings, shirt and jerkin which were not too baggy – she stepped slowly into the sitting room where they waited.
“I look silly, don’t I?” She asked ruefully.
Her family stared for a moment, then recovered their composure quickly.
“Of course you don’t look silly, dear.” Riyala replied crisply. “But – you do look ever so much like your brother, Ethrayne.”
“And you seem taller, too.” Lyria stated, smiling.
“So, shall we go and scandalise the entire palace, Ethie?” Duke Sarant asked with rather a mischievous smile on his lips and in his eyes.
“After you, your Grace.” Ethrayne responded – greatly heartened by their support. She bowed deeply with a flourish, as she had seen countless men behave – and her family laughed as her father bowed in response.
Bolstered by her family, breakfast proved to be much more light-hearted than any of them expected and Ethrayne strolled down to the enclosed combat hall with Jerryn and Pualyn, totally unconcerned at the shocked expressions on the faces of courtiers and servants alike. Awaiting the three of them in the half-basement hall were Private Tymain and Commander Vedeigne. Seeing them both, armed professionals – bulky men, business-like in their uniforms, Ethrayne felt a return of all her fears.
“His Majesty has assured me that this exercise is no mere frivolity, my Lady.” Vedeigne snapped the statement out startlingly, his gaze stern as he looked her up and down.
“No, Commander.” She agreed a little nervously. “The original idea was perhaps a little silly to begin with, I admit – but not since his Highness and I spoke with Archpriest Lurco yesterday. I want to learn how to defend myself. Apparently I need to know how to defend myself.” She shrugged and grimaced. “And, yes, I realise that defence also includes attack – and I might well have to kill someone, to save myself or others.” She stood up straighter quite unconsciously.
“Humph. And the whole business will include an awful lot of hot, hard work, my Lady – you’ll work up a proper sweat here.” Vedeigne quirked his lips into what might be construed a slight smile as she continued to meet his gaze. “Well, young lady, you’re tall enough, and these three young men are experienced – so I’ll just stand around over here out of the way.” He grinned as Ethrayne sighed audibly. “His Majesty and their Graces, your honoured parents, want regular reports, I’m afraid.”
That first lesson was far more a tutorial than a practical lesson, Ethrayne found, as she was introduced to a vast array of weaponry from massive six-foot bladed broadswords to equally huge and impossible to wield longbows – and practically every other weapon in the armoury. Then, with Pualyn and Jerryn demonstrating, she finally picked up a medium-length wooden sword and started to learn the first basic moves, the positioning of body and weapon. All too soon, it seemed, it was noon, and she had to almost run to get back to her rooms to get washed and changed. Properly attired in the usual long skirts, she made her way to the King’s apartment, still feeling most overheated.
“Ah, Ethrayne, come on in, luncheon will be served shortly.” Marrand greeted her with a kiss on her cheek as she was admitted to the private, green-draped dining room. “How does the exercise suit you, eh?”
The girl smiled a little ruefully. “I can definitely feel my shoulders, your Majesty.” She admitted, and he chuckled.
“Yes, we all know what you mean, and it will feel strange for a while.” The King led her past her parents to where the two representatives of Arven were stood watching her approach and both bowed politely to her.
Curtsying in return, Ethrayne was suddenly struck by the realisation that the old razine was the tallest man in the room by at least six inches – and that he was at least a foot taller than herself.
“Ah, here are our young men and the lovely Lady Lyria – come in, please.” Marrand greeted them as the doors were quietly closed behind Jerryn, as he, Pualyn and Lyria all paid their respects. “Please, come and sit down, everyone – who would like wine? Ale? Water?” He gestured to the silver jugs on the sideboard. “I hope you are all hungry.”
Ethrayne and Jerryn found themselves sitting opposite Lurco and Bahlien, and exchanged quick, nervous glances as the servants came around with the first course before quickly departing, leaving them alone around the large table.
“Your Graces.” Duke Sarant said quietly after everyone had sampled the layered terrine that adorned their plates. “Perhaps you should tell Jerryn and Ethrayne some of the details of the early history of Iullyn, and the founding of – of Car’Agasse.”
“Most certainly, your Grace.” Archpriest Lurco agreed and smiled at them as he set down his cutlery. “Do not worry: there are no tests at the end of this, and we are certainly not expecting any ridiculous signs of excess piety or devotion on your part, your Highness, my Lady . . . nothing beyond what you have always believed – So, to begin.”
The Creation of Iullyn, naturally, was familiar to all of them, but Bahlien’s account of the pre-eminence of the razine as the oldest intelligent race of Arven’s world was far more detailed than the brief paragraphs usually accorded in the annals of the Church.
“So, the razine resided on the continent of Mendor, north and east of Selith, learning from Arven – for he was eager to teach us all that we could learn; those were wonderful times, it is said – and he walked with us, before travelling throughout the world, studying what he had made – and coming back to us when he created humans. That was many millennia before I was born; and then your ancestors dwelled alongside mine for thousands more.” The ex-Archpriest said. “We all learned philosophy; farming; writing; art; plumbing; sailing – even town planning, I think, at Arven’s knee. Time passed, and many humans moved to the Selithian and Enlath continents, the outlying islands – for your birth rate has ever outstripped ours and, of course, there was the lure of exploration and a new vista.
“Arven had set up a Hall at Car’Agasse, there in the perpetual snows of the northern land, Piyan – simply because he could make a hall of ice that was comfortable for all, where food and drink and heat were arranged by his Will alone. Children would beg to attend him, both razine and human, for a period of three moons – he loved children: their innocence and their joy in the world. Then, some years before I was born, some who had been present as children began to attend Arven as adults – learning more from him . . . And so a formal discipleship was finally set up to the organisation of the Church.
“Then, when I was a baby, a young man called Gregnor went to Car’Agasse. Handsome, brilliant at everything he turned his hand or mind to, charismatic in his own right, with power already greater than most razine – and he was as devoted to Arven as our God was to him and the others. I wonder if even Gregnor himself knows what changed in him, leading up to that fateful night.” Bahlien paused, and sighed.
“Of course, most of this is pure speculation, you understand. But sometime towards the end of that decade, Gregnor’s heart changed and no-one, not even Arven himself, ever realised that fact. I had been there in the hall for two months, one of many children chosen randomly to serve there – but it was rather more a school: we sat and listened to Arven and his disciples discuss – oh, any matter; then we cleared up with them, and helped serve them food and drink – soaking up the serene atmosphere of the place.” He grinned. “Once, we even had a snowball fight, there in the Iullyn Hall – oh, it was wonderful!
“The disciples had been discussing power with Arven – the differences between razine and human and the vastness of our God’s power over all of us. Arven had gifted some of his power to Gregnor, apparently as part of the discussion. The situation, the discussion, might have been planned – I do not know, but I admit that I am supposing that this is so, because of the devastating speed with which Gregnor acted when Arven, on his disciple’s innocuous-seeming urgings, made a hexagonal crystal casket, a little less than two feet high and across, and physically took from his own chest a double clenched-fist sized mass of almost incandescent, white-hot flame that seemed to grow – removing in this way, almost all his native might and power. He placed it in the casket – it seemed far too large to fit within, but the lid closed with a snap, locked – and the moment, it seems, had come.” Bahlien stopped, noticing everyone’s rapt, entranced attention, and took a sip of wine before continuing.
“It was that night, after dinner, when Gregnor encased Arven in an unbreakable pillar of ice, in the vast majestic central hall, the Iullyn Hall – we could call it the throne room, but there were no thrones or fancy tapestries or altars – only the image of Iullyn in its entirety in the floor. Arven had gifted power to Gregnor, as well as to other disciples, both human and razine – many had dispersed throughout Iullyn, serving the people as best they could and devoting themselves to Arven’s purpose. No-one expected treachery. Many in Car’Agasse were asleep. There were no weapons at all in the place. Arven was imprisoned in that ice – he was helpless, frozen – he was completely unable to break free: his power encased in that crystal casket gleaming in the centre of the hall.
“Instead of just taking the casket and fleeing, Gregnor acted – he had a scheme of elimination: of course, by killing the other disciples, he would remove all those who could seriously oppose him, even amongst the razine. He killed his lover, Holy Ayline, and everyone else in Car’Agasse – even the children! I fled, some instinct made me first hide, before I raced back to the Iullyn Hall, just ahead of Gregnor. Somehow, I believe, Arven protected me as it’s the only possible explanation. I ran across the hall, past Ayline’s butchered body, and hugged the casket tight in terror. I couldn’t lift it – and the Betrayer was screaming at me madly, racing towards me with a blazing sword in his hands, covered in blood . . .
And we vanished, as he extended the blade, reappearing in the Cathedral in Lerat, the capital of Orbain. I caused quite a stir – screaming, crying, somehow locked to the casket.” Finally, he fell silent and took a sip of wine.
“Oh my word!” Ethrayne breathed, not even realising that she had gripped Jerryn’s hand tightly in her own during his recitation.
“War descended on Iullyn, especially throughout the Mendor continent where most of the razine dwelt. Gregnor preached of power – of taking control, becoming master – of riches, and of slavery oh, you can imagine.” Archpriest Lurco took up the story. “The Betrayer wanted Arven’s power, but on his own terms. Humans he viewed as tools, inferior. He had always been eloquent, and he had not lost his gift – he gained followers, and not a few of them were razine. They proclaimed him Emperor in the end, after he and his army had destroyed all of the disciples of Arven still living. They claimed the Enlath continent, far to the west, as his realm and Empire. But this process took centuries.”
“What of Arven’s Casket, your Grace?” Jerryn asked quietly. “And what happened to you, after you were – transported to Orbain. Surely the Betrayer was searching for you?”
“Oh, indeed he was, most assuredly. He lay waste to the city of Lerat with his troops and killed untold thousands in the process. But of the priesthood in the Cathedral, many were those who had learned from Arven, before he killed the last of them – they spirited the casket and I away by sea, and we came to Selith. And I travelled endlessly throughout the continent for years, before we settled here – and Arven’s casket was hidden in its present location, deep beneath this city’s cathedral.” Bahlien laughed aloud at the looks on their faces. “Gregnor has searched Selith, Mendor, Piyan and even Enlath in vain: it has been here all along.”
Silence filled the room as, completely unnoticed by the diners, the king’s servants cleared the table and sideboard of the main course dishes and served dessert before they vanished again. The wonderful aroma of spiced apple and rhubarb pie with thick cream proved a temptation even above the history they had been hearing, or any questions they had intended to ask. It wasn’t until their plates had been scraped clean that anyone spoke.
“Excuse me.” Pualyn said, taking a sip from his water goblet. “You mentioned Arven’s Book of Days before, your Grace. These prophecies that Arven made . . . Well . . . surely there was one – a prophecy I mean – made about something so – as crucial as those awful events at Car’Agasse – was there?”
“Dear Arven! Was there a prophecy about the Betrayal?” Marrand demanded sharply. “And, if there was, why was Arven not warned?”
“Yes, I thought you would ask that, your Majesty, my Lord Pualyn.” Bahlien nodded approvingly. “The Book of Days was written in antiquity, but Arven never really considered it as worth any study!” He grimaced. “No-one did. It was one of Archpriest Lurco’s predecessors who found the volume in the library here, covered in cobwebs. I had resigned as Archpriest a few years before – certain that I was required here in Tenarum. Trenayne showed me the book, and we spent nearly four days reading it from cover to cover – reading Arven’s own words. There is a prophecy that warns of the ‘Disciple with the heart of blackness’ – but, of course, the event had already occurred – unfortunately.” He sighed, and suddenly looked much older than he had before, for a moment, before he sighed again and straightened his shoulders and back. “I will show you the prophecy – but that is all in our past and perhaps the reason why the book exists at all. You two young people, together, are to take the Flame of Arven from the casket where it has been locked safe and secure for centuries. You, together, will open the casket – and the both of you will Wield the Flame – Arven’s power – for our God.”
“Seriously? The – the power of our God? Us?” Ethrayne’s voice quavered with some trepidation. “But – we are only human, your Grace – we are nothing – certainly nothing special -.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bahlien contradicted her jovially. “You are everything special, my Lady Ethrayne, your Highness – else the prophecy would refer to two other people, and not yourselves.”
“You – you really are sure about that, your Grace?” Jerryn asked levelly. “It’s not – not that we are implying -.” He faltered, fell silent then dropped his gaze to the empty plate on the table before him.
“I understand your concerns.” The old razine said kindly. “And no-one would blame you for being frightened; you both understand what duty and responsibility means and we apologise for so abruptly increasing your duties. Arven’s casket will open for you and only you, then you will begin to learn how to use the Flame of Arven.”
Ethrayne unclasped her hands and laid both palms flat on the tabletop. “You are certain that the Prophecy of Arven refers to us?” She asked quietly but intently – and both old men nodded gravely. “You are sure – you are certain – that you all approve of this, your Majesty? Your Graces?” She asked of Marrand and her parents.
“I really don’t think that any of us have the authority to disapprove, my dear Ethrayne.” The King answered after a pause, his tone and gaze troubled.
“So we do not have any say at all in this, do we?” Jerryn laid his right hand over Ethrayne’s left. “We cannot actually refuse, can we?”
“Because if we refused this burden – and ran away, for example – there wouldn’t really be anywhere to go.” Ethrayne continued, glancing at her betrothed. “And – and if our God demands our help – well, it’s only a continuation of those formal vows we will make when we are wed, Jerryn, and then – many years away, God willing – the vows made when you are crowned king – to Arven, to his Majesty and to Tenarum . . . Well, what do you think?”
“The Betrayer – his Empire – and us?” Jerryn snorted, and spat a word that startled them all – graphic and to the point. “They already know about us, about all this – they’ll – oh, dear Arven, we have no idea what they’ll do!” He let go of Ethrayne’s hand, shoved back his chair and leapt to his feet, striding away from the table. “You’d better get married again, Father – you’re going to need a few more children! Hell – I’ll do it!”
“And I also.” Ethrayne also rose to her feet. “But this isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
“No, it probably isn’t.” Archpriest Lurco agreed heavily.
*
“Why did we agree?” Jerryn asked Ethrayne later that day, when they were finally alone, having rather recklessly made their way to the top of the tallest tower in the palace. “We must be absolutely mad, Ethrayne!”
“I agree, it is mad – but it is necessary, can’t you feel it?” Ethrayne replied, raising her arms wide. “Bahlien was right: Arven has called us, Jerryn. Us!” Her tone was stunned and she shuddered, as if at an icy blast, although the breeze through the open window was quite warm even though they were two hundred feet above the ground.
Jerryn looked at her for a moment and then took her in his arms and hugged her tight. “It doesn’t say that we will die – the prophecy just warns us to be careful, Ethrayne.”
“The Archpriests have only showed us one page, silly!” She replied with an edge in her voice. “Bahlien admitted that there was a prophecy warning Arven about the Betrayer – and there might even be one saying that – that the Emperor of the Jajozeli slits our throats – how would we know?”
“We will ask to read the whole book.” The Prince answered. “They want us to attend them at the Cathedral a few more times, so we will study the Book of Days . . . Oh, Ethrayne, I can’t believe it! You and I – chosen to wield the power of our God!”
“I have never been that good a person, you know.” Ethrayne remarked, shrugging and stepping back from her betrothed’s embrace, turning to stare out across the rooftops. “I have never been bad – yet I’ve never been like any of those helpful, selfless, magnanimous characters in the parables, Jerryn.” She sounded almost fretful, a lot younger than her years.
Jerryn cracked a rather lopsided smile. “From what I understand – well, rather as it feels to me, actually – the Wielder of the Flame isn’t meant to be a ‘good’ person, Ethrayne. I think we are meant to be – oh, I don’t know, strong?”
“Strong? I’m a girl, Jerryn.”
“But you are strong, Ethie: you are amazing when you are angry; you are sure of yourself and you were quite scary after luncheon, when you faced the Archpriests. You are not and could never be that mythical sort of timid girl who daren’t ride a horse, or go out into town alone, or ever contradict her elders. And you’re going to learn how to use weapons, too – you are about as strong as anyone I’ve ever met, my dear: you never back down. I’m certainly going to have to watch my step when we are wed, you know.” Jerryn managed a genuine grin at that point. “You’re more than a match for Lord Ferman, or anyone else for that matter.”
Surprised at his statement, Ethrayne felt a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure at being described so. “I thank you, your Highness.” She said, and curtsied. “But I have to admit that I am scared.”
“Gosh, so am I and I’ll shout it from the window, if you like.” Jerryn replied. “I’m not afraid of admitting it. That man – jajozeli-razine, whatever he was – scared the juice out of me.”
“Yes, he felt completely different to how Bahlien does, didn’t he? Both so strong – I was amazed that no-one else could sense it. One, so cold and confident, giving out that level of hatred and power; the Archpriest, whom I guess is at least his equal in power, but feeling – friendly, supporting – damn! I can’t explain it.” She shook her head in frustration. “But do you understand what I described?”
“You explained it well, Ethie. It’s something we don’t really have the words to describe . . . I suppose we have to trust the Archpriests, at the end of the day, and pray.” Jerryn held out one hand, and the girl clasped it.
“I’ve never prayed so much.” Ethrayne admitted in a whisper. “Oh, Jerryn, hold me tight for a moment, please?”
Their chaste but comforting embrace only ended when a red-faced Tymain knocked politely on the half-open door to announce dinner, keeping his gaze averted.
* * *
Across the city, a man moved unobtrusively through the Riverside – one of the poorer areas of the city that ran from behind the wharves and up either side of the Ayne River – a steep sided valley with a slightly unhealthy atmosphere that was perhaps due to the fact that it received little direct sunlight and housed some very unsavoury inhabitants. The area angled to the south, separated from the hill that housed the Cathedral by an offshoot of the Artisans district.
No one took any notice of the man and he appeared to be utterly different to how he had looked facing Ethrayne on the lane above the city a few days before. Then, he had been very tall, blonde and chillingly handsome but he now looked like a thin man of only average height, with a head of sparse greying black hair hanging around his ears; watery brown eyes; a loose-lipped mouth and a stooping gait. In the tatty cloak he wore over old, patched clothing, he was unremarkable – a man, walking along Stonecutter’s Street, one of thousands; perhaps a workman making his way home, perhaps a criminal, perhaps nobody.
But hardly anyone marked his passing, not even the eagle-eyed men and women of the local gangs, whose remit it was to identify and follow strangers – if not to simply rob them. He smiled to himself as he headed up a narrow alley, picking his way past a pile of rotting refuse to a battered door at the top of three sagging steps. It opened as he had unlocked it with a sturdy iron key and he stepped inside a dimly lit space, quickly locking the door again and securing it with a hefty oak bar. Whistling a few notes, he climbed three flights of creaking stairs to the top floor, unlocked a shabbily-peeling red-painted door and entered a large, surprisingly airy room, shaped like a triangle, the steeply angled ceiling meeting in the centre, forming the underside of the roof above and a large window in each gable end showing a great deal of sky and a view of jumbled rooftops in orange, red and greyish tiles, and darker grey slates, stepping oddly down the slopes of the valley towards the river below, and a distant glimpse of green fields beyond.
The room contained a large, wooden-framed bed covered with crisp white sheets and neatly folded blankets; an old plain chest; a rather battered and misused deal table containing a basket of food – eggs, some vegetables, cheese and a loaf of brown bread. In addition, there were two rickety chairs sets one on each side of a dusty old fireplace where a few embers smouldered amid a bed of grey ashes.
He stretched as he cast off the cloak and the non-descript man was somehow replaced in the blink of an eye with the blonde, handsome figure who had so frightened Ethrayne there above the city, laying a large slab of meat and a wineskin on the table.
Since his arrival in Tenum a few days before, he had familiarised himself with the city in all its aspects, from the outer environs of the palace complex, to those much less salubrious areas where ordinary people avoided straying on towards evening, with no hindrance or concern. By a judicious use of his innate abilities, he had learned a great deal about the primitive little kingdom, its ruler and his council and – most pertinently – he had discovered the name of one in the palace who might be amenable to divulging a few secrets concerning the young prince and his lady, if given the right inducements.
He had had to take the utmost care in his perambulations – the presence of the aged ex-Archpriest Bahlien in the Cathedral complex was, of course, unknown to the general population, but as clear as the sun at noon to one such as him. Likewise, the old razine would undoubtedly be aware of his arrival – but, on balance, he would be safe enough, unless he tried something recklessly stupid such as trying to enter the Cathedral, or making a direct move against the young couple. Such recklessness, however, was not part of his remit here, or of his makeup.
Whistling again, he began to prepare a meal – he had a destination and a target in mind for that evening.
*
The Kings Arms was a spacious tavern of some standing, located directly below the palace wall on the steep north-facing slope that plunged down to the Benton district, where the richest merchants and nobles lived in luxury. The area was well-known for its fruit trees growing on wide verges and in many little parks; the blossom was beautiful at this time of year.
The stranger now looked like a pale reflection of his real self - a mere six foot tall, with yellowy blonde hair and a bent nose, but his eyes were still that intense, sharp blue. It was not an actual physical change that he had effected, but a form of suggestion that he could project and so alter what everyone else saw. It worked very well on humans, as a rule, for they lacked the regime of mental exercise and control that the razine and their enemies undertook from childhood. It did, however, take a lot of concentration to keep up for long periods – some people were better at forming the suggestion amongst them and some people just were naturally able to see the truth – not what he might want them to see.
There in the Kings Arms, however, people just accepted him for what he appeared to be: a well-dressed man of perhaps thirty at most, with money and good-quality, well-used weapons; probably a merchant, the tavern-keeper and his staff had decided. He had paid for one of the better rooms for the night and now sat quietly reading a scroll, a glass of wine at his side.
“May I join you, sir?” A voice asked politely. “The other tables are all full, I’m afraid.”
He looked up and suppressed a sigh. The person standing before him with an apologetic air was unknown: a paunchy, middle-aged man with a round nose and the most ridiculous comb-over from right to left – coarse, iron-grey hair that did nothing but highlight the bald area of scalp that he was so desperately vain to disguise; the slightest gust of wind would throw the ridiculously long strands every which way, for sure.
“Of course, sir, please do.” He replied with a smile and a gesture of welcome. He was contemplating murder in his heart, though – as the one he had hoped to lure laughingly joined a larger group of acquaintances closer to the fireplace – a mixed collection of well-dressed and well-behaved staff-members from the palace.
“Thank you so much – I’ve just got in: settled my staff down at the Old Keys and I’ll be off to the guild tomorrow.” The man sat down, chuckling, and thanked the aproned maid who laid a plate of food and a tankard of ale before him. “M’name’s Galton, by the way – Galton of Pellerton. I deal in fine cloth and furs in all the main towns and cities of the kingdom.”
“I am Kesta from Orran, trading ironware – just starting to expand north.” He replied, adding a mental nudge to suggest to Galton that it was a boring subject.
“Orran, hey? Was there only last autumn.” And Galton began a pretty-much one-sided conversation in between relishing his mouthfuls of dinner, so that ‘Kesta’ did not really have to do much more than nod his head every now and then and add the occasional ‘yes’ and ‘no’, as he in turn watched the group by the fire – relaxing merrily on their evening off.
He recognised the man to his target’s left as the King’s valet – and indeed it seemed that Shan was the very embodiment of decorum: he hardly said a word and drank sparingly as the others chattered and supped as if it was going out of fashion.
“- Oh, and the roads over the Eppleton Hills are unusually rutted this spring -.” Galton continued his monologue, as ‘Kesta’ nodded his agreement.
“- The Prince and his Lady are spending a great deal of time together, I heard tell.” One man remarked with a leer, nudging his neighbour at the other table. “Think he’s tasting forbidden fruit? She’s certainly a pretty little thing -.”
“Rannon!” Karne hissed, shocked. “Don’t be disgusting!”
“Ah, c’mon, Karne, she’s just -.” He moved his hands out, in and out again in the most eloquent hourglass representation indeed and the others sniggered.
“They are all spending a great deal of time with the Archpriest, actually – not alone.” Shan corrected him primly.
“And that’s in between the lady learning how to use a sword.” Karne said with a low laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day when a little bit of a thing like her would seriously pick up such weapons.”
‘Kesta’ pretended drowsiness, nodding slightly as he sat nursing his wine and Galton fell silent and drank his ale, so the imposter could clearly hear the other conversation. So, meetings with the Archpriest and weapons training already: he must have seriously scared the brat. Inwardly he smiled, listening on as the conversation turned to other matters.
*
The next evening, the palace servants did not attend the Kings Arms, but some of the Palace Guard did, including Tymain – looking serious beyond his years as he colleagues ribbed him mercilessly about teaching a girl how to use weapons. ‘Kesta’ had extended his stay and recognised him, briefly considering using the young man as his contact – until Tymain met his eyes across the room, frowned, and automatically laid his hand on his sword hilt – a reflex action that the stranger acknowledged with an inner sigh: the lad – so well placed that he would have been ideal – had just enough power of his own to recognise his own difference and strength.
It was not a common occurrence. Humans generally lacked those skills of the mind, but natural ability sometimes won out and it was actually an effect that he should have expected: that the young couple, brimming with perhaps an enormous potential for power and strength, would attract those with similar if lesser abilities to themselves, subconsciously drawn in like moths to a flame. Prophecy or no prophecy, both prince and lady had that potential and, as such, his Master would have marked them out from the other side of the world, regardless . . . But he wondered whether that potential would actually have existed at all, if not for the prophecy.
“Foolishness!” He murmured to himself. “That is not your concern.” But it was an interesting concept – one he might mention, once he had returned to civilisation.
“So, how does it feel, teaching a mere girl to fight?” One of the other privates demanded with a snigger. “Dear Arven, what a waste of time!”
“No, actually I am not strictly doing so, Calle.” Tymain answered with a calm smile. “The Prince and Lord Pualyn are teaching her – I’m their advisor -.”
“Advisor!” The youth named Calle snorted and swore graphically. “Women have no place using weapons – she’d be better placed in a bedroom! The Prince and his father shouldn’t have agreed to it!”
“You weren’t there, fool!” Tymain replied with a little more heat. “All right, I agree, Jerryn always seemed a complete pampered idiot, but that afternoon – that stranger – he was . . . dangerous – it could have been an absolute disaster. Thank Arven it wasn’t. Prince Jerryn has grown up because of it – no, really.” He waved down the derogatory responses from some of the others. “The lady has good reflexes and his Majesty and her parents approved this. If they say so and Commander Vedeigne agrees, who am I to object?”
“Ha! He’s fallen for her -!” Calle sneered, laughing raucously – but Tymain reached out, grabbed him by the throat, and dragged him half across the table. “Hey -!”
“Lady Ethrayne is the prince’s betrothed, you fool!” He growled, a sudden rush of anger roaring in his head. “Don’t insult her – or the prince – in my hearing again! Whatever is going on isn’t our concern – and you might not believe it, but I’ve given them both my complete loyalty! Times have changed, Calle!” Glaring, he contemptuously released one of his oldest friends in the troop, pushed back his chair and stalked out of the tavern as if mightily offended.
Watching him go, ‘Kesta’ marked him down as a far more significant personality in the future than he had previously supposed – and debated whether the young man would remain a private for long.
Striding up the street, Tymain felt his anger ebb away and began to wonder at the differences that only a handful of days could make. On the betrothal day, before that fateful ride out, he had thought of Jerryn with little more than contempt mixed with a certain amount of jealousy; he had considered Lady Ethrayne not at all, really, except as a very pretty girl. But now – now, as he had said, everything had shifted monumentally and changed. The prince was becoming a man – and the young couple were apparently at the very heart of this strange prophecy . . . Dear Arven, what was happening to the world?
He shivered, and the bland face of the stranger who had been sat opposite him on the corner table suddenly came into his head – with those deep, intense blue eyes. Something about the man bothered him, but he had no idea what, or why that should be: a blonde man perhaps ten years or so older than he; a merchant, by the look of him. He would keep his eyes open for that one, anyway.
*
With her mornings now filled with weapons’ training and afternoons increasingly spent attending Council meetings, not forgetting the other meetings often scheduled for her and Jerryn with the Archpriests, King Marrand and her family, Ethrayne now found that her days were racing by as spring advanced. Archpriest Lurco issued a bland statement that acknowledged her and Jerryn’s now singular status as the subject of a prophecy by Arven himself; it was so bland that that it almost seemed to turn the fact into a non-event – which, ex-Archpriest Bahlien admitted with a raffish grin, was the whole point: not to concern the population overmuch with such odd portents. Jerryn; his father; her family and herself merely attended an incense-fogged ceremony of blessing at the Cathedral where she and Jerryn knelt and swore to carry out Arven’s will regarding the prophecy, to the best of their ability. Lurco seemed almost deliberately vague on the prophecy itself as he spoke there before the altar, but they could both sense that Bahlien viewed the blessing with mingled trepidation and triumph.
“I can only apologise again.” The old razine said quietly after the ceremony, at the celebratory feast served afterwards. “I know for a fact that the one who accosted you is lurking around the city – but, of course, I have no idea where. I’m pretty certain that he is only watching and trying to gain information about you – We can only wait and watch and take care.”
“You have no idea what they – the jajozeli – intend?” The prince asked.
“The Jajozeli’s Emperor is a law unto himself.” Was all that the old priest admitted in answer to his question. “Now, how is your training progressing?” He changed subjects so quickly that the young couple exchanged glances and glared at him rather intently – and Bahlien had the grace to look a little embarrassed.
“Don’t ever think that we are stupid, your Grace.”
“Of course you’re not stupid, my Lady.” Bahlien agreed with a grimace. “Neither of you could ever be considered so, I can only ask that you please forgive me – it’s – I just – I can’t very well give you a list of their atrocities over the past centuries, can I? On one level, most would say that for you two young people to be chosen like this, to wield the Flame of Arven is wrong: you are far too young, far too inexperienced and far too vulnerable – which is the view of most of the razine in Orbain, I have to admit. Our people age much more slowly. To us, you are children. On behalf of my King, our peoples and our God, I must help you prepare – but I dare not meddle: the enemy are watching and waiting and probably ready to release thousands of troops at short notice into Selith, if we razine seem to be getting – too involved.” The elderly man sighed deeply.
“An army? Against the kingdom?” Ethrayne asked quietly with a shiver.
“Armies in the plural, my dear. And against both the Selithian and the Protectorate Kingdoms, not just Tenarum.” Bahlien admitted. “We don’t want that – any of us – we can cope with them watching and waiting, can’t we?”
“You believe that they might try to abduct us, your Grace?” Jerryn asked, frowning. “You believe that they will want the Flame of Arven?”
“Perhaps at some point in the future – yes, he will seek your capture, because you will hold Arven’s power.” He replied. “In fact, Lurco is suggesting that we return to the Cathedral later tonight for a rather more meaningful ceremony.” And, for the first time that day, Bahlien smiled.
Ethrayne glanced at Jerryn, seeing his concern in his eyes and managed a quick, spurious smile of her own. “If you believe that the time is right, your Grace, then who are we to argue?”
Jerryn took her hand in his and noticed that it was chilly to the touch, although her face was calm. He found her inner fear and outward calm and bravado hugely reassuring – this matter just seemed to be getting more and more complicated and dangerous.
*
The man known as Kesta walked boldly through the night-shrouded corridors of the palace, covered in a plain soldier’s cloak and completely unremarkable. This was his second visit to the vast labyrinth; the first, two nights before, had been to orientate himself – a brief walk around the outer reaches of the main building in the early evening had been enough: with perfect recall, the confusing corridors would prove no obstacle at all and with his ability to hide in plain sight, nowhere was barred from him.
Now, hearing a distant chime of bells, he slipped through one of the plain doors and into the store room beyond, where a solitary candle burned on a scrubbed tabletop, casting myriad angles of warm light and deep black shadow on the crockery and silverware stacked neatly on the shelves that lined the walls. As he shut the door behind him, he saw the man who waited for him visibly jump at his appearance.
“You startled me.” He said with a nervous laugh. “You move really quietly, Master Kesta.”
“Yes.” Kesta replied with a smile, watching as the man’s eyes became a little less focussed as he released his own power. “What can you tell me?”
“King Marrand, his son and Duke Sarant and his family left the palace earlier, after dinner, I’m not sure where they have gone – but they will not be back until later tonight.” He reported levelly. “They went by carriage, however, so I guess they are visiting out in the city.”
“That is excellent news, thank you.” Kesta sighed inwardly at the man’s lack of detail, but he already knew that the prince and his lady had returned to the Cathedral – he had asked one of the grooms earlier that day, loitering in the stables, posing as a temporary servant and admiring Sarant’s horses as he had shovelled manure into a barrow.
He had made contact with the palace servant three days previously – hooking his mind and interest easily with a hint of sexual regard and a jug of wine, there at the Kings Arms. It had been quiet and the inn was largely empty – and the owner and staff were obviously discreet. Getting the man upstairs – staggering a little for effect and singing slightly off colour songs – he had used his innate power to nudge ideas into his head, taking plenty of time to lay controls and commands in his victim’s mind, so that they would lie deep and unnoticed by everyone else as well as the man himself as he filled him with ecstasy – he would remember nothing but the pleasure of the night, of that the razine was sure. There, in bed with the man, he had laid his plans: pre-setting their first meeting at the palace gates for the next night at moonrise in his head without any need for explanation – it was not necessary to give any spurious reason for their meeting – just the fact that it would happen.
He had smiled: humans were so wonderfully easy to work with! No ridiculous complications to get in his way – most of the time, anyway. Simple commands and simple pleasures held sway. As he had lain there with the man, he had considered that the young couple who were the subject of his scrutiny might possibly prove more challenging to manipulate – and the chance of bedding either of them would be so utterly remote as to be completely unobtainable, although both were very handsome.
The controls on his victim had set and held, naturally – the man was no simpleton, but far from a genius – and Kesta had walked around the palace in the dead of night only a few nights ago, unnoticed by everyone including the guards, as he had planned – and easily locating the places he had wanted to without any fear of discovery, as if he walked through his own home.
Now, he mused, he could proceed: he could do what he had intended to do without interruption and depart the complex to melt back into the shadows after enjoying his contact again. It would be quite a novelty, he acknowledged with a smile, to just leave the man none the wiser as to who or what he was, and he considered the matter gravely.
Dealing with a being with the vast range of appetites he had, was usually a huge shock and a frighteningly abrupt education to the person concerned. Most of those targeted and used never survived the experience, in the end.
“Come.” He urged quietly, his mask smiling pleasantly, banishing the servant’s unformed fears of discovery and illegality before they could rise and be voiced. “Show me the wonders of this magnificent palace, my friend.”
*
It had not been difficult to ask the two families to return to the Cathedral, after Bahlien’s brief discussion with Ethrayne and Jerryn – they all were curious as to what the event might entail, after the largely meaningless preamble of the earlier ceremony, not just the young couple at the heart of the matter. They were also intrigued by the private nature of the meeting in the middle of the night. The underlying serious nature of the prophecy was beginning to loom higher in their awareness: the danger of the jajozeli could not be denied.
The Cathedral was mostly shrouded in a comforting darkness that was lifted by widely spaced, crystal-walled lamps set along the plain corridor that Archpriest Lurco led them down, behind the main hall of worship, heading towards the abbey complex, as far has his guests could surmise, having left the main courtyard by a small, ancient gate into a loam-smelling garden, and past twisted apple trees. Quietly – it didn’t seem appropriate to ask questions, somehow – they all turned left into a slightly narrower side passage at Lurco’s direction and, ahead of them, they could now see the taller form of the old razine waiting for them with a smile beside a plain arched doorway with a glowing lamp in his hand, highlighting the most formal robe that they had yet seen him wear – white silk, embroidered with shimmering gold and silver that, due to the intricate differences in the twist and thickness of the thread and the many different types of stitching, formed various shades that delineated the hands, globe and flame of Arven.
“Your Majesty; your Graces; my lord and lady.” He greeted their families, bowing politely to each of them in turn. “Am’maiya.” He bowed very formally to Jerryn and Ethrayne, who had walked along at the rear of the group behind Pualyn and Lyria, both looking very sober and surprisingly older than their years.
“Am’maiya? What does that mean?” The Prince queried the unknown word as he bowed in return.
“It is a razine title. It means ‘Wielder of the Flame’.” Lurco provided the translation with a smile. “Now, we must apologise for the next stage of our journey – the entrance is concealed through some of our storerooms, your Majesty.”
“Storerooms?” Sarant snorted with amusement. “I bet you’ve not entered anything so humble as a storeroom since you were a prince, old friend!”
“Of course not, Sarant, that’s what you’re for.” Marrand replied with a hearty guffaw, slapping his friend hard on the shoulder. “Lead on, please – I am intrigued and I am not ashamed to admit it, your Graces.”
Bahlien opened the plain door and they filed through a square room with shelving set from floor to ceiling to left and right – full of variously sized candles and many wooden boxes; the air was thick with the scents of beeswax and incense – it was almost overpoweringly strong and Lyria sneezed. He went to the rear wall where a second door led into a narrower room that was almost a corridor – fifteen feet long, maybe, and only seven feet wide, also shelved, the air sharp with the mingled aroma of herbs and spices, mostly neatly packaged and boxed, whilst bunches of lavender and rosemary hung from the ceiling.
Half-hidden at the far right-hand corner of the room, behind a stack of barrels, was a further doorway, but the already opened door seemed to be constructed of stone, not wood, and might be pretty-much invisible when closed.
“Here we are.” Bahlien said cheerfully, heading through this doorway with the lamp in his hand, his voice becoming slightly muffled as he continued. “There is a short passage and then we descend a staircase – there are a few lamps, but the footing is secure. Please, follow me, ladies and gentlemen.”
The staircase was about thirty steps deep, traditionally curved and it opened into a square hall that had a number of doors leading off it – more storerooms, they guessed – but the razine touched one of a number of carved circles in the midst of some rather poor engraving on the straight central spine of the staircase and, slowly, but smoothly and silently, an aperture opened on the opposite side to where the steps had ended.
“Oh, my goodness!” The Duchess remarked – the first of them to speak for a while. “This is rather like one of those stories that were so fashionable when the children were young – lost treasure, old houses with hidden rooms and staircases, how exciting.”
“Really?” Lyria asked, smiling as she followed her future mother-in-law. “I love those stories, Madam.”
“That is quite a silly pastime.” Marrand grunted. “I get quite enough reading from the tax reports and so on with the Council, Riyala, you know. I don’t have time for fiction.”
“Oh but they fill a quiet, rainy afternoon quite well.” Riyala answered and both Lyria and Ethrayne agreed with her, laughing for a moment – but the strangeness of the evening was still a fact, and their destination was beyond mythical – a place somewhere deep below the Cathedral housing the Flame of Arven.
It was a doorway, about two and a half feet wide and six feet high, opening directly onto a second spiral staircase that led down. A dim but warm light was just visible below, but the small group were all glad of the lamps held by Bahlien at the head and Lurco at the rear of the line, as Marrand followed the old Razine down the first curve of the staircase, and the rest followed quickly and quietly.
* * *
The stairs led downwards, seemingly endlessly, but the steps of the spiral were wider than average, and proved comfortable even for the men’s large feet – as Jerryn and Pualyn agreed, stepping down and around, for some of the staircases in the palace were far too narrow and tight for easy access, especially in the older parts of the complex.
“Well, since I myself have feet like barges, I made sure that the steps are broad, your Highness.” The old razine acknowledged from ahead. “I have always envied the delicate, small feet of ladies – but I confess that I’d look quite ridiculous at my height, if I had tiny feet.”
Finally, the light coming from below began to brighten and each of them in turn stepped into a hexagonal hall some fifty feet wide with a high vaulted stone ceiling and a glowing lamp on five of the walls, except for the one opposite from which a short corridor led to an ancient blackened-oak door thickly bound with iron and studded with massive nail-heads.
“We must be a long way below ground level.” King Marrand said, sounding quite surprised. “Probably deeper even than the palace cellars. This must have taken some committed work to excavate, your Grace.”
“Oh indeed, your Majesty.” Bahlien replied. “And all in a very good cause, I assure you. My Lady Ethrayne, Prince Jerryn, if you can please lead your families that would be best as we go forward? Thank you.” He stepped back as the brightly dressed group milled about for a moment, catching their breath after the descent.
“Is any ritual or ceremony involved in this night’s event, your Grace?” Ethrayne asked intently. “This place – it feels -.” She stopped speaking, struggling to find words to describe what she felt. Ever since they had started down the long spiral staircase, she had sensed . . . a power, a force awaiting them – there was a slight tingle on the skin; in the nerves; a slight pressure in the mind. It was subtle, and certainly not painful, but it was noticeable. “It feels – quite strange.” She ended, rather lamely.
“Yes.” Jerryn agreed. “I feel it too and I think it knows that we are here.”
“Oh, my word.” Duke Sarant murmured to the Duchess beside him. “I don’t feel anything different at all, can you?” He sounded almost worried.
“Don’t be concerned, Father.” Ethrayne reassured him, and flashed a smile at them all. “We are all perfectly safe.”
“But I wouldn’t touch anything.” Jerryn added as he reached out to take the girl’s hand in his. “Shall we?” He asked and, together, they led their families along the short passage and opened the heavy door with a shove.
The space beyond was brilliantly lit with beautiful golden oil lamps burning a delicately fragranced oil; some were set on ornate stands, and others rested low on the floor or other flat surfaces – so bright that the group all halted in the doorway, blinking for a moment.
“Heavens!” Ethrayne said, and her exclamation and her clear surprise was repeated some of the others. They had all descended here at Bahlien’s request, but with a clear lack of detail of what to expect – perhaps he had wanted to surprise them, she guessed with an inner smile; but the brief mention of an underground vault had not given them any clues of what to expect.
The hall was also hexagonal in shape, but it was some five or six times larger than the foyer at the bottom of the stairs. The walls were covered in a uniformly pristine white painted plaster; the floor a beautifully multi-coloured and elaborately designed mosaic – patterns flowed into other patterns, framing depictions of trees, birds, animals and the sun, moon and stars – all large, and breathtakingly beautiful. Crowning this was a great vaulted ceiling, some sixty feet above, where the pale carved stone was picked out in gold leaf and more white plaster in between the stone trusses. Around the edge of the walls were low stone blocks carved to show animal faces staring across the hall – a mouse, a hawk, a fox, a horse and a snake amongst them all set at regular intervals – some of them held oil lamps on their flat tops, others were empty.
At the centre of the hall, in the middle of the floor, was a large mosaic of the sun shining with tiles of what looked like gold as well as myriad shades of orange and yellow edged with white and, rising from this, was a four-foot tall column of fine white marble on which lay a hexagonal crystal casket.
A strange abstraction had filled Ethrayne as they crossed the space. She had considered it, but it had not made any sense that she had found – she just felt slightly removed from nearly everyone around her, although they were all so close to her. The exception to this was Jerryn. Tonight, here, she felt an even greater affinity for him than she had ever before, a regard that came from deep within her; it was strange though – the feeling made that well-used phrase ‘soul-mates’ very real, for some reason.
“So, Jerryn, what do you think?” She asked lightly. “I’ve never seen an object that so wanted us to open it before, have you?”
“Not even a full cake tin.” The prince said with a chuckle. “It certainly wants to be released.” He considered the casket with a slight frown and shook his head a little. “Well, this certainly proves the truth of the prophecy that Bahlien read to us – and I suppose we must trust Arven and his servants.”
Together, hand in hand, they stepped forward crossing the magnificent floor, as their families and the two priests watched, all clustered near the entrance. The golden glow from the lamps seemed to focus about the pillar and the casket, a strange effect – it almost looked like it was solidifying as they watched it, into a peculiar golden gel – and Ethrayne and Jerryn stepped into it without any hesitation.
“Have we lost our children, Bahlien?” King Marrand asked intently as the golden light started to swirl, spiralling delicately around the two young people. “Has Arven claimed the only heir I have?”
“Claimed?” Lurco answered for the old razine, and grinned. “Nay, your Majesty – Jerryn is and remains your heir and Ethrayne will be his princess. This role is – not secondary, indeed, but certainly additional to those other duties.”
“Yet we have your enemies in our midst, your Grace.” Duke Sarant added, blinking rapidly against the increasing brilliance of the light. “And they are both so very young. Forgive us if we seem sceptical.”
“I am sure that their age will prove to be of no consequence, your Grace. The Flame of Arven will gift them with many things – and not even we two could guess or predict as to what – Oh!” Bahlien gasped. “Oh, watch -.”
They all stared at the centre of the hall, but the golden light had now formed a sort of hazy mist that slightly obscured Jerryn and Ethrayne, although it seemed that the crystal casket had vanished from the pillar – it looked almost as though they were both crowned with bright flames.
Simultaneously, Ethrayne and Jerryn reached out to the casket, but found that there was no surface to touch – their hands plunged into the thing as if the surface was less than smoke, meeting no resistance at all, as if the entire thing was merely illusion. As they watched, the casket faded away from their sight and they could see that their hands now rested on what appeared to be thin air, an invisible surface some inches above the flat top of the column.
Then, in a heartbeat, there was fire blazing there on the column, surrounding their hands and lower arms, flames burning intense shades of red, orange, yellow and nearly white, blazing upwards some three feet into the air, well above their heads. It also spread steadily outwards over the two of them but the heat of it was contained somehow and did not consume anything or hurt them. Their eyes wide, Jerryn and Ethrayne stared, amazed – but not frightened – feeling a tingling sensation coursing through them, increasing as the fire flickered about them.
Oh, my dears.>; A voice whispered quietly in their heads alone, for they did not hear it with their ears. Taking my Flame, you can begin to redress the balance upset by my Betrayer . . . Will you do this for the peoples of this world? Will you be the Wielders of my Flame?>;
“Lord – are – are you sure?” Ethrayne asked, concern breaking through that calm certainty that had filled her up to this moment.
“We – we are not at all special.” Jerryn added, and felt a shudder of fear like an icy touch on his spine. “Are you certain?”
The voice laughed a little. You are both young in years, that is true, but only you, Ethrayne, and you, Jerryn, have the strength that will be required – and you will gain experience . . . Will you Wield my Flame?>;
They exchanged a glance across and through the fire, recognising fear and determination on the face of the other, then both focussed back on the column. “I will.” They said clearly at the same moment.
The flames sprang upwards, turning white and gold, then dropped down almost like a sheet of water from the blade of a watermill – and they both felt an indescribable strength fill them – and fill them – and fill them – and fill them even more! More power than they felt that they could ever hold, yet it felt to be soaking into the very fibre of their being – making their teeth ache slightly as if at eating lemon or sharp apple and their skin tingled sharply. They stood there unmoving in the centre of a gleaming vortex and absorbed it all.
It felt as though they were jugs being filled with water – that was perhaps a little like what the pouring in of power felt like. Hand in hand, they stood there, wondering what would happen to all that strength when they could hold no more of it . . . But, amazingly, they found that the force, the power sank down into the very matter of their bodies, from the tips of their fingers and toes to the very ends of the hair on their heads.
I think I am going to explode!>; Jerryn’s voice rang in Ethrayne’s mind – most peculiar, but also somehow entirely natural. The power that poured into them contained some information within it – and at that singular happening, the knowledge of mind-speech opened within their heads.
Heavens! We’re walking libraries!>; Ethrayne thought the words and felt her betrothed’s amusement clearly, bubbling in his mind and so into hers. Isn’t this peculiar?>;
“Yes, it’s very strange indeed.” Jerryn whispered the words. “I wonder just how we can hold so much power in check.” And he shivered, affected by the slow slackening off in the amount of power and strength around them – the vortex had mostly vanished and the glow about them was fading fast as they absorbed the last portions of Arven’s strength.
Ethrayne, I really don’t think that many people are going to be able to understand this – any of this. I don’t think we will be able to talk freely, even to our parents.>; He added silently, his tone and thoughts uncertain.
Ethrayne acknowledged that her feelings matched his, and turned slightly to glance behind them to where their families waited, staring with wide eyes – her parents, so dear to her; her brother and her best friend, so wonderful; and King Marrand, who had always been as close as a blood relative and who would soon be as her father as well as her King. At some level, she could sense their mingled awe and concern at this singular event.
No, you are right, my love.>; She agreed with him – and blushed slightly as Jerryn smiled, his eyes shining, radiating a clear, strange amazement at her beauty - Don’t – we are going to have to be careful with this, aren’t we?>;
“Yes.” He replied and suddenly started laughing, as humour won over all the other emotions that swirled through him. “Well, I never imaged a night like this, my Lady.”
They stood there, hand in hand, leaning slightly on the half column that had supported the casket that had vanished – giggling together like a pair of children, as the utter strangeness that had consumed them faded away and eased their tender, hidden nerves. The others watched them laugh, a little bemused.
*
“Your Majesty your Grace, I would like to ask a favour of you.” Ex-Archpriest Bahlien asked as they watched the strange fire flowing around the two young people in the centre of the hall, and smiled ruefully. “This is not for Arven – this is partly for myself – or, rather, for the razine in Orbain. A member of your Council would be invaluable as an envoy to the Razine Protectorates and, I must say, that Lord Pualyn would be ideal.”
“You would take both my children from me, your Grace?” Sarant demanded rather sharply. “In little more than a span of days you would remove them both?”
“Sarant, we can hardly blame the priesthood for this prophecy and – and this.” King Marrand said, gesturing, his eyes wide, his tone quietly reverential.
“We do not intend to take this young couple anywhere, I assure you.” Bahlien answered calmly. “The reason why your son would be the best envoy, your Grace, is that he has been included in this singular meeting of fate and he also knows Ethrayne and Jerryn really well. I understand that certain other members of the Council are more sceptical of what has been reported and dismissive of your children, perhaps because of their youth -.”
“That is certainly true – look at Galton!” Sarant muttered, rolling his eyes and sighing. “All right, your Grace, I agree with your logic there. But may I ask why you need an envoy from Tenarum to your realms?”
Bahlien shrugged. “It is simple expediency, your Grace. We suspect that the jajozeli are spying out your lands from the sea and may also well be engaged in piracy. Our ships patrol the seas widely in their pursuit of trade and profit – and naturally protect others where they possibly can; but there will be more – legitimacy, shall we say? if your official envoy, for example, would convey an open request for assistance to the High-King in Lerat.”
Marrand and Sarant exchanged looks of great surprise at this statement. “But you don’t have any relations, diplomatic or otherwise with the jajozeli, your Grace, so why do you need an excuse?” The King asked levelly.
“The razine are generally a peace-loving race and there is a faction in the Protectorates that would rather withdraw entirely from the world – if such a thing was at all possible – than even strive to stop our enemies destroying the world. Some of them are religious – though I don’t understand how they can equate hiding to avoid war with what the Betrayer did to Arven.” The old razine frowned. “People can be foolish. If your representative is acknowledged and especially if he was the brother of a Wielder of the Flame, then the High-King will definitely be able to give that group short shrift.”
Duke Sarant snorted. “Politics! It stains everything it touches!”
“You and your High-King have thought this matter through very well, your Grace, haven’t you?” Marrand noted dryly.
“Yes, of course. A great deal may eventually depend upon mutual cooperation between us, your Majesty. It would be most foolish for our nations not to work together. And where Orbain leads, the other Kingdoms will naturally follow.” Bahlien said. “The razine ship the Lerat Pearl will dock at Rothern soon, probably in three weeks or so, depending on the winds. I believe that it would be most beneficial for Lord Pualyn to board her there. But I must stress that he and the young Lady Lyria must be formally betrothed before this.” He smiled. “As a man of the Church, I always strive towards marriage between our young people as a boon to society.”
“Well, I can actually raise no legitimate objections, your Grace.” Sarant conceded with a sigh. “I must wholeheartedly concur with you regarding Pualyn and Lyria’s betrothal.” He glanced sideways away from the vortex of fire and light to where the tall young man under discussion stood, hand in hand with Lyria and also close to his mother. The three of them were totally fixed on what was happening around Jerryn and Ethrayne, with Lurco standing rapt beside them.
“Pualyn is indeed a most sensible and gifted young man. I agree, your Grace, if you believe that he is the man you need.” The King said and grinned in return. “You have manipulated us very easily, ex-Archpriest Bahlien. I am very glad that I am not your enemy – and that we are all on the side of Lord Arven.”
Bahlien grimaced rather dramatically at that. “I know, but I cannot help but wonder, on occasion, whether Arven himself would approve of some of the things I have done during my life.” His tone was a little sad as if he considered awful acts committed in his youth, but his next words were delivered more cheerfully. “Look – our young champions have taken the Flame of Arven into themselves. This is a most remarkable end to any day in the history of Iullyn.”
The three of them returned their attention to Ethrayne and Jerryn standing there hand in hand and still as the singular fire continued to swirl about them. The two of them were glowing gently as if lit from within.
“Oh my!” Sarant breathed with a shiver. “Is this safe?”
“Yes indeed – the couple are still absorbing the Flame of Arven into their being: the power of our God. They might feel a little peculiar for a short while, but this is not dangerous.”
*
“Are you feeling better now?” Archpriest Lurco asked, as Jerryn and Ethrayne finally turned back to them, no longer laughing or glowing, but still smiling broadly.
“Yes we are, thank you, your Grace.” The girl replied. “It must be ever so late by now, I am sorry -.”
“My dear Lady – your Highness – tonight’s events are quite unique, unprecedented and also amazing!” The old man said, waving his arms as if only the movement could give vent to the depths of his emotions. “We had no idea at all how long this might take, you know.”
“Oh, Ethrayne, you look weary.” Duchess Riyala exclaimed, taking her daughter in a tight embrace and looking deep into her eyes before freeing one arm to embrace Jerryn too. “Are you sure that you are all right?”
Together, the young couple hugged her back. “Honestly, your Grace, we are.” The Prince assured her, kissing her gently on the forehead. “But I admit that it has been a very long day. I am looking forward to getting into bed at some point tonight.” He looked at Bahlien and Lurco and smiled. “I imagine that you are also weary, your Graces.”
“Yes, I am, despite my inner excitement.” The old razine admitted. “And now we must slowly begin our climb back up to ground level. After you, your Majesty.”
“Oh, heavens, no! Let the young people lead the way, please.” Marrand demurred.
As they climbed the stairs, everyone but the priests in turn asked Jerryn and Ethrayne separately what exactly had happened and how they felt, of course, but their replies were light and not at all revealing – saying that they needed to rest and review just what had happened, which was certainly true.
“But do you feel different?” Pualyn asked the question directly of his sister. “It looked as though you both soaked up that golden fire – I mean, Ethrayne, it’s hardly a normal everyday occurrence, is it?”
His words made them both laugh again, as they climbed the spiral staircase – on, and on, and on. “We’ll let you know, Pualyn.” Jerryn said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll race you -.” And he strode out ahead, his boots ringing on the stone.
The priests bid the group farewell at the entrance to the main courtyard where the coach waited, and they began to step up into the dimly lit interior, where the prince and his lady lingered until everyone was seated.
“We will come at once if you ever need us, Am’maiya.” Bahlien said earnestly, bowing deeply to them both. “Rest is the best thing for you and, apart from your combat exercises, I suggest that you take the next few days easily.”
“Oh, we will – we feel rather stuffed full of – of stuff – power, but it’s only very, very peculiar.” Ethrayne wrinkled her nose as she struggled to find the words to describe who she felt. “Thank you, your Graces.” And she curtsied as Jerryn bowed. “Good night.” They both said that at ethe same time, as Jerryn handed his lady politely into the carriage, and they sank down, sighing, as the groom quickly shut the door and the carriage driver urged the horses into motion.
Nobody spoke much on their return to the palace and the night-shrouded, empty streets only served to emphasise the fact that the night was at least half over.
“You know, I’m heartily sick of stairs.” Marrand commented with a deep sigh as they ascended towards their private rooms, a while later. “My knees are waving a flag of surrender – good night, all of you.” He kissed the ladies, and shook the hands of the men, as they separated and headed off towards bed.
*
Ethrayne closed the door to her bedroom with relief, once Fionn and Sallie, wearing warm robes over their nightgowns, had helped her into her own nightgown and brushed and re-braided her long hair; they were sleepy-eyed and tousled from being woken up and she felt a little guilty at disturbing their rest, although she knew that it was not entirely her fault that it was so late. But she had ushered them back to their beds, for she too longed to sleep and to try and begin to make sense of all that had happened in her dreams.
The coverlet had been folded back neatly with the sheet and bed had never looked so appealing – it had been a very long day. She pulled the covers down – and stared. There, in the centre of the sheet in the centre of the bed rested a folded piece of parchment. Ethrayne felt a sudden shiver of unease run down her spine as she leaned forward and picked it up, studying it – it was sealed shut with the orange-honey shade of beeswax, pressed shut with what looked like a thumb print. But who on Iullyn had left it here?
Ethrayne?>; She dimly heard Jerryn’s voice inside her head, despite the distance between their rooms. Have you found a letter, perchance?>;
Yes.>; Ethrayne concentrated on sending her silent reply, not really sure of how to succeed. It felt such a strange method of communicating, but also oddly natural. Just now, in my bed. Have you?>; As she thought the words, she broke the seal, opened it, and read:
‘With this note, Lady Ethrayne, I can confirm that no part of your realm, nor any fortress that you may inhabit is beyond the reach of either myself or my colleagues.
‘You need not fear for your safety, however. I have been commanded go only observe you and your prince and not to interfere. I wish you both well in your encounter with the Flame of Arven.
‘Do not doubt, however, that we will meet again soon.’
That’s what my note said, more or less.>; The prince said. But right here, in our own bedrooms -.>;
I can feel your worries and mine are the same, dear.>; Ethrayne confirmed. I dread to think how he crept in here, through the palace – dear Arven, he could have killed my maids, or Karne!>; She shivered again and quickly scanned the clearly empty room.
Well, he won’t be hanging around here now.>; Jerryn’s tone was sombre. He’ll be somewhere safe at a distance, watching us.>;
So damn him!>; Ethrayne snapped back, anger warring with her concerns and with tiredness. Decorum could go hang, at this time of night. It’s probably nearly dawn, Jerryn – we’ll discuss this tomorrow, agreed?>;
Agreed. Sleep well, darling Ethrayne.>;
Sleep well, my prince.>; She sent back, smiling.
*
Across the city, the man known as Kesta had sensed some of what had occurred in the Cathedral complex, channelling the Flame of Arven to the young couple. He had shivered at the strength of it. He had been awed by it. Now, however, he smiled to himself: the prince and his lady surely must have discovered his letters by now and he hoped that they would take his warning to heart.
* * *
After their very late night below the Cathedral, none of them were up early the next morning and everyone but the King congregated to eat a leisurely late breakfast in the knowledge that most of them were excused duties. Jerryn, Ethrayne and Lyria said that they were going to go and play Stepping Stones with the Duchess, for Sarant and Pualyn were to join the King after noon.
“We’ll see you later, old friend.” The prince said with a smirk. “We both did far too much brain-storming last night, with everything that was happening, so now it’s your turn.”
“Oh thanks for that, Jerryn.” Pualyn replied sarcastically, heading for the door with his father, who laughed a little. “See you later.”
Marrand was sat in his private office with Lords Gorman and Ferman, both large men of late middle age – but whilst Lord Gorman was portly, with a jowly face and pepper-and-salt hair, Lord Ferman was still clearly a muscular, physical man who worked quite hard to combat the effects of maturity. They sat one on either side of their king at a respectful distance and slightly behind him. As senior members of the Council, they were often intimately involved in important matters, alongside Duke Sarant.
“Sit down, sit down.” The King urged his closest friend and ally and his son, smiling broadly. “I’m not sure that such late nights are for me, you know: I woke up ridiculously early and my head feels as if it’s been stuffed tight with wool, but I’m sure you feel sprightly, Pualyn – the gift of youth, so quickly missed.” He grinned and his advisors both laughed in agreement. “Now,” he continued with the barest wink at Sarant, who was sat directly opposite him, “we are in need of a special kind of envoy, Pualyn, to travel to the Razine Protectorates and liaise with those who are apparently keen to ally themselves with Tenarum. We need someone well and broadly educated and also flexible in attitude and beliefs, for they are rather different people to us, it seems – and since they have been informed about the Prophecy concerning Jerryn and Ethrayne and you yourself have been privy to all that has occurred, it seems to me that you would be ideal for the task.”
Pualyn blinked, completely stunned. “M-me, your Majesty?” He asked, feeling as though he had been hit over the head with one of the hard wooden swords in the combat hall. “I am great honoured, Sire – but, are you sure? I am not yet twenty-two -.”
“Look, I know that recent events seem to have pushed Ethrayne into the forefront recently.” Sarant interrupted his son. “But you are my heir, Pualyn and I must proudly acknowledge that you do have the qualities that his Majesty is looking for.”
“We trade with the Protectorates and their merchant ships seem to reach every port in the kingdom, if not the entire continent but we do not know much about the razine beyond ancient legend.” Lord Ferman said in a bombastic tone. “Their lands are extensive, inhabited by both men and razine, but they have largely kept apart from us in diplomatic terms. His Majesty is correct in that your closeness to your sister and the prince and even your youth will be central to opening the proper channels of communication: you are level-headed Pualyn, despite your age. We do not want war with the mythical Betrayer – Arven forbid!” He shivered slightly. “The razine seem to have kept an eye on the enemy and they would probably make excellent allies.”
Pualyn could hear the scepticism in the older man’s voice and also see the frown on Lord Gorman’s face and something told him that such scepticism would not be suitable for any serious dealings with folk who had worked to protect Arven’s Flame for over eight hundred years. This was why the King and his father wanted him to agree – they needed an envoy who believed the Prophecy, one who supported the Wielders of the Flame, not one who would support the kingdom alone. After watching the golden fire swirling endlessly around his sister and Jerryn there, early this morning, far beneath the Cathedral, he knew that he certainly believed. It would be impossible to deny the truth of what he had seen!
“I will do everything I can to fulfil your remit, your Majesty.” He finally replied gravely. “I am honoured that you judge me capable of this important task.”
“Excellent!” Marrand exclaimed, smiling broadly – but his smile faded a little after a moment, and his sighed. “I appreciate that you will be loath to leave your lovely Lady Lyria, but the official announcement of your betrothal will be made later today and we will hold the ceremony tomorrow evening. As part of your fee for travelling so far, you may pick a suitable gift for Lyria from the royal treasury.”
“We are honoured, your Majesty.” Pualyn got to his feet and bowed formally.
“We will all be greatly in your debt, Pualyn – the future is most uncertain.” The King replied. “You will have three days and then leave for Rothern by barge, for a razine ship will be awaiting you there at the port.”
“Ex-Archpriest Bahlien will, of course be able to give you the names of the razine royal family and other highly ranking individuals and I imagine that he will have communications of his own for you to convey.” Duke Sarant continued with a smile. “It was he who told us about the razine ship heading to our shores, by the by.”
“Ah, that explains a great deal.” Pualyn murmured and both his father and the king grinned broadly.
“Go and speak with Lady Lyria, young man.” Marrand said reprovingly. “I am sure that she will need to review her gowns at this sudden escalation of events – we will see you at dinner, Lord Pualyn.”
“At once, your Majesty, Father, my Lords. Thank you.” Pualyn bowed to them all politely before hurrying from the room.
“The youth of today are far too frivolous.” Lord Gorman declared, shaking his head.
“He is a steady young man.” Lord Ferman countered firmly. “Pualyn will do his Majesty and the kingdom proud.”
*
The others were halfway through their game when Pualyn arrived, slightly breathless and brimful of mingled excitement and fear.
“Excuse me, Mother, may I steal away Lyria, please?” He asked, taking the girl’s hand in his and bowing to her. “We won’t be long, honestly -.” And he helped her to her feet and led her from the sitting room with a broad smile on his face without waiting for a reply from the Duchess.
“What is going on?” Jerryn asked, then laughed aloud. “Do you think that we might have a second official betrothal on the way?”
“It might well be, I do hope so.” Ethrayne said.
“Yes, as do I. It would be wonderful to have the four of you all safely married.” Duchess Riyala confirmed, smiling.
“What is it, Pualyn?” Lyria asked, laughing, as he drew her along the broad corridor. “Your mother and I were beating Ethrayne and Jerryn, you know – and they make a good team.”
“Never mind the game, Lyria. I have just spoken with the King. He wants to send me as an envoy to the razine, but first he wants us betrothed – tomorrow evening, in fact!”
“What? Oh, never! Really?” Lyria stuttered, stunned, as he lifted he up off her feet and span her about in a circle. “But – tomorrow! Pualyn – oh, my! What shall I wear?”
His Majesty though you might want to discuss that with Ethrayne and Mother, dear.” Pualyn said, setting her down. “Shall we go and tell them?”
The reaction of his family was all that anyone could have wished and Pualyn and Lyria basked, just a little, at the centre of the entire court’s attention. Jerryn and Ethrayne seemed pleased to relinquish that place – the women of the palace spent an inordinate amount of time running backwards and forwards with gowns and jewellery and ideas for hairstyles – so that Pualyn was quite content to sit back and watch his modest, shy, beautiful bride-to-be be the absolute focus of the entire complex. The downside, of course, was that he would be leaving Tenum City in four days, although he could not deny that the thrill of the unknown was exciting.
At dinner that evening, Lyria and Pualyn were seated either side of the King, and Marrand made the announcement of their betrothal in a ringing tone, to hearty cheers and applause throughout the hall.
*
Next morning, Duchess Riyala, Ethrayne and the other ladies continued their designs upon Lyria, whilst Pualyn was closeted with his father and the ex-Archpriest Bahlien from just after breakfast.
The Lerat Pearl was a merchant vessel that plied between ports within the Razine Protectorates, usually far to the north of the Selithian continent and across the Hessarth Channel, but occasionally calling at Rothern to trade fine oils and so forth for the wines of the region. It had been requisitioned by the High-King, who was fully aware of the imminence of the Prophecy and was not prepared to see the unprepared kingdoms of Selith fall to the enemy.
“Are my sister and Jerryn in real danger, then, your Grace?” Pualyn asked levelly. “They – they absorbed?” He made the word a question and Bahlien nodded slightly at its relevance. “They absorbed the Flame of Arven and all our teachings tell us that the Betrayer tried to destroy our God. So surely he will try to destroy Ethrayne and Jerryn too? And take their power?” He shuddered and stared from Bahlien to his father. “They are so young!”
“There is that possibility, yes.” Bahlien agreed seriously.
“Father!”
“His Grace has explained all of this to them and Ethrayne and Jerryn made a fully informed choice, Pualyn.” Sarant countered, his eyes shadowed. “Who are we to refuse prophecy, my son? This is – is fated.”
“And that is why you are heading to Lerat in a few days, young man. You are the first vital contact in our moves to set up a united front against whatever the jajozeli-razine will send against us.” The ex-Archpriest replied. “It will take some considerable time before the young couple can even begin to command what they now possess: they have absorbed much of the power of our God and they must learn a great deal of how to wield it. So we do have time on our side.”
“I hope so!” Pualyn muttered.
“Now, you will have heard rumours and old tales about razine ‘magic’ – I know it’s a part of your folklore, as well as being mentioned in our liturgy. We call it ‘power’ sometimes, or ‘talent’ – when we refer to it. We razine have some abilities beyond those of humans: some predictive ability perhaps, being closer to hunches or intuition; some may be able to read the emotions of others, say; others have some healing talents, or can move objects from one place to another – it varies as greatly as say being good at drawing or mathematics or even hair or eye colour and also varies in strength: some people are very strong, and others are not.”
I’m quite powerful – probably because I have dedicated myself to Arven since those awful events in Car’Agasse, so long ago.>; His voice continued but within Pualyn and Sarant’s minds, echoing slightly it seemed, with a touch of humour clearly colouring his tone – flashes of yellow and orange they thought, wondering how speech could be colour as well as words. Ethrayne and Jerryn will probably find that these sorts of abilities make themselves known – and they will be invaluable.>;
“Great heavens! It’s true!” Sarant murmured, his eyes wide. “Magic!”
“To be able to hold silent conversations? That would be amazing!” Pualyn stated, stunned. “My word!”
Bahlien grinned. “Yes, it has its uses. So I don’t want you to feel – inferior or less important, young man. We are just a little different, after all, don’t let us intimidate you – you are talented as a politician, a rider of horses and a master of arms. You represent your King, his kingdom, your family and also the Am’maiya: your sister and the prince.” His tone was earnest – it seemed that his words were genuine.
“Very well, your Grace.”
“And don’t forget: there are many thousands of humans living in the Razine Protectorates. Many more than there are razine. Orbain is the only mostly razine kingdom, with a razine ruler. We are not a sort of overlord class, by any means. Humans command the other realms with their own kings within the whole, but by common consent we all look to the High-King, Mhezal, as our chief. He is the one who will assemble the armies, should they be required.”
“It seems a very enlightened form of government, your Grace.” Duke Sarant commented approvingly. “It sounds rather like his Majesties own council – except with kings attending.”
“Yes. It was something that Arven himself encouraged, actually and it has worked very well for us all. I imagine that if the Betrayer had not acted that fateful day, we would all be dwelling together, even if thousands of leagues apart, in peace under our God’s care.” The old razine sighed deeply. “Ah well, one can dream.” His tone had turned a little sad, but he managed a quirk of a smile. “Anyway, enough of that: you have a betrothal to prepare for, my Lord Pualyn. Shall we speak again tomorrow, at noon, say?” He asked politely.
“Of course, your Grace – I must say, this is all fascinating.” Pualyn answered, rising politely as Bahlien stood and made his farewells.
“He is a good man – razine – priest.” Pualyn commented, once he and his father were alone, stumbling slightly over the proper description.
“Yes, I agree. Marrand and I believe that we can trust him – but never let your guard down, even so: not until we really know just what is going on.” The Duke replied. “Now, come along: you’re in for a busy evening, young man.”
*
The betrothal ceremony was accompanied by hastily-arranged banquet and lots of dancing, but it was noticeably less formal in tone than had been Jerryn and Ethrayne’s evening had been and the prince and his lady enjoyed it much more than they had their own glittering party, sat together out of the way, enjoying the music and trying to ignore Lyria’s attempts to make them both dance – and failing cheerfully.
It was a brilliant evening, all in all, despite the fact that Pualyn would be leaving Tenum in a few days - the happy couple felt that separation looming over them and their smiles and laughter were a little forced – they were trying their utmost to act as any happy young couple, as not all members of the court were yet aware of the young lord’s mission to a far, foreign land. Lyria glowed as never before in amethyst silk, expertly embroidered and with beautifully cut, graduated, glowing amethysts set in white gold – exquisite in a deceptively simple tiara, drop earrings and choker: the jewellery chosen from King Marrand’s treasury, gleaming in the lamplight, whilst her betrothed wore deep blue.
Many of the assembled, especially those who had not deigned to notice the young woman before – merely the Duchess’s lady in waiting, after all – sighed and remarked favourably on her beauty and her attributes, now that her betrothal to the heir of Clirensar was official and she had been ‘noticed’ by the King. It was entirely vacuous.
Listening to some of the compliments and invitations planned, Ethrayne sighed inwardly and kept her face neutral. Ridiculous!>; She remarked silently, and Jerryn grinned.
But of course, my love.>; He agreed. These people are of very little importance -.>;
But they believe that they are and they run around the palace like mice – into everything and getting in the way of all those folk who really do the work!>; Ethrayne smiled wickedly. Squeaking.>;
It was strange, finding that she now shared her mind with Jerryn, at some level – deep privacy still existed, of course, but the ‘upper’ parts of their thoughts were freely shared between them. It would take some getting used to – and she realised that they were both lucky, in that they were close friends and had been since childhood – exploring this new ability would be challenging enough! She imaged it could be very embarrassing.
Oh, don’t -.>; Jerryn broke off his silent words and covered a burst of laughter with a coughing fit.
I’m sorry.>; Ethrayne said quickly, trying to keep her own amusement under control. Oh, don’t they both look lovely?>;
They’re a fine couple, but Lyria will never be as beautiful as you are in my eyes.>;
Ethrayne found that she could not reply to that – but knowing that Jerryn could read her surface thoughts as easily as she could was slowly becoming a little less of a worry – a little more natural. Then they were both distracted by the music of the orchestra and finally joined the dancing.
*
The next day was a whirlwind of activity, mostly consisting of endless lists to be ticked off plus an inordinate amount of packing to be done. Pualyn could only gaze on in amazement as his own clothing and accoutrements were added to by the King, Lord Ferman and Duke Sarant – and Bahlien also added items. The number of bags and boxes grew, as if breeding quietly when no one was watching. The Duchess proved invaluable in this regard – she had a wealth of experience and advice on how to pack properly and safely that no one except her husband had ever known of.
There was an official tabard – the material thick and stiff with silk and gold thread, delineating the king’s device on midnight blue velvet; smart clothes; new clothes; travelling clothes; various boots and shoes; his mail shirt and other gear for combat or practice; hose and socks and underclothes; cloaks – and a new, empty leather-bound book for him to use as an official journal with a silver inkwell and quills. Pualyn would also bear a few small tasteful gifts from King Marrand to the High-King of the razine and some missives from the ex-Archpriest in addition to a ‘History of Iullyn’ set of scrolls for his own perusal.
“Well, I’m going to need a lot of pack horses just to get me down to the wharves.” Pualyn joked as he finally felt able to leave his rooms once the majority of his possessions had been packed, with an increasingly quiet Lyria at his side. She had begun the day laughing as she helped with the piling and packing, but her mood had changed as the sun had moved relentlessly westward and now she looked rather sad. “Oh, Lyria, I’m going to miss you so much!”
“I am going to miss you too – oh, take care of yourself, Pualyn, do!” And she threw herself into his arms with an uncharacteristic recklessness. “I love you so much, darling!”
This admission bolstered the young man’s courage: he would prove his worth to his love by undertaking this task resolutely – relishing this step into the unknown. Gently he kissed her. “I love you too, Lyria, with all my heart and soul.” He said quietly for a couple of servants and their guards were watching their exchange with great interest. “I hope I won’t be away for too long and I promise that I will write to you when I can.” A smile made his eyes sparkle. “Come on, my love, let’s join the others for dinner.”
“Yes, lets – I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Gosh, I am – why are you laughing, Lyria?”
“You’ve hardly eaten all day, Pualyn. You’ve been fretting over your packing since breakfast.”
“Well you try and pack that lot sensibly and quickly, Lyria.”
*
Ethrayne had rather enjoyed the fact that her oh-so-modest friend and companion had been thrust right into the very heart of the court, for Lyria had been as close as her sister for about five years now but, as the young daughter of a rather poor, minor lord, such notice had been lacking – until now. Even the daughter of a close friend of her parents’ counted for nothing in the heady atmosphere of the palace – it was ridiculous. Yet her friend had handled the situation with admirable dignity and ability – even to the surprise of her betrothed’s impending departure.
Because of this hurried rush and its associated near-chaos, neither she nor Jerryn had told even Bahlien about the notes left in their beds. Strangely, they believed what their enemy had written and found that his terse words were made clearer as they considered what Bahlien had explained about their history – that war had engulfed Iullyn in the past, might engulf the world again, but the enemy razine was not about to act – so why worry everyone else unnecessarily? They had burned the notes to pale ash and Ethrayne was resolved to excel at her sessions with heavy wooden sword, knife and now the hand-to-hand combat that filled her mornings.
Most lessons were conducted with Jerryn as her opponent, or Tymain – explaining some detail or mistake respectfully and clearly; sometimes, Commander Vedeigne or one of the other officers took a hand. It was not at all an easy concept to learn at first – fighting, learning how to fall properly, how to balance and use her own strength as she had never done before, except when riding horses. It was awful, in one regard, knowing that she was learning how to become proficient at the mechanics of killing an enemy – a fellow human or razine – dead. The enemy stranger’s foray into the palace – brazenly walking into their bedrooms – did serve, however, as an excellent focus. She contemplated this as she toyed with her dinner.
Something is troubling you, my dear Lady Ethrayne.>; Bahlien said very quietly in her mind, and he smiled as she started, hearing his voice. The prince and yourself have been brooding over something for a few days now; may I be so bold as to ask what is concerning you? Perhaps I may be able to help?>;
The girl glanced across at Jerryn and wondered if she looked as foolish and guilty as her betrothed now did. You can read our minds?>; He asked bluntly.
Well, I could, but it would be considered exceedingly rude – the height or depth of bad manners – to do so.>; The old razine assured them. I have felt that you have concerns, but you do not have to tell me anything, honestly.>;
Thank you, your Grace . . . this is all so new to us, I imagine that we are making heaps of mistakes.>; Ethrayne communicated with a quick grimace. We feel like young children, faced with – this – this strange ability. But we did not want to worry you, or our families.>; She broke off, the tone and feel of her mind somehow a little darker. They have been worried enough, faced with all this newness – and they just wouldn’t understand.>; She shrugged slightly. They are dealing with quite enough.>;
When we returned from the Cathedral so late, with the Flame, we both found – separately->; Jerryn emphasised that point rather defensively sealed letters in our beds, under the covers, from – him: the jajozeli-razine. It said, ‘I can confirm that no part of your realm, nor any fortress that you inhabit is beyond the reach of either myself or my colleagues. You need not fear for your safety, however – I have been commanded only to observe you and your lady, and not to interfere. I wish you both well in your encounter with the Flame of Arven. Do not doubt, however, that we will meet again.’>;
That arrogant bastard!>;
They felt Bahlien’s blast of anger almost like a blow that just missed contact, strong in their heads and he quickly and contritely apologised for a series of graphic curses as the two young people struggled to master and control both their shock and their laughter – feeling such emotions so clearly was utterly peculiar and they would never have expected the venerable former Archpriest to descend to such coarseness.
I knew we should have kept it to ourselves, Jerryn.>; Ethrayne thought rather weakly, a napkin clutched to her mouth as she fought that burst of laughter. Oh, my word!>;
I sincerely apologise. Honestly, I should not actually even be surprised at our enemy’s audaciousness, but -.>; He shook his head. Damn him! There is nothing I can say to fully express my shock and anger, but – but he has done all that he wanted: he has startled us severely and he has frightened us – but are we going to jump at shadows?>; Bahlien’s mental tone was cold, and he shook his head.
Like hell we will!>; Jerryn growled. Our world is turning upside down, but they won’t defeat us by scaring us, your Grace!>;
*
Breakfast for the Tenarean Royal Envoy, his family and that of King Marrand was early the next morning, for the royal barge would set off downstream almost as soon as Pualyn, his valet Lennarn, and their baggage were loaded.
“Have you ever travelled by sea, Pualyn?” Marrand asked with a smile – the young man was rather pale and quiet. “We both did in our youth, your father, my father the king and I, from Rothern to Orran, one summer. It was – interesting.”
Sarant grinned at his drawling tone. “There was a great storm, I still remember it – oh, dear Arven!” He laughed aloud. “I think even the captain was ill – your father was, wasn’t he, Marrand?”
“Oh yes.” Marrand essayed a huge shudder. “But that was a really bad storm – you’ll be fine, Pualyn, you’re a lot more sensible than we were. I think part of your father’s and my problem was that wine we drank.”
“Sarant!” Duchess Riyala exclaimed with fake horror. “Oh, you didn’t!” And she laughed merrily. “You wouldn’t think it to look at them now, but they were both quite reckless lads, you know!”
“Pualyn’s far too sensible to sink most of a wineskin in one sitting, as we did.” Sarant said with high dignity, winking at Lyria and Ethrayne as he shook his head at his wife. “And I’ll thank you not to tell tales to the children, dearest.” Everyone chuckled at that, and the tension was lessened for a short time.
“Now, are you sure that you have packed everything?” King Marrand asked seriously.
“Yes, your Majesty – Lennarn made me check for a third time this morning.” He replied, grinning at his valet with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I’ve got money, the signet rings – oh, everything.” He patted his jerkin.
“Please take care, Pualyn – you will, won’t you?” Lyria asked in a subdued tone, pushing the majority of her breakfast aside, untouched. “I know that I’m being silly and you’re going to have a wonderful adventure – yet -.”
“I promise you that I will be careful, dearest Lyria.” The young lord replied earnestly, taking both her hands in his and leaning forward to lightly kiss her on the nose. “Oh, gosh!” He straightened, his eyes shining still, excitement clear throughout his body and demeanour. “I’ve never felt like this: I’m so scared, yet so excited, I can’t tell which is strongest. I will keep that journal and I will write when I can – oh, my!” He gulped as the door opened and Lord Ferman came in, smiling.
“All the luggage is on board the barge, Pualyn and your horses are saddled and awaiting you in the courtyard. My word, young man, part of me really is envious of you at this moment: so few people have travelled officially to the Protectorates in the last century or so, except priests, I suppose. Make the most of your time there – such experiences will enrich your whole lifetime.”
“I will and thank you.” It was a general thank you to everyone in the room. “I promise that I will conduct myself properly, your Majesty – Mother – Lyria.” He assured the three whom would worry most and bowed deeply as he rose to his feet, glancing across at Lennarn. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, my Lord. Shall we go?” His valet moved politely to the door along with Lord Ferman, as Pualyn shook hands and kissed his family farewell, enveloping Lyria in a bear-hug and then spinning her around, kissing her soundly and repeatedly before setting her down and picking up his long travelling cloak. The two young men departed with a final bow, their footfalls loud as they set off down the corridor.
*
As master of the Tenarean Rose, Captain Zecherry was used to having to wait for his passengers to deign to arrive and he was quietly relieved that Lord Pualyn, his man and the guards accompanying them to the wharf were free of hangers-on – and early. Even the city streets had been relatively quiet and the soldiers on duty at the Wharf Gate had cleared the normal dock traffic at their approach.
With little more than a wave of thanks to Captain Nash of the guards who would return their horses to the palace stables, the two young men boarded by the obligatory wide, bouncing plank, as the crew almost simultaneously cast off – and even before they could speak to the tall man in charge of the tiller, the oars below were moving steadily into the dark water and the fifty-foot craft was moving out of the wharves and into the deceptively slow-looking current in the centre of the river that coiled around the south side of the city. They shot under the South Gate Bridge, passed the narrow mouth of the river Ayne and turned east to face the fresh, bright sun in what seemed like moments. Pualyn and Lennarn stood at the rail, out of the way, gazing back at the jumble of their capital city, catching glimpses through the rooftops of the towers of the palace and then the great rooftops and bell tower of the cathedral – now receding rapidly as the barge moved downstream.
“Well, that’s that, my Lord: we’re off and we should make Rothern in three days. Shall I show you your cabin?” The Captain said with a friendly smile and a bow, now that they had left the danger of the city waters. “I am Captain Zecherry. All your gear is stowed safely and you’re guaranteed a smooth trip to the coast.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’m Pualyn, this is Lennarn. Please, direct us – I admit that neither of us know anything about boats or sailing, so we don’t want to get in your way.” Pualyn answered with a nod of his head. “This is a lovely craft.”
“Aye, commissioned by his Majesty’s father – we keep her in tip-top condition for his Majesty and the court’s use.”
*
Their journey downstream was indeed swift and smooth, the broad river’s current augmented by the twenty oarsmen sweating through the day. Pualyn had been placed in the royal cabin, which was much larger than expected and opulent with gold leaf and well carved wood, a well-lit space for travelling. The two young men spent a lot of the next few days standing or sitting on deck watching the land that seemed to slip swiftly by – a whole new view of the world.
It was not yet mid-morning on the third day since they had left Tenum City when the Tenarum Rose approached the massive, bustling wharves of the port city of Rothern, that seemed to eat back into the land – although the width of the estuary made the actual demarcation between land and water most unclear. The barge was making slow headway, dodging the throng of traffic from tiny boats to laden craft twice its size and actual sea-worthy fishing boats on the river, making for the Royal Dock set aside for official travellers.
“Commander Vedeigne said that you were awaiting a foreign ship, my Lord?” Captain Zecherry asked politely. “If you give me the name, I’ll send a man to inform them that you’ve arrived – save you traipsing across to the Golden Anchor and back.” He grinned, as he expertly guided the craft towards the stone wharf. “I know you get expenses on the King’s business, but Lord Ferman makes every penny squeak, they say – Tie up, Lorn!” He yelled, casting out one of the thick ropes towards the man who had leapt onto the dock.
“Thank you, Captain.” Pualyn answered, and looked about with interest. “I’ve not been here since I was child – my memories will not be much use in getting us about. Have you, Lennarn?”
“I know the Golden Anchor, my Lord, but not the wharves.” The other man admitted. “I had forgotten how vast the docks are here in Rothern. I will appropriate a porter – there’s far too much luggage for us to carry.” He grinned.
“That’s a good idea.” Pualyn approved, gazing out across the surprisingly clean water, dark and muddy-looking, for the day was cloudy. He could smell sewage, smoke and salt, along with spices and a myriad other aromas – some pleasant, some not – but this was what he remembered about Rothern: the melting pot of the docks, where land and sea merged, handling and trading goods from all around the known world. Excitement filled him, driving out the nervousness at the vast tracts of ignorance that he knew filled him – especially regarding the razine and the whole strange business surrounding his sister and the prince. He hoped that he would soon be filled with knowledge and smiled to himself at the thought, before going to help the respectful crewmen moving his and Lennarn’s baggage to the quayside, ignoring the Captain’s protests with a wave of his hand and a grin – continuing until Lennarn returned with some rather shabbily-dressed porters.
“It’s good seeing you doing some real work, my Lord.” He said with mock seriousness.
“Thanks, Lennarn.”
They were enjoying a small glass of wine and a nice lunch, courtesy of Captain Zecherry once the crew had been dismissed for the rest of the afternoon, when the first mate, Lorn, returned with a most singular man at his side.
He was tall, over six-and-a-half feet, with a muscular build that denoted a high level of fitness and a gait that spoke of years of combat training. He had short, wavy dark brown hair, a slight tan to his skin, and pleasant features – large, almond-shaped eyes; a slightly bent, long nose and high cheekbones, plus a wide-lipped mouth that smiled, matching the shine in his long-lashed, dark eyes. He wore a plain linen shirt embroidered in grey and green about the collar, black leather leggings and boots; there was a long broadsword at his hips.
“Ah, you must be Lord Pualyn of Clirensar, Captain Zecherry and Lennarn.” The stranger said with a low bow, to their astonishment. He spoke perfect Selithian with a slight accent. “We are pleased that you are here in such excellent time. My name is Kerrenan. Please, don’t get up – carry on, do. I know that a good lunch should not be rushed: I’ll just join you, if I may? Then, we will get you over to the Pearl.”
* * *
Days turned into a moon; her life quickly returned to a familiar pattern, yet Ethrayne could not deny that it was one completely different to life before her betrothal to Jerryn. That one event, so formal, formed a rift, a break, between old and new. Early mornings now were devoted almost completely to combat training; then there were Council meetings, or else extra instruction in perhaps economics or the intricacies of law; after a light luncheon she spent time with Lyria and often her parents. There hardly seemed to be any time, now, for those traditional and previously familiar feminine tasks of embroidery and tapestry making and so on – and she smiled, recalling her fear of those ‘golden chains’ that had seemed to be wrapping about her, so stifling.
Of course, despite her shared and exalted status of Wielder of the Flame, much was still the same, regardless: the older men of the court and also some of the younger ones, were still set against her learning how to use weapons, despite the approval of the King, the Archpriests – active and retired – and her own family.
It was peculiar, Ethrayne considered. As well as learning about this singular, unique, peculiar power, she was becoming daily more practised at the noble arts of diplomacy and politics – and, most especially, at keeping a dignified silence and smiling, no matter the sort of semi-polite jibe or veiled insult thrown her way at gatherings or mealtimes.
Don’t listen to them – they know nothing, my love.>; Jerryn said silently, after another criticism-filled dinner. Their only defence is ignorance – they can’t get their minds around the puzzle that the Archpriests passed to us – not that I’m finding it very easy.>; He joked.
I suppose you are right, Jerryn.>; The young woman conceded. I imagine that we really ought to behave better than they – if only to show that we are - worthy? of this honour and the responsibility that goes with it . . . But I can’t help worrying more than a little bit about – the enemy – that man . . . >; Her tone faded into silence and they both considered those menacing yet innocent notes that had been left in their beds.
Yes, it’s strange, knowing that we might be the catalyst for great change – even war.>; His doubt was clear. Frightening, too.>;
Very. Well, I don’t care – everyone who matters has approved my training – and, I must say, I’m certainly finding it easier to get to sleep nowadays.>;
Jerryn laughed. You must be fittest noblewoman in Selith, Ethrayne . . . I wish I could sleep soundly. I find myself fretting about Pualyn, amongst other things.>;
But he had forgotten that his surface thoughts were no longer private and Ethrayne could sense and read his fears: for Pualyn, setting off into the unknown; for herself – having to learn something so dangerous as weapons-craft, let alone ever having to wield a sword or whatever in earnest; for his father and the realm in general, facing potential war . . . As Bahlien had said, they were staring down into an abyss.
We can only do our best, Jerryn, as with everything we may face in the future.>; Ethrayne answered stoutly to those comprehensive fears.
*
Reports began to trickle up to the garrisons and then slowly towards the Council table of strange ships off to the south of Orran, of piracy, but it was some time before these rumours could be confirmed as fact, despite the details of the letter sent by the razine, Kerrenan and delivered by Captain Zecherry on his return from Rothern. Pualyn’s letters to Lyria, of course, were private.
Addressed to King Marrand and ostensibly signed by the razine High-King, Mhezal, this offered the usual polite felicitations and diplomatic greetings, but followed by a rather worrying paragraph detailing the possibility of incursions by the Betrayer’s forces especially off the coast of Tenarum. The High-King then declared that ships of the Protectorates might also be espied out to sea, as well as coming in to port to trade – these ships would always identify themselves with crimson and blue pennons and would deal directly with any piracy by the Jajozeli without mercy.
“Well, it’s good to know that we have allies.” King Marrand said doubtfully.
“Allies we know nothing about!” Lord Gorman grunted.
“You know that that is not so, my Lord.” Jerryn countered mildly. “We have not had much official contact with the razine, but we both worship Arven and, obviously, Archpriest Lurco and his predecessors have maintained closer links with their counterparts in the Protectorates. I must say, I envy Pualyn his opportunity to visit such an unfamiliar part of the world.”
“Well yes, you are correct, your Highness.” Gorman conceded, but perhaps a little reluctantly. “But they are different -.”
“We are all different, Gorman.” Duke Sarant said with a laugh. “And we have always had trading links with the razine and men of the Protectorates, don’t forget. They trade for the wines of Rothern and the iron and steel shipped downstream to Orran – bringing many items in exchange. I’ve never heard of any trouble.”
“Trade notwithstanding, we need to alert our garrisons and the ports both large and small.” The King said gravely. “There are descriptions and drawing of the pennons of the enemy ships and those of our allies. We’ll put together an announcement to be disseminated along the coasts and rivers and request that any news be sent to the local garrison or officials so that it can be collated when it is delivered here to the palace.” He pointed down to the table-top.
“Perhaps we could utilise the old beacons, your Majesty?” Lady Celia suggested tentatively. “I know there is one above Pellerton Court and another on the ridge above Oldene – you can see one from the other quite clearly, depending on the weather.”
“Brilliant!” Earl Bennard exclaimed and the young woman blushed slightly at his approval. “Should’ve thought of that myself – very good, Madam.”
“We all should have, my Lord.” Marrand sighed. “The manning and stocking of combustibles at the beacon sites has certainly dropped off in recent decades, I admit, but they span the entire realm. See to it that they are readied and that soldiers are detailed to man them in sequence – the usual.”
“Your Majesty.” Various members of the Council agreed, some scribbling on parchment.
“Is there a beacon near Tenum?” Ethrayne asked Jerryn quietly. “I know there’s one east of Clirensar, above Black Wood Hill.”
“We’ll go for a ride with the court – and soldiers – on our next free day, Ethrayne, and I’ll show you. I think it’s all overgrown these days.” The prince replied with a smile, then he shrugged. “That is, if we’re allowed.”
*
“I’ll be taking you off regular duties, Tymain.” Commander Vedeigne said to the young soldier whom he had called to his office, set between the main barracks and the kitchen store rooms on the lower ground floor of this range of service buildings. It wasn’t spacious, but it had a window looking out over the courtyard, towards the stables, if one stretched upwards. It was just after luncheon, after another early practice session with Lady Ethrayne, Prince Jerryn and Captain Garane, then guard duty on the main gates. He had been relieved by Private Murne a short time before.
“I beg your pardon, Sir?” Tymain asked, stunned – a sudden, terrible fear filling him that was based on nothing logical at all – that he was going to be ejected from the job that he had always longed to undertake, ever since he had been a young boy, years before his father had died.
“No, lad, calm yourself.” Vedeigne flashed him a grin as he shook his head reprovingly. “The way you’ve been instructing Lady Ethrayne, you’ve earned yourself a promotion. Congratulations, Corporal Tymain.”
“I – well – thank – thank you, Sir!” The stunned expression on his face remained, but a very foolish grin was spreading over it. “I -.” He stopped there, guessing that he was now starting to sound stupid.
“Events since Lady Ethrayne and Prince Jerryn’s betrothal have been tumultuous – and you have matured admirably, from a youth who completely irrationally and ridiculously seemed to hate the prince, to a man willing to see the wider connotations of all that has occurred. You know what’s been happening here in Tenum City?”
Tymain frowned and rubbed at his chin with one hand. “The man who accosted Lady Ethrayne – somehow he – he felt strange to me and I’ve had that same feeling a few times since then round about the city – I’m not sure if that one’s lurking about still, watching.” His tone was stern. “They are the Wielders of the Flame, Commander. They represent Arven.”
“But doesn’t that sound overly mystical for a soldier and a lad who grew up in the Riverside? And what on Iullyn do you mean by ‘he felt strange’?” The Commander asked rather testily, as if feelings were hardly important in the real world.
Tymain moved slightly, as if he had meant to shrug but then decided against it. “It doesn’t matter where we were born, Sir, but what we make of our lives. Arven is our god; the Prince and the Lady are his servants and we live in interesting times – though ‘the Betrayer’ is definitely not the sort of opponent one would chose to face. And he did feel – strange – I can’t -.” He struggled to find the words to describe it for he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to describe. “I could feel some sort of strength about him, in my head, he didn’t feel human. Perhaps the razine feel differently to us? Actually, I feel something similar but much less threatening from Archpriest Bahlien.”
“That is very interesting. A few others have had odd reactions to the Archpriest.” The Commander said, to Tymain’s surprise, and shook his head. “So you have faith enough to stand up with them against ‘the Betrayer’?”
“Yes Sir, I hope I would prove strong enough. I was young and stupid – and I was also stupid when I took exception to Calle’s snide comments on our evening off but, I – I admit I’ve completely changed my position and my view of the world.”
“Good to hear it. You will be part of the young couple’s guard, Tymain, reporting to Captain Garane. You will work with Antan, Ferle and Murne, to begin with. Between you, you will work out a sensible system of guarding the Wielders of the Flame and when the rota is organised, I will present it to his Majesty. I still want regular training for you all – not just for the Prince and Lady Ethrayne.” Vedeigne frowned, gazing down at a piece of parchment before him. “Right, go and report to Captain Garane – and I suggest you get rid of that stupid grin, Tymain, before someone trips you up along the corridor.”
“Yes Sir – thank you, Sir.” Tymain saluted smartly, turned and marched out of the office, clearly trying to remove the smile from his face – but failing dismally.
Of course, his friends and colleagues reacted predictably to the announcement, but the young man did his best to live up to the Commander’s faith in him and refused to rise to the baiting they subjected him to.
Truth to tell, however, the guards and soldiers generally were rather impressed by Lady Ethrayne’s dedication to her training regime – and even more so by the news that she and Prince Jerryn were the Wielders of the Flame of Arven. Soldiers generally were a religious group – due to the risks inherent in their chosen profession – and to discover that they had two visible focuses of Arven right there before them was somehow heartening as well as awe-inspiring.
*
The new Flame Guard, as the group of soldiers quickly became known, and expanded by Don and Nate’s appointments, began to seem quite ordinary after two weeks, even after taking delivery of newly designed tabards that had been hand-stitched by Duchess Riyala and Ladies Ethrayne, Lyria and Celia, along with Fionn and Sallie’s expert touch. In truth, Ethrayne had not done an awful lot of the embroidery due to her other commitments, but she had sat with her family, chatting and sewing – for such an occupation never detracted from a good conversation. Two of them were always at the Prince and Lady’s shoulders, from when they left their rooms to bedtime, their duties augmented by the Palace Guard as required.
“So, what do you think of your new roles and responsibilities, my dear?” Duke Sarant asked seriously, although there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Was it only a moon ago that you were feeling sorry for yourself – at being chained up, never to leave the palace again?” Her parents both laughed at his gentle teasing.
“That’s not fair, Father, throwing my words back at me.” Ethrayne complained, pretending to cover her face with embarrassment and chuckling. “Oh, wasn’t I stupid?”
“No, not at all, Ethie.” Her mother said cheerfully. “We always have known that the world favours men and highborn women lead very constrained lives. But who could ever have imagined that our world would change so – so completely?”
“It has changed so quickly, too.” Lyria added with a sigh.
“For certain, Lyria, it has.” Ethrayne agreed with a smile, briefly clasping her friend’s hand. “Pualyn sent to the Razine Protectorates as Royal Envoy and Jerryn and I becoming, oh I don’t know, some sort of figurehead for the followers of Arven?”
“Is that how you see yourself, Ethrayne dearest, as a figurehead?” Her mother asked intently, worry suddenly apparent on her face. “It has all been – rushed, certainly. But that ceremony at the Cathedral seemed a great deal more serious than – you and Jerryn both just being seen as figureheads.”
Ethrayne exchanged a sober glance with her father – the sort of look, she realised with a sudden brief chill, that men usually exchanged when faced with questions from women; questions that they were generally most reluctant to answer fully.
“Yes, Mother, I think that it is more serious.” She stated quietly. “Apparently, the servants of the Betrayer might be out there, watching us.” She gestured with a sweep of her hand. “There might well be war against the Jajozeli – that’s why Archpriest Bahlien wanted Pualyn to go to the Protectorates as our Envoy.”
“Sarant! You didn’t tell me this” The Duchess exclaimed, shocked. “War! Oh, great heavens, no!”
“My dear Riyala, nothing is certain in life. The razine wanted to ensure that we are prepared, that’s really all that’s happened.” Sarant said, trying to soothe his wife.
“The ceremony there below the Cathedral was not symbolic, you see, Mother – Father.” Ethrayne finally decided to tell them. “Jerryn and I really do hold the Flame of Arven inside us – and I have a feeling that we are going to change in a great many ways. In fact, I think we are changing already. The problem is that he – the Betrayer – tried to destroy Arven and succeeded in stealing a lot of his strength. Bahlien hid the casket, but the Betrayer has always wanted the power it contained for himself. There was a stranger hanging around the city, watching us – the man who spoke to me above the city. He was one of the Betrayer’s servants -.”
“What?” Riyala almost screeched this, abandoning her usual poise and elegance. “Ethrayne! Darling – I -.”
“But this is our destiny, Mother – mine and Jerryn’s. At some point we will have to face them.” She continued to explain, surprised at her own sense of calm.
“Aren’t you scared, Ethie?” Lyria asked.
Ethrayne thought for a moment. “Yes and no – but I expect actual war will frighten me into fits; it’s all very well, learning how to us a sword or knife or bow, but to know that I will really have to stick them hard and lethally into an enemy?” She shrugged. “I suppose I won’t know until that moment comes.”
“Said as honestly and true as any young soldier could say.” Sarant said approvingly. “My word, Ethie, I am very proud of you.”
“You are not alone, your Grace.” Jerryn added unexpectedly, sticking his head around the door. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing you -.”
“As if you need to listen at doors, your Highness.” Ethrayne said with false shock. “Why didn’t you just come in?”
“Jerryn – is Ethrayne correct in what she said?” Riyala asked him almost imploringly – clearly hoping for him to refute her words.
“Yes, pretty much, your Grace – I am sorry – But we didn’t really know how to tell you this, you see. Bahlien said that the words would come to us, however – and it seems that he was right yet again.” The Prince sat down on an empty chair, his tone slightly contrite.
“I’m going to have words with that duplicitous ex-Archpriest!” The Duchess muttered with heat.
“No, Mother, please don’t, he is also doing what he must. Bahlien isn’t here by chance any more than we are. Please, Mother, it’s difficult, isn’t it? How do you tell people that they will spend their lives fulfilling some ancient prophecy without being laughed out of town?” Ethrayne said with a smile. “Can you imagine how awkward it must have been to work out just how to tell us all of this information?” She waved her hands expressively. “So, you have explained matters to your father also, Jerryn? I hope he is not too cross with us.”
The prince sighed but offered a wry grin. “No – I believe that Bahlien’s words with him and his Grace here has made them seriously consider – and talk together – a great deal since we were at the Cathedral.”
“We have suspected something such as you suggest, Ethrayne, my dear.” The Duke answered easily. “It was his request to send someone sympathetic to you both as Envoy that alerted us. It seems that we will see interesting times ahead – but I’m not really sure that I’m looking forward to them.”
“Amen to that, my dear.” Riyala said intently – and suddenly embraced her daughter tightly. “You must take care, Ethrayne!” She commanded.
“Yes, Mother.” The girl answered levelly. “I will, I promise.”
*
The razine disguised as Kesta had watched as Pualyn set off for the coast on the royal barge and had smiled at the young man’s obvious enthusiasm and excitement. The razine of the Protectorates could try to interfere all they liked, but his Master had had his plans set up and ready to begin for over two years, after decades of work – and everyone involved would be in place ahead of time, poised. Bahlien, the old fool, was circumscribed by custom, politics and the proprieties involved between allies, whilst his Master commanded an Empire.
His time in Tenum City was coming to an end: he had received orders to head elsewhere but, for those such as himself, the order was rather fluid: he had a moon or so to reach his destination.
Prowling around the palace compound, in far more disguises than his contact here could have imaged possible, he had noted the creation of the Flame Guard as an entity within the palace guard and he had listened in to far too many conversations conducted by brainless sycophants. He had even been able to watch one of the girl’s practice sessions – his contact had shown him a storeroom and he had lingered amongst boxes and supplies, his strength pulled inward and so pretty-much un-detectable, watching almost invisibly. Her technique was terrible, but she had been training for less than a moon and she did show promise. He acknowledged that she certainly had determination, for a girl who had never held any form of weapon before in her life – probably fully expecting a continuation of her life of idleness and tedium as the prince’s bride. He wondered if she might even be enjoying the challenge thrust her way so unexpectedly.
Another few days passed as Kesta took stock of the information still being passed on by his controlled contact, considering how best to take his leave. Some of his colleagues would just have left quietly, but that was not his way – after leaving the notes for the young couple, he wanted to make everyone involved here in the capital more than a little frightened – and, of course, to disgust that holier-than-thou meddling razine who had haunted his Master’s cause for centuries.
After moving quarters to the Golden Star, the most expensive inn in the city, set across the tree-lined Cathedral Square and directly opposite his protagonist’s base, Kesta invited his contact to a private supper in the most expensive, very well-appointed suite in the place. The man had kept quiet about his meetings with the supposed merchant, encouraged by Kesta’s controls that were set deep into his mind – nobody in the palace was aware of where he went on his evenings off, or that anything might be amiss. Cheerfully expecting a pleasant evening’s conversation and excellent food, he made his way to the second-floor sitting room.
“Good evening.” Kesta greeted him with a large glass of wine and a broad smile. “The kitchen staff will be pleased that you are on time – they seem to have been working on dinner all afternoon.”
The meal was indeed exquisite, as good as anything served in the palace, he assured the waiters when they cleared the table of everything but the liqueur and fruit and cheese and vanished, most professionally.
“My word, you know how to treat your guests, Kesta.”
“Such is my intention, since I must depart in the morning, my friend.” Kesta replied easily.
“So suddenly?” He asked with evident dismay. “Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Yes, which is why I moved to this inn: this suite is being paid for by my sponsor. Come and see the other rooms and then we can relax and chat.”
The four posted bed was easily large enough for the dalliance of the two men and the silken cushions and coverlets made a pretty litter across the priceless carpets in a short time. It was getting late and the Tenarean lay back in the plump pillows, wineglass in hand and sighed appreciably.
“My, this is the way to live!”
His companion laughed, but the sound was mocking – and he turned to Kesta, laid close beside him, in surprise at the tone.
“This place is a pigsty, man! The city is a cesspit – and you people are so primitive that living amongst you has been disgusting!” Kesta answered languidly, which confused the man further. “Yet I must admit that you have been a diversion and the information you have given me has proved useful. For that, you idiotic little man, I will be merciful: you will be dead before sunrise.” He smiled at the incredulity on the other’s face, winked – and Kesta vanished, turning instantly into a taller, muscular, more handsome and blonde-haired person with chillingly cold blue eyes that shone disconcertingly.
“What the hell?” Relaxed and slightly drunk, the man laughed loudly. “Dear Arven, how did you do that, Kesta?”
“Oh, I’m full of all sorts of tricks and surprises.” He replied, sitting up and yanking the crystal goblet from the man’s loose grip. “Let me show you -.”
“But who are you?” The man asked, quavering a little now at the look in the ice-blue eyes now holding his gaze. “I don’t understand -.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” The General grinned and the other shivered with a sudden chill. “You’re a complete idiot, my silly friend, but you will prove an excellent object lesson for Jerryn and Ethrayne.”
“Me – me? B-but -.” He tried to retreat across the bed, but the General’s gaze somehow paralysed him – he could not move a muscle, no matter how he tried. “But – but I’ll shout – shout loudly -.”
“No, you won’t.” He chuckled. “But you will want to, believe me – and you’ll wish you could scream, too . . . Now, where shall we start?”
*
Back in his disguise as the human merchant, Kesta left the inn at dawn as already arranged – carrying his own bags and tipping the polite innkeeper as he said farewell in pleasant tones. It took only a moment to change his appearance, a short distance away, and he strode on down to a well-arranged stable closer to the main gates where his mount and saddle and equipment had been housed. He was out of the city and riding south not long after.
The two maids who entered the bedroom of Kesta’s vacated suite to change the bedding and clean up after breakfast succumbed to hysterics at what they found there – only the innkeeper’s desire to keep his business running kept the girls quiet for a few crucial moments – and stopped the other guests from learning the awful truth and leaving in droves.
Finding the girls screaming, he dragged them out of the room with its awful contents, quickly locked the outer door, dragged them up a level and to the back of the building where his private rooms were situated – and shoved them bodily at his startled wife with curt orders to dose them up with spirits. Then, taking a deep breath, he went in search of aid – he approached the city guards, initially, but they entered the bedroom very reluctantly and took one look at the polite note that was laid on the corpse and demanded that the Palace take charge as they retreated, their faces almost as pale as that of the dead man.
Consequently it was nearly midmorning by the time that Commander Vedeigne, Captain Garane and a most reluctant Lord Ferman arrived, pushing through a curious crowd that filled a good proportion of the square. To their surprise they found ex-Archpriest Bahlien awaiting them at the foot of the stairs, dressed anonymously in a dark grey tunic and black leggings. They sent three of the soldiers who had accompanied them to calm and disperse the crowd and left the others at the main door to the inn.
“Your Grace!” Lord Ferman greeted him, clearly stunned to see him. “May we help you? We are here -.”
“You have come to investigate a rather nasty murder. I know.” The tall, elderly razine finished their sentence, his tone heavy. “But I suspect that the perpetrator will be known to me, although he will be many leagues away by now.”
“Oh, please my Lords – let us resolve this quickly: this is so bad for business!” Master Pellarse, the innkeeper, blustered almost tearfully. “Please, come up I beg you -.”
“Yes, Master, we will, do not distress yourself any further. We will speak further with you shortly about your – guest.” Commander Vedeigne patted his arm smartly and shooed him towards the kitchens. “Come along, gentlemen, let’s get on with it.” And he led them upstairs, their boots muffled on the deep carpets.
Shan lay spread wide upon the expensive sheets of the massive bed and his blood had stained and pooled all over the fine linen and silk. He seemed to have been rather expertly butchered and the frozen agony evident on his handsome, unmarked face proved that he had been alive and helpless during most of the grizzly process.
Lord Ferman fled to the bathroom to throw up as soon as the stink of blood and excrement hit them, for it filled the room; the two soldiers and the ex-Archpriest took a firm grip of their disgust and sickness to move closer to the bed.
“Dear Arven!” Garane breathed in horror. “What sort of man could do this to anyone?”
“Don’t be naïve, Captain.” Vedeigne snapped in a crisp tone that disguised his own reactions. “You wouldn’t believe just how sadistic some people are – but I admit that this is the worst outrage I’ve ever seen. Poor Shan!”
“Aye, poor man indeed.” Bahlien said, carefully reaching across to pick up the letter that was resting on the one remaining pristine embroidered cushion next to the victim’s head. “Here, this is addressed to King Marrand. You had better make sure you tell him what has occurred here, before he opens it, however.” He straightened, passing the parchment to the Commander. “And this is definitely the work of one of the Betrayer’s Generals – likely the same one who spoke to Lady Ethrayne last moon.” The disapproval in Bahlien’s voice deepened his tone. “They are notorious for their rather exotic perversions and punishments.”
“But – but Shan – dear Arven, I never thought – he – well -.” Captain Garane spluttered, clearly still overwhelmed.
“Favoured men over women?” Bahlien laughed quite merrily, considering what lay before them. “Why should it really matter whom he slept with, Captain? And don’t forget that Jajozeli Generals are notorious for turning people – their victims – any which way they please for their own purposes. Clearly, this is how the enemy managed to sneak into the palace: by confusing poor Shan with a disguise, lulling him with supposed affection, and finding out all sorts of information we would rather our enemy would never discover. Even this killing – he did it with evident pleasure, turning it into an object lesson -.”
“He got into the palace? That – this evil creature actually got into our palace?” Vedeigne demanded furiously, catching up with what Bahlien had been saying. “But – but – our security -.”
“Jerryn and Ethrayne decided not to worry anyone, Commander. He left mildly insulting notes for them in their bedrooms. Don’t worry about your security levels, man – most of our most excellent levels of protection would be utterly inadequate to keep out a determined General, if he wanted to get inside.” Bahlien sighed. “I suppose we are lucky only one man has died here.”
The experienced soldiers both shuddered deeply at his matter-of-fact tone – his knowledge – and they dimly heard Lord Ferman groan expressively from the bathroom.
“But to die - in such a way!” Vedeigne’s voice quavered a little.
Shan had been raped with a very large, ornate silver candlestick and the tendons in his limbs expertly severed to render him immobile. His torso had been sliced open from the hollow of his throat to his groin, the sternum broken, the rib-cage opened – and his major organs lifted carefully out and some of them even removed.
“Dear Arven it’s gruesome! Poor man!” Garane muttered, wiping his sweaty brow.
“But what can I tell his Majesty? Look at Shan!” The Commander said, clearly concerned. “He has served our King faithfully for years, your Grace. Marrand will be devastated.”
“We can tell him together if you’d prefer some support.” Bahlien offered calmly. “It is a nasty business, and we can hedge around the gory details. Why don’t you send poor Ferman to speak to the innkeeper? I will pray for Shan’s immortal soul – and we can get everything out of here through some back-door or similar, I hope.”
“Dear Arven, I hope so!” Vedeigne prayed. “Thank you, your Grace – I’m sorry, this has rendered me completely ineffective, hasn’t it?” He grimaced and lifted his hands helplessly. “Somehow this is far worse than the battlefield.”
“You are not the first to think so Commander.” The elderly razine said, standing straight at the side of the ruined bed, raising his arms and hands wide over Shan’s body and beginning a prayer in a ringing tone. Vedeigne watched him for a moment, then went to the bathroom door, glancing in to see Lord Ferman wiping his pallid face with a towel.
“My Lord, we want you to go down and question Master Pellarse about the man who took these rooms.” He said bracingly. “We will sort this – mess – out. You go downstairs and have a little restorative – we will be down soon.”
“Oh, th-thanks Vedeigne.” The Lord Chamberlain said rather hoarsely. “I’m so sorry -.”
“Don’t apologise, my Lord. It’s revolting, there’s no avoiding that fact.”
“Yes, it truly is. I – I’ll see what Pellarse can tell me.” And, keeping his gaze fixed determinedly on the far door, Ferman edged around the room and escaped almost at a run.
“- Amen. May his soul reside with you forever, Lord Arven.” Bahlien concluded his prayer, bowed slightly to the desecrated body and sighed deeply. “Well, this is going to be messy.” He commented, shaking his head.
“How about we bundle up the body in the covers and wrap it in oilcloth, perhaps, your Grace?” Captain Garane suggested diffidently, as if he had been puzzling how to do this for a while. “Trouble is, the whole bed will be ruined.”
“Let’s start with Shan and progress from there.” Vedeigne decided.
*
It took time, but the vast amount of ruined evidence of Shan’s death was out of the inn before nightfall and Vedeigne set a group of less vapourish women to scrubbing away at any remaining blood from the bedroom and bathroom – but there was surprisingly little blood, due to the murderer’s expertise. Master Pellarse mourned the loss of expensive bed linen, upholstery and furniture, but they were all relieved that the atrocity had been so well contained – in every way.
Shan’s body was wrapped tightly by priests under Archpriest Lurco’s direction and placed in a coffin, his eyes closed, so the horrific facts of his death were hidden; everything else was taken out of the city and burned that night under Captain Garane’s gaze, whilst Commander Vedeigne and the ex-Archpriest finally returned to the palace to report on the day’s events. The complex had been rife with rumours – most of which were leagues wide of the mark – but it could not be disguised that something awful had occurred.
“Shan is dead?” Marrand repeated the words with shock, there in his private sitting room. “Dead?”
“He was murdered last night, your Majesty. It has taken most of the day to – to sort everything out, but the body is lain in the Small Chapel in the Cathedral. We found this letter beside the body, Sire.” Vedeigne handed his king the folded and sealed parchment sheet with a low bow. “We realise that this is a great shock – and it was a horrific way to die – but Archpriest Bahlien suspects that the perpetrator was an agent of the Betrayer.”
“But Shan was loyal – utterly loyal – he has served me faultlessly for years!” Marrand countered, still hardly able to believe what he heard. “How -?”
“These – Generals – seem to have the ability to – to twist and confuse their victims, your Majesty -.” Vedeigne tried to explain what was so difficult to describe.
“They have power and strength to turn loyal men into traitors without even being aware of it – the highest servants of the Betrayer. It seems that he did this to poor Shan – befriended him perhaps, asked questions about the palace – and Shan would never have been aware of any threat or danger. Even the best can be subverted.” Bahlien said gently.
“So how on Iullyn are any of us ever going to be able to defend ourselves?” The King demanded sharply, but both men shook their heads soberly. “Dear Arven, Vedeigne – Bahlien – he must have died horribly if you won’t tell me . . . Oh, the poor man.” He sighed. “But – what does this mean? What now?”
“The letter, your Majesty?” Bahlien prompted him gently – he had been waving the sheet about rather wildly.
“Dear Arven I’m scared to read it!” But Marrand broke the red seal impatiently and shook the sheet straighter as he opened it, scanning its contents quickly, his expression hardening before he read aloud:
“‘To Marrand, King of Tenarum, greetings and thank you for the use of your manservant – he has been most entertaining.
“‘On behalf of my Master, I would warn you and yours against meddling in matters far beyond your collective comprehension, but the promises made by your only son and his pretty little lady have now dragged you in to a future conflict that you can only lose.
“‘You will be relieved to know that I have left your backwards little city. But be assured that we will meet – at a time and a place of our choosing.
“‘Respectfully. General Ackat.’”
“That is a truly offensive letter, your Majesty.” Vedeigne breathed, shaking his head.
“It’s quite chilling, isn’t it?” Marrand mused. “They’re obviously consummate politicians – trying to scare us like this – the bastards!”
“What will you do, your Majesty?” Bahlien asked quietly.
“Do?” The King snorted and shook his head, then swore expressively. “I have a feeling that this prophecy is dragging us all on a road we would never have expected, your Grace. We will do what we can.”
* * *
The Lerat Pearl professed to be a normal cargo ship, but its construction was a little different to what was usual in the kingdoms of Selith. The razine vessel was considerably larger than most craft that plied the continental waters, its three masts towering above the rigging of the other ships in the docks and the main deck was higher above the waterline – which meant that the stern deck, where the wheel was situated, was about a good seven feet higher than on any other ship that Pualyn had seen.
“Our ships venture into the deep ocean, my Lord Pualyn.” Captain Lowther explained simply, during a brief lull in the organised confusion that presaged departure – due at high tide late that evening. “We have found that the bigger the ship, the more likely it is to survive adverse weather.” He was a tall, grey-haired man with weather-beaten skin and a lantern jaw plus clear blue-green eyes that seemed to stare directly at a person’s soul.
Kerrenan, however, snorted at that explanation. “Lowther, my friend, tell the man the truth, please.” He said easily. “The Tenareans are our allies, you know.”
“Your Highness.” Captain Lowther laid some stress on the title and seemed to glare – though perhaps there was a slight twitching of his lips as if he suppressed a smile. The razine male’s look was mild. “I have a ship to prepare for sailing here. Please take our guests down below and you can explain matters. I will join you at dinner.”
“I will show you to your cabin, my Lord Pualyn, Master Lennarn – it’s not large, but it’s cosy enough; I’ll give you a bit of a tour, show you the sitting room and the galley.” Kerrenan said, grinning at the dismissal, ignoring their surprise, heading across the deck and through a doorway and down some steep steps into a rather dim passageway barely three feet wide – so the two men followed him, thanking the Captain. “Then I’ll tell you what I imagine that old rascal Bahlien couldn’t.”
“An ex-Archpriest is ‘an old rascal’?” Pualyn asked, astounded, as their host headed down a ladder along a further, darker passage lit by a line of lanterns hanging from the ceiling and stopped to open the second door on the left to reveal a cabin about nine feet by eight feet, with a bank of small, square, nearly opaque glass panes forming windows rather than port holes set in the port wall. There was a narrow bunk to either side of the central doorway, with storage cupboards beneath, built in as part of the construction like the bunks and walls. The mens’ baggage had been piled neatly on the plank floor in front of the windows, filling the space between the bunks.
“I have known our revered ex-Archpriest since I was a child, lad, and he is an old rascal.” Kerrenan laughed aloud. “Your face, Pualyn! He is also the oldest razine in existence, other than Gregnor and maybe Doreth his second in command.” His smile faded, but then returned just as brightly. “So, this is your cabin with this figure on the door,” it was a bronze shape a little different to how a Selithian sh was scribed, “and I’m next door, in here.” He went out, advanced a few steps to the next door on the right and opened it to reveal a cabin of about the same size, with only one bunk made up with sheets and blankets set in the stern of the ship. “The sitting area is above – the steps are more like a ladder – do take care until you’re used to it, please – this way. Let’s go up and we can have a drink and I’ll try to explain.”
They rather gingerly clambered back up the narrow, steep rungs to the level below the main deck, using their hands as well as their feet for balance as they followed Kerrenan into a stern-facing cabin about twice as wide as the one they would sleep in, furnished with some comfortably cushioned seats built in around the window, plus plain benches, a built-in table in the centre of the cabin and a full-height cupboard.
“Is the matter so complicated, my Lord?” Pualyn asked a little nervously, taking a seat before the wide bank of windows as the razine gestured politely and grinning at Lennarn, hovering by the door. “Sit, Lennarn, please, this is no time for formality.”
“My Lord.” His servant said gravely, sinking down, clearly a little ill-at-ease.
“Have some wine, gentlemen.” Kerrenan opened the cupboard and lifted a wineskin out, along with three silver goblets, pouring generous amounts into each cup and handing them out before he sat down with a sigh.
“So, my Lord, what has the revered Archpriest not told us?” Pualyn asked directly, raising the goblet to their host and taking a sip – Rothern red, and it went down very pleasantly.
“The Lerat Pearl is a merchant ship, true, and Lowther is both an excellent captain and an instinctive merchant, trading back and forth between your continent and ours, but it – and most of the ‘Pearls’ and ‘Opals’ out there, ten in total, are actually owned by my father, the High-King.”
“The – the High-King?” Pualyn stuttered, feeling that his head was stuffed full of wool fresh from a fleece. “Your Highness -.”
“Don’t you dare bow!” Kerrenan pointed at him with an intense look in his eyes. “I hate all that high ceremony, you know! That’s why I’m out here on board the Pearl, bringing you safe to Orbain, Pualyn. I’m sorry we’ve dragged you away before you could wed your lady, by the way – but, well – when my father and Bahlien realised that the Flame might transfer itself to your sister and the prince so quickly, we were dispatched to fetch you to Lerat.” He laid his free hand on his chest and inclined his head politely.
“So swiftly? But, forgive me my stupidity, Highness, how could people hundreds of leagues apart across the ocean possibly communicate effectively on such an immediate scale?” He asked, confused.
“We razine have those so-called magical abilities, Pualyn and my father and Bahlien can speak mind-to-mind even over such distances.” Kerrenan explained almost apologetically. “It’s not at all easy, even for them, but they can, in real emergencies if conditions are right.” Like this, you see.>;
Pualyn jumped in his seat, even though he had experienced this with Bahlien, as the razine’s voice rang in his mind so – intimately, was the only description that seemed partly adequate. “Oh, my word!”
“I apologise for the intrusion, but it is a very useful tool at our disposal.” Kerrenan grinned at his surprise. “Well, to explain – the ‘Pearls’ and ‘Opals’ are our eyes and ears, especially here to the south – our spy ships against the Betrayer’s forces. The Orbain Pearl is further to the south, keeping their eyes open for the enemy there – there have been sightings of their ships running up the coast from Cal’Badon – their only port on this side of the continent – attacking Tenarean ships and isolated settlements.” The tall razine grimaced and took a gulp of wine. “Actually, they are the second Orbain Pearl, for the enemy destroyed the first ship nearly a century ago and killed my older brother Khalassan and his crew.”
“Dear Arven, I am sorry, that’s awful!” The young man said quite automatically, even as the full statement sank into his brain and he sat up straighter, frowning. “I’m sorry, did you say – a century ago?” He enquired, his tone stunned rather than disbelieving.
“Yes indeed, Pualyn, I was a very junior cadet in training then, only in my late twenties – I idolised my brother. Don’t forget that we live a lot longer than humans, lad – no idea why, though. I’m a hundred and thirty-two, though I don’t look much older than you do.” He shrugged and grinned. “Khalassan was forty-six when he died, seven years into his first official duty as first mate on a Pearl, with a General’s sword in his vitals.” Kerrenan’s tone had darkened considerably as if even the passing of a century had not lessened the pain of loss. “My parents were not happy, and even Bahlien was against it, with the view that the pursuit of vengeance can stifle the soul quite severely, but I have dedicated myself to the age-long struggle to stop the Betrayer ever since – he’s got to be stopped!”
“Great heavens!” Lennarn quietly murmured, gulping at his wine – the High-Prince looked younger than he did.
Kerrenan laughed aloud. “That’s very diplomatic of you.” He offered and his inner darkness seemed to have retreated in the face of cheerfulness. “So, when the ex-Archpriest told us about the Prophecy and then later that the prince and your sister had been born -.” He paused as their mouths literally dropped open and the men exchanged stunned glances “- yes, I know, that was sixteen years ago. That was when Bahlien packed up and returned here to Tenarum, to wait. But it is certain that there will be war at some point.”
“And I don’t suppose it would have been at all sensible to speak to our parents when they were both babies.” Pualyn himself answered the question that he had been about to ask. “Hello – your daughter, your Graces, and your son, your Majesties, are destined to take the Flame of Arven – it’d have been bloody silly, even for a respected priest!” He shook his head and shivered a little. “Bloody hell!”
“Yes, exactly. You might be able to raise some excellent armies from the Kingdoms of Selith, but time is against us. The Protectorates have at least been preparing for war and stocking up on foodstuffs, equipment and so on. You are the envoy of the Wielders of the Flame as much as of your honourable king, my Lord Pualyn.”
The conversation moved, then, to less vital matters, as they heard the crew shouting and occasionally banging above their heads and Kerrenan had a pleasant way of getting his guests to talk – Lennarn venturing the information that he had grown up in an ore-smelting village some twenty leagues downstream from Clirensar and had been able to get a good education because of his father’s hard work in the forge – determined that his only son would not have to work so hard to earn a crust.
“I’m not surprised.” Pualyn said respectfully. “Father had me working in the castle forge for six months straight, two years ago – I slept like a baby each night, once I’d got used to the aching muscles.” He raised his goblet to his valet. “Here’s to our iron and steel and the men and women who shape it so very well.”
“Amen to that.” Kerrenan agreed and got to his feet. “Come on, we’ll go and watch the traffic on the docks – it’s getting a little warm in here, isn’t it? If we keep out of his way, Lowther shouldn’t shout at us too much.”
*
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly and pleasantly until, finally, the Port Authority waved the green flag from the hefty thirty-oared boat that would organise the three others tasked to haul them safely into the channel of the estuary. The hawsers were pulled in from the dock, the ones to the tugs were secured and the huge ship moved almost at a snail’s pace forward, the current and the tide swirling silt-laden water about the sharp bow and the docks and the city beyond oh-so-slowly retreating.
Pualyn, stood safely out of the way halfway along the port rail with Kerrenan and Lennarn, watched their slow advance with growing excitement, despite all the uncertainties raised by their discussion earlier. The future might be bleak, but he was heading out into the unknown with a light heart – though he wished that Lyria was at his side. He couldn’t wait to get to his journal and add this day’s events to its crisp pages, as well as he could find the words.
“Goodbye for now, Tenarum.” He murmured under his breath when the lead tug waved the yellow flags that denoted that the lines were being released and the ship could raise its sails as the oared boats sculled quickly off towards the docks to port and starboard.
The captain shouted orders, backed up by his huge-voiced first officer. The wet ropes were hauled in and coiled neatly, as the sailors shinnied up precipitous rigging and hurried across the huge cross braces far above to release the massive sails; these cracked loudly in the rising breeze as they came down, huge sheets of blue canvas. The ship slid out into the widening channel of the river mouth, facing the endless blue-grey ocean scintillating at some undetermined point ahead, the great port city sinking behind them.
“Arven take care of all of them, please – especially my darling Lyria.” He added as a prayer in his head, aware that he was grinning like a fool.
*
Pualyn found that sea travel agreed with him, or at least it seemed to by the afternoon of the second day, when his queasiness at the motion of the ship on the ever-moving vast ocean finally subsided. Lennarn, however, seemed to have no such trouble at finding his own sea-legs.
Watching the coastline recede and pass by, dimmed by the miles of water that separated them, Pualyn felt decidedly peculiar at the movement of the ship and hung around the rail for as long as he could – glad that the horrible nausea seemed to have largely faded away. Despite the sympathies of Kerrenan and Lennarn, he could not face dinner that evening after they had left Rothern, nor breakfast the next morning – he had raced for the open deck despite the rain that poured down.
“Here, Pualyn, this might help a little: ginger tea.” Lennarn came up after breakfast bearing a tin mug of steaming yellowy water that made his eyes smart as he sniffed it dubiously. “His Highness says it eases nausea and upset stomachs.”
Pualyn took his first sip with a polite smile, coughed at the strength of it and then drank it down manfully – he had been thirsty and the liquid felt good going down, but he was fully braced against its return. Yet that horrid roiling and sickness began to ease although he had no idea, however, whether it was due to the medicinal nature of the tincture. That evening, ravenous, he ate his first full meal, clearing his plate with indecent haste and then finally felt able to interact with the others properly, joining in with their conversation – and the respect he felt for the High-Prince seemed likely, very soon, to turn to friendship.
The days passed quickly as they rode the rolling waves until one day dawned bright and early on, Captain Lowther turned the wheel and the Lerat Pearl swung to the east, the wind full in her sails, and they turned away from the distant view of the coastline, heading out into the deep ocean – one ship, tiny and alone, in the vastness of the waters, until – curving from the left and fading out ahead of them to the north, solid land – it must be Jaece, Pualyn realised, stuck out further to the east than Tenarum as it was. They veered north-east again, keeping the land far distant until it vanished in huge banks of misty cloud – they travelled alone, bothered by nothing, seeing only wide-winged seabirds soaring or diving; strange creatures in the sea that occasionally broke the surface to the world of air, sometimes seeming to stare at them with large, black eyes. Then, safely past the dangers of shoaling rocks or islands in to shore, the ship turned back to the north, shooting forward with the wind belling the sails.
Comfortable in the sitting room, the three passengers gazed out of the window and talked idly – the day seemed to pass at a very different rate out here on the ocean.
“How many lands are there in the Protectorates?” Pualyn asked.
“There are seven, in all.” The High Prince replied. “Zoillan, Jaece, Rhastten, Orbain, Mador, Cheass and Veddock. Jaece is the northernmost realm in Selith as you know; Rhastten is a large island to the west and the other five form the Mendor Continent. Orbain is razine, where my father rules; the others are human realms – all equal with Orbain, but swearing fealty to the High-King as First King under Arven.” Kerrenan clicked his fingers, and a scroll appeared in his hand.
“What is that?” Lennarn asked, still amazed by the razine’s casual use of ‘magic’.
“Only a map.” Kerrenan unrolled it on the table and anchored the four corners with a couple of table knives, a tin mug and a salt cellar. “I know we have discussed the Protectorates before, but a map will make it all easier to understand. Here.” He pointed out the various kingdoms delineated in the very well drawn map of the northern continent.
“You said that there is a King’s Council similar to the one in Tenarum?” Pualyn asked, looking at the various landmasses spread out north of Selith – it looked so far away!
“Yes – all the kings attend, but I bet our version predates yours by a few centuries, even if I suspect that some of our arguments are at least as tedious as any you have been involved with.” Kerrenan remarked drily and shook his head. “Get so many rulers in one place, you’re bound to have a few clashes of personality.”
“Heavens, I can imagine, with seven kings!” Pualyn agreed, recalling a few intransigent souls who had caused awful disagreements – not least of which, a year or more ago, was a most spectacular war of words. “You should have been there when King Marrand elevated Lady Celia to hold Pellerton Court over her cousin – a complete rake – and then to a seat on the Council.” He shook his head – he had been quite amazed at the terrible disagreement that had ensued.
“Awful?” Kerrenan asked.
“Oh yes, indeed. And then there was just as much trouble when the lords learned that Ethrayne wanted to learn how to use weapons, after meeting that stranger up above the city. It’s just not customary, you see – a woman, especially a high-born woman betrothed to the prince, learning how to fight? But then the Archpriests agreed that it was a very good idea and that pulled the carpet from beneath them, figuratively speaking.” He grinned, remembering those intense, angry conversations.
“Hmm, yes – and I’m sure an awful lot of people in the Protectorates would agree with your traditionalists, Pualyn. Fortunately, most razine – being talented – see that when people have a desire to learn or a gift for a craft or skill, you should do all you can to help them achieve it. Generally, anyway. Emotions can cloud even our judgements, of course. We have a few female fighters in our ranks, but not that many. How was your sister faring at learning such skills?”
“Ethrayne was quite impressive, really, considering that I don’t think she had ever even held a sword before. She’s strong for a girl – she can ride any horse father’s had trained, so that must help – she is quick on her feet, and pays attention.” He said rather proudly, having considered the matter for a short time. “She’s determined to do well. Jerryn is going to have his hands full with her as his wife.”
“And what of your young lady, mmm?” The High Prince asked mischievously. “I’m sure she will not let you always get your own way either, Pualyn: that’s the nature of women.”
“Oh yes.” Pualyn agreed. “Are you married, Kerr?”
“Yes, to an equally wonderful woman, Arialle. She is beautiful, talented and quite wonderful in every way. I assure you that I speak from experience.” And they all laughed at his deliberately rueful tone.
*
“Please, tell me about your sister and the prince.” Kerrenan asked on the evening of their twelfth day on board ship as they met for dinner. “I have known of them only as ‘those-who-will-wield-the-flame-of-Arven’ for so long.” He grimaced at the string of words, even as he made it a chanted title of sorts, and shrugged. “I imagine that they were utterly stunned when they found out what Bahlien and your Archpriest had to tell them.”
“Oh my, yes!” Pualyn shook his head and laughed a little. “I have known Ethie all my life, of course – we fought when we were children, as siblings often do. I do remember, when I was about eight, she just seemed to follow me everywhere – it quite annoyed me. Then, she and Jerryn would gang up on me: once, when they were about nine they pelted me with most of a tree worth of unripe apples – a complete barrage, it was and I felt the indignity hugely, being thirteen at the time.” He laughed again. “I was covered in bruises – green apples are bloody hard. In fact, I recall they both fell out seriously a year or so later – they wouldn’t even speak to each other for ages, it seemed. Jerryn said it was over a knife and a doll, I think. We all grew up together, more or less, in each other’s homes since babyhood: our fathers are the best of friends, and mother was very close to Queen Tanallyse – our father is the King’s right hand.”
“Yes, it’s funny how the fallings-out of childhood can completely reverse again when the youngsters start to grow up, isn’t it?”
Pualyn made a half-smile, half-grimace at that as the sailors-cum-servants served dinner. “They are both very handsome; Jerryn is everything a prince should be – rather like yourself.” He complimented the High-Prince, who smiled. “My sister is pretty – no, beautiful – feminine, but strong – and she was confident in men’s clothing, sparring. They’re very intelligent and very well educated, of course – but everything just seemed to happen so – so swiftly when they were betrothed, last moon. First, Ethrayne met that stranger who threatened and frightened her; discovering about the Prophecy; joining the Council – and that night, when they both received the Flame of Arven far beneath the Cathedral – that was amazing! So – so unique -.” And, slowly, encouraged by Kerrenan, he tried to describe that evening’s events and the setting aloud, although he found that his words were not even remotely adequate to voice what he had seen and felt that night.
“The world is a far more complicated place than I had ever imagined, that’s certain; actually, I’m not really sure if I like it. Ethrayne learning to fight with sword and bow – seriously – strangers lurking about wishing them ill on behalf of one we all assumed was a mere myth -.” Pualyn shuddered, although the temperature in the cabin was warm. “It scares me horribly that there are people out there, the jajozeli, who really seem to hate them!”
“Yes, and by extension, they hate all of us equally intensely. I know what you mean.” Kerrenan agreed gravely. “My parents tried to keep me innocent – as the younger son – and, of course, you have all protected your young sister from the evils loose in the world. Yet I chose this path and I believe that she and Prince Jerryn know instinctively that their path is clear before them . . . And although the jajozeli are our avowed enemies and powerful in so many ways, Arven will ensure that the young couple are powerful too.”
“Amen to that, Kerrenan!” Pualyn said as fervently as any prayer was ever uttered. “But they are so young.”
*
Days passed, of middling quality, as the ship sped north, aided by gusty winds from the south and Pualyn, Kerrenan and Lennarn became fast friends, spending much of their time together – talking, of course, playing and learning either razine or Tenarean games, Pualyn trying to learn the Mendor language, or watching the endless play of the waves that bore them onwards, or fishing.
On the afternoon of the twenty ninth day out of Rothern, they saw the first glimpse of land since they had left Selith behind. It was low on the horizon, as vague as a cloud to Pualyn’s gaze, yet Captain Lowther barked out orders instantly – adjusting the sails as he turned the wheel so that the vessel turned her prow further to the east to skirt along, all the rest of the day, just barely within sight of the coast.
“There, that’s Zoillan, with its low hills and olive groves. We are almost five days from Lerat, if the winds hold fair.” Lowther said to them with good cheer. “It’s a good season for sailing.”
It was far more pleasant to continue along within sight of land, for they were more aware of their swift progress as they passed barely visible towns and farmland, woodland and even one large, white-walled and red-roofed city set around a deep river mouth that the captain identified as Cerris, capital of Zoillan.
“Very pretty.” Lennarn remarked. “Those white walls and those thin trees edging up the hillsides.”
“Don’t tell King Rase, but I’ve always thought it’s a bit contrived.” Kerrenan said quietly. “The walls are whitewashed every year by decree after the spring festival, but it’s a nice city – well planned.”
Pualyn laughed. “We don’t have the climate for whitewash and Clirensar is definitely too smoky by far, with the charcoal burners to the north and the smelting all around the region. It’s a good job our local stone is pale limestone – but it’s grey. Planning and aesthetics are all very well, but they do fail around industry I believe.”
The High Prince grinned. “Most definitely, Pualyn. Cerris is the centre of the olive industry – no smoke or excavation to contend with, you see – whilst Hessarth, the capital of Jaece, frankly stinks as the centre of the dried and smoked fish trade in this part of Iullyn.”
“Yes, there’s a market for their fish all over Tenarum – and in the other kingdoms, I imagine.” Lennarn said. “Smoked and dried fish are staples in every marketplace.”
“And that helps us to keep an eye out for the enemy yet again.” Kerrenan said and grimaced. “My wife says that I spend far too much time concentrating on them and I have to admit that she’s probably right – but I won’t stand by and permit Gregnor and his – his servants to destroy us all!” His face and tone were both fierce, revealing the depth of his conviction.
“Well, I don’t know what we can do, your Highness, but we won’t let you face the enemy on your own.” The young lord assured him. “As you said, Kerr, alone, the kingdoms of Selith would have no hope at all against them.” A draught touched the back of his neck and his shivered at that, not at the thought of the ancient rumours and myths about the Jajozeli. “Actually, I’m just glad that they seem to have pretty much ignored us until now – from your accounts, they are implacable.”
“Implacable is what we will be – working together.” Kerrenan stated. “Armed with Clirensar’s steel, we will be hopefully unbeatable.”
But the reminder of the enemy had darkened Pualyn’s mood – the forces answering to the Betrayer must be vast beyond imagining and it was terrifying to acknowledge yet again – and always with a jolt of real fear – that the focus of the emperor’s attention was his own little sister and her betrothed.
Kerrenan and Lennarn saw his abstraction and moved apart.
“It is hard for him – and also for the kingdom as a whole.” Kerrenan said seriously. “But if there was a better way to break the news about all this, I would have found it.”
A medium goblet of Rothern red did much to improve their moods as the ship continued, passing fishing boats and other traders, sometimes within shouting distance.
Cerris had vanished into the haze that descended as the afternoon turned into a balmy evening and the wind that had filled their sails all the way from Rothern faded away, leaving the Lerat Pearl motionless in the rocking swell. Captain Lowther grumbled about this for a while, even as he admitted that the weather ruled sea travel mercilessly at times. He then regaled them with stories of his life which had been spent mostly on board ships since the age of fifteen, nearly fifty years before. This kept them all amused until late.
Next morning dawned just as frustratingly windless and the haze had become a fog so thick that it could nearly be cut with a knife. The quiet ship was disturbed by the rhythmic striking of the copper bell in the bow, as one of the crew hit it every hundred heartbeats to warn of their presence, on and on.
“Oh well, I’ll have to continue teaching you our language, won’t I?” Kerrenan suggested. “If this weather continues, you’ll both be fluent by the time we reach Lerat.”
The Lerat Pearl, however, was becalmed only until the next day when, before noon, the fog began to thin and lift, a thin line of murky grey ribbon that seemed to move before them – then the barest hint of a breeze touched their faces and moved the sails a little. It blew fitfully at first, then to a purpose – a wind from the east that dispelled the fog and cloud, leaving a clearing sky, as the captain and crew quartered the ship and they raced on anew over the brilliant blue sea.
It was late evening, four days later, when the lookout atop the main mast gave an almighty cheer and a massive wave of his arms – which Kerrenan cheerfully translated as confirmation that their destination was in sight.
“We’ll sail around the headland in the morning.” He said with a grin. “The tide is against us now and the channel is narrow from the south.”
“And at least we’ll have time to smarten up and shave.” Pualyn remarked, feeling the bristles on his face with a slightly shaky hand – unexpected fear filling him for a moment.
“You will if you want to give everyone the best impression to our hosts, my Lord.” Lennarn added dryly, with a wink.
* * *
The horrific murder of Master Shan was city-wide news for longer than the palace really hoped, but Master Pellarse, the landlord of the Golden Anchor, was quietly amazed that custom actually increased substantially on the back of the sometimes-ridiculous rumours that circulated the palace, the city and the countryside beyond. Those who considered themselves to be at the cutting-edge of elegant fashion – on the outer fringes of the court and desperately aware of the fact – beat a path to his door, to ‘partake of the atmosphere’, or some such nonsense.
Neither the palace nor the cathedral made comments of any kind in regard to Shan’s death, other than to state that they all mourned the loss of a much-loved and respected man and servant. The Palace Guard issued a carefully worded warning about the movements of a sadly deranged, ill escapee from a church hospital – after they had found his body floating in the river. And so Shan’s tragic befriending of the mad patient explained both deaths: the King’s manservant, victim of the unnamed maniac and the madman drowning himself in remorse.
Still, those who thought themselves the best of Tenarean society and many more without any such pretensions, favoured the Golden Anchor with their custom – and the genial barman, Farn, was permitted to hold court in the bar, tutting at the nasty – but unspecified – death that Shan had suffered, following up with many discussions on the terrible nature of man; the goodness of the church; and the intricacies of the local hood-ball teams, on which he was an authority – the Cathedral Square team was currently third in the city-wide league, behind High Market and the presently formidable Fountain Court teams. It was Farn’s dream to see hood-ball’s attraction spread far beyond the city, a major source of amusement and activity amongst the young; but the attraction of the air-filled bladders, hoods and the misuse of them, was still rather confined to the city environs – or, at least, to the side of the archery field just outside the walls.
Thus, most expertly and quietly, was worry and panic averted, which was not at all what the man known as Kesta had intended by his acts.
*
Archpriest Lurco and ex-Archpriest Bahlien met with Jerryn and Ethrayne after Shan’s quiet funeral, two days after the discovery of his body, in the Palace chapel. The details had been arranged assiduously by a grim-faced Lord Ferman and led by Lurco, commending the poor-man’s soul to Arven and his body to the earth of the main cemetery to the north of the city.
“Poor Shan.” Jerryn said, once the four of them were ensconced in his private sitting room. “We’ve heard all sorts of horrible rumours, your grace, but what really happened?”
“That blonde-haired General happened, your Highness, the one who accosted you on your ride last month, my Lady.” Bahlien explained heavily. “He lured poor Shan along, probably commanded his will to gain access to the palace and killed him most brutally three nights ago. He left before morning the same day. I doubt he’s within forty leagues of the city by now.” He sighed, the sound most weary.
“Is that why Lord Ferman has been so completely silent?” Jerryn asked. “I’ve never known him to behave like he has; it must really have been shocking.”
“Yes, indeed it was.”
“And that man – the General – was wandering about in – in our rooms, Jerryn!” Ethrayne snapped. “Here,” she pointed to the floor, “here in the palace – and yet you did not tell us that he was so dangerous!” She accused the old razine, glaring.
“Ah.” Lurco said. “No, he didn’t, because the two of you have quite enough to worry about.”
“We did not expect him to single out and murder that poor man.” Bahlien said calmly. “He left an insulting note for his Majesty, as he did for you both – and his death was a warning to me that he believes himself to be beyond my control. I hoped that no one would die, but the Generals enjoy making such object lessons.”
“Urgh!” Ethrayne shivered. “What a monster!”
“I suppose this is why you encouraged Commander Vedeigne to create our very own troop of guards?” Jerryn wondered. “Because now we are starting to understand the horrible truth of what you told us: that our enemies are much, much worse than the stories portray.”
“Yes, that is exactly why.” The ancient priest confirmed with a sigh. “I am sorry.” He apologised with clear sincerity. “It’s awful, I know, but I must urge you that your task is to learn to understand the Flame of Arven that has been gifted to you – and to begin to learn how the power of it may be used.”
“To stand against the Betrayer, yes.” Ethrayne acknowledged. “I am sorry I snapped at you, your Grace – I was rude and ignorant -.”
“Never, Ethrayne!” Bahlien countered immediately. “It was a shocking murder and the reason for it is ultimately to frighten you. We can only pray for poor Shan and you must both learn how to harness the Flame of Arven as easily as you wield a sword.”
The young couple exchanged glances. “We have tried.” Ethrayne said uneasily.
“But it – it feels too strange, your Grace. It feels – well, most peculiar, actually.” Jerryn expanded slightly, shrugging slightly.
“Sort of – different, alien – strange.” Ethrayne continued.
“But you have to understand yourselves first, my dears, before the Flame will feel natural to you – and it will take time, just as learning to use weapons effectively.” Bahlien assured them with a smile. “I can only suggest that you begin by meditating, “ he smiled at the question clear in their faces, “find a quiet evening, close your eyes or maybe focus on something like a flower or a design, then focus your thoughts inward – into your own mind, your centre.”
“That sounds complicated.” Jerryn commented doubtfully.
“It’s actually an integral part of prayer, your Highness – if you ask any priest he would tell you that prayer and meditation are closely intertwined. It will take time – all sorts of thoughts will distract you in sequence, I am sure. But at some point, if you work at it regularly, you will move your focus inwards towards that figurative place within you where the Flame now resides.” Archpriest Lurco stated confidently. “We all learn meditation as part of our training – and some people just get to the right result faster than others.” He chuckled at their expressions. “You will complain that this sounds mystical and silly, but you are now an integral part of the mysticism and ceremony of the church of Arven.”
“Hmm.” Ethrayne uttered thoughtfully. “Concentration and quiet? Well, we can only try.”
We managed to find out how this works, after all.>; She continued silently. And it was most strange.>;
Yes, we can at least start to learn meditation, your Graces.>; Jerryn agreed. But it might be difficult to find the time to practice – we just have so much to do in every day.>; His tone was doubtful.
“You really must find the time, Am’maiya, there is no alternative.” Bahlien said levelly. “You must both, separately, find a particular point in the day when you can be completely alone and undisturbed so that you can meditate every day. The process may well prove difficult, or perhaps you will find it simple to achieve – but this is the only way in which you can discover how the Flame within you can be wielded.”
They could tell that the old razine was serious and also that he was probably correct: since they had absorbed the Flame, they had felt it only dimly – stuck somewhere deep inside them and largely out of reach, as it was beyond all their experience.
“We do need to know how to Wield the Flame.” Jerryn remarked rather heavily. “Especially since that horrible spy killed Shan – who else will his servants slaughter, whilst we lounge here in safety?”
“I am not training you so that you can murder Generals, Jerryn!” Bahlien disagreed firmly. “Great heavens -.”
“But you are, in the end.” Ethrayne countered, looking from face to face, her expression firm. “If you eventually want to stop the Betrayer, surely there will be murder involved somewhere along the way – and I’d rather it was them, than us!”
“Ethrayne!” The three males exclaimed at once, before all of them burst out laughing.
“Monster!” The Prince remarked lightly.
“Practical, your Highness.” She answered with a toss of her head.
“Oh, dear Arven, protect us all!” Bahlien almost prayed. “Kerrenan is going to love meeting the two of you: he’s been thirsting to attack the jajozeli for a very long time.”
“Who is Kerrenan?”
A detailed image of a handsome, dark-haired man came into their heads. “He is the High-Prince of the razine; he’s the one who is taking Pualyn to Lerat.” The old razine said. “He has been yearning for you to reach adulthood ever since I told him that you had both been born.”
“That prescience is incredibly peculiar, your Grace.” Jerryn marvelled.
“Mythical, mystical and mysterious, my dears. But, please, I urge you to learn to look inwards. I’m not expecting miracles in how you advance, but a little progress before our next meeting would be heartening for you especially.” Bahlien smiled. “This is how young razine of about your age begin to learn about themselves and their abilities, however limited. You two, taking Arven’s strength into yourselves, will be learning to control much more than you can presently imagine.”
They looked at him seriously – their fears reawakened by his words.
“You will help us to understand all this, won’t you, your Graces?” Jerryn asked. “It is so far beyond all of our experience.”
“Of course we will, whenever you need our input – but don’t be alarmed: we have the utmost confidence in you both.” Lurco assured them, patting their hands gently. Then, he and Bahlien bowed and departed.
*
Their mornings were now almost exclusively taken up with combat training – both Jerryn and Ethrayne were now being coached mercilessly by Captain Garane and his equals, usually in one of the lower halls off from the barracks in the palace.
Ethrayne was still learning – though she had advanced from a basic, short wooden sword to a long, blunt steel sword; as well as fencing, she was learning how to manage a bow and arrows in addition – though she probably would never be strong enough to use a longbow; unarmed combat and knife fighting – back to using wooden poles; and more varieties of useful footwork and defensive arts. She had never realised just how much work was involved in the simple phrase ‘combat practice’ – it was exhausting, and she was sleeping very well because of it, although her beautiful pale hands were ruined by callouses, her posture and muscle-tone utterly different to how she had appeared only a few moons before, but all the hard work and privation would ultimately prove worthwhile, if it saved her life. Day after day, on and on and on – step, thrust, reverse, step – over and over. It was certainly repetitive, doing the same things time after time until the Captains were happy with her movements, but Ethrayne never found it boring; she learned how to fall, how to roll and leap – it seemed that she was turning into a sort of tumbler, such as was seen occasionally at fairs and palace events. It seemed that she was only existing, at the moment, to absorb information – from the power of the Flame of Arven; to the steps involved in sword-fighting, as intricate as any court dance; to economics and law in the Royal Council.
Jerryn was being worked just as hard as she, although he was much more advanced, fighting with his own weapons, drawing a massive longbow that was as tall as himself – and the young woman was learning just as much watching him fight with the soldiers as during her own sessions: how a move looked, what that particular thrust or footstep would result in. He was also learning, seeing how the soldiers decided to alter some long-established movements for the smaller, lighter body of a woman. Flexibility seemed to be the word of the season.
And now they had their evenings taken up, as well. By enlisting their parents’ help, Ethrayne and Jerryn were excused from some of the post-dinner get-togethers without extended explanations or silly stories: undertaking a measure of religious training at the Archpriests’ behest sounded wholesome and tedious enough to halt any questioning and, of course, it was the truth.
The evening after their meeting with Bahlien and Lurco, the young couple retired separately to their apartments with their official guards, leaving the courtiers to plan a picnic lunch and quite unaware that their parents and Lady Lyria were watching them closely.
Ethrayne changed out of her formal gown and pulled on a light dressing gown before curling up in her favourite armchair, having dismissed her maids until bedtime; with her guards outside her door, she was guaranteed not to be disturbed at least.
This seems so silly.>; She thought, slightly embarrassed for some unknown reason.
Yes I agree, but we did promise to try our best.>; Jerryn replied silently. And we can do this now, so why not that?>;
I know, but it feels so silly – let’s compare notes at breakfast.>; Ethrayne broke the connection between them, pulled herself out of embarrassment with a chuckle, took a deep breath to steady herself and closed her eyes.
Thoughts kept intruding, no matter how assiduously she cleared her mind – thoughts of the excellent dinner served earlier, for example; followed by others as random: how happy Jerryn had looked when she had finally mastered a complicated jump and thrust that morning; the roses in the old Queens Garden below – odd snatches of conversation . . .
Stop it! She scolded herself, trying not to laugh, blinking, before trying again, searching – but how?- inside herself for – well, Bahlien had not really described it, so she could only hope that she would recognise it if she ever found it.
More thoughts – silly thoughts – followed each other, keeping her from any sensible level of concentration until, in frustration and completely at random, Ethrayne counted slowly as she breathed – five as she breathed in and five as she breathed out. Somehow, this felt correct although nothing much happened until after a while she brought in a third count of five, holding her breath between inhalation and exhalation – then, strangely, her mind began to clear . . .
“Done it!” She said aloud, immensely proud at her discovery and her calm mood vanished instantly. This was no bad thing, she found on opening her eyes, for the sun had set, so she had been wrestling with her thoughts for most of the evening. She sat there in a rather pensive mood until her maids returned and she began to get ready for bed and then, a little later, comfortable under the bedcovers in her bed, she found that sleep came very quickly.
*
Breakfast, however, proved much too busy for a meaningful discussion, for Lyria was a little melancholy, missing Pualyn, so Ethrayne and Jerryn devoted their attention to her cheerfully and even made her laugh a little. Promising to have luncheon with her and leaving her with Duchess Riyala – they were planning a shopping trip down into the city that morning – and then the couple headed off to combat practice.
“So, Ethie, how did you do?” Jerryn asked cheerily.
Ethrayne snorted. “Awfully, I think, but it seemed to take all evening . . . I did find that breathing seems to be a key.”
“Breathing? How?” Jerryn asked. “I just couldn’t get my head clear, actually – it was so frustrating.” He shook his head ruefully.
“I was sure you would have managed it, Jerryn.” Ethrayne admitted with a laugh as they descended the first of many flights of stairs that led to the most direct route to the combat hall, one of the service stairs – plain and whitewashed, where the passing servants stopped and moved aside for them to hurry along, bowing politely and getting smiles and thanks in return.
“Me? No.”
Quickly, she explained about breathing deeply, pausing and counting all the way through. The prince was dubious and their discussion continued during the fencing lesson and the hand-to-hand combat that followed it, leaving both of them aching, red faced and tired – but Tymain and Captain Garane were both guardedly complimentary by the girl’s steady progress.
“You can only try it, Jerryn – and if it works, the Archpriests will be pleased with our advancement in that, too.” Ethrayne concluded, having noted the smiles of the taciturn soldiers. She wore one of the plain shirts, lace-fronted jerkins and leggings that had become her usual morning attire, along with her old, comfortable boots – sturdy enough to cope with whatever they called of her. “We did promise to practice you know – and it won’t hurt – I found it very restful – I slept really well.”
“All right Ethie, I agree – we promised – I’ll try it, but it does sound very odd.” He held up his hands in surrender, abandoning the argument.
“Good, come on, we’ve a lunch appointment with Lyria soon.” And the girl rushed off ahead, glancing back quickly and grinning. “Come on, don’t dawdle.”
Tymain, who was one of their official guards that day, tried – and failed – to suppress a burst of laughter at that.
“I heard you, Corporal.” Jerryn said. “You don’t have to laugh at me too, you know.” His tone was slightly injured.
“Oh I think I do, Highness – my apologies.” He replied with a grin and bow.
Pretending offence, the prince stalked off after Ethrayne, but he was grinning as he strode out of the hall.
*
There was no Council meeting that afternoon, as the King was undertaking legal business, so the young couple spent it with Lyria, Duchess Riyala and Lady Celia – the sort of female-centred occasion that Jerryn was getting quite practised at; he did not view such events with the horror that had previously filled him, anyway – and he found that sometimes the female viewpoint was refreshingly different on many matters.
After a nicer afternoon than he had expected, Jerryn viewed the onset of a quiet evening’s meditation with better grace than he had the previous day; his mood was lighter – and with Ethrayne’s suggestion in mind, he sank back against the mound of pillows that he had arranged on his bed and closed his eyes, starting to seek that inner sense of peace that seemed so utterly impossible and, of course, Ethrayne’s image filled his head: her lithe grace as she fenced with him and the soldiers, the seldom-used rapier becoming quite a weapon in her hand . . .
Concentrate on your breathing! He told himself sternly, recalling what Ethrayne had said and starting to count even as he slowed his breathing – not for any real reason other than it felt somehow right to him.
In . . . hold . . . out . . . hold . . . in – Jerryn could feel his lungs filling and emptying as never before and even his heartbeat was loud in his ears as he sat there. Strangely, it seemed that he almost floated there, and his mind was clear but for the slow count . . . The world was open to him – he could go anywhere . . .
Something tickled his nose and he sneezed suddenly, a loud explosion – and most of the calmness that had enveloped him vanished instantly, except for a part of it that (even now his eyes were wide open and he could see that night had fallen) he could now feel as part of himself.
My word! Is this what Bahlien meant? He asked himself – he could sense that Ethrayne was already asleep, so he could not share his thoughts and excitement with her. A picture came into his head, of the girl curled up amid her covers, her lovely hair constrained in a long plait; she was breathing slowly and deeply. Moving pillows about and leaving his dressing gown on a chair, Jerryn soon laid down himself; that image foremost in his mind, he soon joined her in sleep.
*
Young Earl Orthen of Rothern, the enthusiastic rider and hunter, was duly announced as the King’s personal servant, an honour that he and his family were very glad to receive, although it would probably cut deeply into the time that he could spend both out of doors and trying to wheedle a stallion out of Duke Sarant – as King Marrand himself joked. The appointment seemed to work well, Marrand found the younger man to be hardworking with a great attention to detail and the days passed relentlessly.
The midsummer celebrations were a little more muted than was usual, but the commoners both within the palace and in the kingdom at large enjoyed themselves as was traditional and the long days of summer continued.
*
Jerryn and Ethrayne slowly improved at their meditation exercises, the deep, slow breathing and counting in tandem seemed to help, winning them the Archpriests approval – Bahlien especially. He talked of ‘centring’ themselves; of ‘holding’ the Flame within; of ‘opening their souls’ to Arven – and, laughing at their expressions of bemusement, advised them to ignore his complicated words and just to continue as they had begun: for now, they might well progress quite naturally to those ‘other’ states and time was on their side.
“It is strange, however, that we seem to be receiving mixed messages.” Jerryn noted, one afternoon. “Ethrayne and even I are being pushed to learn and master more advanced combat techniques, your Grace, but you seem reluctant to push us to master this power that has been gifted to us. Why is that?”
Bahlien looked rather embarrassed at his words. “Well – at one level, I imagine that the enemy will be watching and waiting for you to control yourselves and your power. They will make their move after that. You are both young to learn all that you will have to – the sorts of skills that many razine four times your age would have difficulty mastering. I admit that I am torn by the whole situation and I sincerely apologise.”
An honest answer.>; Ethrayne noted, silently. We will do our best, your Grace – as we have begun. We cannot know what he plans, or when the enemy might strike so we really must work at learning and honing all these new skills.>;
“And that is all that any of us can do in life. Thank you for your forbearance.” The old razine answered with a smile.
*
Their parents were interested in what the four of them were discussing during their weekly meetings with the Archpriests and they did try to explain – after all, that night deep below the Cathedral had been an unique event, when they had absorbed the Flame of Arven into themselves, but they found that they did not have the words to describe what they were learning or what they must begin to master. They were reduced to saying that they were meditating and studying history, philosophy and ethics with the old priests.
“Philosophy?” The King retorted once. “Great heavens, it sounds almost as though he’s trying to turn you both into priests!”
“No, your Majesty, I don’t really think so, but -.”
“But it’s complicated hey?” Marrand repeated one of their stock sayings of the past month, one they used frequently and he smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry at the matter, dear Ethrayne, you both have our full support, even if we are too stupid to understand what is going on.”
“I think I am too, father.” Jerryn replied with a rueful chuckle. “Most of what the Archpriests talk about is way over my head.”
Ethrayne smiled. “You are exaggerating, Jerryn dear.” She said gently. “As are you, Sire – but we don’t know how to explain everything, you see, I am sorry.”
*
Announcements released from the palace and church, regarding the Wielders of the Flame, made much of an unspecified threat from the Betrayer – and encouraged men and boys to attend to their skills with spear, sword and bow, even as Ethrayne was. The youth of the city and probably of hundreds of other towns and villages took to weapons practice with great enthusiasm on rest days and holidays – the legendary Betrayer would, naturally, fall at their hand, with no loss of life, as they conveniently ignored the reputed perils of dealing with the jajozeli.
War – even the merest threat of it – proved both exhilarating and frightening, for the realm was largely peaceful, as were Tenarum’s relations with Derravale and Amorry; there was a small army, mostly concerned with keeping the peace in settlements, occasional crimes and a usually very low level of banditry – but landowners and the civic dignitaries of towns and cities could raise troops, at least figuratively, in the King’s name, even if it had never happened before.
The Council of Tenarum set down in legal statutes the revised procedures for calling up troops, sending envoys out across the land for lords, mayors and priests to inform the people in their areas. In fact, many folk were already registering their names for any army – and the local churches in many villages had been forced to obtain fresh supplies of parchment, to cope with the pages already used up in lists. These lists were copied and sent to regional capitals.
The numbers, collated by church administrators and sent to Tenum City, were heartening: if it was necessary, there were potentially thousands of men prepared to fight. King Marrand and many of the lords were pleased at this, but Jerryn and Ethrayne were quietly alarmed.
It was quite shocking to realise that people would volunteer to possibly die in their names as Wielders of the Flame of Arven. The responsibility of what they had agreed to was sobering and both grew quietly more serious in manner as the days passed. Even Lord Gorman, however, grew slightly more accepting of the young couple as a political and religious force in their own right. They both studied diligently at everything required – from politics and law and history and the daily requirement for meditation, with slow progress – to their eyes, although both Lurco and Bahlien approved of their improvement despite their fears that they were impossibly slow.
“Don’t try to run before you can walk!” Lurco reassured them, after another few days of evening meditation exercises. “You are learning very well, my dears.”
“But they are training men for war!” Ethrayne countered, almost angrily.
“Yes, because it might take a year or more to train, equip and amass so large a force adequately, my dear Ethrayne.” Bahlien explained politely.
She sighed deeply. “Yes, Commander Vedeigne said so, but it is – it is -.”
“Scary.” Jerryn finished with a shrug.
“Yes it is.” The old Archpriests agreed gravely, nodding in unison.
“Oh hell!” Ethrayne shuddered. “War!”
“This is not your fault, you know.” Archpriest Lurco said gently. The prophecy exists and you are its subjects, but the kingdoms can only prepare – gird their loins, so to speak - just in case. That is surely better for everyone concerned that doing nothing and maybe seeing the slaughter of folk with no training at all.”
“Oh, I agree, your Grace.” Ethrayne said. “Really I do – but – well, it is frightening.” She sighed deeply. “But I agreed to this – swore to this – I know I can’t back out or run away – and most of me doesn’t really want to.”
“My fierce little betrothed!” Jerryn said with a laugh. “Gosh, you are wonderful, Ethrayne!”
The girl blushed and the priests smiled tolerantly as they exchanged glances.
“Well, my dears, we can only urge you to carry on with all your lessons until our next meeting.” Bahlien’s tone was jovial. “And hard work will reduce all our fears, I assure you.”
* * *
The walled port of Cal’Badon was situated to the east and south of the towering peaks of the vast Lerracon and Astoln mountain ranges that had ensured Zanezli’s isolation from the rest of the Selithian continent for well over five hundred years since its founding. It was known to the sailors of the eastern coast of the continent as a location to avoid and the area around the Badon Inlet – indeed, from within the furthest sight of the snow-peaked mountains that edged the coast leading to the peninsula and the inlet beyond – were deemed out-of-bounds. Out of the earliest histories there were tales of piracy, murder and ships vanishing, no matter if they were merchant vessels or little fishing boats blown off course.
Such had been the intent of the Emperor of the Jajozeli when he had founded the city in the first century after the imprisonment of Arven, after he had led his forces into the empty lands in the south of Selith. Having discovered that the razine of Mendor were allying themselves with the puny humans in the southern continent, he wanted to keep an eye on them – and especially for any sight of Bahlien, that meddling youngster (at the time) who had dared to evade him, taking the Casket of Arven’s Flame beyond his reach.
Cal’Itase, on the western coast, had been his first base; it was ideally placed to receive ships from Enlath and his servants, both jajozeli and human, had laboured assiduously to ensure first that port city and then the starkly beautiful Ban’Lerracon, his mountain-girt castle and capital, were impregnable. Their infrastructure was designed from the foundations up, with an attention to detail that the primitive kingdoms to the north could only have dreamed of. With his fanatically loyal jajozeli and millions of men eager to obey his every command, the Emperor Gregnor hardly needed his vast wealth to see that every amenity from well-metalled roads to piped hot and cold water and sewerage were properly constructed, despite the icy winters that blanketed the region in feet of snow for almost all the season.
The well-nigh impenetrable Lerracon Mountains; the distance from the southern borders of the more northern kingdoms and those freezing winters helped to ensure that most ordinary hunters, fur-trappers and miners in search of gold, precious stones and silver, religiously avoided the region. Those who did continue to venture into the far south were normally quickly eliminated by the forces that were spaced throughout the mountains. Led by jajozeli Generals, their abilities ensured that almost all trespassers were captured. The few who were not were razine spies, risking far more than their lives to gather all the information they possibly could about Gregnor’s expansion into the vast area known as Zanezli.
To the razine, Zanezli’s existence was most unwelcome, giving their bitter enemies a foothold on the continent where Arven’s Casket had been concealed at Bahlien’s behest, but it was impossible to seriously consider removing them, without enveloping the world in a second conflict when it had taken centuries for them to recover from the first of the Betrayer’s punitive actions after he had imprisoned their God in ice. The razine set watchers where they could, north of Cal’Itase in the Lerracon Mountains; trusted to the courageous few who dared to try to bypass the border forts, secreting themselves in the remote landscape; and they could only wait.
The founding of Cal’Badon was even more unwelcome, overall, as it gave the Betrayer access to both oceans – and thus to the world at large, for the Southern Ocean that was Zanezli’s southern border, was either too storm-swept or ice-bound to be safely navigated by even the most intrepid sailors. All who had attempted it had drowned, over the centuries. But, with a port on both oceans, the jajozeli could circle the world back to Enlath – and so, eventually, they would threaten Selith.
*
And so, nearly six hundred years after its founding, the unique city in the far south-east was finally going to fulfil its purpose as devised by the Emperor. Warmed to an acceptable degree by hot springs from deep underground, the port had thrived in a harsh mountainous landscape where it would have been frozen for most of the year, otherwise – the inlet a harbour for only icebergs. Yet the volcanic vents provided a vital lifeline, and kept the place ice-free.
For well over a year, troops had gradually been shipped in across the Faell Ocean, a journey of many moons from the west coast of Enlath, or had marched across the continent from Cal’Itase, through Ban’Lerracon during the few more clement mooons, along with supplies ranging from foodstuffs to arrows; chain mail to boots. The store houses and warehouses of the port were packed to the rafters – yet General Tequan, who was in overall command, could have located any individual item within a short amount of time, so wide-ranging was his assistants’ filing system. Elsewhere within the city, hidden by the high walls that protected it, the hundreds of buildings that had been largely empty since their construction were now occupied by the thousands of soldiers that Tequan would command in the name of his Master. The extensive, deep-water wharves at the head of the long inlet, also so strategically warmed by the volcanic activity of the region, were full of ships – large, fast craft that outmanoeuvred the vessels built by the men of the Selithian continent at every confrontation.
The spies of the Protectorates knew well that their enemies were mobilising quietly, yet there was little that they could do – as the spring advanced, even in these southern regions they could only watch and wait – for the jajozeli were otherwise peaceful.
Ships sailed from the port, vanishing into the vastness of the ocean on most occasions although the Orbain Pearl and her sister ships managed to track a few, arriving too late to save the crews of two merchantmen that had been boarded and emptied, before being torched; yet the razine ships had destroyed three ships from Cal’Badon in return.
The taking of prisoners, however, was not an option: they had tried the merciful approach on many occasions in the past, but the fanatical devotion of the soldiers and the jajozeli to their Emperor was absolute – they only strove to slaughter even more of their enemies during any skirmish and also, the Protectorates realised that they did not have anywhere on board their ships to secure prisoners intent on killing them.
The destruction of the jajozeli ships was generally kept from the wider public of the Protectorates – it was deemed that the population was too far removed from the grim reality of a situation that was closer to a blood-feud than war. Unlike their enemies, however, most of the sailors and soldiers of the Protectorates actively hated the slaughter – and consigned the souls of their foes to Arven, although he was still trapped in unbreakable ice, even as they watched the ships sink or burn.
*
Fansport was the southern-most fishing village in Tenarum, isolated from the rest of the kingdom by towering cliffs to the south – a pre-cursor of the Astoln Mountains that formed a natural border at the southern edge of Tenarum – and practically impenetrable marshy lagoons to the west and north. It possessed a surprising wealth for such a modest settlement because of its trade in sea salt and fishing and the only realistic way to reach the village was by ship.
From its founding some fifty years before, by the far-sighted younger sons of villages and towns further up the coast, who had gambled on their hard work and basic living conditions in the first few years paying a good return – and won. Now, their homes were solidly constructed of stone, furnished as well as any in the kingdom, on the profits of the fine, white salt panned during the summer months and an almost limitless supply of large, oily shoaling fish that frequented the rich, deep seas thereabouts. Both fish and salt were sold in the markets of the kingdom and even in Tenum City, at a handsome profit and they had constructed a modest but well-made harbour wall and wharf off the steeply shelving shingle beach that fronted the bay, with the village set on higher ground beyond, protected from the sea by gnarled, ancient mountain ashes – incongruous but striking. A line of dunes heaped up on the right, spiky with marran grass and sea buckthorn, protecting the lagoons beyond, always full of the sound of birdsong, even this late in the breeding season.
General Tequan gazed out over the sea, sparkling pewter-like in the first light presaging dawn, that morning, the sight of the houses of the village with their smoking chimneys clear, despite the league or more that separated his ship from the land. The upper stories and roofs of the houses were poking out of a thin layer of grey mist that glowed pearl-like and extended out over the smooth seashore and out to sea for a good distance - and which would reduce visibility on the land.
He led two warships and three smaller craft, bearing three thousand soldiers in all, armed and eager for the fight. By sending in scouts over the past moon, to obtain a detailed map of the village and the number of inhabitants, he knew that there were fewer than two thousand Tenareans dwelling there – and less than half of those were men of fighting age. It was six days after the summer solstice.
The General nodded and the captain’s mate waved a red flag vigorously so that the three smaller boats rowed swiftly ahead – one heading towards the left of the harbour, the other two northward, to beach quietly before the dunes. Meanwhile, the crews of the warships raised flags in the colours of Tenarum’s trading fleet – blue and green stripes – hid their extensive weaponry and sailed straight into Fansport’s harbour. With the rising sun directly behind the ships, the look-out from the village could see little detail – and the jajozeli had been careful not to attack any Tenarean villages in the vicinity, so they were not alert to any danger.
The fishing boats were soon burning, along with the lines of nets, barrels and so on, at the hands of the advance troops. Then, the General led his soldiers towards the village beyond, even as the warning bells stopped suddenly, cut down with the terrified folk who had rung them. Doors had opened and some men stepped out with weapons in hands, but most of them were confused – half-dressed and unarmed, for it was rest-day in Fansport. The villagers didn’t stand a chance as the slaughter extended.
By midmorning, Fansport was no more. The boats were burned; the men folk cut down; the surviving women and children herded together, some for the brutal enjoyment of the jajozeli, others just to be slaughtered as a group. Still, it was well before noon when all the villagers were dead and their houses and workplaces stripped of all useful or valuable items before they were put to the torch, including the barrels of salted fish that had founded their wealth. As the five ships set off back out to sea, they deliberately left behind the burning ruins as a beacon.
*
That evening, the Orbain Pearl approached the village with an almost reckless disregard for its own safety, having steered towards the coast of Tenarum mainly on the basis of their Captain’s razine talents. Captain Ashanner’s abilities had warned him of ‘death/trouble’ earlier that day – and he had urged his crew on, shouting his orders and praying to Arven that he had warning enough to save innocent lives.
Now, stood at the wheel and staring out over the blackened, slightly smouldering ruins of the prosperous little village, he cursed aloud.
“We’ll make fast – you all know the drill.” He snapped. “Keep alert, watch out for enemy troops – search for survivors, but I’ve no real hope of any: those bastards look to have done a very good job of destruction!”
“Aye, sir.” His second-in-command said, frowning as the massive ship swept towards the outer wall of the little harbour – the villagers had been proud of the depth of their little harbour, and the captain’s skill had them just kissing the massive stones with their fenders that hung there protectively. “But it doesn’t feel good, does it?”
The crew of the razine vessel were split practically half-and-half razine and human, with the officers’ ratio skewed slightly in favour of humans. Ashanner and Kellen, his first officer, were mature veterans of the on-going conflict with the jajozeli, but most of the rest of the forty-two were young – especially the razine, for a period of duty on one of the ‘Pearls’ was a good way of working towards promotion, if one survived the experience.
They took the usual precautions for their defence, but their weapons and armour were unnecessary as they searched the village from end to end, from loft to cellar – where possible, after the fires. They found only dead bodies, some frightened cats and dogs that had fled at their appearance and some domestic fowl.
Some of the sailors set about collecting firewood for a pyre, whilst the others attempted to restore a little dignity to the dead as they gathered them all together, laying them within the still smouldering shell of their modest Trade Hall, men, women and children. Even the older, experienced members of the crew paled at the atrocities committed on the helpless fisher-folk and they were glad to set the fire, pray for the souls of the victims and depart – poling away from the harbour until the wind caught their sails, heading for the open sea as night descended.
“Well, that was unpleasant.” First Officer Kellen said, as the officers gathered briefly in the captain’s office. “But the enemy don’t attack villages – I mean, Sir, what would be the point? I doubt they were raiding for slaves, or there would’ve been fewer bodies.”
“The High-King warned in our last communication that the enemy’s focus might well change abruptly.” “Captain Ashanner said heavily. “Apparently, the prophecy concerning the Wielders of the Flame of Arven is pertinent to the kingdom at this time. That’s why we have been patrolling closer to land and further south.”
There was a chorus of surprised exclamations at the news; they had been told about the changes to their orders on setting out from Lerat three months before, but not why they had altered.
“Prophecy!” Lieutenant Hachorn murmured. “The Book of Days is millennia old, Sir, how can it probably have any relevance in this day and age?”
Ashanner shrugged. “I’ll have to refer you to the Archpriestess, Hachorn, for an answer to that – but the Wielders of the Flame are known and it’s our task to help protect Tenarum and assist the Kingdom.” The Captain looked around. “We set sail for Orran – the King here needs to know of Fansport’s fate and we can refit and get fresh supplies. That’s all, men. Thank you.”
Fortunately, when the Orbain Pearl sailed into the harbour at Orran on the afternoon high tide, a few days later, there was a berth free at the wharf designed a century before for the larger razine vessels and they were greeted cordially by the crew of the Mador Opal who were loading oil-filled casks of iron and steel – tools and weapons blades both – for finishing in the Protectorates.
Captain Ashanner sent an officer to notify the local Garrison Commander that he would visit him when convenient, then crossed to the Opal, another merchantman–spy vessel, where Captain Phellos toasted him with Rothern red.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Ashanner.” She said, grinning.
“There’s been trouble, Captain.” He said tersely to the vivacious red-haired razine woman who had commanded the ship for over two decades – the daughter of a family of traders who had been in business for half a millennium, Phellos was respected and successful over half the world. “Those bastards butchered the village of Fansport six days ago. I’d say war is brewing – take care out on the ocean, trust your instincts.”
“I always trust my instincts, Ashanner, which is why I always notch up a healthy profit.” She assured him lightly, then sighed and shook her head. “Fansport – we helped to take building supplies there when they constructed that harbour wall a decade ago; such an insignificant place – that’s tragic. When I next run across the enemy, I’ll take payment for those people from their hides!” She raised her glass, saluted the dead solemnly and gulped down the contents in one. “So the change has happened – the enemy are starting to alter their methods and focus.”
“I only hope we can help the Tenareans.” Ashanner said quietly. “The ocean is vast, the coastline long – and we can’t be everywhere.” He raised his glass to the woman, took a drink and set it down. “I have to tell the local commander – sail with Arven, Phellos, may we all live to see victory.”
“Amen to that – and sail with Arven, Captain Ashanner. Thanks for the warning.” Phellos replied. “At the very least, we’ll take some of those jajozeli monsters with us before we die!”
The woman’s feral smile haunted Ashanner as he made his way through the crowded streets to the Port Administration building that housed the office of the Garrison Commander, on the port side of Church Square, not far from the wharves.
“Ah, Captain Ashanner, how nice to see you again – it’s been, oh, a couple of years since you were last in Orran.” Commander Taess was a grizzled former local policeman who had waged war against local smugglers, he knew the port city like the back of his hand and kept a firm hand on both the soldiers in his command; the citizens of the city; the sailors and the local criminal fraternity. “Are you here to trade, perhaps? You will have seen the Mador Opal of course – I am sure Captain Phellos has made a handsome profit, as always, on this leg of her route.” The man grinned and poured two modest glasses of wine from an ornate flask – he had a tight budget.
“Yes, she has marvellous business instincts.” Ashanner answered, then sighed deeply. “No trade, unfortunately, Commander, I have come with grim news – you will want to warn your Lord, the communities along the coast, especially to the south – and send a messenger to your King as swiftly as possible. Those -.” He broke off and changed the word he had been about to use. “Pirates from Cal’Badon destroyed the village of Fansport – utterly and completely: they killed everyone, took no prisoners or goods as far as we could tell -.”
“Fansport? But it’s so small! Only fish and salt! Oh and some money, of course.” The Commander interrupted, startled. “But – but, why?” He stopped there, took a gulp of wine, and shook his head helplessly.
“You have information on the jajozeli in Cal’Badon – they have plundered and destroyed shipping at the southern edge of Tenarum’s range for centuries. My guess is that it’s happened simply because Fansport is – was – the southern-most settlement in the land, closest to the border and Zanezli.”
Taess paled at the mention of that name. “Lord Kierven and I have received missives from his Majesty, King Marrand, regarding Prince Jerryn and Lady Ethrayne of Clirensar, Captain.” He admitted quietly, setting his wine glass aside. “One mentioned the fleet of ships called ‘Pearl’ and ‘Opal’ – we must thank you and your colleagues for protecting us, Captain Ashanner . . . But what are we going to do?”
“Set soldiers in the villages and towns – forewarned, they will have considerable defence against attack. Mend the watch fires ready for lighting – those beacons are a tried and tested method of sending out warnings. Arm your fishermen and sailors. We can describe the flagships that General Tequan masters and our own ships too – any Protectorates vessels will aid your people when the need exists.” Ashanner grinned at the Commander’s expression at his ready answers. “I’m sorry, but we have been planning for this eventuality since your prince and his lady were babies, Taess. I might suggest sending a letter to your king with Captain Phellos – she’s heading north and a diversion to Rothern won’t inconvenience her at all, since she is also part of our network.”
“A woman?” Commander Taess objected – without thinking and grimaced. “I apologise, that was stupid – she is a formidable captain and leader.”
“And she’s damned good with weapons, too.” Ashanner remarked.
“I’ll start writing a letter, Captain – thank you. Private!” He shouted to the youth standing politely outside the door who stepped into the office and came to attention.
“Sir?”
“Run down to the Mador Opal and politely enquire of Captain Phellos if she will consent to bear an official letter to be delivered to the Garrison Commander in Rothern – addressed to King Marrand.”
“At once, Sir.” He replied, before saluting and hurrying off.
“You’ve got them well trained, Commander.” The Captain said levelly.
Taess snorted. “It’s a busy port, Captain and those of us in charge of law and order need to be well disciplined. I don’t know if simple discipline and training will be enough against Zanezli, however . . . I will have to go and explain all this to Lord Kierven and his advisors when Captain Phellos has the letter – it’s more important to get the details out to the King, of course. Oh, dear Arven! And Lady Ethrayne and Prince Jerryn are the subjects of Arven’s Prophecy? What is the world coming to?”
“Challenging times, Commander Taess – we are entering challenging times, may Arven bless us all.”
*
The letter to King Marrand was as detailed as Taess and Ashanner together could make it and included a copy of Ashanner’s best map showing the southern border of Tenarum and the inlet leading to Cal’Badon.
Captain Phellos set sail at first light, sailing some leagues out to sea, then heading north within sight of the coast, coming to the south of the Rothern Estuary late on the eighth day out from Orran, as the tide was falling. Quickly, the sails were neatly furled and the anchor lowered with a rattle and splash.
“Hey the fishing boat!” First Officer Lunde waved vigorously at a thirty-foot fishing boat with a bright blue bow that was heading into port under oar, moving easily against the tide; it was just coming level with the much larger ship, at a sensible distance.
“We hear you, Opal, how can we assist you?” Shouted an elderly, grey-haired and bearded man at the boat’s tiller – ordering his men to slow their strokes; he had a reddened, wrinkled face clearly visible between the wind-tangled grey. “Looks like you missed the tide today.” His tone was matter-of-fact – it was a hazard of sea-travel, gauging the tides in new ports.
“We bear urgent letters to the King of Tenarum, sir – could you set our Captain down at the wharf, please?”
The four other men stared up at the ship with awe-struck expressions, but the captain showed no fear or any other emotion as he looked at the First Officer. “Razine, are you?” He grunted, and nodded a greeting.
“As you see, Captain.” Lunde replied politely. “We’re men and razine of the Protectorates. We have been charged to deliver these messages to the capital. If you could deliver her to land, the Garrison Commander can have those letters sent upriver tonight -.”
“She?” The Captain started, then guffawed with good cheer. “’T’wouldn’t be that strikin’ red-headed lady, eh?”
“Could there be two such?” Captain Phellos asked with laugh, coming up to the rail. “Captain Dhell, you look very well – how’s the boat these days?”
“Ah, she’s holdin’ up well, thank-ee Ma’am – Men, ship those oars – Varro, toss up a line smartish. Stop gawpin’!”
Captain Phellos was about six feet tall, lithe and long-limbed; she was a beautiful, pale-skinned, hazel-eyed woman; and she stood out even more for she had long, wavy red hair that seemed to shimmer uniquely with energy and life in all light, which she generally wore contained in a workable plait. As ship’s captain, she wore trousers and shirts almost all the time, which made her seem somehow taller and more graceful – as a skilled fighter, she moved smoothly and people had been known to stop and stare at her just walking along – not even noticing the weapons she usually bore, so unknown for Tenarean women, for her entire attitude and approach were unconsciously equal to everyone she met.
“You know these men, Captain?” Lunde asked, stunned, as his Captain caught the rope cast from the fishing boat below. “Dear Arven!”
Phellos laughed aloud at his surprise as she handed him the rope. “It can be a very small world, Lunde, and I’ve been sailing these waters for over a decade. Captain Dhell’s boat had sprung a nasty leak some seven years ago and we on the Opal were within reach. I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast at the usual inn – take care, Lunde -.” And she looped her carrybag rope handle around her wrist, stepped over the rail and onto the netting that extended down the outside of the hull, descending in moments with the skill of many years’ practice.
“Steady, Ma’am – Here -.”
Below her, she felt the net tighten as the fishermen took hold of its bottom and then one hand tapped politely on her left boot.
“Just step down Ma’am, we’re right under you.” Captain Dhell said respectfully. “There – mind those baskets, though – that’s it. We’ll take the Captain straight to the Garrison, never fear, young man. Then we’ll see her safe to the Golden Anchor – good night to y’ll.”
The smaller boat shoved smoothly away from the much larger vessel, rocking slightly in the swells as they extended their oars again and turned, heading unerringly for the current of the estuary that pushed relentlessly against the sea, moving steadily inland towards the port city.
“Good night, Captain.” Lunde called, seeing a brief wave from Phellos in answer as she sat now in the bow, out of the way of the oarsmen and catch, seemingly as comfortable on the little boat as ever she was on board her Opal. He gave commands for the netting to be hauled up, the watch set, and the lanterns lit as evening began to descend.
“It’s good to see you lookin’ so well, Ma’am – and your ship is a very fine vessel.” Captain Dhell said as the fishing boat continued on her route, tossed over the waves formed by the sea’s melding with the river water, which seemed to want to slow their advance, although the oars were moving strongly in the fishermen’s gnarled hands. The city was drawing closer now, and they passed other small boats coming in after a long day’s work, the buildings getting larger and closer. The older man sighed. “Must be lovely, sailin’ the wide ocean.” He sounded almost curious and Phellos laughed.
“She’s a good ship, but mishaps affect even the razine, Captain.” She said calmly. “Sailing is half luck and instinct anyway – and the rest is love. The oceans are perilous, but we all love them. We left Orran eight days ago and the day after tomorrow we will set sail for Orbain. The wines and the iron and steel of Tenarum are legendary in the Protectorates.”
“You’re a very lucky lady, Captain Ma’am.” Dhell said and shouted without warning. “Mind out, Lee! Carryin’ Lady Phellos here!” He bellowed, waving one arm urgently.
“Sorry, Dhell – Ma’am – sorry. Arven go with you.” The middle-aged man in the boat that had briefly tried to cut ahead of them at the wharves, raised his oars and saluted them politely as he let them go on. “See you at the Sea Star later, Dhell?” He called after them.
“If we can, Lee – thanks.”
The little Brighteye was soon fast in her berth, and Captain Phellos did some serious talking to convince the crusty old fisherman to accept the coins she laid in his callused palm, followed by a quick peck on the cheek that would have stunned everyone in the Protectorates who knew her: Phellos never showed physical affection for anyone. Then she climbed the ladder to the wharf, waved and smiled at them and set off alone through the crowded dockside as evening deepened.
Her fiery hair tight in the braids wound around her head like a crown, striking and unique in her razine-styled shirt, jacket and trousers, she made a very direct route through the crowds with no trouble at all. The Lady Captain of the Mador Opal was known and respected – even by the criminal fraternity, since it was well known that the razine were practically impossible to steal from or bamboozle. She strode along, attracting only cheery greetings as she advanced.
Day or night, there was always activity in the docks and wharves of Rothern and the Garrison Offices were manned likewise. A young corporal met the Captain in the hallway of the brightly lit law-enforcement section of the plain building and bowed politely.
“Captain Phellos? Captain Kelbourn is expecting you, Ma’am.” He said politely. “Welcome to Rothern.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” She answered.
“Please, follow me.” And he led the woman past a number of plain wooden chairs lined up beside a small table and tapped on a door, opening it to reveal a small, cramped office dominated by an old oak desk, behind which a man was rising to his feet.
“Captain Phellos of the Mador Opal, Captain Kelbourn.” The young man said, saluting smartly.
“Thank you Allun.” Kelbourn was maybe thirty five, tall and muscular, with an unremarkable face, but for his bright, long-lashed, greenish eyes. “The famous Captain Phellos – I am honoured, Ma’am. What can I do for you? Are you safely moored?”
“The Opal is anchored off-shore tonight, Captain – we missed the tide, so I came in with Captain Dhell. I bear a letter for King Marrand and his Council from Commander Taess in Orran that must leave for the capital tonight.” She said, pulling the sealed parchment scroll from her canvas bag and handing it to Kelbourn. “We were the fastest ship available.” And she grinned. “Always up for a challenge.”
“My word!” The Captain breathed, taking in her confidence and bluff manner and realising that everything he had heard about the woman was true – which had shaken him to the heart of his being. “Well – may I offer you a drink, Captain, after your voyage?”
“No, but I thank you, Captain Kelbourn, I am due at the Anchor.” She declined graciously, smiling genuinely. “A fishing village was obliterated by the jajozeli a few days ago – they killed everyone, it seemed. It seems that they have moved beyond their usual predilection towards piracy. Please ensure that the letter goes tonight.”
“Oh, dear Arven! Yes – of course – Corporal!” Kelbourn shouted and managed a wry smile as he scrubbed at his hair briefly with his hands – the news from the palace had been disseminated, of course, but this was the first time that it seemed terribly real – that heightened threat from the jajozeli. “I’m afraid you have quite disarmed me, Ma’am.” He admitted. “On behalf of my superiors and his Majesty, King Marrand, Captain Phellos, I give you and your colleagues our heartfelt thanks.”
“And on behalf of his Majesty, High-King Mhezal of Orbain, I accept, Captain.” Phellos bowed slightly and winked as the door opened to admit the Corporal. “I will leave you both to sort out your courier this evening whilst I head for a hot bath and a lavish supper at the Anchor – good night, gentlemen. Arven go with you.”
“That is cruel, Captain Phellos.” Kelbourn accused her, shaking his head. “Have a pleasant evening – and Arven go with you and your countrymen too.” And both men bowed her out.
* * *
The royal couriers, changing men and horses at every outpost upriver from Rothern, reached Tenum City by midmorning on the third day from the moment when Captain Kelbourn had handed over the scroll to the already mounted rider.
The last travel-worn courier was passed efficiently from point to point from his arrival at the city gates, quickly entering the palace complex where one of the uniformed guards led him quickly to the Council Hall, where everyone around the polished table, whether grey-haired men or two surprisingly young and pretty ladies, stared at him, his uniform dusty from his swift travel along the king’s highways.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed low and handed over the scroll, explaining quickly. “This message was delivered to Rothern from Orran by Captain Phellos of the Mador Opal, acting as courier to Commander Taess.”
“We thank you for your swift arrival. Corporal, take him over to the barracks, make sure he eats a good meal before he sleeps – we may call for you later, Courier. Thank you.” Marrand said gravely, and both men bowed low before they strode out.
“From Orran, hey?” Marrand muttered quietly, almost to himself, his gaze meeting that of Sarant opposite as he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, before he looked down at the scroll, a frown hardening his expression as he read it once – a second time, more slowly, as the Council sat watching him silently.
“The ‘Orbain Pearl’, one of those dual-purpose razine ships, was alerted to an atrocity quite deliberately – the village of Fansport has been obliterated.” He said finally in a heavy tone.
“Fansport?” Lord Gorman made the name a question.
“It is – it was the most southerly village in Tenarum, isolated.” Marrand expanded briefly, having passed the scroll to Lord Ferman. “It was only approachable from the sea – we’ve been buying their salt and preserved fish for some years now.”
“And they were of an excellent quality.” Ferman agreed as he read the message, shaking his head. “The people who took the time and effort to carve out a home and livelihood there were trading very good quality produce.”
“Let’s face it: you don’t set fire to a place where you’ve slaughtered everyone there unless you want everyone passing by sea for miles to know about it. Fishermen, women and children – all killed for no reason!” The King’s voice was cold. “Read it aloud.” He ordered.
The report made by Captain Ashanner and Commander Taess was detailed – on the actual destruction of the village; all interactions between the razine and the jajozeli since the start of the year; the Garrison Commander had added all that he knew locally about jajozeli piracy and both had made suggestions for the protection of ships and settlements.
“They’ve come up with some good proposals.” Duke Sarant said approvingly, scanning the list. “Taess is a good leader – he knows how important the ocean is to all our trade . . . It is chilling that Archpriest’s Bahlien’s prediction has already come to pass, however.”
“Attacks by the jajozeli have been happening for a long time, I suspect.” Marrand mused. “I doubt that those from Cal’Badon would ever allow other parties to encroach on their territory. Ships have always been lost at sea, but that region around the coast of the Astoln Mountains has accounted for far more losses than could really be considered natural, however cruel the ocean.”
“But to attack a small village of a few thousand people at most – that is horrific!” Lady Celia shivered.
“So let us discuss and implement all that we can do to increase the safety of all our people. The lives of every man, woman and child must be dearly bought by our enemies!” Marrand reached for parchment, quill and ink. “I want Fansport to be the only settlement lost to such evil!”
“Amen!” Jerryn said fervently, as chilled as the rest of them.
It took until late that evening for the Council to agree to the defensive strategy, even eating there in the Painted Hall, to the servants’ displeasure. The document produced was hurriedly written up by scribes and was due to be announced publicly the next morning in the city – as copies would be sent downstream to Rothern, for wider dissemination up and down the coast; it would also be copied and was due to be sent out to every Garrison and government office in the land.
*
The next day, Jerryn and Ethrayne made their way to the Cathedral after combat practice, continuing their instruction with the two aged priests – and passing on the news of the fate of Fansport. By now, there was little formality in their private meetings, other than that that exists naturally between young and old, but the cold brutality of the world beyond the protection of palace and church kept intruding – as it did that morning.
“I don’t understand, I have to admit it.” Jerryn said, raising his hands helplessly. “I know you told us that the jajozeli sank ships and stole their cargoes, but why attack such a tiny village? And why did they kill everyone? Are they really so cruel?”
Lurco sighed deeply. “Yes, they really are, Jerryn. They attacked Fansport because they did not have to risk many lives to achieve the most impact – slaughtering everyone at first light was easy. Setting fire to the buildings, they knew that the Pearls and Opals try to patrol the southern areas of the ocean and took a chance that someone significant on our side would discover what they had done.”
“So it was a warning to the Protectorates rather than to our kingdom?” Ethrayne asked. “Is that what you mean?”
“It was a warning to both realms, my Lady, I am sure. Fansport was the southern-most village in Tenarum, isolated and the closest to that unclear border – they were no threat, of course, but I imagine that the jajozeli want free-rein in the southern reaches of the ocean.” Bahlien said, but in a questioning tone as if he was thinking through the idea aloud, and shrugged then shook his head. “Actually, of course, they want free-rein in all the oceans all over the world – it’s all part of the Emperor’s larger plan, of course – to own Iullyn completely.”
Ethrayne shuddered and Jerryn grunted expressively as he grimaced.
“Father was worried that the enemy would land an army and try to take over from the sea.” He said quietly. “I mean – Zanezli must be vast, and we know so little about it.”
“It is a large realm, yes, but an awful lot of it is mountainous or ice-covered for much of the year.” The old razine said. “As far as anyone knows, it was mostly empty land for millennia, with only a few explorers trapping for furs or searching for gems or precious metals – there are always folk drawn to the unknown, the wilds. No one had mapped it, or even thought to use its unknown miles to expand Tenarum or Derravale southwards – or creating a new kingdom entirely – it’s a land defined by the harsh snows of winter.”
“But isn’t Cal’Badon a very long way south of the border, in the Astoln Mountains? Doesn’t the ocean freeze down there sometimes? Ethrayne asked, puzzled. “I’m sure my tutor once told me about ice floating up from the south after winter, even north of Orran.”
“Yes, it does, and floating ice is a phenomenon that also occurs far to the north of the Protectorates, too. Apparently they can be a real hazard to shipping. Cal’Badon, however, lies on a deep inlet south of the Astoln Mountains and the region is volcanic – there are hot springs and volcanic activity around the city, meaning that winter cannot get a grip on the city or the inlet – the water is too warm to freeze. That’s probably why the place was occupied – it’s a wonderful location, despite being situated in such an inhospitable region. Though I’d personally be very wary of living practically on top of such a dangerous force”
“Volcanoes?” Jerryn asked, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to see a fire mountain!”
Ethrayne laughed aloud at his enthusiasm. “We are facing war, Jerryn – and you’re thinking about volcanoes?”
“Well -.” A slight annoyance warred with embarrassment in his voice. “I know it’s silly, but they’re fascinating – I’m sorry -.” The Archpriests and Ethrayne all laughed and, after a moment, Jerryn joined in with them.
*
The general enthusiasm for weapons training amongst the population did not abate as summer continued and the defensive strategies to protect the coastline and ships were implemented and improved locally where required. Yet, as the long summer days began to shorten just a little, there were few sightings of the enemy, although the razine ships reported tell-tale debris well out to sea on two occasions. Those in command were relieved, but not reassured – the watchers in Tenarum were alert, but jumpy.
The Archpriests’ communications to their counterparts in the neighbouring realms of Amorry and Derravale were answered within a moon and a half, when the citizens of the capital viewed the arrival of churchmen and their extensive entourage with cheers and a huge procession followed the visitors almost to the Cathedral Square one sunny morning.
The Cathedral and Palace had been forewarned a day and half earlier of their arrival, and King Marrand and Archpriest Lurco had ordered their servants to arrange an innocuous public meeting before the Cathedral doors, to be followed by an evening banquet in the palace.
Lurco, Bahlien, the ambassadors of Derravale and Amorry and King Marrand were all assembled to greet the dignitaries as a great trumpet fanfare blasted a welcome throughout the square – scaring every bird in the vicinity skyward in panic. The members of the Council and Archpriest’s Lurco’s staff took up a lot of space in their separate positions – but the prince and his lady were not formally introduced; that was scheduled for later at the formal banquet that would occur later that day in the palace – in private.
They could see the group arriving clearly – lots of soldiers and servants for the basic work, of course, and various well-dressed folk, mostly unfamiliar, their accents strange, their voices overloud with slight unease. Ethrayne recalled what Bahlien and Lurco had told them both earlier: that they were at least the equal of any in Selith or Mendor and, although some might sneer because of their age or Ethrayne’s femininity, they should respond politely but firmly to establish their rank.
“That’ll go down well.” Ethrayne had commented dryly.
“My dear young lady, you have his Majesty’s backing and ours – so who will dare to try to demean you?” Archpriest Lurco had replied with a smile. “Just be polite when you attack, that’s all we ask.”
It was strange, she mused – at her betrothal, she had been so fearful of being shut up in the palace, a nobody, a face who was only a queen. Yet now she was at least the equal of everyone, even kings! It was so, so peculiar.
The Archpriests had clearly brought secular representatives of their kings as well as their own retinues and there were bright colours visible amid the sombre robes of the priests, as the visitors were graciously welcomed to the heart of the oldest cathedral on the continent. The speeches were a little flowery but not too lengthy and quickly concluded by the invitation to the evening’s festivities – to mark the centuries of the cooperation and alliance between the kingdoms of Selith. Then, after prayers, the visitors were allowed to retreat to rest in comfort, either within the expansive complex of the cathedral, or the well-appointed embassies.
*
Archpriest Eduard was fifty-one, the spiritual leader of Derravale, a largely pastoral realm where sheep, flax and weaving ran the economy. He was five foot six or so, with short, grey, wispy hair, pale eyes and a long nose. Colonel Varle had accompanied him, a man of forty or so, clearly a career soldier, with an old scar down his left cheek; nearly six feet tall, the colonel was lantern jawed, with a huge frame to match.
From Amorry, Archpriest Ghorhant was seventy-two, with thin white hair, rheumy eyes, a stooped five-foot eight, and quite rotund. His assistant was Canon Rayse, in his mid forties, six feet tall, blonde, chisel-jawed with bright brown eyes and a ready smile. Duke Agamn represented the throne, a cousin of the king; he was in everyday charge of the army of Amorry – a man of thirty-five, six foot two, with a long nose, wavy reddish hair and freckles, bright green eyes and a big frame that also attested to his day job of soldiering.
They had gathered after breakfast the next morning, in one of the meeting halls of the cathedral, where one of the huge sideboards was nevertheless groaning with food and drink. The church took hospitality very seriously, even after the sumptuous feast served the evening before in the palace.
“Please, everyone, get whatever you please and then we’ll get down to business – your Majesty, your Graces, my Lords, Ladies and gentlemen.” Archpriest Lurco urged as the last of those summoned milled about the sideboard, pouring tea, ale or fruit juice, or picking a pastry or two. King Marrand was deep in conversation with Crown Prince Tarlan about advances in weaving and sheep breeding – the everyday intruding, as always, in important matters. The representatives of the kingdoms did not get together very often and they had to seize every opportunity to discuss trade, taxation or whatever, whenever they emerged.
The seats at the large table were filled and a few seats set at a second table also, designated for lower-ranking staff. Lurco and Bahlien watched as the polite conversations faded into silence.
“Thank you for attending.” Lurco said crisply. “We are living at a landmark moment for the world. Earlier this year, Prince Jerryn and Lady Ethrayne were Chosen as the Wielders of the Flame of Arven, witnessed by my colleague, myself, King Marrand and the Duke and Duchess of Clirensar and their family. After centuries of waiting, we will soon be able to act against the Betrayer and set Arven free!”
Silence followed his words as almost all the strangers gazed long and hard at the young couple, sat together, dressed rather soberly for their apparent ages, their faces solemn – but even those looking askance at them could tell that they were displaying what seemed to be a very natural air of confidence.
“Yes, they are young.” Bahlien continued as Lurco inclined his head and sat down, grinning. “But as the one who has protected the Flame Casket for over eight hundred years, I can assure you that old is not necessarily the best.” A ripple of amusement ran around the hall. “Jerryn is the heir of Tenarum and Ethrayne is the daughter of the Iron Duke – and the Betrayer knows it: his servants have been lurking and snooping around the city and also engaging in wanton murder and piracy further afield. The lands south of the Astoln and Lerracon Mountains are wide and the ships of his empire could easily reach your shorelines -.”
“What sort of threat is this?” Colonel Varle from Derravale spluttered angrily.
“Oh, there is a threat to us all, whether human or razine, Colonel.” Bahlien said smoothly. “But all we are doing is acknowledging it – warning you that it exists.”
“If the Betrayer deems that the moment is right then, yes, we are all in danger.” Archpriest Eduard’s voice was mellow, despite the topic of conversation. “He has been waiting for the opportunity to try and claim the Casket for centuries, Varle.”
“Which is all very well, but was it wise to choose two so young?” Crown Prince Tarlan of Derravale objected. He was thirty-four, stocky and kept his gaze on Jerryn – exclusively. “I mean no disrespect, your Highness.” He added in a rather condescending tone.
Bahlien and Lurco both laughed merrily at that, which made most of the group stare in consternation.
Are you going to answer that, Ethrayne?>; Jerryn asked her and she gave him the barest wink in reply.
“Your Highness, your Majesty, my Lords, your Graces – you are very much mistaken if you believe that the Archpriest of Tenarum and the ex-Archpriest of Orbain actually had any part in the choosing.” Ethrayne stated calmly. “Events have all raced along since Jerryn and I were betrothed in the spring, but it seems that Holy Arven chose us in infancy and that we are fated to face the Betrayer at some point, whatever our age. We agreed to this, yes, but we certainly did not go out of our way to volunteer!”
The Crown Prince finally looked right at her in shock, but some of the others – Duke Agamn and Duke Werhend from Amorry especially – were visibly stifling amusement.
“Is there anything silly about my assessment, your Graces?” She asked them coolly and the look in her eyes was measuring.
“Excuse me, Madam.” Duke Agamn rose to his feet and bowed low. “We were just appreciating your answer, is all – we would never intend any disrespect.”
“Arven chose us and we must presume that our God knows what he was doing – the Book of Days is his creation, after all.” Jerryn said quietly. “We might all wish that we lived in a quiet century, but it appears that we have no say in the matter.”
“Unfortunately, as some of you are aware, the Betrayer has been preparing for the emergence of the Wielders of the Flame for some decades.” Archpriest Lurco said calmly. “We must get organised in many ways – and quickly!”
“On my word!” Colonel Varle muttered, shaking his head. “Excuse me – but – but – the Betrayer? Honestly?”
“Varle, you are not thinking clearly.” Archpriest Eduard said, rather shortly. “We in the church have always known that the Am’maiya would come and there would be war between ourselves and the jajozeli.”
“This will bankrupt the kingdoms!” Crown Prince Tarlan objected.
“It’ll bankrupt the kingdoms for sure if the Betrayer lays waste to our cities and tries to take over Iullyn.” Earl Rhane, the Derravale ambassador to Tenarum snapped. “We have to counter his forces – there is no other option. So, what must we do, your Grace?”
*
With so many knowledgeable people involved, despite the number of them, they thrashed out an advance agreement of an expansion of the Council of Tenarum’s mobilisation plan – it proved a useful base on which to work. They were also greatly relieved by Bahlien’s assurance that the Protectorates had large stockpiles of non-perishable food. It was evening before they had finished and the cathedral staff provided a sumptuous dinner for them all as Canon Rayse, Archpriest Ghorhant’s assistant, made notes in a clear, steady hand. The evening was well along before they had finished putting together the preliminary document. Finally, they separated, all more or less satisfied with the agreement produced.
Returning to the palace in a carriage with Jerryn, the King and her father, Ethrayne sighed deeply and sank back in the corner of the seat, suddenly exhausted.
“Are you tired Ethrayne?” Duke Sarant asked, leaning forward to take her hands in his, laid in her lap. “You look strained, my dear.”
“I am, I admit it, father.” She agreed – talking and trying to find agreement and common ground for so much of the day was at least as tiring as combat.
“It has been a very intense day and you have both done very well. These sorts of discussions can be much worse – we managed to be reasonably focussed today.” The King said, grinning. “What do you think of our noble visitors, hmm?”
Jerryn snorted. “I know you told me that the royal family of Derravale are – well – old fashioned, father, but I did not believe just how much until Tarlan opened his mouth.” He shook his head.
“Tarlan learned it all at his father’s knee – and Nemeth at his father’s.” Marrand said with a laugh. “I’m glad you startled him and his companions, Ethrayne. That sort of attitude in this day and age is quite ridiculous in educated men.”
“The Archpriests suggested that we attack right back if anyone took impertinences, father.” Jerryn acknowledged then. “I think Ethie took the right note there.”
“Thank you, your Highness, your Majesty.” Ethrayne said graciously and smiled. “But, really, they accepted correction from their Archpriest and Ambassador quickly enough – and were not too huffy about it -.”
“I liked Duke Agamn’s amusement best.” Jerryn admitted with a chuckle. “It disarmed everyone.”
“I agree, it was very well done.” Sarant agreed and covered his mouth suddenly as he yawned widely. “Excuse me, please.”
“Heavens, Sarant, don’t apologise, we’ve been talking and hammering at words for most of the day – with more to follow tomorrow.” Marrand said with mock dismay. “None of us has any chance to complain of boredom, though.”
“No, your Majesty. My silly words after our betrothal ceremony seem so self-centred and selfish, now.” Ethrayne shrugged.
“Don’t apologise, they seemed true at the time, Ethie – but look at your life now!” Jerryn spread his hands wide. “I mean – who could expect their lives to alter so completely? We’ve shaken up most of the world, my dear.”
“Yes, haven’t we just?”
*
Over the next eight days, the four Archpriests led daily meetings with the civilian and military representatives of the three kingdoms, the Am’maiya and King Marrand. The religious leaders smoothed the occasional disagreements and damaged male pride as required. There were also a few meetings where Jerryn and Ethrayne met only with the Archpriests, where they sat and discussed the Book of Days, the sort of power that might be at their disposal as they grew to understand what they had taken into themselves and ancient history. It was interesting to discover that their collective support was genuine and even the elderly Archpriest Ghorhant was kind and positive in his dealing with the two young Wielders of the Flame, whom they might have assumed to be against two such young representatives as the Crown Prince of Derravale was. In fact, he thanked them both for lighting up the sunset of his years.
“It will be wonderful, when you can free Arven from that ice that has imprisoned him for so long, my dears.” He said eagerly.
“We will certainly do our best, your Grace.” Ethrayne affirmed with a smile.
Spending so much time together, the rather disparate group found that they were not really so different after all – although the representatives of King Nemeth of Derravale always stayed a little more aloof from the rest of them – even of Lord Gorman whose mindset was more similar to theirs – as if the liberal tendencies of Tenarum and Amorry might be catching.
Their last meeting was the shortest, as ex-Archpriest Bahlien read through the treaty that they had all wrestled into existence – it included the coordination of the kingdoms of Selith in any future war, with Bahlien’s own addition that their efforts would always be supported by the kingdoms of the Razine Protectorates.
Hearing the call-to-arms spelled out so calmly, Ethrayne and Jerryn felt again the enormity of what their elevation to Arven’s Saviours – or whatever they were as Wielders of the Flame. It made the role of King seem quite tame and manageable in comparison.
It isn’t our fault all this has happened.>; Ethrayne said silently to her betrothed stoutly. And we know that the Archpriests have not lied to us . . . But isn’t this peculiar? The kingdoms of Selith have not officially gone to war – well, ever, really . . . The razine and men of the Protectorates mostly struggled against the jajozeli alone during that ancient struggle, or so we understand.>;
Yes, but I feel horribly guilty about turning the world upside down – with the sacking of Fansport and all.>; Jerryn replied uneasily. Yet it’s not our fault!>;
The copies of the treaty were signed and witnessed by the men of government and the men of religion before the scrolls were sealed and handed to Duke Agamn and Crown Prince Tarlan, for delivery to their kings. Then after even more speeches, the group dispersed for a farewell banquet at the palace, prepared for that evening. The visitors from Derravale and Amore would leave Tenum City on the morrow and the intensity of the past nine or ten days would diminish back to normal.
* * *
Ethrayne considered the merest feelings, the lightest touch of surface thoughts that she could now begin to sense from the people who surrounded her in the palace of Tenum. It had been disconcerting, at first, to begin to ‘hear’ a very quiet, whispering sound rather like a rustling breeze, something of what people around them were thinking or emoting at that moment – however superficial – and she had been greatly relieved when Prince Jerryn had told her how shocked he had been to hear his father’s internal grumbling about finding time to rest, on top of all the meetings scheduled into his day.
They had taken their concerns to Bahlien and Lurco at their next meeting, of course, for whom else could they approach? And the elderly razine had laughed aloud, risen to his feet, and actually bowed low to them both, grinning broadly.
“Congratulations, Am’maiya. You are definitely advancing with your understanding of the power that you have absorbed – you are sensing what I and many other razine can feel every day. What you will have to learn now is how to make a barrier to block these emotions.”
“But I don’t understand, your Grace.” Jerryn acknowledged, frowning deeply. “You’ve been urging us to become at one with this – this power that Lord Arven has gifted us, yet now you are telling us to block it?”
“Oh no, your Highness, I was not very clear, I admit it, forgive me.” Bahlien acknowledged. “You are learning how to use many different forms of ability, but such strengths also have responsibilities, as with all power and duty.”
“Yes, I can understand that.” The young man said, nodding.
“So along with such strengths and abilities, you have to know when it is appropriate to turn them off, in effect – for it would be rude to be able to read peoples’ minds in most social occasions, it would be impolite and indecent. The next step is to form a barrier, a shield in effect, that would keep other peoples’ thoughts and feelings out of your minds – just as you have been learning to control your own surface thoughts. Amongst the razine and those talented humans, such learning begins in childhood, along with basic schooling. You, of course, don’t need to be told not to read other people’s thoughts – there will be occasions when it’s necessary or useful, especially in the future when events might be uncertain – but in everyday interactions, you don’t want or need to know that such and such lusts after someone else or dislikes them for whatever reason – and ordinary folk are not aware at all that they are effectively broadcasting widely.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Ethrayne grimaced a little. “This is very complicated, your Grace.” It was, now, a common complaint.
“Many things in life are complicated, my Lady – and you have already mastered most of the challenges that you have faced.” Archpriest Lurco countered with a broad smile and a reassuring tone. “We are very pleased at the maturity that you both display – and, as you may be aware, not a few of our colleagues from Derravale and Amorry are in agreement – including a few of the Crown Prince’s group, which was quite a surprise, considering.” He chuckled a little.
“You are very kind your Grace, but there is just so much to deal with now!” Jerryn made his comment half a complaint by its tone, then sighed a little. “And all this is necessary?”
“Oh yes indeed, your Highness.” Bahlien agreed. “Actually, the forming of a barrier is quite a simple act – and once you have mastered it, the basic form will stand you in good stead in most situations: you are forming a mental shield, an invisible helmet above and around your own head, that blocks your thoughts outward and any thoughts penetrating inwards.” He grinned at the dubious looks on their faces. “Look – see what I am doing.”
He clearly visualised a version of a far-too-large helmet that did not actually touch his head, but began at the edge of his hair, and extended outwards like an over-thick cloth helmet perhaps made of greyish felt, all around his head from above his eyebrows to the nape of his neck. Whilst it was there, they could not sense his thoughts at all. Then in a moment it vanished.
There, that’s what I mean.>; He said silently.
“Well, it certainly seemed to work.” Ethrayne said, scratching her ear. “We could not hear you at all.”
“That is what it will do – when you’ve mastered it you can think, simply, ‘block’ or maybe ‘helmet’ – and your form of defence and protection will be there in a moment, keeping your thoughts and feeling safe, keeping the minds of others safe from your inadvertent reading.”
“So you want us to practice this, as well, your Grace?” Ethrayne asked evenly.
“Yes, if you please – but it isn’t arduous, you will soon get the basic idea formulated and fixed in your heads, I’m sure.” Bahlien reassured them. “Now, what do you think to the philosophy of the Protectorates, after the war with the Betrayer’s forces?”
*
The lessons and exercises continued – designed to bring home to them the fear that had consumed so much of the Protectorates after Gregnor’s depredations throughout the kingdoms: some people, frightened and traumatised, clearly would rather have had peace at any price, even the destruction of their way of life, the abandonment of Arven, the triumph of Gregnor. Whilst others, chief amongst them, the razine royal family, had simply set out their own view uncompromisingly and had stuck to it ever since: the restoration of Arven, even from the unbreakable ice that had imprisoned him for so many centuries, and the destruction of the jajozeli.
From their studies, Ethrayne and Jerryn had grown used to ideas that had deeply shocked them at first – that of surrender. Discussing it privately, they had acknowledged that they were young and idealistic to a fault, of course – but surely, when faced with such a war of ideologies, one must fight one’s enemies? The Betrayer had brought death and murder to his previous compatriots – his war had been against Arven, after all. War was evil – horrible – destructive – yet surely it was better, in the long run, than letting tyranny and evil win?
They had many discussions with the Archpriests and, indeed, with their parents, on this sort of matter – and still, despite all arguments to the contrary, the young couple were adamant that their duty was to destroy Gregnor, or at least to stop his advancement and empire, as well as free Arven at some point.
“Just because he’s stronger doesn’t mean that he should win and grind the world down to his desires.” Jerryn stated stubbornly. “Father, you’ve always taught me how to be a good leader of men and a good, fair king – and what the Betrayer has done completely turns all of that on its head. Arven is our God – and we must help him get free and stop the jajozeli.”
“I cannot argue with you – you have paid attention, my son.” Marrand agreed, smiling. “But it is pertinent to learn just how fear, war and terror can affect even well-educated and sensible people in very many odd and unexpected ways.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Ethrayne agreed. “I suppose that shock can have many unforeseen consequences.”
But, later that evening, she sat back in bed and considered just how many privations and terrors people might have to endure under an occupying army or violent force – and, so, just how easy it would be then to stand up and fight. She hoped and prayed that, if she was faced with such an awful future, she would prove strong enough.
Of course you would, Ethie.>; Jerryn’s voice sounded in her mind, his tone matter-of-fact and calm. You are one of the strongest people I know, my dear. I have every faith in you.>;
Thank you, Jerryn – and I have in you – yet.>; Ethrayne allowed him to see some of her fears, the questions spinning in her head.
It was another aspect of the growing power they could use: that they could see thoughts and emotions in each other’s heads just as clearly as having an ordinary conversation, after the last few moons of meditation and practice and conversation. It had been hard work – deep-breathing to numbers had only been the very start of the process. They had both embarrassed themselves and each other with thoughts and ideas and even their own very personal view – their own selves. Until that point, their minds and thoughts had been totally private in the extreme, yet now they had access to memories such as puberty and thoughts concerning physical love, for example and, of course, people – especially young betrothed couples – do not generally share those incredibly private thoughts and feelings before marriage.
They had both quickly backed away from such revelations, rather than talking about it – an apology and the other’s hurried mental retreat from such contact seemed the best approach at first. For some couples, faced with such things, it might have been very difficult to address the differences and concepts concerned. Ethrayne and Jerryn, however, had actually known each other since babyhood and the support of the Archpriests was important – Bahlien and Lurco had been very kind and utterly correct in their suggestions on how to progress: they were betrothed, promised to each other in the eyes of the church and the King so therefore the usual constraints could no longer apply as they did to couples who only dealt with ‘ordinary’ feelings and emotions.
“I am not suggesting any – hum – exploration of the differences and similarities between you.” Bahlien suggested mildly, using the sort of sermonising tone that they had come to understand meant that he was personally distancing himself from their predicament and speaking as Arven’s representative. It was a reassuring way of telling them that their revelations and confidences would always remain confidential. “This is a common problem between boys and girls, as I’m sure you understand – in fact, amongst the razine, the slow maturity of children is an advantage in that emotional education and maturity occurs first and off-sets the awkwardness of puberty. You are both dealing with this exceptionally well, my dears.”
“Thank you, your Grace.” Ethrayne murmured, trying to hold in the blush that she had been trying to contain for quite a while, not entirely successfully, her gaze fixed on the old razine’s shoulder as a safe point of focus.
He patted her gently on one hand. “I know this is awkward – I am sorry – but we will do our best to assist you through the mire of possible problems and you have our promise on Arven that all that we discuss is completely private.”
“We are grateful for your assistance, your Grace.” Jerryn said gratefully.
*
“That’s right, Lady – keep your attention on his eyes, foremost.” Captain Garane said, raising his voice above the sound of steel on steel. “But – really – how many times have we asked you to move your feet properly? You have to be swift of movement, young lady.” They were outside, in a three-hundred foot long and fifty foot wide courtyard behind the barracks, part of the palace defences – the only way into in, apart from one narrow, secure ground-floor gateway from the next level towards the outer walls, was up two flights of narrow steps that were covered from all angles by arrow slits and walkways above. It was a space that was generally only used in spring and summer, but proved useful for archery and combat practice when required.
“Yes, I know, but it’s rather hard to dance in mail, Captain.” Ethrayne growled, but it was half a sigh and she winced slightly as she flexed her arm and adjusted her grip. She had been fencing in chain mail for about a moon, now and was still finding it hard work – it was just so heavy! But at least the ache was starting to lessen, all in all, as she gradually got used to its weight. As a result of her exercise and improved muscle tone, many of her clothes had had to be adjusted accordingly – her shoulders were a little wider, her upper arms slightly rounder, her midriff taut and her whole body toned from these almost daily exercises. She did not always fence, of course – she was using different types of sword, for a start: some for thrusting, some for slashing and, of course, she was also learning how to defend herself with knives, archery, and unarmed combat – so many skills, that sometimes it was bewildering.
“This dance will save your life, my Lady.” Tymain said reassuringly. “You are doing very well – but you have to learn the lessons so deeply that it’s instinct, rather than thinking, that coordinates you.”
“Bloody hell – honestly, why war hasn’t simply died out because it’s so much bloody hard work, I don’t know!” She complained.
“Men like competition, my dear.” Jerryn suggested with a laugh. “Tymain is right – you are doing better than you think you are.” He was not taking part at the moment, but was unstringing his long bow, after archery practice against Nate and Antan – he had been marginally closer to the gold than they, overall, but only just.
“Yes, strange creatures.” Ethrayne agreed, and flashed a grin. Oh, well – I can’t really complain: I asked for this.>; She added silently.
They are always critical – they expect perfection: just think how they criticise me, dear.>; The Prince reassured her, wrapping his bowstring neatly. Concentrate – if you do this, he’ll be disarmed -.>; He showed her a sidestep and change of angle of her sword, that looked quite straightforward, passed directly from mind to mind. “Try it, Ethie.”
“Oh, all right. Thank you.” Ethrayne stepped backwards three steps, moving lightly on her feet, frowning a little as she considered Jerryn’s suggestion – then took two steps forward towards Don, her opponent at the moment; he was a tall, curly haired young man with a strong, muscular frame and a quiet respect for the Am’maiya, who was fast and strong. She slipped to the left, switched the angle of her sword – and that, amazingly, worked as Jerryn had said: the young soldier was not expecting her to thrust from his right and so, his posture and approach unchanged, the sword was knocked easily from Don’s hand, hitting the cobbles with an almost bell-like sound.
“Brilliant, my Lady!” The Captain exclaimed. “Oh, that was very well done – I told you you could do it! That was very well done indeed.”
“Thank you.” Ethrayne inclined her head and turned to Jerryn. “Now I understand just what you’ve all been telling me: my thinking and acting ahead, proactively, outsmarts my opponent in different ways – sorry, Private Don. So if I am always thinking ahead, and prepared, I can disarm or even disable an enemy, sometimes.” There was excitement in her voice as another layer of combat was laid clear to her – and there had already been many of these. Combat was certainly not simple, she had learned.
“I’m glad you approve, Ethrayne.” Jerryn said, grinning.
“Excuse me, Lady Ethrayne - now, Tymain, attack! Lady, watch me please – this is what you tried, but if you had done this -.” And Captain Garane knocked the extended blade from the tall young man’s hand, then continued with his own sword and stopped his thrust when his sword-point was almost at Tymain’s mail-covered chest, heading towards his heart. “You would have likely have injured or even killed your enemy.”
“I see – thank you.” Ethrayne nodded, and her expression moved from a frown to a quick grin. “Can we do that again, please?” She asked eagerly.
“But of course. Let’s start again – men, pair up, please.” Garane ordered crisply.
And the more she learned, the better she got – however slowly – it became a little more fun, despite the pain, discomfort and accidents that occasionally occurred, such as when Jerryn nearly knocked her out with the hilt of his sword, one bright summer’s day – she was sporting a massive bruise on her temple for six days. Her mother and many other ladies, both titled and untitled, nobles and servants both, were horrified at first, but King Marrand, her father and Commander Vedeigne were very reassuring.
In fact, Ethrayne began to find the concerns of her female friends and the older male courtiers a little wearing: she had asked to learn these skills; the Archpriests had urged her to master them – and, as the Wielder of the Flame, the common protest of unladylike behaviour on her behalf was silly in the extreme.
“I’m sorry, your Grace, but shouldn’t someone remind them just what is at stake here?” She demanded, one afternoon, when she, Jerryn and the Archpriests were gathered for one of their frequent meetings. “I can’t win, can I? It’s silly!” She flung up her arms, and glared indiscriminately.
“Yes, but patience is to be exercised, my dear young lady.” Archpriest Lurco urged with a smile. “You are uniquely placed, Ethrayne, Jerryn, as icons to your peers – you have been magnanimous and gracious throughout, so don’t fall into bad habits now.”
Bad habits?>; Jerryn asked silently. We wouldn’t dare, your Graces!>; His mental tone was mildly sarcastic.
“You are bridging a divide that has largely existed since the creation of Iullyn, young lady.” Bahlien said after pouring more tea. “The lives of women have been largely constrained throughout history, simply because of society’s needs and values – so men and women have had different roles, of course you know what I mean.” He grinned at Ethrayne as she rolled her eyes expressively. “But even amongst the razine and the Protectorates at large, most girls and women conform to the same role models that constrain your sisters here in Selith – but not all, by all means.” He paused for a moment. “There is a most unique lady razine sea captain who has confounded every constraint – she is an expert with weapons, and is one of those keeping watch on the jajozeli in the eastern seas. No one tells Captain Phellos what to do – and she is viewed with the utmost respect throughout the Protectorates and at the seaports down your eastern seaboard. I am sure your fathers will have heard her name and her reputation – she delivered the report concerning Fansport. As well as guarding the seas, she trades back and forth between Orbain and Orran and other ports and probably makes a tidy profit as well.”
“She sounds amazing.” Ethrayne said, clearly a little nonplussed.
“You would probably like each other, but she’s a little too formidable for some people.” The old razine said. “It is a lonely path, leaving the well-worn ways of one’s peers, but you are already well on the way to that – as future king and queen, you will be always apart from the rest of the world. Now, however, that distance is greater in different ways.”
“Yes, that is true.” Jerryn nodded. “I have been trying this helmet mind-block – it sometimes works quite well, I think.” He shrugged. “But people just think so many ridiculous things – it’s a little hard to achieve all the time, I admit.”
“Oh, you will soon get the hang of it – and you will always have a good means of finding truth, loyalty and lies amongst your courtiers in the future.” Lurco stated. “It’s an ability that a lot of folk in high position would perhaps give their left arms for.”
“Gosh, yes, I can imagine.” Ethrayne smiled. “It’s probably a very good thing that such abilities are not universal, really – some people would definitely abuse them.”
“But if everyone had such powers, such abuse would be impossible, wouldn’t it?” Jerryn wondered and frowned. “I can feel one of those large discussions starting on ethics and power and responsibility, you know.”
“Surely not, your Highness!” Lurco exclaimed.
*
It was hard, considering her busy days, but Ethrayne now tried to spend a great deal of her remaining free time with her mother and Lyria, for she now realised just how much the changes and revelations of the past moons had pulled her away from the one who had spent all her time caring for her daughter – and was now watching, regretful but perhaps proud also, as she strove to master such innovative and rule-breaking concepts and training.
She had always considered Riyala, her mother, to be simply beautiful, calm and always perfectly presented – supporting her husband, the duke, and always at his side, just part of the whole. That realisation of her own view shook her – for, of course, her mother had been the absolute centre of her own world until she herself had grown out of the nursery. When had her mother begun to seem just an adjunct? Not even considering that she managed their home castle environment entirely. She had somehow found herself with the blinkered view of the servants, perhaps – spending more time with her maids rather than her mother, a vision that she realised was utterly mistaken. It wasn’t until the Flame of Arven began to awaken talents that had been previously far beyond her understanding, that Ethrayne understood that Sarant discussed every single matter with his wife – no matter if it was privately rather than as Jerryn proposed to make her his queen, ruling at his side. Every single issue that was raised to the duke was raised to the duchess – her opinion as important as her husband’s – and their daughter had never realised it.
Ethrayne felt quite ashamed of herself, for her ignorance and assumption that her mother was simply a wife and mother, rather than a politically aware person in her own right, with her own fully developed opinions and logic. She would be horrified if people considered herself to be so limited – so how had she been so stupid to consider her mother so?
“Mother, can I ask - why on Iullyn haven’t you ever told me that you have supported father so much, all these years?” She asked meekly, one sunny afternoon when they were all sat in the shade of an old oak in the Queen’s Garden.
Riyala smiled. “You have realised this, then?” She asked in reply and her daughter blushed a little. “Age is bringing you wisdom, Ethie dear.”
“Mother!” Ethrayne protested and grinned in a rather embarrassed manner. “I admit it – I was inattentive and silly, not to realise – but -.”
“You faced all that opposition from the lords when Marrand asked you to join the Council, dear. That was why your father has never publicly announced my – well, let’s call it my advisory capacity, shall we?” She laughed aloud at the mirrored expressions of surprise on Ethrayne and Lyria’s faces. “If you had not been grabbed by the Archpriests and thrust into the front of the court so completely after your betrothal, dear Ethrayne, we would have told you how most women fill such a role – but it seemed rather superfluous at that point. Marrand’s wife also assisted him in this way – oh, the discussions we all had, when you were little, poor Tanallyse.” Riyala sighed deeply. “But Marrand and your father and Jerryn all wanted to shake up the kingdom, after the Council’s reluctant acceptance of Lady Celia – and look at you!” She exclaimed, gesturing. “Not only the foremost woman in the Kingdom, you are now central to the Church as well, oh my dear Ethrayne!”
“I’d rather I had never said those silly words on our betrothal, Mother – look what happened to throw the world sideways.” Ethrayne said ruefully. “It’s still rather a shock.”
“You are managing well, my darling.” Riyala assured her. “And even the older men in the court have come to terms with the changes we have rushed in.”
“Yes, but they struggled against it.” Lyria noted, in her characteristic calm manner, smiling.
“Men do – even if the changes are vital or desirable, they can fight tooth and nail against it.” Riyala remarked drily. “Fortunately, the King and the Duke have never been so obtuse – and we all did our best to bring up Pualyn and Jerryn sensibly. Well, you saw how the Crown Prince of Derravale behaved – and he’s a well-educated man.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Oh, Mother, what would we do without you?” Ethrayne sighed.
“Well, let’s hope we never have to find out!” Lyria said prayerfully.
“Amen!” The three of them said together, and laughed aloud.
*
Lyria was quieter than usual, of course, missing her betrothed much more than she would admit – and it did feel strange to all of them, not having Pualyn around, even though he would have been back and forth between the capital city and Clirensar, say, on business for his father – or travelling further afield through the kingdom for the Council, as required to represent the King. It seemed that the actual knowledge of the great sea voyage that had swept him so far away had somehow reinforced the distance between them in a peculiar way.
Ethrayne was so pleased that her friend was coping so valiantly – in the quiet, dignified manner that the court would have expected of one who would one day become the Duchess of Clirensar – although, of course, they had largely ignored her very existence until her betrothal to Pualyn. The capricious nature of people proved rather baffling, she agreed – pleased that neither of them really had to worry about the vagaries of public opinion again! The approval of the King and the Duke and Duchess was armour far exceeding the strength of the best chain mail.
Yet, still, the existence of the Betrayer lurked at the edge of her awareness – the possibility of war at some point in the future was unsettling, as she strove to master her lessons. Taxation, economics, law; combat training – and learning how to manage the slowly surfacing power that was just starting to feel as if it might really belong to her . . . yet despite so readily agreeing to the responsibility of accepting the Flame of Arven, Ethrayne wished, in a way, that she had Jerryn were not the ones Chosen – that void of the unknown just seemed too vast to accept.
* * *
Lerat, the capital city of Orbain, was a beautiful city that had developed there above the sea over a couple of millennia at least, well planned, with a gridiron layout of roads and old walls that towered massively over all the structures nearby, thick and solid. As High-Prince Kerrenan had said, the inhabitants had had eight hundred years to plan effective defences and they had done it well, even cutting away the coastline in one area to utilise the bedrock, so that a massive circular watchtower jutted, impregnable, above the boulder-filled shoreline.
Pualyn had appreciated the efforts that the people of Lerat had made, for when viewed from the vantage point of a ship’s deck, the city was all but unapproachable, without what would probably be a huge loss of life for the forces of an attacking army.
“My word!” He said, stunned, as the Lerat Pearl headed for the wharves that extended into the estuary channel, the city walls looming high above them, a smooth, cunning, slightly outward-curving wave of stone, stark in the mid morning sunlight. “Most impressive, your Highness.”
“It’s best to be obvious in the matter of defence, my Lord – it reduces complications in the long-run.” Kerrenan said.
“That’s true.” Pualyn glanced at Lennarn. “You’d have to be suicidal to try and attack, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh indeed you would. I wonder how long it took to construct?” Lennarn asked.
“Apparently they were building off and on for nearly five hundred years.” The razine said. “I’m just glad it’s there, but the effort involved in building it all – well, it would have been bloody tedious, wouldn’t it?”
Pualyn laughed. After over a moon of travel, he was pleased to have found their host so excellent and friendly a man, despite his great age and strange abilities. Still, he acknowledged that the sight of Lerat’s defences had reawakened his inner concerns at the very great differences he would face here, in a society already old when the Betrayer had imprisoned Arven.
The ship docked smoothly; a stocky, strawberry blonde haired man came aboard and was briefly introduced to Pualyn and Lennarn – Harbour Master Souden. He bowed, shook their hands and that of High Prince Kerrenan, then made his way astern to where the Captain was giving orders.
“Souden helps coordinate sightings of the enemy, in case there are patterns of behaviour.” Kerrenan explained. “Now, come along, gentlemen – they don’t need us, we’ll head on up to the palace. Our luggage will follow.” He flashed a grin. “Don’t look so worried. Look, there’s our ride.”
Some distance away, close to a huge stack of bales and barrels, a double-horse drawn carriage of a strange design had come to a stop, having manoeuvred in a tight circle to facilitate its leaving of the bustling dockside. It was plain, deep brown wood clear against dark blue paint on the edges and decoration; the coachman wore a matching blue coat, whilst the horses were gleaming chestnut.
The High Prince led them down the gangplank and through the mass of labourers and sailors. Pualyn caught a polite chorus of ‘hello, sir’ as they advanced and Kerrenan replied in kind – it seemed rather informal. The coachman saluted as they came up to him. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He greeted them in razine.
“Afternoon, Donnal, can you drive steadily please, I want to show our visitors some sights of the city as we go.” Kerrenan said in Selithian.
“Of course, Sir, we don’t have a schedule as such.” Donnal replied in the same language.
“Thank you.” Kerrenan said, opening the coach door himself and ushering his companions inside.
The interior was understated but well-crafted, deep-blue upholstered leather seats and a light-blue paint on the walls and ceiling, with space enough between both sets of seats for the longest legs. As the door was latched shut, Donnal set the horses moving and they all sat back, swaying slightly as they set off along the cobbles.
The gated entrance to the city was a tunnel leading right through the bottom of the wall, a good fifty feet long, filled with portcullises, gates and defensive positions. Sharp eyed soldiers patrolled both ends of the tunnel in groups of four, all of whom came to a brisk, brief attention as the coach passed. The tunnel climbed slightly at its inner extent and the coach emerged between twin curving towers with arrow slits strategically placed – they were inside the city, entering a large paved area that extended a good few hundred yards to left, right and ahead, before the buildings began; most of the square was taken up by a large, busy marketplace – a great number of brightly covered stalls and kiosks were laid out neatly, either side of the thoroughfare, leaving a broad path. A market is universal of course – but the speech and sights and smells that alerted their senses here were subtly different, the two Tenareans realised as they passed. Even the clothing worn by the people were different, in odd ways.
Kerrenan told them that the plain, blocky buildings fronting the square were mostly military, matching the ones facing the Land Gate on the far side of the city. Beyond those, the road ran straight between a mixture of private houses and shops filling the ground-floor of others, with a glimpse of gardens beyond. There was a smell of cooking fires, food stuffs, horse manure and even flowers, but there was none of the reek of night-soil that tended to permeate Tenarean towns and cities, even those with some sewerage.
“Our ancestors constructed an underground sewage system as well as a piped fresh-water supply.” The High Prince explained. “It makes things a lot more pleasant, doesn’t it?” He laughed. “Miscreants are tasked with keeping everything working properly and we have a relatively low rate of criminality overall.”
“I would have thought that you would not even have criminals, Kerr.” Pualyn said with surprise. “I mean -.”
“Dear Arven, we’re not perfect, Pualyn! There are always going to be those who thieve, or fight, or whatever. Most of us who are drawn to such distasteful activities join the army!” Kerrenan winked. “Life here can be tedious – defending the world against a maniac who desires to destroy our God and then take his place, keeps us busy enough.”
The city was large, the main road as straight as an arrow. They passed houses, parks, businesses, tenements and warehouses before finally nearing a second great defensive wall – this one only a hundred feet tall, again curving outwards at its top and faced with fine white limestone, bright against the grass at its base, sloping down steeply to a wide moat that cut across the road. Twelve guards in chain mail and deep blue surcoats embroidered with a golden sun with long spears in their hands and swords at their side, stood in groups of three stood at either end of the drawbridge. One of them lifted a horn and blew a series of notes that rang in the air as the coach passed, rattled over the wooden drawbridge and on through the gateway beyond – another tunnel, but only about thirty feet long.
Beyond, the road crossed a rising slope of grass to a large complex of buildings that put Pualyn in mind of the Cathedral in Tenum – there were external buttresses, a variety of styles of tower and lots of windows, shining in the late autumn sunlight. Banks of deciduous trees were dotted about, all showing a beautiful but thinning range of colours from pale yellow to deep crimson, with dark coniferous types in between. There were a range of other buildings across the lawns within the walls – the size of the walled area was vast – but all eyes were drawn to the palace ahead, where standards atop the tallest tower flashed the golden sun emblem.
The road before them finally began a graceful, sweeping curve that brought the coach around to a canopied entrance edifice where a number of people were waiting.
A servant stepped forward to open the coach door facing the elegant portico and steps as the horses came to a decorous stop and the High-Prince descended first – embracing one pretty young woman tightly, then bowing to an older man and woman, his left hand entwined in the younger lady’s, before turning back to Pualyn and Lennarn who had stepped down almost fearfully.
“Father, Mother, Arialle, may I present Lord Pualyn of Clirensar, and Lennarn, his assistant.” Kerrenan said formally and all three nodded politely, smiling. “Pualyn, I have the honour of introducing my father, High-King Mhezal, my honoured mother, High-Queen Nicail, and my most precious wife, the High-Princess Arialle.”
“Your Majesties. Your Highness – I am deeply honoured.” Pualyn managed to say in the razine language, bowing very formally.
“My Lord Pualyn, welcome to Lerat.” The High King said, taking his hand and shaking it heartily, speaking in Selithian. “I have to say that we have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Come along inside, gentlemen. You will be guided to your rooms and you may bathe and rest, as you like, until tonight.”
“Unfortunately, my Lord Pualyn, many local dignitaries wish to meet you and a banquet has been arranged for this evening in your honour.” Queen Nicail said, her voice surprisingly deep for a woman – and very melodious. She was as tall as Pualyn, a beautiful woman with luminous skin and green eyes, her light grey hair arranged simply but stylishly with the sort of jewelled pins his mother and sister used. The gowns that she and princess Arialle wore were very different to the fashions in Tenarum, but elegant, comprising of a long-sleeved under dress of a single colour and a sleeveless, almost sheer silk over gown that spread wide from the hips, girded with simple belts of beautifully worked patterned silk in a complementary shade. The princess wore deep green under a lighter shade of sea green, whilst the queen was striking in crimson with rose pink on top. High-King Mhezal was dressed rather as Pualyn and Kerrenan, in deep grey, black and white, whilst the servants were rather uniform in maroon.
“I am honoured, your Majesties.” Pualyn said, bowing again.
“Excellent, let’s go inside.” Mhezal said and glanced sideways at his son, standing close to his wife, speaking quietly. “Kerr, come on.” He added with a chuckle.
“Yes, father.” The High Prince winked at Pualyn and followed the guests as they climbed the steps to the imposingly massive doors above, hand in hand with Arialle.
*
A calm, middle-aged servant showed the two Tenareans to a sunlit suite on the second floor, equipped with a bell-pull to call for assistance in the lovely sitting room. There were also two bedrooms and a bathroom, all very well equipped and spacious. They were shown huge closets for clothes and storage, the arrangements for filling the bath and a covered tray holding cold cuts, salad, bread and fruit in addition to cakes, wines, ale and fruit juice.
“Please, my Lords, refresh yourselves and rest. If you require anything at all, please ring the bell, else I will return later with your baggage. My name is Cenrayn.” The servant said in flawless Selithian, bowing politely.
“Thank you, Cenrayn.” Pualyn said.
The two men made full use of the facilities and Pualyn then Lennarn enjoyed a leisurely bath, after he and Lennarn had eaten and his servant had trimmed his hair. Then, they sat in the sitting room, chatting idly, until Cenrayn knocked on the outer door and waved in a number of youths bearing their luggage.
“I will leave you to get your possessions straight, my Lord.” He said with a smile. “Tea will be brought shortly, if you would like some?” He gestured to one of the youths, and the tray that had held lunch was removed.
“Yes, please.” Pualyn looked at the chests and bags with dismay. “Dear Arven, I’d forgotten we had brought all this, Lennarn!” He exclaimed, and his valet laughed aloud as Cenrayn smiled.
“Could I have access to a hot iron please, Master Cenrayn? I imagine that an awful lot of my Lord’s formal clothes will be creased.” Lennarn asked.
“Yes of course, Master Lennarn. I will send a young man along presently with your refreshments and he will be able to show you the laundry – it is the problem with travel, of course: it does not do fabrics any good at all. Please, excuse me.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Cenrayn.” Pualyn said gratefully as the man bowed and turned to leave. “Right, Lennarn, let’s see what’s where – I simply can’t remember.”
By late afternoon, they had unpacked their baggage and Lennarn had rescued some of his master’s finery from the demon creases, visiting the extensive palace laundry located somewhere to the rear of the vast complex and telling Pualyn of the many differences he had noted, even in so quick a visit.
“This palace has been here for a thousand years at least, Lennarn.” Pualyn remarked, donning the formal tabard of his rank as Tenarean envoy over a fine but plain linen shirt. “Gosh, I’d forgotten how heavy this thing is! Am I straight?” He frowned into the large silver mirror in the bedroom.
“Hang on.” His valet lifted the neck and shoulders, pulling slightly and flattening the thickly embroidered fabric here and there. “There, perfect.”
“I don’t want perfect, Lennarn, that’s for ladies – Ethrayne and Lyria. As long as I don’t disgrace the King and our family, I’ll be all right.” He grimaced.
“You look elegant and sophisticated, Pualyn and I’m sure you’ll dazzle everyone you meet with your wit – don’t worry, the High-King and High-Queen seemed very pleasant and I’m sure they would never spring some travesty of a ceremony on your shoulders without warning.” Lennarn assured him.
“Gosh, I hope not!” The young lord’s answer was almost prayerful.
High-Prince Kerrenan arrived not long after as the sun sank into the west, striking in black and white and smiling at his guests.
“Here we are, all properly dressed and Lennarn can go and rest, whilst we have to smile and make small-talk.” He said easily. “I’ve always thought that sometimes the servants have a better time of it than we do.”
“Perhaps we do, your Highness, on occasion.” Lennarn agreed, bowing deeply. “But certainly not all the time – and not with the chores of cooking, cleaning and preparations for a banquet, certainly.”
“Kerr, King Marrand sent a number of small gifts for your family in friendship, but should I present them this evening?” Pualyn asked fretfully, frowning. “As you can tell, I’m completely useless -.”
“Nonsense, man!” Kerrenan interrupted. “We all have to start somewhere. I know it’s strange here. No, such gifts are better presented at a later, private occasion.” He sighed. “Unfortunately for you, word got out that you were arriving and apparently every king in the Protectorates is here – desperate to make your acquaintance.”
“What, all of them? Not just your family?”
“So Arialle says, which is why I’m here – protocol be damned! At least dinner will be superb.” His tone was exaggeratedly droll.
In retrospect, the evening went as pleasantly and as smoothly as he could have wished, Pualyn acknowledged, late that night: none of his fears came to pass and his inner nervousness had faded a little; he had been introduced to five more kings and queens, some with crown-princes with them; a queen-regent and her eleven-year-old son, the King of Jaece. All of these were human and – amazingly – everyone he met, whether razine or human, seemed both genuinely pleased to meet him and rather over-awed that he was the brother of one of the Wielders of the Flame.
The conversations, by-play and interactions were so similar to how such an evening would have proceeded in Tenum City that, once or twice, the young lord looked around for his parents, or King Marrand – but the only familiar face was High-Prince Kerrenan who kindly stayed at his side, introducing him to the guests and providing information on them. High-Princess Arialle kept coming to join them, elegant in white and silver, her blonde hair arranged high and so providing her with even more height; she added quiet observations that were rather witty – and Pualyn realised that politics was actually the same anywhere in the world and started to relax a little as they all went into the banqueting hall.
“Don’t worry at trying to remember who everyone is, my Lord Pualyn.” The High-King advised him privately, part way through the excellent feast. “You will be meeting all the important players again in less formal circumstances.” He grinned and winked. “Some people have a gift at recalling names and faces instantly – but I confess I am worse at it than my son, for example. I imagine that you find these occasions just as tedious as we do.”
“Yes indeed, your Majesty, but if your court here has not managed to find an alternative after all these years, then I suppose that these magnificent banquets are just a part of our lives.” He replied politely, then tried a smile in return. “And at least it gives us a chance to show off our best clothes – and our staff a chance to show their wonderful arrangement and cooking abilities.”
“Ha! Yes, you’re right there.” Mhezal burst into laughter. “Else what’s the point of them? Well, my Lord, I hope that this has not been too great an ordeal. We can start normal meetings the day after tomorrow. Nicail thought you might like to look around the city in the morning, get yourself a feel for the place? What do you think?”
“Thank you, your Majesty, for making me feel so welcome.” Pualyn answered gratefully.
*
Lennarn had assured him that the servants of the palace had also made him welcome, when he had finally returned to their spacious suite. The next morning, after been summoned to breakfast with the royal family, where Mhezal jovially gave him a purse full of Protectorate money in exchange for his Tenarean coins; Pualyn felt far too unsure to question the exchange-rate – he just hoped that the High King wasn’t being too generous; then the High-Queen, High-Prince and -Princess took Pualyn on a tour of the beautiful old city beyond the palace walls. It was a nice, quiet interlude after the formality and stuffiness of the previous evening and gave them all the chance to stretch their legs – something that Kerrenan seemed to relish, striding ahead with a grin as he seemed to shake off the inactivity of their long voyage and Pualyn quickly felt better for it.
Wandering through a bright, bustling market in the imposing, tree-lined Cathedral square, Pualyn spent a little of his money on small, pretty trinkets for Lyria, Ethrayne and his mother and the vendors, seeing his companions, offered excellent discounts. They headed back up to the palace the best of friends.
That evening, after a private dinner with the royal family, Pualyn handed over the letters from Bahlien and the polite letter and gifts from King Marrand – the finest weapons from Clirensar’s craftsmen for Mhezal and Kerrenan and jewellery – pearls and diamonds for the High Queen and diamonds and emeralds for Arialle, the best that the treasury could offer, re-worked by the master-craftsmen who had been commissioned to assemble Ethrayne’s betrothal jewellery.
“Dear Arven, Pualyn, we are most honoured!” The High King said enthusiastically, as he and his son examined the swords rather as Jerryn had done on receiving his betrothal gifts – and the resemblance made the young man smile to himself: people were not so different.
“Gosh, Pualyn, thank you!” High Queen Nicail exclaimed, holding up the earrings to Arialle’s ears. “These are beautiful – Tenarum has some exceptional craftsmen. You will have to visit again – bring your new wife when you have wed – and do bring more gifts, please -.” And she laughed merrily. For a woman of mature years – Pualyn balked at the two or three centuries that marked those years – the High Queen was a warm, approachable, beautiful woman with a well-developed sense of understated humour.
“I will certainly return, your Majesty, if my king and my duties allow.” He replied with a bow and a chuckle at their approval. “But it might bankrupt the treasury in the long-run.”
“My word, yes it might – and we will all need all our resources and our revenue to pay for the soldiers we might require the aid of in the future.” Mhezal said soberly and glanced around at his family, sighing deeply. “It is awful for your family, your King’s, your kingdom and especially for the young couple concerned, suddenly having to make such a decision to accept Arven’s Flame after discovering the danger posed by the Betrayer – but we had no sensible way of alerting you to what might happen – we have agonised about it -.”
“That’s true.” Kerr said in a heavy tone. “I’ve been on the verge of coming up-river to Tenum on more than a few occasions over the past few years.”
“But would his King even have believed him if you had, Kerr?” His father continued with a shrug, and essayed a fake smile that did not reach his eyes – he looked rather tired, now. “I mean, Pualyn – who on Iullyn would have believed such a tale?”
“I understand, your Majesty and we have held the same conversations a number of times in Tenum with Bahlien – neither you nor he should feel guilty, sir, if I may be so bold.” Pualyn replied confidently. “You have summoned me here to hopefully address the situation and to provide the kingdoms with an organised approach to deal with the threat of the jajozeli.” He smiled at the rather worried faces across the room. “Unless this is some sort of elaborate farce and we all face total annihilation?”
“Dear Arven, I hope not!” Kerrenan spat with feeling and a shudder.
“Our God would not treat us so cruelly, my Lord Pualyn.” The High-King asserted gravely. “And none of us – least of all ex-Archpriest Bahlien – would ever have been party to such a monstrous concept!”
“Excuse me, your Majesty, I intended no disrespect.” The young man apologised, getting to his feet and bowing low.
“We understand your concerns, Pualyn.” The High-Queen said soothingly. “Our world has been shaken significantly and we are gazing into the unknown, except for that passage in the Book of Days. Your young sister and her betrothed are vital to Arven in some way – some significant way – that none of us yet understand. We must gird ourselves for war, or whatever may develop from this point on. We will certainly never abandon Selith.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” He bowed again, subtly reassured by her earnest words and those of her husband and son.
“We have gathered our allies, the rulers of the other realms of the Protectorates; the Archpriestess and her staff for they are the most knowledgeable concerning the Book of Days; experts on the enemy – both civilian and military - along with logisticians for it is always useful hearing from those who understand the movements of people and supply chains and so on.” The High King said more calmly. “Together, we will prevail.”
*
Over the next two moons, as winter took a firm, chilly grip over the land – and Pualyn thought rather wistfully, now and again, of the summer that he was missing – he spent an awful lot of time learning an awful lot about a great deal of information, as well as educating his hosts in return. There were many misunderstandings on both sides. Concepts and beliefs that were alien and needed more explanation or discussion – Archpriestess Gailla was always central to these sorts of talks, for the tall, grey-haired woman (plain of face and short-haired, the opposite of High Queen Nicail) was expert in mediation and soothing stung personalities.
Pualyn thanked his life-long education and his place on the Council of Tenarum, for he found that his grounding there – learning the running of Clirensar from his father and the managing of the Kingdom from King Marrand – was a firm basis on which to build. He impressed everyone and especially the razine with his maturity and knowledge and his willingness to both question and learn.
Of course, he did not spend every day in discussion and meetings. There were rides out, hunting and hawking; banquets and religious ceremonies and even just rest days, in between, when he could sit and think, or read or rest and chat with his now firm friends, or Lennarn.
Gradually, he grew to understand the nature of the people of the Protectorates, both razine and human and how their society worked. He also came to know an awful lot more about the eight hundred year schism created by the Betrayer’s actions in Car’Agasse – and the atrocities committed in his name against Arven’s faithful worshippers across the Protectorates. The High-Prince’s eagerness to hear about his sister and her betrothed was now understandable – he and his people had been awaiting the long-promised Wielders of the Flame for centuries.
“You have known that they would come – Ethrayne and Jerryn – but you really do not know what will happen now that they have been Chosen?” He asked once of Archpriestess Gailla and Kerrenan, having spent a day studying the Book of Days – it hadn’t made much sense to him. “That’s not very helpful.”
“Oh, I agree, Pualyn.” Kerrenan said, nodding.
“Kerrenan.” Gailla was rather a serious person – but frivolity would not have worked within her role as spiritual leader of the Protectorates, and she tended to calm down some of the more volatile members of the main group. “At the end of the day, Pualyn, would you rather know that your future is of your own making, or that it is all pre-ordained? How would you feel?” She asked, fixing the young man with her large hazel eyes, and smiled a little as silence filled the room and both males considered her words.
“Dear Arven, your Grace, I see what you mean.” Pualyn said quietly, after a while. “But the Betrayer sounds so – so inimical – I fear for my sister and the prince, I admit it.”
“As do we all, but we will strive with all our strength to prevail.” Gailla said, bowing her head prayerfully.
*
News from Tenarum arrived with the captains of the various Pearls and Opals, but it was the arrival of Captain Phellos with her cargo of Clirensar’s iron, that really made Pualyn both considerably homesick and worried for his countrymen. Kerrenan brought Phellos to meet Pualyn one rainy, winter’s day and the young Tenarean lord grilled the vibrant woman about the events at Fansport, but she held up her hands in surrender.
“Forgive me, my Lord Pualyn, but it was not I who found those poor souls, but Ashanner of the Orbain Pearl. He said that the enemy set the houses on fire quite deliberately, so that the village would be approached and so the finders’ would then broadcast the news and tell everyone of their power and their evil -.” She added a salty phrase that greatly surprised Pualyn – he was not used to ladies swearing – but he kept his reaction from his face. “Those bastards are evil, Kerr!”
“That’s why they try to shock us, Phellos – killing Fansport’s inhabitants was hardly necessary.” Kerrenan replied with a sigh.
“I’ve been there – tiny and isolated. You’d hardly think it would be worth it!” Pualyn shook his head, recalling the faces of the people he had met there – fishermen, the women folk and children who had crowded around the dock. It was bewildering – they were all dead now! “The only feasible way out is by sea – they were fishermen, by Arven! What sort of threat could they possibly be to great ocean-going ships?”
“And that’s the point, lad.” Kerr muttered glumly. “General Tequan’s probably the one who killed my brother and destroyed the original Orbain Pearl all those years ago – dear Arven, I’d love to kill him slowly!”
“I’ll hold your shield.” Phellos offered, grinning fiercely.
“And I’ll hold your cloak, if you’d like a hand.” Pualyn added. “You haven’t met my sister, Ethrayne, have you Captain?”
“No, but I would be honoured, my Lord.”
“She has been learning weapons craft since late spring, after encountering – General Ackat?” He asked, and Kerrenan nodded. “She’s enjoying it – I think you would like her, and she you.” But then he sighed. “Gosh, I’m missing home, suddenly.”
“We’ll be heading to Tenarum in a few more eightdays, Pualyn, I’m sure – the logistics always take the most time, and you need those figures for your King and your allies.”
“Aye that’s true, there’s no avoiding it.” The young man agreed. “I am sorry if I seem ungrateful, Kerr – but I am really missing Lyria.”
“I definitely can’t compete with your betrothed, my Lord Pualyn and I would not try.” The High-Prince admitted with a laugh.
“If you have any letters for your kinsfolk, my Lord, I would be honoured to deliver them to Rothern for you – I’ll be heading back out to sea in a few days.” Captain Phellos offered. “I never stay on land for long at a time, except occasionally – and if it’s really stormy.”
“Thank you, Captain – well then I will leave you if you do not mind, and write a few letters for them.” He got to his feet, bowed politely and hurried away.
* * *
The afternoon after the departure of the delegates from Amorry and Derravale, Duke Sarant and some of the household servants set off for Clirensar with his guards, leaving the Duchess, his daughter and Lady Lyria in the capital. Ethrayne’s maids, Fionn and Sallie were returning with the latest plain copy of the outfit, to continue the assembly of their Lady’s wedding gown, as traditional – for Ethrayne would return to her home later in the year, before the wedding to Jerryn took place.
Sarant’s trusted Reeve, Thomur, generally managed the duchy in his absence, but he had not left Clirensar in Thomur’s hands for so long since Queen Tanallyse had died, all those years before. Of course, the region had not been abandoned – Thomur was trusted and well-liked by the citizens of the city and its environs and he ensured that local matters and business were dealt with promptly; taxes collected and paid; criminals punished; charity for the needy distributed - the castle, the city and region all running smoothly. Reports were sent weekly to the Duke and written approvals and advice returned by swift couriers.
It was a system that the Duke had been using for years, since Pualyn and Ethrayne were small children, without any major problems – and, this summer, Sarant thanked Arven that it worked so well. Events since the betrothal of his daughter to the prince had spiralled dizzily – not out of control, certainly, but never had so many things consumed so much of his time consecutively, delaying his departure on three or four occasions. The Council had never been so busy, it seemed – and the enormity of what they faced – the jajozeli – was sobering. With all that they had learned, regarding the threat to the new Wielders of the Flame, Sarant had not dared to leave the palace until the talks with Derravale and Amorry had been concluded.
King Marrand and he had had to resort to early morning meetings just to talk privately together, meeting not long after dawn in the palace chapel where they could discuss the events and issues frankly and without interruption. They were conscious of the honour to their children, to their families and of the responsibilities that such honour entailed, certainly. But they were aware of the danger in a way that Jerryn and Ethrayne could not see, perhaps because of their youth – and they initialised plans of their own quite separate to their alliances with their neighbouring rulers – and informed only the Archpriests of them. In furtherance of some of these, Sarant rode south, travelling a lot faster than he would have done with his family in the entourage – apologising to the weary maids – reaching Clirensar in ten long days.
“Your Grace I am pleased to see you.” Reeve Thomur said, bowing low as he greeted his master in the tapestry draped entrance hall of the castle, as the evening sunlight finally faded from the sky. “You look very well.” He smiled sympathetically at the group of servants who made their way to the plain entrance to their domain, looking very tired and dusty.
“Well?” Sarant laughed at the ordinary looking scholar who had proved such an asset to his duchy. “I’ve returned for a rest and a change of diet, Thomur!” He said, pulling off his cloak. “Too much rich food destroys the digestion and there have been far too many banquets and far too little exercise recently.”
“I can send to the kitchens, your Grace and have the cooks serve you gruel, if you prefer? I’m sure your chefs could rustle some up in a short time.” The slightly older man enquired, smiling mischievously and Sarant snorted expressively at that. “I hope that her Grace and your children are well?”
“Yes, thank you – and Ethrayne really is quite enjoying all the combat training that she’s undertaken.” The Duke replied, laying his cloak and his gloves on a stool to one side of the hall, leading the way through the castle. “She’s rather good, actually, for a complete beginner.”
Thomur raised one eyebrow eloquently, knowing that Sarant was deliberately understating his pride in his daughter. “There is a hot bath waiting for you, your Grace and supper in your suite.”
“Ah, the benefits of civilisation – thank you, Thomur. Come along, you can tell me what’s been happening since I was here last.” Sarant suggested, grinning.
*
Local gossip notwithstanding, life in the duchy was progressing perfectly well without the daily input of the duke, although there was a great deal of signing of pages, stamping of seals and the shaking of hands, as Sarant verified what required his confirmation and met with those few who had not been content to deal with even so trusted a servant as Thomur. It was early on the third day when he was able to leave the castle and ride for Black Fell, where he had an appointment with the Master Armourer.
Black Fell was a bustling town some five leagues north east of Clirensar, set in the wooded hills where centuries of mining had carved out what almost looked like a rocky gorge, hence the name: for the remaining rocky cliffs, although less than a hundred feet high, were dark and ominous amid the scenery – the smoke from the furnaces and kilns had stained the grey limestone that were topped with tall, dark trees. In winter, the town did not receive a great deal of direct daylight.
As the source of some of the purest ore in the region, the smiths of Black Fell had been specialising in forging weapons and armour for many years with the Duke’s castle and his contacts across the kingdom in mind – and the associated ancillary trades had expanded as the demand had increased.
Sarant rode up the main road with his guards, passing the stinking tannery that was set a good three hundred yards from the wooden palisade that surrounded the town to the south and about half this from the road – even so, the smell was all pervading. Entering through the narrow gateway, the Duke was instantly hailed by the innkeeper of the Crossed Keys, who was polishing the outside of the windows of his establishment vigorously, despite his advanced age.
“Good morning, Richon, you look well.” Sarant called back. “How’s the family?”
“All fine, all well, your Grace, thank you for asking. Please give my humble regards to your lady wife and children – not that they are children now.” The white-haired man chuckled. “Congratulations on such auspicious events, sir.”
“Thank you, Richon – I’ll call in on my return.” The Duke answered and rode on up the street. Richon had been his valet until the man’s retirement, eight years before.
Master Armourer Queyt was waiting at his substantial forge for Sarant to walk across the cobbled yard and shook his hand with a grip of iron. As tall as the Duke, he was ruggedly built, with a highly-muscled upper body, arms and neck clearly showing his vast strength. Wearing an old but clean linen shirt covered with a thick, burn-marked leather apron, he had old burn scars on his arms and massive hands, a shock of iron-grey hair and deep brown eyes in a plain, ruddy face.
“Your Grace, I hear that the prince greatly likes his betrothal gift.” He said in a booming voice that a sergeant major would have been proud of.
“So much so, Master Queyt, that his Majesty and I want to commission similar weapons for my daughter, Ethrayne – and chainmail for them both.” Sarant replied gravely. “You have heard about her weapons training and such like, I imagine?”
Queyt grinned. “My, the news flew through the region, your Grace, but though many people disapprove mightily, we -” he stuck a thumb into his own chest, “know you an’ the King would hardly agree to it if it wasn’t necessary. Little Ethrayne’s takin’ to it well, then?”
“Yes, frighteningly well, really. With her and Jerryn now the Wielders of the Flame of Arven, it seems sensible to ensure that she can also defend herself . . . But the jajozeli -.” Sarant broke off and shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden rush of fear that gripped him. “Anyway, I got Vedeigne and the others to narrow down the size and weight of sword that suits her best and I’ve measurements for them both for mail – something a little finer than ordinary, of course, with this small device over the left breast -.” He pulled out a small scroll from a pocket in his doublet and handed it over. Queyt unrolled it to reveal a drawing of a diamond emblem where Arven’s device was laid over and amongst that of the Tenarean crown along with various figures and other details - and nodded once, decisively. “Is that workable, Master Queyt?”
“Should be, your Grace – might tweak the device slightly, but the two crests are well known and should be easy to amalgamate. Now, about the weapons – what d’you want?”
“I imagine you’ve still got the designs of Jerryn’s weapons?” Sarant asked, smiling. Master Armourer Queyt was well known for his extensive archives.
“Naturally, your Grace, but you won’t want me to copy them, will you?” The Master asked.
“Of course not, but you are brilliant at adapting everything you set your mind to. Something just a little more feminine maybe – but only slightly, nothing – frivolous: they are weapons to be used, after all – to kill and maim.” Sarant sighed, this prospect hung over everything and it scared him. “A little lighter, just as sharp – double or single bladed as you see fit – no fancy ostentation, using the Tenarean colours and a four-foot blade, a two-foot blade and a dagger.”
Queyt nodded, frowning down at the parchment in his hands then flashed a grin at the Duke. “Now that’s a challenge, your Grace!” He said enthusiastically and laughed a little. “But it won’t be cheap, mind.”
“We know – Marrand and I will split the fee and here is gold and gems.” The Duke handed over a small, heavy box of black iron. “I think the treasury is rather down on sapphires and emeralds now.” And he smiled. “Thank you, Master Queyt.”
“Thank you, your Grace, for your commission.” The Master Armourer answered, bowing deeply. “I’m looking forward to getting started, I admit it.”
“I just hope it doesn’t impact on all the manufacturing we now require.” Sarant said with a sigh. “A possible conflict with the jajozeli – the Betrayer – is not at all what any of us want!”
“We’ve forges and iron pigs ready enough across the region to cope, your Grace – and it would be very good to eliminate that betraying bastard and restore Arven – only good can come of it in the end, you’ll see.” Queyt answered confidently. “We’re not warlike, but the enemy have always been a threat, looming over us – heard about Fansport.” He shook his head. “A nasty business . . . Now, a drink, your Grace, to seal our business?”
“As is the custom, Master Queyt, I thank you.”
Queyt unlocked a stout cabinet in the parchment littered room next to the forge, producing two small crystal glasses and a decanter of a pale, clear liqueur which he poured carefully into the glasses. A faint scent of honey wafted around them for a moment.
“Your good health, your Grace – and especially your daughter and prince also. May they destroy our enemy and restore Arven.” He made the toast seriously.
“Amen to that – to Ethrayne and Jerryn.” Sarant raised his glass then downed the mead in one. “May our God protect you all.” He added quietly. “Well, thank you, Master Queyt. I will be here in Clirensar for a few more days, but Thomur will be charge, of course, when I return to Tenum City – if you have an questions, which I know you probably won’t being the Master Armourer, you know where we will be.”
“Indeed, your Grace – I am grateful for your trust.” Queyt said, pouring a second drink for them with a flourish.
“You are the best, Master Queyt.” The Duke replied, grinned, inclining his head in thanks as he accepted the second drink. “Your health.” Then he set down his glass. “Well, I had best be on my way – Master Richon has probably encouraged his staff at the inn to rustle up an entire banquet for my delectation. For some reason, he seems to think that no one else feeds me – which is obviously a fallacy.” He patted his stomach ruefully, but it was impressively lean. “I think I had better get back to combat practice myself.”
“Aye, you’ll find an awful lot of folk at it nowadays. I’ve got my hammer.” Queyt managed a fierce grin as he patted the handle of the huge sledge laying on the table top. “I will be in touch, your Grace and please give my regards to Richon.”
“I will, Master Queyt and a good day to you.” Sarant bowed slightly as he departed, remounting his horse and thanking the soldiers for waiting, before riding back through the town to the Crossed Keys; where the entire group of them were indeed served with a sumptuous meal by Master Richon before they headed back to the city.
*
The Duke enjoyed the six days he spent in Clirensar, although he was very busy. The pomp and ceremony that defined every movement in the royal palace was absent and he was surrounded by people and servants whom he had known for many years. He even managed to visit Callorton, the small estate owned by Lord Faylls and Lady Allara that adjoined Clirensar Home Farm, two leagues south of the city.
Faylls and Allara were Lyria’s parents, a couple in their late fifties, who were more farmers of two hundred and fifty acres of prime land, than nobles, despite their titles – with the aid of their two oldest sons Dettar and Heldor and their families, they produced meat, milk, fruit and vegetables for the castle complex. Their third son, Salyr, managed the day-to-day business of the castle’s Home Farm and stud, whilst Sevanter, their fourth, served in the army.
“Sarant, how wonderful it is to see you!” Allara cried, as the duke entered the pristine dairy that rainy morning and kissed her cheek as he hugged her. She was busily churning butter, a pristine apron over her well-worn, blue linen gown. The large room was well scrubbed, with rounds of cheese stacked up on shelves that climbed the far wall, and jugs and bowls lined up neatly. “Salyr told us that you were due back, but you left the family in Tenum City?”
He grinned at the woman, small and beautiful with luminous blonde hair – it was clear where Lyria had inherited her beauty. “I know, it’s tragic, Allara, but although she is missing Pualyn greatly, Lyria is rather coming to enjoy life in the palace.”
“My word yes – she described her betrothal gifts in her last letter, Sarant! So fine! You must all have spent far too much – Just let me call Dymia -.” Allara was getting flustered – the costs of such gifts worried her, far beyond the family’s means. “You must be thirsty, Sarant -.”
“I’ll do it – Dymia!” The Duke shouted out of the doorway, and Allara smiled her thanks as she carried on churning. In a short time, a sturdy girl of eight or nine years old, with mid-brown hair in thick plaits came in, wearing an apron that matched the older woman’s exactly, over her plain work dress.
“Your Grace – Grandmother?” She gasped from running, a wide, bright smile lighting up her freckled face. “I’ve fed the fowl, and Serren is collecting eggs.”
“Thank you, Dymia – we will be in the kitchen if you can carry on making butter, dear.” Allara gestured for the eight year old to take her place at the churn, and stepped out of the way to remove her apron, hanging it neatly behind the outer door. Then the lady led their guest towards the sturdy farmhouse on the far side of the tidy, cobbled yard.
“It’s so nice to be back, Allara – it’s been frantic in the capital, I’ve really missed the farm.” Sarant admitted, following her and breathing deeply of the redolent air. “I do feel rather guilty, leaving the family and your little Lyria behind, but Ethrayne needs to be there in the palace for now, with Jerryn, concentrating on everything there and she needs Lyria and her mother close by. It’s been very unsettling. I hope that we can all return home in a moon or so, before she and Jerryn are wed – Fionn and Sallie have come back to complete her bridal gown.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see it!” Allara said enthusiastically. “Those girls are so talented with their needles.”
The kitchen was large and a fire was blazing in the hearth to the right of the door where a woman in her late-twenties was pouring tea into two fine cups, whilst a second, a little younger, cut a rich brown cake into slices, two tiny children hiding amid her skirts.
“Your Grace.” Hella, Dettar’s wife, curtsied deeply, followed by Jenfer, with the two small twins – and they all swept off further into the house, leaving their elders alone. The sounds of small children chattering and a baby crying fitfully could be heard elsewhere through that doorway.
“Please, sit down, Sarant.” Allara gestured, setting the cups of tea on the fire side of the scrubbed table, and Sarant sank into one of the handmade chairs in front of the fire place as she took the other. “You look tense, your Grace, please tell me what’s been happening. Most of the news we have had has been rather garbled.”
“I’m not surprised.” He replied drily. “It’s been quite ridiculous ever since Ethrayne and Jerryn were betrothed, frankly -.” And he began to try and explain the events from then on, between sips of tea and bites of cake. “It’s been a great honour – but the responsibility is vast, to my mind – and the razine Archpriest – ex-Archpriest – was far too quick to support training Ethie up to use weapons, I think.” He concluded, a while later, after a second cup of tea.
“But have you asked this Archpriest why? He is a servant of Arven, Sarant – he would not lie to you.” Allara stated confidently.
“Oh, I know, Allara, dear, I know – but they are both so young. The old tales of the jajozeli Generals make the blood run cold, don’t they?”
“Yes indeed.” She agreed with a sigh. “But if everything is prophesied, imagine! What sort of world do we live in?” She asked wonderingly, and shook her head. “Our God would hardly choose to place his champions in mortal danger, would he? Or there would be no point to it at all – the Betrayer would have won all those centuries ago and we’d probably be worshipping him instead!”
“Arven protect us all!” Sarant prayed intensely and shuddered. “I am sorry to burden you, Allara -.”
“That’s what friends are for, sometimes, Sarant my dear. Now, tell me about both of those betrothals, do – what our girls wore, how they looked – I want every detail, your Grace, I warn you.”
A moment later, Lord Faylls strode in with his eldest son, Dettar, both looking rather hot and mud-stained after their hard morning’s work.
“Sarant, this is a pleasant surprise. What could have dragged you away from the capital city, hey?” The large, strong man rocked on his heels with a booming laugh. “Still, you are looking well, your Grace.”
“Cleaner than you, certainly, my Lord Faylls.” Sarant commented dryly at once.
“When was the last time you ever exerted yourself, unless it’s over your beloved horses, hey?” Faylls responded easily – the men were such firm friends that such insults were somehow customary in their everyday conversations. “Have you visited Home Farm yet, hmm? I’m amazed you weren’t there at dawn, counting your horses and bushels of grain.”
“Actually, I’m calling in after I leave you, my Lord, to see whether Salyr is coping without me. I knew you would want many more details on how Lyria is finding the capital.” Sarant replied. “I think this extra time in the palace – so unexpected, along with everything else, is bringing her out of her shell – although she is sorely missing Pualyn.”
“It would hardly have been appropriate for their wedding to be rushed through.” Faylls asserted. “He is your heir – representing the entire kingdom, gallivanting far across the ocean – I hope he’s enjoying himself, it must be amazing, travelling so far. Yes, it is far better to have delayed their wedding, Sarant.”
“I am very glad that you both agree, old friend. Lyria has conducted herself so very properly – it seems that even some of the lower members of the court have finally deigned to notice her existence.” Sarant shook his head. “The fact that she was simply a lovely young woman obviously didn’t count for much – stupid!” He commented on those who seemed to view the world in such a frivolous way. “I am hoping to bring the family back before the end of Vhisson and you can return to Tenum with us for both state wedding – it’s only right.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Allara said with a sigh. “It’s been years since we were in the capital, Faylls – it must have been Jerryn’s Naming Day – We could not attend the Queen’s funeral because half the children had measles.”
“Yes, I remember: practically all at once, wasn’t it?” Sarant answered. “Well, it’s time you returned, old friends, at least to see your daughter dazzle the court with her beauty and then Ethrayne I imagine – as long as you can clean him up, Allara.”
Dettar, who was drying his hands on a towel, laughed aloud at that, but his father nobly ignored the dig.
*
Duke Sarant took his luncheon with his friends and their extended family and his guards were fed alongside the farm hands. It was early afternoon before he reached Home Farm and heading on for dinner time when he left, very well pleased with how the crops and usual tasks were progressing; the Stud was expanding with new foals gambolling in the fields and new orders for trained mounts – and Salyr’s family likewise, for Faylls’s third son was clearly trying to match his brothers and their wives fecundity, for Deanne was expecting her third child. The Stud was definitely proving to be a profitable sideline – which was fortunate, with two weddings due before the end of the year. Despite the confusion elsewhere in his life and the world, it was immensely reassuring to discover that certain parts were succeeding without his direct input.
“I’m not sure you even need me at all.” He grumbled rather wistfully to Thomur, whilst they ate the excellent meal served by the castle kitchen that evening. “Salyr is running Home Farm far better than I was managing it all – and here you are, with everything oiled and running utterly smoothly – I might as well resign.”
“Ah, but do not forget that the efficiency of your staff throws a marvellous glowing light upon you as Duke, your Grace – for you hired us all and trained us.” Thomur answered with a grin. “You can consider on how the successes of the Council similarly reflects upon his Majesty.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Sarant asked, smiling.
“Of course, Sarant, you have hardly smiled at all since you’ve been home.” The man commented and grimaced. “Everyone’s feeling it, of course, but I’m sure the future won’t prove as fearful as you suggest – and Ethrayne and Jerryn are both very sensible young people. And young people always seem to be eminently adaptable as a species.”
“You are right, Thomur – but, you know -.” Sarant shrugged and offered a grimace of his own. “I’ll be glad when Ethie’s got her own arms and mail – the thought of powerful, magical enemies bent on destroying Arven fills me with horror . . . I know we trust the Archpriests and Arven too, yet I admit that it’s bloody hard sometimes!”
“You need less thinking and more action, your Grace – more combat practice will ease your worries.” The Reeve advised calmly.
“Only if you join me, old friend – us old men have to stick together in the face of all those youngsters.”
“What, me? You’re joking!” Thomur protested, then sighed and shook his head, sighing deeply. “Dear Arven, Sarant, I’m too old!”
“If Ethie can do it, so must you, Thomur – Marrand and I have started exercises again, you know. I’ll see you at breakfast, all ready to start.” Sarant said, smiling – it wasn’t a command. “And I’ve got to lose a little weight – I really don’t want to have to be measured for new clothes for the weddings.”
Oh, all right, Sarant – you speak too much sense, but I’ve no idea where my weapons have been stored.” Thomur conceded with a sigh.
*
The exercise proved vigorous, but it did serve to improve the Duke’s mood anew before he faced the next bale of paperwork, scrolls and agreements that required his ratification and – however formal or informal, all signed for by Thomur over the spring months. That work, along with the numerous meetings that Sarant had to organise with various tenants, businessmen and the local military headquarters; advancing the King’s request for combat training, the amalgamation of stores of food and equipment, plus general preparations for any action. It was just as intense as all the meetings he had attended in Tenum City and just as important.
Sarant did manage to invite Faylls and Allara to dinner on two occasions, including Thomur and some other local dignitaries and continuing the discussions regarding their daughter and his own – but they were short interludes amid all the work. Three days passed before he could finally bid farewell to his friends and servants and set off back to Tenum City with a lighter heart.
* * *
The forces that had been amassed in Cal’Badon were well on their way northward by the time that General Tequan had returned from the carefully orchestrated attack on Fansport – the exceedingly demanding preparations he and his subordinates had made, had ensured that large amounts of foodstuffs and equipment were already stockpiled along the well-defined route through the steep, winding valleys of the Astoln and Lerracon Mountains and across the Chellason Plateau to N’Astoln, the large fort to the east of the Astoln Mountains.
With excellent food supplies, clothing and footwear, in addition to their extensive training, the companies of the jajozeli army made their individual way to N’Astoln for a few days of rest, before continuing on their way. The considerable journey they undertook was concluded with very few problems, overall, such was the scale of the army’s superior logistics – barring the occasional accidents, of course, such as avalanches and rock-falls. Even the notoriously harsh weather of the mountainous regions, as likely in summer as any other season, seemed to cooperate with their advance and their Master’s wishes.
Moving each thousand as an individual unit was easier by far than trying to coordinate the advance of larger numbers together – and it might have taken less time, overall, than trying to cram snaking miles of troops through the harsh icy peaks and treacherous ravines and valleys – spring had barely made much of an impression at all on the harsh landscape when the first group had set out, carting the extra supplies allotted to them.
And so, by mid Kharase, the eighth moon, thirty thousand men had passed through N’Astoln, their passing engraved into the very ground they had crossed – a snaking, earth-coloured scar through the plateau and the empty hills beyond, north and east.
The soldiers were now amassed in six stoutly constructed forts of strong wooden palisades, living in dun-coloured tents, in the largely uninhabited lands on the southern border of Tenarum, south of Clirensar’s bounds, lands of wide forests and grassland, where wildlife teemed, beyond the scope of the villages and farms of the region. Patrols now ranged through the countryside both by day and night, eliminating every person they came across – herder, hunter or miner, exploring the countryside – so that no one could possibly raise the alarm that the enemy were encamped on their very doorstep. Morale was high: they were well sheltered, well fed and they were eagerly anticipating the action ahead, confident of their abilities and dismissive in the extreme of the native humans of this land.
General Tequan rode in to the central fort on a drizzly afternoon with four thousand cavalry at his back, to huge enthusiasm from the troops at large and he turned in his saddle to grin at the two Generals who accompanied him – one, the blonde, blue-eyed razine who had sought to frighten the Wielders of the Flame in Tenum City; the other a tall, slender, pretty woman with short cropped white-blonde hair and sparkling hazel eyes, all wearing long, dark cloaks stained from long travel over their plain, dusty clothing, their weapons prominent.
“They seem pleased to see you, my Lord Tequan.” She said quite respectfully.
“They’re just glad they’ve stopped walking, Cavaln.” Ackat offered with a laugh. “Of course, we’ve still some distance to travel -.”
“General Ackat, must you turn everything into a joke?” Tequan asked rather shortly, but chuckled. “The camps look well built – not too muddy, neat. You’ve done well, Jaike.” He complimented the thin-faced and skinny, green-eyed General who had come out to meet them, as he dismounted and turned towards the pavilion ahead.
“Thank you, my Lord Tequan.” He answered politely. “Did you have a good journey?” He included the other Generals in the query and grinned at the woman’s grimace.
“I’m sick of riding, that’s for sure, Jaike.” She said, swinging down out of her saddle. “You look well – Cal’Badon agrees with you. I’ve not seen you since you left Ban’Ganleth, it must have been a year at least.”
“Aye it is – and you’ve been made General since I left. Congratulations, Cavaln.” He replied.
“Carry on the reunion later, youngsters.” Ackat grumbled as he dismounted, tossing his reins to a soldier and striding after Tequan, followed by Cavaln and Jaike shoulder to shoulder, very much the juniors.
Tequan and Ackat stood together over a table, undoing their cloaks and tossing them over one of the folding chairs, gazing at a detailed map of Zanezli, showing the broad lands that they had crossed – but the wide portion north of the Astoln Mountains was mostly empty of detail.
“How are the preparations coming on?” Tequan asked, stretching massively. He was a large razine, at least six foot eight tall and bulky at chest and shoulders with hard muscle. His skin was slightly browner in tone than the other three razine and he had shaggy reddish hair and an even redder, coarse-haired beard and moustache, which was not usual amongst the jajozeli, who tended to be clean shaven as a group. Even in plain travelling clothes, shirt, jerkin and leggings, dusty and well creased, he was imposing.
“Everything is in place, my Lord Commander and our daily rounds of scouts are updating the map, as you ordered –.” The younger male General assured him as he moved to a second table and began to pour three silver goblets of dark wine from a skin, then handing them out. “Would you like the full briefing now? Or would you prefer a bath first and something to eat, Sir?”
Tequan sipped the wine, nodded at the flavour, then glanced first at Cavaln and then at Ackat, grinning toothily. “Well, put like that, Jaike, I must say that a hot bath would be most pleasant.”
“Then, if you will follow me through here, I will show you our domestic arrangements.” Jaike said, smiling back. “We’ve not quite got the amenities of Ban’Ganleth, or even N’Astoln, but it’s comfortable.” He led them through a covered doorway to the back of that room into a pleasantly furnished sitting room with folding chairs, cushions, carpets woven in bright colours and a few low tables. There were further cloth-covered doorways to the left and right walls. “Cavaln, if you please?” Jaike bowed and gestured to the right, so the woman strode through that doorway, her cloak over one arm, the wine goblet in her other hand. “Gentlemen, this way to your baths.” Jaike headed to the left, the two older Generals behind him.
The tent room they entered was carpeted and held two narrow camp beds, a small table, two stools and two wooden tubs – not large, but nicely full of steaming water, with soap, ewers full of hot water and two piles of towels all arranged within reach.
“Acceptable.” Tequan growled, nodding.
“I will return when you request, Commander.” Jaike said, bowing slightly and pulling the curtain over the door closed as he left them.
In a short space of time, the Generals had stripped off their travel-stained clothes and immersed themselves in the baths with sighs of enjoyment, relishing the touch of hot water after eight days of hard riding from N’Astoln – then fishing for the soap, of course.
Behind them, two servants bustled about quietly, setting out the items from their luggage; shaking out their packed clothes, removing their worn items and dusty boots. After a while, they returned with covered platters which they set on a table and quickly departed, as the Generals chatted, rinsed, and soaked. Then, sheeting water, first Tequan and then Ackat emerged, rejuvenated.
Jaike, Cavaln, we will meet in the next room when you’re ready.>; Tequan sent silently, rubbing himself down quickly with a towel, then at his wet hair before he started pulling on clean clothes. Ackat was already starting on his plate of fragrant stew, still wrapped in his towel. In addition to stew there was fresh bread and sharp cheese.
“Good cooks.” Ackat remarked, demolishing his food quickly before getting back to drying himself and dressing.
“Of course they are – the troops would be most upset if they had to eat mediocre food as well as sleep in tents for moons.” The Commander replied easily, spooning up his own meal just as quickly. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll bring these -.” Ackat picked up a plate of fruited honey cake with a grin. “And this, of course.” With plate and goblet, he led the way through the door and into the main central sitting room where the two young Generals were already sat waiting, Cavaln now in a loose linen shirt and leggings, her damp hair stuck up. Ackat and Tequan were similarly attired – plain, comfortable clothing perfect for camp.
“Right let’s talk – we’ll disseminate it to the others tomorrow.” General Tequan said, reaching for the pile of maps that Jaike had set on the central table, sitting down.
The four of them spent the evening until darkness had fallen outside the then lamp-lit tent, going over their original itinerary and plans; discussing recent developments and local events and scrutinising reports. Fortified by more wine and the occasional honey cake, they refined their purpose, ready for the large meeting due the next morning and retired late.
*
The day dawned and General Tequan and his staff breakfasted on steaks, scrambled eggs and fresh bread as they reviewed the up dated portions of the maps of the region, north of the Astoln Mountains – an area of wilderness, it seemed, at first glance.
“What is the countryside like?” He enquired. “It’s quite rugged, riding through.”
“It is sparsely populated, this far south of the Vale of Clirensar, but there are pockets of hamlets and villages dotted about near farms; charcoal makers and some rough mines, both iron ore and coal – very randomly spaced, of course.” Captain Reddessor reported. He was the head of the scouts that were ranging through the land, a thin man of middle height, with a weather-beaten face. “The countryside is a little wild, but the woods and hills will provide excellent cover and the few roads are well constructed and they all lead to Clirensar.” He chuckled.
“Yes, they do, don’t they?” Commander Tequan agreed, grinning. “But I want many more details about these settlements before we can advance – and I want them quickly!”
“The latest groups of scouts are scheduled to return throughout today and on into tomorrow, my Lord General.” Reddessor assured him. “I am confident that we will be able to put together the beginnings of a final approach for your campaign by tomorrow evening.”
“Then see that it is so.” The General answered. “How are we for supplies, Colonel?” He demanded of Colonel Macasse, who was in overall charge of logistics, under General Jaike.
“We have stockpiled food enough for six months, my Lord General and there are warehouses full in N’Astoln and Cal’Badon as contingencies – the supplies from Cal’Badon are being brought steadily north to the fort. Also, my Lord General, it is almost harvest time here. If we advance carefully – and do not stamp rough-shod over the fields – the local farms should be able to support us very well.”
“Carefully is certainly what we intend.” Tequan confirmed, scanning the faces around him. “It may take a little longer, but consider the glory if we succeed – and the horror of the folk of this land and the razine!” And he laughed as if in anticipation of such success.
*
The camps were spread out along a broad, shallow valley that had a narrow river meandering through its centre, through rough stands of willows and alder and thick undergrowth. There was plenty of land above the river level so that they could have comfortably constructed two or three more forts in the available space, and none of the sites was small – there was plenty of space for the soldiers camping there.
All the forts were intrinsically identical – neatly laid out and well-spaced, with straight lanes between the lines of tents that were set almost precisely throughout – and large fenced areas had been constructed to contain the horses that they had brought with them, close to the central points of each wall – and those outer walls were uniform, and there were even watch towers set some five feet above their tops at the corners – the wooden framework was very well built of logs. Even the storage for the massive piles of supplies was planned, set in a fenced area in the centre of each fort, neatly arranged, marked and closely guarded. Security was very much in evidence – there were constant patrols on the outer edges of the valley and sentries on every possible approach. Thus, Commander Tequan had deliberately chosen this area for his purpose, because its remoteness was ideal: the valley was at least six leagues from any known habitation.
Even after a thousand years or so, despite the relatively recent expansion of settlers because of the iron and steel industry, the countryside two days travel south and west of the city of Clirensar was largely empty.
The jajozeli patrols, accompanied by Generals who could sense the presence of any native human intruders, were circling the area to ensure that any travellers vanished without a trace. And, since the local population was mostly almost entirely focussed on getting in the harvest during the good weather, there were relatively few of these – the movement of the harvest to market would occur later, of course.
When they were not on duty, the jajozeli soldiers rested. They gambled a little for small coins or duties; wrestled; practised their sparring skills, or archery – and ate large meals, expertly prepared and slept, regaining their energy and bulk after their long march from Cal’Badon. The patrols kept changing, engaging the ordinary soldiers in sequence along with the expert trackers. Consequently, morale and discipline were high in all the camps. The days passed slowly but steadily as the late summer days continued, mostly bright and sunny – it was better weather than anyone could have hoped for, all in all.
*
General Cavaln joined one of the patrols out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity. Only ten moons previously, she had been a senior cadet in Ban’Ganleth, one of fifty razine youngsters who had excelled in their year at the very exacting training regime undertaken by all aspirants to the rank of General – and she was the first ever woman to have sought to succeed in such a supremely masculine role. A General was the Emperor’s representative right across the Empire – commander of soldiers, governor, mayor, leader. They were exclusively razine, and all very able, although their abilities might range from healing to mind-reading and every talent in-between. Cavaln’s speciality was healing. She had far surpassed everyone’s expectations, including her own – apart from her great uncle, Lord Governor Doreth, the Emperor’s second-in-command.
Having spent her childhood in the palace in Ban’Ganleth, with a handful of male cousins and surrounded by far more men than women, perhaps it was inevitable that the young woman would throw convention to the wind, abandon the usual rather easy and elegant life of jajozeli-razine femininity and strive to succeed in the hardest training regime on Iullyn. She didn’t want to be an ornament, or a plaything – or even a conventional healer. She wanted the sort of life – the sort of excitement – that the males enjoyed.
The emperor had viewed her determination, dedication and hard work with amusement, but there had been no concessions at all made in her training – she had had to compete directly in every subject with all the youths who had been accepted as cadets. Still, she had finished at the top of the school in every discipline except hand-to-hand combat – and there she had still been second in the year.
On attaining the rank of General, wined, dined and feted throughout the city, Cavaln had imagined that her life would be transformed – and she would swiftly embark on risky missions on behalf of her ruler, despite all logic. Yet, she had been in Zanezli for three moons now, had travelled for one – and she was bored stiff, with the remit clear: a return to waiting.
Riding out with six burly men, the young General ignored their behaviour: their sideways glances and elaborate courtesy. She was easily far older than all of them and better trained in every form of combat they could imagine – the natural arrogance of her race could never be easily erased – and her rank and all that it entailed and meant, was paramount. Simply because she might be the first female General in history, meant nothing at all.
The countryside north and east of the hidden camps was mostly wooded and rather beautiful, in an unkempt sort of way. They rode until noon, through hills and valleys, through woodland and meadows stuffed with wildlife, going steadily rather than rushing, alert for anything at all – but all they saw were animals and lots of birds, all vanishing quickly into the undergrowth or treetops ahead of them. As the sun began its slow descent towards the distant west, they stopped by a purling stream to eat a lunch of cold meat between slices of bread, dried fruit, honey cake and cold water – simple, but sustaining.
General Cavaln led them in a rough loop back towards their hidden valley, circling further away from the foothills to the south that climbed relentlessly towards the distant wall of the Astoln Mountains. They passed some evidence of human habitation – tumbled walls covered in moss and undergrowth and many equally tangled holes in the ground, some quite large – clear evidence of the long-standing search for iron ore. In this place the seam had obviously all been removed and the miners had long-since moved on. At one point, the group struck what seemed to be the overgrown remnants of a track and paused.
“We had better follow it.” Cavaln said, frowning a little. “I don’t recall seeing this from the map that Lord Commander Tequan is amalgamating.”
“Aye, Ma’am.” The corporal agreed. “And we’ll need some meat to add to our meal later if we’re still out overnight.”
“Yes, set one of the men to bring down game, Corporal.” She answered, and marked the rough position of the track on her own copied chart, using a charcoal stick, glancing up and down, orienting herself with the sun’s position. “I’m not even sure if this was ever a road – it’s very winding. Let’s move on.” She did not add the rejoinder ‘advance carefully’ – it had been ingrained deep in every soldier – and led their way roughly northward, the soldiers spaced out behind and advancing through the undergrowth as well as along the faint trail, whilst one man moved out to the right on foot, stringing up his bow.
We have located what may be an old road, Lord General.>; Cavaln reported to Tequan as they continued through the afternoon, her eyes constantly moving, scanning and assessing, her mind probing. I will contact you this evening, if we have not returned.>;
Thank you. Good hunting.>; The Commander replied and returned his attention to what he had been concentrating on, back in the command centre.
The further they advanced, through the rough undergrowth and old woodland, moving up and down hills and along little valleys, the more convinced Cavaln became that they were riding along a road, or at least a lane, for they had passed a few places where the ground had been cut away on slopes to provide a flatter surface, as would be wanted for building houses; and once they had crossed a stream where parts of mostly rotten logs were visible, resting on squared-off stones, some still stacked one on another, the rest tumbled into the stream and onto the steep banks – the remains of a bridge.
It was nearly sunset when the group made camp, in a copse of the almost ubiquitous sweet chestnut that seemed to thrive in this area north of the mountains, so well protected and situated close to a bubbling spring surrounded by grazing. One man was collecting firewood, whilst the corporal started a fire with his sparker, in a protected hollow; two soldiers were unsaddling the horses and checking them over, whilst the fifth was sorting their food supplies and the last, who had gone hunting, was dressing the double-brace of fowl that he had shot. General Cavaln seemed to be resting, leaning against a smooth tree trunk, relaying exactly what they had seen that day to General Ackat, having travelled a good eight leagues or so through the tumbled land.
So, are there any signs of people?>; Ackat asked.
No, not really, my Lord, only a few ruins spaced out and the remains of ore mines. I think the locals abandoned the area at least half a century ago, for civilisation - the ore must have proved sparser than they hoped. Shall we continue to follow the road in the morning?>; Cavaln asked. She knew that, technically, she was his equal, but the habits of over a decade’s diffidence in training were hard to break.
You’re in charge, General Cavaln. We’re not going anywhere in a hurry – see you when you get back.>; He replied easily, with amusement in his voice.
After toasting the fowl on green sticks and eating it with the last of their fresh bread, making tea, they let the fire go out – they now had cooked meat enough for breakfast, along with the twice-baked journey cakes that all the jajozeli kept in their packs along with dried fruit. It was not cold weather and they were well sheltered in the copse. As darkness settled in, they lay down to sleep, wrapped in their cloaks, one soldier standing guard.
Cavaln slept soundly until before dawn, despite the relieving of the guard by his fellow, waking fully alert before the eastern horizon had even begun to lighten. She stepped away from the motionless forms of the soldiers, passed the man on guard and climbed up the hill north of the camp, her eyesight good enough even in the night to find a clear way through the woodland. She stopped by an ancient oak, stretched out the kinks of sleeping on the ground, and reached out with her power to sense any lucid minds beyond where she stood – easing outwards very gently as she had been taught . . . Further and further she stretched her touch as the first light of dawn sent the darkness suddenly fleeing towards the west and the stars faded . . . And – there! Cavaln smiled, for the touch of minds was quite unmistakeable, only a few leagues ahead – humans and undoubtedly Tenareans. She concentrated on them and assessed the number as between three and five, conscious that others might still be asleep, then put a fix on the rough location – this group of natives would be quickly eliminated.
She returned to the group, now stirring, and began to eat her breakfast, quickly planning her strategy.
*
The barely distinguishable trail now ran through more managed woodland – coppicing was much in evidence and there were clear tracks where the cut wood had been dragged out by horses. After nearly two leagues of gentler rolling hills, the two scouts that she had sent out returned, grinning.
“There’s a valley ahead – twelve cottages, fields and a shrine of some sort, plus plenty of cover, Ma’am. There’re belts of trees between some of the fields.” The older of the two reported.
“Very good.” Cavaln nodded. “Let’s go and have a look-see, and coordinate – with only twelve little cottages there might only be a handful of men, but there might be more. Hellear, circle the valley – you know what we require.”
“Yes Ma’am.” The older man bowed his head formally. “I won’t be long.”
The six of them moved slowly forward, the General again using her talent to check that they were alone in the woods, until the group were hidden behind an overgrown mass of hazel, ivy and bramble at least twenty feet across that was close enough to the edge of the wood that they could see the hamlet, but not all that clearly – buildings were hidden behind orchard trees and each other and although some people were visible in the fields in the valley, there was also the strident clang of iron on the air. Children darted about between fowl, shrieking, playing, as two women hung up washing on lines strung between some of the apple trees. It looked peaceful and bucolic – the villagers were in no way aware of the presence of hostile forces.
Hellear returned, leading his horse and made a concise report. The village was pretty much as they had seen: twelve little cottages; storage buildings; byres and pigsties and a blacksmith rather than a foundry or smelting pit – so Cavaln’s initial assessment on the number of men was probably accurate.
It did not take long to finalise their plans, although the Corporal suggested diffidently that General Cavaln ride in alone and take their attention for the few vital moments required – which she rejected.
“These are farmers and their families. They might have tools that they can use as weapons, but we have weapons enough and many years of training – and the element of surprise. Remember to leave the fields and animals: we will take the stores back to camp.” She ordered. “And watch out for pitchforks and sledgehammers!” She added, remounting her horse. “Farm tools are always lethal – in the wrong hands!”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Seven riders appearing out of the thick woodland at a gallop – three from the left and four from the right – without any warning at all, presaged the end of the hamlet before noon. Even as in Fansport, the jajozeli was merciless. The only saving grace was that they killed everyone there – man, woman and child – quickly; only the blacksmith really tried to defend himself, hefting a four-foot length of wrought iron like a club. The unexpected attack completely disarmed the ten or eleven other men in the settlement and the rest were easily rounded up from field and cottage – and their helpless terror and bewilderment was pleasant to see, as the attackers wielded their sharp weapons to devastating effect – especially when they saw the pretty blonde woman enjoying the slaughter as much as any of the others.
General Cavaln then ordered the soldiers to gather up the food stocks from the houses and the iron from the forge; they loaded up the few horses in the hamlet with this and they set off back towards the south. She had already given the hamlet’s location to General Tequan and a larger group of soldiers would be on their way to collect the farm produce and animals, whilst a second patrol would follow the lane from this valley back towards the north and civilisation.
Cavaln was quietly pleased as they rode back into the wooded hills – this, her first trip out as a leader since becoming a General and she had found something that the other Generals had missed. She hoped, inwardly, that her success would continue and the Commander would give her a favourable report.
Much later that evening, back in the command centre and hiding a few ridiculous nerves, Cavaln made her report to Tequan and his staff, even before removing her cloak. The Generals asked pertinent questions and she answered promptly, receiving a nod of approval from the Commander.
“Good instincts, Cavaln, thank you.” Tequan said. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cavaln sank onto a camp stool and took the goblet of wine that Ackat handed to her with a quick smile.
“Jaike is leading the group that will follow that trail back towards the city and you have obtained some useful stores, Cavaln. I suggest that you eat, rest and then you can take out another patrol either tomorrow or the day after, as you prefer.” Tequan said easily. “You are a credit to our rank, young woman.”
“Thank you, sir.” She repeated and finally relaxed a little, taking a sip of wine, silently elated.
* * *
General Tequan’s delay was deliberate, as he waited there in that long valley south of Clirensar – he was waiting for a specific day on which to begin the advance. He and the sea-borne troops left behind in Cal’Badon had already arranged for a diversionary attack on the port of Orran, which would get the full attention of everyone in the realm.
A fleet of six ships had set out from Cal’Badon, carrying crews of soldiers and Generals, sailing with no identifying features. Although they were plainly jajozeli craft, out on the open ocean they had passed largely unseen, except at great distance, their provenance unclear as they headed north. Then, the ships had turned westward towards the wide mouth of the estuary, finally nearing their target as the sun had set. It was the night of the last day of Jawell, one – luckily – thick with moon- and star-blocking clouds, so the ships had continued without lights, unnoticed, sliding towards the well-lit city. Clear across the water came the accumulated noise of the taverns and inns close to the waterfront, although it was late – ports all over Iullyn tended, as a rule, to be a great deal rowdier than the far more staid settlements inland.
Three ships ran in close to the old jetties just downstream on the starboard side of the estuary, where the ancient wooden structures were rotting slowly into the estuarine mud. From them, three hundred soldiers scrambled down, moving carefully but quickly towards the modern stone-built wharves, their weapons already in their hands, bearing flasks of lamp oil and unlit torches as part of their arsenal. The ships tied up, simply hidden by the darkness, waiting for the signal that would tell them that their men had reached their goal – a small, bright flame flared up and was waved widely back and forth three times.
Even the most alert guards would have been hard-pressed to raise the alarm, for the black-clad, sooty-faced attackers simply appeared before them of the night to cut them down in near silence – apparently at one with the shadows – as the other three ships advanced and separated, casting quickly-ignited balls of fire over the ranks of fishing boats and other craft tied up over the water that separated them from the wharves with slingshots – the fire soaring into the night in beautiful, deadly parabolas, as the wooden machinery banged loudly, suddenly, as the sling arms crashed back down.
There were screams – shouts – and ships and boats of every description were soon ablaze, the flames spreading ridiculously quickly. Those caught on the boats or the lower wharves screamed with a different pitch of horror as the fire caught them, fanned by an on-shore breeze. The black-clad soldiers threw oil and torches at the warehouses and other buildings that formed the backdrop to the wharves, their disguise now rendered pretty useless as the night took fire – and they used their weapons with deadly effect on all and sundry they encountered in the area.
Confusion reigned. The air was soon full of smoke and sparks, fanned by that fateful breeze, pushing it inland and into the faces of the frightened people who attempted some sort of defence. The shouts and screams continued and only increased in volume – chaos quickly spread beyond the docks and into the city beyond, as Generals blasted the gates wide open.
The soldiers from the garrison and the castle found it hard to advance to the scene of conflict, simply because of the milling crowds that filled the streets and lanes, desperate to escape the spreading fire and the fighting. It took some time, time that they could not afford, but the defenders did rally, getting the panicked populace out of their way – and many civilians joined them, forming a defensive cordon that they tried to push towards the riverside, denying the attackers any further advance along the streets. As they pushed onwards, others – especially those with their livelihoods going up in flames – organised lines to get desperately needed water to the seat of the fires, around the fighting that was concentrated before the main street.
A number of jajozeli were killed – not all the locals or sailors who had been forced out of the taverns were inebriated or unarmed – but the vast majority of the attackers quite suddenly stepped back and vanished into the darkness – their task had been achieved: to cause mayhem and carnage before leaving as quickly as they had arrived. They reached their ships in short order, dodging around the fires and back to the sagging old jetties to the east. As the soldiers and civilians searched for them, or tried to restore order, the six ships tacked back out to sea, aided by the current, their mission accomplished at least as well as it’s architect could have wished.
The first light of dawn only served to highlight the destruction: boats burned and sunk; wharves, dwellings, businesses, warehouses and stock reduced to smouldering ash, or at the least damaged by smoke and water. Perhaps hundreds killed. The beacon fire had been lit shortly after the attack had begun, and the alerts had quickly spread inland: Orran attacked!
Lord Kierven had taken charge from Garrison Commander Taess shortly after the defenders had realised that their attackers had fled, the young man having had to overrule his advisors – outraged that this had occurred, already trying to figure out how to defend the port in the future and how to make the portside fireproof, as he walked through the ruins, as blackened by smut as everyone else, offering condolences and the assurance that such an attack could never succeed again.
All eyes turned to the threat that loomed from the coast, especially as two other fishing towns were burned to the ground simultaneously, two nights later, one ten leagues north of Orran, the other six leagues or so south past the mouth of the estuary.
*
Five days after this, the seventh day of Vhisson, General Tequan finally released his troops but, again, in a controlled manner. He led a three-pronged advance northward, using the updated maps to their best effect – utilising lanes and roads as arterial routes and the settlements along them as staging points. By the end of that first day, they had crushed all resistance in a rough line nearly eight leagues from the valley where they had been waiting – with the added benefit that the highly wooded landscape, the mainstay of the local iron smelting industry, hid their advance. By the end of the eighth day, the army was gathered on the edge of the great vale that surrounded the city of Clirensar, still enshrouded in the forests that protected the farmland bordering the river valley.
It was the afternoon of the ninth of Vhisson and Lord Faylls was discussing the sale of piglets with his second son, Heldor and Lady Allara when they heard the distant sound of a hunting horn from across the fields and woods towards Clirensar Home Farm. The sound, two short blasts repeated four times, was a warning call that was one of a code traditional in the region, dating back to when a band of outlaws had tried to carve out a niche of their own, whilst causing a great deal of trouble to the duke’s ancestors. Faylls’ sons, amongst many others, had learned the horn code and had used it on occasion – usually the warning entailed three short blasts repeated twice, this was the code used when livestock had escaped. This call, practised quietly and unused otherwise for centuries, as far as tradition knew, meant ‘danger, get families out now!’
“Oh, dear Arven!” Heldor cried out, just ahead of his parents.
“What on Iullyn is going on?” Allara asked, puzzled, looking about the nearly empty farmyard in surprise.
Faylls, however, being taller, could see above the pigsty to his left and was watching the approaching horsemen that had just emerged from the woodland that covered the hilltop beyond, riding quickly – men in dark gear, with the bright flash of steel in their hands.
“Run, Allara!” He shouted, brandishing his belt knife, whilst Heldor ran across to grab the pitchfork that had been left at the front of the barn doorway and Allara got up on the front step to look at what had taken her husband’s attention. Confused, amazed, the three of them stared at the riders, over twenty strong, as they raced across the turnip and carrot fields towards them – and then they noticed that there were more men, on foot, marching behind the riders – more than could be counted quickly.
The taking of Callorton and Clirensar Home Farm cost only three jajozeli lives – two killed by Heldor wielding the pitchfork with deadly accuracy and one by Dettar at the farmhouse, using a hastily grabbed scythe, but it was the most resistance that the enemy had yet faced.
General Cavaln, as the most junior of them, was charged with searching the buildings of both farms, for both were clearly far above the average type of rural dwellings that the jajozeli Generals had yet encountered. After reading the documentation gathered together by the group and handed to her, she reported to General Tequan later that evening in the Home Farm farmhouse – the soldiers accompanying the Generals had removed all the corpses to the barn for neatness.
“So, Cavaln, what have you discovered about these prosperous-seeming farmers?” The Commander asked, lounging by the hearth in the well-appointed kitchen, wine glass in hand.
“This farm is owned by the Duke of Clirensar, Sir – this is Home Farm, a farm and stud run by Salyon, third son of the minor noble who owned the farm across the fields – their daughter and youngest child is betrothed to the Duke’s son and heir, Pualyn.” Cavaln waved the parchment sheet that was Lyria’s letter to her parents. “Lyria is the Duchess’s lady-in-waiting – and apart from the details about clothes and jewels, there’s quite a lot of information about the daughter, Ethrayne and the prince.” She grinned widely. “Shall I -.”
“No, read it to me – I hate that Selithian scrawl.” Tequan ordered dismissively.
“Of course – well . . . I’ll condense what it says . . .” She frowned, scanning the page. “Ethrayne is apparently enjoying her combat lessons, although her friend is worried that she isn’t sleeping well – her and her betrothed’s days are full with combat and meetings with the Archpriests, the Council of Tenarum, the King and representatives of the western realms . . . The news of Fansport’s destruction is well-known and the warning beacons and messaging system across the kingdom seems to be well organised . . . the young woman has been elevated to the highest councils in the continent . . . Lyria is party to a great deal of information in and has passed it on rather well . . . the rest is mostly just personal.”
“We saw the effectiveness of the beacons after Orran was hit a few days ago.” Tequan agreed, nodding his head. “It was good to hear that – and that our presence has had such a positive effect upon their meagre defences.” He grinned broadly, his eyes glittering maliciously. “And now all their attention will be on the coast – fatally so. All we have to do is get inside the city walls without raising a general alarm – any ideas?”
Cavaln shook her head. “No, Sir, not yet.”
“The problem is solved!” Ackat’s voice sounded unexpectedly – and exultantly – from the doorway behind them and they turned. “We’ll use the duke’s excellent horses, of course. I’ll explain during dinner – it’s brilliantly simple, Tequan.” And he vanished back outside.
“Does he do that very often?” Cavaln asked drily, folding the parchment carefully.
“Just often enough to be bloody irritating.” Tequan replied with a sigh. “And don’t look impressed when he comes up with his idea – he’ll only get worse.”
Cavaln smothered a laugh at both his words and his tired tone.
“Oh, shut up and get yourself a drink, woman.”
General Ackat’s deceptively simple plan, related with a grin during a very nice meal that had been prepared by Salyon’s wife that morning, was received with grudging approval by the Commander. In fact, he actually smiled and nodded his respect and congratulated his colleague, toasting him with a glass of the wine that had been appropriated from the farm’s cellar.
“I like it, Ackat.” He admitted, finally. “Get it arranged.”
“Of course, Commander, I’m glad you approve.” And Ackat sat back, laughing merrily.
*
The next afternoon, it seemed that Salyon and six men entered Clirensar, riding ten of the Duke’s fine horses up through the city and, without any questioning and only a hearty ‘hello’ from the guards, to the castle’s stable courtyard, bearing baskets of soft fruits and fresh vegetables picked that morning from the fields. Ackat had ruthlessly questioned one of the few surviving people from Home Farm or Callorton – Tequan had decided, arbitrarily, that a few of the screaming, helpless women would make good prisoners – and discovered which of the dead bodies was Salyon’s, and so had made himself look identical to the man, to the hostages’ horror.
“Oh, thank you, Master Salyon!” Gushed a large woman in a plain grey gown, who had been crossing the courtyard with a milk pail in her hand as he and his men dismounted at an empty section of railing close to the lower range of buildings that climbed high above their heads into the towering castle. “I want to make jam and these raspberries will be perfect, and if you can send more fruit in seven days, the family should be back and your sister too – isn’t that wonderful?”
“The Duke’s family?” Ackat asked in oddly-accented Selithian and coughed two or three times. “Excuse me, I’ve got a bad throat – I sound awful. Now, that is good news!” And he smiled broadly, his eyes dancing.
“Come on in, Master and we will serve you and your men with ale – Steward Pellarse will be here shortly. Now, how is your lovely Deanne?”
“Oh, she and the children are fine, thank you.” Ackat followed the woman through the doorway ahead and into a wide corridor that had a number of doors off to both sides, with a larger door ahead leading into a massive kitchen where men and women, boys and girls, mostly all wearing grey clothes, worked industriously around large deal tables or at the huge fires. One man with greying brown hair, deep green eyes and a paunch tight under his green doublet, gave him cheerful greetings and a second man poured a huge tankard of foamy-topped ale. “Thank you, Pellarse – good health.” He recalled his time in Tenum City to stay in character, coughing again to explain his slightly odd voice. The mannerisms he had noted in the people in the capital, how they had spoken and how they had behaved, helped him stay in character – he had not dared to bring his weapons with him. Fortunately, the servants who actually knew the man that he was impersonating accepted him as he seemed, although he knew that he was probably not doing a very good job of it.
The ale was pleasant: cool, refreshing and with a nice bite of flavour – the jajozeli he had brought with him enjoyed it as they loitered around the courtyard, like workmen everywhere – taking a break where they could – ‘Salyon’ had just described them as farm-hands, dressed in plain tunics and jerkins from the farms, ordinary-looking soldiers from Tequan’s ranks, whom Ackat had chosen because they spoke fluent Selithian. They exchanged a little banter with passing servants, whistled appreciatively at a few maids.
Leaning against one side table, surrounded by people who were comfortable in his presence – Salyon’s presence – Ackat slowly sipped his ale and fished for information, thoroughly enjoying himself. The knowledgeable servants simply assumed that he was finding out as much as he could for the edification of his parents, since Duke Sarant had departed a few weeks previously and were happy to oblige. As the afternoon progressed, he found out rather a lot of information and managed to arrange a private dinner with Reeve Thomur besides – Salyon was practically a member of the ducal family, after all. He wandered about for a while - visiting the privy, ostensibly, then carefully poured a sleeping drug into the main part of the meal being prepared for the hundreds of staff in the castle. Then he slipped outside and quietly directed his patiently waiting men to disperse into the city, but with orders to congregate together by the tavern that they had passed earlier, a large establishment called The Duke’s Arms, at sunset. Then, laughing as if at a joke, he returned to the kitchen where Thomur was giving directions to the staff.
Reeve Thomur was the perfect host, he found and the man was pleased to dominate the conversation, filling ‘Master Salyon’ in on recent developments – the weapons and chain mail awaiting the Duke’s approval in Dark Fell; latest news from the razine aboard the Pearl and Opal ships; information regarding the terribly night-time assaults on Orran, Elport and Arnaport. Ackat appreciated the meal, including the dessert featuring the raspberries that he had picked that morning, answering and commenting as appropriate to Thomur’s conversation – he hardly needed to think at all.
As the evening advanced, he gently used his innate power to tire the talkative Reeve, nudging him mentally towards the idea that he really wanted to go off to bed – he actually helped the man up to his bedroom, using his power to knock him into sleep even though it was so early. Then, unobtrusively, even as he had done in Tenum’s palace, he slipped silently and unnoticed through the castle – pouring a second sleeping draught into the beer jugs set out for evening refreshment – this was a well-provisioned kitchen in a prosperous castle. Even the servants were well looked after here, it seemed.
The jajozelis’ purpose was conquest, but conquest with a difference – one that would go hopefully entirely unnoticed beyond the northern fringes of the broad Clirensar Vale, at least for the time it would take to see the army well established and well protected in the area. That was Commander Tequan’s intent, with his Master’s approval - and his fellow Generals would follow his lead to the end.
Walking with purpose, the General used his power again to send those men on guard duty into a deep sleep – soon, he passed a couple of snoring soldiers at the side-gate of the main entrance, and saw more dotted about in the dimming light – their threat eliminated. Unlocking the two main sets of gates that led out into the city, as full night fell, the darkness hiding and muffling the slight differences that he wanted unnoticed, although he left them closed, Ackat finally changed his appearance back to his original form and walked quietly down the steep, empty streets – there were night watch-men marching around the city, but he avoided them easily, heading to the huge square and the tavern where he had ordered his men to meet up together at sunset.
He slipped past the dark tavern into the wide, unlit alley that led to a slightly run-down but spacious stable yard secreted behind it’s cramped rear yard – and his men were waiting here, out of sight, but not alone – About seventy men had wandered in, singly or in twos, unchallenged, at the main gates, and had just made their way through the city, walking idly, looking around for important landmarks and the barracks, plainly dressed and unarmed. Thirty other jajozeli soldiers had entered the city throughout the day in small groups, bringing in six purloined carts between them that were loaded with more farm produce from Callorton and Home Farm. Under the eggs and fruit and vegetables, however, all their weapons had been hidden under close-packed straw in the beds of the carts. At General Cavaln’s suggestion, they had ranged about the city markets and had sold their stolen harvest, bartering with housewives and innkeepers, making a tidy sum. They had used their selling to be quietly prominent, looking for their fellows, and giving them quiet directions to the stable as a safe-house for meeting later.
After concluding their business, they had stowed the carts securely in the stable near to sunset – offering the trusting owner a few un-sold vegetables and a few coins, before – having ascertained that his family lived above the stable and his assistants had left for the day, they had efficiently slaughtered the family, out of sight in their modest home and had simply waited, having latched the stable doors shut, feeding and watering the horses.
Ackat rapped on the door, and the lock was removed with a scrape of iron before one wide door swung slightly open. “Are you ready?” He asked simply, slipping inside and scanning the space that was dimly lit with a few horn lanterns, where the men got quickly to their feet. “Has there been any trouble?”
“No, Lord General.” His captain replied with a salute, rather incongruous in his farm tunic. “It’s been quiet, no interference, no alarms have been raised.”
“Excellent. Let’s get prepared.” He moved to the nearest cart, where the bundles of clothing and the weapons were laid neatly out. Ackat simply stripped off the garb of a moderately wealthy farmer that did not fit his true frame, replacing them with the grey silk tunic and black leather jerkin and leggings – the workaday uniform of a General, whilst his men changed into their plain black padded tunics, ranged around the space out of his way, ignoring the snorts of the horses in the stalls.
Ackat pulled his own weapons from the pile, buckling on his sword belt, settling it comfortably at his hips. He didn’t bother with chain mail or any ordinary personal protection, although the soldiers rang and made scraping noises as they hauled their own mail shirts on, puffing slightly.
“Well, you know what to do, men: eliminate the sentries on the city walls and the gates; open the city gates; neutralise any barracks; secure the city and castle gates.” He ordered crisply. “There are only about a hundred of you, so move carefully – if they don’t know we’re here, we have free-rein. Silence is the watchword. The last thing the Commander wants is the population alerted to our presence until dawn breaks – and by then it will be far too late!”
There was a murmured chorus of “yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Ejas.” Ackat looked at the officer, a burly man with grey hair and a scarred face with flat eyes. “You’re with me – we will hold the castle gates until Tequan’s forces are inside the city walls.”
“Aye, my Lord General.” The man grinned briefly. “They’re going to have a big shock come morning.”
“Oh yes.” Ackat agreed, his eyes glittering coldly. “Let’s move out.”
Ackat took about twenty soldiers with him, and the remaining group of eighty split up under the captain, their purposes clear: the sentries on the outer walls, the guards on the gates, their fellows on duty around their barracks, all unaware of the lethal force advancing in their midst – the taking of Clirensar occurred with a surprising minimum of reaction from the natives. Moving silently, or as near as possible, the jajozeli eliminated all opposition with their characteristic brutality.
* * *
General Tequan led a force of ten thousand men who filed into the city shortly after the taking of the city gates in the south wall, having advanced from the cover of the woods around Home Farm after dark, sure of their invisibility due to the soldiers who had killed those in the farms and hamlets along the main roads. The rest of the army were now ranged out in the forests and woods likewise, hiding until their presence was required. With this significant army behind him, he was utterly confident of success: some of them took up position on the vacated walls, at the open gates; others patrolled, quietly killing the night watchmen they came across - for whom amongst them expected attack? Others were detailed to set up guard posts at significant junctions, whilst the rest walked into the two barracks – one in the centre of the city, the other in the castle complex on the crag far above – and killed the remaining soldiers.
Of course, some competent citizens were awake, sufficiently forewarned to fight back or shout warnings, but Ackat’s encouragement to sleep deeply, reinforced by the effect of the other Generals, had succeeded beyond any realistic expectations: most of the soldiers had been asleep, or drowsy – and now would never wake again. Those who did reach for their weapons, those who fought, were ruthlessly cut down.
General Cavaln led two hundred men through the city towards the citadel above the city, excitement pulsing through her. It was proving to be an exhilarating night, not least because the Commander had explained her presence in Tenarum, as the Emperor had not. Grinning, she joined Ackat and Lieutenant Ejas at the massive but ultimately useless castle gates, slipping inside. It was still some hours until dawn – the night was black.
“Shall we take the seat of Clirensar, Lord General?” She asked lightly, saluting him with her sword.
“Yes, why not? After you, Madam.” Ackat bowed slightly. “I think you will find the doors unlocked.”
*
Reeve Thomur was woken roughly from deep sleep, a cold blade laid hard against his throat. He opened his eyes in a mixture of confusion and alarm to see a dark clad woman with cold eyes stood over him, a long, sharp sword steady in her right hand, a burning torch in her left.
“Wha’-?” He began, blurrily.
“If you value your life, man, you will be silent.” The woman ordered coldly in accented Selithian. “On your feet – and don’t try anything: I move much faster than you!” Her face was an odd mixture of pale skin and deep shadow, but her eyes were clear – the look in them, deadly.
Scrambling out of bed in his nightshirt, Thomur did not seriously consider arguing, his mind was frozen with fear. He just could not believe this – how could this have happened? Who was this woman and where had she come from, in the middle of the night? The woman moved back lightly in her utilitarian male garb and held the weapon with practised ease in her gloved hand, keeping a good distance away from him. And he found that the realisation that the woman was about his own height even more unnerving.
His bedroom door opened and an even taller blond, blue-eyed man entered, staring at him as if he was a pile of filth, wearing clothes identical to the woman’s.
“Ah, Reeve Thomur, thank you so much for all the details of the duke’s family at dinner.” He said with a mocking smile at the frightened man. “I am General Ackat – you may remember me from earlier, looking like Master Salyon.” Thomur staggered, awed and stunned, when the tall figure suddenly seemed to shrink into a smaller, stockier, brown-haired man who was completely familiar to him, before enlarging back into the blonde stranger.
“Oh, dear Arven! Who – who are you?” Thomur dared to stammer, despite the sword blade still so cold at his throat, the need for some sort of answer taking precedence.
“I am General Ackat.” He repeated coolly. “This is my colleague, General Cavaln. Clirensar is ours – you now belong to the Emperor of the Jajozeli. You will accompany General Cavaln to the Lady Ethrayne’s rooms, understand?” Ackat’s own sword was moved in his hand, gleaming in the torchlight as the point was laid, with a slight push, against his groin. “She loves slaughter, so I strongly suggest that you cooperate with her every word. Go!”
Thomur gulped. Barefoot, his legs pale and thin below the edge of the nightshirt, in the light of the torch, his heart beating with terrible fear, he led Cavaln along the empty corridor from his modest room in the staff quarters, up some stairs and along a rather convoluted route that led to a far wider, more elegantly decorated passage where the doorframes were made of carefully carved stone arches, the doors of oak, the plain white walls covered in bright hangings, some parts standing out starkly in the torchlight, whilst other areas were black and shadowed. It was unnerving, walking along corridors where he now knew the castle guards had been eliminated – but, of course, many of the internal guards had been mostly stood down to normal duties, since the family were absent. It was unbelievable – but, strangely, the castle felt alien, unfriendly, as it had never done before.
“This – this is Lady Ethrayne’s suite, my – my lady.” The Reeve said in a shivering voice, pointing at the last door on the right and gazing at the woman behind him with trepidation, with the sword still steady in her hand – guessing with yet another jolt of unease that she probably was a lot quicker at sword fighting than he was. She certainly looked deadly enough!
“So you will open the door carefully, fool, or I’ll end your life in a breath!” The General ordered coldly. “Does anyone sleep here?”
“Well – er – y-yes, Lady, they do . . . Sallie and Fionn, actually, they sleep in the room next to Lady Ethrayne’s bedroom –.” The man replied quickly, reaching one shaking hand to the ornate latch, lifting it and pushing open the door to reveal a night-shrouded room that came suddenly into life as Cavaln entered on his heel – a pleasant rectangular sitting room was revealed, with deep blue velvet curtains at the windows, a thick, multicoloured carpet that muffled the woman’s booted footsteps and felt lovely, soft and warm against Thomur’s chilly, bare feet, upholstered chairs and a settee arranged around a wide fireplace in the centre of one long wall, and other items of furniture – a sideboard and a circular table and chairs to the left, and a range of shelving to the right, both containing a range of books, scrolls, quills, ink pots, ornaments and so on.
“Hmm.” The woman said. “Through there?” She pointed with the sword to a door in the opposite wall.
“E-Ethrayne’s bed-bedroom is that way, lady.” Thomur stammered, inching forward uncertainly.
“Lead on, fool.” She ordered shortly, pausing to light a pair of lamps and a candle as she passed the table, and glanced quickly at the well-worn, polished sideboard that held obviously personal items.
There was a smaller, still comfortable-looking room containing other items of furniture and two large windows, beyond, where a beautiful gown sat on a roughly body-shaped dummy, ornate, with gold and silver embroidery gleaming on the pale blue silk of the bodice, sleeves and hemline, surrounded by a wealth of sewing equipment and threads and fabrics. There was a further door that led to a large bedroom containing a massive four posted bed with old tapestry hangings, pristine white bed linen, colourful cushions and a neatly folded patchwork coverlet that looked to be made of bits of dress fabric. The carpet was nearly as ornate as the one in the sitting room, and there was an old, rather battered padded chair before a fireplace, holding a floppy old rag doll in a red dress.
“Comfortable.” Cavaln remarked, scanning the room, reading the obvious signs that the occupant was female, young and well loved, from the three-foot square silver mirror on the low table to the left, flanked by a pair of large beeswax candles, to the carved jewellery box on the large old chest against the right hand wall. Everything breathed luxury and privilege.
There were two further doors leading from the bedroom – on either side of the large fireplace. Thomur opened one to show a rather well-appointed bathroom, and closed the door nervously, before approaching the one on the right, which opened into a larger chamber containing two low beds, covered with plain natural linen sheets and clearly handmade coverlets, both occupied.
Roused by the sudden torchlight, the movement, one girl awoke quickly, clearly accustomed to waking when called – a simple nightgown was revealed as she sat up, her pretty face still slack from sleep, her dark blonde braids hanging down her shoulders. “My Lord Thomur!” She gasped, rubbing her eyes quickly, focussing on the Reeve first, before noticing the woman behind him, her gleaming sword so prominent -.
“Don’t scream, girl.” Cavaln warned coldly. “Wake your friend, but move slowly.”
There were always some people, the young General reflected ruefully, who could apparently sleep through even earthquakes or their homes collapsing around them!
Shortly, both girls and the Reeve were stood in the centre of the sitting room, shivering in their nightclothes under the woman’s cold, sharp, appraising glare – frightened and confused. Now and again, distantly, they could hear an occasional shout, scream or even footfalls outside the door, moving elsewhere within the castle, but no one disturbed them until after the sun had risen, the sky lightening outside the windows, the sunlight visible on the distant walls opposite that faced east.
“Excellent work, General Cavaln.” Tequan’s deep voice sounded from the outer doorway, and the three prisoners all turned in icy fear, the maids squealing piteously at his appearance. “The Wielder’s rooms are secure?”
“They are secure, General Tequan.” She replied.
“Good. Take that man down to the great hall, if you please; check with Jaike there, then return. I will instruct these brats on the necessity for instant obedience until you get back up here.” He grinned slowly and winked and Cavaln smiled in return – she could read his surface thoughts clearly, as he intended. “After that, I believe the kitchen staff is preparing rather a nice breakfast for us.”
“As you command – enjoy yourself.” She answered lightly, jerking her head at Thomur, and then pushing him into motion towards the door, past the tall, reddish-haired male.
“Oh, I will” He assured her as she headed into the corridor, closing the door on him.
*
In the light of day, the massive castle proved to be rather an attractive structure, solidly constructed of the local pale limestone that seemed to glow a little in the warm sunshine. The corridors held only patrolling jajozeli who saluted her politely as she headed down to what the man called the High Hall, guided by the unwilling but helpless Reeve – the route was rather convoluted, she considered.
This high hall was a large, vaulted space on the first floor of the building, its size diminished somewhat as it was crammed full of prisoners in various states of undress, matched by various degrees of distress and fear. It was interesting to see just how many folk it took to run a castle – the laundry, stables, barracks, brewery, bakery, kitchens, dormitories – and all the bedrooms and suites had been emptied. Many of the women and girls were sobbing, whilst some of the men were clearly injured. General Jaike was sat comfortably in the duke’s large seat in the centre of the dais and at least a hundred cold-faced soldiers stood to attention around the walls and at the doors, swords and spears in hand, ready to subdue any wild uprising.
Everyone in the hall turned to stare at General Cavaln as she shoved the Reeve hard in the back so that he staggered into the rear ranks of the prisoners.
“Look – a woman! – Dear Arven, she’s armed! – She’s one of them! A woman soldier!” And other exclamations were clearly audible as the prisoners shrank away yet again.
“Silence!” She commanded in Selithian, the word echoing harshly from the walls and the prisoners cowered meekly, leaving a long corridor through the centre of them as she advanced through them to the dais, her boots ringing on the bright patterned tiles.
“You look comfortable.” Cavaln remarked to Jaike in jajozeli. “Pirris! I’m parched, have you got any water?”
“Here.” He offered her an ornate silver goblet that had been set down by the legs of the chair and she drank gratefully. “How’s it going?”
“All right – General Tequan is having a great deal of fun.” Cavaln replied, handing back the goblet. “Thank you, Jaike.”
“My pleasure.” General Jaike weighed the object in his hand before he also drank. “This is a wealthy duchy – look at this workmanship.” He sounded rather surprised, then grinned. “Yet all their defences and walls and gates proved less than useless against our myriad talents.” He chuckled.
“It’ll be interesting to see what will happen to the kingdom beyond Clirensar’s borders, won’t it?” The woman remarked. “I’ll see you at breakfast – keep the rabble suitably subdued.”
“Oh, I will.”
*
Rape, violence and murder are the stock-in-trade of the jajozeli Generals, when necessary – and General Tequan employed two of them to excellent effect during his intense questioning of the maids, whose world had fallen into ruins overnight. Having wrung every single drop of information on their young mistress out of them, he callously used his power to loosen their vocal chords so that they could no longer speak. Then, having taken the time to rather inexplicably tear the beautiful wedding dress into rags, he set them to packing up the lady’s possessions, locking them into the suite, bruised, battered and tearful.
“There you are, come on.” Tequan said jovially from the top of the wide, sweeping stairs that led down the public areas as Cavaln climbed towards him – she stopped dead, four steps below. Ackat!>; He sent silently. Breakfast, we need to talk.>;
“Pirris!” Cavaln grumbled, but not seriously. “All these bloody stairs!”
“Oh, stop moaning – we need to pool all we know to better coordinate our actions here – it’s been a long night: I’m hungry.” He countered.
Breakfast, served in the family’s private south-facing dining room, was very good indeed, but their conversation was perhaps much better.
“The Duke and his family are on their way back here.” Tequan said, cutting up ham and eggs with relish.
“They’re halfway here, Tequan.” Ackat added with a grin, spooning kidneys and mushrooms onto his plate. “Reeve Thomur was most effusive yesterday evening at dinner.” He chuckled a little.
“That is most fortuitous, my Lords.” Cavaln remarked, enjoying a bowl of raspberries with a plate of warm, freshly baked bread and honey.
“I don’t believe that fortune has anything to do with it, young woman: I thank our Master. He sent us here at this time to begin our campaign.” Tequan countered. “It is excellent news. So, Ackat, what else did the Reeve tell you?”
“The Duke was here during Kharsare, checking his duchy’s working and actually commissioning weapons and mail for his daughter. It seems that there are two weddings planned for the end of the year – the Wielders of the Flame and her brother to the sister of those we killed yesterday at Callorton -.” He barked a laugh. “It’s a shame we have to ruin their well-laid organisation – such royal and noble weddings must cost a fortune. Also, the brother, Pualyn, the heir, is presently with the razine in Orbain as Envoy. So, hopefully, all this will blow away their good intentions and scupper the Protectorates’ plans to assist the kingdom.”
“Excellent – I want the servants questioned as well, even so – I want every scrap of news or gossip available.” Tequan growled. “Well, let’s eat up – we’ve got a city to control.”
*
The citizens of Clirensar had woken up to the horror of an occupying army pacing their streets, the troops ruthlessly slaughtering anyone who stood up to them. Overnight, their situation had turned totally upside down. The corpses of the Clirensar soldiers and sentries lay where they had fallen in the streets, or dropped from the walls they had been patrolling so uselessly. The screams of women being raped could be heard from many points. The city gates were all locked, there were enemy soldiers patrolling in wide loops around the outside of the walls and across the valley – killing the farmers and villagers in the vicinity. Clirensar was locked down and the shops and inns were all closed.
No one could comprehend quite how the jajozeli had arrived overnight and simply taken total control, but control they had. The soldiers quickly began house-to-house searches at dawn, bringing out weapons, large kitchen knives and every male aged over approximately ten years of age – all were rounded up and marched into the Cathedral – this venerated space was abruptly and forcibly abandoned by the priests of Arven who were all murdered out of hand in the cathedral square, which soon ran with crimson blood. Surrounded by grim-faced strangers speaking an unknown language, bristling with weapons and seeing the bloody consequences of any argument or disobedience so plainly – the men and boys of the city shrank down, terrified, beaten.
“As of this morning, you are the property of the Emperor of the Jajozeli Empire.” General Owenn announced, glaring indiscriminately across the cathedral, leaning against the smashed altar, scanning quickly over the prisoners, on their knees. “You can thank your little Lady Ethrayne and her prince for this -.”
A few men hissed or booed –. “Bastard!” Was shouted. The jajozeli soldiers stormed into the mass of prisoners and simply slaughtered a good number of them, whether rebellious or not. There were screams and shouts and not a few sobs -.
“You will obey, or you will die.” Owenn finished dispassionately.
*
Ackat and Tequan made a midmorning visit to Black Fell, backed up by three thousand soldiers who had advanced through the covering woodland to the east of the city. The farmers and townsfolk there were simply murdered; the finished chain mail shirts and the jewel-embellished weapons constructed for Ethrayne were confiscated by the Generals, whilst as before, any foodstuffs, the other weapons in the town, pig iron and ingots were loaded onto carts to be taken back to the city. They set fire to the buildings, and left the village smouldering in its gorge.
The occupation of Clirensar was going to plan and in ways that none of them could have imagined or expected, even a few days before.
* * *
Autumn was almost upon them – Vhisson had arrived, heralding later dawns and earlier sunsets, and slightly cooler temperatures as the farmers continued harvesting their produce. Ethrayne marvelled that the year was passing so swiftly. Although, considering just how full her days were now, it was not really surprising that the seasons had turned so fast.
Now, sat on her horse, following her father and mother down the main street towards the South Gate, she was quite looking forward to a short period containing no interminable meetings – no study – no combat, unless she chose it which, considering how organised her days had been, Ethrayne considered that she might well continue the practice of the past moons, after a few days rest. Turning in her saddle, she saw the tallest tower of the palace vanish behind the ordinary buildings that lined the street and sighed slightly as she turned back and straightened.
“Oh, it will be lovely to see Mother again!” Lyria said with a sigh, beside her. “And Deanne should have had the baby by now – I can’t wait to see them, I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?”
Ethrayne laughed at her enthusiasm. “It’s been moons – all your little nieces and nephews will have grown so much, you won’t recognise them, dear. And you’re so sophisticated, they won’t recognise you either, Lyria.”
“Silly, I’ve just got a new wardrobe, Ethie – I’ve not changed at all. But I have missed them all, Mother and Father especially. It’s been a very strange year, since we arrived in Tenum City in Staipe, hasn’t it?”
“Oh I agree – it’s been really, really unpredictable.” The younger girl agreed.
“I just can hardly believe that we are finally leaving Tenum and heading home, despite the latest news from Orran that came in last night.” Lyria continued, shaking her head. “It’s awful – the city attacked!”
“Father nearly called off the trip, but King Marrand overruled him.” Ethrayne said. “It’s just awful, the wharves and lower city burned like that – none of us can really sleep safe in our beds, can we? How on Iullyn can we possibly guard against such attacks?” She frowned deeply, continuing to ponder that conundrum – for the sheer unpredictability of the attacks so far made by the jajozeli was worrying. It would be impossible to patrol every coastal town and city completely!
Seeing her expression, Lyria did not interrupt her reverie, but rode quietly, enjoying the prospect of the return to Clirensar and, with it, enjoying the changing view of the city and the ride. The main roads were full of the usual crowds, but the people stopped and waved and cheered to see the group pass, and they quickly reached the gate and exited the crowded city, entering the farmland that filled the countryside beyond, the Kings Road arrow-straight before them, the stones that surfaced it dustily grey in the late summer sunshine.
Worries filled Ethrayne for a while – she considered, again, that this was all her and Jerryn’s fault: yet another attack had occurred that had led to the deaths of innocent people. An attack that the excellent soldiers of the city seemed incapable of preventing, although they had checked the attack into the city of Orran before the enemy had advanced too far. After the sinking of ships and blatant piracy that had happened in view of the coast and the destruction of Fansport, it seemed that the enemy was deliberately targeting the kingdom – but in almost minor, niggling, almost irritating ways. From what she had learned about the jajozeli Empire in the past moons, it seemed that their Emperor commanded vast armies that could potentially overrun this part of the continent with relative ease. Why they were moving on such small targets, using such small forces, was a puzzle not even Archpriest Bahlien could understand.
Of course – she shook herself mentally – it was not their personal fault: she and Jerryn were the focus of the enemy’s action, not the perpetrators, yet it was awful to know that people were dying, their homes and livelihoods destroyed, because she and her betrothed had agreed to become the Wielders of the Flame . . . Not that either of them would really be wielding any power any time soon – and the snail’s pace of their progress definitely rankled, with the many long evenings she and Jerryn had spent meditating and concentrating and practising.
The old razine had assured them repeatedly that they were actually doing very well with the ‘visualisation’ – trying to hold pictures or images in their minds, which proved really difficult, after the relative ease of the initial meditation. They had both viewed their slow progress with impatience, but Bahlien simply told them that they needed strong, well-trained minds before they could realistically start to learn to use the power that had been gifted to them.
“I know this seems tedious and slow, but you will be commanding power far greater than any razine but one has ever possessed.” Bahlien had said, the evening before. “Human or razine, we must all work hard and train to use our minds properly – Commander Vedeigne would not let you loose with sharpened steel without ensuring that you have a good degree of competence: both swords and power can be easily and quickly fatal.”
And now, riding away from Tenum City, leaving the bustling, frantic corridors of the palace behind, where her days had been so full of important meetings and decisions, she felt the worries that constrained her suddenly begin to loosen: with nothing taxing to occupy her immediate attention, she could simply ride – and think – and . . . recuperate.
You need to get out of the city, Jerryn – go riding with your friends and rest a little.>; She sent back to her betrothed, at the very limit of her strength – the range between which she and Jerryn could ‘talk’ mentally had grown to further than a mile, perhaps nearly half a league. I think that Bahlien is correct about our training – and a rest will clear you mind. Oh, I wish you could come too!>; She said honestly.
So do I, but my father needs me here. Take care my love and I will see you at the beginning of Thurton – I love you, Ethrayne.>; His tone very dim, at the furthest extent of their range.
I love you, Jerryn, my Prince – farewell.>; Ethrayne sent him a kiss with her reply. It was wonderful, they had both agreed, that their mental abilities had rendered the love between them so obvious – neither of them now embarrassed by that fact, at least.
Then she abandoned contemplation for conversation with Lyria and her parents, and the leagues began to pass more quickly, as the group rode on, their possessions drawn behind them on a series of carts behind them and a huge group of soldiers around them, jingling, their weapons shining, in the warm sunshine of a fair Vhisson day.
*
The entourage was beginning the long descent from the ridge top down the winding route through the North Coppice; the riders, nobles, soldiers and servants all seemed to stretch and sit up straighter, more alert in their seats and saddles - and even the horses pulling the heavy carts seemed to prick up their ears and their pace as if they realised that they were nearly home. The wide road ran through deep, dappled shade, even though the trees formed a border at least a hundred yards back on both sides – the swift-growing sweet chestnuts so loved by the charcoal burners dominated the woodlands here, forming a dense shade that was just beginning to show an edge of yellow or orange splashing bright amid the deep green palmate leaves. Only low growth was permitted along the road itself, the grass and shrubbery curtailed by the charcoal burners – they scythed the undergrowth back periodically throughout the growing year. Clearly the chore was nearly due again – the brambles, nettles and bracken were burgeoning.
“There, we’ll be home well before evening, my dear.” Sarant said with a broad sweep of his arms, grinning widely at his wife, his daughter and his prospective daughter-in-law. “We’ve had very good weather, all in all, but I’ll be glad to get out of the saddle, I admit – I must be getting old.” He chuckled and slapped Letwar’s neck appreciatively as if in apology. His black stallion did not take insult, however.
“Oh, my dearest, you will never possibly ever get old.” Riyala exclaimed, also chuckling. “After a long hot bath and a rest, you’ll be rushing about the countryside as usual, I’m sure.” She reached across to clasp his hand in hers, and squeezed it tightly. “You are still only eighteen in my eyes, my dear Sarant.”
Behind the couple, Ethrayne and Lyria exchanged looks – both hoping that their marriages would be as loving as this one, despite the uncertainties that had arisen since the spring. True and long lasting love, after all, was hard to find and hard to retain, sometimes, amid the vagaries of the world.
“It will be lovely to be home and away from the court completely.” Ethrayne admitted with a sigh. “I’m missing Jerryn, of course, but – gosh – it is wearing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the castle is hardly a farmhouse, is it?” Lyria laughed aloud. “Oh, Ethie – if you want informal, you can come home to Callorton with me – sometimes father hardly changes for dinner.”
“I know – lucky things! And fewer clothes to wash, too. Just good food and conversation and none of those interminable banquets and get-togethers, I can’t wait: I haven’t seen your Mother since winter, you know.” And they both laughed at the silliness of it all – Ethrayne and her family had frequently dined at the farm, just as Lyria and her family had dined in the castle and all were used to each others’ peculiarities.
Their armed guard rode all around them, the servants brought up the rear with the carts – the unsubstantiated reports of attacks inland from the coast along with the raids on Orran and other ports were of concern. Clirensar’s thousand troops rode with five hundred Royal Guardsmen, including some of the best scouts and soldiers in the kingdom, at Marrand’s insistence. The professionals had ranged out in every direction during the fourteen days of their journey – and they had all been relieved that no danger had emerged from the quiet, harvest-filled countryside. Duke Sarant had breathed a little easier with each league that they passed, for he had been privately concerned for their collective safety. And now the last league or two were ahead of them.
Ahead, the descending road took a wide sweep to the left along the slope, the vista of the Vale still hidden by the woodland, although a few glimpses of far distant hills and haze-covered peaks were espied between trunks, here and there, far beyond the city. The group continued, perhaps relaxing slightly as they rode finally out of the trees, leaving the forest behind as a great curve off to both left and right, sun-lit, summer-browned grass now stretching out ahead, the broad Vale of Clirensar stretching bowl-like around them, curving off to the right where, hidden in more woodland, some four leagues above the city the vale formed a long curve where the three valleys cut up into the highlands, south, west and north-west, their tumbling, vigorous streams forming the river that sparkled below, curving around the walls of the city, not much more than a league or so away in a straight line, the tops of the highest towers of the castle almost at the same height as they themselves, for the castle was stepped far higher above the city than the royal palace above Tenum – the crag it’s structures stood on stark to the left, a cliff sheer above the left hand edge of the wharves far below, clear despite the distance, boats and barges lined up as usual. Off to the left the Vale continued in a pretty straight ridgeline to the east, heading towards the lowlands and, eventually, the coast and Orran. All around there were little farms and villages, and tame woodland – the fields mostly cleared as harvest continued.
Home! Ethrayne said silently to herself in sudden contentment, smiling at the view that she knew best – and looking for the tiny suggestion of the knife-shaped peak that she could see from her own bed chamber window, how many leagues away she could not guess – it had just always been there like everything else.
The commander of the troops barked some orders and the soldiers all began to form up, splitting – half the group wheeling to the rear, as the group as a whole all straightened in their saddles and seats, exchanging a quiet banter as they started on the sweeping slope –.
A blast from a brazen horn or trumpet, a deep, harsh but brassy sound came out of nowhere – nothing at all like the sort of fanfare of greeting that occurred at official homecomings, a sound from the dark woods, echoing. It came again, loud, raucous – And several things seemed to occur at once. In retrospect, it was undoubtedly due to meticulous planning –.
The bright flags of Tenarum and Clirensar were pulled down from the flagpoles over the north gate and the castle, different standards were quickly run to replace them – displaying an unknown device that unfurled and whipped in the wind, showing black, silver and red – the field as black as night, with a bright red circle in the centre, both split by a pair of silver lightning bolts, stark and clear in the sunlight – the silver glittering.
The city gates facing them slammed open with a crash, as the massive leaves hit the sturdy stone sides of the archway and a great number of mounted soldiers galloped out over the bridge over the Sare, all in black.
“Oh dear Arven, no!” Sarant cried in disbelief, even as the commander and captains of the troop shouted their orders – shock and surprise being discarded quickly for commonsense – fulfilling their purpose.
As the force from their own home city thundered up the slope towards them – ignoring the sweeping road for a direct route across the grass, advancing awfully quickly – yet more soldiers in black were approaching quickly from both left and right at a distance of only a few hundred yards from the edge of the concealing woodland. Obviously, the enemy had expertly hidden from the concerted efforts of the Kingdom’s best scouts – their origin, after all, had been the city of Clirensar, not the north or east.
Confusion reigned amongst the servants, and some of the carthorses threatened to kick over their traces, but the soldiers and Duke were grim-faced and calm, united.
“You must all go, your Grace!” Captain Callin shouted, as their mounts tossed their heads nervously, sidestepping. “Go – all of you!”
“Go where, exactly?” Sarant countered curtly, his face as pale as anyone’s – the two groups from the woods were closing fast, the force from the city not far behind, galloping hard. Their black garb was stark, somehow highlighting the mirror-brightness of the weapons they brandished. “Oh, Arven protect us! Ethrayne – Riyala – Lyria -.” He turned to look at his womenfolk.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sarant, what would be the point of fleeing when they’re so close?” The Duchess snapped rather waspishly, fear making her sharp. There was an almighty crash and yelling as the front ranks of the hastily collected soldiers met the enemy – weapons clanging, forming an awful cacophony of noise that filled the air – sending all the birds in the area fleeing, squawking and crying warnings. “It’s leagues to Foston, dearest – they’d catch us within a mile.”
“You couldn’t spare a soul to send with us, Father.” Ethrayne added, as her mother flinched at the sounds, her own heart in her mouth – despite all the training she had undergone, this was new – completely unlooked for – unwelcome. Lyria, beside her, clung suddenly at her hand, clearly shaking in terror.
Fear filled her, but she fought against it. She noted that the soldiers were holding their own, against the enemy – but also that the enemy outnumbered them at least two or three to one, although there was so much movement ahead, she could not be certain. A strange analysis was occupying part of her mind, perhaps a result of her moons of training, but the fact that it pushed back her fear was welcome. There was no way to escape when there were so many against them, that was certainly true – and just what had happened? What had happened to the city? When had the enemy occupied it? And why was she unable to warn Archpriest Bahlien or Jerryn? Her range was still so limited! It was so frustrating when the old razine had said that he and others could touch – however briefly – minds across hundreds of leagues, when necessary!
“Dismount.” Sarant ordered quickly, for all their mounts were snorting, sidling nervously. “Get on the ground, all of you.”
So Ethryane, Riyala, Lyria and the servants behind them obeyed, all crowding together naturally against the first of the carts, trying to shrink themselves – the fighting had intensified as the third group had arrived, larger by far than the other two, and the soldiers protecting them had to work ever harder in the face of the violence – The Duke had drawn his own weapons and, making sure that his family were as safe as he could make them he glanced once, hard at his daughter.
I love you Father – I’ll try to escape with them.>; She answered his own clear order to flee. Oh, Father, I’m sorry ->;
“Silly!” He simply said in answer to her silent apology. “It’s not your fault, dear child.” And he turned with a grimace that took in the group of them and rode Letwar forward straight towards the struggling mass, nearly a hundred yards ahead, his sword in his hand.
Abruptly, as if a door had swung open, Ethrayne could suddenly feel other emotions than her own and her friends and family. She actually flinched as a mixture of exhilaration and hatred struck her hard and she recalled that long-ago outing and picnic above Tenum city, the day after her and Jerryn’s betrothal . . . Yet, this time – this time she realised that she could clearly sense emotions from at least two or three individuals!
That blond jajozeli who had threatened her so smoothly had been a General – and remembering that made her cold to the bone, for she must suppose that there were more of them here, now! Bahlien had confidently asserted that their enemies would likely watch and wait, yet he had admitted that this was only based on sound logic, not on the knowledge of any possible agenda that the Betrayer might have. So, obviously, logic had failed utterly. Whatever it meant to them, that she and Jerryn had been made the Wielders of the Flame, the enemy had definitely set up a course of action involving attack. She struggled against fear, desperate to keep control of herself.
There were shouts, screams, the massive clash of weapons reverberated through the very ground and the woodland, making their ears ache. The defenders manfully tried to protect the civilians in their midst, but it was obvious that they were badly outnumbered. Ethrayne, her mother, Lyria and all the servants cowered, stunned by the awful reality of the terrible violence that surrounded them.
; Ethrayne thought to herself, hugging her mother and Lyria tight, the maids also huddled in a ring around them, the male servants almost touching them, all shaking in terror. Somehow they’ve taken Clirensar – but when - oh, how many poor people died? All – all to capture me? Oh, this is just terrible! Will – will I ever see Jerryn again? What of my family?>; The thoughts ran in circles in her head. After the last few moons of intense tuition and the strange reality of the Flame becoming part of her, the girl was not frightened of death – and somehow she knew that whatever might happen, her death was not going to be part of it – but she was deeply worried for the others’ – the knowledge that they would die to try to keep her from capture was the worst possible thing! This is all my fault!>; She shouted at the universe, irrationally. Oh dear Arven, I’m so sorry!>;
There was a pulse of reassurance from deep within her, and Ethrayne started – it was rare for the Flame to interact directly, or so Bahlien had said and that reassurance did somewhat lessen her rising fear. Breathing deeply, she looked around, trying to make sense of the melee, the chaos – men were dying everywhere, both jajozeli and Tenarean, and the knots of combat were coming closer all the time. Lyria and her mother tightened their hold on her, their fear huge, of course, and some of the maids were screaming – crying -.
There did not seem to be any way that she could see that she could possibly run! They were pretty-much surrounded. That seemed plain enough.
Ethrayne found her attention caught as her father came back into view, standing out in his emerald green doublet but now on foot – he had discarded his cloak and his mount, somewhere during the fighting, bright against the black garbed enemy, grim in a way that she had never seen before, of course – the sword bright in his right hand, his dagger effective in his left as he made the enemy pay again and again in blood for their occupation of Clirensar. But the soldiers around him were also dying, leaving him exposed. The brutal reality of war, of gruesome injuries and death, was indeed far beyond what anyone could describe.
“Oh, dear Arven, we’re going to die!” Lyria quavered, flinching away – voicing, of course, what all of them were thinking.
“Ethrayne, you must flee!” Duchess Riyala shouted, struggling to make her voice heard above the cacophony of battle. “Take a horse, darling – ride!”
“But – Mother -.” She started to reply, but fell silent and shuddered as the projected feelings of malice and hatred seemed to reach a peak – somehow matched by a lull in the fighting and noise, which faded somewhat.
A hugely tall, reddish bearded and shaggy haired being strode into view, imposing in black and grey that was completely unlike the workaday uniform of the soldiers around him. He held a massive broadsword in his left hand and he towered above everyone around him – practically a full head taller than her father, who was six foot three. The Duke raised his sword without hesitation as the enemy approached.
“You must be the Duke.” The stranger said, his accent chillingly familiar to Ethrayne – so similar to that of the male who had accosted her so many moons before, although she had heard it only once. “I would welcome you home, your Grace, but this – unfortunately perhaps – is as far as you will go!”
“And who might you be?” Sarant demanded coolly. “Why has your army invaded our lands? What is your purpose here?”
The stranger laughed coldly, his dark eyes glittering with the malice that had so choked Ethrayne. “Our purpose is conquest, your Grace – oh, and we desire your iron and your daughter, of course.” Then, with a leap, he moved – attacked – Sarant brought up his blade in defence, then swung back – sparks flew –.
Ethrayne’s attention was broken as someone grabbed her from behind, lifting her -.
“What the -?” She struggled in alarm, but found that Evvan, the head groom, was lifting her up, his face pale, fear in his eyes.
“Excuse me, my Lady.” He ventured, then jerked his head – Letwar stood, there, right next to the cart, froth around his mouth, his eyes wide, circling, moving nervously – her father’s horse had somehow made his way back to safety from out of the battle. “Get on Letwar – may he carry you to safety, Lady – please, go!” His voice quavered. “Please!” He repeated.
Tally, his apprentice, a skinny lad of fifteen who had hardly ever dared to even look at her, did his best to help her up into the saddle – it was not easy in such a tight space next to the carts, with so many people around – her skirts were just annoying – but the stirrups were out of reach, once she had been boosted up.
“Go, Lady!” They urged, turning Letwar away from the battle.
Ethrayne was all too aware that she was dithering like a complete idiot – she glanced at the frightened men, the other servants, then at her mother and Lyria – so many things choked her that she wanted to say, but she couldn’t – she had to at least try to get away! Finally she looked across the battlefield to where her father and the General were exchanging blows with furious energy. As she stared the stranger somehow reversed his stroke, grinned toothily, and rammed his long blade right to the hilt through her father’s ribcage – the point and a foot at least of steel beyond it emerged, dripping blood from his back.
“Don’t bloody-well move!” The reddish haired General ordered, gazing right up into her horrified eyes, pointing at her with his free right hand even as he yanked the sword out of her father – and he dropped -.
Yelling incoherently, Evvan and some of the other servants raced forward, catching his attention and Ethrayne shuddered at the power that had held her frozen for that instant. Finally she kicked Letwar into movement, urging him around in a loop past a couple of pockets of fighting – she managed to kick out at a couple of black-garbed soldiers as she went past and one of the men spun down, dazed, to be finished by the Tenarean soldier he had faced. The huge horse sped up, and she gazed about with renewed purpose looking for any possible way out of this place, walling back that awful shocking reality that her father, her beloved father, had died trying to protect her! If she let that realisation take hold, she guessed that she would not be much use for anything.
“Go, Letwar! Go!” She cried, and let him get the bit between his teeth – the stallion took over, his hooves pounding on the turf like drums, racing away from the noise and chaos.
“Stop, you fool!” A male voice yelled from behind, far clearer than the melee by the road, and Ethrayne turned her head to glance quickly behind, seeing two figures on horseback on the city side of the battlefield, coming towards her. Quickly she returned her attention to her galloping mount and tightened her grip on the reins, her face grim. That short glance had told her all she needed to know: although wearing plain cloaks, both riders were definitely jajozeli-razine, not human, like the one who had murdered her father -.
Ethrayne blocked that thought instantly. They were Generals, she was certain. Having spent so much time with Bahlien, she was sure. Fiercely she urged Letwar faster and faster along the slope and he headed westward pretty much in a straight line, a few hundred yards below the edge of the woodland – she could not direct him, now, to the right and uphill towards the dubious safety of the trees, though she tried: Letwar was set on his course. She had to glance behind to the left to see the distant city walls falling behind – and began to swear forcefully in her head, leaning even lower over his neck, the wind of their passage buffeted her head, face and clothes.
“Go, Letwar, go!” She shouted into that gale. The need to get away – from the death, the fighting, the enemies – was foremost in her mind, however vain that chance might be, alone against an entire army.
“Stop!” The voice shouted again in a commanding tone, coming from much closer than before.
Ethrayne ignored it, though she could hear the following hoof-beats also louder, despite the wind in her ears, and she supposed that her pursuer was trying to draw level, to grab either her or the bridle or reins. She grinned – let them try! And managed to steer Letwar to the right and then to the left, up the slope a little then down again – dancing, despite his speed, out of reach. Letwar was one of the prizes of her father’s stud: faster, stronger, cleverer – no one could catch him easily! As if in agreement, she heard foreign words uttered harshly, perhaps curses. She urged the stallion uphill, and he obeyed more willingly – heading towards the forest’s verge, dark and forbidding.
“Go, you wonder!” She shouted eagerly, feeling her hat spinning off her head suddenly at a lurch in his gait. “Go, boy!”
Something flashed through her mind. Strong, it was a blow of sorts, but mental rather than physical. Nor was it aimed at her -. As that thought came to her, Letwar collapsed from beneath her. Dead, between one breath and the next!
“No!” That was a shriek of panic, for her damned skirts were caught in the saddle somehow – the fabric imprisoning her – she couldn’t free herself, lift herself, leap away – Ethrayne was dragged down utterly helpless and slammed into the grass with force enough to knock the breath from her lungs. It was like hitting stone rather than soil and jarring pain filled her from head to foot, all along the left-hand-side of her body. She was unable to even gasp, let alone scream, as the dead weight of the horse crushed her left leg. Then, for the first time in her life, she fainted.
*
Duchess Riyala, Lyria and the servants shrank back in terror as Evvan and the other men rushed at the enemy, armed only with belt knives or their fists – the tall, bearded commander laughed coldly, cutting them all down as if they were a crop being scythed, his movements showing a brutal efficiency – finally he decapitated Evvan with a flourish, so that the man collapsed close to the legs of his dead master, the Duke.
“Murderer!” Riyala spat the word, drawing herself up regally to glare at the tall male, hiding the fear that choked her. “You will be hunted down -.”
“Who by? Your puny, inexperienced forces, your Grace?” He replied in a coldly contemptuous tone. “The vast might of our Emperor supports me – and this little realm and the continent it sits on will be in his control soon enough, Duchess!”
“But what of our daughter and the prince? What of the Prophecy that we were told of?” Riyala demanded, her hands shaking as she held tight to Lyria, her emotions striving to escape her control.
“Prophecy?” He laughed loudly, contemptuous again, and spat in derision. “Prophecy be damned! Our Emperor is merely claiming what is his: the Flame! Your daughter will be safe enough.”
“Liar!” Riyala retorted imperiously. She gasped, once, as the point of the commander’s massive sword slid slowly but inexorably into her throat, blood spilling around the edges of the blade and down the front of her dark green gown. All the women around her were frozen in absolute terror, except for Lyria, shaking like a leaf, as she felt the Duchess’s hand go suddenly limp just before she slowly crumpled to the ground.
The girl stumbled, sobbing in shock and horror, then shrank back as the tall, cruel-faced man stared down at her with a dark, mesmerising gaze – he was a ghoul, but living! He raised the blood stained sword again and waved the point right in her face – laid it gently against her throat – it was icy cold to the touch. And he smiled!
“And who are you, girl?” He asked calmly, then lowered the blade so that it rested on Riyala’s body below.
“M-me?” She squeaked, panic taking over for a breath. “I – Lyria – Lyria, sir. Lady-in-waiting.” She managed to force the words out past the massive lump of rock in her rib cage that was her fear.
“Pshaw!” He exclaimed. “You must be the brother’s betrothed, yes?” He demanded chillingly. “The king knows you?”
Lyria nodded frantically as her head strove to understand just exactly what he was saying.
“Hmm. You might make an adequate messenger, girl. Stay there – don’t move a muscle.” He ordered with a frown, so that she quickly shook her head with as much energy as she had nodded – faint with fear and horror and revulsion.
The battle was over. There were windrows of Tenarean corpses piled up all around the front of the group, ahead of the carts, around the road – the sun still shone with sparkling afternoon sunlight, only slightly lower than it had been when the enemy had begun their attack. There were also enemy dead – not a few, by any means, laid dark amongst the natives. None of the Duke’s troops remained alive and only a scant handful of servants other than Lyria – and all were women apart from Tally, who had been held back from the desperate last attack by the maids – one boy of fifteen, six maid servants, and Lyria.
The enemy commander wiped his sword calmly on Riyala’s skirts, unconcerned at the revulsion this raised in the prisoners, then turned and gave out crisp orders in an unknown language to the hard-faced soldiers who were stood around, alert and dangerous. Temporarily ignored, the prisoners huddled even closer together by the first cart, trembling and weeping in fear, as the enemy started to gather together the horses and the discarded weapons from the battle.
* * *
Ethrayne came to with a jolt of agony that felt like molten iron raced along her nerves, through every single part of her body. Momentarily confused, her very breathing laboured, she opened her eyes to an extremely close-up view of the summer-browned grass and a spread of tiny yellow flowers amid them, bright like the sun but each bloom smaller than a child’s fingernail. Dry stems tickled her nose; she could smell the grass and wet, maybe marshy ground and blood; she could taste blood in her mouth, too. It felt as though she lay on damp ground – a cold dampness seemed to be spreading through her clothes. She lay as she had fallen, crushed into the very earth by the dead weight of the horse on her left leg, a mountain of flesh blocking most of her view. It felt as though that leg was broken and the entire left hand side of her body and head throbbed in sympathy.
Behind her, close, she could hear the creak of leather, the jingle of buckles and realised that perhaps only a moment or two had passed since Letwar had collapsed, dead and she had blacked out. It sounded as though those who had pursued her were only just dismounting. Ethrayne started, jarring all those nasty, sharp pains, as shadows blocked out the sun above her and she tried to lift herself – but only her right arm seemed to be working properly and she slumped back down with an involuntary groan.
“Don’t try to move.” An accented female voice said, to her surprise, causing Ethrayne to squint upwards against the sunlight to see more clearly. Two figures stood over her: one, the blond, blue-eyed male who had walked out of the orchard so many moons before – there could not be two so identical; the other was a young woman with short, striking, pale-blond hair, hazel eyes, pretty features – and an identical aura of strength. They also wore the same outfits – black and grey – and the woman looked confident and comfortable in the leather leggings and sturdy boots, weapons at her hip.
“You should have stopped when I shouted, you young fool!” The male General snapped, bending down to study her and the carcase imprisoning her. “Let’s get you out of there.”
“Well, you killed Letwar, not me – I would hardly surrender to you!” Ethrayne replied, although fear was choking her and her voice quavered stupidly. “Why have your forces attacked us?” She tried hard not to think about the deaths that she had witnessed already that afternoon.
“We have come for you, brat.” The woman answered simply, her eyes flashing as she moved around the dead horse, and knelt on one knee, laying her hands just below its neck, as the man crouched by his back legs. To Ethrayne’s amazement, with very little effort, the pair of them lifted the carcase right up into the air and set it down a few feet further down the slope.
The girl shuddered as she sensed the power they expended – it stung oddly within her aching head. She had thought that the loss of the massive weight would be an improvement, but the crushing pain was replaced with a sensation like red-hot pokers stabbing through the length of her left leg below her knee. She had to stifle a sob as the pair turned back to her, lying helpless on the grass and angrily wiped away a few errant tears with her shaking right hand – and saw blood on the palm of her glove, too.
“Don’t touch me!” She muttered with futile defiance and the two simply ignored her. The woman lightly ran one hand up and down her left leg and foot, then up over her body generally to her head.
“Is the leg broken, Cavaln?”
“Fortunately not, my Lord.” She answered and passed her hand up and down over her left leg again, frowning. “But this is not going to be an easy journey.”
He snorted. “For any of us – which we knew anyway, Cavaln, since that’s the reason you’re here. And please stop using my title. Mount, I’ll pass her up to you. We’ll get her a horse back at the road.”
Laid there, Ethrayne wished that she could understand their language and steeled herself as the male knelt beside her, put one arm under her back, lifting her upper body, his right moving carefully under her knees – she grimaced at the pain – and he raised her easily off the ground, getting quickly to his feet. There was a strange tingle/ache within her at his touch and she froze – movement set all the pains to a deeper level of discomfort. She noted that the left hand side of her gown from her feet to past her waist was indeed wet, darker blue, her underclothes chilly against her skin – and thanked the boggy ground that had broken her fall, saving her from broken bones.
“Don’t wriggle, or I might drop you.” He advised in Selithian, moving across the slope and raising her higher in his arms – she heard the snort of a horse behind her.
“Here you are.” The woman’s voice was also behind her. Ethrayne felt the front of a saddle against her right hip for a moment, then another arm was strong and sturdy around her, steadying her as the General set her down reasonably gently before the woman in the saddle.
“Ow!” Ethrayne muttered, flinching at her touch – it also raised that strange tingle/ache so that probably proved her theory at the power of her captors – and equally at the pain of her body.
The woman turned the horse and nudged it from a walk to a trot, then a canter, her arm still holding Ethrayne steady, heading back the way they had come. The girl gritted her teeth, tensed her body even more as the movements sent waves of discomfort through her, determined not to complain – and she found herself slightly distracted from that when she looked up and realised just how far her mad ride on Letwar had taken her from the road: perhaps two miles distant. As they came closer, returning to the clear scene of the battle, she noted that the people milling about the carts and horses were nearly all the enemy – only in one place did she see colours other than black and grey. Surely they had not killed almost everyone? She wondered fearfully as the last few hundred yards vanished under the horse’s hooves. The bodies were spread out over a much wider area than she had imagined.
; She mourned silently. Then, far worse, as the horse came to a halt almost exactly where she had fled from, by the head cart, she could see the deep-green clad form of her mother lying with a horrible, unnatural stillness on the blood-soaked ground!
“Oh, Ethrayne!” Lyria’s terrified voice broke through her tight focus and the girl blinked and looked up from a face suddenly blank to look at her closest friend. “Dear Arven, dear, your face! Are – are you all right?”
Slowly, she raised her right hand, pulled off her glove and ran her fingers lightly over her face – the left hand side felt cut and swollen to the touch, as well as generally uncomfortable, her head pounding. “He killed Letwar and I fell – I – I’m fine – oh, Mother!” And, without, thinking, she let herself slip from the horse – a movement she had completed innumerable times, after all, but never whilst injured. She was hanging onto the horse’s mane but even though she only extended her right leg and foot to take her weight, the drop was too great – Pain shot through her anew, and she crumpled to the ground with a groan. Mocking laughter filled her ears as the discomfort rose to a whole new level.
Damn it! She spat silently, taking a couple of deep breaths before, recklessly, starting a half-crawl, half-drag movement across the stony, bloodstained ground to where her mother lay, shaking with emotions and the effort of keeping a check on them.
“Oh, Mamma!” She said quietly, weeping as she leaned forward to kiss her mother’s pale, cold cheek, laying one hand there, trying to ignore the awful gash in her throat, the drying blood staining the front of her gown. “Oh, I’m so, so sorry!”
How could all have these awful events have occurred in the space of one afternoon? Part of her mind wondered, as the rest of her mourned the deaths of her parents and soldiers and friends – let alone what had happened to the inhabitants of the castle and the city and its environs since the arrival of these bastards from the south! And she couldn’t warn Bahlien or Jerryn – she, Lyria and the few others were on their own – surrounded by enemies! What would happen to the kingdom? What would happen to her and her friends? Fear choked her as much as the tears. How could her mother and father possibly be dead?
She glanced backwards and saw a sword lying amid the bodies that had stained the ground so deeply with blood. Despite her injuries, Ethrayne shuffled – wincing – as a completely ridiculous idea came to her -.
“Don’t be stupid, girl, you can’t even crawl properly, let alone get up and fight!” The shaggy haired and bearded General who had killed her father bent down before her, his tone contemptuous. He took hold of her right arm and hauled her roughly up – and Ethrayne gasped in pain as he shook her roughly. “Cavaln, take her -.”
She hated that she did not understand their language as well as the discomfort of his touch, but guessed what he had said, when the blond woman strode across and took her arm from his grasp – and supported her when she sagged: her left leg and foot were only agony, she couldn’t even rest it on the ground. The male General gazed at her, grinning and the female General slowly walked her away from her mother’s body – she had to hop – and she was aware that Lyria was watching her anxiously and Tally seemed to be in tears.
“What – what are you going to do with us?” Ethrayne asked, her mind still reeling, horrified, as the man who had slaughtered her father and perhaps her mother, now casually began to remove her mother’s jewellery, kneeling beside her corpse, dropping the earrings, necklace, rings and so on into a canvas bag. “What are you doing?” She asked this more shrilly, shocked.
“Shut up!” He replied coolly, getting up and striding over to her to begin pulling the silver and pearl hairnet and pins roughly out of her hair – uncaring of the knots and snarls that pulled painfully, so that the weight of her hair fell down over her shoulders; then he pulled the rings from her fingers, her earrings, the necklace from her throat – simply yanking it free, so that it broke, her neck smarting. Everything was added to the canvas bag. A soldier came forward, his hands cupped with the jewels from her father, his scabbarded sword over the man’s shoulder.
“What on Iullyn -.”
“I told you to shut your mouth!” The General said, and cuffed her smartly across the back of the head, nearly knocking her back to the ground and raising her headache to a whole new level of discomfort. The places on her skull that had hit the ground throbbed agonisingly. “These two need proof of your presence, girl.” He thrust the bag of personal items and the duke’s sword at a startled Lyria, and Ethrayne saw that her hands were trembling as she struggled at first to tighten her grip.
“Get these two horses, water, food and blankets.” He ordered to his soldiers as the prisoners wondered what he was saying, then switched instantly to Selithian. “Take the north road to the closest guard post.” He instructed Lyria, with only the barest glance at the youth beside her. “Make sure they know not to venture through these forests: Clirensar belongs to us! It no longer belongs to your little kingdom! Inform the King and his son that the Lady Ethrayne is guarded safely and appropriately for who and what she is – and well on her way to Ban’Lerracon.”
“Ban’Lerracon?” Ethrayne repeated the name in dull horror. “But who are you?”
“General Tequan – Commander here.” He touched his own chest. “General Ackat,” gesturing to the blonde male General, “and General Cavaln.” He indicated the woman supporting the girl and grinned at the expression on her face. “I believe you may remember Ackat from earlier this year – and why are you behaving as if we are dreams come to life? We are some of the most trusted servants of King Gregnor, the Emperor of the Jajozeli Empire.”
“Enough introductions – let’s get going.” Ackat said brusquely, clapping his hands sharply.
A number of soldiers moved about – some, laden with baggage as Lyria and Tally were hustled quickly onto horses, the baggage set behind their saddles, Lyria pausing to quickly juggle the bag of personal items and the sword belt, that she quickly looped over one shoulder, tying the treasures onto the belt at her front – Ethrayne was relieved to see that her friend was sitting on Oxalla, even though it was stupid to be concerned about a mare when so many had died! She could only stare as the two turned their mounts and made their way through the prisoners, soldiers and carts to the north side of the road, and headed back towards the forest above, Lyria managing one last look backward and raised her right hand in farewell before the soldiers closed back around the remains of the entourage, hiding her and Tally from sight.
“How do you feel?” General Ackat demanded, glaring at her – Ethrayne only stared at him and shrugged slightly in reply, guessing that any protestation of discomfort or weakness would only count against her. “You look terrible – excellent, let’s go.” He said with a quick grin.
Ethrayne looked back at the General who had killed her father, Tequan, startled to discover that he was staring intently at her in return. “I will kill you, you bastard.” She stated quietly as Ackat lifted her onto a horse, pulling the reins out of her reach with a smirk. “If it takes the rest of my life, I will kill you, Tequan!” And, to her amazement, none of the three Generals mocked her pronouncement in any way. Drawing herself up as straight as she could – wincing slightly as she strove to hook her right leg over the saddle, uncaring that it bunched up her skirts uncomfortably – she pulled her cloak straight around her as she was led away from the battleground, trying to hide her discomfort and fear from both her captors and the few remaining prisoners who watched her leave. Nor would she look at Clirensar, now a nest of the enemy! She fixed her gaze on the head of her horse and tried to control her pain.
*
By evening, at least four leagues from Clirensar and deep in the wooded hills at the western end of the vale, Ethrayne was upright in the saddle through sheer willpower alone. The two blonde Generals led the way and six soldiers followed behind her. They had travelled swiftly, eating up the leagues, and the sun was close to the horizon ahead of them. By now, the pain of her injuries from her left foot to her head was sheer agony at every stride the horse made, matching the headache that was far beyond anything she had ever experienced before. She was trembling uncontrollably, her right hand holding tight to the horse’s mane, her left resting as well as she could in her lap, her whole side throbbing – useless.
The Generals stopped in a grassy dell amid the thick woodland, not far from a stream that Ethrayne could hear bubbling over its bed off to the left, as sunset colours touched the clouds above. The soldiers swiftly dismounted and set about tasks - fetching firewood; clearing and starting a fire with practised efficiency; fetching water in buckets, and so on. The Generals moved in a more leisurely fashion, stretching with relish. Still in the saddle, unable to move, Ethrayne could only watch – her left arm and leg were both frozen, cramped. She was sore and exhausted, her clothes stained with mud and far too much blood.
“You look worse than you did earlier.” General Ackat remarked lightly with cold laughter dancing in his eyes. There was a leather water bottle slung over his shoulder. “Down you get.”
It was the first time that anyone had spoken to her since they had ridden away from the battlefield at the road.
“I – I can’t move . . . Every – everything hurts.” Ethrayne admitted in a whisper, only now realising how thirsty she was.
He laughed – rather maliciously, she thought – but he did lift her carefully out of the saddle from the right hand side, set her down on the grass nearby and handed her the water bottle.
“Just rest, my lady – don’t run away.”
Ethrayne seriously considered replying with something cutting, but decided against it: these might be her enemies but she was pretty-much helpless and in a great deal of discomfort. She also recalled Tequan’s slap – his violence and murders, too – all too clearly. All she knew about the Generals she had learned from the Archpriests, and from legend, after all. There was little enough fact. It would be stupid beyond belief to antagonise them, especially at the moment.
And she was their prisoner, being taken south to Ban’Lerracon . . .
That realisation woke her from a near doze, to find that the fire was burning heartily; strange globes of pale light were floating in the air as the last light faded from the sky and the two Generals were stood nearby, talking – looking at her – and the woman was hefting a large leather bag by its strap.
Dear Arven, I feel awful!>; She acknowledged to herself, trying to fend off misery and despair – with only partial success. Her mind kept coming up with all sorts of awful events and concerns and the images of her father’s sudden death and his and her mother’s bodies on the ground – those and many other concerns just wheeled, unstoppable -.
“Are you hungry?” Cavaln asked, walking over and the girl shook her head slightly with a grimace. “Right, well, you will drink this.” She had a leather bottle in her left hand, a horn cup in her right and crouched down beside Ethrayne. “It’s not poison, I assure you.” She said, pouring a measure of liquid into the cup and offering her it.
“Wish it was.” Ethrayne retorted, shivering, uncertainly taking the small cup and sniffing at the stuff inside – it was innocuous enough, a little flowery in scent, perhaps. “Everything – everything hurts awfully.” She admitted in a bare whisper.
“Drink it, it won’t hurt you.” Cavaln urged patiently. “I’m a healer as well as a General.”
“Humph!” Ethrayne managed with as much contempt as she could muster, but she did take a sip; it was nothing like the distilled spirits some people drank, it was smooth, with no evident bite, a slightly sweet flavour remaining in her mouth -.
“Drink all of it, please.” The woman’s tone was firm and, helpless to refuse, Ethrayne obeyed, taking the dose in two quick swallows.
She didn’t feel any different at all – but, gradually, a strange lassitude was pushing back her pain and fear and discomfort . . . Ethrayne sighed, her head lolled and she slumped slightly as her eyes closed against her will. It was so pleasant – so nice to lose the pain -.
Ackat laid out some blankets on the grass and lifted the unconscious girl onto them, covering her with another blanket, some of the pale light globes descending to hang closer, providing a surprisingly clear light, whilst Cavaln began cutting away the boot that covered her left leg, easing it away, and cutting away the stocking beneath.
“That doesn’t look good.” He remarked, wincing slightly, looking at the mess of bruised, swollen flesh that began at her toes and continued past her knee, the result of the horse’s impact.
“It looks worse than it is, honestly – as I said, nothing is broken.” The female General replied calmly. “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.”
*
Ethrayne awoke to deep darkness, instantly alert. She could feel no pain anywhere, but her head was feeling strangely thick, as if stuffed with fleece. To her left, the dying fire cast hardly any light and the forms lying around her in the camp were still, blanketed lumps, barely visible.
; She thought to herself, sitting up abruptly and throwing off the blanket that covered her. Her left hand came in contact with a long stick, laid close beside her, and part of her wondered if it was a crutch, for there was a definite fork at one end – and her left leg was certainly swathed in bandages from above her knee to her toes, although she couldn’t remember why. Very nice of them.>; She decided dryly. I bet they didn’t expect me to wake up – so I’ll go right now before any of them do.>;
It was certainly like a dream, fuzzy and unclear, with huge gaps for logic – but Ethrayne could, nevertheless, clearly recall that she was amid enemies. She got to her feet – her left leg only just held her weight, and something there twinged urgently, even if she did not feel any pain; she tried to bunch up her skirts out of the way, with only partial success, and tried to slowly straighten up. The crutch was almost perfect in length and sturdy – she managed to hobble quietly through the camp, past the Generals and soldiers, without disturbing any of them. She saw no sign of the sentry she supposed was somewhere about. Thanking Arven she focussed only on escape and simply headed for the route of least resistance, angling downhill and into the forest, wobbling as she went, moving slowly.
The first light of day, that faint wash that somehow banished night within the blink of an eye, making shapes and colour where all had been dark and unclear a moment before, was most welcome to her exhausted gaze, for Ethrayne had come to deeply regret her impulsive break for freedom during her limping, hopping venture. Only sheer bloody-mindedness, desperation and the crutch now kept her moving, although her advance had long since slowed to a snail’s pace. Without that stick, certainly, she would have fallen down into the brambles and nettles long before and given up in agonising despair.
Whatever drug Cavaln had given her to numb her pain so effectively – which had somehow, weirdly, given her the strength and impetus to flee her captors – had completely left her body well before this faint dawn, whilst she had struggled through endless tangles of thorny undergrowth and trees, where only the terribly slow pace of her advance had let her through, her clothes and hair catching innumerable times on the brambles and twigs and so on, her left leg knocked even more times as she fought to keep going, the pain refilling her as the drug left her, the whole of the left hand side of her body hurting even more than before she had slept. Now, fighting to continue, Ethrayne wondered fearfully whether this idiocy on her part might mean that she had crippled herself for life. She had been moving relentlessly for at least half the night, uncaring of the chilly wind, crashing into trees that she had not been able to see, damp from occasional flurries of rain, or the streams that she had splashed through, falling over once as she had slid down a muddy bank. Now, the agony that pulsed through her body with each step was frightful. She had probably covered much less than a league through the woods – and now she was at the utter limit of her strength.
Then, off to her right, came the clear call of a cockerel, raucously loud amid the quieter beginning of the woodland dawn chorus. It took a moment for the realisation to sink in – that, by some mad chance, she had reached civilisation! The girl took a gasping breath and lurched on; a little further, pushing slowly through more nettles, the sharp reek of manure was strong on the air. Ethrayne felt a tiny spark of hope flare deep inside, dispelling a miniscule amount of the fear and despair -.
“You’ve only managed a mile or two, if that!” She snapped to herself sternly. “They’ll be right behind you, you fool! And only Arven knows what those Generals will do to you!” She shuddered at that realisation. “That was so stupid!”
Ethrayne forced herself onward in the increasing light of dawn and saw brighter light ahead – a clearing, different entirely to the darker, green-hued light of the autumn-filled woods. More nettles and brambles made an effective barrier and she wobbled through, swearing quietly. Ahead, she could now see a number of buildings – cottages and barns, with fields and apple trees beyond. Somehow – incongruously – it was familiar to her! A man wearing an old smock was moving across the cobbled yard, a large shaggy dog at his side; he glanced up as he walked and saw her – a girl in a stained, deep-blue gown, fighting through the undergrowth from the forest – He stared, aghast, as she collapsed, finally beyond endurance. Both he and the dog rushed towards her – one shouting out, the other barking in defensive excitement.
The next few moments were a confusing mess of images, until Ethrayne found herself seated in an old rocking chair in a farmhouse kitchen, with a bowl of porridge and a cup of milk before her. A good number of women were bustling about to some purpose and a group of small children were clustered around the far side of the well-scrubbed table, staring at her with sober expressions, some of them sucking thumbs or fingers as they considered her sudden appearance. The farmer had vanished back outside to his chores.
“Honestly, good people, I cannot – cannot stay.” She found herself repeating. “They will be searching for me. They killed my parents – Clirensar is taken by jajozeli forces – Oh, I must go!”
“And where will you go and how, my Lady?” A rather stout, short lady asked her, thrusting a bowl of hot water to another woman, then kneeling to unwrap the stained, tattered bandage from about her leg. “You cannot walk, Lady – you cannot set out alone. The nearest garrison is at Foston – a day’s journey from here.”
“Yes, I know – Oh, I’ve been so stupid! Look at me!” Ethrayne quavered as the woman with the water began to gently dab at her face. She was almost crying, then realised that she sounded stupidly hysterical, too – and sniffed, took a deep breath and tried to regain some control. “I’ve put you all in danger too – Oh, I’m so sorry -.” A second deep breath, a third and then her mind seemed to start working a little clearer – “This is Applegarth, isn’t it?” She asked in a more level tone. “I remember coming here with father – you send us cider and apple brandy every year -.” She stopped there abruptly for it was almost a physical blow: the knowledge that her beloved parents were dead!
“Yes, but you need to eat, Lady.” The woman washing her face and hands so carefully with fresh warm water urged.
“Ethie -.” The lady of the house, unwrapping the last of the linen from about her leg, spoke to a tall, dark-haired girl of about eleven, who had been stood apart from the little children beside a boy a year or so younger. “Fetch my herbs. Ianto, fetch me the clean sheet from the basket. I’ll make a poultice – oh, my word!” She rocked back on her heels as she wadded the discarded bandage up and threw it into the fire off to the left.
Ethrayne looked down at her exclamation, but wished she hadn’t: her leg was bruised and swollen from above the knee to her toes, mottled with garish shades of red, purple, yellow, green and deep blue – even her foot was at least twice the size it should be. No wonder it hurt so much!
“The horse was killed – it landed on my leg.” She said simply with a grimace.
“Just eat your breakfast, Lady.” The woman commanded seriously. “Rosie – can you help me? Support her leg whist I make a poultice?” She nodded at the boy with the linen sheet. “Rip strips about a hand’s width, Ianto – yes, that’s perfect, keep going.”
Someone else thrust the porridge into her hands, as another woman started gently combing her hair as if she were a tiny child or ill – “Yes, Mistress. Thank you.” She acknowledged, holding the bowl against her chest with her injured left hand, trying to ignore the swelling and bruising evident there, vanishing into her sleeve. She was spooning the warm stuff quickly, desperately – food had never tasted so good, she decided. “Thank you so much - .”
“Pshaw! We’ll do all we can, Lady – and call me Jess, my Lady . . . You said the city was overrun? What on Iullyn has happened?”
“We were riding home – my parents, Lyria from Callorton, soldiers and servants . . . We had just emerged from the woods on the road from Foston – it’s such a lovely view . . .” She faltered and shivered. Every adult in the room stared at her, except for the one combing her hair until it was stick and knot free and then quickly tied it back with a thread. “There were horns sounding – and soldiers rode out of the woods on either side of the road and up from the city . . . Yesterday afternoon, it was. Oh, dear Arven – only yesterday! They outnumbered the soldiers – the General killed my father, my mother – all the soldiers, only a few servants live, and they sent Lyria to warn the King . . . They’re taking me to Ban’Lerracon, they said . . .”
“Mmm.” Jess’s soothing tone was automatic – she was stirring a small pan containing what smelled like a very pungent mixture of herbs and things. “We grieve for your loss, my Lady – we will do all we can, I promise you. Ethie, have your father saddle three horses. Marta, pack some food. We will get you to safety, never fear – Foston has a garrison, of course. First, we’ve got to dress your leg.”
“Thank you, Mistress Jess!” Ethrayne felt a surge of relief wash through her, as comforting as the food that she had gobbled so quickly. Then, in just a heartbeat, that comfort was dispelled as a sense of approaching menace came into her mind – immediately she knew that the enemy were closing in, having tracked her route through the woods.
It was strange – she would have welcomed this increased insight into her abilities two days ago but, now, now it marked the point where her life had been irretrievably broken apart.
“They are coming! The jajozeli! Please, take the children and go – hide somewhere!” She blurted in desperate fear. “Oh, you must hide, Jess – it’s me they’re after and too many people have already died!”
Jess, however, calmly continued wrapping the outer bandages around the ones stained a garish green by the poultice, a warm, smelly concoction about her foot and lower leg. “Cassie, Rosie, Marta – take the children and hide down in the hazel brakes – stay there quietly, no matter what. Go, quickly!” She urged. “Lady Ethrayne speaks the truth – go, take bread and cheese and apples – go – and warn the men!”
With a small amount of confusion, the room was quickly cleared, the women and older children herding the tots out of the kitchen and running quickly across the farmyard in the direction of the orchards.
“Thank Arven!” Ethrayne breathed. “Oh, Jess, please go too – you’ve been so kind, I would hate anything to happen -.”
“Nay, Lady, you are our responsibility, and you need my help. Finish your milk, I’ve nearly done here – do you want some bread and cheese? Oh, you look better than you did at dawn.” She managed a little laugh, but it was a little shrill.
“I’m a complete mess, Mistress.” The girl replied with an attempt at humour, glancing down at her ripped, filthy gown, her one, muddy boot. “Thank you, Jess.” That sensation of danger closing in was an unpleasant tingling akin to the feeling that the Generals touch had caused, growing stronger as the young woman sat there, waiting, as Jess continued her chores – clearing the remains of the poultice, the bandages ripped out of the sheet, the porridge bowls and so on towards the old stone sink. Ethrayne could feel her fear rising. “I bet Jerryn would never recognise me!” She continued. “Oh, Jess -.”
“Get out here now, Ethrayne!” Ackat’s accented voice shouted from outside, and both women started. “We know you’re here – you’ve wasted enough of our time!”
“Look at you, sitting at here ease after leading us a fine chase!” Cavaln spat, stepping through the doorway from the farmyard, her eyes flashing as she glared, her thumbs hooked in her sword belt, tall and slender. “On your feet, brat!”
Ethrayne sighed, but carefully rose to her feet, hanging on to the table top, balancing on her right foot, as Jess handed her that life-saving crutch. “I -.” She began an apology, but stopped at once: she wasn’t sorry, despite her injuries, and they didn’t deserve any apologies on her part: they had abducted her, after all and caused her injuries! But their anger was clear to her. “I – I will try, Madam General . . . please don’t – don’t hurt anyone.” She started again.
“Shut up and shift it!” Cavaln retorted, then frowned as the girl unsteadily worked her way forward, the middle-aged woman watching anxiously at every thump of the crutch on the flagstone floor. “Char’hase, child, you look even worse than you did last night!” She exclaimed. “Outside, now!”
Each step made her wince, feeling utterly unsafe, however useful the crutch had been during her night-time excursion. On her feet, she could feel the bone-deep weariness that had been hidden during her quick breakfast, but advanced to the kitchen door, puffing.
“You have tended her leg, woman?” Cavaln demanded of Jess shortly.
“Aye, Lady.” The woman answered warily. “Bathed, poultices and re-bandaged – but Lady Ethrayne must rest -.”
“I am a healer, woman. Do not concern yourself.” The General said dismissively, putting her left arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Thank you for your care.”
“Thank you, Jess – I am sorry.” Ethrayne said earnestly, as Cavaln helped her down the two steps there and across the yard. But, looking ahead, her gaze was caught by General Ackat’s dark glare. He sat in his saddle in the centre of the yard, the middle-aged farmer – Kethar, she suddenly recalled his name – at sword-point beside him, pale-faced and sweating. “Oh, please -.”
“Get on with you.” Cavaln interrupted her brusquely, trying to hurry her across the fifty or so feet of cobbles that lay before them. Behind the General, Ethrayne now saw the six soldiers ranged about, weapons in hand, alert.
“So, still lame and still stupid, hey?” General Ackat called mockingly as she advanced. “Your antics have delayed us by nearly half a day, brat, yet you ask for mercy? I really don’t believe that you have thought through your situation properly, child – or that of your people: these lands are ours, you are also ours – or, rather, you belong to our Emperor.”
“I am Ethrayne of Clirensar, General. I belong to no one!” Ethrayne retorted instantly.
“Silence!” He bellowed, leaning forward, his left hand extended and slapped her hard across the face, knocking her out of Cavaln’s grasp and hard to the dusty stones. “One way or another, girl, you will obey us!” He swung his sword at the trembling farmer in what was clearly a killing strike -.
“No!” Ethrayne screamed in mingled horror and fury, reaching up with her hands into mid-air as if to grab that sharp, shining lethal blade and, oddly, in addition to her exhaustion and fear, she felt an expulsion of – something – strength, she supposed, that jarred throughout her being like steel being beaten on an anvil. Her head was suddenly lighter, spinning -.
Ackat grunted, his hand cramping, his swing blocked dead as if by a shield – the sword was knocked out of his grip to land, ringing, close to where Ethrayne was laid. The farmer staggered backwards, his hands clutching his neck, his eyes wide in shock, clearly wondering just how he was still alive.
“Get her on her horse – now!” Ackat commanded shortly after a moment. “Pass me my sword. Move, Cavaln!”
Ethrayne’s head was reeling at that explosion of energy, as Cavaln hauled her upwards, Ackat’s sword and the crutch in her other hand. The weapon was passed quickly to the glowering male on his horse, the crutch thrust back to improve the girl’s stability – she was far less stable on her feet now than even a few moments before, clutching at the wood with desperation. Shoved up onto the horse – Ackat assisted with a hiss of anger, his grip tight on her upper right arm, and Ethrayne struggled then to get herself properly into the saddle, her left leg and hip protesting mightily, her face grey. She bit her lip, guessing from the expression on his face that Ackat didn’t think that one blow had been enough punishment, although she certainly did.
In a moment, she found herself drawn along behind Cavaln’s horse, as they rode quickly back towards the dark woodlands above the farm yard, leaving the stunned farmer and his wife stood there, watching them go.
* * *
Apart from a brief rest for the horses’ benefit some time after noon, when Ethrayne was handed a water bottle and helped into the undergrowth by Cavaln, she was ignored. The Generals spoke quietly together, some way ahead, both of them turning frequently to look at her, following at the end of the piece of rope by which Ackat led her horse. She was unsure whether her imagination was working overtime, but their expressions were stern, their eyes dark – but what did she know of Generals? Had she done something else to anger them, or were they worried, perhaps? Why were their gazes almost measuring her? Or was it only her imagination? But they did not speak to her – riding on at the head of the group with a determination to cover as many leagues as possible before nightfall, from their start at Applegarth. Ethrayne didn’t really know – she was just a passenger, baggage: everything hurt far too much, today, for her to pay much attention to the countryside they rode through, the parts that would have been so familiar, giving way to land that was not, heading west and south.
The sun was hovering close to the far horizon when Ackat called a halt, dismounting quickly to inspect the site that he had deemed suitable for their camp, a flat area of land set between low limestone cliffs that protected it from the west, and slightly above the thick mixed woodland that they had been climbing through for most of the afternoon.
Looking around, with slightly more interest, Ethrayne wondered if this was the Perotan Forest – those, the Perotan Hills ahead, that were definitely west and south of the Vale – so they must have crossed another of the feeder rivers for the Sare, without her noticing at all! They could be only three days or so from the border of Tenarum. It was frightening, realising that – and she shivered.
Ackat strode over to where she sat uselessly on the horse as the soldiers separated to their tasks and Ethrayne flinched slightly, without meaning to. He laughed a little, the sound cold, as he lifted her down from the saddle and sat her on the damp grass. “Perhaps you are starting to learn, brat!”
“I am the Lady of Clirensar and betrothed to the Prince of Tenarum!” Ethrayne struck out verbally only because his mocking words mirrored her own thoughts at her helplessness. “I hardly need to take lessons from the servants of some – some foreign king!”
He had turned away, but the look on his face, burning in his eyes when he bent over her, his face only inches from hers, was terrifying – Ethrayne realised, her heart sinking, that she might have gone too far.
“You little bitch!” He spat furiously, raising his fist -.
“Stop, Ackat!” Cavaln interjected firmly, stepping right up to the pair of them, her hand extended. “She is injured and ignorant -.”
“Ignorant and reckless!” He snarled and there was a long, sharp knife in his right hand as he stepped around Cavaln and took hold of Ethrayne’s long weight of hair, kneeling beside the girl. “You insolent, ignorant self-important little brat!” He continued, his breath hot on her face. “We are the servants of our Master, the Emperor, yes, but only in so far as you could be considered a servant of your little king! We are his tools, his eyes, ears and hands. If you were naked, bitch, you could trust any General of the Empire to deliver you safely to the Emperor’s presence anywhere in Iullyn, untouched and chaste! Cavaln is here, true, but your state of virginity – if it exists – would be safe throughout the world with any of us! You will learn to think before you speak and to guard your tongue, brat, or you will suffer the consequences!” And he raised the blade – bright in the light of the setting sun – and sliced through the length of her hair above the tie that Bess’s friend had tied, so that about half its weight fell behind her.
“What are you doing?” Ethrayne cried in horror, lifting her right hand -.
“I suggest that you sit still, brat.” Cavaln advised with laughter in her voice. “If you irritate my colleague any more, he might decide to remove your clothes next – simply to prove his trustworthiness, no doubt!”
“Ha!” Was all that he said, ruthlessly cutting away at the girl’s scalp until there was a startlingly large pile of light brown, wavy hair in her lap and little more than varied lengths of stubble left on a head suddenly very cold. Ethrayne had not dared to move a muscle as he had cut and hacked at her hair, sat frozen in horror and fear – only when he stood up and stepped back, slipping the knife into its sheath, did she slowly raise her right hand to feel her denuded, stubbly, painful scalp – the places that had hit the ground the previous day were very tender. “There you are – a haircut worthy of nobility. What do you think – an improvement?”
The raucous, mocking laughter of Cavaln and the soldiers were answer enough and Ethrayne hid her face in her hands and sobbed. The evening wind, gusting, caused the cut and bruised areas and most of her scalp to smart – had his knife cut her skin, too? She flinched again as Cavaln leaned down, taking the pile of hair, to drop it over by a stand of browning bracken.
“And that’s not all, brat.” Ackat continued, moving away across the camp that had been set up around them. “You’re not getting a bite to eat tonight until you have apologised and asked me very politely for supper. You will learn your place, Ethrayne, if it kills you!”
*
It was much later and Ethrayne shivered, although the Generals had given her a couple of blankets – the night had turned gusty, the stars were hiding behind huge thick clouds, peeping out now and again for a moment, whilst the fire sparked. She had at least eaten – her humble pleading with the General had been genuine enough: he terrified her, and the hollow feeling inside her had been awful. He had laughed at her and relented, after a while, so she had eaten what they had given her with desperate need, not even tasting it, but her nerves were stretched as tight as a bowstring – the pain of her injured side worried her far more than hunger had. She lay there, shivering, trying to get comfortable, just glad to be ignored.
“What happened, there at the farm, Ackat?” Cavaln asked her colleague, taking a wine sack from him. They were sat further around the fire, but still within earshot of their prisoner. The woman took a swallow. “I really thought the farmer was dead.”
“Yes, he would be, but for our troublesome little prisoner.” Ackat answered with a glare sideways at the girl. “Somehow she blocked my blade – that’s why I dropped it. Didn’t you see her suddenly glow? She expended a lot of strength.”
“I was watching you.” Cavaln admitted.
“It was only for a moment. It seems that she does have some talent, even if she doesn’t know how to harness it or use it consciously yet. D’you know, Cavaln? I’ll be really very bloody pleased to get the girl back to the citadel.”
Listening, Ethrayne wondered what the General meant, for she was sure she hadn’t actually done anything at the farm – she had only screamed like an idiot and acted like a complete fool. It was awful – she was now helpless: even more crippled than she had been a day before. The two Generals absolutely terrified her – their power abraded her nerves, their manner scared her – it was going to be simply horrible, travelling with them!
Dully she reflected that the damned Prophecy had not mentioned the taking of Clirensar or the murder of her parents and friends . . . If she had known of this, she probably would not have agreed so readily to take the Flame . . . It had seemed so simple, there in Tenum, so straightforward . . .
And now here she lay, aching from head to toe, her left arm and hand stiff, weak, bruised and swollen so she could hardly handle the crutch, her ribs, hip and leg agonising – the General had certainly ensured compliance simply because she could hardly move five yards without assistance.
How can the monsters be stopped? She asked silently and tears began to well up as the realisation hit home as hard as Ackat’s earlier blow: I’ll never see Jerryn again! And – and so many innocent people have died – will die! We’re doomed! She sniffed hard, and somehow controlled herself, but horrible thoughts and fears filled her head – it was a very long time before exhaustion finally let her find solace in sleep.
*
Three days passed. Three long, hard days of intense discomfort and teeth-gritting bloody-mindedness, during which Ethrayne very privately agreed with her captors that she was weak, useless and pampered beyond belief. Even if she had been uninjured, she would probably have found the constant travelling hard work – setting off soon after dawn and riding almost nonstop until late evening, every day. Hampered as she was, it was terrible. Travelling with her family had never been so – intense, despite her familiarity with horses. She suspected that it was mainly due to her own fragility that General Ackat led them on mostly at a canter, rather than racing across the unpopulated region of the Perotan Hills and beyond, into the south.
Frustration marked her days – frustration mixed with liberal amounts of embarrassment and anger at the help that she was forced to accept from Cavaln for even the most intimate things – after five days, her left leg was still badly swollen and bruised and could not support any weight at all; but least her arm and hand were slowly returning to usefulness. It was awful, but Ethrayne did thank Arven that Cavaln was there – the prospect of having had to rely on General Ackat or a soldier would be simply unbearable; the woman’s healing skills were excellent, as she checked and re-bandaged her injured leg each evening. It was strange to think that a General could also be a healer, although Bahlien had said that their talent moved in innumerable ways.
The border lands south and west of the Perotan Hills were mostly virgin forest, with wide meadows between that seemed stuffed with wildlife that provided many of the meals prepared by the soldiers – game birds and deer-like creatures and many others. There were no signs that people had ever dwelled here. Ethrayne had caught occasional glimpses of wolves and even a bear at a great distance, busy on their own business. Consequently, it was a shock when the small group came to the wide muddy scar that obviously marked the route the jajozeli had taken – it curved off to the north-east behind them, vanishing into the woodland, but led south-west, a massive ruin of rutted brown mud some thirty or more feet wide, stark across the pristine landscape.
The southern Tenarean border was uncertain, but antiquated standing stones stood like sentinels across one ridge top, huge, grey and lichen-covered, set at odd intervals – huge, roughly hewn rectangular blocks over seven feet high, that were generally accepted as border markers, whether it was fact or not.
This land was higher and summer here was long past – the windswept, largely coniferous woods and rough heath land that had replaced the fading, brown meadows of lower altitudes showed autumn to be at a much more advanced and cooler stage. Gazing westward towards the fading colours of sunset, that fifth evening from Clirensar, Ethrayne shuddered at the chilly, rain-laid wind that cut through her tattered travelling cloak and gown – fine silk was definitely not designed for hard travelling. She assumed that she looked like a complete fright, looking down at the stained, ripped hemline and the filthy state of her petticoats. She tried hard not to think about how many more days might pass before she might possibly feel the touch of clean, hot water to wash in; before she was warm. The vast realm of Zanezli was pretty-much unknown – she had no idea how many more leagues they still had to travel.
All Ethrayne knew was that she was heartily sick of it. The despair and horror of Clirensar’s fate and her parents’ deaths still cut at her emotions, but the travelling was never-ending, it seemed. Four more days passed and the weather was worsening. The last of the warmish, sunny weather vanished behind dark clouds, propelled by cold winds from the south-east, out of the mountains, bringing cold rain. Cavaln had taken pity on the girl when the rain began to fall in earnest and had taken a full-length, thick, amazingly waterproof cloak almost identical to the ones she and Ackat wore from a pack and given it to Ethrayne. She was immensely glad of it: it was very warm and excellent protection against the wind and rain.
The tenth morning of their journey began, identical to the rest: with rude remarks from the soldiers and General Ackat, which she had learned to ignore without any reaction. She was surprised, after the usual hurried breakfast, to find that she could actually put a little bit of weight on her left leg, for a moment anyway, although she was still hugely dependant on the crutch and General Cavaln. It hurt, was still tender – but it was nowhere near as painful as it had been a day or two before.
“You’re doing rather well, considering.” The woman said unexpectedly, helping her back to the campsite where the soldiers were loading the last of the baggage onto the horses.
“Thank you.” Ethrayne answered shortly, her right hand running quickly over her bald scalp in a newly established nervous habit. She had learned to think before speaking and the thought of antagonising either General again brought her out in a cold sweat: the feel of their power in her and their strength and authority were frightening. She was being drawn helplessly to a place that had existed only in myth, to an unknown fate – and she wondered what her abduction had meant to the prophecy that Lurco and Bahlien had explained to them so many moons ago.
; She mourned yet again – her near sister-in-law must have lost all her family, as she had lost so many who were friends as well as servants! What was happening in Clirensar? She had deliberately tried not to think about her betrothed or the city very much – she had skirted about the cold, brutal deaths. Dear Arven, please take care of them!>; And, feeling tears welling up, she quickly turned her thoughts elsewhere, dwelling on just how much she hated her captors, using anger to control her fear and despair.
That morning, the clouds blew off as the group rode fast beside the scar of the jajozeli army’s passing, a beautiful blue sky and colder wind were left, the latter blowing hard in their faces. Ethrayne pulled her borrowed cloak tighter around her and shivered. Of course, the grey clouds and rain returned soon enough and the afternoon seemed to pass in an interminable storm of cold rain as the horses climbed a long slope out of a shallow valley, finally reaching a rough ridge that stood out amid the landscape, blocking the view to the south. Reaching that vantage point, Ethrayne had a shock: there, completely unexpectedly and only a couple of leagues away, was a large complex of dark-roofed buildings surrounded by a high wall that was clearly designed for defence on an shallow open slope, with wide fields laid out at a distance.
“N’Aston.” General Ackat said succinctly, turning and grinning at her with good humour before he urged his horse on down the steep slope before them and she was drawn on behind.
From her first view as they rode through the surprisingly narrow gate and along a straight, cobbled street, Ethrayne thought that the place was more a military fort than a normal town, despite the farmland that she had seen. The buildings all seemed nearly identical, blocky, tall and steep roofed and plainly built with small windows; the people they passed were completely male and all wore the same black uniform as the soldiers behind her – they stopped where they and saluted the Generals smartly. Also, there were no shops to be seen. The streets were narrow and straight – excellent for defence. Ackat and Cavaln led the group through the town, finally reaching the first wide space that Ethrayne had seen here, a broad empty square just bordered by more plain ranks of buildings. There was one massive flagpole in its centre, bearing the black, crimson and silver standard that had been run up over Clirensar. One building ahead was taller than the others, with five levels of windows and the roof surmounted by two more of the lightning flags, whilst the entrance was reached by three broad steps.
“Halt.” Ackat ordered. “Dismount and disperse.”
“Sir.” The soldiers saluted, dismounted, and strode off with their equipment and bags, talking quietly.
“By the ice of Car’Agasse, is that your prisoner?” A loud voice boomed from the top of the steps. A tall, black-haired General stood in the newly opened doorway, staring at Ethrayne as she strove to dismount without anyone’s help – there was a look of exaggerated horror on his face. “Pirris! What a mess!”
Ackat laughed aloud as he watched the girl reach the ground, holding tight to the saddle as she fumbled with the crutch that was looped over her back, not really daring to set her left foot down properly yet – after another long day, her injuries still hurt.
“I cut off her hair and the mess on her face is mostly bruising from her capture.” He said, waving her on towards the steps. “I’ll tell you all about it when I’ve bathed – sorry, Cavaln, can you sort the brat out?”
As the woman came up beside her, Ethrayne saw Cavaln’s eyes flash with a moment’s anger, although her expression was neutral. “Of course, Ackat.” She said calmly. “Come along, girl.”
It was noticeably warmer inside, as Ethrayne hopped along with the crutch just behind the woman, heading along a plain, torch-lined corridor, up two flights of tall steps – they were challenging and she had to use her damaged leg to ascend them – along a second corridor to a narrow door identical to the rest to left and right, which Cavaln unlocked with a hefty key and opened to reveal a square, grey-walled room lit by a few large candles, containing a scarred table and a low stool, a long, narrow bed along the right hand wall, a surprisingly large blazing fire, and – bliss! – there was a wooden bath next to it like a large half-barrel, full of steaming water.
“Oh, dear Arven!” Ethrayne felt suddenly giddy at the sight of the bath and the bed and had to fight back a sudden rush of silly tears from nowhere.
“I’ll lock you in here – I’ve got the only key, girl.” Cavaln waved it in front of her face. “Get washed. I’ll return later with hot food and some clean clothes.” She advised as she left, slamming the door hard – the sound of the lock turning clear.
“Thank you very bloody much!” Ethrayne retorted – the first slight return of spirit that she had dared utter since Ackat had cut off her hair, probably raised by the realisation that her leg was getting better, although it definitely hurt now from having to climb the stairs here. She set the crutch and cloak aside by the door – she did check that it was locked – and scanned the room properly, limping a little.
There was a bi-fold screen by one wall, which she pulled across to set between the bath and the door. A second door led to a little room containing a privy; a curtained window was in the right hand wall, beyond the neatly made bed on which there were adequate towels laid out – and the bedding smelled of lavender which was surprising; there was soap, a mat on the wooden floor, and a large basket of dry logs for the fire. Only then did Ethrayne feel secure enough to strip off her tattered gown and underclothes, all too aware that she was a complete wreck – the lacing of the gown practically gave way at her touch. She unwound the latest bandage from her leg and was slightly encouraged to see that although it was still horribly bruised, the swelling had pretty-much gone: her foot and ankle especially were practically back to normal size. This matched the faded mass of bruising that covered all her left side from her shoulder down – no wonder she had found the journey so hard! Finally, she stepped into the bath and reached for the soap.
It felt that this was the first time that she had been properly warm since the battle above Clirensar – and she was thankful to be out of the ever-watchful gazes of the Generals. Ethrayne felt some of her constricting emotions loosen a little as she washed – they had choked her for so long now, it felt strange but wonderful to be temporarily free of fear, anger and the rest, even though she knew that they would quickly return.
By the time that Cavaln returned, Ethrayne was securely wrapped in plain brown towels and striving to scrub some of her own clothes clean – to turn her muddy and bloodstained petticoats and underclothes white. She had not been able to just sit there waiting idly: that way lay fear and imagination – the vast unknown. She jumped as the door opened with a click.
“Here’s your dinner.” Cavaln said, pointing to a tray that a soldier behind her laid on the table – glaring as he tried to ogle the girl knelt by the bath tub. He headed back to the door, brought in a large pail and hurried away with a salute. “And some clothes.” She placed a pile of stuff beside the tray. “It’s sensible, washing your clothes: I’ve not been able to find underclothes, so adapt what you can. Here’s twine and my knife.” She held it up – plain, with a six inch blade. “I’ll have that back in the morning, of course. Don’t bother trying to escape with it, or even think of hurting yourself – I’ll be very, very annoyed, girl, if you do – and General Ackat will be furious. Come in here.” She beckoned, and the girl followed her into the privy, where she tapped on a grey metal pipe on the wall. “Turn this for fresh hot water – tip the dirty water down the privy.” Water gushed into the basin below the spigot for a moment as she demonstrated. “The clothes I’ve brought will need taking in, I imagine. Eat first.” She glared at the girl. “Now.”
Ethrayne blinked and considered arguing, but the smell of hot food had made her stomach rumble, it was a long time since breakfast. She headed for the main room and the table, keeping a firm hold on the towels – she was glad when the General left and the lock snapped shut again.
The tray held a mug of milk – she wondered where the cows were in this bleak landscape – dark bread and cheese and what seemed to be a sort of stew, an ample helping of meat, vegetables and some sort of grain. Ethrayne devoured the food so quickly, she had to rest for a while before starting to rinse her clothes. She had eaten regularly, twice a day, during the journey, of course, but her emotions and injuries had meant that she had had difficulty finishing meals as well as with sleeping properly. Now, it was her desire to be safely and appropriately dressed that overrode her need for sleep.
She emptied some of the cooling bathwater, added some clean hot water and scrubbed and rinsed what she could, finally draping it over the screen and made up the fire to dry it. Then she blew out the candles, got into bed, pulled the covers up over the towels she still wore and quickly fell into sleep.
Ethrayne awoke to daylight and a loud bang! which brought her upright, clutching the bedclothes tight to her body, staring at the black-haired General in dismay – edging as far back into the wall behind her as she could. He was stood over the fireplace, it looked as though he had been re-lighting it for the room felt chilly – it was crackling loudly as it burned through kindling and larger pieces of wood.
“Hmm. You look a little better than you did on your arrival.” He said, raking her with his gaze. “Obviously Cavaln is no fool: you’ve slept half the day away.”
“I – I have?” She was amazed: it felt as though only moments had passed since her head had hit the pillow, apart from the fact that some of the bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued her since Applegarth had mostly vanished. “I -.” But she held back the apology – and the grin that the General gave her made it obvious that he knew she had.
“There’s no help for it.” He said easily, still studying her closely. “Breakfast is there. Eat and get yourself dressed. We’ll be setting off early tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Ethrayne muttered.
“Not sir, girl.” He corrected her, but his tone was deceptively mild. “Yes, my Lord General – and don’t you forget it.” And he turned and left, locking the door again.
Breakfast was an odd sort of porridge – strange tasting but filling – and scrambled eggs with bread, oddly spiced but nice. Ethrayne ate it all, knowing that she would never have eaten so much at one time back at home; but she had noticeably lost weight on her journey and those times during it when she had been really hungry filled her with horror.
Full, she mended the fire then turned to the pile of clothes and slowly fashioned an outfit that would hopefully prove both warm and robust enough for the next stage of her journey; Cavaln’s knife and the twine proved invaluable indeed: over her own crumpled, clean things she pulled on a thick tunic in faded green, a pair of black leggings – the smallest in the pile that still swamped her, needing twine for a belt. She took a felted red wool jacket, turned up its sleeves as she had turned up the trouser legs and used more twine to fasten it tighter – it was so long that it came halfway down her thighs. Two pairs of baggy socks meant that the pair of well-worn short boots were not too loose. Looking down, Ethrayne supposed that she must look ridiculous, but at least she was warm and she would find it easier to get on and off horses. There was even a rough pair of mittens and a baggy woollen hat amongst the clothing – rather old and tatty.
Time passed slowly, so she emptied the bath of the cold water and stood at the window that she had ignored until now, staring down a narrow street three floors below, watching men in cloaks walking about to some purpose or another. The sky was a mass of deep grey cloud, dotted with clear blue here and there; rain fell at intervals – she saw a few distant dark birds flying and nothing else.
At some point, Cavaln reappeared with two soldiers – the muscular men easily removed the wooden bath tub, rolling it out of the room on its side. The woman only stood there, staring at the girl.
“You’ll do.” She allowed after some study. “Knife?”
“Here.” Ethrayne gestured, then moved to the old table and picked up the weapon, offering it to the General hilt first. “Thank you.”
Cavaln slipped it into a sheath on her belt. “I suggest you pack these other clothes and bring them with you – it gets bitter in the mountains. And how will you deal with menses, girl?”
“What?” Ethrayne stared, then sank, blushing, onto the stool beside her – “Well -.”
Cavaln snorted. “You need a nursemaid, girl! You are not a child, even if my esteemed colleagues seem to think that you are. Sort yourself out, brat – no-one else will do it for you!”
“I never asked you to murder everyone in my home and drag me here!” The girl retorted resentfully. “I won’t apologise for being who and what I am! And I won’t apologise for trying to escape!”
Cavaln flashed a brief grin. “Good answer. Get organised, girl – saddle bags will be brought later; don’t forget the clothes – you will need them – and bring a couple of blankets too.” Then she departed, sweeping out as regally as any queen despite her manly garb.
; She muttered resentfully to herself later, ripping the remains of her clothing into useful sized rags and shivering – Still, at least she said it, and not any of the males!>; She acknowledged – that would have been completely unbearable.
She stayed there beside the fire as the light faded from the sky, glad of the chance to rest, to appreciate time alone – puzzling over the myriad questions that had been stuck inside her since her capture: the nature of the power within her, the Flame of Arven, how helpless she was despite it – although she had somehow saved the farmer’s life in Applegarth from Ackat’s sword stroke; she wondered about the Betrayer and his servants and her role and Jerryn’s – a million questions, but with no answers!
She had no idea if there was a way in which she could have warned Jerryn or Bahlien across the leagues of the forces that had attacked them; she didn’t have a clue how she had stopped Ackat’s murder of Kethar; she did not know anything at all, it seemed! What sort of Wielder of the Flame could she possibly be, when she was so utterly ignorant that the Generals had laughed at her! Ethrayne’s thoughts span almost sickeningly – until she actually welcomed the interruption of a soldier who brought a meal on a tray and a pair of saddlebags, halting her increasingly depressing thoughts. Swearing under her breath, she ate the food quickly and then packed the clothes neatly away as Cavaln had suggested. Then, to hopefully prevent herself from returning to those awfully spiralling thoughts, she got into bed and tried to force herself into sleep, but it was late when she finally did so.
*
A banging on the door woke Ethrayne abruptly from a dream where she and Jerryn were walking hand-in-hand through a flower meadow. She leapt up in momentary confusion as General Cavaln strode into the room, her uniform pristine, her boots shining, with cup and bowl on a tray. “Be quick – we set off at dawn – don’t forget the blankets.” She ordered crisply, her boots sounding loud on the floorboards as she left.
The sky outside was still black, Ethrayne found, opening the curtains when she had lit the candles from the fire – she quickly ate, then washed and dressed, pulling on the ill-fitting clothes and tying them securely. She rolled two of the thick blankets up and packed them in the other saddlebag, then finally pulled on the too-loose boots, wriggling her toes experimentally – and smiling slightly: her left foot still hurt, but noticeably less even than the morning before. Then, she waited with a strange mixture of feeling – a dichotomy: unease and fear at heading into the centre of Zanezli and pleasure at leaving this prison, however nice it had been to be apart from her captors. Being locked in an empty room was, she had found the previous day, a peculiar torture.
A pair of soldiers opened the outer door a short time later – a quick glance out of the window had shown her a few windows glowing with lamp light in the surrounding buildings, but the sky had not lightened at all. Ethrayne picked up the saddlebags and the thick black cloak and headed towards them, limping slightly but ignoring the crutch that had been so vital until now. She could walk, if slowly – she would only improve and get better quickly now, please Arven!
The soldiers flanked her, marching her back down to the bare entrance hall, where the massive doors were already open to an icy wind which tore down the corridor with teeth. Still carrying her cloak, she shivered.
“What an ugly little creature!” One of the sentries at the entrance remarked with a derisive snort – the courtyard was badly lit with spluttering torches, but the sky to the east was actually lightening now, so dawn was approaching. “Looks more like a half-starved boy than a girl!”
A sudden fury flashed through Ethrayne from nowhere: she might have to accept the cold superiority of the Generals, but she did not have to cower before mere soldiers! Dropping the cloak and saddlebags on the top step she recalled some of her lessons – span, grabbed the hilt of his sword with her right hand and punched him in the stomach with her left, just as Pualyn and Jerryn and the rest had taught her. To her satisfaction, he fell backwards off the top step, his arms wind-milling, swearing wildly as he hit the cobbles.
“I am the Lady of Clirensar, betrothed to the Prince of Tenarum and Wielder of the Flame of Arven. I might not look my best, but I am hardly an ugly little creature!” She replied with all the icy hauteur of her rank – a mannerism she had hardly ever used before in her life – and raised the sword. “Keep out of my way -.”
“Or what will you do?” General Ackat asked from behind her in a tone of polite interest. The stunned soldiers who had guarded her had not even drawn their own weapons and they edged away from the tall being. “Get out of my way, idiots!” He growled as the downed sentry got to his feet, pale and angry.
“Oh -.” Ethrayne added one of the curses that would have brought utter shock and disapproval from her parents – and Ackat, Cavaln and the black-haired General all grinned, grouped formidably in the doorway.
“Tut, tut, Ethrayne – how very rude.” Ackat scolded her and she tried to keep her grip on the sword steady despite her rising fear. “Do you actually know what to do with that long, sharp, dangerous piece of steel, mmm?” There was cold laughter in his eyes.
“Jerryn, Pualyn and the commanders in Tenum were teaching me, yes, Lord General.” She replied as assuredly as she could manage. “Surely you heard about my combat practice whilst you were lurking about the fringes of the city, sir? I am not completely untrained.”
“Excellent.” He did not answer her question. “Then I will assess your ability, girl. Although we are on a tight schedule today, we can just about make space for a quick lesson – come on.” Still smiling, he gestured and passed her, stepping down into the courtyard where the wide-eyed soldiers quickly moved away again.
Behind, helpless, Ethrayne followed him, praying desperately to Arven and all too aware that Cavaln and the other were laughing aloud at her predicament. Limping towards the General, she realised again just how very tall he was and remembered how frightening, strong and formidable he had been when he had cut off her hair. He stood there in the gradually strengthening grey daylight, his sword already in his hand, point down, watching her, grinning – poised.
“Are you ready, my lady?” He asked lightly, bowing – and Ethrayne bowed too, the basic manners from her combat lessons were deeply ingrained, but she did not trust herself to speak. “And – begin.”
Ackat moved with lethal speed and his blade sliced through the air. Oddly, unexpectedly, Ethrayne’s fear vanished as all the moons of lessons meshed together in her mind: her blade met his with a ring of steel, although she knew that her defence was rather clumsy and she stepped quickly, forgetting her aching left leg; she shifted her shoulders and her swing – thrust -.
“Not bad.” The General commented, easily blocking her move, forcing her backwards. “Ha, that’s better!” Almost approving as she recklessly attacked for a second time. Rather unnecessarily he retreated a few steps, his sword held wide. “Come on, girl -.”
“You’re playing with me, Lord General!” She growled and he laughed and shifted, hitting her blade so hard that she nearly lost her grip on it. She danced aside, crouched and attacked again but Ackat span with acrobatic grace and was on the offensive, leaving Ethrayne wrong-footed, clumsy and desperately trying to block him . . . Any one move could have disarmed her in a moment, but he was holding back . . . After far too many moments which felt like a complete lifetime, he finally brought the session to an end. The girl’s hand was empty and numb almost to the elbow and she landed hard on the cold, wet cobbles on her rear – hardly daring to breath as Ackat laid the edge of the sword that he had knocked from her grasp across her throat. The blade was very, very cold. Then he withdrew it and grinned anew.
“You may show some promise, Ethrayne.” He commended her, to her amazement, before leaning forward to crack her hard across the head with one hand before tossing the sword back to the soldier she had disarmed and sheathing his own weapon smoothly; then he reached down to pull the pale-faced girl to her feet and wrapped a length of finely woven rope firmly about her wrists, checking that it was tight before he fixed it with a couple of tight knots .
“But -.” Ethrayne quavered, feeling the rope already pinching at her skin.
“Shut your mouth, brat!” Ackat advised coldly.
“Can we leave now?” The black-haired General asked in an amused tone, negligently throwing her cloak and saddle bags into the girl’s arms as he passed. “The sun is rising. Let’s go.” The cold wind made Ethrayne shiver despite the felted jacket that had made her feel far too hot a few moments before – she fumbled with both items with her tied hands, almost dropping the cloak. Cavaln snorted and deigned to take pity on her – she settled the bags level behind the saddle and fastened the cloak about her throat – smiling rather nastily as she did so.
Ackat, walking away towards a number of horses that stood to the right, turned back and gazed at Ethrayne rather coolly and she knew that he wanted her to realise that he had been deliberately holding back, as she meekly followed them: she knew that she had got off much more lightly than she could ever have hoped in this lesson. She supposed that being tied up was not as bad as things might get, although it felt bloody awful and very humiliating.
“Right, girl – we’re riding fast.” The unnamed General stated, swinging up into his saddle. “You can cooperate or we can rope you over the saddle and give you a really unpleasant day.” He chuckled and Ethrayne quickly shut her open mouth. “So which is it going to be?”
The girl glared at him and was up in the saddle of the huge, badly-groomed grey that was closest – trying to ignore her already hurting, confined wrists, damp rear and her actively aching left leg – before Cavaln and Ackat were mounted.
* * *
Lyria’s desperate journey north to Tenum City took eight long days from her and Tally’s arrival in Foston, just before nightfall – they had ridden along the clear road as fast as they could – away, away from the massacre, terrified, weighted down with the family’s treasures and Duke Sarant’s sword. They had hardly dared to speak, stunned at surviving the murders – guilty at their relief at living, and frightened for Ethrayne and the city.
The sight of the young lady and the stable boy – both blood-stained, the girl bearing the huge sword across her back, pale, alone – riding alone back into the little town caused considerable consternation. As a garrison town on the crossroads, Foston was active far later than was normal in farming communities: the guards at the gates were alert, for opportunistic thievery from caravans travelling through the woodlands was not unknown, although highly discouraged. The guards quickly called on the local civic leaders and ushered the pair of them into a private parlour at the spacious inn where the party had stayed only the previous night. Lyria had been surprised how much more quickly they had been able to ride than they usually could in a large group – covering the leagues at a gallop when they had been able to, but careful not to exhaust their mounts.
Then, sat by a comfortable fire, surrounded by locals, Lyria hurriedly related the awful events that had occurred above Clirensar, her voice shaking with emotion as she spoke, then growing uncharacteristically annoyed at the horror and disbelief of her questioners.
“Dear Arven, Captain!” She shouted, pulling away from the well-meaning servant who was trying to wrap a blanket around her shoulders. “You must send some fast riders immediately – and I must leave for Tenum City as soon as possible! Tally and I are the only ones who can tell the king what has happened.” Lyria had battled with her fear and horror during their terrible ride and now anger filled her.
The town mayor was waffling something to no purpose at all, as the garrison captain finally pulled himself together and got to his feet.
“Send Seplar and Foukes as Kings Messengers – we need to write the basic information down – ink and parchment, please. Thank you, Mistress.” Captain Chasson said, nodding as he took a quill in hand and spread out the palimpsest. “They will be your heralds, Lady Lyria.” The scratch of the nib on the parchment was loud as he quickly wrote a summary of what the young woman had reported, and repeated it. “Is there anything else you want me to add, Lady?” He asked. “Is there anything you require?” He scattered sand over the inked words, shook it off back into the bowl, and rolled up the message, sealing it with a blob of molten wax from one of the expensive beeswax candles on the table and his thumb print. “It is far too late to carry on your journey now – you cannot leave tonight: you must rest and continue your journey at dawn, if you must.”
Lyria sighed, her mind a mess of confusion, but acknowledged that the captain was correct: she was exhausted, her head was pounding and Tally looked ready to fall asleep where he sat. “Dear Arven – I – I don’t know.” She admitted, sounding weak and small. “Perhaps you are right, Captain – we should rest before we can continue -.”
“But what are we going to do?” Mayor Fergus demanded in a fearful tone. “Clirensar taken! Clirensar! The Duke, Duchess – an enemy army –.”
“Shut up, Fergus, we’ll sort that out after Lady Lyria has been settled for tonight – we’ll need to patrol the roads south and keep watch, you know. Now, Mistress Ellysa -.”
“I’ll take care of the Lady and her servant, Chasson – you lot get out of my way and get organised.” The inn keeper’s wife declared decisively, shooing the locals out of the room, and ushering in more servants. “Lady, you must eat – and there is plenty of hot water for a bath, and I’ll find you some clean clothes, oh, it’s tragic! Such a terrible thing! Eat, both of you – then bathe and rest and we’ll see you safely on your way in the morning. Issy, ensure that there are clean clothes and towels in the bathhouse!”
“Thank you, Mistress.” Lyria acceded. “Forgive me -.”
“Honestly, Lady, it’s our pleasure – our duty: you need our assistance, to get back to Tenum City. We will do all we can, I promise you.”
*
Night was drawing in, dark and starlit where the clouds had parted, but for the very edge of the western horizon where the last orange of sunset faded, as Lyria and her escort, comprising the stable-boy, Tally, Greta – the fourteen-year-old daughter of Mistress Ellysa and fifteen well-armed and watchful soldiers under Lieutenant Barnd, finally rode into Tenum City – and the ancient but sturdy gates creaked shut behind them, as ten men in the livery of the Royal Guard formed up ahead of the group and led them through the largely deserted, rain-swept streets and up through the city – halting, strangely, in the Cathedral courtyard having entered through the Penitents’ Gate.
“Lady Lyria.” A man stepped out of the deep shadows that pooled around the buildings, close to the great doors, as the Lieutenant helped Lyria out of her saddle. She started, but realised almost instantly that the man was Tymain and he bowed politely. “I am commanded to bring you to the King immediately. Please, lean on me, you look weary, my Lady.”
At the concern in his voice, Lyria pulled herself up straight and, clutching the plain, grey soldier’s cloak tight around her, glanced around at her companions – soldiers, Tally and Greta. “Thank you, Tymain, please lead on.” She said clearly. “Come on, you two – thank you, Lieutenant – make sure these men from Foston are fed and rested. We have travelled hard.”
“As you command, my Lady.” The Captain of the Royal Guard saluted precisely.
The two young people followed close behind her as Tymain led them through the vast building – and the place seemed empty, the corridors quiet and only dimly lit, the enormous hall, the focus of the worship of Arven cloaked in darkness, with only a few torches casting a light that picked out an occasional flash of gold or crimson or emerald. The young Flame Guardsman, however, strode confidently along a plain corridor to an old oak door of almost normal proportions, set in one diagonal wall of what Lyria supposed was a part of a tower – he flung open the door and ushered her into an ancient, oak-panelled octagonal room beyond -.
“Thank Arven!” King Marrand exclaimed, pushing through the knot of people who seemed to fill the space before the door and unexpectedly folded the young woman in a tight embrace – then he quickly released her and took her hand, leading her towards a large circular table, pulling out a chair for her, but she did not sit down immediately. “Please, my dear, sit down – everyone, business. Jerryn, please pour the lady and her companions glasses of wine and serve them supper – you two can sit there, at that table.” He pointed helpfully towards a small table with plain chairs, noticing the fear on the faces of the two young people. “You look weary, my dear Lyria – you have made very good time from Foston.”
“We had reason enough, your Majesty.” Lyria replied, clumsily removing the sword belt that she had carried almost continuously since the battle from around her left shoulder before she sat down, laying the sword and the canvas bag carefully on the tabletop, glad to be rid of the weight – the horrible responsibility – of it. Silence filled the room – everyone there stared at Sarant’s sword. “Thank you, your Highness.” She said gratefully, when Jerryn set a large glass of wine and a plate containing bite-sized nibbles before her – and smiled, when Tymain set similar viands before Tally and Greta.
In addition to Marrand and Jerryn , the two Archpriests were present; Commander Vedeigne; Lord Chamberlain Ferman; Lord Gorman; Lady Celia and Earl Bennard, as well as Tymain.
“So, Lady Lyria, my dear, the riders from Foston arrived yesterday morning and they were admirably terse. Judging by the state of your clothes and those of your companions, events have been gruesome. Can you please tell us exactly what happened there above Clirensar?” Marrand asked gently.
“Yes, your Majesty . . . Well, we had just come out of the North Coppice, heading down into the valley – the city was ahead and below, nothing was out of the ordinary. The soldiers formed up neatly and then – then a great blast on a horn rang out . . .” The young woman coldly described everything, from the advancing black-clad enemy soldiers closing in on three fronts; to her own freezing fear; the Duchess’s murder and her and Tally’s almost miraculous survival – leaving Ethrayne there, shocked and injured, by the side of the road, surrounded by the Generals.
“The one who murdered the Duke and Duchess – the General – did he give you his name, my dear?” Archpriest Bahlien asked intently.
“Aye, m’Lord.” Tally finally dared to stutter, getting quickly to his feet and bowing low. “Identified hisself an’ the other two, who rode off with m’Lady Ethrayne: he was Tequan, the Commander; the blonde man, Ackat; an’ the armed woman was Cavaln.” He shuddered and bowed again and fell back into his seat. “Dear Arven, they scared the spit out o’ me!”
“She – the female General – was Ethrayne’s protection, your Majesty.” Lyria confirmed with a glance at Jerryn, who was frowning deeply, his fists clenched before him on the tabletop. “She looked as dangerous as the males – oh, poor Ethrayne! Injured, mocked, her parents killed so brutally! Oh, I hope she is all right – the horse was killed beneath her: she must have hit the ground hard . . .”
“You named Ackat when Sarn was murdered.” Jerryn interjected harshly. “I saw you nod at the names, Bahlien. Is Ethrayne safe?”
“Tequan, Ackat and Cavaln.” The old razine repeated the names. “She I know the least about – heard rumours of a female cadet in training, so she must be quite newly elevated. I believe she may be Lord Governor Doreth’s great niece – less than fifty years old -.” He broke off as Earl Bennarn snorted. “Remember, we live many, many years longer than you, my Lord. She is very young by our standards. Tequan was Commander of Cal’Badon – he will have coordinated the attacks on your settlements. Now he commands Clirensar, which is a tragedy for everyone concerned. And Ackat, of course, was lurking about the city after your betrothal. They are some of the Betrayer’s most trusted servants. Ethrayne is safe, but far from safety.”
“I must admit that I don’t really understand, your Grace.” Lord Gorman growled, frowning. “A female General? It’s quite ridiculous!”
“Why should her sex limit her in life, my Lord?” Lurco countered in a mild tone. “All Generals have extraordinary abilities – they are all razine, remember. Their loyalty, their very lives, are in the hands of their Master -.”
“I’m a little startled that Selithian proprieties have been taken into consideration, actually.” Bahlien added with a tired sigh. “For Lady Ethrayne would be equally safe with any male General as with Cavaln as her guard –.”
“That’s sick!” Jerryn spat with furious intensity. “That – that damned prophecy – I mean – there’s Ethrayne, gravely injured maybe, orphaned and alone amid her enemies – What can we do?” He demanded, glaring from face to face, returning at last to Bahlien. “We’ve got to be able to do something, surely?” He entreated. “And – dear Arven, Lyria – there’s your family to consider at Callorton and Home Farm – all the citizens and villagers and farmers – Oh, I’m so, so sorry -!”
“It is hardly your fault, your Highness.” Lyria murmured. She had been trying to block out any thoughts of her own probable losses. Her mad race across Tenarum had been a boon, since she had been too tired and focussed on reaching the capital to really think about the wider ramifications of the jajozeli invasion.
“Lord Pualyn and the High-King of the razine should already be on their way to Rothern by ship – at least, that was how I understood your betrothed’s visit to conclude: that he would be here before the late autumn storms. With the Protectorates, Derravale and Amorry, we should be able to pool our resources and our expertise and come up with something decisive and effective.” Bahlien said gravely.
King Marrand grunted. “Well your countrymen will certainly know an awful lot more about how to deal with the Jajozeli Empire – this means war, you realise. They have taken Clirensar, with all its responsibilities and its resources! Oh, dear Arven! The iron – the steel they were preparing!” He groaned a curse.
“The attacks on Orran and the other towns are explained.” Commander Vedeigne stated levelly. “Every single one has been a massive diversion from their advance on Clirensar. We must regain the region as soon as possible.”
“Winter is not far off, Commander – it’s the end of Vhisson.” Jerryn added fiercely. “I want to attack immediately, but it would be just stupid to try anything right now – we’d never get anything properly organised until Umttarn or even Instur and by then the winter to the south will be terrible – we all know how bitter the weather is off the southern mountains, even if the Vale is relatively well protected.”
“The winter has ever been a time for planning.” Bahlien agreed, nodding. “Yet any campaign against Clirensar is only a diversion, you understand Prince Jerryn. They took the city for one purpose: to take Ethrayne if she headed home – and she might well have remained here – or you might have joined them on their journey to that fateful battleground.”
“What are you saying, your Grace?” Marrand asked rather heatedly.
“The focus of this turmoil has not changed, your Majesty – it is all about the Flame of Arven, Car’Agasse, Jerryn and Ethrayne and their enemy – Gregnor, the Betrayer.” The old razine said.
Lyria felt a sob rise up uncontrollably and it burst out awfully loud in the room – she paled as everyone turned to stare at her and fixed her tired gaze upon the tabletop. “Excuse me, your Majesty.” She murmured meekly, then picked up the canvas bag, opened the fastening, and tipped out its contents – rings and jewelled items formed a glowing heap of colour in the lamplight. “There you are – reason enough to make war!” She challenged them all, rising to her feet. “I don’t really care how long it takes, but you bloody-well have to kill them!”
Jerryn picked up Ethrayne’s betrothal ring and slid it onto the little finger on his left hand – it only just fit. “Amen to that, Lyria.” He answered fiercely, a nasty grin on his face. “Death is too good for them! I couldn’t believe it – Arven only knows how they managed to get control of Clirensar, but we’ve got to get them out of there!”
“Yes, I agree, but we aren’t in any position to be hasty, Jerryn.” The King replied as he began carefully placing the treasures pulled from Sarant, Riyala and Ethrayne back into the bag, and it was clear that the sight of the jewels – some stained with blood – affected him deeply. “Oh, dear Arven, Pualyn is going to hate his return!”
“Oh, my Pualyn!” Lyria quavered.
“Forgive us, Lady Lyria, you must be as tired as you are heart-broken. It is very late, and you have ridden hard. You might want to return to the palace, where you can bathe, eat again and rest. Tomorrow, we will meet with the ambassadors of our neighbours – and you will be central to this, my dear.”
“I am – am honoured, your Majesty, but I must admit that – that I am having difficulty concentrating – and I will probably remember more details tomorrow.” She admitted, shuddering.
“Come along, Lyria – Tally and – who are you, dear? Greta?” Lady Celia said, getting to her feet, her tone decisive. “I will see Lyria back to the palace and settled, your Majesty – rest is certainly what she needs tonight.”
“Yes, very well – we will follow shortly. Thank you. Corporal Tymain, have a carriage brought around and escort these ladies to the safety of the palace – see that the young man is settled also, please.”
“Your Majesty.” The young Flame Guard bowed and hurried from the room.
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Lyria curtsied politely, but both young servants were frozen in place – Marrand grinned at their fear.
“Go on along with you all – we’ll see you at breakfast, dear Lyria.” He said gently.
“I – I hope you sleep well, Lyria.” Jerryn added, opening the door for them – and the young woman noted the dark circles under his eyes, too. “Thank you for getting back as quickly as you have.” The words were formulaic – he looked weary and very upset.
“We are incredibly lucky the General didn’t just kill the lot of us, but I would have travelled to the ends of Iullyn if required, your Highness.” She answered simply. “Good night.”
Conversation swirled around him like eddies in a stream as the group got ready to leave the Cathedral in Lyria’s wake, but Jerryn found that he could not concentrate on any of them. Since the previous afternoon, when the two soldiers from Foston has arrived with their terrible news, his desperate fear for Ethrayne and the Kingdom at large had warred with a terrifyingly intense fury. Ever since he had been struggling with an almost overwhelming need to physically do something – destroy things – or hurt somebody! The news brought so unexpectedly had had an immediate effect upon the palace, rather like that of kicking an anthill: people were scurrying about in panic. Lyria’s more detailed report would perhaps calm the ants, but her words had left the prince fighting an urge to grab his weapons, saddle his horse and ride south in fury. The world was falling to pieces. He was struggling to stay in control.
Jerryn, you will have to lock away your fear and work through your anger.>; A voice said quietly inside his head, sympathetic but firm. Startled, he looked up to meet Bahlien’s gaze. Your father will need your support now more than ever and you must continue to master yourself: you must learn to use the power that Arven has bestowed upon you -.>;
I – But – But this is disastrous!>; He returned and a thought struck him hard like a blow. Are we doomed?>;
The old razine grinned and shook his head. “Of course we are not doomed, Jerryn. You are the Wielder of the Flame of Arven as equally as Ethrayne and Tenarum does not stand alone against the enemy. I imagine, also, that the jajozeli-razine will find your young Ethrayne a little difficult to handle.” He said aloud, his tone reassuring.
“I really hope so, your Grace.” The King said darkly. “She owes them! I hope she makes the journey really uncomfortable!”
*
Next morning, Jerryn was up at dawn - he had hardly slept and his dreams when he had drifted into sleep had been unclear but with an undercurrent of fear and worry; the previous night, after the shock of the news from Foston, he had paced his bedroom in the grip of unrelenting fury. Now, that fury and the fear that was wrapped up with it and an underlying weariness were making a whole that matched his sombre black garb. He felt terrible.
There was a brisk knock at the sitting room door and he walked over to pull it open – who would be visiting at this time of day? He wondered and stared at Tymain, who bore a laden tray.
“Dear Arven, you’re up early.” He said. “Come in.”
“And you. I thought that royalty didn’t rise before noon.” The young man returned with a bare-toothed grin.
“That was last year, Tymain – nowadays, we’re far too busy trying to think of any way to save the kingdom.” Jerryn’s reply was as dark as his tone, his expression a frown. “Anyway, why are you here, Tymain? A few moons ago, you wouldn’t have exchanged the time of day with me.”
“I grew up, Highness, as did you.” His visitor answered soberly, laying the tray on the table between the fireplace and the window. “I’ve brought something to eat, Jerryn – I know you sent Noltor away last night -.” He held up his hand as the prince opened his mouth to snap back. “Look, you’re frightened and angry, Jerryn. Sit down and have some pancakes and mint tea. Talk – shout at me, if it’s going to make you feel better.” He met Jerryn’s rather stunned gaze that had replaced the frown and grinned mischievously.
“Bahlien sent you, didn’t he?” The prince asked pointedly.
“Yes. And as a dutiful son of Arven, here I am. Everyone needs you to be able to think properly, Jerryn – standing here planning wholesale murder just won’t cut it. Here is your breakfast, Am’maiya.” He bowed low, and then lifted a plate of neatly rolled-up pancakes, gleaming with honey and fruit stewed with spices.
“How on Iullyn did you find out pancakes were my favourite breakfast as a child?” Jerryn asked, finally unfolding his arms, feeling a tiny smile hitching at his lips.
“I asked the kitchen staff, of course, I’m not stupid.” Tymain retorted mildly. “Even the servants are worried about you, you know – eat up before it goes cold.”
“Thank you.” Jerryn sat down at the table and Tymain set the plate before him. He did eat, enjoying the pancakes as he had not enjoyed any food or drink since he had heard the news from Clirensar. Sat opposite, also eating heartily, Tymain watched him closely. After they had finished, Jerryn poured fresh cups of tea and piled the plates neatly on the tray.
“It’s a terribly turn of events.” Tymain said quietly as Jerryn sank back in his chair with a sigh. “Clirensar overrun – thousands could have died, as well as the Duke and Duchess!” He shook his head. “Those bastards have caught everyone unprepared -.”
“What bloody use are prophecies?” Jerryn asked bitterly. “How could we be Chosen – appointed – whatever it is, yet no warnings be given to guard our people better? Bahlien and Lurco knew nothing of their advance into our lands! We’ve been protecting and concentrating on the coast – to little effect, obviously – and it was all – all a – a – a – bloody bluff! All the mayhem and murder they instigated in Orran and the other ports, to disguise their purpose!”
“Look, I know what you mean, Jerryn, but you’ve lost me there – I’ve not had that extensive education you’ve been blessed with – but how could anything written down hundreds of years ago possibly predict how the Enemy of Arven will act against you?” Tymain asked. “I mean no disrespect, but surely describing the birth of two babies who will come to Wield Arven’s Flame is one thing, but the Betrayer’s thoughts and preparations are surely his own, aren’t they? Arven could hardly be expected to know how the one who is trying to destroy him will think this year, from centuries ago, could he?”
“I -.” Jerryn began, stopped, set down his teacup and frowned. “Actually, Tymain, that’s a very good distinction. I’m not at all sure.” He said after a period of silent thinking. “Are you quite sure you never studied philosophy?”
The other young man snorted. “I can read, write badly and reckon up, your Highness – and I couldn’t spell it. But, I don’t know, I just trust our God and I know he would not have Chosen you and Lady Ethrayne and then abandon you to the Betrayer . . . It isn’t Arven you have to blame, or yourself even – it’s that bastard who locked our God in ice!” His tone was low, but full of conviction. “But – this has been awful!” He shook his head.
“I remember the blonde man – jajozeli-razine – who accosted Ethrayne that day on our ride, Tymain. He was General Ackat. He was lurking about the city and the palace and he even left rude notes for Ethrayne and I in our bedrooms, before he killed Shan so horribly. We could feel him, you know, that day – sense his animosity and power, although we didn’t know what it was – or what he was -.”
“I’ve felt it too, Jerryn.” Tymain admitted quietly, sounding rather embarrassed. “In the inn one evening when we were off-duty – it wasn’t clear, really, but something affected me – it was weird! Oh, I felt horrible . . . And killing Shan was a nasty business.”
“And he and some female are taking Ethrayne south – and she is injured, Lyria said!” Jerryn threw out the words, took a breath and looked at Tymain. “So you’re sensitive, too – Bahlien said that some people are affected by that sort of power or strength in odd ways, like we are.”
“It’s certainly odd, but you don’t make my nerves scream just yet.”
“At the rate I’m learning how to use this – this power I’ve been gifted with, soldier, I’ll be an old man before I can ever use it!”
“No, I’m sure you’ll master it a lot quicker than that, Jerryn – I trust Arven, I trust the Archpriests and I trust you and Lady Ethrayne.” Tymain answered calmly. “It’s a terrible thing, your Lady being abducted, but your focus must be learning your strength whilst we amass the armies we will need to free the south and face the Betrayer – so, there’s no pressure, Highness.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” But Jerryn laughed at the absurdity and felt a tiny part of that debilitating knot of misery within him loosen slightly. “Thanks, Tymain.”
“I meant what I said, Highness: I trust you and I believe in you both and I would give my life to ensure you destroy the Betrayer and restore Arven.” The soldier stated.
“I – I am honoured to have your support, Tymain – are you up for a second helping of breakfast? I want you in on our meetings, if you’ll accept: the Flame Guard should be included – I need your common-sense behind me. Will you?”
“Well – I’d be honoured, Highness, if you’ll join me for practice in the hall later: work off your anger in some exercise – and work off that second breakfast, too, else you’ll get fat.”
Jerryn answered with a few choice curses that made the soldier laugh.
*
After sleeping rather better than she had thought she would, ensconced in a suite in different part of the palace from that traditionally occupied by the Duke and Duchess – but the rooms were still full of her own possessions, brought across quickly at Lady Celia’s command. These reminded her strongly, sharply, of Sarant, Riyala, Ethrayne – and Pualyn, of course, as well as her own family. She woke early, refreshed by sleep and rose to start looking through her own mostly modest clothes to find some that was suitably plain – and the old deep-blue gown that she finally decided upon was all that she wished. Young Greta, her newly-appointed maid, who had been pressed upon her by a shocked Mistress Ellysa in Foston, fiercely determined that a titled lady should not travel alone with men, carefully helped her to dress and added a black velvet ribbon to her hair.
“Thank you, Greta. I suppose you want to explore the palace now, don’t you? I know I did when I first came here – oh, good morning, my Lady.” She rose and curtsied to Celia, pale in her own black gown.
“Lyria, you are almost Pualyn’s wife and a necessary part of our Council – so please don’t curtsey.” The older woman said, giving her a tight hug. “You need some black gowns, my dear – Mallie, please start preparing those with Greta here – Greta, Mallie will show you around the palace and take you for breakfast. We will see you later, thank you.” She smiled as both girls curtsied. “Go on with you.”
The East Dining Hall seemed full of men, mostly but not entirely dressed soberly. Lyria and Celia were greeted by Marrand and Jerryn and the Prince and Tymain set to bringing breakfast for the ladies, as the Archpriests asked after Lyria’s general health and she quickly assured them that she was rested and well able to continue her narrative from the night before.
It was not the most pleasant of breakfast meetings, despite the quality of the dishes provided; the subject under discussion saw to that, but Lyria’s account – backed up by Tally’s as written down by Captain Garane of the Flame Guard – was clear and detailed; the events were stuck in her mind so clearly that she thought she would never forget them. The cheeriest news she had for them was that Oxalla, Ethrayne’s mare, was following on safely from Foston in the care of two of the guards.
The group were released for a while, but due to reconvene in the same hall for luncheon with the ambassadors of Derravale and Amorry. Restless, Lyria went for a walk about the public corridors of the palace and was surprised, despite her introspection, just how many servants and courtiers paid her their respects – as Riyala’s lady-in-waiting she had only been a very minor player in the affairs of the palace; yet now – now she finally acknowledged that she was virtually the most powerful woman in the kingdom by default, since Ethrayne’s abduction: she was betrothed to Pualyn so they were practically the Duke and Duchess even if they didn’t hold Clirensar . . . if Pualyn would still have her . . . She stopped in a corner, half-hidden by an old tapestry and fought against tears – for weeping would do no good at all.
“Are you all right, Lyria?” Jerryn’s voice intruded on her conflicting emotions and the young woman quickly wiped her face and lifted her chin. “I’m sorry, Lyria – it’s this – this power we have now: I could feel your distress.” He said in an apologetic tone and shrugged.
“I didn’t want to be duchess for decades yet, your Highness!” She answered brokenly. “I’ve known the family all my life and it is – awful, losing both families – everyone I knew at home – so – so brutally . . . How could it happen, Jerryn? How could Arven allow so many people to die?”
The young man sighed and leaned against the opposite wall, his expression as serious as Lyria’s. “I’ve discussed this with the Archpriests, my father and – even Tymain, you know and I must say I like his answer best: it’s short and sensible.”
“Really?” A hint of a smile moved her lips slightly, but her eyes were dark.
“Arven is locked in ice, isn’t he?” He asked and Lyria nodded. “And the Betrayer stole a lot of his power – and Ethrayne and I seem to have been gifted with the remainder of that strength, so Arven is pretty much powerless.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so – Gosh, that’s a horrible responsibility, isn’t it?” Lyria shivered slightly. “Holding the power of God – I couldn’t dare! You are both so brave, Jerryn!”
“But it was – right, I suppose – bravery hasn’t anything to do with it, it just is meant to be part of us . . . But Tymain said that no one could possibly predict the Betrayer’s actions, because not even Arven could know in advance how he might move against us – if he had known – if it had been in the Book of Days, I suppose it would have been preventable . . . the Archpriests are devastated as much as the rest of us -.”
“And how are you, Jerryn?” She asked him directly, meeting his gaze. “You look – well -.”
“Terrible, I know.” He grimaced. “I have a – a great need to smash things – shout – kill people, actually. I’ve not slept properly of course – it all just goes round and round in my head – them all dying so horribly, Ethie, so hurt and frightened –.” He stopped there and took a long breath. “I’m going to have a long training session later with Tymain – work off some of this anger I hope.” He admitted, feeling suddenly better for saying it. “Oh, dear Arven – there’s your brother!”
“Oh, hell!” Lyria spat that and groaned, slumping down onto the floor. “Oh no! Sevanter – poor Sevanter! He’s – dear Arven, I don’t even know where he’s serving, Jerryn!” She was almost crying, but managed to hold her distress in. “He needs to know – I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish!”
Jerryn countered that at once. “You only just arrived last night, Lyria – you’ve been travelling for days – we should have thought of this, me, Father and Commander Vedeigne. Come on, let’s go and tell him: he will send people to find your brother and bring him here.”
“Oh, thank you.” Lyria hiccupped, slowly getting up, aware just how much she was trembling – Jerryn was right: she had not had time for anything except explaining what had occurred – bells rang out, then, and she stiffened with stress. “Oh, no! Here we go again!”
The Prince hugged her quickly, and shook her with playful roughness – dealing with her intense distress somehow was lessening his own, at least for a while. “I know, but there’s no way to avoid it, I’m afraid: we need our allies, though we never expected to have to call upon their aid so soon after we united against the Betrayer. Father will do most of the talking, I’m sure: it would be cruel to expect you to go through it all yet again. Come on, we’ll have a quiet word with Vedeigne and just survive it – you know you can, Lyria.” His tone was placating, but she appreciated his sympathy: it must be nearly as hard for him.
“Yes, you are right, but I admit now that I’m just dreading having to tell all of this to poor Pualyn – to have to say that I saw his parents murdered, Ethrayne taken away – his city captured – Oh, what a reunion that will be!” She groaned again and shook her head fiercely. “Please don’t say a word, Jerryn – else I’ll fall apart like a fool. I’m trying to be steel, like Ethie and – and my Lady Riyala.” She said, and set off back along the corridor towards the hall.
“Me too.” Jerryn agreed quietly.
*
The ambassadors from Tenarum’s neighbouring kingdoms arrived together – Duke Werhend of Amorry and Earl Rhane of Derravale, expecting an excellent luncheon along with an afternoon of business. The luncheon was indeed as fine as anyone could have wished, but the business that followed – the visitors slightly alerted by the sombre clothing and stern faces of the Tenareans around the table – was likely to lead to indigestion.
“On behalf of my king -.” Duke Wherhend said with a bow.
“And also mine, your Majesty, your Highness, my Lady.” Earl Rhane interjected.
“We extend you every sympathy – this news – these deaths – Oh, it’s terrible!” Werhend looked from grim face to grim face and shook his head as if trying to get it to absorb the news. “It just could hardly be worse, could it? Not even in our worst nightmares!”
“No, not at all.” Jerryn agreed.
“This does not bode well for any of the kingdoms of Selith.” Earl Rhane muttered. “Derravale’s border with Zanezli is also extensive and there have been incursions – oh, I hope not recently!” He shuddered. “But we were planning a completely different type of conflict – what on – on Iullyn are we going to do now?”
“I was sort of considering retaking Clirensar and killing General Tequan, actually.” Jerryn said drily, but his expression was fierce. “Never mind rescuing Ethrayne from the unknown vastness of Zanezli, we’ve got to get the jajozeli out of the kingdom first!”
“But what of Ethrayne? You can’t abandon her!” Lyria blurted in a tone of shocked disbelief, jumping to her feet – blushing crimson as everyone turned to stare at her. “I - oh excuse me.” She apologised lamely. “But – but I don’t understand.” There was a great measure of hurt and confusion in her voice.
“Lyria, my dear -.” Marrand himself left his seat and came right around the table to embrace her reassuringly and handed her a crisp handkerchief as she suddenly started crying. “Ethrayne is in the hands of our enemies, but at least she is safe – yes, she is safe: she is priceless to the Betrayer. There is no way that we could, any or all of us, invade Zanezli – the region is vast! We know that they must have thousands upon thousands of troops in the lands they control.”
“And we can’t do a thing until we have regained our territory – we can’t let our enemies keep a foothold in our lands: it leaves us terribly weak and vulnerable, although winter is coming on – we are stymied there, for sure.” Jerryn continued when his father fell silent. “We must prepare to wage war in the spring – kill the bastards for sure – and retake Clirensar, wiping them out in our lands. Ethrayne will be rescued, we promise and your families and so many others will be avenged – but even I cannot hope that we can act quickly.”
“But act we will.” Archpriest Bahlien stated firmly.
* * *
Captain Chasson sent messengers out from Foston, north, east and west almost as soon as Lady Lyria and her escort had set out for Tenum City along the King’s Road. His men moved as quickly as possible from farm to village to town, calling upon hunters, charcoal makers, farmers and any other males willing to patrol the woodland and forests on the northern edge of the Sare Valley to prevent any incursion by the enemy.
The news of Clirensar’s taking was unimaginable, but it had happened, with hardly anyone outside the city’s immediate vicinity even noticing, so carefully had the jajozeli proceeded, hiding in plain sight in plain clothes for days whilst awaiting the return of the ruling family.
Small groups of men began to move through the countryside, edging cautiously through woods, fields and wild meadows, using their local intimacy with the landscape to locate hamlets set deep in the hills and forests – there was a broad network of narrow lanes far from the main roads that they could use, many barely more than footpaths.
Master Kethar and his wife, Mistress Jess, reached Foston very early in the afternoon on the day after Lyria – and Ethrayne’s – departure, the farmer still bearing a faint mark on his throat from the General’s sword, when Ackat had tried to kill him. Having left their children in the care of their concerned neighbours when they were sure that the enemy group had left the area, they had set out on two of the farm horses, grim faced but determined, riding slowly along the woodland lanes that ensured that they were nearly always out of sight of the vale and the city beyond.
“Excuse me, sir.” Kethar approached one of the farmers milling about in front of the inn. “We’re looking for the man in charge -.”
“We’re organising patrols, man. The Captain’s a busy -.” The burly, grey-headed and grey-bearded man answered dismissively, turning away.
“But it’s about Lady Ethrayne – she’s been kidnapped.” Kethar said in a louder tone.
“What? You’ve seen her? Lady Ethrayne of Clirensar? Where’s the captain? Hey! They’ve seen the Lady!” The grey farmer’s demeanour changed instantly. “Come on, man! M’name’s Effran. Mistress – if you please -.”
Captain Chasson was in his small office, ignoring the people crowded in the room around him, studying a map and frowning. He looked up at the couple behind Master Effran and ordered everyone out of the place, ordering hot drinks and food for his guests. “Please, do sit down. Who are you? Where are you from? What do you know?” He asked, pulling a grey palimpsest towards him, picking up a quill.
“I’m Kethar, this is my wife, Mistress Jess and we’re from Applegarth, sir – directly west of Clirensar but deep in the woods, north of the Robin River.” He said politely, thinking that the captain looked as tired as he felt, after travelling almost without a halt. “Yesterday at firs’ light, Lady Ethrayne limped down into our hamlet from the forest up on the west.”
“I – what?” Chasson demanded, staring wide eyed from one to the other. “But – but Lady Lyria reported that she was severely injured! How on Iullyn? – Oh, dear Arven!” He spluttered, almost incoherent.
“Lady Ethrayne’s leg is a real mess, captain but it’ll heal, you don’t need to worry: a great deal of swelling and bruising, but nothing broken.” Jess announced calmly. “They – her captors – gave her something before they tended it, that first night, some drug or strong medicine and she said that she woke with no pain in the depths of the night and got up and limped with a crutch down through the woods – oh, she was such a mess – clothes tattered by the brambles, and covered with bruises: her left arm and hand, her face, her left leg – she’s not going to be mobile for days, sir. She just burst out of the woods, as Kethar said and then we washed her, dressed her leg and fed her . . . She told us what has happened!” The woman broke off quickly and sniffed. “We sold most of our cider and brandy to the castle, you see – his Grace’d come every autumn with Reeve Thomur . . . Oh, to think that we should live to see such evil here, in the Vale!”
“But – but what of the lady?” The Captain demanded rather shrilly.
“It wasn’t that long after sunup, sir, when a group rode out of the woods to the west – six soldiers, two, two Generals, one female.” The farmer said with a shudder. “Jess’d sent the women an’ children from the house at the lady’s urgin’ – the General, he laid a sword to my neck whilst the armed female went into our house.”
“They took her away south and west – the woman said that she was a healer, despite her weapons. They were rough with the poor girl – she was brave. Thought the General was going to kill Kethar, but he somehow didn’t, only dropped his sword after he’d struck the lady – that was strange. They got her on a horse and – and rode off.” Jess said. “We can only thank Arven we’re still alive to tell you, Captain.”
“Applegarth? You’re south west of the city, aren’t you?” Chasson glared down at his map, aware of its lack of information and clarity. “Can you mark it? We’re trying to set up a cordon of sorts – we’ve got to keep the enemy in the city if we possibly can. Your lands might mark the boundary there in the west. How many houses and men do you have there?”
“Oh, it’s a tiny place, Captain – five houses plus our farm, seven men includin’ me, four boys aged eleven to fifteen – the rest are women, girls and small boys. We farm most of our food as well as makin’ cider and brandy for the Duke – Arven bless their souls! He used to ride on down with his Reeve and his family every year to try our produce and place an order.” Kethar said sadly, shaking his head.
“Named our eldest Ethrayne, we did.” Jess murmured quietly, a tone of pride in her voice. “Oh, that poor child! Arven protect her!”
“Right, good people.” Chasson said, pressing their drinks into their hands with gratitude. “I’ll arrange Mistress Ellysa to give you something hot to eat and I’ll send a sergeant back with you this afternoon – I’m sorry to rush you, Master Kethar, but we’ve got to keep those bastards in the city if we possibly can!”
“No, that’s all right, isn’t it Jess?”
“Yes, Captain, we’ll manage.” The woman said stoutly. “Besides, I want to get back to the children, dear.”
Fortified by a mug of ale and a substantial meal at the inn, they were presently on their way out of the town with a grizzled sergeant with a limp and a wary eye mounted on an old nag – plus, an unexpected bonus: an order for cider from Mistress Ellysa who had heard of the produce of Applegarth – and guessed that she would certainly sell it, if Foston continued to buzz with activity in the moons ahead.
Leaving the King’s Road for the barely visible lane to the right that began by a browning hazel thicket, looking like nothing more than a fox’s track, they rode on until evening and made camp probably a third of the distance into their roundabout route, supping on cold victuals in the dubious shelter of a charcoal-burners shack, unused for a few seasons at least, amid the thick, autumnal branches of coppiced sweet chestnut and other species. They set out again not long after dawn and reached Applegarth during late afternoon – travelling carefully was far more important than travelling quickly.
“Humph, a nice place.” Sergeant Remmen spoke for about the second time since they had set out that morning, as they came out of the woods through which Ethrayne had emerged, a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees, into the broad valley that held acres of apple trees amid small fields and pasture, edged by more forest. “Well sheltered, too. Are those all the houses? Where’s the lane to Clirensar?” He swung down from his horse, ignoring the cluster of men, women and children who had congregated in the farm’s yard, displacing the chickens.
“You are not going to rest, sir?” Mistress Jess asked, rubbing her lower back – it was years since she had ridden a horse for so long, and her body was protesting.
“No, Mistress.” Remmen stated blandly. “I want to know how well this settlement is hidden and work out how we’re goin’ to hide the road from the Vale – set up the cordon: it’s only a few leagues to Clirensar, after all: we don’t want those bastards comin’ here.” He managed a crooked smile at the expressions of fear that suddenly marked their faces. “I won’t be long – now, who can show me the way?”
“Me – I will.” A couple of the younger men offered at once and the three of them walked off down the valley, whilst Mistress Jess glared at her eldest son, who had also volunteered.
“You will do as you’re told, lad!” She warned him fiercely. “Go and help your father with the horses – make sure they’re groomed and watered.”
*
The message detailing Applegarth’s encounter with Lady Ethrayne went north with a willing young man, a lot faster than the four ox-drawn carts loaded with pig iron, steel and charcoal that had been brought back to Foston from some of the local smithies and foundries, north of the Vale. Captain Chasson had argued that it wasn’t sensible to leave their greatest commodity within easy reach of their enemies and the local priest, Fenton and Master Banley, the innkeeper, who could figure and write well, had been given the task of recording the movements by founder, weight and quality. The Kingdom needed the metal, but they all hoped for payment somewhere down the line. Banley’s wife, the doughty Ellysa, ran the inn with her usual flair, unfazed.
Little by little, their patrols went further, the area still in Tenarean hands slowly grew in definition on Captain’s Chasson’s map – but all the soldiers and trackers kept away from the edge of the forests on the north side of the Vale, hoping to avoid confrontation and trouble.
*
Secure in the ancient, tall castle atop it’s crag in the centre of the city on the curve on the Sare, General Tequan was consolidating his position with the assistance of his Generals, under Jaike. He had lost nearly five hundred men in the battle, including walking wounded and two thousand more were detailed with managing the wagon-train that had set off for Ban’Lerracon two days after he had taken command – stuffed with goods and prisoners.
Still, with almost thirty thousand troops, his task now that Ethrayne had been captured was simply to remain there – a menace in the south that Tenarum and her allies could not dare to ignore, but one that they could do nothing at all about in the shortening days of autumn.
The farms, villages and industrial centres within approximately a day’s ride were stripped of everything with brutal efficiency: barn-loads of harvested produce, useful equipment and the components of the ever-present iron and steel industry were all brought into the city, whilst farm animals of all types were herded to the fields south the city itself. These would be managed through the winter that would arrive all too soon: an army requires a vast amount of food and the local farms were quickly manned with chained-up, terrified slaves and patrolled by soldiers, detailed to work the farms and plant winter crops, even if only temporarily. No long-term plans were revealed to the army as a whole.
Other slaves were sent out to begin digging defences around the city, starting at the far side of the bridge over the Sare and also north of Dark Fell – the iron industry within the General’s reach would be tightly controlled, the resulting steel would boost their weapons. Digging ditches and ramparts would not be a fast process, no matter how brutal the overseers, but it would serve to keep both prisoners and soldiers occupied and make any advance by the Tenareans and their allies a much slower business.
General Tequan knew that his purpose here was diversionary – he was the focus that his Master wanted the followers of Arven to concentrate on. Whatever happened to the city of Clirensar beyond the end of winter did not matter - the region would be the setting for war and, in the meantime, the Jajozeli were free to benefit from the high-quality iron ore and the smelting and processing expertise of the captured local craftsmen. The loss of even nearly thirty-thousand troops would not affect the Empire at all in the long run. Emperor Gregnor had had his plans laid for well over two years and his enemies would always be running to attempt to catch up.
Life for the surviving prisoners in the castle and city, of course, could only worsen – and it did.
*
Jerryn suffered a great conflict of emotions when the news from the hamlet of Applegarth reached the palace. He felt proud that, even injured, Ethrayne had tried to escape – but he was shocked and appalled that the General had struck her and knocked her down and the description of her injured leg and bruising worried him, for how on Iullyn was she going to manage, riding south, virtually crippled?
He had left his father’s office with a bleak expression and had made his way directly to the practice hall, to be met by Captain Cheyrn, one of the men who had supervised Ethrayne’s combat training.
“You don’t look happy, your Highness.” He said sympathetically. “Has there been more bad news?”
Jerryn related the news in as few words as possible, then sighed and shook his head. “But she tried to escape, I’m so proud of her!”
“Aye, Lady Ethrayne is brave, there’s no denying it.” Cheyrn agreed and smiled. “And we were fearing that every settlement in the area had been destroyed – so that is very good news too, your Highness: that not every village has been overrun.”
“But how on Iullyn can we protect the region, Captain?” He asked darkly. “We have no idea how many soldiers are now based in Clirensar, or how good their route is to and from their lands to the south – there could be many thousands of men ranged against us and we’re so very far from being organised for – war!”
“Yet we will be, your Highness.” The Captain replied. “Come on, leave your worries for a while: have a bout of practice – hey, Catron!”
“Well, if nothing else, Captain, we’ll all be amazingly fit and expert fighters by spring.” Jerryn said with a sigh.
“Whatever it takes to kill the bastards, your Highness.” Chern agreed fiercely.
*
The Razine had explained the cyclical current that, each spring in the northern hemisphere, changed direction to sweep in a most useful arc down past the east coast of the Selithian continent before it turned eastward some distance north of Rothern, heading far out into the ocean before it swung back north. Unfortunately, it did not work in the other direction – south to north – and it generally only lasted for a moon and a half, until about the middle of Thurton.
The voyage from Orbain was consequently faster than their outward journey from Rothern had been, but time on board the ship still seemed to stop – the temperature around them warming up as they approached the equator and then cooling steadily as they sped south on the river that miraculously ran amid the very ocean. Vhisson was drawing to an end, the equinox was past.
Pualyn found that he was more homesick now than at any point since he had left Rothern – and he knew that it was completely irrational. He and Lennarn spent as much time as possible on deck – when the weather was good enough, at least, talking of home – both Tenarum generally and Clirensar specifically.
His companions, especially the High-King and the High-Prince were excellent company, however – he was pleased to be associated with such knowledgeable and well-placed people, and to be able to hold his own in conversation with them. But, many times a day, he found himself watching for the first sign of land, that would prove that they were nearly ‘home’ – and the glimpse of grey-brown-green close to the horizon, nearly three weeks out from Lerat, was heartening. The Captain then angled carefully westward out of the current and they continued on at a more normal speed, subject to the world’s winds, closing gradually on the uneven coastline until they were heading southward at a rough distance of five miles from land, towns and villages barely visible across the sea.
*
Sire – ah, it is good to know that you are nearly here!>; Bahlien’s voice rang in Mhezal’s head, one night as the ship continued south. Forgive me for disturbing your rest ->; It sounded very distant, rather muffled – such communication over so many leagues was impossible for most razine, for it took a great deal of effort, both physical and mental, to achieve; and managing it across the ocean was even more difficult, for some reason.
What has happened, old friend?>; The High King cut through the old Archpriest’s apology. You would never contact me just for a chat when we will reach Rothern in a few days – if the winds blow right, anyway!>; The winds had been blowing straight out of the south since the day before, seriously slowing their advance.
enemy took Clirensar. General Tequan slaughtered the duke and duchess, twenty days ago – and Lady Ethrayne will probably be in Ban’Lerracon by now!>; Bahlien announced coldly, but Mhezal could feel the emotions that he was containing – and very similar emotions suddenly boiled up within himself.
Oh, hell take them all!>; He spat back, sitting up in his bed quickly. May the Betrayer’s balls wither and his teeth fall out – Damn it all, Bahlien ->;
She was travelling back with her family and Pualyn’s betrothed – those usual conventions of society: the weddings of both couples were due before the Solstice . . . How could anyone know or expect that an entire blasted army seems to have sneaked out of Zanezli – there is nothing in the Book of Days – no warnings – no dreams – Absolutely bloody nothing!>; The old Razine was the closest to utter despair that the High King had ever sensed. I am so, so sorry ->;
Mhezal began to swear graphically. Those bastards! Those utter – the Am’maiya should have been safe, by anyone’s logic! So young – so inexperienced – so – so innocent!>; He abruptly sighed deeply, discarding the insults against the enemy as useless. want me to break the news to Pualyn, I imagine.>; It was not a question.
Please, Mhezal – and emphasise that Lady Lyria is safe, although most of her family is suspected to have been murdered as they dwelled close to Clirensar. There is one brother in the Tenarean army who we are trying to locate quickly – The King, Jerryn, Lyria and I will head for Rothern first thing tomorrow to meet you . . . I can’t believe that I’ve let you all down ->;
Yet, if you had had no warning, old friend, how could anyone suspect such a turn of events? That poor, poor child! I will go and wake our new duke to give him the terrible news.>;
*
Pualyn was sound asleep when the cabin door was rapped upon and opened – he and Lennarn awoke quickly, staring up at the frowning, lamp-lit visage of the High-King in the doorway.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Pualyn, but can you both come to the main cabin as soon as possible? I’ll get Kerr – best to get this all done in one go.” He sighed, and left the lamp on the fixed shelf by the door.
The two men exchanged glances as the High King left them and each swung his legs out of his bunk, wondering what had happened in the middle of the night, in the middle of the ocean – quickly and quietly they rose and reached for their clothes. In a short while, yawning, they had made their way to the main cabin where Mhezal was standing by the liquor cupboard built into one wall, pouring four large goblets of wine. The High-Prince entered the cabin on Lennarn’s heels as they made for seats around the table; he was straightening his shirt with one hand, scratching at his head with the other.
“What has happened father?” He asked bluntly, walking across the room to pick up two goblets and handing them to the men with a flourish before sitting down. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He said with a tense, brief smile before yawning widely.
“Archpriest Bahlien just reached me, mind to mind.” Mhezal stated, the other two goblets in his hands as he took the remaining seat, thrusting one at Kerrenan. “There – there have been – developments – events – Oh, damn it all to hell! There’s no good way to say it!” And the urbane, poised, dignified High-King of the Razine Protectorates cursed crudely before taking a gulp of wine. “Pualyn, I am most sincerely sorry, but – but your honoured parents are dead -.”
“What?” The young man leapt to his feet, his goblet falling, wine spraying outwards. “No! No, surely not!”
“Forgive me, my Lord, but it is so: your parents have been murdered.” Mhezal looked up at the agitated man with sympathy and pain.
“Oh, dear Arven – no – how – what – what on Iullyn has happened?” Pualyn asked brokenly, his hands gripping the back of the chair, his knuckles white as he tried to hold in the rage that was rising relentlessly within him.
“A jajozeli army somehow took Clirensar. Your family was riding home and were – intercepted on the edge of the Vale.” Mhezal said.
“Lyria?” He quavered. “Oh, dear Arven, is Lyria -?”
“Your Lady is safe, my Lord – she was released to notify the king of what occurred. Lyria is safe and unharmed . . . Ethrayne – your sister was captured by the jajozeli. I – I am sorry to have to tell you –.”
“Oh -.” And Kerrenan, stunned, released a whole river of curses in what seemed a variety of languages, finishing in gutter Selithian – foul, but to the point.
“Exactly.” Pualyn nodded to the High-Prince. “That is just what I mean - thank you, your Highness . . . Oh, dear Arven -.” He shook his head helplessly, then sank back down into his chair and hid his face in trembling hands.
“Forgive me, my Lord – we we will leave you . . . But if you wish to talk – please -.”
“Just – just go!” Pualyn interrupted the High-King abruptly. “Please.”
*
The wind continued to blow contrarily and it was mid-morning three days later when the Lerat Pearl finally approached the wharves of Rothern. The passengers stood together out of the way on the main deck as the crew brought them in, all busy at their allotted tasks, but Pualyn was apart from the others, only a foot or so away, but every part of him evidence that he considered himself separate – his face set, his eyes dark.
The terrible news and all its ramifications haunted him. Wearing the darkest clothes that were in his wardrobe, with the heavy envoy’s surcoat bright when the sunshine broke through the gusting clouds, he fought against anger at practically everyone – including himself – and fear and despair. He had avoided the three others since the High-King had imparted the terrible news – had hardly slept, or eaten a bite – pacing the deck in all weathers, or staring out over the rail, trying to make some sense of it all . . . He was just grateful that Lennarn and the razine were leaving him alone and that they were not offended.
There were armed soldiers down on the dockside below as the ship moved slowly to the edge of the stonework and the ropes were cast and tied to the great metal posts. Pualyn noted the number of them – men bearing the standards of both Tenarum and Clirensar, the flags cracking in the wind. He also saw King Marrand, Jerryn, the Archpriests – and Lyria, her hair shining in the flashes of sunlight. She and the rest of them wore black – elegant, correct, but also forbidding. Her hair was plaited neatly under her plain hat. She looked beautiful, but awfully pale – and his heart leapt.
Sailors set down the ramp to the solid flagstones and stepped quickly aside as Lyria hurried up the slope and onto the deck with totally uncharacteristic haste and threw herself into her beloved’s arms.
“Oh, Pualyn!” She cried out and started to sob, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Lyria, my darling – Excuse me, your Majesty, Highness -.” Pualyn said with natural awkwardness to Marrand and Jerryn who had followed the young woman, holding her tenderly.
“Bring your lady below, your Grace, I think it would be better for us all to speak together out of the weather.” Lennarn suggested with a light cough and a low bow. “It is starting to rain – typical. Please, your Majesty, follow me.”
“That’s a good idea, Lennarn.” Marrand agreed, glancing up with a slight frown at the clouds above. “Good morning, Sirs.” He politely greeted the pair of tall razine males who led the way and followed Lennarn, glancing quickly back – Pualyn easily supporting Lyria, with Jerryn behind, his face solemn.
The main cabin below the deck was a little cramped, holding so many titled people, but there were seats enough as Pualyn helped Lyria to one by the bank of windows, as she fished for a handkerchief and wiped her face and blew her nose.
“Please forgive me, your Majesty -.” She began a meek apology.
“My dear Lyria! We would join you in weeping, but convention prevents it.” Marrand said quickly, grimacing. “Of course you are distraught -.”
“Do please sit down, gentlemen. Perhaps the lady – and yourselves – might enjoy a restorative glass of wine, your Majesty?” The tall, grey haired razine suggested smoothly. “Let convention go hang – I am Mhezal, my son, Kerr – Kerrenan. We grieve for your loss – it is simply evil!”
“Indeed, your Majesty – thank you.” Marrand bowed his head politely. “Mhezal. I am Marrand – this is Jerryn, my son and Pualyn’s betrothed, Lyria. Oh, dear Arven, Pualyn – if we had had any inkling – Your father had been in Clirensar less than a moon before the attack! I am so sorry!”
Pualyn felt his inside roil with conflicting emotion and straightened, quickly wiping his face as he did so and breathed deeply – in, out and in again. “There has been enough grief and sorrow, your Majesties.” He said decisively. “Now we must make plans in earnest to repair the damage the enemy has caused . . . But I must confess I can’t think of anything useful at all -.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying him.
“I am sure that, together, we can all come up with something workable, your Grace.” Jerryn laid his hand on his friend’s upper arm for a moment. “We’ve had days to get used to this – this, whilst your head will be spinning and you won’t really believe it yet.” His tone was rueful and he shrugged. “I was denying it for ages, Pualyn.”
“That’s very prescient, Jerryn – that’s pretty much exactly what I feel.” The younger razine stated, essaying a false smile as he handed around small glasses of wine. “And for those of us with some talent, such feelings can be dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t know, Kerrenan – I’m so bloody backward it’ll take years before I can do anything!” Jerryn’s tone was slightly bitter. “And all this – chaos – has just made any control I have weaker than ever!”
“Yes, it will, Am’maiya, but you are expecting too much from yourself too fast -.”
“So Bahlien says, but I can only think of Ethrayne, alone with them -.” His voice cracked, he shuddered and Pualyn groaned a curse. “I’ve got to be able to do something!”
“We will work with you and your abilities, your Highness, do not despair.” Kerr assured him gravely.
“These circumstances are definitely not how we wished to meet you, Marrand.” The High King said. “We can only hope and pray that we, as part of the Protectorates, can provide useful assistance – we must prepare for war.” He frowned.
“Yes, and war is something the kingdoms of Selith know almost nothing about.” The King of Tenarum replied with a shrug. “But the enthusiasm of our volunteer soldiers has been very heartening, I admit.”
“Enthusiasm will count, I am sure, along with dedication and simple hard work.” Mhezal was being very polite indeed, to match the gravity of the situation, glancing quickly at the younger people grouped closer together. “If your people are all as earnest and hardworking as Pualyn, you are blessed, Marrand – he has been a most conscientious envoy, a true asset.”
“Thank you, Mhezal.” Marrand said gratefully. “Shall we disembark, gentlemen, my Lady?” He raised his voice. “The quicker we return to Tenum City, the quicker we can start acting.”
*
The Royal Barge was loaded with baggage and passengers and the crew set off rowing upstream, as the nobles and priests sat quietly and Pualyn learn from Lyria just what had happened on that awful sunny afternoon. It was not pleasant, least of all for the young woman who had had to repeat the tale far too many times for comfort. Yet, viewing this as her duty, she fulfilled it admirably, sustained by the fact that this was probably the last time that she would be forced to relive that terrifying period. After her narration, they spoke of everything and anything but that event, as the afternoon passed.
Late on the fourth day out from Rothern, they reached the wide docks of the capital, the two kings and their sons now as close friends as the razine and Pualyn had been – and the new duke and Lyria were almost inseparable, brought even closer by their mutual grief and loss.
Pualyn didn’t talk of it, but found that he spent a great deal of time repeating in his head what Lyria had told him of the attack and murder of his parents and the abduction of Ethrayne – over and over, as if it were a painful, sharp toothache or something similar, niggling at him – hurting, but somehow proving that he was alive. He still found it hard to believe, however: his parents were dead! Lyria’s lovely large family were dead! His sister was somewhere in the uncharted vastness of Zanezli, surrounded by enemies. And he – he was Duke of Clirensar!
It was unreal, peculiar, a horrible nightmare that was life, not dream! Fury seethed within him, mixed equally with icy fear – for it was only by some fluke or quirk of wholly uncharacteristic mercy on the jajozelis’ part, he knew, that Lyria and Tally had been spared to travel to Tenum City. The thought of them standing there, frozen in terror as the violence streamed all around them – of long blades and far too much blood – haunted his dreams, although he did his best to disguise his nightmares and was very attentive to Lyria.
Watching them, as the young duke handed his lady into the carriage at the wharf, Mhezel, Bahlien and Marrand exchanged benevolent smiles.
I hope that the wedding is planned, Marrand.” Mhezal said drily.
“Indeed, your Majesty – in ten days.” Marrand confirmed with a sigh. “There are the formalities, of course, but once they’re out of the way, they can wed. Arven knows we need something to smile about, before we start planning war.”
The greeting of the court to their razine guests was a little muted, of course and limited to a fine banquet in the great hall, which was all to their taste. Pualyn was tied up with the Council for a greater part of every day following, along with their royal guests – the official confirmation of his status as Sarant’s heir, followed by his investiture – and then the framework of the alliance between Tenarum and the Protectorates was couched in the formal language of the scribes, as the young Duke became slowly used to sitting where his father had been sat for all his life.
But still, quietly, beneath the surface, fury and the urge to unleash violence upon their enemies seethed within him.
Lennarn woke the duke early, on the appointed day – bullying him with threats of a cold bath and no breakfast – that actually made Pualyn smile a little – a rare expression anywhere within the palace, these days.
Lyria wore a magnificent pale lavender gown that, highlighted with delicate lace, set off her betrothal amethysts to the best effect whilst the serious Pualyn was stern but handsome in black and white, plain and unadorned. Archpriest Lurco married them in the traditional ceremony in the heart of the Cathedral, watched by dignitaries from the palace and residents from the Vale of Clirensar who had been, by good fortune and business, been absent from the city when Clirensar was attacked. The traditional kiss between bride and groom raised a cheer that echoed through the vast, ancient space.
Archpriest Lurco stepped back and King Marrand took his place as Lyria was invested as the Duchess of Clirensar – and Sarant’s son was presented with his father’s ancient sword, newly cleaned and polished and the highly embroidered surcoat. Together, Duke and Duchess swore fealty to their King – and yet more cheers were raised to the vaulted ceiling.
The following banquet was a political event more than a true celebration, for neither Lyria nor Pualyn were comfortable with mirth and gaiety although they understood that many around them needed the excuse. All the laughter was a little brittle – and the wine and ale provided, drunk so enthusiastically, were slightly watered.
At the high table, conversations were carefully managed, deliberately light – but nevertheless sincere. As the new Duke and Duchess left the great hall, the wishes for a long, happy marriage and many children were shouted along with the traditional scattering of grain and flower petals.
Finally, after processing past nearly every servant in the palace who all wished them good fortune, they entered their newly appointed suite in the west wing, and were alone.
* * *
Ethrayne and her captors had ridden hard since leaving N’Aston at daybreak, following that gash in the ground that showed exactly where the massive army had passed, a depressing reminder of the fact of the invasion into Tenarum. The three Generals and their prisoner climbed upwards through a wide area of northward-facing farmland in which the fields now lay ready for ploughing in the spring, their produce long-since harvested, whilst large cattle and pigs and horses occupied others, passing sheltering belts of wind-swept pine trees and wider stretches of scrubby coniferous woodland that gradually gave way to the heights of a vast, bleak, treeless plateau covered with heather, reeds and rank grass, with an occasional scrawny, misshaped pine tree sheltering within a dubious fold of land – a grotesque caricature of true trees in this strange, cold, unfriendly land, so completely different to what they had travelled through on their way to N’Aston.
The girl had been quietly pleased with her returning stamina – although her left ankle still ached, especially after her impromptu combat session that morning, she had felt rested and was well able to keep up with the pace demanded by the Generals. After her useless weakness of the previous leg of her journey, this was a definite bonus – although she still wished she had been able to escape them. She had strived to ignore the increasing discomfort of her bound wrists, but the rope did feel like it was cutting into her flesh – she could only pray that they would remove it eventually.
Now, after hours of relentless riding, the sun was hovering just a finger’s breadth above the horizon behind their right shoulders as the unknown General, now leading, headed into a crinkle of valley hidden amid the featureless plateau. Ethrayne frowned as she joined them, for she had not expected to see anything much – and definitely not the building she could see ahead, which was, strangely, actually roofed with grass. The walls of the structure were of fieldstone – a building some fifty feet wide nestled against a rising slope to the south, with two windows either side of one dark door, whilst a second set of, wider, double doors was further to the right.
“Dismount.” The black-haired General ordered curtly – it was the first time since leaving the fort that any of them had spoken to her. “Can you cook, girl?” He demanded.
“Cook? Dear Arven, no, sir!” Ethrayne replied earnestly – and truthfully – as she stepped onto the ancient flags before the building, wincing as she clambered down, hampered by her bound wrists but determined not to complain – not yet.
“My name is General Garrtnor, brat.” He said mildly, stepping up to quickly untie the rope with a look that clearly dared her to speak when he coiled it and stowed the rope in a pocket. “So make yourself useful, child and take the horses through there -.” He pointed to the double doors. “Unsaddle them, water them and feed them – go!” He dropped the reins of his mount negligently, then strode to the pack-horses and started lifting off bags and bundles.
Ethrayne stared at him for a moment, but when the other two Generals simply went to assist him with unloading, she frowned slightly and started picking up the reins of the horses together, her hands feeling oddly heavy, pins-and-needles stinging them, loosened from the constraining rope – waiting for the pack-horses to be unburdened before claiming them. She moved forward carefully, so thankful that her ankle was really only aching now – but the looseness of the boots was strange, inhibiting her stride. Her wrists hurt much more, she found – rubbed red raw where the rope had been and with some bruising and swelling after hours of confinement. Frowning, she carefully flexed her hands and fingers, determined not to cry.
They had ridden out of N’Aston alone, with three pack-horses and four extra mounts – and no soldiers to undertake the chores of setting up camp, so perhaps she should have expected to be called upon to help – she didn’t expect that a refusal would be accepted, although she certainly did not want to cooperate with them. As long as they didn’t insist that she cooked!
The wind was cold, blowing down from the heights to the south, the sky darkening from the east as clouds blew back in and Ethrayne shivered, taking up the lead rope of the pack-horses and guiding all of them towards the double doors, wondering what was behind them and keen to get out of the weather, heading up a shallow ramp and reaching up to unlatch the left-hand door which swung open to reveal a dim area beyond -.
“Oh, you’ll need some light, I suppose.” Cavaln said coolly from the doorway to her left, moving one hand slightly – and Ethrayne shivered, feeling the woman’s power flare and a globe of light appeared from empty air to hover a couple of feet above her head, pale, but firm – not flame, it seemed, but something else.
Heading into the space, Ethrayne found herself walking into a rectangular stable with a blocky, smooth brick floor, over twenty feet wide and perhaps more than thirty feet deep into darkness – the globe of light moved above her obligingly, revealing two lines of stalls to left and right, behind benches above which were nails for tack, some common equipment and other familiar things.
“Well!” She allowed, pushing the lead horses off to the right whilst she guided the rest in behind them, pulling the wide door shut with ease. The horses were a bit balky, but she was well-used to dealing with the animals, so her confidence was more than a match for them, even though her hands felt awfully heavy and cumbersome – she removed tack, her own baggage, saddles and so on easily enough, then was hauling water to long troughs from the creaky pump at the rear of the stable, locating feed in great metal bins – hay and oats, stored against vermin. It was easy, repetitive work that didn’t require any thought and she moved through the tasks as slowly as possible: horses were much better company than three Generals! They were just unbearable – she dreaded having to join them and seriously considered mounting a horse and setting off north into the night! But commonsense was reasserted as she considered fleeing: she was already within Zanezli, and she supposed the Generals could identify her just as much as she could sense them – she wouldn’t get anywhere! She sighed deeply – and wondered whether to try it anyway, before reluctantly abandoning the plan – the marks on her wrists certainly warned her of the inadvisability of recklessness. Ackat’s cold violence at Clirensar and his skill with weapons, as well as their power thrilling through her nerves told her that such action would be simply stupid.
Slowly she continued work and when the eleven beasts were settled, she sorted out the tack and saddles, laying them all neatly for morning, just as she had done for years, helping out at Home Farm . . .
Finally, however, she had done everything – she couldn’t linger there forever, although she wanted to with all her heart. Carrying her bags over one shoulder, Ethrayne emerged from the stable and carefully closed the door, the globe of light still lighting her way into a blast of cold, rain-laden wind that caused her to shiver – and the light faded gradually in the air above her to vanish, leaving the small vale dark but for squares of lamplight that spilled out from the windows of the building to her left . . . Taking a breath, garnering her courage, she tried to ignore the next blast of chilly, wet wind that threw back the hood and seemed to freeze her bare head and headed reluctantly towards the dark doorway, climbing the three sturdy steps and lifting the latch, slipping inside -.
“Finally. I thought you were going to stand outside all night.” Black-haired Garrtnor remarked from where he leaned over a fireplace in the right hand wall, stirring a large, streaming pot. “Come over here, girl. Sit down.”
“My Lord General.” Ethrayne murmured, quickly closing the door before quickly scanning the space. It was wider than the stable, but just as deep – a nearly square room with a number of doors at the rear, and large fireplaces in both side walls. There were folded back shutters on either side of the windows. The lighting of one fire had filled the room with warmth and interesting smells from whatever was cooking. Light globes floated near the ceiling, providing plenty of light. Along the walls around both fireplaces were shelves, whilst there were piles of long grey cushions – she supposed they were thin mattresses for visitors; otherwise, there were four tables, two near each fireplace, with eight chairs, some benches and stools – the room was pretty empty, otherwise. Ackat and Cavaln were sat at one table, cloaks removed and hanging on hooks that hung from the wall, with a wine bag close to hand, both watching her closely – and she felt a touch of fear, yet again.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
The girl shivered at the edge in his voice and quickly crossed the space to sink down deliberately at the empty table, dropping her bags neatly underneath – the three Generals all stared at her, their power assaulting her senses.
Garrtnor stirred the pot again then turned his back on the fire and strode over to sit down opposite her – and Cavaln rose to take his place minding their dinner. Ethrayne felt cold, even though she now was too hot in her cloak, and fumbled to unfasten it, trying to disguise her dismay -.
“I have some questions for you and I strongly suggest that you answer honestly: we can usually tell when people are lying, you see – and you know that we do not suffer fools at all.” Garrtnor said, grasping one of her hands and pulling it out, so that her wrist was free of the over-long sleeve, clearly showing the bruised, rubbed, red marks of the rope.
“Yes, my Lord General.” She acknowledged unwillingly, pulling her hand back quickly when he released it.
“That little episode this morning.” The General continued – as of course he would refer to, she thought, her heart sinking. “It was a very interesting diversion – most entertaining, actually. But do you even realise that the soldier was insulting you in jajozeli, not Selithian?”
Ethrayne listened to his words, but could not take them in at first – they just swirled, senseless, in her head. “No. That’s – that’s silly – he wasn’t.” She disagreed with utter confidence – it was silly!
“Was he not? Would you care to stake something valuable on that, Wielder of the Flame?” Ackat asked in a low voice.
Ethrayne stared at him in consternation – he had spoken in his own language and she had understood him! That was – was – impossible! “I . . .”
“You understand my colleague and me, don’t you?” Garrtnor pressed her, also speaking jajozeli.
“I – y-yes, my Lord General, I do.” Ethrayne admitted unwillingly, her voice barely a whisper.
“Considering the fact that you have only known of our existence for a few moons, child, I find it hard to believe that you have so quickly learned our language?” Garrtnor turned it into a question, his eyes dark in his calm, expressionless face.
“I – no – I’m not -.” She forced out the words, hoping for deliverance in some ridiculous way. “I – I mean – no one taught me to speak – Well, no one in Tenarum even knows your tongue -.” She broke off as General Ackat snorted and flinched – dear Arven, when would she stop cringing? – at the glare that Garrtnor was now directing at her, quickly burying her face in her hands, trying to make sense of it. “Oh, damn you!”
“Tell me.” The General urged, but his tone was still calm and quiet, seemingly unbothered by her hesitation, whereas Ackat would probably have lost all patience with her by this time – and probably would be shouting at her, of course. “Tell me girl, then you can rest and eat.”
Which was probably the best offer she could expect – and it was a very long time since breakfast. Still, Ethrayne was afraid to speak, the silence continuing despite the crackling of the fire and the sound of the utensil in the stew pot.
“It – it must have been the morning after – after the massacre above Clirensar, after I had escaped.” She finally said in a mere whisper, her hands clasped quietly in her lap. “But – but I don’t know -.”
“General Ackat?” Garrtnor prompted.
Quickly, Ethrayne looked up and away: they were all staring so hard at her!
“When I would have killed that idiot farmer?” Ackat asked with interest, but Garrtnor actually jumped to his feet.
“Quiet, Ackat – she tells us.” He snapped, a strange excitement in his voice – and his face, when Ethrayne glanced up for a moment, was cold and cruel, despite his shining eyes. “Speak.”
“I – annoyed – General Ackat and he – he swung his sword to kill Master Kethar . . . I – I don’t know what I did – how – how I stopped him: it felt peculiar – the General dropped his sword . . . They both discussed it that night – something about power . . . I wasn’t sure if they were speaking Selithian, now, I thought they were – perhaps they spoke jajozeli, I don’t know . . . I – I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . . my Lord General.” She added lamely and lapsed into silence, staring fixedly at the battered edge of the tabletop.
She tensed when both male Generals got to their feet and heard them both stride towards the outer door – there was a blast of cold air when it was opened, and then the door was closed, leaving her alone with General Cavaln.
Oh, dear Arven, I feel awful! She thought miserably, pulling the thick cloak tighter around herself, fighting sudden tears – sick of worry and fear – and battled the tears down, for once.
“Here, eat.” Cavaln said after a while, and laid a plate and mug on the table before her, and handing her a spoon when she looked up, startled.
Fear had wiped out her hunger, but Ethrayne obeyed anyway, eating the stew through necessity, without enjoyment.
*
The Generals threw up a couple of light globes as they strode towards the stables, thankfully escaping from the night, for the weather had definitely deteriorated since their arrival. They scanned the space and Garrtnor leaned back against one of the benches, frowning at his colleague.
“She’s left the stables neat enough.” Ackat said approvingly, noting the lean lines of tack, the carefully fastened food bags and bins. “Still, her father ran one of the best studs I’ve seen anywhere – she knows the work. I think Tequan wants to get the breeding stock south as quickly as possible -.”
“I’m not interested in bloody horses, Ackat.” Garrtnor stated crisply. “I want to know how a little girl of – what? Sixteen? How she could instinctively raise power enough to block you and also gain a complete and instant understanding of our language with no training.” His tone was tense. “She’s only human, after all.”
“Well, she is the Wielder of the Flame.” The blond jajozeli razine replied – and reddened noticeably as he realised how ridiculous his statement had been. “Stupid. Sorry.”
“Quite.” Garrtnor said and sighed. “Lord Governor Doreth told us that it would be wise to capture one or both of the young people before the razine could begin to train them – that their mental and physical maturity were some years in the future: they are human, not razine. So, either both he and our revered Emperor are talking out of their arses, or – what?”
“I wouldn’t like to guess, Garrtnor.” Ackat shook his head. “She’s been a bloody annoying little brat yet, considering how injured she was when we captured her – she could have seriously crippled herself, trying to escape whilst under the influence of Settalyin, but she has healed faster than we’ve expected – it’s been less than fifteen days, and she doesn’t walk with much of a limp now. And she threatened Tequan above the city – promised to kill him – there was power behind her words: it wasn’t an idle threat. And her parents were dead on the ground . . . She’s not the usual sixteen-year-old.”
“Mmm. Well, it’s a good job you scared her by just cutting off her hair, rather than punishing her any other way – pure fear and no training might have proved deadly even for you!” Garrtnor noted. “She acted on instinct alone – perhaps her fear proved a focus, it does happen. We’ve got to get her to Ban’Lerracon quickly: I’ll feel much happier and secure when the girl is safely locked away.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there.”
The two Generals came back into the main room as Ethrayne was finishing her mug of tea – she watched surreptitiously as they brushed water out of their hair in the doorway, their faces grave. She felt the meal she had eaten sitting heavily in her stomach.
“It’s an unpleasant night out there.” Garrtnor stated, moving towards the fire. “Let’s eat.”
Cavaln was already ladling stew onto plates, adding hot water to tea leaves. “Back already?” She asked coldly.
“What’s up with you, Cavaln?” Ackat asked innocently, picking up a plate and spoon. “Thanks.”
“The honourable Lady General probably feels disgruntled, acting as your prisoner’s nursemaid and guard rather than being considered a full member of your so exclusive elite.” Ethrayne found herself replying without consciously thinking about the ramifications of her words – the words were correct, as far as she was aware, for she could sense the older woman’s inner anger with surprising clarity. Part of her feared that they would take offence – and she was relieved when they all looked surprised – and Garrtnor chuckled. Was this certainty connected to her ability to speak jajozeli? “And since we are many leagues inside your realm, and the three of you alone could probably defeat an army, surely you don’t need to guard me so closely anyway.”
“Thank you so much for your input, child.” Ackat said, deliberately sitting beside her at the table – and Cavaln and Garrtnor followed him, so that she was surrounded by them, her dismay obvious.
“When we want your opinion, girl, we’ll ask for it – else hold your tongue.” Garrtnor added. “Have you had enough to eat?” He glanced from her face to her plate and back again. “And since you so masterfully speak our tongue, discard that clumsy Selithian – speak jajozeli.”
“Yes, my Lord General.” She acceded unwillingly after a pause in which she deliberately pushed her chair backwards away from the table, the syllables sounding and feeling strange in her mouth, in addition to an adjustment in her thinking to accommodate the change of language.
“Well, Cavaln, since you were wondering – we were discussing this surprisingly cheeky and bloody irritating brat and deciding to head to Ban’Lerracon with all speed.” Garrtnor said with a grin. “The weather is against us, for sure – but at least we don’t have to cross too many mountains.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Garrtnor.” Cavaln said drily, sitting back in her chair, sipping her tea. “It’s barely Thurton – we’ll get through with no trouble, I’m sure.”
“You’ve only been in Zanezli half a year or so – you’ll be surprised just how uncooperative the weather can be here: even in Thurton, the passes can be blocked. And we’ve got this brat to deal with – you’d better behave, girl.” Garrtnor glared at the prisoner. “Keep your opinions to yourself, understand?”
It was bad enough having to endure their presence and their needling, but it was somehow worse in jajozeli, Ethrayne decided then. Pale faced, she picked up her mug, went over to the fire to fill it with more hot water and fresh tea leaves, then quickly turned away from the group. The proximity of the Generals was playing havoc with her nerves – she wished she dared flee back to the stables, but supposed they wouldn’t allow that.
“Don’t go far, brat, you’re washing up.” Cavaln sent after her with a cool laugh.
Ethrayne shot a hate-filled glance at the group of them as she moved away across the empty room towards the rear where the doors were, leaving her cloak and bags where they were – she was startled when one of the globes seemed to follow her, reducing the deep shadows when she opened the left hand door that led, she discovered, to a well-designed set of privies and a wash room, where an empty copper was stood above a empty fireplace – so hot water would be available. The next three doors led to separate bedrooms – none large, but equipped with fireplaces, beds, empty shelves, and a small table and chair.
Thinking about it, Ethrayne guessed that these private rooms were probably for leaders, when a group of soldiers were staying here. She briefly considered bringing her bags in and staying in one of the rooms alone, but the rooms were cold and she didn’t really want to start an argument with the Generals – she supposed that it wouldn’t take much for them to decide to tie her up again or something equally unnecessary She thought about her situation: she certainly didn’t want to obey them over the order to wash up for them like a servant, but the three Generals just filled her with fear – she didn’t feel secure enough to argue: they were all taller than she, stronger and nastier.
Emerging from the last room, she realised just how cosy the main room was, even with just the one fire lit. Making a decision, she went over to the piles of bed pads, lifted one off, and carried it over to the left hand side of the fire near the wall, out of the way of the Generals who were talking quietly and ignoring her presence now, passing the wine skin between them. Dutifully, she checked the pot of water by the edge of the fire – it was certainly hot enough – and used her too-long sleeves to lift it carefully to the large stone bowl in the corner to the right, against the front wall, checking – and there was scouring sand in a pot beside it, standing on a small table.
Washing up didn’t take too long, although the hot water and the sand left her hands and wrists smarting and throbbing. Then, leaving the metal plates and mugs to drain, she politely apologised to the Generals for disturbing them, darting past Garrtnor and Ackat to quickly grab her bags and cloak and move them to the thin pad, unfastening the too-large red felted jacket and folding it for a pillow; she pulled off the boots, set them aside neatly along with her travel bags and unfolded the blankets. It took only a moment to make a bed, and she deliberately ignored the Generals, pulling the blankets up – she was tired and alone and scared. It was a long time before she slept and she shivered, but not with cold: for the hundredth time, it seemed, she remembered the awful attack above Clirensar and her father’s death – seeing his and her mother’s bodies, bloodied and lifeless . . .
*
Ethrayne dreamed that she was walking through a vast, pillared hall unlike any other she had even imagined, seemingly built of ice or glass: walls, columns and an amazingly vaulted roof in various shades of clear, opaque white and many shades of blue – beautiful but stark. She was walking alone, silently, over a floor of opaque white that was rather like fine marble tiles but when she paused, looking down, her gaze was caught and she stared, awed, for just below the surface of the floor seemed to be delineated a map the size of the hall itself – a representation of Iullyn that was far more detailed than she could ever have imagined. It seemed that she stood directly above a gleaming blue ocean between continents of varied greens and browns, mountains rising steeply, with small islands scattered like pebbles in the sea between. As she looked it seemed that the seas moved, tiny wave lines advancing endlessly – and a tiny, gleaming silvery back curved upwards out of the water with beautiful grace, to vanish again, a sharp-edged tail the last thing she saw there.
“So beautiful . . .” A voice whispered, a mere breath of sound, echoing strangely throughout the hall.
“I – I beg your pardon?” Ethrayne asked, looking up from the mesmerising movement of the sea below her feet, turning in a circle where she stood – but she was still the only person in the hall. “Hello? Where are you?”
“That is quite a question, dear child.” The voice sounded slightly louder, a little less ethereal. Now, it seemed that she could tell that it was coming from her left and there was amusement in the tone. “Come closer, my child, my Lady – we have but little time.”
Puzzled – part of her mind was pondering this peculiar event far beyond what was usual in a dream – Ethrayne walked from the centre of the hall towards the dais that stood empty at the far left end of the space. As she moved, she found that she now wore a robe of silvery fur, soft and comforting, a robe that any king would covet.
A figure stood on the dais, where there had been nothing and no one a moment before; a tall figure, maybe approaching eight feet and well proportioned with golden hair, a handsome face and huge blue-green eyes beneath shapely brows. He was robed in simple grey and completely encased in water-clear ice that formed a cylindrical ten-foot-tall pillar some four feet thick around him.
“How strange.” Ethrayne reached out with both hands, but found that she could not touch the pillar. A peculiar tingle – similar to pins-and-needles – ran through her when she tried and both the pillar and the figure it contained faded a little from her sight. “Who are you? Are you a prisoner? Where are we?”
“This is Car’Agasse, my Wielder, my Sword.” He said. The girl heard his words clearly and ordinarily, although his lips did not move. “I have striven with all the strength remaining to me, to gather the two of you here this once, to humbly apologise and to warn you.”
“The two of us?” Ethrayne focussed on those words and turned in another circle, staring. “Jerryn is here too? Where is he?”
“Alas, he is within his own dream, dearest Ethrayne. I have wrought as well as I can, but orchestrating a meeting between you both is far beyond my strength and I am so very sorry.” He spoke with great sadness in his voice – but Ethrayne thought that, for a moment, she could see a vague figure to her right, that looked back at her – she could clearly see his eyes, and the rather worried, pale face was definitely Jerryn’s – he looked as startled as she felt, before he faded into invisibility.
“Actually, I hope he couldn’t see me – I’d hate him to see the mess that General Ackat made of my hair!” Ethrayne admitted then, reaching up to feel her shorn, slightly spiked scalp – then glared at the ice-encased figure. “This is not a normal dream, is it?” Her tone was accusatory. “If it were, I would surely imagine myself with hair and without these marks on my wrists, since I haven’t even seen myself like this – thank heavens! Who are you? Where is this place?”
“This is Car’Agasse, Ethrayne – the place where Gregnor betrayed me, killed his closest friends and imprisoned me, so very long ago. Oh, do not be afraid, my dear -.”
“I – You – You are Arven?” Ethrayne stuttered, suddenly awestruck. “I – Oh, my – please excuse me -.”
The sound of his laughter was clear and as musical as the chime of bells throughout the hall and served to dispel that sudden burst of fear – a very different kind of fear than she felt when close to the Generals, she noted absently. “My dearest Ethrayne, neither you nor your betrothed have been Chosen for your shy, retiring natures – do not apologise: you are my Wielders, my Champions – my Sword -.”
“A sword?” The girl retorted sharply. “Me? You surely jest – they laughed at me, wielding a sword this morning. He could have killed me in less than a heartbeat, Lord – I am useless! Their prisoner! I can’t do a thing to stop them taking me south!” That other, icy fear was rising although she tried to block it.
“You are guarded with the greatest care, my dear Ethrayne – else why the need for three Generals? You must be very wary of your guards – do not trust them, dearest child. They are Gregnor’s tools indeed: his most trusted tools and weapons and servants – they are most certainly not to be trusted: they wish you ill, child; they wish you compliant and biddable and easily influenced – do not forget that, Ethrayne. Speak their language when they insist. Obey their orders when they speak. But their sympathy, any concern they show, any interest in yourself or your wellbeing – it will only ever be false!” His tone was sombre. “That is how they are trained – they are wholly their Master’s. In fact, they are most to be trusted when they threaten you and are cold and unconcerned. When they smile and show any interest in you – beware -.”
“I am alone with three Generals, Lord – they are terrifying.” She admitted quietly with a shiver. “What the – excuse me, Lord – do you really expect me to defy them?” Quickly she rephrased what she had been about to say. “I am not even seventeen – they call me child and brat – and they scare me so much!” Her tone was a mixture of fear and outrage. “They slaughtered my parents and killed thousands of others to get Clirensar – I can’t fight them!”
“On the contrary, my dearest Ethrayne, I believe that you will be happily surprised to find just how much you will fight them. I can only warn you again – and do not forget it: do not ever trust them, however friendly and sympathetic they might seem – especially the woman. She is the first female General ever - why else would she be elevated, no matter her skills and arts, except to try and influence you?”
“Oh, Sir – honestly, I will try . . . Please can you tell Jerryn that I am sorry – that I love him so much -.” Ethrayne spoke quickly and earnestly, wanting to add so much more – but she could feel herself emerging from the dream and the ice-wrought grandeur of the hall was already fading from her sight.
“Jerryn, your prince, assures you that he loves you with all his heart and soul, dearest Ethrayne and he says that they will all do their utmost to free Clirensar and yourself . . . Please forgive me, my Wielder . . .”
The voice receded into silence and Ethrayne opened her eyes to the light of a globe and the crackle of a burning fire. She could clearly recall every part of her strange dream, from the shock and sorrow on the trapped God’s face, to every single word of their conversation – and she sat up, stretching, to find Garrtnor setting pots over the fire, and pouring meal of some type into one, stirring vigorously. It was still dark outside.
“Awake, are you? The General gave her a brief glance. “Get yourself organised – the wash room’s empty and there’s hot water here.” He indicated the side of the fire. “My colleagues are seeing to the horses.”
She nodded, acknowledging the information grudgingly and did as Garrtnor suggested – packing her stuff, setting the mattress back on the pile, then retreating to wash before a quick breakfast and the continuation of their journey even before the sun had risen.
*
The pattern of the next ten days of their journey were fixed by that first day: days of long hard riding, spending each night in roughly similar way stations – only the vista gradually changed as mountains loomed larger and higher each day, across their path.
Ethrayne used the strange dream to bolster her strength and separateness from the Generals – that glimpse of Jerryn, so unexpected, and the actual presence of Arven himself was just simply . . . wonderful! Never would she have expected that their God, frozen in ice as he still was, could ever have manipulated life enough to enter her dream and give both reassurance and advice! It was awe-inspiring and also frightening. It was so amazing that it had happened and she cherished the knowledge, even though the advice that Arven had given her was hardly comforting: to never trust the jajozeli! After her complete helplessness on the first half of their journey – the fact that she had had to rely on Cavaln for so much assistance – she cradled that warning close in her heart and was immensely thankful that she had not been beguiled into much interaction or cooperation with her captors . . . And Arven had approved of her! Apologised to her! . . . No matter how awful the weather became, no matter how tired she became, travelling so hard through that unforgiving terrain, she could draw strength from the dream, from Arven, even though she was heading towards his enemy’s stronghold. She would do her utmost to live up to his approval, Ethrayne decided: she would continue to fight, if she possibly could. She was a Wielder of the Flame – she was their enemy, not just a frightened girl – please Arven!
The first six days, they crossed the windswept plateau, always ascending, which ended in a midday climb over a steep saddle between mountains that were huge enough to frighten Ethrayne – but they were tiny, she found, when compared with the peaks that she could see in the far distance from the top of the ridge which, ahead and below, was a bleak scree-strewn slope that descended steeply into a narrow, shadowed ravine, their route barely visible as it curved across the slope – especially since cold sleet was blowing stingingly into their faces.
Ethrayne shuddered as they descended in the teeth of the gale, immensely glad of the mittens and baggy hat in addition to the spare clothes that Cavaln had told her to bring – every scrap of which would be worn, she decided, the next morning: she had never been so cold in her life before. The weather had definitely worsened as they grew ever closer to the mountains – it snowed late every day now, and there was ice on the ground every morning. She was glad that they were not forced to camp out – the way stations were wonderful shelter, and the separate stables gave her the brief respite each evening of tending the horses away from the presence of the Generals, which provided some much needed balance against the rest of her time.
That night, they took shelter in a building very different to the ones on the plateau, this one a two storey building with the stable below and accommodation above, set beneath a steeply sided roof in the shelter of some bent, scrawny fir trees.
The land seemed empty of people, but it was full of game and wildlife – Ackat had hunted on a few occasions and today he provided a brace of grouse and three hares that were showing their winter coats to improve the staples that had dominated their diet in the past few days – beans, dried meat, meal and so on.
Ethrayne wondered then, wearily, how far they still had to travel before they reached Ban’Lerracon – they were still following the tracks of the army, although now the road was rocky and the passage of the masses was mostly hidden. It seemed that they had been travelling forever, she was starting to sometimes believe – they were deep in Zanezli, but it seemed so unfriendly – the mountains just seemed to get higher and more massive, blocking their advance.
For three more days they followed a series of steep-sided ravines in a generally southerly direction, the sound of tumbling streams loud beside or below the road they followed, the four of them seemingly shrunk to the size of insects against the mountains that loomed thousands of feet above them, blocking out nearly all the natural light and most of the sky.
That night, the ninth from N’Aston, was a great deal different again: they rode late into the night, ignoring the howling wind that promised but had, surprisingly, not provided snow, finishing up at a huge walled structure that stood across the valley they were traversing, entering through a gate into a large, cobbled courtyard where Ethrayne tiredly dismounted – guided by the Generals through a narrow gate and doorways into a fort or castle, passing sentries and soldiers – she was exhausted, moving numbly, pretty-much uncaring – finding herself, a while later, in a room, alone – with a bed, a small fire cracking on a grate, and a hot meal. Alone, relishing it, she ate quickly and then retired, falling quickly into sleep.
The next morning, attuned to waking before dawn, the girl was up and ready for breakfast when the door opened – a type of porridge was provided and she ate again, waiting only a short time before General Ackat appeared in the doorway. It was still dark, and torches blazed in the corridor beyond him.
“Come on, girl, this is no time to dawdle.” He said with mock cheerfulness.
“Humph.” She replied with a hint of rebellion, even as she got to her feet.
They set out in the pre-dawn darkness, the keep barely visible in the dim light of the torches that shone around its outer structure – it seemed to block the valley entirely, and was tall with narrow windows. Other than that, Ethrayne could not be sure, as they rode away on fresh horses, the Generals smart and gleaming in clean clothing. The road was clear, a pale ribbon heading into the blackness of a pine forest as it descended the valley – and nothing was visible until they finally emerged from the slowly lightening closeness and found that the sun had risen, as they crested a smooth, strangely curved, massive hillock at the place where that valley joined another, far larger valley – and Ethrayne gazed out along a valley so vast that she could hardly believe her eyes. It was at least two miles wide where she stood, seemingly cut from the very roots of the mountains that sprang up from stark, vertical cliffs thousands of feet high that formed the valley sides, with white lines of waterfalls heading towards the ground far, far below with reckless abandon. The peaks high above clawed at the cloudy sky, shimmering white or black in shadows as deep as new ink. The sky above was a deep blue in contrast – there were clouds dotted about, but amazingly although the wind was cold, the clouds just scudded north: the weather continued fine.
A huge, pale green almost milky-looking river ran swiftly through brown grasslands, fields or stunted coniferous woods from roughly east to west; the road they were on wound away to the right, westward, a pale line visible some distance above the river. The girl looked left, to see more of the strangely shaped and placed hillocks merging away into a hazy distant view – a view of vast peaks and an awe inspiring, massive tongue of monochrome ice that appeared to descend from the shoulders of the mountains behind, cracked and folding – but how could ice possibly fold?
“The Lerracon Glacier.” Ackat informed Ethrayne – the word translated itself as ‘ice-maw’ in her head, at being spoken aloud. “We should reach Ban’Lerracon tonight – hurry along.”
Ban’Lerracon, ‘Fortress of the Ice Maw’. Knowing now that their destination was so close, fear suddenly filled Ethrayne – strong, but irrational. As Garrtnor left the rounded hillock, and the others followed, she cast one glance behind towards the north, briefly recalling her old life – sometimes it seemed like a dream . . .
; She prayed, staring westward down the gigantic, ice-carved valley. A curve to the left more than a league ahead, plus the huge cliffs and the slopes of the mountains above hid the view past that point.
“Wake up, dozy!” Cavaln called back, pausing in her advance, her tone sharp.
Reluctantly, the girl kicked her horse into movement, then urged him to a canter to catch them up.
After that sweeping left-hand bend, the valley widened noticeably and massive outcrops of rock were visible, looking as though the very bones of the earth had been carved out by the ice. There wasn’t much noticeable apart from the great, pale river, trees, brown grassland, and the rock as far as the eye could see as they rode on – other than, on one of the rocky outcrops, a fort was constructed, it’s entrance far above the ground, reached by a zig-zag trail. Soldiers were visible on the ramparts, and the starkly bright jajozeli standard was cracking in the wind far above. It must have been nearly noon when the small group neared the fort, which was approached by a sturdy bridge across the river, but they did not pause, except to dismount then immediately mount the fresh horses that were being held by soldiers waiting at the edge of the bridge.
Still they rode on, the Generals keeping their pace to at least a canter along the smooth road, not even stopping to eat, riding on and on. Ethrayne could tell when the sun set, for the snow-capped peaks towering far above them were briefly bathed in a brilliant wash of pinky-orange light that faded almost immediately, to be replaced with almost total darkness – it was almost as if a curtain had fallen. Finally, not long after this, they stopped briefly to drink – but quickly set off again. There were stars clear in the depths of the sky above, but no moon shone yet, hidden by the mountains. Even in the darkness, however, the pale road was clear to follow.
Exhausted, her body aching, Ethrayne kept her gaze mostly on the dimly-seen shapes of her captors, just ahead. It seemed to her that time had stopped – they were running on the spot as the world sped past with a rush of icy air.
Then, without warning, there was a flare of yellowy firelight ahead – then torches were visible, shining redder on buildings – but not much was visible to her tired eyes, only stone walls and slate roofs, a window sparkling here and there. Shortly afterwards, the sound of hooves on gravel became a ring on cobbles as the Generals ahead of her turned to the left. She sat up straighter, frowning to try and see more in the night as they crossed an arched bridge – there was the hollow rattle of a wide wooden drawbridge – then they were moving through a massively constructed gateway that was protected by enormously thick oak gates and gleaming ironwork, picked out by the light of the torches.
There were many voices – shouting, speaking; many people, most of them in uniform, as far as Ethrayne could tell in the darkness; it was a jumble of confusion that assaulted the girl’s senses after so many days of quiet travelling. She shivered as the Generals led her onward, along a wide road with three more encompassing gateways, past large buildings and small; then up a steep, winding way with bare rock clearly visible either side of the roadway – there were high walls above and more great gates creaked open at the top of the slope – two sets, either side of a virtual tunnel. Beyond this were a series of courtyards, also gated – and the buildings were enormous.
“Halt.” Garrtnor’s voice broke through her tired abstraction and Ethrayne blinked rapidly, then scrubbed at her face with her mittened hands. Looking up at a well-lit, elegant, curved and balustrade–edged staircase to the massive, ornate entrance some fifteen feet above, terror gripped at her, trying to take control despite her exhaustion. Ethrayne forced it away, but she could feel herself trembling as she dismounted.
“After you, my Lady.” Ackat said unexpectedly with a mocking bow. “Welcome to Ban’Lerracon.”
* * *
Ethrayne opened the shutter, folding it back against the bulk of the thick curtain that hung there and, standing on tiptoe, gazed out through the thick glass, past the inch-thick iron bars fixed less than a foot apart just outside the window – preventing escape, although anyone who would dare to leap from the windowsill would find escape only in death, so high was the aperture above the rooftops of the city clustered below. She stared westward along the mountain-girded valley into the distance, her view mostly obscured by the flurries of thick snow being carried past on whistling, howling gales that originated somewhere far to the south. The fading daylight was hardly noticeable. Autumn, it seemed, had retreated hurriedly in the face of winter, here in the mountains in the heart of Zanezli.
Staring out for a moment longer, the girl shuddered, very glad, suddenly, that she had been brought here to Ban’Lerracon, incarcerated, for six days now – glad that she was not still travelling. This storm had been raging now for two full days, and was the second spell of winter weather that had encircled the city since her arrival. Despite their exposure to the full force of the howling gales, the windowsills in every room were almost a foot deep in packed snow. All that was visible now of the city, she had found, standing on a stool to look almost straight down, were tiny rooftops, now just ruched angles of snow, an uneven blanket covering, amid vertical stone walls.
A hint of a cold draught touched her hand close to the window pane and Ethrayne shivered again before reaching for the thick shutter and pulling it closed; latching it firmly to its other half, she then shut the curtains and all traces of evening daylight were shut out with the blizzard, leaving the light sources of lamp, fire and candle to bathe the room in cosy, ruddy light.
Despite the warm glow and the deep warmth cast out from the large fire crackling merrily, Ethrayne’s heart and soul were as cold as the gales and ice hammering at the thick walls outside and she suppressed a sigh as she came around the thickly padded, upholstered chair and sat down by the fire.
Fionn and Sallie gazed at her with some reproach for letting in the cold, sat together on the velvet-covered settee, shawls tight around their bodies as they sewed diligently at different parts of a fine linen nightgown that had been marked ready for embroidery before they had all left Clirensar for Tenum City in the early spring.
It was – utterly ridiculous! Her sewing box; her clothes; her maids – even her huge bed, some tapestries, clothes chest and other items had somehow been hauled here from Clirensar to Ban’Lerracon by her captors!
The awful night of her arrival, after that relentless ride along the huge glacial valley towards the citadel, Ethrayne had been far too tired to absorb much more information. She had stumbled up the ornate sweeping staircase with her saddlebags over her shoulder, the Generals at her back, to enter a bleakly featureless entrance hall, past four halberd-armed guards in gleaming black who were standing to attention in the fifteen-foot-wide doorway.
Four other guards formed up around her as she crossed into a stark foyer – a torch-lit space that was full of people – all staring at her. The sight of the throng nearly caused her to halt in fear, assaulted as she was by their projected emotions, sensing antagonism, interest, distaste and hatred amongst them – strangers and enemies every one of them. Some seemed human, others were razine; some were uniformed, others wore ordinary but unfamiliar forms of winter clothing in varying degrees of opulence. Faces surrounded her – everyone stared and there was a ripple of conversation: they were clearly discussing her, probably disparagingly, considering her dishevelled appearance.
Opposite the outer doors, facing her as she slowed, uncertain of where she was meant to go, was a very grand doorway with carven pillars leading into a well-lit place beyond, but her view was blocked by the mass of the crowd. From that area, it seemed to her, that she could feel more power – strength much greater than that of the Generals who had brought her here . . .But Ethrayne was tired, scared and emotional – and the sensation seemed to diminish as the guards shoved her into movement, guiding her to the right past more spectators.
A wide corridor, brightly lit with golden lamplight, led onward into the citadel. There were turns – left, right; stairs, rising gracefully; another less showy corridor – more stairs, narrower, to a plain corridor with grey walls. The doors changed from carved to plain oak, from arched to simple rectangular doorways. On and on she trudged, her legs aching. Two guards stood at a doorway ahead – a door otherwise identical to the rest; this was opened to reveal a simple square area with only a relatively wide spiral staircase winding upward in its centre and no other doors. Her guards marched her to the stairs and forced her upwards, pushing her to move quickly – although her tiredness made her stumble in her ill-fitting boots. It felt as though she had already been marched for miles in this place – and she was sick of stairs!
Vaguely she counted twenty steps to a small landing with a door, but the men behind her shoved her onward and upward – to climb another hundred steps, four more levels passed – the sixth landing was the last: there was only one door opening off a small square space with a robust iron rail preventing falls, a door with an ornate key in a large ornate lock, and two massive iron bolts to top and bottom to secure it.
Ethrayne sagged, gasping for breath, her legs trembling at the effect of climbing so far as one guard unlocked the door – and she was pushed inside, the inch-thick door slamming shut almost on her heels as she turned, the sound of the lock and the bolts being applied, quiet but clear through the door.
“Oh, dear Arven!” Mingled fear and relief filled her: she was alone – she might be fed – she might be able to rest . . . Ethrayne turned back to the room, took a step forward and her fear, exhaustion and hunger were replaced with utter astonishment: the carpets and the armed chair on the floor of the large, almost hemispherical room were rather familiar, as were the curtains on the whitewashed walls – then, compounding her amazement, a door on the far left of the room was edged open to admit two cowering female figures dressed in rather tattered gowns, their faces even more familiar in the wealth of warm light that surrounded them, despite the fading bruises evident there. Fionn and Sallie, her maids who had returned to Clirensar with her father to finish her wedding gown – were here, in Ban’Lerracon!
Stunned, amazed, Ethrayne greeted them warmly, hugging them tight, tears in her eyes – pulling them over to the fireplace, dropping the saddle bags, shrugging out of the cloak – she asked a myriad questions, but both girls were silent as they wept, bobbing curtsies repeatedly and smiling waveringly. Then, still without a sound, they drew her through the door to the left into a smaller but still substantial wedge-shaped bedroom where – even more astoundingly – her own bed stood, the frame and curtains in place – Arven only knew how the jajozeli had managed to transport it across the endless leagues through the mountains! Through a second door, the girls led her into a plain, stone-walled and small wedge-shaped bathroom that obviously completed the circle of the forty-something foot wide tower, containing a full bathtub before a crackling fire.
“Oh, my word, a bath!” She breathed. “You knew I was coming?” Fionn nodded her head, but still did not speak. “I’ve no idea what’s happening – how you got here – oh, dear Arven!” Ethrayne broke off, fighting a ridiculous urge to weep as the two young women started removing her myriad layers of clothing, strings and shirts – she just let them get on with undressing her, her head spinning – overwhelmed, speechless. They bathed her as they had used to; got her into some of her very own nightclothes – smelling of lavender – all that was missing, the vital thing, was the conversation and laughter that had always marked their interactions. Their intense silence was ominous – she wondered uneasily what had occurred to cause it.
Robed in her old dressing gown, they led her back through to the large sitting room that must take up nearly half the floor space of the tower and produced a meal as if by magic from a cupboard in the wall – plenty for three plus extras: roast meat, herbed vegetables, soft rolls, butter and a bowl of oddly-spiced fruit compote. There was even tea, but different again to others that she had tasted, light and refreshing.
Dazed, Ethrayne sat at the small dining table, eating and drinking with relish – it was a very long time since she had quickly eaten breakfast in the fort before dawn. Again, she tried to get some conversation from her maids, asked a few questions – but without success. She wondered if they had somehow been rendered dumb – wondering, fearfully, how it might be achieved.
It was horribly late, of that she was certain – although night fell early in the mountainous south in winter, it had been a long time after sunset when they had reached the citadel – the ache of her muscles and joints proved that. She was almost nodding and Fionn and Sallie looked tired as well – they cleared up the plates and so on into the little cupboard in the wall, blew out the lamp and candles; hauled a basket of logs into the bedroom to stoke up the fire burning there – there was a great stack of logs against the wall to the right of the exit door, that would serve to keep them warm for days, Ethrayne hoped. There was one small lamp they left lit in the bedroom, on the table to the left of the four posted bed, then the girls helped Ethrayne into bed, pulling up the crisp linen sheet and coverlets – also smelling of lavender – kissing her gently.
“Thank you, Fionn, Sallie.” She said, leaning up on her elbows to gaze down – and seeing the mattress on the floor to her right, where her maids obviously slept, with plenty of blankets. Reassured, even though she was still confused, she leaned back into the pillows and slipped into sleep.
*
For the first time since leaving N’Aston, Ethrayne slept past dawn, waking refreshed and alert, her mind clear. Sitting up in the darkened room she yawned, stretched and got quietly out of bed. The lamp had burned out during the night, but the fire was still glowing, although it needed mending. Pulling the dressing gown around her shoulders, she fed the dying fire as carefully as she could, for her companions were still asleep; she placed smaller sticks, then a few of the thinner logs on the embers, waiting for them to catch – for the room was growing slightly chilly. Then she made her way to the bathroom on the right, with its empty tub, privy and ash-filled fireplace. There was a half-covered window in the curved outer wall and she pulled open the shutter to gaze out through a small, barred aperture in a wall at least four feet thick, seeing an astounding vista of sheer cliffs and a sunlit, snow-clad mountain, soaring into a brilliant azure sky, where a few small white clouds like the whitest fleece imaginable floated as if only designed to enhance that blue. The windowsill was about four feet above the floor, and the wall so thick that she could not see much below, even craning her neck, except a glimpse of dark rooftops and what might be the city wall above the river edge, a very, very long way below her vantage point, here at the top of this tower.
; She thought, stretching again, gazing out one of the window one last time before pulling the shutter mostly closed again – plenty of reflected sunlight was falling into the room thanks to the snow-cover on the mountain opposite. But here I am – and this is so, so strange!>;
A gentle, polite tap at the door ended her musings: her companions were awake and Ethrayne fixed a smile on her face before she opened it to bid them a cheerful good morning.
*
The three rooms formed the entire top floor of the tower, half the space making the sitting room, with the bedroom and bathroom forming the rest of the curve. The rooms all had good-sized fireplaces, surprisingly lacking somehow from any icy draughts from outside; the sitting room had two large barred windows, covered with close-fitting shutters and thick curtains – and Ethrayne’s first, amazed impression was correct: curtains, carpets and some furniture had all come from her home! She could not fathom how the huge pieces – especially her bed – had been transported, let alone why! And how on Iullyn had it been carried up the spiral staircase? That was beyond any sense, as far as she could tell.
For a prison, it was extremely well appointed, but Ethrayne found herself most concerned at her friends’ silence: neither could speak a word, it seemed – and she supposed that whatever had happened on the taking of Clirensar was horribly traumatic, for both girls reacted very badly to sudden noise or surprise – even the piling-up of the firewood every morning sent them running from the sitting room. She ignored their fear, the fading bruises and their dishevelled clothing and just hugged them tight – making them change into some of her own clothes, for the chest brought from Clirensar held loads of gowns, underclothes, shawls and so on.
As well as the six-foot-odd wide stack of split logs against the side wall, there were two large boxes of chips and smaller kindling, plus flint and tinder – and every morning, a fresh pile of wood was delivered to their door by a soldier, at about the time that breakfast was delivered in the little cupboard contraption that, Ethrayne discovered, was far too small to admit a young woman – because she tried to get in to it, and failed. It was an ingenious thing easily holding plenty of provisions for three, run on a pulley she assumed, from a kitchen far below – and ensuring that at least the food arrived hot, which wouldn’t be the case, she recalled, climbing all those spiralling, six flights of stairs! In addition, there was a water pump in the bathroom, and the copper to heat bathwater when required – or to wash clothing or bedding. They even had a couple of old, black pans, some metal mugs, and a box of camomile for tea when they felt like making any!
Ethrayne had had all sorts of worrying thoughts concerning her captivity. None of them had featured a cosy, warm set of rooms with fireplaces, running water and her own comfortable bed! Let alone companionship from girls she knew well – even if she was the only one who could talk. The lack of sense of it all, to her mind, only increased her unease.
After breakfast, that first morning, she let Fionn and Sallie dress her in deep blue velvet, and the girls stroked her head sympathetically, as if mourning the loss of her hair – but she managed a laugh and said that it was sure to grow back, and was already longer, if a little uneven.
It was frustrating, that the two could not talk, because they could not tell her how the city and the castle were taken by the enemy, no matter how she phrased the questions – it seemed that they did not know anything useful and just hung their heads – clearly the episode had traumatised them greatly. All she learned was that they had been imprisoned here for six days before her own arrival – but the number was offered tentatively, uncertainly, by Fionn and Sallie, when they silently counted on their fingers.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Ethrayne said, after her attempt, hugging them both. “I’m so, so sorry!” There were tears in all their eyes – she had already told them how she was captured, how her parents had been killed. They sat together, sadly, for quite a while, just taking a little comfort in being close.
That first day passed slowly, but the three of them kept themselves occupied nicely: washing the clothes that Ethrayne had travelled in, including the thick cloak and blankets, stringing them up neatly on lines in the bathroom, with the fire lit – and then making a rough inventory of the items that had been carted here from Clirensar. Other than the larger items of furniture, curtains and carpets, there were piles of clothing in the chest, including slippers; a book of poetry; her sewing box, intact, with some items half-finished or not even begun – as if crows or magpies had randomly picked up things to stuff in the chest, she imagined.
They sat together and Ethrayne reluctantly related what had happened since the enemy attacked the soldiers above Clirensar, carefully editing it as she went along – the two frightened young women did not need graphic details, she was sure. Then, she spoke gently of the past: of warm summer days in the castle gardens, or of picnics at Home Farm – simple, carefree, but oddly painful nonetheless. She lapsed into silence, and they all sat staring at the firelight, deep in their own thoughts until they retired. This night, Ethrayne did not sleep so well – too many questions span in her head.
The second morning brought leaden skies with breakfast – it was pretty-much lighter with all the shutters and curtains closed and the lamps lit. The girls set about cleaning the fireplaces of ash and dust, scooping them into large, lidded buckets, setting logs on the fires and next to each hearth ready for night time – checking the rooms generally for tidiness, just for something to do, folding up the clean clothes that were already dry in the bathroom – the cloak, blankets and felted jacket were still wet, of course.
The outer door opened without warning, and Ethrayne straightened from where she knelt by the living room hearth, finishing wiping the stone, all too aware that her companions were hurriedly backing away, their faces pale and lined with fear as General Garrtnor and two soldiers strode in; the guards set down more lidded buckets and picked up the two full ones, departing with a smart salute – and Garrtnor stared at her.
“This will not do, girl: go and dress in leggings and shirt, quickly.” He ordered, shaking his head disapprovingly at her blue gown. “Hurry, girl – you have an appointment.”
Ethrayne forbade to complain that that was news to her – her look probably told him what she thought, for he almost smiled, she decided – his lips twitched slightly, anyway. “My Lord General.” She growled, getting to her feet and following Fionn and Sallie into the bedroom, shutting the door with a snap.
“I’m sorry – they scare me too, but they are – are such bullies!” She muttered, moving to the chest where she had earlier stowed the tunic, leggings and so on from her journey – all terribly crumpled, of course, with no hot iron to hand, but clean and dry at least. It felt so strange, moving from one language to the other like this – she never would have thought that Arven’s power would affect her in such a basic way as communicating with different peoples so seamlessly. The shaking girls helped her change, locating the string that she had used for belts and she pulled on the two pairs of socks necessary to keep the boots on. “Thank you – and stay here: don’t worry, either of you -.” Ethrayne held them tight, then emerged alone, her arms crossed defensively across her body - quietly alarmed and cross that the girls were now hiding in the corner of the bedroom, so traumatised were they by the mere presence of the jajozeli-razine.
Garrtnor looked her up and down, his face expressionless, then impatiently gestured to the outer door that still stood open, admitting a chilly breeze that was making the fire crackle. Biting back her questions, Ethrayne walked past him and started down the long spiral, also suppressing a comment on the sheer number of steps as they descended, the General having locked the door before he followed her, his boots ringing on the steps right behind her.
Reaching ground level – or at least the base of the tower – Garrtnor took the lead, passing the guards on the entrance, and taking Ethrayne on a winding route through plain, unadorned corridors and steps that were certainly service passages – and unnervingly identical, so it seemed that they didn’t actually go anywhere – they passed a number of people, some soldiers and the rest mostly servants, all of whom stood aside respectfully for their superior, who ignored all of them. Ethrayne, unnerved, decided on a semblance of icy hauteur and passed all of them with a straight back and a cold glare. The walls were grey, the floors grey with flags or pale brown planks, the torch brackets and doorframes and doors all practically the same – even Tenum Palace didn’t have quite so many identical doors, she decided.
They walked a long way, to Ethrayne’s mind, until a high-ceilinged, green-painted corridor took them into a large, vaulted, wide windowed hall that might be near ground level – she could clearly hear the sounds of horses’ hooves on cobbles not far away.
She slowed, just inside the space and turned in a slow circle to take in the place properly, her heart sinking a little as she did so: this was as plainly a space designed for combat as the hall in the palace in Tenum. The bank of windows along one wall let in a large amount of grey daylight, augmented by torches that filled the many iron brackets on the walls, on this wintry day; there were large braziers along the walls and in the corners, emitting heat; along the wall through which the door had admitted her, there were wooden seats for spectators, four tiers of them climbing up the wall – and a handful of these were occupied by plainly dressed Generals, plus a pair of dour-faced human soldiers. The flagged floor was smooth from much use and the space was vast – at least four hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide, she guessed.
One figure stood in the hall, clearly waiting, for he had turned as Garrtnor and his prisoner entered and Ethrayne sensed an implacable will that was mirrored in the icy grey eyes that appraised her dispassionately. He was as tall as Garrtnor, lithe, with a tanned, lined face under iron-grey hair, wearing supple leather in silver-clasped black and with a long, narrow sword in a plain scabbard at his hip. He was also undoubtedly another General.
“You want me to evaluate this?” He demanded, his tone scathing, as if she were sub-human. “She’s only a child, Garrtnor.”
“The request comes from his Majesty, Master Cheltor.” The black-haired General replied mildly. “I agree – she is young, yes, but she does show some promise and potential -.”
“Huh? I’ll be the judge of that!” Master Cheltor retorted, glaring. “Come here, girl.”
Still frowning herself, Ethrayne stepped forward – determined not to be intimidated by yet another oh-so-superior-General, even if he did appear to be the sort of professional bully who trained combatants – she apologised silently to the men who had begun her training in Tenarum. Everything about him, from his stance, his expression and his clothes to his demeanour screamed that fact.
“Could you have dressed her in a worse set of clothes, Garrtnor?” Cheltor asked incredulously, slowly circling Ethrayne. “I mean – those trousers are held up with string, I ask you! The shirt’s a disgrace – tatty, creased, baggy. She’ll need things that actually fit, if she’s worth the effort – and those boots are far too loose. Get it sorted!”
“We were forced to use the only clothes available in N’Aston, Master Cheltor, but you are correct: nothing actually fits her.” Garrtnor protested and grinned at Ethrayne as she turned her glare back on him.
“The boots are essential: she will not set foot in here again until they are made – send for the cobbler to attend straight after this session.” Cheltor ordered and Garrtnor nodded and strode back past Ethrayne to the double doors, opened one so that a draught of cold air passed her, and spoke quietly to someone outside.
“Ignore my colleague.” Cheltor told the girl crisply as she naturally began to follow Garrtnor’s movement. “I’m the one you need to concentrate on, girl. They tell me you have had some training, yes?”
“Yes, sir, from Rhellay to the beginning of Vhisson, when we were travelling south to Clirensar. I was learning how to use a sword, bow, knife – and also unarmed combat in Tenum City.” She answered briskly, wondering just why her enemies could possibly want to continue her weapons’ training – it didn’t make any sense at all.
Master Cheltor snorted. “Barely five moons is a very short period.”
“I attended almost every morning until we set off for my home, except when other duties took precedence.” Ethrayne countered coolly. “After meeting General Ackat above the city, I was not there for idle amusement!”
He smiled very slightly at that and inclined his head. “So why don’t you show me, girl?” He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Garrtnor, who had come back over, then moved out further into the hall and beckoned so that Ethrayne sighed and followed.
Cheltor bowed slightly, she copied him warily and was able to step aside as he kicked at her rather obviously, then raised her right arm to block the punch he threw with his left – Despite her moon of inactivity, Ethrayne was pleasantly surprised to find that she could recall all that she had learned. Cheltor was pushing her, but he was moving with a care that she suspected she would not be accorded if he was the one supervising any training session. He could have disabled her within moments, knocked her flat – knocked her cold – but his movements were measured, his attacks slow – giving her time to react, she suspected, dancing, avoiding his feet, legs, hands and arms, once or twice even feeling just about confident enough to thrust an elbow or fist back at him – and he grinned as wolfishly as Commander Vedeigne had used to; his attacks came quicker and quicker – he was as fast a striking adder!
It felt like forever. It certainly lasted longer than her combat against General Ackat at N’Aston, but not really by much. The faster he attacked in his utterly different style of combat, the more trouble she had evading his blows in whatever way she could until, unexpectedly, he grabbed her right wrist in a grip of steel, twisted – and Ethrayne somehow found herself on her front on the hard flagged floor, her arm and shoulder agonisingly locked in his hold which he kept up for a couple more heart-beats before releasing her.
“On your feet.” He ordered tersely at once, nudging her rather roughly in the ribs with one foot. “Don’t dawdle, child.”
“We told you, Master Cheltor.” Garrtnor said, laughing quietly as Ethrayne got slowly to her feet, breathing heavily, straightening her clothes. “You didn’t believe us – what d’you think?”
“She might develop a small level of skill, with guidance.” The combat master conceded grudgingly after a pause during which he looked her up and down again. “She starts when the boots are ready.”
Ethrayne bristled a little at being so dismissed, after such a tiring workout but didn’t respond – limiting herself to a haughty sniff and her continued glare, despite her aching ribs and arm. It was stupid – but she was not quite brave enough to argue with them.
“As you wish.” Garrtor continued – he sounded well pleased with the situation. “Ah, the cobbler and tailor , come over here, girl.”
“Lord General.” She answered coldly and he laughed again at her tone as he handed Master Cheltor his weapons, and turned to lead her over towards the lowest tier of seating where the spectators were all talking together earnestly in low tones, staring at her.
Two men stood diffidently near the corner where the seating began, by the double doors, hurrying towards Garrtnor as he approached; both were dressed in ordinary work wear, the cobbler defined by his worn leather apron, both with measuring tapes, parchment and charcoal sticks in their shirt pockets. They were also human, politely bowing to their superior.
Ethrayne stood there feeling slightly foolish as the tailor measured her, he hurried through the business as if being close to the General terrified him; she sat down on a seat for the cobbler, and his light touch on her feet (when she pulled off the socks briefly) tickled awfully, but she suppressed the twitching with all her will – Garrtnor was watching her, as normal. Fortunately, he was quickly done as well and she could pull the socks and boots on with haste as the craftsmen vanished.
“Got your breath back?” General Garrtnor asked when she had straightened and she nodded. “I’ll take you back, then.”
“I would like to know – just what atrocities have been committed against Fionn and Sallie, my Lord General.” Ethrayne asked stiffly, choosing her words carefully as he led her back through the complex maze of the citadel. “They have – have been severely traumatised, and surely – it’s just not right! They are only girls – helpless –.”
This time, Garttnor’s laughter was cold, his gaze challenging as he glanced across at her. “Helpless, yes. Utterly helpless.” He said. “And they are slaves – what is wrong? Ha!” His eyes clearly showed his opinion of her reaction to that. “Merely slaves, nothing more. You have a safe, comfortable little eyrie there at the top of the tower, but there are many other places with much less comfort where you could be housed. Your little maids hardly need to speak, girl to be useful and I suggest that you progress with a good measure of their meekness, for your own good!”
Ethrayne shivered. “Yes, my Lord General.” She murmured.
* * *
The marriage of the new Duke and Duchess was a bittersweet event, but King Marrand welcomed the return of Sarant’s son: Pualyn took naturally to the role that his father had fulfilled at the king’s side – consideration and calm appraisal had been passed to the son, and the young man had good sense. His familiarity with their high-ranking razine guests and his unquestioning support of the Am’maiya rather disarmed some of the older members of the Council; he had relinquished his hereditary control of the remaining Clirensar City Guards to the King’s command – they were quickly sent to Foston to assist with the exploration of the area and the building of the defensive dykes and ramparts. So far, the jajozeli housed in Clirensar had been quiet, hardly to be seen.
It was the evening of the twenty-eighth day of Thurton, his birthday, which he had determinedly cancelled, when Jerryn managed to instigate a private get-together with the Archpriests; his father; Pualyn and Lyria and the High-King and his son. He had asked the kitchen staff for finger foods, ale and wine, and they had certainly obliged, sending a huge arrangement of sweet and savoury delicacies and some of the best wines in the cellar. The staff clearly considered his seventeenth birthday as still worthy of celebration, even if he did not.
“Thank you for coming, lady, gentlemen.” The prince said as the group entered as a single mass through his outer doors, bowing low. Privately, they had all discarded the cumbersome titles as being simply unworkable – and, other than Pualyn and Lurco, he was probably the man most comfortable with the unmistakeable aura of the High-King and his son. He had wondered if the power that resided deep within him would one day manifest itself in a similar way; it was not an entirely easy concept to deal with – along with all the others, recently.
“Since you refused any birthday celebrations, we are curious why you have invited us here, Jerryn.” His father enquired.
“Well, this seemed a good time to talk together without everyone else sticking their pennyworth in, father.” He replied with a tight smile. “Please, sit down, do – our helpers will pass around nibbles and drinks, thank you.” He said to Karne, his valet and Tymain. “You had better stay, if you would, gentlemen – the more minds the better, I’ve discovered.”
“You have good sense, Jerryn.” High-King Mhezal complimented him.
“Rubbish. If I had good sense, your Majesty, I would have fled at the first hint of prophecy and mystery, along with Ethie.” Jerryn replied rather coolly. “So I’m bloody stupid – but who can fight destiny?” Silence followed his words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring you here to shout and moan, honestly, but I had a very peculiar dream a few days after Lyria returned -.” He toasted her with a glass of watered wine. “And I’ve spent long enough thinking about it alone and thought I would finally ask you wise people for your input.”
“That counts me out.” Kerrenan interjected then with a grin. “I’m as stupid as a rock – just ask my wife.”
“Well since your lovely wife is a continent away, Kerr, we’ll just have to ignore your assertion.” Pualyn sent back instantly and the group smiled and chuckled at the riposte.
“Dreams usually fade in the light of morning, Jerryn, this does seem peculiar. Can you be more specific?” Archpriest Lurco asked.
“I certainly can – I remember every single part of it clearly . . . I had fallen asleep as normal, after the usual routine and then, from nowhere, I just appeared in a huge hall of glistening glass or ice – beautiful but stark, yet it was warm not cold in the hall. Below the floor was a map of Iullyn as large as the hall itself – it seemed that I walked high above the earth, staring down at land and sea . . . I could have stayed there and stared at it forever – there were mountains, lakes – oh, it was beautiful!” He shook his head at the memory.
“Yes, it has that effect upon visitors.” Bahlien agreed quietly, his tone sober.
Jerryn shot him a sharp look and nodded. “Someone spoke, but I was quite alone. ‘My beautiful creation.’ It said and sighed. ‘Please come closer prince, my Wielder, time is short.’
“I turned and there was a dais to the right – it had not been there before, I swear and in the centre of it stood a very tall person with the largest blue-green eyes and golden hair, wearing a grey robe and completely frozen in water-clear ice. I went right up to it but I couldn’t touch the ice – I still couldn’t feel any icy cold, either. My mind went completely blank – I said, stupidly ‘Oh my God!’ and he chuckled, but he was frozen: he couldn’t move.
“‘Welcome to Car’Agasse, my Wielder, my Sword.’ He said, a little louder than before. ‘I have worked with all my remaining strength to gather both of you here in the safety of your dreams, to humbly apologise and to warn you -.”
“‘Ethrayne is here?’ I interrupted rudely – I know, I’m sorry.” He shook his head ruefully as they all stared at him. “‘Is she all right? Where is she?’ I looked around and I could see her – a shaded figure, rather ghostly, wearing awful clothes, looking a little strained and thin-faced – but I couldn’t see any bruises, not as Lyria reported, thank Arven!” He paused then – he didn’t want to announce to the room that Ethrayne had appeared bald, he didn’t want to upset everyone.
“‘Your beloved is within her own dream, Jerryn, unfortunately I could not exert any more power – I have used it all – to bring you together – please forgive me.’ He said – oh, his tone was so sad!
“‘Ethrayne was injured, is she all right?’ I asked nervously and he said – oh – ‘She is healing well, Jerryn – do not forget that you are both now much more robust physically than you were before you took in my Flame. She is guarded appropriately – she is physically safe enough. She will need to hold onto her strength, however: her guards are our enemy’s most trusted servants and they have considerable strength of their own.’
“‘You are not reassuring me, Sir!’ I snapped, then apologised – but that made my heart pound in fear, when he said it.”
“It’s making mine pound too, Jerryn!” Pualyn snapped, rising slowly from his seat, his left hand tight in Lyria’s grip. “Jerryn – for – for God’s sake -!”
“I’m sorry, Pualyn – honestly, I’m only repeating the conversation from the dream, what happened – oh, I know how you feel -.” Jerryn’s voice faltered and the control that he had maintained to keep a semblance of calm slipped, revealing a haunted expression for a moment before he pulled the mask back in place. “I am deeply sorry.”
Pualyn sank back down, his face pale. “Yes, well – oh -.” He suppressed the sort of curses that might offend their elders and betters and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jerryn.” He managed meekly.
“It’s all right.” The Prince nodded and continued. “He – A-Arven said: ‘The Generals are wholly the Betrayer’s servants, body and soul – I can only apologise that their actions and those of their master are beyond my ability to foresee – oh, how I have striven! To know that so many have died in the south of your lands – I am sorely diminished, my Wielder.’
“‘We will avenge them all Lord – we will wipe out the jajozeli holding Clirensar, every last one of them! And then we will march and rescue Ethrayne -.” I said, but he interrupted.
“‘Lead no army into Zanezli, my Sword, else the world will be plunged into darkness!’ His tone was sharp. ‘Destroy the forces that have ravaged your lands – confine them behind their border – but do not enter into their territory! Their master has sent an army that can be destroyed, yet he commands millions, Jerryn -.’
“I asked ‘Then how are we to possibly prevail, Lord?’ I admit – I was angry and scared. ‘Against his millions, we will all fail!’” Jerryn paused and sighed. “And he laughed and the sound filled the hall like – like the ringing of bells . . . ‘Fear not, my Wielder, my Sword – we will prevail . . . Learn to use your gifts, Jerryn and hold on to your faith, please – although I know that I have failed you all so badly.’
“And then I felt myself waking up – I asked Arven humbly to tell Ethrayne that I love her with all my heart and soul, that we would do our utmost to free Clirensar. He said that Ethrayne passed on her love also and that she was sorry. His voice was fading, as was the hall – Car’Agasse . . .” Jerryn stopped speaking, coughed, and shrugged, nodding thanks at Tymain when he offered him a wine glass, his throat dry from so much talking.
“I told you so.” Tymain remarked then into the deep silence, nodding decisively – unaware that everyone was staring at him, his gaze fixed on the prince. “I told you that Arven couldn’t possibly know how those bastards would think or act, Jerryn -.” He broke off then, meeting King Marrand’s eye, paling awfully. “Ah – oh – please excuse me, your Majesties.” He managed then, bowing low and quickly moving to the back of the room.
“Sit down, Corporal, if you please.” Marrand instructed him mildly. “This is a private occasion and your input is equally as valuable as any.”
“Y-yes, your Majesty, thank you.” He bowed again and sank down on the dining chair he had occupied before, looking rather foolish.
“He said that, did he?” Archpriest Bahlien asked the prince, who nodded a few times and smiled. “Hmm, a very insightful young man.”
“Yes indeed.” Archpriest Lurco agreed. “Excuse me, young man, you haven’t ever considered the priesthood as a vocation, have you?”
“Who me, your Grace?” Tymain asked in a sort of squeak that caused Lyria to hurriedly suppress a giggle. “Oh no, Sir.”
“Well, Jerryn, that was certainly a unique dream.” The High-King remarked. “To speak with our God after so many centuries – my word!”
“Yet our God said that he had used all his strength to communicate with the both of you, Jerryn. Is that not dangerous?” Kerrenan asked rather formally – it seemed a habit of his when faced with complexities.
“It would have been far more dangerous, I deem, for Arven not to have spoken with them, Kerr.” Bahlien replied. “Whatever he and Ethrayne discussed, Arven has given our champion here some valuable advice: concentrate on freeing Clirensar and avoid Zanezli.”
“Surely, though, we cannot leave Ethrayne in their hands?” Lyria objected hotly. “We discussed this before – Pualyn -.”
“My darling, you know that we will do everything we possibly can to rescue her.” Her husband asserted and glanced from face to face, glaring. “Won’t we, my Lords?”
“On my life, Pualyn.” Jerryn said, getting to his feet, his hand on his heart, Ethrayne’s betrothal ring shining on his finger. “We certainly will – we all want Ethrayne to be free.”
*
The news of Ethrayne’s abduction and the foul murders of the Duke and Duchess by the jajozeli that now held Clirensar spread like awful ripples through the continent and beyond – and Tenarum’s neighbours, Derravale and Amorry, took the news with varying amounts of panic. The panic was averted by calm men, but some of the more nervous – especially in the southern realm of Derravale – started imagining invasion far beyond any sense.
Leskerthorpe was a comfortable little town near the eastern border of Derravale, on the high road that crossed the mountains into Tenarum. With a thriving logging industry, plus the ubiquitous sheep-herding, farming and weaving, it was a moderately prosperous settlement, rather nicely placed above the river and the road. Now, however, it’s pretty outlook across the grasslands to the west and the woodlands of the foothills of the Perotan Hills to the east had changed forever and many local residents were unhappy, although they fully understood why chaos was descending upon them in the shape of royal-appointed engineers who had arrived in mid Thurton, armed with mounds of equipment, carts, horses and assistants to mark out suitable sites for settlements designed to hold the volunteers and regular soldiers who were required to head into Tenarum in the future. They had spent many days marching over the open countryside surrounding the town, surveying the land and making detailed charts from the local maps – then announcing their intentions.
Headman Thwaite bemoaned, especially, the loss of his best pasture to what appeared to be an entire new town, but Captain Seston, head of the engineers who had marked out new roads, drainage and water channels and buildings, fixed him with a glare.
“You are a God-fearing man, Headman?” He had asked.
“Well of course, Captain.” Thwaite had replied indignantly. “But -.”
“Then Arven will view you and yours with approval, for the slight sacrifice you are making towards furthering his plans.” Seston kept his tone level and polite, although the local official had been trying to block his task for two days now. “There’s a jajozeli army in Clirensar, man – and they’ve got to be stopped, to block the Betrayer’s actions – that’s empty land to the south, Headman, and only then enemy on the far side of the mountains!”
That made the tall, skinny man squeak a little and he looked at the smaller, squarer engineer helplessly.
“Look, there’re endless leagues of grass and pasture and it will grow back in the end, but we’ve got to house the soldiers somewhere when they march through to Tenarum and I didn’t really think that you townsfolk would like to put them all up in your little houses, would you?” Seston pressed on relentlessly. “I am sorry, Thwaite, but that level ground is ideal and I am only following orders you know.” He added, slightly more sympathetically. “Look, instruct your brewers to brew and get in as many food supplies as you can: the army has food supplies but beer and sausages will definitely make you a bit of a profit - winter won’t close these mountains until Umttarn if at all: it’s a reliable route through to Tenarum.” He essayed a smile.
“Y’know, captain, I never thought of – well, thank you!” And Headman Thwaite hurried off quickly.
“That was very well done, sir.” Lieutenant Douglas said dryly from just behind his captain. They were stood together in the town square in the centre of Leskerthorpe that afternoon, given a wide berth by the townsfolk and market traders – they had clearly watched Thwaite hurry off with interest, knowing of his opposition to the proposals.
“Anything to get that fool out of the way: we’ve got to get the water pipes in and the drains dug as quickly as possible.” Captain Seston said with a sigh, feeling the chill of the wind and mentally counting down towards mid-winter. Derravale was a realm of rolling grassland and forest, and generally winters even in the south were not too bitter – considering the mountains that climbed across the unclear border with Zanezli. The necessity of having to move troops into Tenarum, however, had scared the engineers mightily – and the setting of water and sewerage was vital.
“We’re marking the lines, Captain – I’ve teams of men felling trees on the edge of the woods to the north and a marvellous source of gravel at the river a league east.” Douglas reported cheerfully. “We’re practically on schedule, Sir.”
“I want to be ahead by the end of the day, Lieutenant, the Crown Prince is due to inspect our efforts in seven days.” Seston warned him.
“I will report on our progress this evening, sir.” Douglas saluted and strode off.
Those in charge of the army in Derravale were particularly concerned at the advance of the jajozeli into Clirensar because the western kingdom extended further south than her neighbour – the border only a mark on a map across the plain that extended north of the Lerracon Mountains. No one lived in the region, it was as empty as the hill country south of the Vale of Clirensar, although the countryside was fertile.
Another concern was that the high road skirted the supposed perimeter of the occupied area around Clirensar, before joining the Kings Road at Foston – guards now patrolled the high road across the hill country and within sight of the Vale – but there were no sightings of the enemy, to their relief – and, equally, their unease.
*
Denster was the border city to the east of Amorry picked as that kingdom’s staging post for the amassing of armies, set on the broad, well-metalled high road that led straight from West Port on the coast, through the capital city, Ronlow and through the low Tenasse Mountains where Denster was nestled, and so on into Tenarum and on towards Tenum City.
On hearing the terrible news, King Namayomn simply commanded that his court move to Denster – although it was not a quick process, by any stretch of the imagination. He fully intended to be right at the heart of the proposed campaign and, whittling down his staff and hangers on to fit into a large manor farmhouse that was commandeered politely by Earl Agamn, close to events and the training of the volunteers.
*
The towns, villages and iron foundries that had been so-far untouched by the murderous tendencies of the occupying jajozeli, within an area closer than about fifteen leagues of the captured city of Clirensar all relocated their families, their equipment and their supplies to the north of the surrounding ditch and ramparts, where they strove to restart their rather alchemical business, once a great deal of wood had been sacrificed to house-building rather than charcoal making. The creation of iron from rock and bright steel out of pig-iron was taken with a single-minded intensity, aided by the welcome discovery of a new source of iron stone in the woodlands eight leagues north-east of Black Fell. Smoke and noise rather disturbed the area, but the necessity of their iron and steel was paramount. Those willing were taken on as apprentices, to assist in the creation of chain mail, buckles and whatever orders the Tenarean army put in. As autumn took a firm hold, the whole realm became a hive of activity and industry with one aim in mind.
*
Couriers sped northward from Rothern to the kingdoms of the Protectorates and their leaders instigated long-standing procedures that had never before been actioned and the vast fleet of Jaece spread out to begin ferrying soldiers, weapons and materials across the Hessarth Straits to the Selithian continent, for the weather to the north was milder, of course, where summer was now fast approaching.
There was fear and concern as the news spread that one of the young Am’maiya had been abducted, but also considerable excitement and relief that the long-unaddressed threat of the Jajozeli Empire might be finally dealt with – although even the greenest, most inexperienced volunteer (expecting glory and riches) realised that it would not be a quickly resolved business.
Reaching Hessarth, with its balmy climate, the Protectorate armies rested before marching southward towards Tenarum in easy stages along the broad highway that ran through the Belseque Mountains – a slow but steady advance, marching with wagon trains full of supplies, their leaders with them – Kings and professional soldiers of high rank, but with other titles than general, which was never used, usually replaced with colonel instead.
The people of Tenarum viewed the thousands of foreign strangers marching down the Kings Road with askance at first, but the troops from the kingdoms of the Protectorates were well-mannered, mostly fluent in Selithian – their accents exotic – and tidy, as far as that was possible.
Of course, there were the occasional misunderstanding, fight, and criminal activity but, generally, the allies were managing to coexist as the season progressed, setting up in the area north of Tenum City where the razine and human troops were housed.
* * *
It took six days for three complete sets of plain, utilitarian clothing to be delivered: underclothes and socks; three plain shirts in knobbly-woven beige cloth; three pairs of woollen trousers in rather imperfectly dyed indigo that would at least stay in place on her hips; and three short-sleeved tunics in a slightly darker shade of blue woollen cloth. The clothes fitted well enough, but had clearly been made quickly: the quality of the sewing would not have passed even a cursory inspection in any household in Tenarum for even the lowest type of servants clothing. The three young women set about rectifying the most glaring mistakes themselves and Ethrayne rebelliously sewed Arven’s emblem on the left breast of the black cloak that now hung on the back of the bedroom door.
Those days after Ethrayne’s initial meeting with Master Cheltor passed without any interruption, other that the daily removal of the ash buckets and the arrival of logs. But, not trusting the Generals to leave her alone, Ethrayne could not relax although, with hindsight, she knew that she should have done. She busied herself with trying to ensure that poor, silent Fionn and Sallie were comfortable and reassured – assuming that any weapons’ practice that the Jajozeli would insist she attended would take up a great deal of her days.
Also, General Garrtnor’s clear warning was quite enough to enforce her compliance: after all, she had imagined dank, windowless dungeons for her accommodation here and never a spacious, sunlit (if it had not been approaching winter), fire-lit, comfortable apartment.
The boots did not arrive until the evening of the seventh day, along with plain gloves and a soft, quilted, mid-green leather sleeveless jerkin that was fastened with black iron. It fitted reasonably well and was obviously designed for her protection – which was a little ominous. The boots were a delight – polished black leather that fitted perfectly over a single pair of socks, with just enough wriggle-room for her toes and coming half-way up her calves.
“At least the cobbler takes pride in his work, unlike the tailor.” She remarked. “But I suppose I’ll be climbing up and down this tower far too often for comfort, now – it’s such a long way up!” Ethrayne sighed deeply. “Well, there’s no help for it, I suppose.”
Her companions smiled sympathetically.
The guards appeared, predictably, the next morning after breakfast and marched her down and through the citadel. Master Cheltor awaited her in the hall, his thin face expressionless and nodded slightly before he waved her guards out of the way. Standing there, Ethrayne turned to see a number of Generals seated in the observation area – all strangers and all staring at her. She frowned.
“Better.” He said finally. “You look rested.”
Ethrayne snorted at that – as if they cared! Arven’s warning in that singular dream/vision was always at the front of her mind, now.
The training session began and continued much as she had feared: much harder, physically, than her friendly Tenarean instructors would have thought appropriate, using swords sharp enough to separate one’s shadow, or so they seemed – there were no blunt-edged practice weapons in this hall. The Master made no concessions for her inexperience; she was forced, that morning, just to do the best she could to protect herself, until he called a halt at what turned out to be past midday – he was glaring furiously.
“You will have to learn to think, girl and move your bloody feet!” He ordered shortly. “Get out of here, but return the day after tomorrow – and be prompt, understand, girl?” Ethrayne dared to keep silent for the length of a few rapid heartbeats – but Cheltor wrenched the sword from her hand and repeated: “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master Cheltor.” She muttered and he nodded once before gesturing and she turned to begin her guarded trudge back along the corridors and up the stairs to the tower, aching all over.
*
And so her days into winter were set out: every other day, she spent her mornings and early afternoons there in the combat hall, being shouted at; thumped; knocked down and generally mistreated by Master Cheltor or one of the other Generals, all of whom were just as unforgiving as he was. But Ethrayne was forced to admit that the violence was controlled – measured. She had sessions with Garrtnor, Ackat and Cavaln amongst the group and the woman was definitely fast and strong. Being flung about and disarmed and so on, the girl felt herself to be impossibly slow, stupid and useless – it was their collective lack of approval or praise that led to this impression. Always pushed to the limit – they introduced her to quarter-staffs after a few days – she was actually progressing faster and better than any of the Generals would have thought, though they kept their knowledge to themselves. They continued to watch her closely.
The rest of her time she spent locked up in the tower with Sallie and Fionn as the days grew ever shorter. After a few more peeps out of the shuttered windows at the worsening weather, the shorter days, they did not even bother to open the curtains and shutters any more: it was lighter and far warmer and more cosy in the tower with them closed, leaving the three of them bathed in the golden lamp- and candlelight while the fires blazed. They sat in the sitting room, sewing together as Ethrayne talked – telling stories from childhood, or talked of their previous lives before – this; also she sang songs. Else, early on the rest days, they set about undertaking washing. Perhaps at Master Cheltor’s suggestion, they had been provided with an odd wash-board to scrub on, loads of soap and even a flat iron. Maybe he hated creases and Ethrayne had turned up wearing deeply creased clothes for a good few days before these items arrived.
Days passed, relentlessly, yet they were quite comfortable – Ethrayne only had to endure the Generals’ presence in the combat hall. For the rest of the time, fortunately, they were alone, warm and fed and time passed bearably – but slowly. In her bed at night, hidden in the darkness, she found her sleep disturbed despite her deep weariness at undertaking so much intense exercise. Worries for Jerryn, Pualyn and Lyria, Clirensar and the kingdom at large surfaced stronger than ever once her fears for herself and her maids had diminished. She prayed a great deal to Arven – the routine was comforting – silently, in her head and she tried to keep the image of Car’Agasse in her mind . . . sometimes it helped her to sleep, but not always . . . She gave thanks that she had the comforting companionship of Fionn and Sallie, knowing that this awful place would be so much worse without their presence.
*
Ethrayne found out, one grey morning in the combat hall as usual, that the next day would be the Winter Solstice only because Master Cheltor mentioned the planned festival celebrations to the Generals in conversation – they all pretty-much ignored her as usual. Ackat and the others laughed as he warned them that he would be expecting no slacking in their training schedules, no matter the lavish festivities prepared for their delectation. Ethrayne started – amazed: Jerryn’s birthday and even Umattarn were far past, likewise Instur was speeding towards a close – her birthday was done, she was already seventeen without even realising it! She had been imprisoned in this horrible citadel for nearly three moons! But where, she wondered, had the days gone? How could so long have sped by, unnoticed?
Her momentary lapse of concentration meant that General Shaille tripped her and she had to duck into a forward roll to spring back up, dodging his follow-up attack as best she could. But at least she was stronger than she had been on her arrival and rather more agile and acrobatic on her feet as well. Breathing heavily, sweating copiously, she put the unexpected information out of her mind, determined to at least try to gain fewer bruises this day – but it was hard, as always. Her chances, she reflected ruefully, of actually returning a solid blow to any of the blasted Generals who worked her so hard was still less than miniscule.
Ackat, laughing, was assuring Master Cheltor that they would all certainly be on time after the festival. Glancing up, Ethrayne saw one young-looking jajozeli-razine male grinning toothily from the spectators’ seating. She realised that she had seen the male before, a youth who was obviously of some importance though he was not yet a General – he usually wore plain combat gear like the rest, and she had passed him on occasion, in the endless corridors – he had friends of a similar age (she supposed) and arrogance. He seemed young to her: there was a sort of adolescence about him that a General like Cavaln had long outgrown during training; she wondered idly, uncaring, just how old he was and what he was doing here in this snow-bound citadel – for a moment, before she had to pull her concentration back again, dodging Shaille’s kick at her knee.
After noon, she returned, aching, to the tower and washed and changed as usual – each session left her so sweaty and wrung out that her clothes always required scrubbing afterwards. She put on one of her old gowns that did not really fit very well now, with her wider shoulders from all her training – she probably looked stupid, with her hair now long enough to pinch properly, her gowns somehow a little short and tight in odd places: thank Arven there were no mirrors here!
“Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, Sallie, Fionn.” She told them, making up the fire in the wash room ready to dry the clothes they wrung out after rinsing. “We ought to hold the holiday – curse the Betrayer a bit -.” She broke off as a thought came to her: he – the Emperor, the Betrayer, might even be here in Ban’Lerracon - he might be here and he might not appreciate curses -. “I should be able to remember some of the Solstice service, if I try. Shall we?” She continued, determinedly dismissing her sudden rush of fear and unease – the mere possibility that she might be sharing the vast citadel with the Betrayer, perhaps breathing the same air had not actually even occurred to her before!
They nodded agreement, so probably the lucky young women, she reflected, did not actually realise who was ultimately in charge of their lives here.
*
Whatever the jajozeli festivities taking place elsewhere in Ban’Lerracon – and Ethrayne thought that their celebrations were likely very different to the ones traditional since The Betrayal – their rest day continued as was usual now, wonderfully unbothered by their captors.
She had slept badly, although she was as tired as any other night after hours of combat practice, waking well before dawn. Alone, because Fionn and Sallie were still sleeping, she crept into the sitting room and, opening the shutter of one of the windows, sat there wrapped in a shawl, beginning the Solstice dawn prayer, more than a little surprised that she could recall most of the words to a ritual that had existed all through her childhood, saying the words quietly aloud as the darkness slowly gave way to a dim grey pre-dawn light that gradually revealed a blizzard-covered scene where almost all the mountains surrounding the city were obscured. Later, she solemnly recited the noon and then the sunset prayers at the approximate times, holding hands with her friends – and adding a few more personal prayers in addition, recalling her dream-cum-vision and Arven’s frozen expression in Car’Agasse all too clearly. Their freedom to observe their religion unbothered, the fact that they had meals and warmth and comfort, turned the day into a festival in Ethrayne’s eyes: having seen Arven, frozen, made the ritual somehow immediate and pertinent in a way it had never been before, of course.
Please look after Jerryn and his father and Pualyn and Lyria – I hope they are wed and safe! Please, please look after everybody – those poor people in Clirensar – please -.>; She begged late that night, curled up in her bed, hearing the quiet breathing of her sleeping companions, feeling awfully alone. And please, I hope you can help me find the strength to survive this – oh, please, Lord!>; It felt as though a lifetime had passed since that terrifying, revolting afternoon above Clirensar; two at least since she had bid Jerryn farewell to leave Tenum City . . . Lord Arven please look after the souls of those so cruelly murdered . . . I promise I will do my utmost to fight them . . . And look after Sallie and Fionn – Oh, damn it! Sometimes I’m so frightened -.>; She admitted.
For, despite her regular morning sessions expanding her range of combat skills far beyond anything she could have considered possible, she did not know why the Emperor of the Jajozeli-Razine had ordered her capture, if indeed there was a reason. She wondered just who she would be expected to do battle against – she had begun to learn, simply to protect herself against the Generals yet now those same Generals were her tutors.
Lying there in the fire-tinged darkness of the longest night of the year, all the myriad questions came to the forefront of her mind that night and it was a long time before the girl fell into a fitful sleep. Again, she woke long before dawn.
And again, days passed inexorably, marked by meals delivered; ash bins emptied; washing done and combat sessions undertaken. Winter only seemed to tighten its grip on Ban’Lerracon and the mountainous landscape that surrounded it: snow froze, more snow settled atop the diamond-covered drifts and turned to ice in turn; the very air in the corridors was chilly and even the braziers in the combat hall were pretty ineffective. Only, surprisingly, the tower-top apartment was free of icy blasts and the chimneys somehow repelled any cold gales – the young women were snug and warm. Perhaps it was the sheer brutality of the southern winter that convinced Ethrayne that nothing would happen until spring’s return melted the ice and snow and she almost yearned for the frozen weather and blizzards to continue. For all intents and purposes it seemed to comply with her wishes.
*
Inajo watched the human girl leave the hall after yet another bruising morning at General Garrtnor’s hands, sympathising slightly with her slow exit: she had spent a considerable part of the session on the hard flagged floor, as the tall General had almost literally thrown her about, and Master Cheltor barked impatient orders. Whoever she was, her superiors were merciless.
He had occasionally watched her walking through that part of the citadel, always guarded and had shared space with her and many others, here in the combat hall on numerous occasions since the autumn, that pretty, lean girl with the ridiculously short, ugly haircut and the dark glare in her eyes. She intrigued him. He had asked around, but he had not found out an awful lot about her, not even from his father, General Oxttyn. She was a political prisoner, close confined, but subject to Master Cheltor’s exacting tutelage. Inajo’s heart yearned to speak with her. With every sighting, his yearnings increased.
*
Almost imperceptibly, the days gradually began to lengthen, but so grim were the storms, so low the clouds hiding the mountains that surrounded the city, that few noticed the progress of the seasons; more torches burned in the halls and corridors than ever, to raise the light levels.
Ethrayne could tell that time was passing, however: her hair was now well over an inch long and she was very glad that she was no longer just bald. After yet another gruelling session of sword-practice and unarmed combat, she had enjoyed a hot bath and then a typical lunch of cold ham, dark bread, sharp cheese and apples with Sallie and Fionn – her aching muscles starting to ease gradually. Wearing one of her old gowns in a faded crimson, wrapped in a shawl that she thought had been handed down from her maternal grandmother, she was reading poetry aloud. Her sweaty fighting garb, now rather faded, had been scrubbed again and hung to dry before the bathroom fire. Yet again, their small domestic arrangements filled their days adequately – but Ethrayne still worried at what her friends and maids could possibly do when she was absent, sitting silent and frightened -.
The outside door was unlocked with a snap and swung wide open, completely unexpectedly. All three young women exchanged startled glances – no one had intruded upon them in an afternoon for nearly all the time Ethrayne had been imprisoned there. A young man, jajozeli not human, wearing well-made clothes and an arrogant expression strode into the room, looking around at the odd furniture and the three of them – a little confusion showing.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Ethrayne demanded imperiously, dropping the old book onto the settee – then realised that she had spoken in Selithian, so she repeated the words in Jajozeli. “Go away! You should not be here!”
“Rubbish!” He gestured arrogantly. “I go where I please. I want you, girl. I have been watching you for moons -.”
“Me?” She quavered, battling a sudden burst of fear as she rose to her feet. “Don’t be bloody stupid, you can’t bloody-well have me, so get out!” She used a modicum of that always-simmering anger that underpinned the rest of her emotions to try and dominate the situation, but he smirked at her as any obtuse young male might – he wasn’t listening. He slammed the door shut and stepped forward. “Get out, you fool!”
“Pirris! Why are you wearing such horrible clothes?” He asked contemptuously. “How dare you speak to me so, girl! You are only human! My father is a General! And you are merely a prisoner!”
“I am hardly just a prisoner, you idiot – get out of here!” Ethrayne shot back, moving around the furniture, still hoping to stop the fool: she was tall and strong – He tried to grab her arm and she struck him hard. “Get out of here!”
“Bitch!” His arm lashed out, but his hand collided with the iron poker held in Sallie’s trembling hands, rather than with Ethrayne’s face – he cursed graphically. “ – idiot!” He wrestled the crude weapon from her and rained blows down on her blonde head instead – Ethrayne screamed in horror and grabbed his arm but he shoved her away roughly and carried on striking the girl – Sallie collapsed silently, blood blossoming. Ethrayne still tried to stop him, though it was probably far too late – he thumped her hard in the chest, knocking her backwards into the settee before he dropped the poker beside the awfully still young woman.
“Murdering bastard!” She hissed, fear choking her, inhibiting thought. She knew that her very clothing would be a hindrance – voluminous and cumbersome. “Sallie was no threat to you! What sort of animal are you? Are you all trained to be monsters from birth?” Her anger flashed, and she considered her moons of training – but how much good would anything be, against someone so obviously strong and well-trained? She was going to damn-well stop him, whatever it took! “Bloody monster! Have you any idea who I am? Get out you murderer!”
“She dared to strike me! A slave! How dare you disobey me?” He retorted, again closing the distance between them in a couple of steps.
Both of them were distracted, however, as Fionn screamed horribly with a frightening intensity and started throwing firewood across the room at him. Ethrayne sidestepped, moving behind the settee, but the stranger snarled, ducked a couple of sturdy logs, and leapt across the carpet to make a grab for her – far too quickly for her to retreat again. One large hand was hard and tight on her shoulder, whilst the other clawed at her throat, trying to encircle it – the sound of ripping fabric horribly loud.
At the last possible moment, as she meant to knee him hard in the groin, Ethrayne suddenly discovered that core of white-hot power that she had largely forgotten about since Ackat had furiously cut off her hair – so immersed as she had been in the boring, repetitive, safe routine that filled her days here in the citadel. His grip had tightened, half of the front of her gown ripped aside – he leaned over her, trying to force her to the floor, trying to throttle her into submission, his nails cutting in to her skin -.
“Do you even know who I am, you bastard?” She whispered the words, relaxing with some sort of instinct rather than common sense – in less than a heartbeat there was a huge surge of might from deep within her that knocked him backwards and caused her to step backwards, wobbling, in the opposite direction. “How dare you touch me?”
Power flashed through the tower room a moment later, like a lightning flash – more power than Ethrayne could even comprehend or imagine since that night far beneath the Cathedral, when she and Jerryn had slowly soaked up Arven’s Flame power – but this, this was liked forked lightning within the room, flashing with terrifying, blinding strength -.
Ethrayne was thrown backwards against the wall behind, pinned there, unable to move a muscle, every sense overwrought, assaulted -.
Another figure had simply appeared in the centre of the room, and the large space shrank exponentially at his mere presence. He was very tall, his muscular physique obvious despite his loose shirt. He had gleaming, wavy, short black hair. Between one breath and the next, he had somehow used his immeasurable strength to jump right to the top of the tallest tower in the citadel. Frozen, Ethrayne found that she was gasping for air, terror choking her with more surety than the young man had managed. The towering, hugely-powerful figure turned to glance at her and she stared, transfixed, at the largest, long-lashed black eyes in a lean, handsome but ice-cold face. He commanded more power than all his Generals put together – This could only be the Betrayer, the Emperor of the Jajozeli-Razine Empire. Gregnor.
The unnamed young male who had attacked her lay prone and trembling at his Emperor’s feet.
“Well, well, well what have we here?” He asked in a deep, melodious voice that thrilled her senses with menace, then turned to glance across the room, once, before the sound of thudding footsteps advancing up the stairs became audible despite the closed door – which then burst open with a crash to admit Master Cheltor, Ackat, Cavaln, Shaille and a General she only vaguely recognised by sight. “You took your time.” Gregnor said with deceptive mildness.
“Sire! Inajo! – What? Pirris!” The unknown, dark-haired General stuttered in obvious shock, taking in the figures in the room – one girl quivering in terror by the woodpile; another dead with a broken skull; the third pinned against the wall as if she was nailed there and the youth sprawled on the floor. “Sire, I -.”
“I will enquire as to recent events, Oxttyn believe me.” His Master interrupted in a far colder tone and General Oxttyn shrank back visibly as the Emperor moved one hand negligently and Ethrayne found that she could now move her tongue, jaw and turn her head a little, but nothing more. “Tell me, Lady Ethrayne: what has occurred here?”
There was no thought of refusing to answer and the girl again found her gaze held as remorselessly by his black eyes as her body was to the wall – as a butterfly to a board: helplessly.
“You – your Majesty . . . He – he just burst through the door.” Ethrayne managed to whisper hoarsely, stuttering. “Sallie – she – she tried to stop him but he h-hit her with the poker . . . He g-grabbed me -.”
“And you finally released your defences.” The Emperor concluded. “Just in time, it seems – but why did you not shout, hmm?”
“S-shout, Majesty? From the top of this tower?” She asked in shivering confusion.
“Pirris! With your mind, child! I have heard most of your silent comments for moons now – so utterly boring! Why did you not call for aid that way?” He demanded shortly, shaking his head.
“I – I . . .” But she had no answer, terrified and confused.
He snorted. “Have you seen this boy before?”
“Y-y-yes, some-sometimes, your Majesty, in the combat hall, occasionally in passing -.”
“Yes, Inajo has attended on those mornings, but not exclusively.” Cheltor confirmed in a confident manner. “He asked questions about her, but so have all the other cadets, Majesty. We had no idea -.”
“Obviously.” Gregnor’s tone was somehow even colder and all the Generals flinched slightly at it. He released Ethrayne from her position so that she slid helplessly down the wall and onto the floor, gasping at the sudden shock of pain that flared through her nerves at even such a minor use of his vast power. “Bring her here, Cavaln.”
The woman was dressed in a long, strangely designed green gown that seemed to be fastened with a purple sash – the most feminine clothing that Ethrayne had yet seen her wearing. She hauled the girl up by her left arm, shoved her forward and onto her knees, locking that arm tight behind her back in case she might, recklessly, attempt to flee. Ethrayne knelt now only a few feet from the King, and less than that from the prone, wide-eyed, pale-faced and silent Inajo.
“Still, at least you thought to defend yourself, girl.” Gregnor said, sounding almost amused. “What took you so long?”
The question completely stunned Ethrayne and she could only stutter to no purpose for a few moments, finally managing -. “It – it only seemed mo-moments, your Majesty . . . panic and – and -.”
“And you have no idea at all of what you command, of what you hold, have you?” The Emperor might well have read her mind as he finished her sentence. “Idiot child! So here you are with your attacker, the boy who would have violated you – the boy who killed your faithful maid. He is helpless – so kill him!”
“What?” Ethrayne and General Oxttyn cried at the same moment in similar shocked tones – the General shrinking back as fearfully as Ethrayne longed to at the dark glare that struck him from his Master’s eyes. It seemed a few moments before he could get a grip upon his emotions and the girl wondered if he was the boy’s father.
“You have power, girl and I say that you have the right to act against this reckless youth.” The Emperor said, speaking slowly and clearly as if to a complete fool. “Come on, Ethrayne, you will not be punished.”
Ethrayne stared up at him in horror, glanced down at the young man laid on the floor before her and slowly raised her frightened gaze back to meet the Emperor’s. Minutely, quivering with fear, she shook her head.
“Come, girl, you have the strength, even if it is untried and untrained. Go on – do it!” He urged in a tone of reasonable encouragement. “You would have done so if I had not intervened – so kill him!”
Her heartbeat thudded hard in her throat and Ethrayne stared, completely caught in the cruel, malicious feelings that she could read in the Emperor’s black gaze – simply because he permitted her to do so – and slowly shook her head for a second time.
“No? But why not?” He pressed, relentlessly.
Ethrayne winced as Cavaln’s grip on her arm tightened. “That – that was then, you-your Majesty . . . I – I could not – not kill anyone in – in cold blood.” She stammered in a fearful whisper.
“No?” Gregnor asked, towering above her. “Do it!” He shouted, his words echoing awfully around the room, deafening.
Assaulted by his power, his voice – she would simply have run from him, if Cavaln had not held her arm in a grip that threatened to break or dislocate it. “I – I c-can’t, Sire.” Ethrayne croaked, quite amazed that she dared refuse him.
The look on his face was terrifying to behold, his eyes blazing. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded his head once and actually grinned at her, producing a long knife from a sheath at his right hip and used it to cut away at the cowering youth’s clothing. The others all simply stared, frozen perhaps, as Inajo was stripped. Ethrayne could not pull her eyes away, even though she felt nothing but embarrassment and pity for him as he lay there, shivering in extreme fear, naked.
“So watch, Ethrayne. Watch and learn.” Gregnor said, took hold of Inajo’s privates and – sliced, once, with the sharp blade, excising them. The victim screamed in agony, again and again -.
Ethrayne failed to suppress a scream of her own as his life blood hit her hard in the face. Unable to retreat, she was helpless as the King stood back up, wiping his knife on a piece of shirt, watching the horrified girl dispassionately as she stared, transfixed, as the young male, her attacker, bled to death, tears starting to streak through the blood that covered her face. It seemed to take forever for Inajo to die, his blood pumping steadily out of his body, and the thick carpet was covered in it, the thick liquid also seeping into Ethrayne’s skirt where she knelt, painting the King and Cavaln’s boots with crimson.
Far worse than watching him die, however, was feeling him die as the blood leeched from his body – his agony transferred to her by her own power and she did not know how to block that pain and terror. Nausea filled her and the horrible process of his dying was even worse because the King could read her disgust and fear and pity just as clearly – and was enjoying her emotions immensely.
“Kill the maid.” Gregnor ordered dispassionately – his gaze again freezing the girl when she instinctively tried to protest. General Shaille strode towards Fionn, cowering on the floor, his sword in his hand. “You, Ethrayne, will learn the sense of obedience, or you will suffer!”
His huge, awe-inspiring strength returned to wrap tightly around Ethrayne as Cavaln dragged her to her feet – the power was stifling – smothering – closing on her like a snake, tightening its coils perhaps. It flashed, brilliant as lightning and the girl staggered as her badly wrenched arm was released – The warmly lit, cosy sitting room and the enemies surrounding her vanished in the blink of an eye. Seemingly in a breath, stunningly, she swayed unsteadily on her feet in an almost impenetrable darkness, alone.
Overwhelmed, appalled, she sank down onto cold stone and sobbed – then retched uncontrollably. All she could taste, was blood. All she could smell, was blood – and it was swiftly drying on her face, her hands and her clothes. All she could see and feel, still, was that poor young impetuous fool, dying . . .
*
Back in the blood-soaked living room, the Emperor of the Jajozeli-Razine turned to glare at his servants. “I want these rooms cleared and cleansed.” He ordered shortly. “Keep only her clothes, oh, and that sewing box I suppose – that will serve to keep her occupied, later on.” There was a cold brutality in his voice. “Have the bodies removed -.” General Oxttyn made an involuntary cry and shrank back as his Master frowned at him, his eyes blazing. “You, Oxttyn, will travel to Clirensar and assist Tequan – let’s see if you can possibly redeem your family and your name in my eyes: I am most displeased!”
“F-forgive me, your Majesty -.” Oxttyn blurted, bowing low, speaking almost as fearfully as Ethryane had.
“Get out of my sight, Oxttyn! NOW!” Gregnor roared and, cringing, the General quickly knelt before him, then fled.
“Sire, it is snowing by the foot outside.” Master Cheltor offered the fact diffidently. Seeing him, Ethrayne would have been amazed to see her relentless, cold, heartless instructor behave so humbly.
“So? Either he will get to N’Aston or he will freeze to death. Either way he will have many cold days and nights to think on his obvious mistakes in bringing up so – so stupid a son.” The censure in the King’s voice was burning – all of them stepped back in concern at it. “Get this mess out of here – get it scrubbed – now!”
“As you command, Master.” General Cavaln said meekly, bowing low, as he raked them with one last fiery glare and made for the stairs. Once he had left the tower room and sound of his ringing boot soles had diminished as he descended, they all sighed deeply in collective and relaxed slightly as a group.
“Well let’s get started.” Ackat advised, gazing around. “It should all make a good bonfire out in the courtyard.”
* * *
Ethrayne was locked in a dungeon – it seemed that all her nightmares had come to pass. The space was only very dimly lit by a faint wash of distant orange-tinged torchlight that only barely illuminated the upper third of the back and left-hand walls, coming through a narrow, barred aperture above the thick wooden door, at least eight feet above the ground. The rest of the cell was left in thick darkness.
She had hit the floor, her head spinning and then had, helplessly, thrown up repeatedly, her body in knots, trying to purge the taste of blood and the horror. The girl had searched the dark place on hands and knees, at some point after her initial horror and terror had passed – only then daring to get up, for what if there was a hole, somewhere, that would swallow her up? She had discovered that the cell was constructed of uniformly smooth stone blocks – floor, walls and also the raised bed-space to the right hand side, set some three feet above the ground. There was a small grille set into the floor by the back wall for drainage – nothing else, except two blankets folded neatly on the platform, that was nearly three feet wide, and about seven feet long – the same length as the cell, and also it’s width.
It was horrible – dark – insanitary – lonely – Ethrayne acknowledged these facts readily enough, still shivering in reaction to all that had happened in the tower. Most pertinently, however, she was a long way away from the Emperor of the Jajozeli-Razine – something that she was only able to appreciate an unknown length of time after her initial hysteria had passed, leaving her hoarse, thirsty and breathless. After sheer exhaustion had pushed back her misery and distress, she slept, wrapped tight in the blankets on the unyielding platform – although she could only taste and smell blood and vomit, the need of her body and mind for rest were paramount even over disgust and her overwrought imagination.
Awakening to the same dark cell – the faintly flickering orangey light high above, only serving to make the darkness blacker – Ethrayne was coldly clear-headed, perhaps because of thirst and hunger and she strove to concentrate on where she was, rather than dwell on all that had happened so suddenly, so swiftly; she knew that she would have to seriously, levelly think about the King of the Jajozeli and his immense power – But not yet! Not yet – any tiny thought that included him raised sickening panic within her. Most importantly, she must deal with this – place.
The light levels never seemed to change, only flickered and she guessed that she was underground, never able to tell whether it was night or day, or how fast or slow time was passing when she was awake. Consequently, she never knew – and her captors certainly did not enlighten her – just how long she spent locked in that cell. The only true fact, was that the ache of her combat practice and the pain she had suffered in Inajo’s attack to her arms and neck had all gone completely when she emerged.
The arrival of meals in the narrow slot she discovered in the base of the front wall where it met the bed platform was also random, or so they seemed. Something span about, she supposed – taking away the used utensils, replacing them with fresh ones. It did not admit any more light – and Ethrayne had only discovered the food and drink by the grating sound made by the turning of the hatch, then the smell of it – she had inched forward slowly, one hand extended warily – and she had jerked her hand away in surprise and some fear at the touch of the warm bowl that had certainly not been there before. The bowl was of thick pottery, when she lifted it; the plate was metal, as was the ewer. Their appearance was completely unexpected.
She could not even tell by the sort of food delivered what time of day it was: the meals were always the same, she found: a large bowl of savoury soup containing what she decided were well diced pieces of meat and vegetables, plus hunks of bread and cheese, and a large ewer of what smelled and tasted like fresh water.
For a very long time after the arrival of the first meal, Ethrayne was just grateful for its appearance: food and water had never been so welcome. But time continued, passed relentlessly and pitilessly and soup, bread and cheese were quickly consumed, no matter how she tried to eke them out.
She soon found that she was lying prone on the hard bed platform for longer and longer of her waking time, wrapped in the blankets, shivering – although the cell was not cold; she usually was fighting against tears . . . and mostly failing. As before, she relived the battle above Clirensar – the horror of the deaths of the soldiers and her parents, her utter fear – she could not avoid the memories, they were burned into her mind. And, in addition, the horror of the young man’s attack and his unnecessary murder of Sallie, was bad enough to recall, but her stupid unthinking helplessness in the face of what he had intended gave her nightmares. What on Iullyn was the point of learning all those skills if she could not act? . . . And, so much worse than freezing instead of gouging at his eyes or punching him hard, was everything that had followed on from her desperate, unthinking, defensive blast of power – this haunted her whether asleep or awake: the King’s ice-cold brutality in butchering the youth so readily, right in front of her eyes . . . demanding that that she kill him: that she had the right as the victim! . . . And, much more important and more terrifying than all else, the King’s immeasurable, astounding, overwhelming power.
The reality of Gregnor’s awe-inspiring strength simply terrified her: she could not even begin to imagine being ever strong enough to be anything but an insect under his heel. The mere thought of becoming that ‘weapon’ able to destroy the Betrayer, as she and Jerryn had asserted so naively and confidently the previous spring now only filled her with near-hysterical laughter at her stupidity at believing that the one who had strived so greatly to imprison Arven could ever be defeated!
*
Ethrayne had not realised just how much Inajo had ripped away of the bodice of her gown until she strived to use some water to scrub the long-dried blood from her face, using a piece of her petticoat to desperate effect. Then, she discovered that his violent actions had ripped away a large area of material, leaving most of her chest and torso exposed, the fabric flapping under her arm. It embarrassed her awfully that the King and the Generals had had such a clear view of her body – and she had quickly used her grandmother’s shawl to bind the bodice back over her breasts, thankful for its length and width to be so adaptable. It had taken a good while, to complete this with only her bare hands to tear the shawl into useful strips, but she was at least, finally, modestly covered!
The dungeon smelled and the stench only worsened as time passed, but Ethrayne was glad that the space was at least dry and relatively warm, or at least not so cold to render the blankets inadequate to warm her, although they were completely unable to protect her from the solid stone of the platform.
Gregnor had sent her here in a moment, somehow using his power to transport her from tower top to dungeon, but clearly he did not desire her to be damaged – only frightened and intimidated and overwhelmed. That realisation served to dispel a little of the overriding misery that was dominating her mind, and she strove to push back the horror of the three deaths, although it was not easy to achieve and her success was very fragile.
The darkness; the silence; the loneliness; the fear – all worked on her mind, strove to weaken her . . . the girl prayed to Arven, but even that was difficult, for their God was locked in ice, frozen, helpless himself! No matter how she struggled against them, her misery and despair increased.
*
The cell door crashed open unexpectedly, hitting the wall behind with an echoing bang! Waking her from a doze and unclear dreams in a heartbeat – Ethrayne sat up, bewildered and half-blinded by the ruddy torchlight that stung, filling the cell with – to her eyes – far too harsh a light.
Hands grabbed her, hauling her to her feet when she hesitated, still trying to see clearly through the tears brought on by the sudden bright light, the blankets pulled from her, leaving her uncertain and shivering, for the air in the corridor outside was colder and noticeably cleaner than that in the cell.
“March.” One gruff male voice ordered, so she did, the stone of the corridor floor cold under her bare feet, finally able to clearly see the four large uniformed and armed soldiers who accompanied her along the straight, empty corridor broken up only by regularly spaced, massive oak doors to left and right, all secured with equally large locks, until they came to a locked iron gate that blocked the corridor from a stairwell, from which steps rose up and up – and Ethrayne, who had grown to hate the imposed idleness of her imprisonment, had to grit her teeth against the discomfort of relentless climbing in feet and legs and lungs grown too used to inactivity. The stairs were long, three long flights past two more levels to ground level – and daylight, on the far side of a second locked gate.
Ethrayne walked on at a hobble, the stone hard against her feet, along another corridor and then – unexpectedly – she recognised a corridor that stretched off to her left as one that led to the combat hall where she had spent so many mornings.
I really hope they don’t want me to spar or fence today. She thought wearily, recalling Master Cheltor’s unforgiving sessions with a grimace, but the soldiers marched her off to the right, into new territory, up another – slightly more ornately decorated – staircase and another corridor, another set of steps – on and on – until, when she was started to think about simply sitting down to rest, one of them halted at a door, opening it without a word, and another of them shoved her inside -.
Ethrayne staggered and stared with wide eyes. The room beyond was large, floored and walled in the same stone as the dungeon, but graced with thick patterned carpets, luxuriously upholstered furniture and massive curtains at the windows, thick tapestries on some of the walls. Two women stood there, wearing strange plain blue dresses that came to mid-calf with their hair clipped straight below their ears; frozen, she simply stared at them – embarrassed at how awful she smelled and the disgusting state of her clothes: ripped, filthy and covered with brown-dried blood-stains -.
“Just look at you!” The taller of the two women said in Jajozeli, shaking her head and tutting. “Come on, follow us.”
She turned to open a door in the wall beyond, but Ethrayne could not move, all her distrust for her enemies filling her mind. The second woman came around behind her and gently pushed her into movement, crossing the living room and entering a foyer, then through another doorway into a large bathroom – the last place Ethrayne would have expected. There was a large sunken, marble bath set into the floor, some distance from a fireplace large enough to roast a sheep in, where a fire sparked and crackled; to her right was a large, green silk-covered three-fold screen and a table beyond holding ewers, towels and so on.
Ethrayne hated herself for her all-encompassing fear – she was heartily sick of the emotion weakening her – but she still could not move. She was stuck where the woman had guided her, and the stranger sighed and locked the door that led to the foyer.
“Come along, girl.” She said in a calm tone, taking her wrist and leading her firmly towards the fireplace, where the servants started removing her disgustingly dirty clothes, simply casting them into the flames. Numb, Ethrayne could only endure it.
They poured hot water over her where she stood, and scrubbed her from head to foot with soap-laden soft brushes, the dirty water vanishing into a drain close by - the floor must slope slightly, she supposed. Then, more water was poured over her to rinse off the soap, hot and somehow comforting, before Ethrayne was immersed in the steaming bath, up one step and down three, to sink into rosemary-scented bliss up to her shoulders, where she rested, closing her eyes against the world, feeling the warmth seeping into her aching body most delightfully, the stink of ordure finally eliminated.
Presently, the water starting to cool, the servants ushered her out, helped her get dry, then trimmed her hair, before Ethrayne was laid face up on a padded divan, covered with dry towels and her face, limbs and shoulders were massaged with scented oils; then, turned on her front, they did the same to her back and down her arms and legs again. Ethrayne felt a few more of her aches and pains dissolve as they worked – either physical or mental knots, she did not know. She felt a delightful languor steal through her as the four hands massaged expertly – she nearly fell asleep, feeling the most relaxed that she had so far experienced since her capture.
“Up you get.” The women instructed then, before trimming her toenails, buffing her fingernails and started to dress her in a series of robes – two sleeveless silk undergarments, one short, the second long, an elbow-length, floor-length white silk robe covered with another of thicker, deep-blue silk satin that felt simply glorious against her skin, with an elbow-length satin robe on top, embroidered around the neckline and wide sleeves with stars, the silver thread gleaming against the mid-grey silk, the whole fastened with a very long black sash knotted about her middle.
“Thank you.” Ethrayne said earnestly, her head spinning as the completely unpredictable nature and commands of her captor confused her yet again -.
A knock at the outer door caused her to jump slightly and step back, as the lead servant unlocked the door and the second handed the girl a delicate pair of soft leather slippers. Holding them, Ethrayne stared at General Cavaln, wearing a plain white shirt and tight leather trousers.
“Humph.” The woman said, looking her up and down. “Come along, girl.”
Ethrayne slipped the thin shoes on to her feet, nodded a brief thanks to the servants and followed the General into the sitting room and out into the corridor beyond, where two of the guards who had marched her up from the dungeons fell in behind.
Across the main corridor, the woman continued on a route through more decorated parts of the citadel, Ethrayne noted – there were plaster mouldings, marble tiles, expensive panelling, ornate lamps instead of torch brackets and other marks of quality that, along with staircases that swept upward rather than simply going directly up and down, showed that this area was occupied by more important people. She trudged along in Cavaln’s wake, wondering just where she was heading now and when she would get a meal – other than wishing that she was freezing in a blizzard in the mountains, rather than being here in Ban’Lerracon.
“Surely those are not tears?” Cavaln asked her maliciously as she led the small group along a wide corridor floored with emerald green and black tiles. “Oh, child -.”
“Leave me alone!” Ethrayne snapped back in a mixture of embarrassment and bravado, hurriedly wiping at her face, wishing that the reaction all that had occurred since that young man’s appearance could have been delayed until she was safely alone – but she had no idea what might happen next . . .
“Fool!” The General stated contemptuously. “Your empathy will be your undoing.”
Ethrayne shivered, biting her lip to keep in all her fury and fear, knowing that to give vent to her roiling emotions would only get her into even more trouble.
At the end of the corridor, a semi-circle of four steps led down to a arched entrance into a large hall containing various size of tables, capable of holding anything from four to twenty or so diners – some of the large refectory tables had both benches and backed chairs. There were high, narrow windows ranged along the right hand wall and a series of hatches in the left hand wall; the air smelled deliciously of fresh, warm bread and cooked food and there was a buzz of conversations coming from many points.
Taking one step into the space, Ethrayne stopped dead: reluctant both to advance and retreat – the hall was full of jajozeli-razine and most of them were wearing Generals’ uniforms.
“Don’t dawdle, girl.” Cavaln growled, striding out towards the serving hatches. “It’s noon – you’ll need your strength this afternoon. How long is it since you had a meal?”
“I – have no idea, Madam General.” Ethrayne answered, forcing herself into motion, trying to keep her gaze at around table height, to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze: for the diners all glared at her, their animosity clear to her nerves.
The green-garbed servitors behind the hatches all stared openly at the intruder, small and skinny in her pristine silk clothing, even as two meals were quickly dished up and set on a wooden tray, which Cavaln carried off to the left, to one of the smaller tables.
“From now on, you will eat your meals here.” The woman stated, sitting down and handing Ethrayne one plate, then cutlery – the girl discarded good manners for simple need – she had not realised just how hungry she was, spooning up stew as soon as she was seated. “Don’t eat your food like that – you’ll be ill. Slow down, girl.” Her tone was coolly disapproving and Ethrayne paused, her spoon hovering above the food, waiting for a sudden discomfort to ease. “Your mornings will probably be spent at practice, daily and your afternoons will pass in study.”
“Study?” Ethrayne asked, sipping at the tea in the mug. “What sort of study, Madam General?”
Cavaln gave her a flash of a smile, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “His Majesty has decreed that you will learn to read and write Jajozeli, along with improving your knowledge of mathematics and so on.”
“You – he – are sending me to school?” Ethrayne demanded rather indignantly. “I am not a child, General Cavaln -.”
“You are a child and will you refuse his Majesty’s command?” Cavaln countered in a mild tone, at which Ethrayne quickly closed her mouth. “Good girl. Now eat up.”
Not daring to reply, she did so.
*
The General then left the dining hall and they collected the two guards who had remained outside the space, going back along the corridor then up a level to another corridor with widely spaced doors – and Cavaln opening one on the right, leading Ethrayne into a small, square foyer with doors to the left and right – again, the guards remained in the corridor outside. Opening the right hand door, the woman gestured, and Ethrayne stepped into a very plain bedroom.
“This will be your room.”
The girl had already recognised her sewing box, set on the small table to the left, and the long chest next to it that had, once, lain at the foot of her bed in her rooms in Clirensar. The bed was directly ahead, stuck out from the opposite wall beneath the small window.
“As you see – bed, table and chair for study – there is a washroom there to the right. Your clothes are in the chest – open it.” Cavaln ordered and Ethrayne did so, stooping down to lift the heavy lid, seeing the heavy black cloak they had given her, folded on top of everything else – the emblem of Arven that she had embroidered on it so defiantly, bright and clear. “You will unpick your work this evening and replace it with his Majesty’s device.”
Anger flared upward with reckless abandon. “I will not! I am Arven’s servant -.”
Cavaln did not argue, she stepped forward – only two strides – and pulled Ethrayne up and around, slapped her hard across the face and twisted her fingers tightly in the girl’s short hair, her left arm was then in Cavaln’s other grip, locked in a hold that Ethrayne could not possibly break: she was helpless, yet again! She fought against uttering a cry of pain, biting her lip hard as Cavaln pushed her to the left.
“Walk, you silly brat! Open the doors.” She ordered shortly, marching her out of the room, through the foyer and into a very pleasant sitting room beyond the other door – pushing her on, towards a further pair of doors that opened on a surprisingly feminine bedroom – much larger than Ethrayne’s small space – with a large, highly polished metal mirror between elegant pieces of furniture, to which Ethrayne was forced. “Look, fool!”
The figure in the mirror was a stranger, wearing beautiful, strangely-styled clothes, but her face was thin and pale, except where the General had struck her, leaving a red mark, her hair ridiculously short, stuck up, oddly wavy – her ears sticking out stupidly – and, she noted, there were still bruises and scratches visible around her throat around the neckline of the gown, fading, but clear. Ethrayne could not recognise herself at all.
“You will unpick your God’s emblem, brat and replace it with the King’s – tonight. Then you will sew his device on the left breast of all your clothes and I will inspect them – or you can go back to the dungeon, if you prefer?” Cavaln twisted Ethrayne’s arm even tighter and she rose up onto her tiptoes and could not halt a small cry of protest – it felt as though her arm was being dislocated. “Do I make myself clear, brat?”
“But I am Arven’s -.” She tried to explain.
“Who feeds you? Clothes you, hmm? This is the Jajozeli Empire, child – our Emperor owns you! You can try to fight -.” There was cool amusement in her voice as Ethrayne briefly tried to struggle – and stopped, or lose the hair on her head. “But you are still only an amateur in combat, my dear! It takes a decade to complete the training to become a General and there is no certainty of success – ten years, brat, after I had completed all schooling available. You were what, four? Playing with dolls, a decade ago?” She sneered.
“I had puppies and horses, actually, Madam General.” Ethrayne admitted quietly. There had been a few dolls too, of course, but she would have sooner died than say so. Ten whole years to qualify! It was daunting.
“So you have an awful lot to learn, child, before you can hope to take on even the least of us and possibly win a bout. I want an apology, brat!” Cavaln continued.
The holds on both scalp and arm both shot more sharp pain through her. “I – Ow! I am sorry, Madam General, please forgive my lack of manners.” Ethrayne said quickly.
“And you will embroider as you have been instructed?” Cavaln insisted, still not releasing her, her grip still as unforgiving.
“I – I will.” For what choice did she have?
“You have five days, then, to complete the task. I suggest you begin later, brat.” Finally, Cavaln let her go, then cupped her chin to glare into her pale face. “Remember the dungeon, Ethrayne, before you attempt rebellion here. Follow me.” She warned quietly.
Back in the elegant sitting room, upholstered mainly in a deep green with crimson highlights, comfortable furniture set around a large black fireplace with tables close to hand – the fire was lit, blazing merrily in an ornate grate. Cavaln sank into a large armed chair and pointed to one almost directly opposite, raising one eyebrow elegantly as the girl paused, rolling her aching left arm slightly before obeying.
“You have had some sort of education, I suppose?” The General continued rather insultingly. “Tell me, is that traditional for girls of your class?”
“I have had a wide ranging education, Madam General, including language, grammar, mathematics, law, economics and politics -.” Ethrayne countered defensively, rather confused.
“You will learn what his Majesty decrees. At least you know how to learn -.”
“Of course, General Cavaln – I will be queen of Tenarum one day and I am a member of the Council of Tenarum -.” She retorted, already finding it horribly difficult to behave meekly, despite the threat of dungeons and violence.
“Queen of Tenarum?” Cavaln’s tone was derisive. “Ah yes, you were betrothed to the prince, were you not?” She smiled with clear mockery as the girl bristled at her use of the past tense. “My, if looks could kill – but you are even further from achieving that milestone than you are at being able to defend yourself effectively – Master Cheltor was most disappointed that you did not even try to disable the boy!”
Ethrayne flinched, recalling that awful afternoon all too clearly. “I – everything just happened so quickly, Madam General.” She admitted lamely.
“Idiot! So, you understand, your days will no longer pass idly by – and you will work hard, I promise you.” The woman had got to her feet.
“I will do my best.” Ethrayne agreed, but obviously unwillingly, causing Cavaln to tap her face in warning.
“Don’t be stupid. Now go and get on with removing that disgusting emblem. I will take you for dinner later, of course.” Cavaln gave her a hard look. “If you behave and work hard, girl, you should not find your time passing too uncomfortably.”
*
Ethrayne did replace one emblem for the other, as required, using Cavaln’s official badge as a template, but she felt exceedingly uncomfortable sewing the Betrayer’s symbol over her heart – even on her nightgowns, as she was ordered. All her other Tenarean clothing, other than her nightclothes and dressing gown, had disappeared – it took a few days for her to get used to constantly wearing trousers – the fine gown’s intricate layers were folded carefully away, too fine for normal wear and she still did not know why she had been given it, for it was hardly suitable for the lifestyle she was following now – but it soon became normal. She also did not wash her own clothes, either – they were taken away and returned, clean and pressed.
Days carried on, slowly lengthening, and they were filled completely – her time spent exclusively with Generals who despised her without exception. Master Cheltor and his ilk – Masson, Shaille and Thellor – occupied her mornings, whilst Cavaln, Tynsyn and Dahne schooled her separately during the afternoons; reading and writing Jajozeli; the history of the Jajozeli-Razine Empire; mathematics – along with other subjects that seemed to make little sense to the prisoner – battle tactics, philosophy and even poetry amongst them.
At least she was finding it easier to sleep now – her mind was so full of disparate information that the events that had led to her being locked up in the dungeon receded somewhat. Ethrayne could not forget the King, however: his cold, handsome face – his mesmeric gaze – his violence . . . She kept Arven’s warning in the forefront of her mind: not to trust them, but although none of the Generals ever seriously tried to befriend her, other than having to endure Cavaln’s presence around her almost constantly as the lone, token woman guarding her, she was – she admitted to herself – horribly lonely. Truly, she had not appreciated those almost idyllic days spent with Fionn and Sallie!
Ethrayne always breakfasted with the woman, but luncheon was generally conducted with her combat instructors, sat uncomfortably surrounded by burly jajozeli-razine males all discussing war or combat or something distasteful. Afternoons were spent in an almost empty room not far from the dining hall that contained tables, chairs and shelves full of scrolls and massive, leather-bound books, where she struggled with slate and chalk, parchment, pen and ink to complete her lessons. Her General tutors even insisted that she wrote essays, yet writing in the jajozeli language’s completely different letter-set and rules of grammar gave her a headache, cramped fingers and glaring mistakes almost every day. They generally shouted at her for a very long time about those. Cavaln came at the close of these, if she was not conducting a lesson, to take her along to dinner – yet another period of eating uncomfortably, sensing the antagonism of the enemies that surrounded her on all sides.
Still, she thought to herself, at least she had not been faced with General Oxttyn since her part in his son’s revolting death. Nor had she seen – or sensed – the King in her vicinity – and she prayed thankfully to Arven for that.
Her only time alone now was when Cavaln locked her in her small room every evening, wrestling with the wretched work they demanded from her and trying not to worry at what might be happening in Tenarum – how Jerryn, Pualyn and Lyria were – and what the future might hold, for all of them.
Spring was sure to dispel the ice of winter at some point – her moons spent here, confined in the citadel, seemed like a lifetime.
* * *
Ethrayne’s birthday on the seventeenth of Instur was marked by quiet celebrations in the palace, marked by a feast hosted by Duke Pualyn and Duchess Lyria, that was rather more noted for the amount of wine and ale consumed – although the presence of the Archpriests and the High-King and High-Prince of the razine did curb much misbehaviour.
Jerryn was sat beside Lieutenant Sevanter, Lyria’s only surviving relative – a sober man of twenty-six of average height with spiky blonde hair, brown eyes and an ordinary but pleasant face. He had returned from Foston earlier that day after a moon of work and planning and had spent a greater part of the afternoon with the Commanders in Vedeigne’s office referring to the impending campaign to regain Clirensar and the surrounding region currently under Jajozeli control.
“They are working very hard, your Highness.” Sevanter said directly, after a quick drink of water. “But it’s very strange that the enemy are only sat there in the city, keeping food animals to the south as far as our scouts can tell. They are digging miles of ramparts, however – high defences are cutting across the vale.”
He shook his head, his eyes showing his emotion at seeing the place he had grown up and where most of his family had died, so utterly changed.
“Yes, we’ve worried about that – the bastards could so easily have advanced, couldn’t they? We don’t even know how many soldiers the enemy commands in Clirensar.” Jerryn grimaced. “We are really bloody lucky in that regard – whatever their real motives . . . But I wish I could understand their reasons – they scare me.” He admitted.
“They scare us all, Jerryn.” The High-King, sat on his left, said then in agreement. “But we will eliminate the threat they pose – it’s a pity that the empty border lands towards Zanezli are so indefensible.”
“But his Highness is correct, your Highness -.” Sevanter scowled: all the titles were fit to crack a man’s jaw – he much preferred the all-encompassing sir of his professional career. “The enemy’s logic is flawed at the least – and lunatic at worst, as far as we can gauge.” He sighed deeply.
“The enemy’s logic is definitely beyond our ken, Lieutenant.” Kerr agreed. “Which is why this bloody mess happened -.”
“Don’t apologise again, Kerr!” Jerryn snapped shortly. “We need action, not sorrow!”
“Quite right, Jerryn, sorry – oops!” The High-Prince grinned quickly. “A mere slip of the tongue – well, we have enough commanders here to really make our plans stick, ready for the new year – I’m struggling to keep patience myself, I admit it.”
“Welcome to the exclusive guild of impatience, Kerr.” Jerryn replied sourly, toasting him with his goblet of wine – Sevanter stared for a moment, then flashed a surprising smile and raised his own glass also.
*
Instur turned into Penttar, then Staipe arrived and the gradually lengthening days gave all of them hope, although the weather towards the new year remained cold and wet, with snow in the mountains to the north, and ice and blizzards in the Vale of Clirensar and hill-country to the south. Spring was on its way, unstoppable, yet advancing with delicate slow steps, after a winter that seemed to have lasted forever.
The farmland north and west of Tenum City was covered by groups of men not only from elsewhere in the kingdom, but also from Derravale, Amorry and the Protectorates, thousands of them with more companies arriving every few days, so that the tent towns extended for over four leagues.
As the weather slowly improved, the Pearl and Opal ships docked almost sequentially at Rothern, along with other Protectorate vessels of various lines, delivering seemingly endless supplies of food, along with clothing, boots and various types of more warlike equipment.
Captain Ashanner of the Orbain Pearl and Captain Phellos of the Mador Opal met at the Golden Anchor and headed upstream to Tenum City, both muffled in plain brown cloaks – but nothing could disguise the woman’s singular appearance, that afternoon as the pair of them strode up from the docks through the streets of the city – and a path cleared ahead of them. The sight of the razine was becoming more common and less startling to the ordinary man on the street, but Phellos was the first woman.
“Excuse me, sir.” Captain Ashanner said politely to the guards on the palace gate. “We have travelled from Rothern to see his Majesty, the King of this realm and our ruler the High-King – can you please advise them that Ashanner and Phellos have arrived?”
The men stared at them for a moment, before one hurried across the courtyard.
“J-just a moment, m’lord.” Stuttered the eldest of the three remaining guards, almost seeming to shake in his boots. “Please, come into the guard-room.”
“Thank you.” Phellos said – the clouds had closed in to drop yet more water on the world, and the wind was chill. The guard-room proved a bare, functional space but it was warm and dry, slotted into the space within the curtain wall next to the gate.
Tymain, Jerryn and Pualyn were walking back from a combat session, having skirted out via the kitchens, when the whey-faced guard appeared, gasping about new visitors at the gate. Naturally, curiosity turned their footsteps that way, out into the coolness of a rainy day that might presage spring – if one was very optimistic.
Jerryn led the small group, entering the narrow doorway alone – seeing the two strangers stood by the bare table, watched over by one guard whilst the other two had returned to the gate. “Good afternoon, we can show you into the palace, whilst their Majesties are informed of your arrival, if you wish?” Jerryn asked, his power sparking as he met the two cloaked figures – he was almost getting used to the feeling, now, although it was clear that both of these visitors held some considerable strength of their own. “We will provide you with food and drink – it’s a little more homely than the guard room, I can assure you -.” He smiled and gestured as the guard saluted and stepped politely outside.
“Am’maiya, we are greatly honoured.” Captain Phellos threw back her hood and bowed her head. “I am Captain of the Mador Opal – Ashanner is Captain of the Orbain Pearl.” He also bowed low.
“Captain – ah, you alerted us all regarding Fansport, didn’t you?” Jerryn was pleased that the fact appeared in his head – it had been moons ago now, of course. “We are honoured – please, join us. May I introduce Pualyn, Duke of Clirensar and Corporal Tymain. It’s very kind of you to visit, but I imagine that this is hardly a social call?” He was already advancing quickly across the courtyard, and the rest of the group easily kept up.
“No, I confess that it is not, your Highness.” Phellos agreed. “We are here to hopefully further our designs against our enemy – it is nice to meet you again, your Grace – may we offer our sincere condolences? Such shocking events!”
“Thank you, Captain, I am grateful.” The man replied shortly. “I just wish -.” He scowled.
“Most certainly we wish, Pualyn.” Jerryn agreed with a sigh. “Welcome to Tenum City.” They continued in silence, and the new arrivals were handed over to servants in the main entrance hall.
“How go the patrols?” Mhezal enquired with interest, once refreshments had been provided to the visitors, after they had been shown to rooms, left to rest and change or bathe as required and the Council and visiting dignitaries had been assembled. They had all now been fully briefed on the side activities of the Pearl and Opal fleet over the years.
Escorted to the Painted Hall, the Captains were presented to their King and High-Prince, King Marrand and King Namayomn, as well as the Archpriests, but the High-King of the Razine Protectorates and his son were surprised to see them so far inland.
“We have seen little activity at all throughout the winter, your Majesty.” Phellos said gravely and sighed. “Of course, the weather is not conducive to campaigns – we’ve endured the usual cycle of storms. But now -.” She sighed again, shrugged and glanced at Ashanner.
“We’d like your permission to destroy Cal’Badon, Sire.” The tall razine Captain explained in as few words as possible.
“When have you ever asked my permission for anything, Captain?” The High-King asked, seemingly caught between amusement and disapproval.
“Well – that port is singularly responsible for all the atrocities that have befallen the east of the continent, Sire – you must agree with that fact.” Phellos said in a tone of polite earnest. “We – and the Kingdoms – would all be better off if they were wiped out.”
“Murder!” Archpriest Lurco said with horror in his voice. “Oh, dear -.”
“We have been planning murder for moons, your Grace.” Jerryn replied dryly, as the older man continued to shake his head, aghast. “They have committed murder in the name of their leader for centuries, why would it be any worse if, in Arven’s name, we strove to make this part of Iullyn safer for the ordinary people?”
“I think he’s got you there, old friend.” Bahlien admitted with a slow smile. “Logically it does make sense to try and destroy the port – but is it possible?” He looked around from face to face. “Cal’Badon will be very well protected, I’m sure.”
“Oh, indeed it will.” Captain Phellos confirmed seriously. “It is certainly going to be risky and very dangerous, but if you are all going to retake Clirensar, it definitely makes sense to try and permanently remove the threat of their port in the south.”
“But surely it is not the only enemy base in Zanezli, Captain?” Lurco asked.
“Certainly, your Grace, it is not, but Cal’Badon was chosen for its guaranteed lack of winter ice – despite its situation so far south – it is their only position on the east coast, a strategic advantage giving them easy access to your seas.” The High-Prince said, pulling out one sheet from amid a pile of maps that covered a table. “Here.” He pointed. “It’s a long way even from Ban’Lerracon . . . It’s been a complete gift of a port for them – And they’ll surely be expecting attack.”
“But will they be expecting destruction, Highness?” Ashanner asked coolly. “We are the faithful children of Arven – we have never even contemplated such annihilation.”
“The Captains are willing and, between us, we hold a great deal of talent and knowledge, your Majesties.” Phellos appealed directly of the Kings before her. “We might even be able to harness the local volcanic activity in our cause?” This last was a query. “We’ve put out word to more earth-centred Razine, hoping for an answer quickly.”
“Magic?” Lord Ferman quavered, awed by the woman’s vibrant presence. “Oh, dear Arven!”
“Our abilities are our tools, my Lord and we will use everything in the furtherance of our designs – to free Clirensar, free the Am’maiya and to free Arven – eventually.” She replied confidently.
“We have let them run amok in the south for far too long.” Ashanner declared in only a slightly less forthright tone than his colleague. “They might have stolen away the Am’maiya, but they really need to know that we mean business – and we are not to be underestimated!”
“Amen to that.” Jerryn said earnestly in an undertone.
“How many captains are involved in this?” The High-King asked and the two seafarers exchanged glances, shrugged and grinned in unison.
“Pretty-much everyone, your Majesty, but of course it would be rank stupidity to try and sail a fleet into the Badon Inlet – it’s narrow and bound to be guarded and watched. We were sort of thinking of gathering a force ashore and filling a few ships with those with talent – something like the reverse of the attack on Orran: it worked, so why change the formula?” Ashanner said.
“Dear Arven protect us!” Archpriest Bahlien uttered seriously and looked around at the group. “Will it work? I know very little about attacks by sea.” He wondered.
“If we can maintain the element of surprise it will work.” Phellos asserted.
“And that will be very easy against other talented leaders, won’t it?” The High-King asked pointedly. “You need to make a proper plan, Captains - gather your facts and – and you need a hefty dose of pure luck!” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “You have a few days, Captains – work with our military commanders of all realms and come up with something promising and workable, if you please.”
“We will, your Majesties – Highness – my Lords.” Phellos said, grinning broadly as she bowed formally. “Thank you for your time.”
*
Staipe crept towards Ertam and the New Year at the Equinox, although hardly anyone within the palace was thinking of the typical celebrations currently being set out across the continent. Everyone there, it seemed, was concerned with the logistics of caring for the welfare of nearly one hundred thousand armed men – fifty thousand from the Protectorates; twenty thousand from Tenarum; over fifteen thousand from Amorry and fewer than fifteen thousand from Derravale, for many soldiers there were diverted to watch that long, unprotected border they shared to the south with Zanezli.
At the beginning of Ertam, the forces began their slow, steady advance towards the vast area north of Foston where, by clearing the woodland entirely for the efforts of the smelting and ironworking so vital for their required weapons, mail and other necessities, a huge area had been set out for the armies arrival; muddy of course – it was still winter after-all – but it would be adequate, once roads, drainage and so on had been marked out.
A certain nervous tension filled the palace, both collective and personal, for the leaders of the separate armies would be waiting half a moon before beginning their own journeys – they were still, with the great assistance of their commanders, coordinating and planning.
Pualyn and Lyria had their own trouble, however, separate from everything – but of course – its reasons and existence were right at the centre of the issues that circled them all. The young duke was not cold, precisely, but cool towards the young woman he had married and he was a lot less attentive towards her than he should have been. They both knew why: the spectres of his parents, the loss of his ancestral home, their fear for his sister – these and other concerns made a very solid wedge between them. Pualyn was not rude or abusive in any way towards the woman he had adored for years, but he was distant and spent an inordinate amount of time in the practice hall and in the endless planning meetings.
Miserable, worried and lonely, Lyria finally sought out Lady Celia for, hopefully, some womanly advice, even though Celia was not married. Officially, as the Duchess of Clirensar, she now outranked the Lady of Pellerton Court, but such niceties did not bother her, even though she knew that it was vitally important to their servants.
“Your Grace, we are honoured.” Celia curtsied politely.
“Oh, please, Celia, don’t -.” And Lyria sank into the closest chair, fighting against tears. “Oh, I’m sorry -.”
“Go on, shoo!” Celia firmly dismissed her attendants and sat down beside the young woman still dressed in black and took her in her arms. “Lyria, dear, oh you poor woman.” And her embrace tightened as the duchess sobbed.
“He doesn’t love me anymore!” She cried as if in terrible pain. “He – he hates me!”
“No he doesn’t, he loves you with all his heart, but you are both grieving and angry and worried – and you saw his parents killed, his sister abducted whilst he was enjoying himself in the Razine Protectorates . . .” Celia sighed deeply and produced a handkerchief for her friend.
“So he blames me too!”
“Oh Lyria, of course he doesn’t – well, not seriously, I imagine -.” Celia amended the sentence honestly and winced as the younger woman began sobbing anew. “You poor dear!” She held her tight, stroking her head and letting her cry herself out and Lyria began to hiccup.
“You need tea, Lyria, and cakes and biscuits.” She declared, rang a bell, and asked for those viands from her maid, Mallie.
“I’m so stupid.” Lyria sniffed, hiccupped and muttered from behind the rather damp handkerchief. “Pualyn hates me!”
“That’s silly, Lyria, he loves you as greatly as he has always done – as you love him – Neither of you has ever lost close family before, especially in such awful circumstances.” Celia said with a sigh, and got up to take the tray of refreshments when her maid swiftly returned. “Thank you. Here, dear, have something to eat and drink, you are terribly pale.”
They paused for tea and cakes and Lyria’s pallor was slowly replaced with a more healthy colour. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she found that she was actually enjoying the repast more than she had enjoyed anything since – well, probably since the awful events that had happened moons before.
“Are you feeling a little better?” Celia asked gently.
“Yes, a little, thank you, but -.” Lyria set down her tea cup and threw out her arms wide. “I really don’t know what to do, Celia!”
“There isn’t really an awful lot you can do, dear, but be patient and let time take its course . . . I remember losing my mother, six years ago and it was awful – I was permanently stuck within a horrible black cloud for – dear Arven, it must have been a year at least!” Celia shuddered. “And mother was ill for a long time – it was nothing like those sudden, shocking murders you were witness to. You are still in shock, still sleeping horribly I am sure – you saw Pualyn’s parents die, all those soldiers and servants – Ethrayne being taken away . . . But Pualyn was in the far north, knew nothing about it for a moon and I am sure he is coping very badly indeed – his manner and Jerryn’s, have changed utterly, haven’t they?”
“Oh gosh, yes, but, oh, Celia – what can I do? Pualyn - he just seems intent on the war – on killing as many of the enemy as possible: he spends more time at combat practice that he does with me!”
“Yes, well, Lyria, his Majesty sought me out – he is also concerned, but he lost his wife many years ago now: he knows how much grief affects us all. There isn’t really a cure, or much you can do to shake him out of it – it’s not that sort of problem, after all. You have to try and keep calm, work through your own grief at the loss of your families and support Pualyn as, hopefully, he will hopefully support you too . . . And, please excuse me, it might be well to try and get pregnant if you can before the men leave . . . Arven only knows what might happen to them in a war!”
Lyria stared at her friend, stunned, but – eventually – slightly hysterical laughter won over outrage.
“I’ll do my best, you can assure his Majesty, but I can’t promise any such results.” She said finally, feeling better in herself than she had for moons. “Oh, Celia, thank you so much!” And she held her close.
*
Lyria took Celia’s advice to heart and, watching her husband’s behaviour in a more objective fashion over the next few days, concluded that her friend was correct: grief and fury filled him; although he was functioning in day-to-day situations and those interminable meetings, he was certainly not really there. Even Jerryn, affected in a slightly different manner, could tell that his closest friend was just going through the motions of normal behaviour. The young duchess took heart from the realisation that Pualyn’s rage was wide-ranging and aimed towards the enemy and started planning – which pushed back a little of her own grief, but not for long, overall.
Three days before they were due to leave Tenum City, Lyria firmly dismissed Lennarn, Greta and their other servants and drew a hot bath – she had, rather embarrassed at doing so but determined to get practical help – enlisted Jerryn’s assistance and Pualyn was duly delivered to their apartment door after another aggressive combat session, without the following goblets of wine that had become customary – it was late afternoon.
“My, you do look hot and sweaty, dearest – the servants have a bath all ready for you. Here, let me help you.” She greeted him with a smile, took his hand, and led him through into their bedroom, firmly shutting the door. “Lennarn told Greta that you were suffering from a stiff neck, but I’m not surprised, Pualyn – you’re always rushing about, wearing that awful heavy mail.” And, keeping up a light monologue into which he did not really get the opportunity to reply – he did look tired and worn, for such a young man – Lyria gently unfastened his jerkin and shirt and pushed him gently back onto their bed to try and pull off his boots. When the second came off without warning, sending her hard onto the carpet on her rear, Pualyn actually smiled and got up to help her to her feet.
“You know, I was just going to get washed and changed for dinner but – that bath looks lovely.” He said with rather more interest than he had shown in anything for ages, stripping off the rest of his sweaty clothes and stepping into the tub with a sigh.
“Now you relax, Pualyn and I’ll wash your back and then I’ll give your neck and shoulders a nice massage with scented oil. You’ll be wearing mail and armour almost constantly when you leave and it’s my duty as your wife to make sure you set off rested and ready -.” Lyria broke off to collect together his discarded clothing, setting his boots neatly by the wall.
“It is bloody heavy, chain mail.” Pualyn volunteered, sending wavelets of bathwater rippling at the edge of the tub as he stretched with a second sigh.
“Yes, I can imagine.” Lyria knelt beside him, soap and sponge in her hands. “Now, let’s get you clean, my love – I’ll start at your back, you can wash your face and hair.” And she chuckled
Perhaps it was a complete coincidence, or really due to her ministrations with soap, sponge, hot water and soft, uncomplicated conversation, but the man who emerged from the bath seemed, on the surface at least, rather more like the one she had fallen in love with, than the one who had returned from the Razine Protectorates. He even had a renewed sparkle in his eyes.
“Dear Arven, Lyria, you are a fine woman!” He declared, wrapped in a large green towel.
“I’ll be even finer in your eyes when I’ve worked those kinks out of your shoulders, dearest.” But she never got around to using the sweetly scented oil, for her husband picked her up, laid her on the huge bed and kissed her passionately.
That evening, the absence of the Duke and Duchess was noted and Marrand, Mhezal, Jerryn and Celia exchanged grins, whilst Lord Gorman and Earl Brennan huffed at the inconstancy of the youth of today.
Pualyn’s dour demeanour had returned the next morning but, with the input of intense relaxation and the best night’s sleep he had had since hearing the terrible news, he did strive to make his remaining time with his wife good days, forcing away his despair and fury when they were together, putting on a semblance of normality with surprising ease.
“I am sorry – I’ve been a rubbish sort of husband.” He said, late on their last night together, after having again proved that he was not, holding Lyria close in the huge canopied bed. “It’s just -.”
“I know, darling, honestly and you are not rubbish, just horribly pressured . . . Oh please, Pualyn, you will take care won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if I somehow lost you too!”
“We’re heading off to make war upon the jajozeli, Lyria, my love. I really can’t promise anything of the sort: we are all in Arven’s hands, if not the Betrayer’s.”
She held him tight, snuggled up under his left arm. “I know you’re going to try and kill as many of them as you can, Pualyn, but I want my hero back, do you understand me?” And she kissed his chest above his heart, then his lips. “May Arven protect you all, but if anything happens to you, dearest – Oh, I’ll be devastated.”
Pualyn laughed and it was a much more normal sound than any he had made recently. “I pity Arven if you do go in search of him in the north, Lyria. And I will do my upmost to come back to you, I promise on my honour and my love.” He kissed her passionately, and one thing led to another quite naturally.
*
The farewells next morning were formal but relatively short, as the kings and commanders of the four forces knelt for formal prayers in the Cathedral, surrounded by their staff, family members and servants. The square outside was filled with solemn-faced townsfolk and some local farming families, again mostly consisting of the elderly, women and children – most men of fighting age were already on their way south.
Archpriests Lurco and Bahlien led the prayers, keeping them simple and to the point: freedom for the area around the beleaguered city; death to the enemy occupying it and long lives to the allied forces involved.
Aren’t you rather hoping for a miracle or ten thousand?>; Jerryn asked rather facetiously of the old razine ex-Archpriest. There’s no way on Iullyn that all of us will return!>;
We can all hope and pray anyway, Am’maiya, however unlikely the result we long for.>; Bahlien answered. Please take care, Jerryn and remember your power will continue to develop as you practice those exercises we have been working on.>;
should have some days to practice as we ride south, your Grace – with Kerr’s assistance.>; Jerryn confirmed. Dear Arven, I’m scared!>;
You’re not the only one by any means who thinks so, by any means, Jerryn.>; The High-Prince joined the conversation then and grimaced. I’m terrified and I’ve been in a few battles against the bastards!>;
; His father growled with mock dismay.
; And Kerrenan grinned and winked.
Those riding out were overly hearty as they bid farewell to those they would leave behind and everyone smiled and hugged and shook hands in a very old-fashioned and formal manner – except for Pualyn and Lyria, who, having already lost so much, were now fully appreciating each other’s presence as if they stood alone and not faced with so many interested spectators. Reluctantly, calmly, they kissed – to huge cheers from the crowds surging below the Cathedral steps. Pualyn bowed low, splendid in his mail and formal, heavy surcoat that bore the arms of Clirensar, and descended the steps – clinking – and then swung up onto his mount rather more laboriously than usual: the mail and paraphernalia, of course, was heavy, but all of them were covered in it. Once they were a few miles from the city, out of view of people, they had resolved to stop and remove the weight to ride on in a great deal more comfort.
Forming up behind King Marrand and High-King Mhezal, they all rode slowly out of the square to more rousing cheers that continued all the way to the South Gate, the people standing three or four deep on every street. Straight backed and dry-eyed, Lyria, Duchess of Clirensar, Lady Celia and the rest watched them go, before they got into their carriages and returned to the palace.
* * *
From the third-floor window of her small, bare room, Ethrayne could watch the relentless but slow hints of spring arriving as the snow melted gradually from the courtyard below and the rooftops above – finally leaving only the carefully spaded-up piles of grey ice along the walls that seemed unchanged, as far as she could tell. Through a gap between the buildings, offering a tiny vista beyond the city rooftops, she could see the lower slope of one mountainside turning green above the almost black shade of the forest that covered the hills below the meadow.
It had been twenty-five days since she had been brought up from the dungeon – nearly a moon of daily physical and mental exhaustion. That afternoon, however, Cavaln took her back to her prison instead of to the work room where she studied.
“You will pack.” She informed the girl shortly, which explained the two pairs of saddlebags sat on the floor. “Wash those clothes you’re wearing. You will need soap, towels, all your clothes, blankets and your sewing box, since you are handy with a needle.”
Ethrayne shivered and frowned at her unease. “I am running low of thread, Madam General.” She admitted. Sewing was now her one real way of concentrating on something that did not involve fretting on her situation when alone – which was stupid, she acknowledged, since she had never really enjoyed needle-work before.
“I’ll make sure some is brought.” Cavaln said dismissively. “Don’t forget anything – we leave in the morning.”
“Where are we going? Is it Staipe or Ertam? How long have I been in this horrible place?” Ethrayne asked quickly, but the General left without answering. Alone, swearing expressively in Selithian, Ethrayne went to wash, then scrubbed her combat gear as ordered. Her wardrobe had slowly expanded since her arrival, but she did not own so many clothes to consider leaving any behind, even if they were all embroidered with the King’s design.
She was frightened, she admitted that to herself, although she would have completely denied it if anyone had asked. After so long imprisoned in the vast citadel, having not stepped outside since her arrival, she had got horribly used to her constrained routine – the predictability of it, anyway, although certainly not the company she was forced to keep.
“I knew things would happen once winter passed.” She muttered to herself, making up the small fire in her room to hopefully dry the dripping clothes that hung over the screen. “Oh, dear Arven, where will he send me now? And what’s happening in Tenarum – could it really be five moons since they took me and killed Mama and Papa?” She then began to take the rest of her clothes out of the chest – keeping busy was preferable to sitting down and worrying and crying like an idiot – which is what a part of her wanted to do.
General Cavaln returned with small reels full of long lengths of well-turned threads in various colours and took Ethrayne along to the dining hall for dinner, but the girl only really picked at her food, sitting in a glum silence. After having her questions ignored earlier, she was not going to demean herself by asking again.
Cavaln smiled at her with good humour and kept silent until, later, about to lock the prisoner back in her room, she said – cheerily – “You will need to be up early, girl: we will be leaving at dawn, so make sure everything is packed, understand?”
“Yes, Madam General.” Ethrayne replied politely.
*
She did not sleep, of course and sat up, dressed, fully packed and waiting by the dim light of the fire, well before the first hint of approaching dawn lit the sky. In fact, the stars were still bright when the door was unlocked and the General stuck her head around it.
“Don’t forget your washing, girl – and you’ll need your cloak.” She suggested with a sigh. “Bring your bags out here – breakfast is ready.”
Ethrayne leapt up – she had completely forgotten her clothes hanging in front of the fire, and quickly stuffed the shirt, trousers and socks into the top of the closest bag, glad that it felt dry; she unhooked the cloak from behind the door and hefted the two pairs of bags, passing through the foyer and into Cavaln’s lamp lit sitting room rather nervously. She set her luggage next to the pile close to the outer door, and stopped, feeling uncomfortable.
Cavaln pointed to the table where two bowls and mugs were set and Ethrayne picked up one, sitting uncertainly and eating – not at all because she was hungry, which she was, but through necessity. Porridge and tea sat uneasily within her when the woman got to her feet.
“Go and check your room – quickly.” She suggested. “It’s time to go – you won’t be returning.”
Hurrying back to the room with a lighted candle and making for the tiny bathroom, where Ethrayne threw up her breakfast from worry, quickly patting her face with dampened hands before scanning that space and the largely empty bedroom for discarded items – it wasn’t more than a few heart-beats before she emerged and stepped through into Cavaln’s sitting room, grey-faced, to put on the cloak that she had not actually worn since her arrival. She was surprised, for it did not drag so much on the floor as she remembered it had before, then slung a pair of bags over each shoulder before following the more heavily laden General out and into the citadel’s dimly lit corridors, finally emerging at the very same courtyard where she had first dismounted, so many moons before, the torchlight starting to look dim against the lightening sky.
“Oh no!” She muttered with a groan, staring down the sweeping staircase in dismay at those awaiting her: her combat teachers, Shaille, Masson and Thellor, along with her tutors Tynsyn and Dahne. Along with Cavaln, that made six Generals! That made at least five too many, in her opinion.
“Don’t dawdle, brat.” Thellor ordered, mounting a large, white gelding. “Let’s get going.”
“Yes, my Lord General.” Ethrayne replied quickly, hurrying down the steps. Thellor had always been quick to land a blow during his lessons; a burly male at least six and a half feet tall, with shaggy mid-brown hair, he was not anything but ordinary to look at, but he was as fast as a snake striking at unarmed combat.
There was a chilly breeze that seemed to deny any approach of spring – she shivered at its icy touch, appreciating anew the citadel’s largely draught-free construction, where she had not had to endure the terrible blast of winter.
Cavaln was already loading her luggage onto a pack horse, so Ethrayne picked a mount at random, a scrubby chestnut – the closest – and laid her two pairs of bags carefully behind the saddle, checking that they were laced so that they would not slide off and that they wouldn’t discomfort the horse. It was strange – she felt totally out of practice, having not even seen a horse for months, but she got into the saddle easily enough, settled herself and straightened her cloak and her gloves.
“Move out.” Thellor called as the others got into their saddles and he took up the lines of the pack-horses.
The sky was now turning blue, dispelling the pre-dawn grey and Ethrayne looked hard, but she still did not get a very good impression of Ban’Lerracon, for her view was constrained by the citadel’s walls, the high buildings that lined the streets – it was massive, she realised that – but she finally could look back, once they crossed the great bridge over the roaring, pale, opaque river, to see a great grey city that was even more formidable than her imagination had wrought – rise after rise of huge walls and blocky buildings and then – the tallest by far – the central tower where she had been first imprisoned. Remembering Fionn and Sallie, she shivered and did not look back again.
*
The Generals took their prisoner along that stupendous ice-carved valley into the west, following the bank-bursting, icy-green glacial river as it snaked through the landscape of bedraggled, snow-flattened grassland – the snow had melted in the lowlands, but it still dominated the landscape above and about them. From the well-built road they took, constructed some fifty or so feet above the raging waters, they passed many areas of floodwater; clearly the arrival of spring was a major event here in the south, although winter still had a very firm grip on the mountain slopes above and, during the nine days of their journey, they faced quite a few blizzards amid the rain, gales and only occasional sunshine.
Ethrayne discovered, although she had suspected it, that the Generals were just as awful as guards and travelling companions as they were tutors – worse, in fact because she had no way to escape their presence: and six lots of needling, threats and nasty comments was an awful lot worse than three had been on her journey from Clirensar. She had tentatively volunteered to help look after the horses at their nightly camps but, once the other Generals had realised how much she enjoyed the work, she had been ordered to assist with cooking instead – and, naturally, washing up afterwards. Not daring to protest, Ethrayne obeyed, but she hated every moment of that journey. The landscape was spectacular, it was wonderful to be outside again after so many moons confined; but her guards were almost unbearable and she only spoke when she was spoken to – most politely. In some ways, it was worse than being locked up in the dungeon had been.
The road crossed the raging river three times on massive stone-constructed bridges, cutting a straighter route through the widening valley than the widely meandering watercourse, gradually leaving the mountains behind. On four nights they stayed in forts that were strategically placed, the other four they stayed in way-stations with stabling and dry accommodation – Ethrayne was glad that she did not have to help put up tents.
Leaving the stocky defensive structure that had given them shelter overnight, at dawn on the ninth day, beginning their descent from the pale outcrop on which the fort had dominated the hillock-strewn landscape, Ethrayne looked out ahead, past the now-distant curve of the river and saw, tiny at the edge of the horizon, a flash of sparkling grey – a mere suggestion. She squinted, but she wasn’t sure if her sight was accurate. Had she caught a glimpse of the sea, or was it her imagination? Dully, weary, she rode on after the Generals.
It was nearly noon when Ethrayne could confirm that she had seen the sea – and realised that she could see a city, too, for, emerging from a large forest that had filled that part of the valley, the road ran back towards a much wider, grey river channel that was now the upper reaches of an estuary, with mud banks evident above the choppy water that now showed no hint at all of its icy green shade.
The Generals did not halt, but continued at a steady pace and the city grew closer, the buildings gradually larger. Above them, in places, could be seen stick-like masts.
It was mid-afternoon when the group reached the wharves, a bustling area smelling of fish and seaweed and effluent, but Ethrayne was not paying attention to anything around her, not even the simply gigantic ships that were berthed to her left. Suddenly, a few moments before, thrilling her nerves worse that acute toothache, she had sensed the presence of the King of the Jajozeli as clear as if he was stood before her. Her fear rose to choke her – She scanned the area desperately and found him: he was at the far end of the wharf ahead, a good sixty yards distant, talking to a group of males.
“Oh, dear Arven -.”
She tried – meant – to turn her horse, sheer panic taking over, but the Generals had anticipated her action and she was blocked to both left and right: Dahne and Shaille’s legs pressed tight against hers for a crucial moment.
“Don’t be stupid, brat!” Dahne snapped, taking hold of her left arm and shaking her roughly, but Ethrayne struggled. “Pirris!” He said in disgust.
The other Generals dismounted, but Dahne held the girl in place until Thellor came over and pulled her from the horse and – to her surprise – over his shoulder, one hand clamped tightly around her wrists, the other confining her legs.
“Hold still or I’ll drop you hard, brat!” He warned her, striding easily towards the huge ship closest to them, heading up a steeply sloping plank that bounced beneath his boots, and Ethrayne stared into dark, oily-looking water for a moment.
“You bastard!” Ethrayne spat without thinking as he dropped her roughly to the deck and he replied with a crack across the face that shocked her into silence.
“Get the brat below before I hit her again!” Thellor ordered Cavaln shortly, who had just stepped off the gang-plank with Ethrayne’s baggage over her shoulders. The burly General strode angrily away.
Her cheek burning with his blow, Ethrayne was pushed roughly towards a dark doorway at the rear of the ship that was set into the higher stern deck, into a largely lightless passage, down a fixed ladder lit by a lantern hanging from a beam above, along and down a second ladder, the steep, narrow way also lit by lantern light – Cavaln stepped behind it, to a plain, narrow door.
“Welcome to the ‘King’s Lightning’.” The woman said, directing the girl inside into a surprisingly well-lit space and dropping her baggage on the closest of the two narrow bunks that were built into the framework. “There’s storage underneath the bed – and a wash-room of sorts through there -.” She pointed at a narrow door and grinned. “Just keep off my half of the cabin.”
“Y-your half?” Ethrayne stammered.
“Would you rather share with General Thellor?” And she left, locking the door behind her.
“Damn all of you!” She yelled and kicked hard at the door, but it didn’t budge. “Bastards! I hate you!” Then, her fear rising past her anger, Ethrayne sank down on the bunk, shivering; but her inertia did not last very long – she turned to the bank of windows that formed a good third of the height of the back wall that admitted so much light, but there was little to see, other than a few sides of boats moving slightly in the swell, grey water below, and the distant sounds of voices and heavy items being moved around the ship.
The cabin was about seven feet wide, the bunks built into the walls and about seven feet long but only about two and a half feet wide, with a straw-filled bag for a mattress and a pillow each. There were two cupboards under her bunk, fixed with sliding bolts and surprisingly spacious, so Ethrayne began to empty her saddle bags with grim finality – the door was locked, the windows were locked and she was stuck here, surrounded by Generals, with the dreaded King close by . . . They were going to take her from Selith – probably to Enlath, the centre of the Jajozeli Empire . . . But that was all she knew about the continent, other than it was half a world away.
There were more noises on the ship around her – creaks, muffled conversations, footsteps above, below and alongside, the slap of water, doors banging – all sounding strange. Ethrayne had never been on a ship before and the movement of it on the water felt – most peculiar. Her clothes and sewing box and so on all packed neatly away, her cloak hanging from the back of the door, she sank back down on her neatly made bed, her blankets from Ban’Lerracon folded at the foot, she pulled off her boots and rested her chin on her knees, battling her fear. Only the shifting shadows outside told her that the afternoon was passing as usual.
It was later; Ethrayne could see a hint of rosy sunset on the side of the ship behind, when the door was unlocked and Cavaln entered with her own luggage, followed by two men bearing a large bucket of water each – they quickly vanished, saluting the General smartly.
“Get washed and changed, girl, and wash the clothes you’re wearing.” She ordered – and it was clear that she had bathed and changed her outfit in the interval since she had left Ethrayne, neat and pristine in her uniform – the girl supposed she had done this on land, for she didn’t think that ships ran to proper bathrooms. “There should be a line for your clothes in the washroom – go on: the water won’t stay hot forever.”
The washroom was as long as the cabin, but only about three feet wide, with a built-in washstand containing the usual and a large metal bowl that hung from the wall. With towel and soap from her baggage, the girl washed off the dirt of her journey, changed into clean but very creased clothes, and scrubbed assiduously at the ones she was so glad to remove – and, at least it kept her busy, but not for very long – she did her best to get all the dirt and dust out of her clothes. The line had been strung up looped, but it stretched diagonally across the window-end of the space, and was soon draped with those few gently dripping items that she tried to wring out with all her strength.
Were they going to keep her locked up in there forever? She wondered – just before she heard footsteps and the cabin door swung inward to reveal General Ackat.
“Dinner is served, brat, come along.”
He led her up the ladder and to a large cabin that extended the whole width of the stern, with a full width of windows, a large table that hung from thick ropes at the corners and benches. Ethrayne did not see anything else, for the space was full of Generals – she stared and gulped, for she only recognised a few of them.
“And here she is, Ethrayne, Lady of Clirensar and potential Wielder of the Flame.” The King’s smooth tones came from behind her and the girl’s wary expression changed instantly to one of fear. She took one step backward out of the doorway and sank, trembling, to her knees, staring fixedly at the dark planks and the forest of legs stretching out above her. “What, nothing to say?” There was amusement in his voice and she wished that the floor would open up and swallow her. The King laughed. “On your feet, girl.”
Very slowly, still gazing at the floor, Ethrayne obeyed, feeling her heart beating so loud, part of her wondered if the sound filled the cabin.
“Excellent. Well, Ethrayne, we leave these shores on the high tide later tonight and we expect cooperation and good manners – do you understand?”
“Y-yes, your Majesty . . . Please forgive me my rude behaviour earlier.” She managed to whisper.
“If you behave properly I am sure you will not find your time on board ship too arduous – and remain in the areas you are permitted in: exploring is expressly forbidden. Now, get yourself something to eat, keep out of the way – and don’t even try to get up on deck until morning. Crew, you are with me.”
There was a chorus of “Your Majesty’s” that drowned out Ethrayne’s whisper and fully half of the Generals filed out past her, leaving her facing the rest: nine, all male, apart from Cavaln, who turned to the table that she only just realised contained dishes, plates and cups – mostly constructed of metal. They were all helping themselves to food and drink, chatting in a friendly manner. Watching them warily and surreptitiously, she did not start to hesitantly advance until they were all sat down or leaning against walls or posts. Yet again, she had lost her hunger in her fear, but she spooned beef, vegetables and a delicious herb-filled sauce onto a plate, filled a cup with water and sank down onto the vacant end of a bench to eat.
“You’ve surpassed yourself, Whillan.” Tynsyn complimented another General. “We never ate so well shipboard on our last voyage.” There was laughter at his comment.
“You may mock, scholar, but you try producing a meal for twenty one in that cupboard of a galley, then you can judge my skill.” A large, grey-haired male replied easily. “In fact, you can cook breakfast. Of course I was going to use the inn’s kitchen, you fool”
“I’d sooner let Tynsyn near a kitchen that that brat!” Thellor said with a guffaw that rang across the cabin. “Pity we’ve no horses for her to groom.”
Ethrayne tried to shrink where she sat, as more laughter sounded around her, chewing her food but starting to feel sick – yet again.
“We’d be knee-deep in shit, though that would keep the brat occupied.” Dahne continued. “Pirris, it’s going to be a long voyage, this time!”
“And pity poor Cavaln here, having to share a cabin with her.” Shaille’s laughter was hearty.
“But at least she generally doesn’t fart, or snore loudly and relentlessly all night long like a sty full of pigs, like most of you do.” Cavaln retorted easily to more amusement – and agreement and she looked across at the pale-faced girl. “Are you done?”
Ethrayne nodded at once – longing to get out of there – and rose when the female General got to her feet, following her from the cabin. On their short way back to the cabin below, Cavaln sternly explained that she must not explore forwards along either gloomy passage or down the next ladder that descended into the depths of the ship – warning her that they would all know instantly if she disobeyed, and such would result in her being incarcerated in a windowless cabin.
It was later when, sleepless, Ethrayne felt definite movement in the ship and she quietly sat up in her bunk – Cavaln was sound asleep – and turned to look out of the night-shrouded window to see the wind-buffeted torches on the wharf seemingly receding, though she realised that it was the ship that was moving out into the estuary. She felt it acutely when the winds caught the sails that had been run out – she had heard muffled voices from above – for the great craft plunged somewhat and she felt suddenly queasy . . . It proved to be a very long night.
Staring out eastward as the sun began to rise, she could see that the coast was already far behind – the lights of the city they had sailed from had vanished long before first light. It was far too far to swim and she was a terrible swimmer anyway . . . She was stuck on this ship alongside the King of the Jajozeli and his servants with no escape.
*
Six days later, far out in the S’lorn Ocean, Ethrayne was just glad to have got used to the unending motion of the ship; they had spent four days plunging through waves almost as large as two-storey houses, the aftermath of a nasty storm that had reduced her fear of her captors somewhat when faced with her new fear of the power of nature. Now, gazing out of the stern window and faced with small patches of blue sky amid huge deep-grey clouds and waves that did not threaten to topple the ship into the depths, Ethrayne rose, leaving Cavaln sleeping. She dressed in the washroom, took up her cloak and boots and crept out of the cabin, making her way up to the main deck for some chilly fresh air. She pulled on boots and cloak quickly, for the wind was gusty and cold, and stood up a little unsteadily, wrapping the cloak tight around her and moving to the port rail, where she could look back to the stern of the ship to watch the sun rise inexorably above the waves astern.
She was now learning some of the strange terminology associated with the mysteries of the ocean.
“Up, are you?” General Jallon asked, as he relinquished the wheel to General Bentham. “General Garrtnor wants to see you – think he’s in the main cabin.”
“Yes, my Lord General.”
King Gregnor was effectively Captain, with huge knowledge and experience, but he shared command with Jallon and Bentham, with Khaen, Allun, Eduren, Ollyn, Harstyn and Unwynn the crew – whilst Ackat, Garrtnor and Masson assisting where required. Whillan and Sapphor were the chefs, working in a very small space, which the left of them effectively passengers: Shaille, Tynsyn, Dahne, Thellor, Cavaln and Harton – the last two with the vital skills of healers. In Ethrayne’s opinion, there were twenty too many Jajozeli Razine on board.
Combat sessions were now scheduled for every morning, if the weather was not too dreadful, there on the main deck and Ethrayne was glad of the activity, for it was tiring and it was easier than trying to keep out of everyone’s way in the small area of the ship she was allowed in. What she didn’t like was not being able to wash her sweaty clothes – fresh water was not to be wasted on such frivolities, apparently.
Waking so far at first light every morning, Ethrayne did her best to leave Cavaln alone in the small cabin – she had sensed the woman’s antagonism when she had disturbed her inadvertently, so that meant creeping out like a mouse and usually making her way to the galley for breakfast, taking it to the main cabin if it was raining and horrible, or up on the main deck to eat – at daybreak, only those on duty were generally up and about.
To her relief, King Gregnor spent a lot of his free time in his suite beneath the stern deck, rather than with his subordinates – but if he was on deck, steering, Ethrayne often fled to the main cabin, to endure the insults and nasty banter of the Generals – although the ship was over two hundred feet long, nearly all of the area below the deck was banned to her.
With most of her mornings taken up, that generally left the afternoons and evenings lashed by their tongues although, with her sewing box frequently employed to mend a wide variety of damaged clothing from all of them, she could largely try to ignore their comments whilst busy sewing . . . But the ocean was vast, the days lengthening . . . Sometimes she feared that she would scream out her tension and fear, but she restrained herself, trying to beat that in combat practice instead.
Days passed, slowly and strangely similar.
On the nineteenth day out from Cal’Itase the ‘King’s Lightning’ came in sight of land, docking at the foot of a well-fortified city that filled a rocky slope, that was identified as Sha’Jevhar, capital of the island of S’Lor, as the sun sank into the west. Locked in her cabin alone, Ethrayne relished the fact that probably everyone else had left the ship, having taken all the laundry with them – at least she would not have to have to scrub all the wretched shirts and sheets and so on! She rested, just wishing for something to read – staring out of the windows only alleviated some of the boredom, despite having the chance to relax. Meals were brought to her and even hot water for bathing again, late on the second evening, along with the warning that the ship was setting out with the tide next morning.
With clean laundry and supplies of fresh food and water, their new direction was north by north west, with a strong following wind and only the occasional sight of some huge denizen of the ocean depths to perk her interest – some showed huge sharp teeth, or blasting air or water high into the sky and even one with amazingly large, seemingly intelligent and interested eyes that gazed up at the ship for a few moments before sinking effortlessly into the deep. Ethrayne now spent as much of her free time on deck as possible, glad that at least the weather was slightly better . . . Although she utterly hated being incarcerated on the ship with her captors.
*
Nine days from Sha’Jevhar, having been dismissed from yet another intense bout of unarmed combat by Shaille, her tutor on the main deck today, Ethrayne slowly made her way down the two ladders, thinking only of getting washed as well as she could and changing into clothes that were not soaked with sweat.
Opening the cabin door, however, she could only stare for one horrified moment at the completely startling sight of a totally naked Thellor, lying beneath the equally bare Cavaln, both gleaming with sweat, moving together.
Cavaln spat a curse, her eyes blazing as she turned her head, even as – shocked and embarrassed – Ethrayne hurriedly slammed the door shut, desperately trying to dismiss from her mind far too many instant details of their coupling.
Tears pressing uselessly at her eyelids, frightened, the girl fled – now assaulted by their aggressive passion as well and unable to block it from her mind. Up that ladder, along and up the second, making for the open air, gasping as if she had run a mile – but she bounced off someone, staggering backwards and down, hitting the planks on her rear – and stared up at the Emperor in terror.
“You are distraught, child.” Gregnor noted in an even tone. “Up you get.” He extended one hand and took hold of her wrist, hauling her easily to her feet, ignoring her flinching reaction to his touch – it was burning her skin.
“Sire – I -.” But she could not speak further either to apologise or explain. Even her fear could not dispel her confusion and distress – and why could she still sense Cavaln and Thellor? What was happening?
“Come along.” He said, opening the door to the left that led to his suite below the stern deck. Tea!>; He ordered silently, causing Ethrayne to flinch at his mental as well as at his physical touch, pulling her into a large, light cabin. “Sit down, Ethrayne.”
There was a chair behind her, she saw it as she tried, surreptitiously, to free her wrist from his grip to no avail – and the Emperor courteously guided her to it, then produced a large handkerchief, easing into her hands as they covered her face – the tears were falling faster, she was gulping helplessly now, feeling like an utter idiot, hunched up, sobbing, feeling dirty and smelly in her combat clothes . . . She was hardly aware when the ardour of the two Generals faded from her mind. Yet her immediate distress could not last forever and, presently, she was reduced to hiccups, hiding her face in the soggy handkerchief, trembling.
“I would never have opened the cabin door if I’d known -.” She declared in sullen defence, around the hiccups. “Oh – your Majesty -.” And she shuddered, unable to continue, all too aware that his mind was touching her mind – his power was just so vast! “Oh, please don’t make me think -.” But that single image filled her mind for a moment – the two Generals, the passion they were feeling, their skin, Cavaln’s curse – Crying out in protest she pulled her feet up onto the seat, hiding as well as she could behind her knees – and the Emperor laughed aloud a little, before that momentary memory was as quickly gone. “I wouldn’t’ve – I’d have stayed on deck – I had no idea -.”
“Here, child, have some tea. It was an innocent mistake – they will not blame you.” Gregnor stated firmly.
“I always go to – to wash and change after combat . . . I did not intend to – to run into you - rudely, I am sorry -.” She babbled fearfully.
“Ethrayne, drink your tea.” He cut off her frightened apology. “Calm yourself.”
Gulping, then blowing her nose and setting her booted feet back on the floor, Ethrayne nervously moved her hand towards the table on her right and picked up the metal mug that was gently steaming there, her other hand clenching the handkerchief in a death grip, her blood-shot eyes gaze fixed on the mug, then on the planking of the floor. She was forced to place the handkerchief in her lap and support her grip on the mug, for her right hand was shaking terribly – and it was still a precarious matter, lifting the cup to take a sip – it rattled gently against her teeth but she swallowed, the cooling liquid fragrant and almost minty in her mouth; she sipped again, suddenly thirsty.
“Your culture and ours are very different in some regards.” The Emperor said lightly, gazing intently at the traumatised girl on the other side of the table. “But my servants should have thought a little before they allowed their – ah – ardour have free rein, shall we say? You are entering a delicate phase, girl and some complication are unwarranted.”
Ethrayne frowned and briefly raised her gaze to his – and away – wondering just what he meant, but not daring to ask.
“How is the tea?”
She jumped. “It’s – it’s very nice, th-thank you, your Majesty.” She stammered, cringing back again, her heart thumping. “For-forgive me -.”
“Oh, that was my fault, girl.” Gregnor admitted cheerfully. “We all learn to dampen our abilities and, of course, it’s been the only way I can observe you without alerting you: you can tell when I am close, naturally.” He laughed aloud. “And I did not want you to.”
Oh!>; That explained it, of course – it was quite sensible on hearing the explanation, but chilling: that he could hide in plain sight – and probably had in Ban’Lerracon – to watch her . . . Her fear rose even higher, her mouth went dry, so she drank more tea, the tremor returning with a vengeance to her hands. Why had he brought her here – was it only to laugh at her, and mock her?
“You have been in my care for some moons now, Ethrayne and I know much about you, actually, but only third-hand. I would like to hear about your life – your childhood and so on.” Gregnor answered her silent question. “From a very sheltered childhood, a future mapped out securely: betrothal and marriage to your prince and then the prospect of becoming queen one day, you have been thrown into the very heart of uncertainty and prophecy . . . So tell me about it, please.”
“M – m – me? Oh, I . . .” Her voice faded away uncertainly, for how could she refuse without giving offence? Her head was empty, but for fear. “I . . .”
“Have some more tea.” He sent the silent order, his power sparking all around her and silence filled the rather nicely furnished sitting room until there was a tap at the door and Whillan came in with a tray bearing a fresh pot of tea, clean cups and a plate containing fresh biscuits. He set these down with a flourish, collected up the used items and departed with a low bow to his master.
Gregnor offered biscuits and poured tea for his petrified guest, whilst Ethrayne desperately tried to think of something – anything – to say, but without success.
“You are how old, seventeen?” He prompted her after another silent period. “When was your birthday?”
“I was seventeen on – on the seventeenth of Instur. Jerryn – Prince Jerryn was seventeen at the close of Thurton – the – the twenty-eighth. We have known each other all our lives, your Majesty . . .” Ethrayne whispered, her gaze fixed on the mug in her hands. And, peculiarly, it was somehow reassuring to just sit there and talk about her childhood – even to her enemy . . . It did not cross her mind that he might have simply ‘dampened his abilities’ somewhat, for his physical presence alone was overpowering, quite apart from the vast power and talent that he commanded. Gradually, as the afternoon progressed, she described a childhood of care, love and privilege in the very heart of Tenarean society that had somehow exploded beyond all recognition at her betrothal to Jerryn. At that point – where she and Jerryn first heard about Arven’s Prophecy in the Book of Days – she fell silent with a polite: “I imagine you know an awful lot more about the Prophecy than we do, your Majesty.”
“Perhaps I do, at that, child.” The King acknowledged with a smile. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ethrayne. The evening is advancing – go and get yourself some dinner.”
Her heart leapt with joy at finally being dismissed. “Your Majesty.” She got up, bowed low and tried not to run out of the cabin.
Wrung out, her head pounding, exhausted, she nevertheless found that she was starving hungry. The Generals in the main cabin below all glanced at her, but did not speak to her – she piled up a plate, ate quickly, perched on a stool in a corner and – noting that Cavaln was talking with the others – took her mug of water down to their cabin. Had she really spent the entire afternoon in the King’s presence? After that awful afternoon that had led to the deaths of Inajo, Fionn and Sallie, she didn’t even want to acknowledge it. He was more powerful than anyone else living – he had tried to destroy Arven, after all - and he terrified her. Shuddering, wishing that her head did not ache so much, she washed as well as she could in the cool water left in the washroom, changed into her nightgown, and lay down – but her head was so crammed with fear, confusion and so on that it was very late when she finally fell asleep.
* * *
In the opinion of many people, the defensive works and vast camps around Foston had heartbreakingly destroyed much of the native beauty of the area, yet the sight of Clirensar, so close and yet so unattainable beneath the ever-flying flags of The Betrayer, was far worse.
The Tenareans had constructed a wooden tower upon a hilltop behind their massive defensive ditch and ramparts where the vast majority of the armies were encamped; this was close to the Kings Road, and from it the guards and patrols set up by Captain Chasson from Foston kept a close watch over the occupied Vale beyond. It was apparent even from a distance that the city was in an increasingly worsening state: many of the visible roofs inside the walls were damaged or missing. It seemed that the Jajozeli were not bothered about protecting the infrastructure around them.
The camps were organised like villages or small towns, with kitchens constructed at regular intervals, supplied with firewood and charcoal and dry supplies – and King Marrand’s staff had arranged the distribution of troops according to nation and company – determinedly creating equal sites for Tenarean, Protectorate, Amorean or Derravane soldiers, the roads serving them as well metalled as any in the kingdom. It wouldn’t be palatial, even for the nobles or officers, but it would be as comfortable as possible.
Chasson, assisted by a couple of lieutenants from the royal staff, had made as detailed a set of maps of the Vale as the patrols could describe – and the knowledge that their input was so vital, spurred the guards of the perimeter area every day, no matter what the weather or how depressing the news. The approach to the city to the east was impossible, due to the massive limestone crag that set the castle far above Clirensar, practically a sheer cliff into the grassland there. Further reports a few days later gave full details of the range of the huge, well-built ditch and wall curving to the north of the city, outside the line of the river. And, from those scouts who had ventured across the Vale with the utmost caution from Applegarth, the defensive rampart continued from the river bend west of the city, unbroken, to the cliff edge on the south-east – another insurmountable barrier to their advance. It was not going to be an easy task, to regain the city.
Just after dawn on the morning after their arrival, Jerryn and his friends left the camp and rode to the watch tower, where they climbed up to stare out with utter dismay at Duke Pualyn’s home and inheritance, a view that most of them knew well, but terribly altered. There was a great ditch and rampart on the curving north bank of the Sare, manned by a considerable force of black-garbed soldiers, with many more patrolling the city walls beyond, their weapons glinting in the weak spring sunshine that peeked through the clouds now and again.
“Dear Arven, what a mess!” Karne gasped.
“It’s – horrible.” Lennarn declared, cleared distressed – his family also came from Clirensar.
Pualyn grunted, his face paling rapidly as the sheer enormity of what they faced sank in. “Oh, they’ll pay for this!” He muttered bitterly. “It might take years to repair all the damage, but we’ll do it – And they will pay, by Arven, every single bloody one of them!”
“Amen.” Jerryn said, finding the sight almost repugnant.
“Most certainly they will pay.” Lieutenant Sevanter declared coldly. “If the bastards somehow bypassed the city’s defences, none of them ever stood a chance – and all the villages and farms, Home Farm, Callorton – oh, dear Arven!” He shuddered. “None of them had so much as a walled compound . . . Well, no matter how long it takes, Pualyn, we will support you – those bastards won’t win!”
“It’s bloody scary, though.” Tymain admitted in a bare whisper. “But I’m glad we’re finally here and ready.”
“Yeah, I’ve been itching to attack since the Solstice.” Pualyn said with a grimace. “I know the planning and so on was vital, but – oh, dear Arven, I’ve been so impatient.”
“We’ve noticed, your Grace, believe me.” Jerryn said tiredly and they all laughed, but his own smile was a little forced. “Now I’ve got the five of you all alone, gentlemen, I want your promise that you will do your best to stay alive – especially you, Pualyn: my father, your Lady and the Kingdom all need you.”
“There are no certainties in war, Jerryn, we can’t -.” Pualyn began, but Jerryn interrupted him.
“That army over there was probably sent on a gamble, you know – and it damn-well paid off: they stole Ethrayne and established a foothold that none of us can afford to ignore: we’ve got to destroy the entire lot of them.” He continued relentlessly. “The razine believe that The Betrayer has sent that army so that their leaders could hopefully catch both of us!”
“What?” Tymain and Sevanter cried at the same moment and the lieutenant stated. “Then you must leave, your Highness.”
“The bastards took Ethrayne and slaughtered thousands, Jerryn, they cannot take you too!” Pualyn declared hotly. “Sevanter’s right: you must leave here.”
“But where would I go and how can I deny the destiny that made Ethrayne and I the Wielders of the Flame?” The Prince asked easily – he had considered this for moons now, the argument strong in his head. “Don’t think that I’m going to surrender to them – far from it: I fully intend to kill as many of the enemy as possible, just like the rest of you . . . I’m just preparing you for eventualities, my friends and I want your promises now, before we descend and head back for breakfast. Logically, the Generals will focus on me, which ensures that the rest of you can concentrate on taking Clirensar back!”
“Dear Arven, Jerryn.” Karne appealed, sounding shocked, but his master glared from face to face in turn.
“Marrand will need you – especially you, Pualyn: logically, you and your children could be my father’s heirs, if anything happens to Ethrayne or myself – But I don’t believe that Arven will have chosen us, just to see us destroyed or dead and I don’t believe that The Betrayer will see much beyond our youth and inexperience.” Jerryn declared. “I want your oaths, gentlemen, please.”
Pualyn sighed deeply and spoke with obvious reluctance, laying his right hand over his heart. “I swear before Arven, Am’maiya, that I will not act recklessly; I commit my life to King Marrand, the kingdom and to my Lady . . . But you had better beat the Betrayer, Jerryn!” He ended his declaration fiercely.
Tymain, Sevanter, Karne and Lerrand made their promises with equal solemnity, hands on hearts and Jerryn finally smiled a little.
“Excellent, thank you, gentlemen – Come on, it’s nearly breakfast time and we’ve got a parley to finalise, for all the good it’ll do.” And he started down the rough ladders that would take them back to the ground, whistling.
*
The leaders of the four armies had been working on their approach and their plans for moons, greatly assisted by the maps and local knowledge at their disposal, although they were aware that the layout and street-plan of Clirensar might well have changed significantly under the occupying army. The professionals had respectfully laid their proposal to their Kings and the rest of that first day since the extensive royal party’s arrival was spent in finalising those plans, as the soldiers settled in, readied their equipment and rested as much as they could.
Everyone was jumpy; some were openly bad-tempered, some men were actually sick. Very few men from the Selithian kingdoms had fought in a war, though some soldiers such as Sevanter had seen action against occasional bandits or criminal groups that had set themselves up for hoped-for but rarely realised profits, throughout their realms; a greater number from the Protectorate forces had seen action against the Jajozeli, serving on Pearl and Opal ships, or defending outposts under attack from pirates.
Jerryn ended hurrying out of the extended pavilion that served as head quarters, where they were all collected; it was late afternoon and they had been talking backwards and forwards since breakfast. Tymain, Sevanter and Pualyn all exited close behind him, concern on their faces, as he stood outside in the chilly breeze, breathing heavily, his face pale and sweaty. Kerrenan strode out of the doorway after a moment. “Are you all right?” Pualyn asked. “You look awful.”
“Thanks. I suddenly feel sick – really sick. Arven only knows why.” He accepted a cup of water from Sevanter and nodded his thanks quickly, taking a quick sip, extending his hands. “Look, I’m trembling, but I felt fine only a short while ago.”
“Ah, you need to construct that protective wall within your mind, lad.” Kerrenan advised with a nod of understanding. “We discussed it during our journey: your buffer against the emotions that fill this camp.”
“Really? Are you sure I’ve not just eaten something bad?” Jerryn asked, puzzled. “It’s right here.” He pressed his stomach and took another sip of water.
“I’m sure it is, Jerryn: the emotions of everyone here are very much stronger than usual – fear, anger and so on are running rife and with so many people involved, such strength of feelings can make one nauseous – and you’re getting more sensitive to them by the day.” The High-Prince said calmly.
“It sounds really weird to me.” Pualyn commented, frowning. “Don’t think I’d like to read other peoples’ thoughts - dear Arven, you can’t read mine, can you?” He asked with sudden nervousness.
“Not with this sheer number of people in the vicinity, no, Pualyn.” Kerr assured him with a smile and a wink. “It’s not common by any means, but it’s not unknown amongst you humans and Jerryn and Lady Ethrayne are certainly not unique, for Arven’s Flame has gifted them with diverse abilities that will develop as they mature. This type of emotional mayhem can have such effects on us.”
“Dear Arven, if this is affecting me, just think of poor Ethrayne, stuck alone with those monsters!” Jerryn said with a grimace. “So, if I make that wall inside my head, it’ll ease the sickness? Oh, I’m sorry, Pualyn -.” He added quickly as a strong blast of fury and distress drowned out all the other emotions in his broader mind.
“Well, if you can read my mind, Jerryn, at least I don’t have to shout it!” The young duke snapped and strode off, his shoulders hunched, his head lowered.
I should have thought before I spoke.>; Jerryn admitted guiltily. Oh, damn it! We need Pualyn -.>;
I’ll speak to him – he’s frightened and upset, along with the rest of you.>; Kerrenan reassured him. You all have a lot of responsibility heaped upon your young shoulders. Don’t worry, Jerryn – go and meditate, block yourself.>; He advised, and set off across the uneven ground after the retreating duke.
“Is Pualyn ill too? Sevanter asked politely, looking concerned. He still seemed uncomfortable with his old childhood friend’s rank and his own elevation, due to his sister’s marriage – and the unsettling events that had devastated the region.
“He just wants a moment alone: we’re all worried, Sevanter.” Tymain said, glancing at Jerryn and noting his distress. As a small group, they generally had discarded their titles when alone. “I mean – you grew up here as well, it must be simply horrible.”
“Oh my, yes!” Sevanter did not bother to elaborate and his face was sombre as he remembered his destroyed family.
“Go and rejoin the meeting, gentlemen – I’ll see you later.” Jerryn set off towards his own gaudily striped pavilion, set close to his father’s. The small bedroom area was hung with carpets on the walls for extra warmth, but the furnishings were simple army fare – a narrow, collapsible bed, table and chair. He sat down in the chair and closed his eyes laying his hands on his knees, trying to rediscover the inner sense of peace and – rightness – that he had grown somewhat used to in his meditation . . . He had neglected his studies terribly since they had all left Tenum City.
Meditation, visualising that strong mental wall about himself, did help to greatly reduce the nausea affecting him, but although it was heartening to be able to control the power within him and stop the myriad emotions assaulting him, the sheer enormity of what they were undertaking was overwhelming, along with the simple fact that although justice – and Arven – were on their side, the enemy were formidable in the extreme, holding the city and its environs with an unknown number of troops – an extremely defensible position in anyone’s book.
Few of the officers and nobles slept that night within the allied camps and a great many officers and commons soldiers were up as early as the cooks preparing a hearty breakfast that few would actually be able to stomach.
Jerryn certainly did not eat anything. Up well before dawn, he walked around the night-shrouded camp for a while with Tymain and Karne at his side, before they returned to the pavilion to start pulling on their padded tunics and chain mail and so on; checking pristine weapons, straps and kit for nonexistent damage and so on. Around them, outside the canvas walls that enclosed them, they could hear the murmur of quiet conversations, the ring of steel, the march of feet – oddly loud in the peaceful air.
As dawn lit the sky, revealing the tent-covered landscape anew, Jerryn, Tymain and Karne set off towards the command pavilion, leading their horses, exchanging greetings with many of the soldiers passing to join their own companies.
“Jerryn, I’m sorry about yesterday.” Pualyn said, as they were coming up on the lines where grooms were tying the horses’ reins to long rails to the right; clearly he had been waiting for them. He was pale faced but his eyes were clear, impressive in his mail and armour.
“No, I’m sorry, Pualyn – it was stupid of me: everything here must really hurt you.” Jerryn answered, slapping his shoulder lightly – it was covered in hard mail, not conducive to affectionate or hearty slaps. “Just remember your promises – all of you: if I’m taken, though Arven protect us all, I at least should be able to find Ethrayne and look after her – you all assist my father, protect the Kingdom, please.” His tone was stern and they all nodded agreement as he led them into the crowded pavilion.
*
It was not long before the decided-upon advance group of the amalgamated armies began their slow march from the camps, through the few remaining stands of budding trees, as their commanders made for the large, well-built gate that blocked the Kings Road, the advance heralded by drumming and rather musical horn fanfares. It would have been foolish to try and use every soldier encamped there. From the city in the valley to the south they could hear horns sounding in answer or defiance, the noise somehow deeper and less musical, echoing around them – almost sounding like it originated in the ground below their booted feet.
Jerryn found that his fear had receded somewhat, replaced with a cold excitement that he knew was perfectly illogical, as he rode behind his father and his fellow kings, their standards whipping in the gusty breeze, brightly lit by the sun when it escaped every so often from the large grey clouds scudding across the sky.
They halted just outside the gate, but Duke Pualyn, Commander Vedeigne, King Marrand and High Prince Kerrenan rode on under the flags of Clirensar and Tenarum – the delegation for the allied forces – with a plain white flag in Pualyn’s left fist. The four of them rode a few hundred yards down the road and the young man tried to ignore the evidence of burned and broken ground, the few remains of broken weapons and equipment that marked the site of the battle where his parents had died. Gritting his teeth, breathing deeply – trying to breathe slowly – he forced back the rage, mixed with fear, that threatened to consume him and kept repeating his promise to Jerryn – and Arven.
“Courage, your Grace.” Marrand said, his tone a strange mixture of brevity and unease – and Pualyn realised that his King was also frightened, which made him feel better.
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Pualyn answered, managing a crooked smile. “I think I’d rather face boars single-handed, you know.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, your Grace.” Vedeigne added, straightening in his saddle. “Here they come, the bastards.”
A similar group under the Betrayer’s distinctive standard had set out up the road, four men on horseback, in black, climbing quickly from the defensive ramparts that surrounded the city and the river, coming to a halt some sixty or so yards from the allies.
“Welcome to Clirensar, your Grace.” A huge male with reddish brown hair and a thick beard greeted Pualyn, bowing slightly in his saddle. His eyes were black, glittering and there was a cruel smile on his broad face. “I am General Tequan, commander here. These are my associates – Generals Oxttyn, Owenn and Jaike. I see that you’ve taken up allegiance with the razine – to your loss!” He sneered, gazing from face to face, discounting the King and Commander’s presence. “You’re looking a little pale, Highness.”
“Thank you for your opinion, Tequan.” Kerrenan replied quietly – but Pualyn was startled, realising that he could actually sense the undercurrent of intense hatred between the two powerful beings – he shivered now, realising how Jerryn had been so affected: it was distracting, to say the least.
“General Tequan, on behalf of his Majesty, King Marrand and my countrymen, I give you formal warning to quit our city and its environs, or face certain death.” Pualyn declaimed coldly, his fear and unease keeping him tightly focussed.
“Retreat?” Tequan laughed expressively, throwing back his head as he did so, the sound almost like a roar. “Leave this prime, defensive site, Duke Pualyn? Don’t be stupid, boy! We were ordered to take Clirensar and hold it to the last man and we will, I assure you! Call up your armies and avenge the deaths of your parents and your townsfolk if you can! – Come!” And, with one curt gesture, he and his cohorts turned their horses smartly and thundered back down the pale road, to hoarse cheering from the jajozeli ranged below.
“An eloquent bastard, isn’t he, your Majesty?” Kerrenan said with a sigh to King Marrand, almost apologetically. “Let’s get back to the armies, shall we? We have observed the formalities – may Arven strike them all with pox!”
“And he was commander of Cal’Badon?” Marrand muttered. “A bully of a man, I guess – well, you and your father were right, your Highness.” He shook his head as they rode steadily back to their companions. “He – their king – would throw away thousands and thousands of lives to block us – dear Arven, he must be a monster!”
“Aye, a cold, calculating and ruthless monster.” Kerrenan confirmed. “Still, let’s see how many of his lieutenants we can eliminate, hey? There’s got to be more than four of the bastards in there!”
“You really hate them, don’t you?” Vedeigne commented, surprised by the High-Prince’s bitter tone.
“The Betrayer’s servants are the descendants of those men and women who decimated our society once he had imprisoned Arven – there was open slaughter across many settlements. There might be blood relations on both sides, Commander, but they are sworn to destroy us and our God and we are sworn to destroy them all.” The High-Prince said shortly. “Our hatred is deeper than the roots of mountains!”
“That was a short discussion.” Jerryn said gravely. “I thought that the introductions would take a little longer, actually -.” He grinned as Mhezal snorted a laugh and others smiled, the tension lessened slightly.
“It’s what I expected.” Marrand stated then. “Let’s get this started, shall we, gentlemen? Forward!”
The horns and drums began again, a rhythmical sound, as the commanders moved aside so that the men, both mounted and on foot, could advance and spread out across the sloping curve of the valley. The Tenareans formed the centre, back up by the Protectorate forces, with the Amoreans to the western flank and the Derravane troops to the left, eastern side, beyond the line of the road. As they took their pre-arranged positions, the black-clad Jajozeli were continuing to spill through the huge gate in their rampart, their weapons clashing harshly against their shields, loud across the vale.
“Good luck, gentlemen – may Arven protect us all! Advance!” Marrand shouted, backed up by horns and, inexorably, the front ranks moved steadily down the side of the valley.
The sound of the impact of the two forces was unbelievable as the front ranks of the allies punched on through the enemy lines and the Jajozeli seemed to be overwhelmed by the numbers descending relentlessly upon them.
“Hold!” A shout went up from the Commanders as the men would have carried on down towards the jajozeli defence – and the enemy launched an arrow-storm uphill, the lethal darts whistling though the air. Most soldiers managed to raise their shields in time, but across the field, hundreds of both armies died or fell sorely injured.
The battle continued, speeding up at some points whilst a lull descended in others, as the allies kept up their offensive with grim determination. Not knowing how many jajozeli soldiers there were, they had set on a plan to take the outer perimeter wall around the curve of the road and the river, using only their initial group of troops.
It was chaos, prince Jerryn discovered, even though he and his cohorts was near the rear: the noise was unbelievable, as was the sheer brutality of having to hack at the enemy, whilst the enemy hacked back at you! Jerryn found that his reaction time had sped up, even though the physical weight of his mail slowed him down enormously – he was fighting by instinct, perhaps. But they all stayed mounted, although their horses occasionally seemed more determined to escape the melee – it was awful! He, Pualyn, Tymain and the others just struggled to stay within view and shouting distance of each other.
“How are we doing?” Jerryn asked the High-King, as his small group finally caught up with the leaders, late that afternoon. His body was aching from the weight of the mail, the attack and defence required – the strain on so many muscles – but he still felt charged, although he could feel a deep tiredness beneath it. “Is everyone safe, Sir?”
“Pretty much, Jerryn.” Mhezal sighed. “But there are thousands of soldiers beyond those ramparts and probably thousands more inside the city itself.”
“Ought we to burn Clirensar then?” He had considered the action with cold logic, but the mere thought of it actually filled him with horror. “Dear Arven, my head won’t work properly!” It was as if the pause in fighting, in protecting his own and others’ lives had slowed his responses. Tiredness was draining him.
“I know – I feel the same.” Mhezal assured him. “We will have to keep that option in mind and pray that it won’t be necessary.” He turned as a pocket of fighting swept suddenly closer across the muddy, bloody-stained ground and they were far too busy again for conversation.
*
By nightfall, the Jajozeli forces outside their ramparts had all been slaughtered and the exhausted allied combatants began retrieving their injured and dead, torches blazing as the light faded from the sky. Men from the allied camps had come down the sweeping road to hurriedly dig out defences for a new camp close to the edge of the trees, within clear sight of the enemy but not close – there were sharpened stakes aplenty and they made short shrift of making a ditch and rampart, to be manned by fresh soldiers, a point to block any advance to the north by the enemy below – a clear sign of their determination to succeed at all costs. As they continued, the remaining combatants, blood-stained and exhausted, marched or rode slowly back to the safety of the main camp trailing alongside the carts transporting their wounded and then the dead.
The soldiers washed if they had the energy, ate and rested; but the commanders and nobles talked long and hard as they were served with dinner, discussing their plans for the next day, along with what they thought about all that had occurred since the armies had collided.
“We didn’t see any Generals in the battle.” Jerryn voiced the fact that most of them had noticed, despite their necessary focus on staying alive. He was eating with relish: he knew now that he would never again suffer from being too scared to eat before battle. After so many hours of hard graft, he was starving.
“Yes, I noticed.” The High-Prince said gravely. “I think they’ll hold back as long as they can, the bastards!”
“Is that going to be a problem, Kerrenan?” King Marrand asked, clearly concerned. “Clirensar has excellent defences – dear Arven, this will take moons!”
“Hopefully not, your Majesty.” Commander Vedeigne assured him.
“If they get pinned down in the city, it’ll be to our advantage: they’ll have nowhere to run!” Pualyn declared fiercely.
“I like your spirit, your Grace.” King Nemeth of Derravale said with a nod. “Be positive – definitely the thing.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Pualyn managed a genuine smile, for a moment.
“Amen to that.” The High-King said, stretching. “Well, I’m for my bed, gentlemen, if we’re all done, else I’ll fall asleep right here!”
*
Over the next few days, the allied armies inched towards the city’s outer defences, by the fourth day taking the defensive ramparts on the north bank of the Sare at considerable cost – but not losing anywhere near as many men as the jajozeli defenders. The surviving jajozeli fled back across the bridge or swam the river to safety on the southern bank, in the shadow of the city walls. Taking the ramparts was a huge boost to the thousands of allied soldiers – Now, commanding that abandoned high ground, they could concentrate on the three city gates.
The only Generals they saw were directing their troops at a distance, which worried them – especially the razine: their estimation seemed correct, that the enemy commanders would indeed hold back to the last.
None of the leaders had yet been seriously hurt or killed in the battles, but all of them bore injuries, ranging from the broken leg that had retired King Nemeth late on the fourth day, to the cuts, bruises, pulled muscles and so on that made the rest of them limp and ache as they rested as well as they could each evening, or sharpened their weapons, talking.
As the allied forces had advanced, their engineers had been constructing siege engines and pontoons to enable an easier crossing of the Sare, using where available the materials that had formed the defences that they had taken, along with what seemed to be miles of planks and beams cut from the denuded forests. Some of the walking wounded were tasked with filling in the ditch and flattening the ramparts around the gates – their two camps behind them were more than adequate for the moment, and they didn’t want to leave defences that a task force from the city could utilise easily. Now that the enemy were confined to the city, hemmed in behind its ancient walls, they all breathed easier, but although many thousands of the jajozeli soldiers were dead – and forming smoking pyres across the lower vale, to ensure that the health of the allied soldiers were not compromised – no-one felt any elation, however: the city was held against them.
The commanders sent out more patrols, carefully ranging through the countryside, a good few miles distant from the city walls, and their reports were pondered over with great scrutiny: it seemed that the enemy had denuded the whole area of the vale before withdrawing into Clirensar. Their soldiers were visible clearly on the ramparts they defended, but that seemed the limit of their sphere of influence – a wise strategy, everyone agreed. Allied soldiers now were sent to encircle the rest of the city – thousands upon thousands, with all the ancillary support required: equipment, food and tents and so on.
Jerryn and his companions all sat together, tired and resigned to the ache and burn of their abused muscles, the low-level headaches that beat behind their eyes. The reality of battle had shaken them all, but they were ready and willing to continue the next day – and the next and the one after that – for simply as long as it would take, to eliminate the enemy and retake the city . . . But they were all sick of it!
“Are you all right?” Kerrenan and King Namayomn both came over with fresh jugs of the watered wine they now normally drank in the evenings. “You look terrible, men.”
“Just tired, Kerr, really.” Pualyn admitted with a sigh. “Thank you.” He held out his goblet for a serving of wine.
“And a bit disheartened, too.” Jerryn added. “I know we’re advancing bloody quickly, all things considered, but it still seems far too bloody slow!” He shook his head.
“I know what you mean, Jerryn.” Namayomn agreed, courteously refilling the other goblets in their hands. “But look: we control the countryside around the city again and we are gaining fresh troops and supplies regularly – Our healers are exceptional, as well. Things could be so very much worse.” His tone was hearty, but they could all tell that this was faked. No matter training and professionalism, it was a horrible business.
“Dear Arven, yes!” Sevanter exclaimed, and shivered. They were scheduled to take a troop in the morning, to try and see if they could view Home Farm and Callorton in safety – if they dared to venture close to Clirensar’s defences, despite their own troops that blocked any danger – and the thought of what they might find there was probably much worse than what they would actually find after so many moons.
*
Dawn came all too swiftly as the spring advanced and everyone was up early for a hearty breakfast, before the massive siege engines would begin their assault on the city gates and walls, under the command of Commander Vedeigne. This, they assumed with some confidence, would concentrate the enemy’s attention sufficiently for King Marrand to lead a company of Razine as support, and the young group including Jerryn, Pualyn and the Flame Guard around the Vale to the south.
They rode steadily, keeping at least a league from the bank of the Sare, making for a small crossing upstream well-known to Pualyn and Sevanter, keeping hidden behind trees and empty farm ranges where possible, but the spring-greened vale was frighteningly lacking in life – even wildlife was largely missing, it seemed. There was no sign of any enemy, except the marching figures visible on the distant rampart and the city walls beyond, nothing amiss apart from the emptiness. Their own troops had completed their circle to form an impregnable barrier to the west and south, right to the foot of the crag to the east – they were clear to see, their weapons shining. The small group carried on through countryside that was horribly familiar, yet full of hidden horror and danger – they all felt it, even the razine who did not have the personal reasons for their intense emotions. They passed other little farms on the south side of the river, all long empty, some ruined – the land was eerily empty, despite their armies.
It took most of the morning to circle to the lane that led to Home Farm, puddled from the rain that had fallen during the previous day, and overgrown – the hedges and verges unkempt, some branches from trees fallen and lying across their path. The fields beyond were ragged and completely bereft of the horses that had defined Sarant’s stud, the well-woven stems of the hedges and planting gaining that new cover of a myriad greens, nature having no regard for their loss.
“This is a beautiful land.” Kerrenan said quietly, fully aware of the collective distress of the group and most especially of Sevanter and Pualyn, who ignored the rest of them, riding ahead – to pause at the edge of the old orchard that had screened the range of buildings from the road.
“Oh, shit!” Sevanter groaned, staring at the remains of the farmhouse and barns – they had been burned, leaving only blackened stone walls and a couple of roof beams hanging precariously, looking horribly like broken ribs. There were no signs of any bodies – the yard was empty. There were no chickens or birds in sight other than a couple of large crows that leisurely flapped away from them.
“Sevanter, I’m so sorry, Salyn and Deanne – their children – oh, the bastards!” Pualyn fought back tears, looking at the ruins. “I’m so, so sorry -.”
“They never stood a chance.” The lieutenant said with an attempt at professional detachment, riding slowly forward as the rest of the group joined them.
“This is tragic!” Marrand spat. “Dear Arven -.” He broke off, dismounted, and headed for the ruined doorway that had led into the pristine kitchen, wincing as he stepped on a couple of pieces of broken pottery, glancing at the remains of a bowl that he recognised. Everyone stared as he paused on the blackened doorstep, shaking his head slowly, before turning around and heading back towards them. “Nothing is left.” He said regretfully to Pualyn. “I am sorry.”
Jerryn spat curses, kicked his beloved horse Vachane and turned out of the yard, heading towards the little lane that led to the fields and the stripe of woodland that separated Home Farm from Callorton – he knew these lands almost as well as the others, after all. He had spent many happy holidays here in Clirensar and on the Farm, especially when he was younger, when they had all raced about, children having fun fishing in the ponds, catching crickets and grasshoppers, feeding the animals – when the world had been simple!
Fury and fear filled him: he had spent a great deal of his energy on the planning and execution of battle, trying to suppress the guilt he felt at all that had befallen the Kingdom since he and Ethrayne had agreed to take the Flame of Arven – with no idea how anyone was going to survive.
; Kerrenan shouted silently. ;
; He spat back, urging Vachane on at full speed. ; He was trying to put his feelings into words, but very badly – he heard the High-Prince’s projected curses following him.
Across the fields and through the separating woodland, Jerryn slowed as he emerged into the equally overgrown fields beyond, the previously pristine lands of the self-contained Callorton estate – where Sevanter and Lyria had grown up with their siblings, slightly in awe of the rich, privileged family that owned the farm to the north, with their frequent royal guests . . . He stopped there by the edge of the trees, unable to continue: it wasn’t his place to take over – Sevanter and Pualyn were family – and he could just see the blackened ruins of the buildings from here, emerging from the greening trees.
Oh, dear Arven!>; He fought to keep control, though he longed to scream out his distress. There was sound from behind him – a curse as Kerrenan came out of the undergrowth, fighting to clear his cloak from ensnaring rose stems.
“Thousands on thousands are dead! How many more will they kill to try and capture me, Kerr? And what then – what might happen to Iullyn if they imprison me, too?” He demanded angrily.
“We cannot answer that, Am’maiya, I am sorry.” The High-Prince answered him quietly.
“Then surely we’re -.” But Jerryn stopped there as the rest of the group burst through from the woodland, curbing his doom-laden words and began again, but silently. ;
; The High-Prince apologised humbly, bowing his head as the Duke took the lead.
Pualyn would have spoken, but a clear boom of stone hitting stone broke through then – they realised that they had been hearing similar collisions for some time, but with less clarity – that crash! had echoed across the vale, and was followed by a notably audible cheer of support from the encircling soldiers.
“Excellent!” King Marrand said, smiling despite the clear worry on his face. “That’s a strong hit, unless I’m mistaken – the siege is properly begun, gentlemen.”
“Thank Arven!” Pualyn muttered, shuddered, and led them on to Callorton with Sevanter by his side. “Let’s find out what we can, before we head back, hey?” He muttered to the Lieutenant.
“Yes.” Was Sevanter’s terse reply.
The farmyard was as weedy and empty as at Home Farm – all the old, well-built barns and house burned out. The chickens had gone, as had all the other animals – probably for food, they surmised. One sight deeply disturbed them: the hefty farmhouse door had been deliberately propped up against the blackened porch wall and a body had been nailed to it, moons before, leaving stained and ruined clothing and most of the bones piled haphazardly on the ground, where they had been gnawed and disturbed by vermin.
Sombre, his jaw clenched, Jerryn picked up a rusty shovel half hidden in emerging nettles, and strode on past to clear grass, where he started to hack at the ground. Pualyn and Sevanter found tools to help him, all silent, all holding tight to their emotions. With three of them working, it did not take quite so long to dig a grave. Marrand, Kerrenan and Tymain gathered the remains up respectfully, wrapping them in the King’s cloak, whilst the rest of the Flame Troop searched the area for more bodies – but they didn’t find any. They buried their countryman – or woman – pressed down the soil, and said fervent prayers to him and the innocent dwellers of the two farms, before setting off back to the accompanying boom! of the rocks hitting the walls and the gates gradually growing louder.
* * *
Buoyed by their High-King’s acquiescence, if slightly disappointed at being unsuccessful at obtaining his whole-hearted approval, the five razine captains who had formulated their audacious proposal of attack, met together at the Pilgrim’s Arms in a newly rebuilt Orran, some distance from the port’s administration buildings. The presence of five massive razine ships at anchor in the deep water just off-shore made everyone, from Garrison Commander to lowly fisherman, feel much more secure – and Commander Taess had been pleased to receive a private visit from Captain Ashanner and Captain Phellos, briefly explaining the reason for their congregation.
In fact, he had rubbed his hands together in glee at the thought of Cal’Badon’s possible destruction and wished them Godspeed on their voyage. The attack on his city as part of the diversion for the quiet occupation of Clirensar had hit him hard, amongst many.
The Orbain Pearl and Mador Opal were joined by the Jaece Pearl, Veddock Pearl and the Cerris Opal; the other ships of the fleet were elsewhere in the world’s oceans and out of range - but the five captains between them had nearly eighty razine crew – including themselves – to call upon, in addition to their human troops, all of them experienced, hardened marines.
Over a hearty, four-course meal in a large, private dining room at the inn, the captains made their plans. The two Opal ships would range ahead as scouts, to destroy all jajozeli ships that might interfere, then circle back to the south of the Badon Inlet by the last quarter of the moon of Rhellay. The five ships would attack at the dark of the moon, with deck-based mangonels to throw fire effectively and the intention of wakening the volcanoes that kept the region ice-free.
They knew well that the five of them would be hard-pressed, but their combined power as razine was considerable – and war-by-talent was a concept so far ignored by the razine since the initial war with Gregnor’s followers, eight-hundred odd years earlier. The humans amongst them would man the mangonels and lead the hand-to-hand fighting.
“I just wish we could have brought more of our colleagues into the equation.” Captain Amdor remarked. He was older than all the others there – and he looked it, with a craggy, lined, ruddy face and almost white hair that tended to stick out; with his pale, blue eyes that protruded slightly, there was the look of an eccentric about him, but he was a sober master of the Cerris Opal and had been for nearly two centuries. “It isn’t a small place like Fansport, after all. I’m sure Cal’Badon is well defended.”
“There are over a hundred and fifty of us, Amdor and even the youngest men in our crews are seasoned fighters.” Captain Phellos asserted calmly. “And they’re hardly going to expect an all-out attack by the reticent, timid Protectorate ships, are they?”
“Well, that’s true, Phellos.” Captain Eltham, master of the Jaece Pearl, agreed, nodded fervently. “But it’s -.” He fell silent at a knock on the stout door.
“Enter.” Captain Ashanner called.
Commander Taess and Captain Dhell stood in the doorway and the old fisherman grinned and bowed low to Captain Phellos as they stepped into the room and shut the door smartly.
“Evenin’ Cap’ns.” He offered in his usual drawl.
“Ah, excuse our interruption, good Captains.” Taess said rather nervously, sensing a brewing antagonism. “But it seems that with this gentlemen’s input, there’s been quite a bit of discussion between your Protectorate crews and locals since you came ashore -.”
“Captain Dhell, what on Iullyn are you doing here? You’ve never come near Orran before.” Phellos pointed out crisply. “Isn’t this range rather out of your usual fishing grounds by a good few leagues?”
“Hss, Ma’am!” Dhell said with a bow. “Heard you’re gonna burn Cal’Badon so I had a word with people an’ hitched a berth – d’ya want some help? And there’re quite a few pissed-off folks who’d just love to give you a hand – ‘specially after all that’s happened here in the south.”
“Blood and sand!” Captain Skendon of the Veddock Pearl rose slowly to his feet, staring and then began to laugh. “Brilliant!” He exclaimed.
“I’m going to murder Lunde!” Phellos declared then, crisply. “Captain Dhell, did you get them all drunk, hmm, in Rothern?”
“Me, Cap’n? Never!” The old man replied, hand on heart, grinning broadly. “Knew you must be plannin’ summat, though, when you went up to Tenum City – It’s a fine sight, Cap’n: never before have we had five of your ships berthed anywhere in Tenarum at once.” His eyes twinkled as he shook his head.
“How old are you, Dhell?” Phellos continued, but her glare was fading slightly into amusement. “You’re too old by far for combat, surely -.”
“I’m probably younger than you, Cap’n.” He said with a shrug. “But we can’t stand by – even if we only are good for’t basics. Most of the lads I’ve spoken to here’re strong and determined – on me ‘eart.” And he bowed again.
“He’s right there.” Commander Taess added then. “The news has spread through the harbour area anyway without the Captain’s input and those who haven’t gone inland to fight at Clirensar are those who know the sea the best. If they haven’t ventured near Cal’Badon, they still know the ocean – and they certainly know their weapons, Captains.”
The five razine exchanged glances and Skendon’s laughter faded – all of them grinning with appreciation. Captain Ashanner rose to his feet and bowed.
“Then you had better join us, gentlemen.” He came across the room, shook their hands heartily then went to the door and stuck his head around it.” More wine and extra glasses, please.” He instructed the maid loitering in the corridor.
*
Three days later, two large Tenarean merchant vessels were equipped and ready to sail south with their allies, donated by the Lord of Orran, Kierven. With the sea in his heart, he was more often on the open ocean than present in his castle above the port. Newly returned from Hessarth, the capital of Jaece, he had instantly volunteered his two docked ships and himself – although he admitted that the Sweet Rose and Crimson Rose were much smaller than the razine craft by some fifty feet, bow to stern.
“It will be very dangerous, my Lord Kierven.” Captain Eltham warned him, there on the re-built wharf. “This is war, not commerce: you and your crews and the volunteers may all die, as might the rest of us.”
“I’ve dealt with pirates, Captain – I’m not a complete novice, you know.” Kierven told him, grinning without rancour or offence as he shifted the mail shirt weighing him down, that he had pulled out of storage. “I volunteered for the fighting last autumn, but King Marrand wrote back that I was better off continuing my shipping ventures. Very nice of Marrand and a nice profit, here and there – but now it’s time to get involved: they’ve cost us dear, torching our wharves, killing Sarant and Riyala, takin’ Clirensar like that. Burning Cal’Badon would be a bloody good start.”
“Good for you, my Lord.” Captain Phellos commended him with a grin.
“Thank you, Captain Phellos. May I say, your actions are quite legendary – it’s been an honour to finally meet you.” Kierven said enthusiastically.
“Thank you, my Lord. Let’s all get to our ships and begin our voyage shall we?” She suggested – rather tired of the clear interest and flattery of so many much younger men, however politely and gallantly done. She did admit to herself, however, that the thirty-three year old Lord of Orran was a most handsome fellow – and a superlative captain and businessman aside. As the local fishing boats set about taking them all to their separate commands about the estuary – after an intense few games of dice for the privilege, one crew had won the honour of transporting her to the Mador Opal – she smiled to herself.
*
Nine days later, the seven ships were approaching the rocky point that protected the Badon Inlet – an innocuous name for a vast sea channel that led deep into the mountains that guarded the port so well. It was a sharp-edged, steep sided stack that was host to innumerable seabirds in this season, the dark grey rock covered with centuries-worth of guano. A steep, wave-cut curve joined it to the northern extent of the mountains, bare rock for the most part, and sheer to the cold, grey sea. The steep edged cliffs and crags averaged only a couple of hundred feet, but they were unassailable.
The channel was a good few miles wide at its mouth, a singularly unappealing inlet – choppy, monochrome waves breaking with suicidal enthusiasm against cliffs and steep slopes of a similar shade, to both north and south. The only approach was by sea – and the greatest danger was that the invading fleet would meet enemy craft emerging from the city at its western end and so loose the element of surprise that they had prayed so greatly for. Once in the curving inlet, they didn’t imagine that there would be many hiding places available to them.
Whilst out to sea, the personnel on board the ships had moved about – the Tenarean volunteers from the Crimson Rose and ten men from the Sweet Rose were now spread out evenly between the Orbain Pearl, Mador Opal, Jaece Pearl and the Veddock Pearl; whilst some of the razine boarded the two Roses.
Kierven as Captain of the Sweet Rose, Captain Leo of the Crimson Rose and Captain Amdor of the Cerris Opal were tasked with holding the attention – and neutralising – the forts that would focus on their approach. They knew that there was at least one fort protecting the length of the inlet and logically there would probably be more, considering the strategic importance of the city to the enemy. Now, all seven ships bore the standards of the Jajozeli Empire, which would be displayed now on in. The razine would appear to be in charge, posing as Generals from Enlath and would silence any questioners imperiously.
Such was their plan: simple and audacious. Once the forts were neutralised, the other four ships would shoot ahead under the cover of the old moon to attack Cal’Badon at the head of the inlet. They were all aware that their scheme relied on a considerable amount of pure luck – and the superstitious sailors of both races and continents prayed diligently as they made their preparations, organised their weapons and supplies. The crews of the Pearl and Opal ships were all familiar with the devices of the Betrayer, but they felt horribly uncomfortable at displaying them, however necessary it was.
The Cerris Opal, showing the stark flags of the Empire and deliberately lacking some equipment that would have been visible on deck, slowly approached the dock of the cliff-based Cal’Dernal on the north-face of the inlet, the crew in plain black and Captain Amdor imposing in similar clothing, glaring at the local guards as they scurried to attach the ropes thrown across the gap, as the ship’s sails were furled.
“Watch out!” He bellowed in jajozeli. “Capturing this vessel cost me a number of valued crew. Who’s in charge here?”
“C-Captain Scarm, Lord General – he’s been sent for -.”
“Good.” Amdor commented, scanning the compact fort ranged in levels above his head. There were two docks angling out into the deep-water channel, just long enough to form a small harbour of sorts – this was a guard post, nothing more, situated on the steeply climbing rock face it was formidable and, on the curve of the cliff, it had a good view for miles both north-east and south-west along the inlet. A wall separated the dockside from the fort structure and access was only by one six-foot-wide gate that opened inwards to reveal a small, flat area and the bottom six or seven feet of a steep flight of stairs, obscured by a thin, tall man who stepped through and bowed politely to the ‘General’.
“Good evening, my Lord General – Pirris! You’ve captured an ‘Opal’!”
“Yes, the bastards damaged my ship six days ago, so I took theirs.” Amdor stated grimly. “It’s been a long trip, Captain – any chance of a drink and a meal? We can exchange news – the crew have some purloined Rothern red and they’re willing to share it.”
“But – but of course, my Lord General. Have you travelled this way before? Cal’Badon is at the head of the inlet – two days further you see – they have much better facilities -.”
“Stars, no man! It’s been moons since we left – got to stretch our legs – sick of bloody fish! Lead on, Captain – you can fill me in on recent news.” Amdor continued, not giving the awed captain time to protest, dismissing his protests with commendable arrogance. He followed the thin man up the steps to the fort above. “Bring that barrel – we all deserve a drink after the last moons!” He ordered his crew, filing off the ship behind him.
“At once, Lord General.” His first officer, Forran, shouted back.
It was always beneficial for local commanders – especially if human – to pay court to any passing Generals or ranking jajozeli-razine, if one wanted to retain one’s rank, advance, or even to simply survive in the Empire. Excellence was vital in everyone. The captain of the fort was most insistent, on hearing how the visiting ‘General’ had succeeded in capturing the Opal, to entertain him and his crew. His subordinates were clearly just as keen to get off the ship after a long voyage from Enlath – and a lavish dinner was provided. Captain Amdor was easily able to discover the call-signs that worked between the three cliff-bound forts and the city that they protected – bonfires on the fire-level, three-steep flights of steps above the roofs of the fort, that could be see easily from Cal’Passe at the opposite shore, most of a day’s further journey inward. And so the signal could be quickly advanced as required, to warn Cal’Badon.
By the middle of the night, in a chilling reproduction of the taking of Clirensar, every jajozeli in Cal’Dernal was dead – the hundred replaced with twenty Tenareans and First Officer Forran as the razine in charge. They stripped the fort of most of its food supplies and Captain Amdor sailed on towards the equally unprepared Cal’Passe at dawn.
*
Cal’Passe, under Captain Wesse; and Cal’Lilse, under Captain Yellayn, fell with equal ease. Clearly, the jajozeli could not envisage the hated razine and their pet humans duping them in such an audacious manner – and the Generals who might have been able to sense the danger were, to their great relief, absent. That had been their real fear, of course: the presence of even one jajozeli-razine at one of the guard posts would almost certainly have scuppered their attempt to pass through, right at the outset.
Fortunately they had found two points where they had been able to moor more or less out of sight – for, of course, they could not guarantee that any jajozeli ships would not venture along the inlet. One was a rocky bay, backed with vertiginous cliffs, situated behind a brush-covered headland – almost the first vegetation they had seen along the channel, although they had sailed a good fifty miles by then. The second site was similar – an area of deep water, into which a huge waterfall dropped like thunder, behind the screen of an ancient rock-fall. It was not perfect by any means, but to superficial glances, they might survive any other watchers.
Now, just within sight of Cal’Badon, the three Pearl ships and Captain Phellos’s Mador Opal waved thanks and farewell to the Cerris Opal and the Rose ships and set off at first light, all showing the jajozeli flags. Most observers in the city ahead would probably assume that four blatantly razine ships – that had clearly passed the guard forts without incident or problem – were controlled by their own people: an unprecedented coup! That was what they hoped, their prayers still fervent.
On the Mador Opal, Captain Phellos glanced up at the Betrayer’s standard with evident distaste as they continued past the towering snow-covered, cliff-based mountains that had grown steadily in height the further inland the inlet had led. These pathless mountains had rendered most of Zanezli inaccessible – it was a cold, unfriendly, unwelcoming land.
“Are you all right, Captain?” The elderly fisherman, Dhell, asked; he had noted her glowering glances at the standards, now and again and the striking woman was usually far too confident and able to let something so inconsequential bother her.
“Not really, Captain Dhell.” She admitted, hunching her shoulders for a moment. “There are traitors in my family: my great-grandfather’s brother on my mother’s side betrayed the Protectorates – betrayed Arven – when the Betrayer caused such destruction in our lands, all those centuries ago. It’s awful: he helped kill so many innocent people, human and razine indiscriminately and his descendants will still be doing the same . . . I hate them!” There was a deadly intensity to her voice that he had not expected.
“Well, Captain Ma’am, you’re not going to go around recklessly puttin’ yourself in danger just because of a few bad’uns in the family. Hold back a little is my advice.” He said calmly, to her evident astonishment. “Not spoken to my idiot brother and his stupid wife for thirty years. Still, they’re only bleedin’ irritatin’, not traitors, but you know what I mean. Personal revenge is a bitter thing, y’know: got to think o’ that girl, Lady Ethrayne and Clirensar an’ all. Not risk y’self.”
“Dhell!” She snapped his name, then sighed, for behind her she could hear her first officer, Lunde, laughing aloud. “Shut up!” She growled, turning to glare at him.
“Of course, Captain, at once.” Lunde answered with a sweeping bow. But it took a lot of effort, it seemed – he had a grin fixed to his face, his eyes shining, for most of the day.
*
The four ships slipped along the narrowing inlet, all too aware that the mountains now pressed down upon them – the towering cliffs on either side had only got higher and steeper, now merging into snow-topped peaks like knife edges. The effect was heightened because the channel was now only a mile or so wide and the light even at noon was minimal – mountains, cliffs and water all shadowed, except at the edge of the sky, where sunlight occasionally showed on the peaks. It was very quiet.
In the fast-fading afternoon light, those with good eyes could see, some distance ahead the deep but narrow river channel that flowed into the sea and beside it the steep-sided, deeply-shadowed valley beyond where the outlines of walls and roofs could be discerned. There was clearly a whiff of sulphur in the air plus smoke or steam above the rooftops that made the city seem ethereal, somehow.
The sky above was still blue, around the gusting clouds, but the looming peaks blocked the sunlight almost completely – it must be a very gloomy place, most of the year, almost perpetually shadowed, surrounded by its protecting ranges.
Clearly the approach of four ‘captured’ razine ships had raised a great deal of interest. The dockside was packed with men and jajozeli-razine, all cheering enthusiastically with their expectations – for why should they imagine anything other than the obvious?
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Captain Ashanner said, nodding graciously, as the Orbain Pearl was helpfully tied up right in the centre of the wharf, by a couple of eager soldiers.
; He sent on a tight focus to his cohorts of both races – and an answering cheer went up, echoing around. ; “For Arven and the Am’maiya!” He yelled in Selithian at the top of his voice. “Now!”
Arrows rained down without warning from the Orbain Pearl and her sister ships, slaughtering the front ranks of the jajozeli who had gathered to greet them. The enemy could only stare, aghast, disbelieving, for one crucial moment as their fellow soldiers died around them and Ashanner and his fellow razine did what so very few of them had ever had to stomach to attempt: linked their talent under the Captain’s guidance, blasted out the mind of every General and other jajozeli-razine civilian within a mile!
; That was Phellos exulting, her ship heading past the other three, heading to port, towards the southern side of the dock front as planned.
Everyone on the thick planking was motionless on the floor, stunned or dead. Those who had melded their power to murder felt sickened at the odd burst of pleasure that had accompanied their attack, running intensely through each of them. It was one of the effects which sometimes occurred when they were so emotionally involved in what they were doing – another reason why the razine rarely used their native power to physically attack their enemies. Conversely and revoltingly, it was rumoured that the pleasure-factor was specifically used during the intense training of the jajozeli-razine Generals.
“Don’t dawdle, let’s go!” Ashanner cried, shaking himself out of a momentary distraction. “You know what to do – let’s get to it!”
Dutifully, his crew, the Tenarean contingent and the fighters from the other Pearls, leapt down onto the sturdy dock and set off towards the gate that gave admittance to the city, whilst he paused to make nice big holes in all the craft of all sizes berthed along the waterfront – with at least three ten-foot holes in every ship, they sank immediately – and would probably be almost impossible to refloat, especially quickly. Grinning, he jumped down onto the dock and drew his sword. The sounds of horns blasting and shouts further inland clearly told him that the alarm had been raised – but he was confident that he and his cohorts would prevail.
Take care, Phellos! See you at dawn.>; He sent, running on.
; She replied, concentrating on minute adjustments as her ship closed on the dock – its fenders only kissed the stones.
Lunde leapt out and fastened the ropes with quick hands, then waved his arm widely. “Come on people! Let’s get going!” He shouted.
There were a few soldiers spilling out through a gate at their extreme left and south side of the wharves, but these were disposed of easily and the attackers broke into every building in turn in that area, checking them for occupants, then torching them with cold efficiency. The allies spread out around their Captain, Phellos’s striking hair hidden in a kerchief, taking care to eliminate any jajozeli in their path, for her self-appointed task – and no one had been able to dissuade her from it – was to activate the volcanic substrata that kept the inlet from freezing in the bitter winters that would otherwise have rendered it useless for more than half the year. Guarding the Mador Opal for her return, Captain Dhellos watched her vanish amid the nearly night-shrouded but starkly fire-lit buildings, gripped his sword tightly and continued to pray.
“C’mon lads, keep alert, we’ve got a job to do here – they’re dependin’ on us to keep her safe for our escape.” He barked roughly to the largely grey-haired residents of Orran who stood with him. “Dear Arven, it’s goin’ to be a long night.”
*
The city was large, but laid in a clearly military-based grid pattern, giving the allies a surprisingly easy access to the entire place. There were walls, but they were mediocre when compared to most defences – Clirensar’s for example – for, of course, Cal’Badon was protected by its position and its forts.
The murders of so many innocents at the enemy’s hands, from Fansport to Arven’s Palace in the far north of Iullyn and everywhere in between, gave the severely out-numbered Protectorate and Tenarean combatants the strength to maintain their impetus – the razine gritting their teeth and using their power to kill whole swathes of the enemy.
Reaching the imposing administration building, they found it well defended in the centre of the city, but the defenders were dismayed at the uncharacteristic ruthlessness of the allies, as the complex was set ablaze behind them. This dismay turned into a sudden loss of confidence, or so it seemed – a heartening occurrence none of them would have expected from the supremely confident, lethal jajozeli of both races. Captain Ashanner led the attack, abandoning the use of talent for the satisfyingly physical effort and clash of weapons. It seemed that a major part of the city’s inhabitants were fighting here, but all of them were systematically cut down. The allies watched in great satisfaction as the standards of the Betrayer vanished in flame – cheered – and carried on their advance, flushing out every defender as they went.
The massive city seemed, however, strangely empty – if the thousands now occupying Clirensar had been based here, the swathe of empty buildings were explained: administration, cook houses, barracks – all unoccupied, especially on the western side of the city, right up to the city walls, five miles inland, where an imposing gate gave access to the main road to Ban’Lerracon.
The allies fought on. It was easier, in part, than they had expected – but war is never easy and none of them were complacent. By the middle of the night, it seemed that they were primarily engaged more in checking, clearing and burning. Captain Skendon of the Veddock Pearl was severely injured and his place was enthusiastically taken by his first mate, Lieutenant Carron, whilst he was carried away back to his ship – protesting every inch of the way, despite his shattered femur that had been hurriedly splinted. Most of the city was burning now and, gradually, the rather depleted allies started making their way back towards the seafront. They had lost nearly a hundred combatants in the battle, most of them bore injuries of varying seriousness, but their losses were surprisingly few when compared with those of their enemies.
“Dear Arven, I hope Phellos is all right!” Ashanner remarked to Lieutenant Hachorn as they kept watch at the landward side of the wharves, trying to differentiate solid from the stark shadows cast by the many fires reflected strangely from the mountains and the clouds above. “It’ll be morning all too soon – we’ll have to leave as planned: we can’t deviate from what we agreed – too many lives are at risk.”
“Aye, sir, you’re right.” Hachorn agreed, sounding tired but admiring. “But she’s really bloody good!”
*
There was no wall on the southern side of Cal’Badon. The blocky series of buildings ended abruptly with a plain pavement that ran off towards rougher ground to the south and west, an area over a mile wide and nearly a league from the inlet’s lapping water to the solid base of the mountains, now intermittently visible in the guttering light of the fires that were spreading unchecked across the city behind them. Ahead of them, starkly clear in the darkness, were a number of small, brightly burning, forbidding-looking pools that seethed with a sulphurous power.
“Dear Arven, what an evil looking place!” Lunde muttered staring out at the strange sight. “Perfect for the local inhabitants: it stinks!”
“Yes, but it’s perfect for what we want.” Phellos sheathed her sword and rolled her shoulders to ease the ache she had developed. The group had had some intense fighting to pass through this portion of the city since they had landed, but had made it through to their goal. “Spread out – I’ll call you if I need your aid.”
“Aye, Captain – Dear Arven, be careful, Phellos!” He added, concern in his voice.
“Go on with you, Lunde, you sound like Dhell.” But she flashed her first mate a grin that belied her inner concerns and took a deep breath of the clearly sulphurous air. As the group of over a hundred headed out in a wedge-shape back into the cover of the remaining buildings to torch them, she closed her eyes and reached out and down with her talent, her power, intending to use it in a way that she had never even imaged before – but the entire concept had seemed just right to her when they had all discussed it so intently, setting out their options and their approach. Instinct had led her to claim this task as her own – and the razine usually followed their instincts.
The ground below her feet seemed to be a seething mass of hot water and semi-molten rock almost within physical reach – a power that was only barely contained and controlled by nature . . . Taking a second deep breath, feeling herself tingling in reaction to the sheer amount of talent that she was pulling together . . . Time slowed as Phellos reached out and down, moving steadily but confidently – and it seemed that she was breathing in rhythm to the movements and fluctuations of the earth, the impossibly hot magma and gasses and super-heated water . . . The danger vanished, the actual fighting, the city – all her attention was fixed underground, as her power flexed and she worked to control forces few had ever dared to touch.
Surrounding her at a distance and out of sight, her crew and the Tenarean volunteers ranged about, killing any remaining jajozeli they came across, keeping their now deeply-entranced Captain safe, all too aware that the night was passing.
Gradually, expanding her reach, increasing her concentration, the moment of rightness came closer – closer . . . “In Arven’s name – rise!” She shouted aloud, lifting her arms above her head – feeling her power thunder down into the depths of the earth.
Almost instantly, the ground below her feet bucked violently in almost a wave-like manner and then an explosion ripped through the ground to her left – knocked her flat to the ground – and pulsing, molten fire erupted, spilling out of the earth with the consistency of thick sauce but with force behind it – it spouted twenty or so feet into the air, and the heat was phenomenal.
Phellos got heavily to her feet, utterly exhausted by her efforts, but elated. “There, that’ll keep the bastards out of the area!” She murmured with satisfaction – quietly amazed at the success of her plan.
Then, without warning, there was a second explosion, followed by a flash of massive talent that did not bode well at all – instinct told Phellos that their enemies were closing in.
* * *
The weather warmed as the days passed, the ship heading north across the boundless ocean. Ethrayne cut down one of her worn tunics, removing the sleeves, finishing it neatly during the long evenings she was forced to spend with the Generals. She continued to spend as much of her free time as possible out of the way on deck, under a piece of sailcloth turned into a sunshade near the bow – after all the moons since her capture, she still could not get used to her captors.
Yet another day dawned and Ethrayne awoke very early, creeping out of the cabin as usual – General Cavaln was still asleep. Straightening the tunic that had been pulled on quickly, she glanced back down the dimly illuminated passage where she was forbidden to stray, and ascended the ladder to the main level, heading for the galley where General Whillan glowered at her and grudgingly served her breakfast – again, very much as normal. Ethrayne ate the porridge quickly, thinking that it had definitely got a bit thinner over the last few days, then dutifully thanked Whillan and left to climb onto the main deck, balancing the flat bread and cheese and mug of tea with practised ease.
She supposed that, considering that they had been sailing now for over a moon, even the fullest cargo holds would grow depleted with the creative cooking practised by the chefs – and the hearty appetites of everyone board. It was proof of Whillan and Sapphor’s skill that the steadily dwindling resources had hardly impacted on the quality of their meals.
Stepping out into the sunlight, the planks already warm under her bare feet although the sun was still low above the horizon to her right, the girl’s mood lightened immediately; even after a moon or more at sea, including her unavoidable time spent near the King, his presence and power and that of his lieutenants, still shredded her nerves on a daily basis – she could not grow accustomed to them at all. At least, here on deck, the pleasant warm breeze, the sunlight playing on the azure ocean, the endless vista of sea and the bowl of the sky, somehow seemed to dissipate their all-encompassing existence a little.
The sun was a huge golden orb less than a finger’s breadth above the horizon, the sea a glittering shimmer of greenish blue, the sky above that lambent, clear shade that would earn any dyer a fortune if it could be replicated in cloth. Stretching, Ethrayne looked about cautiously – Generals Garrtnor, Jallon and Benthan were talking together at the wheel on the stern deck, so she made her way to the port rail halfway along, set her tea carefully on the deck and nibbled at the bread and cheese, staring at the deep-blue waters that were broken by the passing of the ship, white wavelets a sharp contrast as the ship advanced. She gazed about, noting the wide-winged birds that floated far above, or dived like arrows into the water – to emerge, gulping fish, absently reaching for her cooling tea, sighing softly. It was beautiful, yes, but alien somehow. Soon enough, Ackat, Thellor or one of the others would call her for the obligatory combat practice – but at least she could rest, until they were all up and breakfasted.
Turning towards the south, drinking the last of the tea, Ethrayne actually started – there, right on the edge of the horizon, loomed what at first sight seemed to be a far-distant mountainous vista – she blinked and shivered despite the warm, humid air and sunshine: the dark grey mass must be clouds, vast clouds, but the weather had been consistently lovely for at least eight days – the only clouds had been tiny, brilliant white, and soon vanishing in the heat of noon.
“There’s a storm coming, the wind’s changing.” General Tynsyn remarked from behind her and Ethrayne almost dropped the tin mug, unaware of his approach.
“Those clouds are very dark, my Lord General.” She answered politely.
“Certainly and this is not the time of year for storms.” He elaborated, grinning at her unease. “It could be interesting.”
It did not sound like any kind of interesting that she had ever heard of and Ethrayne recalled those awful first few days aboard the ship, plunging through massive waves, the seas a strange shade of chilling grey-green and the sky a complex, rain-pelting variation of deep greys. But, viewed in the early sunlight of these tropical seas, this bank of cloud was somehow darker – the base shaded from the sunlight – and, as the morning advanced, it towered almost unimaginably into the sky, higher and higher as if trying to scrape the very stars. Ahead of it, the smooth water swiftly vanished and was replaced by actual waves that grew progressively larger.
Combat practice was forgotten that morning – which was also worrying, for the routine had been relentless, almost whatever the worst weather, until now. A colder wind gusted more forcefully at them, although the hot sun still beat down on them, climbing inexorably towards midday. For the first time in days, Ethrayne felt chilly and, once Cavaln was up on deck with the others, she went back to their small cabin for a jerkin before emerging again almost at once. The encroaching weather was strangely fascinating, although by now the clouds were covering almost half the sky. Then, it started to rain, hard cold drops the size of crowns, or near such. The beautiful blue seas were transformed into a cold, steel grey-blue that looked at least as ominous as the huge clouds.
Ethrayne shivered, moving over to the mid-point of the deck, for the King now stood on the stern deck surrounded by most of the experienced sailors – they talked, gesturing a great deal. Cavaln, Whillan and Sepphar were watching the discussion from by the entrance to the cabins and both the chefs and the woman looked serious. Ethrayne knew – all three of them had cheerfully acknowledged how little they knew about the craft and art of sailing. To the girl’s eyes, they all looked concerned and Ethrayne shivered and moved right up to the bucking bow, her unease growing; the wind seemed stronger, the rain harder, falling in stops and starts, the waves larger – and again the weather caught and held her attention despite their conversation.
Around her, quickly and efficiently, the Generals got on with their assigned tasks – the sails furled tight away on the masts; the lines tightened; the water barrels on deck secured, as were the two boats – every knot and connection was examined.
“Get to your cabin, girl.” General Herstyn ordered shortly from behind and Ethrayne turned to see him stagger as the bow plunged into a steep, greenish-walled gully between foam-topped waves. He held a stout rope in one hand, which he proceeded to lash to the rail in the bow. “Don’t dawdle: they’ve taken in the sails and even fitted the shutters. Get below or you’ll be overboard –.”
A sudden flash of lightning temporarily blinded them – it seemed to hit the mast – and was almost instantly followed by a deep roar of thunder that drowned out whatever he was saying. Both of them ducked automatically in reaction – then Herstyn grabbed her arm and hauled her back along the slick deck, the water cold against her feet, both of them staggering at the increasingly erratic movement of the ship as they made for the door to the interior – and it took a moment for the General to open it, both of them stepping into the sudden darkness as he slammed the door closed and released Ethrayne – and she blinked, now able to see clearly.
“Get to your cabin! Stay there!” He ordered – almost shouting, for the rapidly approaching storm seemed ridiculously louder from inside, accompanied by the creaking and protests of the ship itself.
Ethrayne obeyed, glad of the ropes that were strung along the corridor and down the ladders – ropes that she had not had cause to use since she had grown used to the movement of the ship. Carefully descending, memory proving to be much more useful than her eyes, due to the wild light and shadows cast by the swinging lamps. As she did so, she considered a sight from up on deck that she had only just got around to processing: the King, wrapped in a large dark cloak, had been stood at the wheel of the ship, surrounded by the most experienced Generals – holding their course, despite the wind and the rain and spray that had suddenly drenched them.
She shivered. Tynsyn was right.>; She acknowledged to herself, staggering down the second ladder – the pools of light from the lamps, moving widely, were even more useless on this lower level. But his definition of interesting is bloody weird – oh, dear Arven, help us!>; But, she wondered, was it even appropriate to pray when she was surrounded by the enemy, striving to keep control amid the storm?
The creaking of the ship was even more noticeable, surrounded by the structure as she was, but the howl of the storm was far louder – and she slid across the planking more than stepped, unlatching the door to the little cabin and entering into a far dimmer area than she had expected – for it could not even be noon, she guessed.
; She considered then, uneasily. She had wished for her captors’ deaths on many occasions, but to imagine her own death alongside them? That was peculiar – odd – worrying. She shivered at the impact of the thoughts as they suddenly hit home – for even such a well-built ship might be overwhelmed by a bad storm.
Closing the door, fighting against the temporary angle of the ship that nearly threw her back out into the passage, Ethrayne shook her head, then made for the closed shutters, wanting one last glimpse of the outside for some strange reassurance perhaps – she didn’t really know why. But there was no view of storm-tossed waves or the cloud-covered sky, when she pulled one open – puzzling for a moment, for there was nothing to be seen except a pierced but close-fitting metal plate outside the fragile glass of the windows – and, recalling what General Herstyn had said earlier, she supposed that these were the shutters he had mentioned.
Obviously, the Generals had been busy, whilst she had been transfixed, watching the storm developing – but hanging over the stern of a bucking ship somehow fixing metal sheets over the wide banks of windows seemed quite as stupid as balancing atop the masts as they frequently did!
“Madness!” She decided, shutting the inner-shutter again and taking one staggered step to reach her narrow bunk, climbing onto it and bracing herself as best she could against the wall, ignoring her wet leggings, pulling one of her blankets up and around herself for warmth and comfort – it was growing increasingly chilly . . . It was lonely, sat there on her own, but although she wondered where the Generals were, she was glad to be by herself: they would only have mocked her fear, she knew that for the truth. And she was afraid – she thought the weather had been awful when the ship had first left Cal’Itasse, but it was nothing – nothing at all – when compared to this! She sat there, hanging on tight, praying to Arven – trying to ignore the increasingly loud protests of the ship itself against the battering it was taking, and trying to ignore her own increasing hunger and thirst – for it must have been nearly noon when she had been called below, and it felt like a very long time since breakfast . . . But there was no respite – and the storm seemed relentless, except to worsen.
*
The cabin door opened without warning – slamming open back into the passage and a small ball of light entered the cabin, revealing a tall figure behind it, carefully closing the door again. Ethrayne sat up, her heart pounding with a sudden unexplained fear. It had been long since she had decided that it was safer by far to lie down on her bunk rather than struggle to remain sitting up – although the movement of the ship was so violent now, that it seemed that she was going to be thrown right out of the bunk with every relentless mad plunge it made, ascending or descending waves that seemed almost vertical.
“Pirris!” Ackat’s voice said loudly in disgust and he staggered and swore graphically – so that, despite her rising fear and discomfort, the girl managed a small burst of laughter that sounded more than a little hysterical. “Still here, are you, brat? Enjoying the weather?” He asked, almost sliding further into the cabin and grabbing hold of the door frame. “Bloody storm!”
“It’s awful.” She replied – and she, as Ackat, was shouting to make herself heard. “What’s happening? How long has the storm been raging? Is it nearly over?”
“We’ll ride out the storm.” Ackat answered – he did not add any details. “His Majesty wishes you secure against injury.” The ship lurched off to port, then starboard, steeply upwards – he staggered again. “I’d stay laid down. I’ve got rope here to stop you falling out.” The General braced himself, then lashed a length of thin rope between narrow hooks that Ethrayne had noted set both into the plank wall and on the outer side of the bunk frame, she had wondered what their purpose was and now she knew – the rope made a sort of zig-zag webbing above her from upper chest to knees, something to keep her more secure, she supposed – tight, but not tight enough to imprison her: she could easily remove it.
“You can remove it yourself, but I’d leave it in place: a fall in this could easily break bones if you tumble out and we’re rather too busy to check on you for a while.”
“It’s been ages since I came back inside – you’ve not exactly been overly concerned with my wellbeing!” She retorted quickly.
Ackat flashed a brief, mocking grin, then passed her some other items. “Here’s an extra blanket, water and some dried fruit.” He ignored her statement, otherwise. It explained the two bags, one small one, made of canvas, one large and leather plus the heavy weight of wool that were laid on her midriff. She caught hold of them as the ship continued to buck – down a steep slope, then instantly up another. He grinned again – the small globe of pale light was the only constant, it seemed: staying put despite all else – obviously seeing the fear that she battled to contain and control. “I’ll lock you in: there’s no point putting you at further risk -.”
“What? No, don’t you dare -.” She protested, holding tight to the items, held back by the ropes that now served to constrain her – But Ackat had wheeled out of the cabin, his light with him, and the door had been shut again in a moment, the sound of the bolt being slid across clear despite the noise. “You bastard!” She yelled recklessly, fighting against a sudden rush of panicked tears.
*
It was unbelievably worse than being locked in the dungeon had been, feeling the ship shuddering with every massive wave that struck it, again and again and again, hearing the roaring gale that only served to worsen – sounding like a ravening beast rather than a storm. Time passed horribly slowly in the dark of the small cabin – it had been a very long time since Ackat’s appearance. Exhausted and terrified, Ethrayne lay in her bunk, every muscle tensed, holding tight to the lashed rope that had, despite her earlier misgivings, probably saved her from being physically thrown onto the floor on quite a few occasions.
Occasionally, greatly daring, she had endeavoured to eat a little dried fruit and sip a little water, but simple overriding fear had dampened her appetite.
The sheer, unstoppable force of nature that had been unleashed even surpassed the power of the Emperor, in her eyes. It felt as though the storm that had swallowed them would never let them go, never spit them out – it would hold them forever before it covered the whole of Iullyn, its unstoppable waves and winds flattening the continents. The Betrayer, who had imprisoned his God and stolen a goodly portion of his power, would now never prevail . . .
Then, strangely, Ethrayne could see him – he still stood at the wheel, drenched to the bone, his cloak long-since gone, fighting the storm with his own physical strength – but its might was overwhelming. It was mad – but she actually could see him in her mind, her eyes closed tight, although the deck was shrouded in soaking darkness – except when jagged forked lightning erupted in fractured patterns all about them. She knew, somehow, that Gregnor had been stood there, lashed to the wheel, battling for control ever since she had descended to the little cabin, aided as far as possible by his Generals – Jallon, Benthan, Unwynn and Eduren were doing all they could. She could sense his bone-deep chill and exhaustion as clearly as if it were her own – but she didn’t understand why. She could also sense his implacable will: his determination that they would beat the storm. He was fighting the storm as if it were a physical being – using his power as much as brute strength.
The rest of the group – the Generals – were all huddled in the main cabin above, all braced with ropes even as she – and she could sense their fear, also – but she knew that the King was not afraid . . . Although the world was surely at an end!
The ocean seemed to be boiling – the waves, in her strange vision, were unbelievably massive. Ethrayne squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and tried to banish the strange double image of her captors – she was certainly not concerned for them! But she prayed constantly, speaking aloud even though she couldn’t hear her voice, using the words to somehow calm herself. “Dear Arven, please just let it end – Don’t care if I die! Just end it – kill them! Oh, please!”
The sky was black. The sea was somehow black and grey, but lit with the lightning that lit up the waves like mountains, the tiny shape of the massive ship, tossed about – blinks onto complete horror. Ethrayne saw Jallon fighting to stay upright as a wave crashed right over the stern deck – and heard it thunder down above, trying to drive them under . . . Benthan slid a good ten feet before halting himself, coughing and spluttering, grabbing the end of a line – desperately close to the rail and the furious water beyond.
In her mind’s eye, she saw – and felt – the Generals raising their inborn talent, their power and passing it eagerly to their Master . . . Grimacing horribly, he added their talent to his own – it was vast! Ethrayne had not gained any real controls over the power that she had been given so long ago in Tenum City – she had not had any real opportunity here to pursue the learning begun with Bahlien and Lurco. Therefore, she had no protection or way to buffer her mind against their immense strength. That was why Cavaln and Thellor’s lovemaking had so traumatised her: the lack of knowledge and the ability to block herself from them. Now, in the absolute hell of the storm, she was concentrating so much on her panic at the sheer enormity of the weather, it served to make her more vulnerable than ever. The power that they passed so freely, that the King controlled, also flowed through her – and it built up inside her: unstoppable, painful in the extreme – unnatural! . . . Ethrayne screamed, unable to stop it or dispel it – And it sparked her own talent, the power of the Flame of Arven, deep within her . . .
; She screamed loudly inside her head, trying to stop it – to fight it – anything at all – Yet she was helpless, alone in the tumultuous darkness. ;
; Gregnor’s mental voice was clear and menacing inside her mind, despite the deafening sounds of the storm that drowned out even her own scream of agony.
No! I’d rather drown right now!>;
Don’t be ridiculous, give me your power!>;
Clutching her hands tight to her head, Ethrayne screamed again – the forces inside her were unbearable, she felt as if she would explode. Not even knowing what she was doing, working at some deep, instinctive level, she tried to wrap up her power tight within her, whilst simultaneously striving to force out the touch of his mind and strength.
; She protested, screaming again in panic, sobbing desperately.
But her protests and feeble attempts to stop the Betrayer were ignored. Ethrayne was helpless as Gregnor simply reached into her and took her power . . . The strength that he controlled then: hers, his own and that from his willing servants, was greater than the sun itself . . . It broke over and around the girl – a massive avalanche and wave of power as it was used against the natural force of the impossible storm . . . All her senses were overloaded by the enormity of it . . . Screaming, unconsciousness took her.
* * *
A loud bang woke her and Ethrayne opened bleary eyes to brilliant sunlight pouring in from behind her head. She tried to sit up, but struggled against ropes that held her down, craning around to stare out through the windows at the bright blue sky.
“Oh dear Arven!” She croaked through a very dry mouth, her fear rising, confused. Then the sudden sight of a figure sliding into view hanging by ropes from above jolted her memory – he was outlined by the clear sky, temporarily obscuring the sun streaming in. She then recalled the extended horror of the storm that had battered them so relentlessly. Frankly, it was a miracle that they had survived.
Slightly calmer, remembering more, she pulled herself up and set about unfastening the rope that had held her in place, now aware of a throbbing, thudding ache that filled her head to bursting. She knotted the length tidily, then set her feet down on boards that felt peculiar simply because they were so still, stretched mightily, easing muscles that had been tensed for far too long.
Turning to the window, Ethrayne wondered if Cavaln had opened the inner shutters earlier. She could see Dahne, Ollyn and Shaille suspended from various ropes, working to remove the surprisingly thin metal sheets that had undoubtedly saved the wide bank of windows and thus the ship from certain destruction. Six feet long by four feet wide, the Generals lifted the sheets easily, exchanging banter that she could clearly hear, their light tones finally convincing her that they were safe: the storm had passed.
“Thank you Arven, I think.” She murmured, pulling off her crumpled jerkin – the air was hot and humid. Then she opened the window a little, tidied her bed, picked up the rope, water sack and the bag of dried fruit and lifted the latch on the door, which opened, to her relief.
The passages were as dim as always, lit by the ever-burning lanterns, but there was a smell of damp even here – the planks seemed a little wet to her bare feet, although she wasn’t sure if they were: it had been a horrible period of horrible events – the storm-tossed seawater could easily have burst through the doors or hatches, after all. She shivered, wondering just how close they really had come to sinking.
Ethrayne left the items in the empty galley on the level above, helping herself to cooling porridge and a bit of cheese, gulping down a mug of fresh water. Which meant someone had had the opportunity to do some form of cooking already, although it was still early. She ate the porridge quickly, then took the cheese, more dried fruit and the refilled mug up to the main deck, exactly as she had on the morning of the storm.
“So you’re up.” Garrtnor remarked easily from above, only his head visible - where he leaned over the rear rail, pulling one of the ropes that held a shutter up towards the horizontal with Thellor at his side. “Good morning.”
The air was fresh, warm, smelling of wet wood and water but with undercurrents of rottenness as if it blew across overripe crops – soft, mild. Ethrayne shivered, nodded a greeting to the Generals and quickly moved away from the area, heading towards the starboard rail.
The planks here certainly were still wet, although the surface underfoot was already warming up as the sun rose higher. Part of her noted that things here on deck seemed different, somehow: more Generals were gathered near the main mast, busy at some tasks, so perhaps some damage had been caused; then she saw that both boats were absent, but the framework that had held the port skiff and some of the railing alongside were missing, the ends of the woodwork splintered, scrape-marks visible even at a distance. That visible proof of the power of the storm on such well-built structures caused her to shiver again.
As always, the presence and native power of the Generals reacted on her mind and body and, considering how drained and wrung out she felt, it somehow seemed to make her aching head worse, but that fact and her breakfast were almost forgotten as she stared out at the brilliantly green, foliage covered island visible a few hundred yards away across a sweep of pale turquoise water that was edged by a long, sweeping curve of pale rock only just below the level of the sea, an arc made plainer by the striking difference in the colour of the sea around it. Gazing out, then down, Ethrayne could see that the ship was moored fifty yards or so from the rock structure, in smooth, clear, midnight blue water out of which the strange formation emerged like a rugged, platform-studded cliff. Across the mirror-smooth pale lagoon, the lumpy-hilled island was bordered by pearl-white beaches that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.
It was as if the storm had never occurred, apart from the strident sound of wood being sawn and the earnest conversations that accompanied it, over by the main mast and then over on the stern deck where the shutters were neatly stacked.
Ethrayne shivered, feeling someone approaching her and she turned to see Ackat closing on her. Glancing at his face before she quickly turned back to the view of the island, she thought that he looked deeply tired.
“Don’t forget your breakfast, you look pale.” He advised and glanced over at all the industry by the mast. “We sustained some damage in the storm, so we might be here for a while. The island isn’t large enough for you to get lost on, so you can go ashore – look, the long-boat’s coming back.” He pointed across her, ignoring her instinctive duck away, then carried on his way towards the others.
Ashore? That concept was certainly pleasant: the chance to escape their stifling presence for a while and Ethrayne finally finished eating, watching the craft being rowed smoothly across the lagoon – its shadow on the bottom disturbing native inhabitants, great and small: shadows darted away in defence, which was interesting. There was a notch in the rock bordering the underwater reef, somehow looking almost like a crack in the stone, through which the deeper water met the shallow and it was through this that the boat manoeuvred, rising in the swell, Allun and Cavaln on the oars, rowing strongly. There were baskets of produce by their feet – roundish shaped things, leaves and so on, as if they had been foraging for food.
Cavaln called out and Ackat returned to the rail as the boat was made fast to the ship, the baskets were attached to lines and hauled up one at a time, whilst the two Generals easily climbed the net that hung down and over the rail, stretching as they straightened their backs after the unaccustomed exercise.
Looking at the three of them, unobserved for a moment as they discussed the foodstuffs, Ethrayne knew that she had been correct: they also looked tired, their faces etched with weariness. Again, she wondered how long the storm had pounded them – how long she had been unconscious – just how the Emperor had used her power . . . But she knew that she was also scared to discover the truth. Still out of sorts, her head still aching despite the fresh air and sunshine, she sighed and cautiously approached them.
“May I go ashore?” She asked as Allun laboriously picked up two baskets, handing one to Sepphar as he came over to assist them.
“Don’t see why not – you’re no use here. Just keep out of our way, brat!” He answered ungraciously. He had never bothered with her at all, so his unrelenting rudeness was actually better in her eyes than the false politeness and snide insults she endured from most of the others. “Get yourself some water and something to eat from the galley – and you’ll need boots – quick!”
“Yes -.” And she turned back eagerly to the stern; the chance to escape the confines of the ship for the first time in over a moon, since they had left Cal’Itase was far too good to miss. She had lost count of the days now. “Thank you.” She added politely, already nearly at the entrance to the lower levels. Hurrying, she dashed down to fetch her boots then climbed to the galley, now adorned with the neatly stacked baskets, where she hefted the water skin that she had left earlier – it held at least a pint, she guessed, so that would serve, along with the dried fruit to which she added a bit of cheese and a few of the double-baked hard biscuits that formed a great part of their lunches. Dashing back up to the deck, she found that Sepphar had been joined by Khaen, Masson and Tynsyn, lowering more baskets into the boat below.
Ethrayne hung back to pull on her boots, trying to find a way to attach the bag and water skin around her so that she could descend the netting – she hadn’t yet had to negotiate it -.
“Get down here, brat, or swim!” Masson shouted from below and so she clambered over the rail and began to climb down, the bags an uneven weight on her left hand side, without any more concerns.
*
Stepping out of the boat onto the bubbling edge of the sea lapping on the gleaming white beach, Ethrayne felt her feet sink slightly into the wet sand, and followed the quickly moving Generals towards the lush greenery that marked the edge of the forest beyond. The gently sloping beach here was nearly fifty yards deep and probably high water never got to the tree-line, protected as the island was by the reef and lagoon that encircled it. The air was very humid, smelling of water and rotting vegetation and salt, and she noted a stream purling down into the sand where it meandered and vanished – reeds and grasses were visible at the edge of the trees and it seemed that the Generals were following the stream into the shade ahead, for clear footsteps preceded them – they were discussing food, drink and fixing the ship, but Ethrayne didn’t pay much attention, concentrating on walking on land that didn’t move, a great peculiarity and on widening the distance between her captors and herself.
The vast variety of the woodland ahead was spectacular, even at first glance, but it was even more humid under the trees – and after her time locked in her cabin the girl longed for a period of sunshine, free of worries and woes. Birds called, both raucous and musical – she caught a glimpse of bright plumage through the trees and other creatures scampered, out of sight, though thick undergrowth.
“My word!” She murmured, looking around and realising that she had not any idea what any species here was, nothing was familiar. Slowly, she smiled – she was finally alone: the Generals had all forged on by the stream and were now out of sight although she could still hear them, their voices muffled. It felt simply wonderful – even if only for a short while – to be alone. She had not been ordered to follow them – Ackat had said that she could not get lost – but she could certainly try to, she decided. First, of course – she turned about and left the steamy, oppressive heat and stink of rotting greenery for the sunlit beach.
The azure sky was clear, with only a few tiny wisps of cloud far to the north; the treacherous sapphire ocean was as smooth as a millpond with hardly a ripple to move the mass of the ship anchored by the reef edge. In contrast, the sand was a brilliant white, shining in the sunlight almost with the beauty of gemstones. Ethrayne stopped and sat down on the shifting stuff to pull off her boots, for her feet were hot, and the warm stuff felt wonderful when she stood up, boots in her left hand and the bags on her right shoulder. She orientated herself and set off along the beach in a southern direction, only determined to get out of sight of the ship, for a while at least.
There was some evidence of storm damage here – a few uprooted trees, weird, large green fruits cast widely along the strand, the tide-line mixed amid the edges of the undergrowth, debris from the deep – pale rock, seaweeds, fish and even bleached driftwood cast up in random piles. Ethrayne walked, gazing about her, glancing back every so often to check how far she had gone from the ship, smiling, humming, her heart lightening even though her headache still lingered.
Finally, hot and thirsty, the girl stopped and sat on a fallen tree trunk as if on a horse, rubbing her bare feet in the hot, gritty sand, eating and drinking with relish – even such ordinary rations seemed a feast. She saw a pretty spiral shell lying half-buried by her left foot and pulled it out, admiring its iridescent interior and red and yellow striped exterior, no larger than her thumbnail. That find took her down to the waterline, the sea warm on her toes, where she gave herself up to some serious beachcombing. As well as many more pretty shells, some broken, some inhabited by little crabs, Ethrayne found more worked wood, some silvery and covered with odd shells, some more recent and less rounded by the waves; there was also a large, encrusted nail, hanks of old, rotting rope, also with shells attached, the business-end of a battered shovel and even, lodged next to odd purple and pink tentacle blobs in a rocky, shallow pool, a gold coin that was almost as large as half her palm. She put some of the prettier items and the coin into one of her boots.
She paused to take another drink of warm water, and realised that the ship was out of sight, and the line of the beach had turned towards the west. Sighing, acknowledging the inevitable for the sun was now sinking slowly towards the west, she turned around and set off back the way she had come, trying to match her footprints when she could see them, paddling in the water, realising that her mood was darkening a little: the interlude was nearly over, although it was still lovely, she had had a nice rest -.
Ethrayne was jolted abruptly out of all levels of happiness in an instant when she clambered over a large tree trunk that had blocked her path earlier and, most unwelcome, the sense of her captor’s power returned with a vengeance, causing the headache to increase drastically in intensity. She stopped, leaning on the gnarled trunk and looked up with dread: the King was striding towards her along the beach! He was still a good distance away, but no-one could bare her nerves like he – he was completely unmistakeable.
“Oh, dear Arven no!” She whispered to herself, fighting a really strong and stupid urge to flee. Instead, with obviously faked nonchalance, she stepped up out of the wavelets, gulped, and strode up onto the hot, dry sand. Her legs were shaking terribly – she was almost glad to sink to her knees in polite acknowledgement of his presence, for her unsteady legs only emphasised her headache – the King, approaching, now was surrounded by a hazy, rainbow-shaded halo that caused her eyes to water and smart even more than the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the sea. The ache became strangely acute. She hated herself for it, but she didn’t dare to even attempt to ignore his power, especially after what he had done so easily during the storm.
“I wondered just where you’d got to. Stop cringing, child!” His tone went from neutral to sharp in a breath, making her jump. He snorted at that. “Show a little backbone – on your feet, quickly now.”
“Y-your Majesty.” Ethrayne murmured, rising to her feet – swaying a little as one foot slipped in the sand, then stifling a groan as the rainbow halo went somehow jagged, assaulting her eyes and her head with ultra-thin knife blades.
“What’s wrong? You look terrible, child.” He wondered, closing the distance between them as she sagged, taking hold of her chin, studying her closely.
Despite the jagged halo and her pounding head, Ethrayne could see that the King actually looked exhausted, his face lined, dark circles under his eyes – they lacked the gleam and fire of power that usually marked his gaze. For the first time, she could see some of his great age.
“I – I see rainbow lights around you, M-Majesty, there are strange shapes – my –my head hurts.” She admitted in a quiet tone, longing to retreat from his painful touch, trembling.
“Yes, I can imagine that it does. You want to know what happened.” Gregnor acknowledged as he released her and grinned, turning, striding off along the beach towards the fallen tree that she had clambered over only a short time before. “Come along.” He commanded, sitting down on the trunk and pointed to the sand, nodding as Ethrayne slowly advanced and sat down, deliberately out of reach, squinting to try and control the horrible effects of her eyes.
“The truth is, Ethrayne, that that bloody storm nearly sank us – you may have noticed that a longboat was ripped away as well as considerable damage being done to the main mast; there’s a whole list of things that need fixing because of the storm! We were tossed about like a cork for nearly three days and early yesterday morning, you will remember that I took some of your power.”
Ethrayne shuddered visibly and went cold despite the sunshine and the heat around her. “I – I could see you, fighting at the wheel in the darkness . . . they all gave you their power – But, but you hurt me!” Her tone was sharp, it had been awful.
“If not for your strength, girl, then the storm would have destroyed the ship around us.” Gregnor said calmly. “It was your input that saved us, however unwilling you were -.”
“I would have sooner drowned!” The girl spat back recklessly, his gratitude raising her anger. “You ripped that power from me! I had no defence -.”
“For one with no training, child, you were putting up an admirable fight.” He told her and that admission stunned her – if it was genuine, for surely he lied? – But why would he? Confusion filled her.
“I – I don’t see why you – you had to do that, your Majesty – you hurt me, my head is still pounding -.”
“Stop whining!” His words, so cold, cut short her list of sullen grievances and Ethrayne shrank backwards again. “Your power saved us, but if you saw what it was like up on deck, you should understand why I lacked the time to leave the wheel to come and explain our need to you. As it is, you and your talent belong to me, Ethrayne.”
“I belong to nobody!” Ethrayne spat back instinctively – but the King laughed aloud with evident amusement at her riposte.
“Child, you are a delight. Why do you think I sent my Generals to watch you, then to capture your home and all to get you into my hands, so soon after you and the prince received the Flame of Arven?” Gregnor paused, waiting politely, but he seemed satisfied with the slight shrug of the shoulders which was her response. “Logically, sensibly, as I imagine that fool Bahlien will have said, I would make no move to take you away: a pair of untrained, teenage humans would be far too immature and ignorant to be of any use. You would not understand even the tiniest part of the events unfolding around you.” His tone was cool. “And that is all true, yet I wanted you and Jerryn also, if the opportunity had arisen – because I will train you. I will reveal to you the wonders of your God-given power, not those idealistic razine fools! One day soon, child, you will belong to me: mind, body, soul and power!”
Her gaze fixed on the sand pushed upwards by the toes of his highly polished black boots, Ethrayne shook her head fervently, ignoring that throbbing headache. “I won’t! Not ever!” She declared, but her mouth was dry – the words were slow to emerge, almost stuck on her tongue.
“Ever is a very long time, Ethrayne and I wouldn’t lay any bets on the alternative outcome: my servants – my Generals – and I can be most persuasive. Now come along: you’ll get sunburn if you stay out in the sun too long – bring your new-found treasures, too.”
Gregnor rose and the girl got slowly to her feet, but deliberately dropped her boots so that her shells, stones and the coin spilled out onto the sand. Instantly, the atmosphere around her changed. Despite the tropical heat, she could feel his displeasure like the Lerracon glacier – all trace of humour had vanished utterly. His gaze locked on hers, his eyes blacker than night, but he said nothing: his expression alone promised dire punishments if she dared to disobey him for another moment -.
“By Car’Agasse, Ethrayne, you are reckless for one so young, with so much to lose!” He said very quietly, smiling almost approvingly, although his gaze was still dangerous. “You may brace yourself, but you already know the price of disobedience -.”
Stood uncertainly, slouching, before him, unable to look away, Ethrayne could only gasp as that throbbing headache became sharp needles of utter agony that shot through every single part of her mind and body. Her vision blurred with tears; she fell helplessly to the sand as her limbs failed fighting suddenly for every labouring breath – writhing at the pain . . . It seemed that an age at least passed before the King’s power ebbed away – before she could sob, groan . . . Another age before the pain eased with a horrible, lingering slowness . . .
“One day, little Wielder of the Flame, you will learn the sense of obedience and your life here amongst us will be much more bearable.” Gregnor said calmly. “You should have realised that I am merciless and I always get what I want – eventually.
“Now get up, pick up your finds and your stuff and come along.”
“Y, yes your M-Majesty.” Ethrayne finally managed to whisper, tears stinging at her eyes, struggling to make her body obey her: it felt as though she had fallen down the hundred-odd stairs from her tower prison in Ban’Lerracon, everything felt bruised and agonising. It took all her strength, but she got to her knees, fumbled in the sand for the small handful of items that had caught her eye put them, sand-covered, back into her boots, and picked up the bags before she slowly and shakily got to her feet. Gradually, the pain eased, but that headache remained, now thumping hard behind her eyes.
Unmoved and patient with her so slow progress, the Emperor of the Jajozeli Razine watched her struggle, malice in his eyes. Then, he turned and set off back up the beach, leaving the girl to follow as best she could, every nerve, sinew, joint and bone aching in reaction to the pain that he had inflicted upon her. Strangely, he continued to talk with her as if nothing untoward had happened.
“We’ll be here for another day at least, probably two – enough time to rest and recuperate, fix the ship and garner some fresh supplies.” He said. “And I meant what I said, girl: if not for your power, the ship would have sunk and us along with it. As it is, we’ve been blown far off course, which isn’t very surprising when you remember the strength of that storm.”
Ethrayne shuddered, recalling their helplessness in the teeth of it and was struck by a thought that seemed integral to her own situation. With great daring and most politely, she asked fearfully. “Excuse me, your Majesty, but you possess a great part of Arven’s might. Surely – surely you cannot – die?”
Gregnor laughed heartily at that. “Die? I don’t actually know: I haven’t met anyone strong enough to even threaten my health for centuries, girl. If the ship had disintegrated, perhaps I would have floated atop the waves like a seabird whilst my faithful Generals sank gradually to the bottom of the ocean. And perhaps you are rather more impervious to death than you might have believed: you and your prince share the rest of your God’s strength, after all. I bet you never thought of that, did you?”
“I -.” Ethrayne stopped dead, of course she hadn’t. The very idea of it was chilling. “But – but I’m only human.” She protested weakly.
He laughed again, shaking his head at her obtuseness, probably. “You have not been ‘only human’ since the pair of you accepted the Flame of Arven, girl. You will learn to control yourself and your power; it should not be too painful, if you actually do as you are told!”
Ethrayne did not reply to that. There was nothing she could say that would not be construed as argumentative or insulting. Her head pounding, she trudged along the beach, tired, aching, sticky with sea-salt and gritty from head to toes with sand. She would have stopped to drink from her water skin, but the King kept up a brisk pace that sorely tested her strength, making for the obvious outline of the longboat, now distantly visible against the flat vista of the light turquoise lagoon and the deep blue sea, the huge ship tiny beyond. He kept on walking.
“Excellent, it looks as though they are preparing a meal.” Gregnor remarked after a while, indicating the thin line of pale smoke visible in the afternoon sunshine ahead and to their left, grey against the sky. He grinned back at her. “And you are sunburned – you should have worn a hat.”
“Y-yes, your Majesty.” She mumbled as they approached the stream, turning finally from the brilliant afternoon sunshine into the deep shade that had earlier repelled her. The shelter of the forest was suddenly very welcome, a huge relief after the relentless glare of the sun that had pounded her since her arrival on the island.
Suddenly, without warning, she was staggering and from more than the after-effects of the King’s punishment -.
“Careful.” Hands caught her, this time preventing her from hitting the ground again and dimly Ethrayne felt herself being lifted up and carried through the thick trees, as her mind drifted almost into unconsciousness – her eyes closed, still able to hear voices ahead, then around her, her head fuzzy as if stuffed thick with wool.
“Your Majesty! I’ll take her from you – please, do sit down.” A voice exclaimed, perhaps Ackat, perhaps not – someone else took hold of her.
“Thank you, but honestly, I am not as exhausted as all that.” The King assured them with an easy laugh. “She’s light enough, Tynsyn.”
“Yet after all that you have worked with during the past four days, you must be weary, Sire.” The General continued, evidently concerned.
“What has the brat been up to this time, Sire?” That was Cavaln, her voice testy.
“I suspect sunstroke amongst other things.” Gregnor said, moving away and Ethrayne felt herself being lowered to the ground, onto a blanket, her head lolling beyond her ability to control it. “Totally untrained as she is, she felt the effects of our united power most uniquely . . . Is that wine, Thellor? Excellent, thank you.”
Cold cloths smarted for a moment as they were pressed to her burning face; an arm under her shoulders lifted her head and cool fruit juice was dribbled into her mouth, slowly and carefully; swallowing was the only reflex she could command at the moment, drinking enough to finally assuage a need she had not realised that she had. Helpless, gradually Ethrayne fell asleep, as the jajozeli-razine chatted in a group around her.
* * *
Ethrayne woke languorously to dawn’s early light shining horizontally through the vegetation. There was a great deal of birdsong, none of it familiar. She felt, all things considered, surprisingly alert and rested; that horrible headache had completely vanished overnight, although the skin on her face, neck, arms and upper chest felt hot, tight and very sore. Lying there on the blanket, almost too hot under her covering, she could smell wood-smoke, rotting vegetation and an almost overwhelming sharp scent of herbs or some unfamiliar plants around; she opened her eyes wide to a peculiar roof of shimmering leaves, with an oval of clear deep blue sky forming a glade surrounded by the forest.
Her full memory returned then – of getting sunburnt, out on the beach; of angering the King so much – and fainting!
Oh, you idiot!>; She scolded herself, slowly sitting up. utterly stupid idiot!>;
She had been covered with a blanket, lying on more set on top of a base of the cut vegetation that smelled so sharply – green and herbal, at a distance from a cheerfully burning fire on a flat piece of ground where more of the cut vegetation was strewn on a grass-like plant that grew ankle height in the glade, surrounded by thick undergrowth that had been hacked back clearly in many places. The stream that she had seen at the beach purled along to her left, forming a little pool in the sandy soil next to which cooking pots and crockery had been neatly stacked. Other piles of blankets and various bags were laid here and there. It looked like a very well appointed campsite.
“Awake, are you?” General Whillan commented, coming in to view from through two bushes to her right, a load of green and red oval things in his arms – she jumped. “Pirris, you certainly did catch the sun!” He commented.
“I can tell.” Ethrayne answered, grimacing, rising slowly – but apart from that clear discomfort, tightening her skin, she felt fine: there was no pain or dizziness in her head, messing with her eyes.
“Cavaln left your bags over there.” Whillan pointed to a small pile by a shrub with long dark leaves and small yellow flowers. I’d put your boots on: there are sharp thorns and some of the insects bite and sting. If you go upstream a hundred yards or so, there’s a larger pool.” He pointed to her right, past a tall tree covered in what looked like a very sharp spiked bark, its branches somehow all growing out from its very top, covered in long palmate leaves. “It’s private – everyone is off gathering food, or working on the ship: you won’t be disturbed. “Go and get washed and changed, you can eat when you get back.”
“Yes, my Lord General.” She replied meekly. It was a good suggestion: she could feel the salt-water residue on her skin and there seemed to be sand stuck all over, itching and hurting on her burnt skin. She found that her small collection of shells and things had been set on a stone, but she still had to shake the sand out of her boots before pulling them on; she located her bag, with soap and a towel, and then approached the narrow space where the woodland reclaimed the land, but found that there was a bare line by the stream that looked like an animal track, set straight through a longer grass that, catching her skin, seemed rather sharp edged. The slope increased slightly, the stream bubbling along musically, and she passed through a deep shade, with dappling evident ahead – the singing of the birds still loud.
The pool was sheltered by undergrowth some of which was like thick eight-foot high reeds, well protected from sight, and it was much larger than the one by the camp, but still open to the sky. There were a few birds but lots of bright butterflies in attendance, dancing up from wet sand to bright flowers in a haphazard, drunken manner, then back again.
Ethrayne waded out into the pool fully dressed, shivering for a moment, before ducking down into the waist-deep water to strip off, then sliding through the stuff back to the bank to retrieve the soap. She scrubbed herself and her hair twice all over, moving carefully over the sunburn, then washed her clothes, leaving them draped on a bush in the sunlight that had begun to filter down as the sun rose in the sky, before drying herself and changing into just about her last clean clothes, a loose shirt and leggings. She determined to wash all her other clothes after eating, if she could.
Returning to camp, she was most of the way through a hearty breakfast and enjoying it when General Cavaln appeared, a large pair of leather saddlebags on one shoulder, a jar in her left hand.
“Ah, the sunburnt brat.” The woman greeted her mockingly. “Up and breakfasting – but still with no sense at all in a tropical sun! Finish your meal and I’ll treat the burns.” She waved the jar, then set it down. “Of course, one good turn deserves another: you can do my washing.”
“Very well, Madam General.” Ethrayne acquiesced, spooning up the fish and vegetables that Whillan had served her, as Cavaln made herself a cup of tea before helping herself to the fish dish. “You’re not using this stream for drinking water, are you, General?” She asked Whillan in concern.
“No, we’re collecting drinking water from a spring that emerges from a fissure over there.” He pointed to the right. “You can wash in peace, with no soap in your supper, I assure you.”
The soft, pale salve from the jar did rather miraculously ease the discomfort of her smarting skin, although it did smell rather strongly of herbs, when spread about – Cavaln suggested she try to keep the treated areas out of water for it to work effectively.
The girl accepted her washing without complaint, and touted both sets of bags back up to the now fully sunlit pool. Having fashioned a hat from a couple of large leaves, and a clothes line from a thin but strong creeper that was wound about one tree – she pulled it down and fastened it to another a good twenty feet away – Ethrayne set about scrubbing clothes with as much care as she could, given the lack of hot water. She actually relished the work, for she was alone, with time to think, but with a task – scrubbing, soaping, rinsing, wringing over and over – her trousers rolled up, kneeling in the soft damp sand by the pool, just glad to be busy. It took most of the rest of the morning, but she did finally get every garment washed. Her hands were wrinkled and smarting, but she didn’t mind.
The chore left her mind free and she had a great deal to consider. Somehow, the knowledge was both exhilarating and terrifying, she acknowledged towards the end of her work: she realised that the King had only told her the truth: they had survived the storm only because he had so ruthlessly ripped away her power and she shuddered, growing cold despite the heat that surrounded her like a massive blanket, even beginning to try and comprehend just how – physically and mentally – he had fought and beaten the storm’s destruction was terrifying.
Everything else that Gregnor had told her frightened her deeply, as she supposed he had intended. To finally learn just why she had been brought out of Tenarum was chilling in the extreme: any training by the jajozeli-razine would surely be just as awful as combat practice – and if he was involved! She shuddered.
Oh dear Arven, why did you Choose me?>; She asked silently, wringing out the final pieces of washing. He – he wants to own me! How on Iullyn can I possibly fight him when he – he can hurt me like that? Oh, it would be better if I had drowned!>; She fought against a sudden panic as she shook out the last items of Cavaln’s clothing, hanging them neatly on the second creeper that she had turned into a washing line. “You should have Chosen someone else!” She muttered dully.
“Stop wallowing in misery, girl! Come and help me with dinner.” General Whillan’s voice came unexpectedly from the right and she physically jumped, his approach had been silent. “You’ve got quite a laundry going, haven’t you?” He grinned at the two lines of dripping clothes. “Come on – they’ll all be hungry from their exertions. Bring the bags and soap.”
Not having the spirit to argue this time, Ethrayne picked up the stuff left by the pool – shaking off some very odd-looking ants – and followed him back down the slope. The campsite was even tidier than when she had left earlier, apart from by the fireplace, where vegetables, fruit and large silver-finned fish were piled on huge leaves. She was directed to cutting up the vegetables and fish, as the chef shaped six large loaves, setting them before a hand-built oven to rise before he lit a bright fire in it with bark and twigs, feeding it carefully.
“There, that’s the bread ready to cook – let’s get the rest of the meal started.” He said with satisfaction, but looked askance at how badly she had cleaned the fish. “I thought Thellor was joking – you’ve obviously never worked in a kitchen, girl, clearly you’d be better in a laundry.”
“Ha ha.” She growled at that, washing her hands free of gleaming fish scales in the stream behind the fire pit. “No, I’m definitely not a cook.” Then, unable to stop the question – she had wondered it for ages now but hadn’t dared ask before – she asked. “But isn’t this rather an odd job for a General, sir? Cooking?”
Whillan laughed aloud at that. “I’ve enjoyed cooking since childhood – it was my hobby, when I wasn’t not doing my real job: logistics. But because of my expertise, I’ve become his Majesty’s official chef, especially when travelling. Most cooks would balk at trying to create fine meals on a deserted island, or building a bread oven from scratch.” He waved towards the oven, where the fire was starting to merrily burn and spoke matter-of-factly rather than boastfully.
Ethrayne frowned. This General, at least, alone amongst them all, did not seem to be quite as monstrous as the others – and he wasn’t too offensive, either; but she remembered what the dream-Arven had said on her journey to Ban’Lerracon: it was fixed in her mind and after the King had talked of ‘owning her’, she knew that she would never, ever, trust any of them.
“Well, your efforts are not irrecoverable, I suppose.” Whillan continued. “You’d better fetch plenty of water – take the buckets through there and walk ahead, you won’t miss the spring. You can’t wreck that, at least.”
“Humph!” She replied tartly, but was glad of another reason to get out of the way, although hauling water was bound to be heavy. She hefted the buckets, and wove her way through a grove of shrubs that were covered in long pale leaves shaped like spear heads, following a thin trail that brought her to a spring welling up out of a bright mossy hollow and forming an almost oval pool before it wandered away through the thick vegetation and out of sight. Ethrayne lingered here as long as she dared, before setting off back laden with the water, which she did her utmost not to spill.
To her intense dismay, they were all present at the glade when she returned – the King and all nineteen Generals were sat about, sipping at watered wine and talking as they waited for dinner. Ethrayne gulped, longing to just drop the buckets and run and hide somewhere – quite sick of the impulse really, but unable to halt its appearance – but set them down close to the fire as Whillan indicated and edged to her blankets, fortunately away from the others, sinking down and hoping that they continued to ignore her. Nervously she fingered the small pile of shells and stones Gregnor had insisted that she bring back the previous afternoon, but without really seeing them.
“Ah, dinner!” Jellon said eagerly and she looked up. He had bruises on his face and bare arms that she had not noticed the day before; also Benthan, who had also been on the stern deck, struggling mightily during the storm, had a long cut down his left cheek, as well as more bruises. She supposed that she had been too wound up in her own discomfort to notice their injuries.
The jajozeli-razine crowded about the fire, jostling in a friendly fashion after their master had been served; Ethrayne did not get up until they were all sat down, serving herself the deliciously scented stew and the bread that was still warm, moving quickly back to ‘her’ space. It wasn’t very often that one of them had knocked the plate out of her hands, but she had been the butt of their cruel humour too many times, in her opinion.
They talked, clearly at ease after the hard work of the day. Some talked about the ship and her damage; about how far they guessed they had been blown off-course; about the food, and the excellent, surprisingly rich supplies they had found on the island. Ethrayne relaxed very slightly; hopefully the evening might continue without any humiliating incidents.
“I want everything back on board by noon tomorrow.” The King was saying in his conversation.
“We will be ready, your Majesty.” Ackat assured him. “We’re in the process of re-filling the water barrels. The remedial work to be completed is now almost all cosmetic finishing off, rather than anything operational.”
“I’ve amassed a good amount of produce – fruit, tubers, seafood and so on. It would be a pity to waste the bounty this island has provided us.” Sepphar, the second cook, said then, which explained the scratches on his hands and arms, Ethrayne assumed.
“We will add the island to our charts, Sepphar. If we sail north, we’ll get a reference point from the stars.” Jellon stated. “It will be a useful addition to our travels in the future, that’s for sure.”
“Certainly.” Gregnor rose to his feet. “Thank you Whillan, that was delicious. Let’s carry on clearing up before nightfall.” He led the way out of the camp and nearly everyone followed him.
Ethrayne was already resigned to being forced to do the washing up, so that was not a surprise, but at least Cavaln went to fetch their now dry washing, before covering her again with some of the salve.
“I think General Whillan will sooner cut off his own hands before he ever lets you near his knives and produce again, girl.” The woman remarked with a laugh.
“Good.” She replied. “Thank you.” She added politely. The King’s cold evaluation of her and Jerryn’s future still dominated her thoughts. These people meant her nothing but ill . . . She was forced to subservience – and she was so lonely!
*
Tasked only with helping pack the equipment that had been brought off the ship and the surprising amount of fresh produce that had been gathered on and around the island, Ethrayne had no time to worry the next morning and spent a long time carrying bags and bundles down to the beach. Checking the site that they had occupied for anything mislaid – a suggestion from Khaen that she was grateful for, since it meant that she had a little more time to herself – she found an exquisite flint arrowhead half the size of her little finger, which she absent-mindedly added to the little bag that she had fashioned for her beach treasures. Other than that, nothing had been left behind apart from the empty fire pit and the bread oven that Whillan had built so carefully.
The sun was almost directly overhead when she finally climbed the netting, noting that the broken section of railing had been replaced along with the other works and set foot on the baking hot deck, feeling the gentle movement of the ship almost thankfully; she had not realised that she had felt uncomfortable back on land, so stationary underfoot, until she was back on the ocean.
Shaille was directly behind her, so Ethrayne moved across the broad deck to the opposite rail moving almost up into the bow, some distance up from where some of the other Generals were gathered, gazing downward into the deep blue ocean – and she did likewise, wondering what they were looking at.
“Oh, dear Arven!” Shock hit her like a physical blow as she stared down at a number of human bodies floating in the water, pallid against the sapphire shade; seven, no eight people, dressed in what looked like the remains of Tenarean-style clothes. They were clearly dead; what was worse, far worse, to her mind, was the sight of a group of massive, silver and blue marked stream-lined fish that had risen out of the depths to bite hungrily at some of the corpses, their teeth triangular, huge and instantly effective at dismemberment. “But – but where have they come from?” She demanded in horror, then bit back a cry as a body was knocked closer to the ship by the muscular tail of one razor-toothed monster – below, she clearly saw the face of a woman she had known for most of her life: Rosalla, one of her mother’s maids, who had been an expert with her needle. “Rosalla! Oh dear Arven no! But – but how is she – they – here?”
General Allun laughed coldly as she gripped the rail and sobbed. “The prisoners are in the forward hold, brat; where else would they be?” He stated. “Some were killed in the fury of the storm and have been disposed of -.”
“Disposed of?” Ethrayne almost shouted the words as she turned on him. “But – but I would have sensed their presence! Why did I not sense that they were on board? Some died, you say – but who survived?” She demanded with an imperiousness none of them had witnessed before. “Is anyone injured -?”
“Hold!” Garrtnor cut through her furious questions. “You had no need to know about that hold’s contents, so they were blocked from you -.”
“That hold’s contents?” She spat the words, utter shock dispelling the last vestiges of necessary caution that usually ruled all her interactions with the jajozeli-razine. “These are people, General! People! And – and I had no idea! You’ve had prisoners crammed in some space below our very feet, in some dark, airless space? Like animals? Oh, dear Arven! You – you bloody monsters!” Ethrayne took a deep breath, so intent on voicing her distress and anger that she did not even realise that – most uncharacteristically – the Generals were actually all drawing away from her, almost as though she was as dangerous as the sea creatures feasting on the bodies in the sea below. She could not see the golden glow emanating from her body, lit from within by her power, clearly visible despite the power of the tropical sun – the Flame of Arven – fed and released by her rage and upset. “Take me to them! Now!” She demanded furiously, behaving as she had never done before, perhaps subconsciously mimicking her captor’s demeanour. “You can’t treat people like this -.”
“Silence!”
The one voice that could have cut through her near hysteria bellowed out, a sound like thunder. Gregnor followed that shout with a hard punch that, matched by his vast power, simultaneously knocked the girl partway across the deck to be stopped by part of the wooden housing for the rowing boat and suppressed her rapidly rising strength as a dampened blanket would smother a fire.
“I will not permit such disrespect!” As he had two days earlier, on the beach, he slapped her badly-focussed mind with his power – and her unregulated talent faded back out of existence at the pain that flashed through her.
Ethrayne could not move, her muscles frozen for one endless moment, the rising distress and hysteria shocked out of her by his sudden, unanticipated violence. Her face, her head and her back were all agonisingly painful, quite apart from the assault on her nerves. Blood ran freely from her nose and into her throat as well as down her face. She gurgled, involuntarily coughed as it felt as though she could not breathe, almost screaming at the agony – Trying but unable to shrink away as the King reached down to pull her onto her side. The agonising coughing halted for a moment and she spat an inordinate amount of blood onto the deck at his booted feet – Then vomited more blood -.
“Watch it, brat!”
The girl groaned, covered her bloodied, painful face as well as she could with shaking hands and sobbed almost uncontrollably, as her blood flowed steadily, forming a small, dark pool between her and Gregnor.
“S’ry, I-s’ry, pls don’ hur’ dem -.” She managed to mumble, her words almost unintelligible, her voice thick. “De’ Arven -.”
He knelt beside her, ignoring the blood and forced her hands away from her face with a firm but not painful grip. Ethrayne could do nothing – her body and head hurt far too much for her to try to move. Quaking with fear, she could only close her eyes as Gregnor stared intently at her blood-stained, damaged face. He turned back to the Generals with a frown.
“Shit!” He spat with feeling, moving one hand to touch her back, again ignoring her utter fear and almost animal-like howl of discomfort, running his fingers downward. “Double shit! Cavaln, Harton, I’ve broken her nose and strained her bloody back! I’ll hold her -.”
“Wha’?” Ethrayne knew what this meant and reacted in horror, waving her hands frantically but futilely. Her back had never felt as painful as this – not even her left leg had, after Ackat had lifted her out from under her father’s dead stallion – she knew how broken noses were fixed – But the King and General Harton turned her rather gently over onto her back, all things considered -. “No – no -.”
The three of them paid her absolutely no attention, her blood flecking their faces and clothes as Cavaln hauled up the bottom of Ethrayne’s shirt to mop away some of the mess, so that she could see the extent of the damage caused by Gregnor’s blow. Harton held one arm, the King the other. Ethrayne made a strange, strangled sort of shriek as the woman took hold of her throbbing nose – She gurgled, helpless – More blood spurted for a moment as there was a second audible crack! That made not a few of the circling Generals wince. The girl slumped in shocked agony, breathing irregularly, shivering uncontrollably, as both healers carefully turned her back onto her side and the King quickly got up out of their way.
“Pirris!” He said with deceptive brevity. “Every time we get the brat clean and obedient, she gets covered in blood!” He glanced down at the quivering, sobbing girl as Cavaln attempted to clean up a bit more blood from her face.
“Sire -.” Garrtnor began in a tentative tone.
“Wait!” He gestured slightly and the finely upholstered divan from his sitting room appeared some feet away, plus a pile of soft, brightly covered cushions. “Get the girl on there – carefully!” He warned. “Clean her up, get her changed, tend those injuries.”
“At once, your Majesty.” Harton assured him quickly.
“You -.” Gregnor glared indiscriminately at the rest of the group. “Can get the deck scrubbed clean and ensure that the slaves are secure – I simply cannot believe that none of you thought to simply slap the girl out of her shock!” His tone was scathing at the least.
“I – well – it all happened so swiftly, your Majesty.” Thellor answered meekly.
The King snorted derisively. “You are all my trusted servants. You have all received the highest, most specialised training and none of you have balked at any of the tasks you have undertaken on my orders – yet here you stand, a group of experienced Generals, seasoned over the decades, too nervous of a single girl’s lack of control to even smack her? She is usually nearly as wary of you as she is of me. After the last few days, she would have quietened down swiftly enough. She is a mere child, not a lioness!” He raked them all with a scathing, contemptuous glare that matched his tone. “Get out of my fucking sight!”
“Your Majesty.” They replied as one, bowed deeply and cleared out of their Master’s way extremely quickly.
*
Ethrayne came to sometime later, when she was carefully lifted from the hard, hot deck and laid on a softer surface nearby, out of the bright afternoon sunshine into a blue-tinged shade, or so it seemed, with her eyes closed. The movement jarred her back terribly and her whole face was agony, her head pounding -.
“Ow!” She breathed.
“Hush.” General Harton’s voice growled above her head. She heard water dripping. “It’s entirely your fault, brat!” She flinched, painfully, as a warm, wet cloth gently touched her face without warning. “Hold still.”
Tisn’t, it’s your fault.>; She spat back in return, her mental tone as bruised as the rest of her. Hateful . . .>;
He chuckled as he carefully dabbed at her face with far more care than Ethrayne would ever have imagined. Then her attention was caught, as her boots and trousers were removed, then more water touched the skin on her front.
Don’t ->; An indistinct protest, really.
“Stop fretting, girl.” Cavaln’s voice sounded calm, distant.
The woman washed her, the water cooling against her hot skin, as she lay helplessly propped up against Harton, as he held another cloth to her nose, which was still leaking blood. Tears ran from her aching, nearly swollen-shut eyes and she had some trouble focussing when she forced them open – aware that a pale pavilion surrounded the three of them, blocking the sunlight, the cloth billowing in the sea breeze. But that was nothing – she could only concentrate on the throbbing agony that filled her; the disgusting taste of blood in her mouth; the harsh, laboured sound of her breathing; the fact that any movement on her part was impossible . . . She cried out again when they turned her gently onto her side on the bed – which triggered more nausea, as her body purged itself of the last of the blood that she had swallowed. Ethrayne hardly noticed the two hands moving up and down the length of her back – the palms growing surprisingly hot as they touched her, an odd feeling of – tingling around the area that hurt so much, where she had collided with the boat housing.
There was just misery, pain and that awful knowledge that her captors’ had managed to conceal a group of prisoners right under her feet on the ship . . . Ethrayne fought the cold logic that asked just how she could have known of their presence when most of the ship’s inner spaces were prohibited to her and the King had used power to keep her ignorant of their existence? Recalling the horrific evening when he had ordered Fionn’s death, after he had mutilated and slaughtered her attacker mere feet from her, she felt revoltingly nauseous again and despair filled her.
Cavaln finished whatever she was doing to her back, and then the healers helped her into clean clothes, fastening whatever garment it was, pulling it down smoothly and decently as Ethrayne was eased onto her back, propped up slightly with cushions. The salve against her sunburn was applied to her forehead; a cool, wet cloth was laid over her smarting eyes; a drink of fresh fruit juice was held to her lips, but swallowing was not easy, although she was thirsty; a further cloth was placed in her hands – so she could wipe at her still-dripping, agonising nose herself; a blanket covered her.
“Rest, if you can.” Cavaln suggested finally. “There’s water here, if you need to drink more.” She guided her right hand down to a metal cup on the deck below, easily within reach.
Thank you.>; Ethrayne managed, so wrung out by her ordeal that she just longed to be left alone. She heard their footsteps receding; the sounds of scrubbing had stopped . . . Misery took her, dimly interrupted by the sounds of the ship moving – perhaps their interrupted journey had resumed, although she had been too occupied to notice . . . She lay there on the bed, half concealed in the pavilion, listening to the sails billowing, the ship moving through the waves, indistinct conversations – but she was too frightened of the pain that she had experienced to even shift her position, frozen in place, unable to relax a single muscle . . . Slowly, after an age, the sunlight faded into night through the cloth, and she still lay there tense, her face throbbing agonisingly . . . Wish we’d all drowned!>; She spat uselessly. Oh, Rosalla – Mama, Papa . . . I’m so frightened! So alone!>; She could recall so clearly what the King had said on the beach, his icy explanation for capturing her, too – her life was no longer hers to control, it seemed. She was helpless, utterly helpless!
There was no merciful fainting that night.
*
It was evening by the time that the King had finally got a grip on his temper, the glow of the vanished sun bright on the western horizon and across the endless ocean. He summoned the Generals to the stern deck, where he stood tall at the wheel, steering north, the sky darkening from the east, stars winking into visibility; the small canvas pavilion that held the injured girl fading in the middle of the deck.
Warily, the highly competent Generals gathered around him, but not too close even so.
“We should have a clear run from here.” He stated levelly. “I know it has been rather ridiculously manic for the past few days but, honestly, I cannot believe that you all permitted yourselves to be outdone by our prisoner – she’s barely an adult amongst her own people, men – she doesn’t even understand how to control herself!”
“Erm – that might be problem, your Majesty: her lack of control.” Thellor answered after a short silence – their Master was evidently waiting for someone to respond sensibly.
“How so? Are you not Generals? Do you not possess considerable power of your own?”
“Well, your Majesty, that’s true. I slapped her hard, that day we left Cal’Itase, but she was simply a frightened brat then. Ackat cut off all her hair, teaching her a lesson on their way south.” The large jajozeli-razine paused and shrugged – physically, the largest of the Generals, although the King topped him by a good few inches, height wise, he was still the bulkiest. Nothing much worried him in life.
“But we felt her fighting you, during that bloody storm, Sire.” Ackat admitted, flexing fingers that still slightly ached from his participation in the scrubbing clean of the blood-stained deck. Even we could tell that she has a massive potential – the power inside her is vast – but we know she fought well, fought you strongly, even though she knows nothing at all . . . It wasn’t that we did not want to stop her hysterics quickly, your Majesty – well, we -.”
“That lack of control she has could destroy us, your Majesty.” Garrtnor finished simply with a shrug. “She was furious – losing control in her anger – we could all feel it and, I’m afraid to admit it, Sire: her talent frightens me!”
“You must start teaching her, Sire.” Tynsyn stated gravely, inclining his head politely at the bluntness of his words. “Perhaps it’s her proximity to your own formidable presence that has sparked her talent to new heights, but this voyage does seem to have done so: she was nowhere near as volatile in Ban’Lerracon.”
Gregnor considered their hesitant words, immensely glad that he always sought intelligence as well as native ability in his primary servants; the intensity of their training took the youngsters they began as far further than the civilian jajozeli-razine.
“Very well, gentlemen – and lady.” He inclined his head to Cavaln. “Your recommendation and concerns are noted – and I must admit, they are most relevant. I only wish we had not damaged the girl again!” He sighed. “I will begin by training her to control herself. It should prove interesting and she will certainly hate every moment it: she hates being within a hundred feet of me! How is she, Harton?”
“She is most discomforted, your Majesty, but cleaner at least.” The male healer replied and grimaced. “We eased the bruising to her back and gave her a little Pelande in fruit juice so she should not try to do anything at all tonight – it will inhibit action, quite apart from her injuries. Overall, she will probably heal quickly.”
Cavaln laughed aloud. “With two huge black eyes and a great collection of bruising, anyway.” She stated with a lot more authority than she usually showed, as the most junior General – and she smiled as the King raised one eyebrow in query. “She is in deep shock, Sire and she needs to rest for at least one day: her mind is in turmoil, quite apart from those physical injuries.”
“Very well General Cavaln, thank you. I am very glad I trusted my instincts to involve you in this business – you are most insightful, concerning the girl.”
“I am honoured, your Majesty.” The young woman bowed low.
“Well, if that is all sorted, gentlemen, lady, you can all seek your beds. I will keep helm and keep a watch on our challenging little prisoner until the middle of the night.”
* * *
Exhausted, her head aching fit to crack, Ethrayne watched the pavilion around her slowly become visible as the sky began to lighten, before daybreak. Finally, after a night’s fitful rest, she was lucid enough to wonder where she lay – although the tent was not large, so that she could have touched the canvas on both sides without moving – this certainly wasn’t the little cabin below decks, that was for sure . . . Thinking back with some difficulty, she realised that she must be on deck, somehow – the flap of sails above her, now, was unmistakeable; then, vaguely she could remember someone giving her drinks of water during the long night and rearranging the comfortable pillows behind her – but . . . Oh, dear Arven, everything hurt so much!
More tears ran down her face, stinging her swollen eyes as she tried to pull herself upright, but she fought the pain of her head and face even as she noticed the lessened discomfort of her back and ribs, only aching slightly now; finally she sat up, setting her legs over the side of the divan and only then realising that her clothes from the day before had been replaced with the strange, beautiful silk robe or gown provided for her in Ban’Lerracon.
The effort of getting up had made her head spin, this time, rather than pound with pain, but Ethrayne did not dare to move – after what she recalled of the previous afternoon, she wasn’t that brave, or stupid: her head might not hurt, but her face definitely did: all of it, her skin feeling swollen and tight, her bones feeling as though they had all been shattered; she could not open her eyes properly, which had formed part of the night-fears that had assailed her – that she was losing her sight, too. Miserable, not daring to move much at all, she did manage to reach the water cup on the deck, and emptied it – although swallowing still hurt she needed the liquid far more. Stuck, she spat silent graphic swearwords and hoped that one of the hated Generals might come to check on her, now that the sun was rising . . .
“Pirris! If your handsome young prince could see you now, girl, he’d run away screaming!” Cavaln remarked heartily, pulling open the pavilion’s canvas flap and admitting brilliant sunlight that caused the girl to quickly shield her eyes, even as she choked a brief, painful sort of laugh that grated all the way up from her stomach, for the statement was amusing, in the dark mood she still felt. “You really do look terrible. Let’s get you on your feet, shall we?”
Some time had passed – the sun was well above the horizon now, but Ethrayne still felt as bad as she had before dawn. Trying to keep as still as possible, she shuffled forward a little, then the General finally assisted her, taking hold of her upper right arm and hauling her upwards -.
“Ow!” It was more noise than word, but she was glad when her legs did hold her, although she swayed a little, clutching at the gaping gown about her, her head spinning for a moment, then settling, although all the rest of her discomfort remained.
“Let’s get you to the cabin.” Cavaln said calmly. “Come along – don’t worry: you should be fine, I healed your back yesterday.”
Ethrayne glared at her briefly from her bleary, blackening eyes, then dared to take one step then a second as Cavaln moved back to hold open the flaps, so that she could emerge into the new day, stepping on the hot planks, using her left hand to keep her eyes shaded. She moved slowly, the General left her free to make her own way towards the stern – and the girl advanced, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the cabins, determinedly ignoring all the others out on deck. It seemed to take a lifetime, but she reached the warmer gloom of the corridor, shuffling along; her back did twinge a little as she descended the first ladder, carefully lifting the skirt of the gown out of the way as she stepped down holding tight to the rungs, but not so much as she clambered down the second, into the deeper darkness, Cavaln just above her.
“You’ve done well.” The woman said, as she entered the sunlit little cabin, one hand shaking as she took hold of the edge of the bunk for support. “Go on, I’ll check you over – strip.”
“Wha -?” Speaking was a mistake, for the pain of her face was increased. She jumped as Cavaln slammed the door shut.
“For the -.” Sounding exasperated, Cavaln took hold of the fine silk of the robe at her shoulders. “I’m a healer, brat – undress, or are you suicidal enough to argue?” Her gaze was forbidding. “No?”
Emotions swirled within her – complex, confusing, choking – Ethrayne shivered, not daring to respond, and meekly unfastened the sash, removing the garment, glad that her eyesight was hampered, hanging her head.
“Right, stay still for a moment.” Cavaln said with her usual professional detachment, ignoring the girl’s automatic flinching as her hands touched her front, then directed her to turn around to stroke her aching back, before telling her to sit down on the bunk, moving away then back with a bowl of water. “The bruising in your back is starting to go down, but as for your face -.” She pursed her lips and sighed a little. “That will take time – now hold still: this will hurt a little.” This time she grinned at her patient, squeezing out a cloth over the water bowl. “Believe me, I know: my great uncle broke my nose during practise once – I looked as horrific as you do . . .” She carefully dabbed, ignoring her victim’s hissed protests, her flinching movements – it hurt as much as when the King had struck her, her nose especially felt abnormally swollen. “Mmm, looks like your cheekbone is damaged too: you’ve got lumps the size of apples appearing all over, girl.”
Ethrayne flinched again – Cavaln’s ministrations hurt a great deal and there seemed to be something astringent in the water that smarted in all her injuries besides. Ouch!>; She uttered silently, describing every part of her misery, pain and humiliation, sat there naked as cooling water ran down her body, fighting against more ridiculous tears.
“Stop moaning, it’s your own fault!” The woman said cheerfully, scanning her face even as she wiped at her throat – both the cloth and the water in the bowl were reddened now. “There, you’ll do. Now, get dressed – the rest of the outfit is still in your bag. You will take breakfast with his Majesty -.”
“No!” That was a cry of absolute fear, and Ethrayne quickly hid her swollen face in her hands, shuddering.
“Hurry now: he will be waiting.” And with a cool smile, visible through her slightly separated fingers, the General departed.
Into Ethrayne’s frightened mind came her latest memory of the King: her brief glimpse the afternoon before of his furious face, his flashing, fiery dark eyes as he had struck her with what had seemed like all his strength, matched with the power that had suppressed her rising hysterical talent and crazed ranting. So her utter fear of him had increased to gut-wrenching proportions – Yet she knew that refusal was definitely not an option, no matter how she longed to – to hide uselessly in the cupboard under her bunk.
Dear Arven, help me!>; She prayed desperately, shuddering again . . . But – but he was waiting, probably impatiently.
That knowledge gave her the impetus to move, reaching for the bag that she had not noticed on her pillow, containing the underclothes that went with the fine silk gown, terribly creased but clean and soft at least. Fumbling, she quickly pulled each layer on, the under gown with its tapes and then the bright outer gown, knotting the sash tightly before she ran her fingers through her unruly hair – not even caring how it looked. Carefully, she threw the slightly blood-stained water out of the window, then set the bowl neatly in the little wash room and stowed her bag back in the cupboard before, barefoot, she opened the cabin door.
“Good.” General Thellor stood in the passage, leaning on the back on the ladder, clearly waiting for her to emerge – he smiled slightly at her jump of dismayed surprise. “Don’t dawdle, brat: you’re expected.”
He gestured expansively for her to precede him, but she froze – her fear suddenly choking her as her blood had -. “Move it!” He bellowed, and she scurried past him at once, pushing past a rather indignant Eduren and Sepphar without even noticing them: up the ladder, around and up the next to advance a few halting steps and stop dead before the King’s sitting room door.
Enter.>; Gregnor’s voice was clear in her head and Ethrayne could sense amusement. Her fear was a physical force in itself, but she forced herself to move, one hesitant step forward, still praying uselessly for deliverance, or death – her hand shaking just as much as her legs as she lifted the latch, pushing the door open to flood the passage with light, stepping through, her gaze fixed desperately on the carpet. Closing the door, turning back to face the broad windows, she started to kneel -.
“Get up before you fall over, girl. Come and sit down.” He only said, and she froze – shivering – stuck mid movement.
“Your Majesty -.” Was what she meant to say with desperate politeness, but the pain of her face caused the words to sound almost unintelligible as she slowly straightened, hesitantly raising her head so that she could see where she must advance to. The King was sitting on one side of the table in front of the window, a spare chair was to her right, opposite him. He wore plain black, and indicated to that seat, smiling broadly, looking well satisfied. Ethrayne felt sick – did the state of her face amuse him?
As if he had heard her thought – and of course he could do so – her host chuckled. “Ethrayne, you look terrible, come and have some tea.” He said lightly.
The girl risked a moment’s glance into his face, met his dark, hypnotic gaze and quickly locked her gaze on the white tablecloth as she stumbled forward on her shaking legs to take her seat, perched on the very edge of the chair. As she moved, the King poured a pale liquid into two tin mugs, setting one before her.
“Thank you.” But again her voice was mangled, hoarse and pain shot through her face.
“Why do you not just reply in your mind, girl?” Gregnor suggested, as if to an imbecile. “There’s no point croaking, now, is there? I have invited you here for breakfast but, looking at you, I really do not know if you will be able to eat. Perhaps the resourceful General Whillan can rustle up something suitable.” He chuckled, but Ethrayne could sense his satisfaction.
Thank – thank you, your Majesty, but I – I’m not hungry.>; She lied, suddenly aware that it would be virtually impossible to tell falsehoods to any other talented being: most would be able to read the lie and thus the truth clearly.
The King shook his head slowly, as if regretfully. She could see it, even though her eyes were fixed on the table. “You threw up everything you had eaten yesterday, up on deck and practically all over my boots, Ethrayne. You will eat – I will not permit you to neglect your health. No!” He raised one finger slightly when she shifted, meaning to protest, and she shrank back. “Drink your tea.”
Ethrayne took hold of the cup in both hands and it rattled audibly against her teeth as she sipped, swallowed and sipped again. There was something pleasant in the hot liquid, but she couldn’t define it, although it was soothing as it went down.
“Lime blossom.” He said lightly. “You won’t be able to taste it, with your nose, but it’s gentle on the palate and stomach.” He glanced away, and the outer door swung wide to amid both Whillan and Sepphar, bearing laden trays.
“Breakfast, Sire.” Whillan said, and they laid two covered silver dishes before their Master, a basket of warm rolls in the middle of the table and a covered bowl before Ethrayne, along with gleaming cutlery, a water jug and cups, plain metal but unbreakable.
“Excellent, chefs and is that broth? It should suit her well, thank you.” The King said and they bowed and departed.
Ethrayne sat there, still clutching desperately at her mug, as Gregnor lifted the lids on his platter to reveal sausage, delicately fried fish and steamed vegetables.
“Eat, child.” He ordered, breaking open a roll to fill it with fish.
Setting down the mug, Ethrayne lifted the cover, looking down at a bowl of creamy-looking soup, smooth and steaming. Despite her proximity to the King – despite her terrible, all-encompassing fear, even – her stomach growled prosaically. She set down the lid, picked up a spoon, and tried it – but it tasted just as bland as the tea, although it went down pleasantly. She could not tell what it contained, but she suspected it contained fish and she ate with as much decorum as she could, despite the need that she had not noticed until now . . . But her captor, opposite, was far too great a presence to be ignored; most of the way through the broth, she dared to glance up at him through her lashes to find him gazing right at her, his expression unreadable – and her remaining hunger died abruptly. She set the spoon down and picked up the half-empty mug of tea, simply to seem polite as he finished the last bites of his breakfast, then dabbed at his mouth with a pristine napkin.
“Your nose is bleeding a little – here.” He handed the cloth across the table and Ethrayne took it, tentatively pressed, winced – and shivered at the sight of even more blood, bright crimson spots on the white fabric. She had seen far too much blood in the past moons -.
Thank you, you Majesty.>; She ventured in a subdued tone, carefully folding the napkin to hide the stain and laying it beside the bowl.
“Keep it.” Gregnor waved his hand again. “Well, child. I was going to have my Generals train you, but it appears that your lack of basic control can scare even such experienced combatants as they – else I would not had to intervene, yesterday: your insubordination would have been dealt with appropriately.” His tone was level – he at least was not shouting at her – but his matter-of-factness was chilling.
;
“Apologising now is ridiculous, child.” He stated. “You did not know that there are hostages on board. We hid them from you simply because I knew you would overreact – and, seeing their bodies, you lost control, because you are young, stupid and ignorant of the power that you hold. Your nose is bleeding again.”
Ethrayne raised the cloth, pressed, then clutched it between both hands, twisting it tightly into a short rope.
“You must learn to control yourself – your tongue, your emotions and your mind. There is no alternative to obedience, child: you will learn. How you do so is quite up to you, of course, but I cannot really recommend the way you have chosen so far, so I strongly urge that you reconsider your position over the next few days. If you want to continue fighting me, you will suffer much worse than discomfort such as this – and we do have a number of prisoners from your home on board, remember.” He grinned broadly at the horror he could read in her mind, see in her eyes, clear despite her injuries. “Why are you looking at me like that, Ethrayne? I am not the one with a broken nose, huge black eyes and a strained back, am I? You knew what you were taking on, my dear – and if you did not, then blame that meddling fool, Bahlien!”
How – how could he have possibly have warned us that you are – are so utterly cruel?>; Ethrayne had quickly amended her thought, but – you are a complete bastard – hung there as clear as the sun between them and she ducked her head, shrinking into the chair fearfully. That was – was very rude, Sire – I – I am terribly sorry -.>;
Gregnor chuckled with apparent good humour. “I will forgive you this time, but I meant what I said, child: you will obey me, so work on your manners and curbing your tongue.”
I will try my best, your Majesty.>; She quavered.
You bloody well will! If you offend me, child, then you will suffer – remember it!>; He replied silently, his voice loud in her head. You will rest today and tomorrow, but the following day you will return here after breakfast with the stones, shells and so on you collected on the island. Get out of here!>;
Ethrayne knelt and bowed her head fearfully after taking two steps away from the table – she was not stupid enough to ignore his warning. Then she simply fled, tears pricking at her smarting eyes – but she did manage to close the outer door quietly. The main deck was only a few steps away, and she emerged into the brilliant sunshine with only a moment of relief – the light stung her eyes far more than she had anticipated, so she halted, shielding them, but even blinking hurt terribly now.
Seeing some of the Generals outside already, she fled back into the dim passage and carefully down the ladders, managing to reach her cabin without meeting anyone else, although she could hear dim footsteps and conversations. Politely, she stopped to knock on the door – checking that Cavaln was absent – and slipped inside when there was no reply, shutting the door and wishing that she could lock it – lock them all out! She got up on her bunk and curled up next to the window, leaning on the pillow, shivering uncontrollably again; she tried to rest her head in her hands, but it hurt far too much to touch . . .
Oh dear Arven, I truly wish that that storm had destroyed the ship!>; She wailed in silent misery, her tears stinging painfully as they ran down her ruined face. I wish I was dead! Kill me! Find someone else, better – stronger – to – to fight!>; And she sobbed, although the paroxysms were agonising.
Even more than he had on the beach, the Emperor of the Jajozeli-Razine, the Betrayer, had delivered his ultimatum and she did not have any way out, no way at all.
Oh Bahlien, Lurco, Jerryn – Jerryn – for-forgive me!>; She hoped against all commonsense that, somehow, they might hear her half across the world. I – I can’t fight him! They – they kill people for – for fun, here! You wouldn’t recognise me! He . . . he is merciless – oh, I wish I was dead!>; Ethrayne shuddered, recalling far too many nasty occurrences since she had been captured.
Death certainly not being an option, of course, she spent as much time as possible for the rest of that day and the next, alone. Hunger and thirst forced her from the little cabin, to ascend to the main cabin, to eat Whillan’s nutritious broth and to endure the Generals’ usual taunts – and she could not answer back. Warned by the King, in no condition to endure any form of punishment and completely terrified by his confident account of her future in his hands – she hunched down, all too aware of the twinge of her back and ignored them, but it was very hard to achieve, especially as she remembered that the King had told her that they had all been scared by her loss of self-control! But she would have ignored jibes at court in Tenum by rude minions or equals . . . She would not have demeaned herself by replying . . . Perhaps it was because she knew exactly what the consequences would be: why talking and eating were so difficult – But it was not easy.
The night after her breakfast with Gregnor was somehow much worse than the one before, for she was fully conscious and in too much discomfort to rest. Still breathing through her mouth – sounding harsh and loud – her face throbbing almost in time with her heartbeat, she tried to lie still and not disturb Cavaln in the other bunk. She spent those horrible, long hours trying to think of some way – any way at all – that she might be able to escape from this bottomless chasm that she was trapped within. But there was no escape that she could imagine.
Ethrayne greeted that second morning out from the island with gloomy resignation – she still had not slept, and she could feel her exhaustion like a physical presence. Her bruising was really starting to develop by then; her eyes were swollen nearly shut – but at least her nose had stopped leaking blood, although it felt as though it was now at least twice as large as her fist. She crept out of the cabin at first light, or just after, served herself porridge – it was much harder to eat than soup had been, but it filled her stomach – and stayed in the bow of the ship, staring despairingly across the endless ocean, until she heard Cavaln’s voice, whereupon she fled back to the small cabin, the heat only assuaged slightly by throwing the window open wide . . . The day passed at an agonising slow pace but, inevitably, evening came around and she was finally summoned to the main cabin for dinner.
King Gregnor did not acknowledge her presence, but he watched her almost all the time, or so she believed, trembling terribly as she sat eating the soup that had been prepared for her, along with – greatly daring, some bits of softened flat bread, that only really needed swallowing. Tears stung at her eyes, partly due to her injuries as well as her unhappiness and she strove to keep it contained, her gaze fixed on the table top, her free hand clenched in her lap. The jajozeli-razine talked idly around her, tall and threatening, but she could only focus on – him – and her own dilemma.
“Ethrayne.”
The girl actually jumped in her seat and some of the Generals laughed a little. “Your Majesty?”
“You really ought to rest tonight – I know that you have not been sleeping.” Gregnor informed her in a light tone. “General Cavaln has prepared you a draught.” He lifted a plain metal cup and passed it via some of his servants, until it was set before her, the liquid within it a pale opaque orange.
“May – may I enquire whether it is poison, your Majesty?” Ethrayne asked in her still rough, gravelly voice, full of fatalistic daring.
He laughed aloud at that. “No, it’s only a sleeping draught, child. Drink it now, go to your bed and you will sleep. I will see you after breakfast, as arranged – don’t forget your things from the island.”
Ethrayne flashed a glance at the King, then at the cup, doubt filling her, but she slowly picked it up. “Drink it, Ethrayne.” He commanded and, with a shiver, she downed the stuff in three swallows. It tasted odd: sharp, but sweet and also herby – she licked her lips to remove any traces, set the cup down and hazarded a second look at the King at the far end of the table – his gaze was sharp, measuring her yet again.
“Go to your cabin – the drug works quite quickly. Good night, child.”
“Your Majesty – my Lords, Lady -.” With a careful half bow as she rose, Ethrayne stepped around the bench and chairs and left the cabin, closing the door with relief. Feeling slightly light-headed, she descended the ladder and entered the cabin, immensely relieved to be excused another long evening in their presence. She quickly made her few preparations for bed, and the light-headedness increased; lying down, pulling the blanket over her body just because its weight was comforting, she tumbled almost instantaneously into sleep.
*
She woke gradually to a day already fully light – dawn had long-since passed, one of few that she had missed during nearly every day of the voyage. Ethrayne sat up and stretched, aware then that her body did not hurt much and her mind was blessedly clear of that numb exhaustion – although her face, of course, felt just as bad. Stretching for a second time just because it felt good, she threw off the blanket and stood up, nearly stepping in a bucket of warm water that had been set by the foot of her bunk. Obviously, someone thought that she should wash again, which amused her – she had always been fastidious regarding cleanliness.
The usual business of rising, washing herself and what clothes she could, plus dressing took a little time, then she picked up the pouch that she had made to contain her beach treasures, which had been stuffed in her bag; she fastened a thong about it to make a handle to loop around her wrist, then she tidied her bed, folding her blanket and nightdress neatly – all too aware that she was delaying leaving the cabin. She wondered why the King had told her to bring those shells and so on – it made no sense to her, but she supposed there was a reason for it, he might even explain it . . . As she finger-combed her hair, she shuddered with a touch of ice that belied the hot air entering through the open window.
Although the sun was not very high above the horizon to their right, it felt late – breakfast had been cooked and Sepphar glared at her as usual, as she served herself porridge, then spreading fruit conserve on one of the flat breads that were still slightly warm. She ate the porridge as quickly as she could, lodged out in the doorway to keep out of the chef’s way, thankful that her jaw was at least starting to allow her to chew a little – not that that was necessary with porridge, of course; then she took a mug of tea and the bread up to the main deck, eating, drinking and staring out at the sunlit water as usual, enjoying her seeming solitude as some of the Generals got on with tasks elsewhere on board.
Come, Ethrayne, it is time for your instruction to begin.>;
She nearly dropped her mug as Gregnor’s voice sounded in her head, and shivered again. I – I will just return my cup to the galley, Sire, if I may?>; She ventured in a whisper and sensed his confirmation. Tossing the last bit of bread over the rail for the fish or seabirds, Ethrayne hurried below, exchanging the single mug for a broad tray containing the teapot and mugs at Sepphar’s command – leaning heavily against the side wall for balance as she ascended the ladder. Pausing, taking a deep, audible breath, she tapped nervously on the door and heard the King’s call.
Again, he was already sat at the table, this time gazing out at the wake of the ship, waving her curtly to sit down.
“You can pour, put your bag of objects on the table.” He said.
“Yes, your Majesty.” She whispered, but still stood there uncertainly in the middle of the cabin, the tray shaking in her hands.
He glanced around and grinned, showing his large white teeth to good effect. “Sit, girl. Have you ever just done what you were told to? Once in your life?”
“Err . . . probably not, y-your Majesty.” Ethrayne admitted truthfully, setting the tray down, taking her seat and pouring a darker shade of hot liquid into the mugs. Only then did she take the cloth bag from her wrist, place it by the teapot, then politely moved one mug before her host.
“Before we begin, I have something for you.” Gregnor held out his right hand; it had been empty a moment before, but now it held what was unmistakeably a large, ornately tooled silver-framed mirror. “Take it, child – look.” He held it up so the mirror was facing her, his eyes shining with malice, his smile just as nasty as she stared at him in brief horror. “Go on.”
Nothing could have prepared her for the reality of her injuries. The acute pain of his blow, the blood and discomfort following had been – somehow separate, or so it seemed. Ethrayne stared, aghast, at an utter stranger with a revolting, misshapen face staring back at her. She set the mirror down as quickly as she dared, fighting against tears and some nausea.
Almost all her facial skin was bruised, from her jaw to her brow; her eyes were swollen, blackened and still as nearly closed; her nose really did seem to be the size of her fist – and her left cheek and jaw line were also swollen. Overall, she was completely unrecognisable – she wore an indelible mask painted brilliantly in black, purple, red, green and yellow . . . No – no wonder everything hurts so awfully, S-Sire.>;
“Ha, good!” He laughed aloud at her silently whispered words, for a breath or two. “That is your warning, girl: of what will happen each time you might think of defying me, or neglecting your lessons. You have a great deal to learn and I imagine that some of it will not be easy – but as long as I am certain that you are striving to succeed, you will not be censured for slowness.
“You will learn to control yourself, your mind and the power that resides within you. In a few days you will also resume your combat training – so at least you will not be able to complain of boredom.” He grinned again at the dismay and fear that she felt – that she was emanating. “So, to begin – you should not need to write anything down at this stage – you were learning to read and write Jajozeli before we left Zanezli?”
“Yes, your Majesty. I was having difficulty with – with tenses.” She whispered.
“Hmm. Well, language studies can resume when we reach Ban’Ganleth. As you may already know, child, we razine hold an innate force that most humans lack: power, talent – it could even be called magic, I suppose; it lies within us and we control it and utilise it using our minds. You know who created us first and then humans – experimenting, it would seem.” His tone was steady but seemed disapproving. “Some razine have a great deal of power and some do not; most humans don’t have a jot of it, yet a very few of you do – perhaps you and the prince were actually born with a measure of talent, even I do not know.” Gregnor shrugged slightly. “Personally, I suspect that you were. There is a sort of logic there: even imprisoned as he is, frozen, that idiot Arven might well be able to influence the focus of his prophecy – and it would make the addition of a portion of his own power slightly less of a shock to your human minds and bodies.
“You stopped short of describing that moment of transition to me, when the Casket opened for you and we will certainly discuss it in the future, Ethrayne, but for now you need to start with the absolute basics: learning how to use and control your mental muscles. To which end, you will find that these will be most useful.” He reached across the table to pat the small pouch.
“Excuse me, your Majesty, but – but may I ask a – a question?” Ethrayne ventured after a moment, taking her mug in both hands and taking a sip of the cooling liquid – it was still flavourless.
“You may.”
“Thank – thank you . . . I – we – we wondered how you could possibly have known to prepare for – for Jerryn and myself growing up? The prophecy is ancient – Bahlien said that Lord Arven ignored the book after it was written . . .” Her voice faded out and she kept her gaze fixed fearfully on the mug in her hands. Hopelessly, she expected that her bone-deep terror of the King would never lessen.
“That day – on the Solstice – I absorbed some of his power, his strength – it’s the easiest way to describe it, I suppose – and it has been wrapped around my soul for a very long time, after all. Actually, girl, that’s a very good question . . .” Gregnor considered in silence for a time, his face calm and Ethrayne sipped at her tea in growing dread. “I have never seen the book but I learned of its existence and of its contents – through the powers that I control, when I had mastered them. I knew almost immediately when you and the boy were born – yes, I knew of your births and I knew then – seventeen years ago – that you would be the ones to take the Flame, the ones chosen.” He smiled widely at the amazement Ethrayne revealed. “I have been rather impatient during the greater part of the last two decades, waiting for you to grow up!”
Ethrayne’s astonishment gave way to – well, she sensed a roiling mixture of raw fear, awe and an undercurrent of anger that she knew that she must conceal from him at all costs at his cold, unfeeling explanation.
“Now empty out those things you collected on the beach.”
The objects made a very small, sand-specked pile on the tabletop – seven shells; four little stones; the gold coin plus the delicate, tiny flint arrowhead.
Gregnor hefted the gold coin and the arrowhead, seeming to weigh them in his hand and gazing at them intently, then selecting each stone and shell in turn for equal appraisal. “Interesting collection – the arrowhead is nearly as old as Iullyn itself, I’ve no idea how it ended up on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean; the coin now belongs to me – it’s nearly four hundred years old, I see; you have rose quartz, granite; amethyst and an actual chip of sapphire. I want you to pick up one of these things and look at it. This is where you study will begin, Ethrayne, with these objects.”
Ethrayne looked at him, a frown clear in her mind if not on her heavily bruised face, then fixed her gaze back on the tabletop. “I – I’m afraid I – I do not understand.” She whispered fearfully.
He rolled his eyes and even sighed slightly. “Listen, child – and look – and use your mind. Here.” He dropped the small arrowhead into her palm. “Look at it, child – study the marks created by the man who made it all those millennia ago, the shape of it, the very rock it was chipped from. Open your mind and look through that too – Go on -.”
She shrank back in her seat, shaking visibly. “You – you are scaring me.” She quavered, alarmed by his intense tone and expression. “I – I will try, your Majesty -.”
“Just look at it, girl.” Gregnor interrupted, but as if he was deliberately curbing his impatience. “Ignore my presence for now and look.”
Ignoring the world-sized, mind-scrambling presence of the Emperor of the jajozeli-razine was profoundly difficult, when he filled her mind and her being so completely but, by fixing her gaze on the small, flaked, intricately shaped fragment of pale greyish stone, Ethrayne did study it with her eyes. After quite a while of this is really, really stupid!>; ringing in her head, that opinion also faded and she actually did begin to see some of the details of the small weapon-part – it was as if the tiny curves that shaped the blade of the arrowhead became a little more visible somehow . . . fascinated despite her fears, she stared and stared -.
“Oh, it’s gone!” Ethrayne had blinked for a moment longer – or the ship had moved differently, or something, perhaps. Now, the arrowhead was just a small, delicately shaped piece of flint. But Ethrayne felt exhausted, as if she had been sparring for half a morning with the Generals and not sat at ease staring at a fragment of rock.
“Hmm, that’s a start – excellent, child.” Gregnor said almost approvingly from across the room. At some point he had moved from his seat at the table to the divan on the other side of the cabin without her noticing, silently watching her all the time. And, amazingly, she realised that she had forgotten his overriding presence confusing and frightening her. “Take the things with you. Go and eat something and rest up on deck for a while. I will see you again in the morning.”
“Y-yes, your Majesty.” She faltered – all her fear returning with its full strength – cramming the shells and so on into the rough pouch – then rose quickly to her feet, shaking . . . but she had to pause, for her head span wildly and her eyes showed strange jagged shapes for a moment until, as it abated and her vision returned to normal, she backed away, knelt and then almost ran from his sitting room.
How very strange.>; She thought to herself a while later, sat out of the way on the main deck by the remaining housing for the landing craft, leaning on the boat in the shade with food and water close to hand. It feels like only a short time yet it’s well after noon now – so was I sat there just looking at my arrowhead for most of the morning? But – but nothing happened!>;
Yet, deep inside, she knew that her assessment was not strictly correct: now somewhere within her, she could sense a tiny flicker, a movement, almost a presence that she had not felt before. She felt strange, too: she almost had a headache, but it wasn’t that exactly; her skin felt tender, as if she had brushed against nettles, but it was fading quickly and her eyesight was now somehow a bit clearer – as if her time of intense concentration had a degree of change within her, or something. Bahlien had said that her acceptance of the Flame would alter her, but after so many moons of fear and inertia, she supposed, the process of learning – forcefully – how to use this talent would have other effects . . . After all, over an entire year had passed since then! That was frightening: a year or more since her betrothal to Jerryn and their acceptance of the Flame! . . . But she could only wish that the King – the Betrayer himself – was not teaching her! That she was – stupidly – in Tenum City or Clirensar and the horrors of the jajozeli-razine had never descended upon them all, to cause so much horror and destruction!
* * *
“Beware, they’re attacking!” Savalle yelled in Selithian, just before he died with a sword-thrust through his spine. The shout went up, now repeated from all quarters – although definitely unwanted and unexpected, the new thrust by the enemy had been detected, now spreading out from the central square of the city.
Master Cheltor had instigated opening the Portal upon receiving the rather garbled warning from Cal’Badon. Such was his speciality: sensitive to a level far beyond most jajozeli-razine, he was the Lord Defender of Zanezli as well as Weapons Instructor. Guiding a gateway across the continent was not easy, but his focus on the alert was absolute and the Generals and civilian jajozeli-razine present in Ban’Lerracon had all complied with his command and hurried to give him their strength. Even so, the night was passing before the gateway was stable enough to permit the armed and dangerous force to advance through it, to materialise in a heartbeat or two in Devacknon Square. Cheltor had been the first of the fifty Generals through and had taken grim delight in slaying the young razine sailor giving the rather shrill warning.
Humans, especially from Selith, usually considered the razine to be immortal, impervious to blade or illness, but the reality was quite different: they could be killed, but not easily – by either humans or razine, due to their innate power and instincts. Master Cheltor was one of the best combatants in his Emperor’s service, which was why he was not called General; hence his almost constant presence in the combat halls, training his subordinates and contempories.
“Spread out, get to the docks, destroy their ships!” He bellowed to the largest number of Generals. “The rest of you – follow!” He led them southward through the largely ruined city, drawn by the sense of power and the explosions that were so clear in that direction, fire reflecting brightly from the bare sides of the mountains above. The ground moved slightly beneath his feet, as if some huge animal was starting to wake from sleep and a shiver of unease ran through him.
Forewarned, the allied attackers halted their retreat to the docks, to turn and face the newly-arrived enemy. Ashanner urged the humans amongst them to return to their ships, to get ready to sail, but most of them, both Protectorate and Tenarean, disobeyed him cheerfully. Over thirty armed jajozeli-razine closed on them with grim intent, fresh to the fight – and the allies no longer had the element of surprise on their side. All of them, no matter how strong or talented, were weary to some extent.
Captain Eltham blasted out the buildings still standing further up the street where he and his crew stood, as the jajozeli-razine closed on them, but the destruction to the Generals was minimal and the group of about five – he was sure there were others close nearby – were yelling at the tops of their voices, in a mixture of anger and defiance as they ran forward.
“Get the bastards!” He shouted, using the words and the volume to diminish his own rising fear and stood fast, his sword held low, his gaze shifting quickly from form to form. Lifting his blade, shouting “Arven!” he sliced through the ribcage of the General just to his right, feeling the enemy die – but his crew were there to block the others as he wrenched his blade free of the bone that had temporarily trapped it.
The fighting was intense for some critical moments and although they did kill the Generals, it was certainly no without loss: Lowel and Tanag died, protecting an injured Syme, the youngest man in the crew, now bleeding from gashes in his abdomen. Eltham and his first officer, Vesstelyn, hoisted the man up off the ground and bore him carefully back towards the dock – others of their company had engaged the remaining Generals, single-mindedly determined to eliminate them and largely succeeding. From all around, it seemed, the fighting had renewed with a vengeance.
The wide area before the burning warehouses was full of combatants. The group of fourteen edged around the space as best they could – attacking the enemy where necessary, now focussing far more on saving their precious ships, the only means of their escape: without them they were worse than dead! But it would be better to destroy the vessels themselves than have them taken as spoils of war by their sworn enemies.
Ashanner and Lieutenant Carron were back to back, fighting three looming jajozeli-razine, their weapons clashing and ringing – then, they had one opponent less – the third one was down, blood pouring from his chest; then the second was cut apart.
“Save the ships!” Eltham bellowed, turning to assist Vesstelyn who had supported the unconscious Syme during the short battle. “Go men, go!”
“Aye, Captain!”
But the fighting continued – both sides desperate to win through to the ships, as many of the Tenareans died, paying with their lives in their determination to do their duty to their allies. There was no quarter given – there was too much history, too much hatred on both sides. There were few injured who would not soon die from their wounds, unless treated quickly.
Ashanner and the rest of the surviving force of Tenarean and Protectorate volunteers finally met the defenders of their ships, having cut down the Generals but at huge cost: the dock ran with blood, was littered with bodies – they now counted less than half of the men they had landed with, including six walking – or carried – wounded.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Ashanner yelled. “There are more Generals nearby – we’ve got to warn Kierven and Amdor, or we’re all worse than dead!”
“But what about Phellos?” Carron from the Veddock Pearl demanded, ducking at a loud explosion somewhere to the south – lurid fire lit the sky. “We can’t leave her -!”
“Calm, you fool!” Lieutenant Hachorn interjected. “Phellos and her men would not thank us for putting everyone else at further risk – that volcano is rising: this whole bloody valley’s going to vanish by dawn – dear Arven, she’s amazing!”
They studied the remaining parts of the city that they could see, through the smoke, fire and darkness as their remaining men and razine quickly boarded the ships, having quickly set a wall of fire to isolate the dock as far as they could from encroaching Generals. The Mador Opal, however, was invisible, still out of sight; although the sky above the mountains far above was starting to lighten slightly, just a hint of grey visible, the inlet was not only as dark as ever, but a stinking murk was spreading – fog, or cloud, or smoke, there was no real way to tell, but the sulphurous fumes gave them warning of what would come, catching in their throats.
“No.” Ashanner overrode their objections, although he sympathised – he had to work hard to suppress his own feelings and it hurt. “We have to get out, now! We cannot leave the Kingdoms defenceless whilst we have life and sails. Phellos knows the risks as well as the rest of us – and we’ll pray to Arven constantly that the Mador Opal and her crew are already on their way to the ocean. Let’s go, men!”
But, the last ship to leave the burning deck, Ashanner kept his gaze on the southern area of the dock as Hachorn brought the Orbain Pearl about, slipping out into the safety of the inlet, beyond reach of land-based enemies, heading away from the danger of the shaking expanse of Cal’Badon, watching the fires they had set spread outwards, meeting other, hotter, fires, as they sailed away towards the dawn.
*
Captain Phellos watched the tall, thin figure emerge from the perimeter of the surrounding buildings with no change of expression – here was the bastard who had made the gateway from Ban’Lerracon and she would be thrice damned if he survived their meeting!
“Most creative, woman, I admire your style.” Cheltor said calmly as a spurt of brilliant orange fire headed towards the sky, painting them all garishly.
“You will address me as ‘Captain’, General.” She answered, her heart in her boots for a tense moment, although she would sooner have jumped into the awakening volcano than admitted that fear to anyone.
“Ah, the infamous Captain Phellos – most marvellous. I am Master Cheltor, Lord Defender of Zanezli in his Majesty’s absence.” His cold eyes shone in an unnervingly feral way in the intermittent light cast by the spewing birth of the volcano and his long sword also reflected the firelight and the magma.
“Really?” Phellos’s tone was cool. “Then I will have to do my best to deprive your Emperor of your existence!” Without warning, she attacked -.
“Ha! Good, Captain!” The habit of appraisal and comment in his day-to-day role was not to be lightly cast aside. Cheltor took a side step and attacked in turn, their blades shining garishly with red and orange flares. There was no more chance or attempt at conversation, only the ring and scrape of swords colliding.
The General was every bit as competent as Phellos had expected – he was a skilled swordsman and frighteningly fast. She honestly suspected that her own skill might not be quite up to his professional level, but was counting on his use of so much power, the sheer physical and mental effort in creating the portal gateway that she had sensed to slow him down a little. She tried to ignore the fact that she had been spending her own strength freely on awakening the volcano that was now bucking the ground violently beneath her feet.
Fighting for her life, as her opponent fought for his, she could only pray that her crew and the rest of the volunteers had made it back to the ships and to freedom and long life! Whatever else happened this day, Cal’Badon would soon vanish in unquenchable fire, never again to send ships out to terrorise and destroy the innocent on land and sea. Phellos willingly gave herself to that fire, to the furtherance of Arven’s Prophecy and the two young Am’maiya . . . But she would do her utmost to kill Cheltor first.
In the area around the open expanse where Phellos and Cheltor battled, other equally intense fights took place, although nearly all of them were resolved either one way or the other a great deal more quickly. Tiring, her arms burning, her legs feeling a little shaky, her lungs starting to labour, Phellos set her jaw, all too aware that her enemy was grinning broadly; although he was clearly also tiring, his stamina and skill were truly as great as his title of Master warranted, no matter his age. It felt as though they had been duelling for an age, but in reality much less time had passed -.
A sudden new stripe of bright pain flared across her ribs, added to the ones on her left arm and her right thigh: long cuts from her enemy’s sword, that hopefully were not deep or wide – Phellos had inflicted similar damage on Cheltor: fortune had been with her! Garnering her strength, dancing lightly away although her legs were trembling even more, she thrust again, using her weight behind it to knock his long, lethal blade aside – And was amazed when her sword sliced an arc from his brow, through his left eye and down his cheek, blood pouring suddenly from his face -.
“Bitch!” Cheltor lunged forward, knocking her weapon from her hand by the sheer muscle of his body. He dropped his own sword – And Phellos screamed in shock as a long knife was rammed home through her right shoulder, followed by a swipe from his leg that knocked her from her feet. “Take that, Captain!” He spat, pulled his dagger from her body, then used the hilt to hit the woman hard over the head with it, twice – and she stopped struggling, rendered insensible.
As if her incapacitation had been a signal of some kind, the increasing rumbling of the volcanic forces below his feet became a great blast of fire and sound – deafeningly loud, as Cheltor staggered, staring from his one remaining eye at a fountain of liquid fire that was shooting at least a hundred feet into the air barely a hundred yards away, if that. Concern showed on his lined, blood-covered face for a moment then, ignoring his own injuries, he bent down to retrieve his weapons, taking time to wipe the blades clean with a cloth before sheathing them. He picked up the unconscious woman with a grunt of effort and hoisted her – just – over his right shoulder, wincing slightly, then set off at a tired trudge towards the waterside some distance away. Clearly, the only possibility of escaping this conflagration would be by ship: he could not have raised a Portal if his life depended on it. Which it did, he reflected with a moment’s grim smile.
The dock area was also growing foggy with the smoke from the fires set by the damned attackers, but he noted an increasing stink of sulphur amid the other fumes, some were hot and metallic, all of which caught sharply in his throat, nose and lungs as Master Cheltor advanced, limping, blood still running – cooling – down his face and his front, Phellos’ body seriously hampering the speed with which he could advance – and there seemed to be no one around who could assist him: he could see only smoke and darker fumes eddying about.
The range of wharves off to his left were burning furiously by the time he could see the large ship standing almost ethereally at the edge of the dock to his right, its masts and rails almost hidden in the murk. Wincing, he drew his sword again, for he did not yet know whether the craft was held by friend or foe: he had heard nothing for ages – his cohorts could all be dead and the Protectorate bastards would just cut him down -.
“Master!” A dark figure emerged from out of the shadows on the deck as he advanced and he recognised General Shuim by his large, muscular outline as much as his voice. “You’re injured -.”
“Later, Shuim.” Cheltor turned his head as another, even larger explosion rocked the ground, even tossed the large ship, painting everything with fiery scarlet light from the ground to the peaks of the mountains behind. “You hold the ship?”
“Aye Master, but it was close.” The jajozeli-razine was heading down the gang-plank and quickly took the woman from his superior. “There are seven of us and five prisoners – two razine, three humans – and -.” He flinched and ducked as another spout of liquid fire flared up somewhere towards the centre of the city. “Blood and shit!”
“Let’s leave, yes?” Cheltor suggested drily, already unfastening the thick ropes from fore and aft that held the ships secure. “Before we’re roasted?”
Shuim had negotiated the gang-plank easily, but the older jajozeli-razine felt the slope acutely – definitely feeling his age as he had not ever done before. The General set the woman down on deck, hauled up the ramp with enviable ease, then stamped loudly on the planking. “Hoy! On deck you lot! Move, Generals!” He yelled. “Time to go, gentlemen!” Behind him, Cheltor was slowly pulling in the rope at the rear of the huge craft, then limped determinedly to the bow to do the same.
“Pirris!” General Tegene came outside from the dark hole that was the doorway into the ship below the raised stern deck. “Now that’s impressive!”
“Shut up, Tegene – we’ve got to get this ship out of range or we’re all dead.” Master Cheltor growled, the rope heavy in his arms. “I may have beaten all of you regularly at combat for years, but I know absolutely nothing about sailing ships.”
“I know something – Rabonnard, Alach and Pasqua know more than I, Master.” General Tegene stated, shaking his head at the on-going and unstoppable destruction of Cal’Badon. “The prisoners are secure – oh, another one.” He glanced down at the still unconscious woman.
“The previous captain.” Cheltor explained briefly as the others burst out onto the deck and the slightly shorter and stockier Pasqua climbed to the stern deck and started bellowing orders which the others quickly obeyed. “Thank the Emperor for some brains.” He muttered, wincing as he dropped the rope then sank down onto the deck not far from where Phellos lay. He would be no use yet on board the ship and he could start quelling the bleeding from the woman’s slash down his face – his shirt, he had noticed, was wet with blood.
Slowly, under General Pasqua’s direction, the ship was shoved away from the wharf and the hot wind from the conflagration and growing volcanic activity filled the sails dropped by the Generals who were balancing from the yard-arm of the main mast.
“Pirris! You should see the city from here!” Alach shouted down in dismayed awe, staring out over Cal’Badon as it turned from city to volcano. “There are three craters now – and a fourth is spewing up lava near the city gates – hell!” He exclaimed as, frighteningly quickly, burning rocks suddenly began flying with deadly intent, some reaching impressive heights and distances from the volcano – and, by some miracle, missing the ship entirely although quite a few landed, hissing and exploding, in the sea – which seemed to boil as they hit! The city was vanishing, it seemed – and soon all the dead, Protectorate, Tenarean and Jajozeli, would be immolated together.
By dawn, the Mador Pearl was nearly two leagues down the inlet and the Generals had relaxed enough from the initial threat to finally deal with the injuries of Master Cheltor and the semi-conscious Captain Phellos, both of whom were borne to the main cabin under the stern deck where General Shuim took charge. General Tegene suggested that he try and find something to make breakfast with – but he was clearly dismayed by the size of the tiny galley below. Pasqua was in command, and the other Generals were also on deck, keeping a close eye on the spouting liquid fire and the flying lava that were now reaching maybe a good few thousand feet into the sky and growing; the sound of lava evaporating the sea water at the end of the inlet was also loud, and gritty steam, fumes and smoke were billowing out beyond their position, shrouding the steep-sized fjord in murk nearly as impenetrable as the night had been. Even the sea was covered with dust and grit.
“Well, Master, I’m afraid I can’t save your eye.” Shuim admitted regretfully, having cleaned the five-inch gash that Phellos had given his superior.
“I thought not.” Cheltor said coolly. “Just stitch me up, then see to the woman – I’ll think we’ll need the good Captain Phellos.”
“Oh?” The General enquired.
“Later, Shuim. I need to speak to Tequan and Ban’Lerracon.” The Master told him shortly.
*
Further down the inlet, the Pearls headed as swiftly as they could in relay towards Cal’Lilse, waving a Tenarean flag desperately from the bow – the pre-arranged warning for the expected quick departure just in case the Tenarean ships hadn’t got their earlier warning of waving lit torches, to get them moving from where they had been moored – there were the ships ahead of them, thank Arven!
The day seemed to have crept along for them as they had sailed all too slowly away from their enemy’s burning stronghold, blessing the hot wind that aided their advance. Although their look-outs had stared out until their eyes ached, searching the inlet around and behind them since first light, they had not seen any sign at all of the Mador Opal – a fact which concerned all the survivors. But even in the pre-dawn darkness when they had all fled to their ships, it had been clear that Captain Phellos had begun something awe-inspiring and unstoppable: the city was burning, collapsing . . . They all prayed for her, her crew and the Tenareans who had volunteered to accompany them whilst she had awakened the beast of the seismic forces beneath. Now, in the cloudy, smoky, indistinct light of day, the topography of the inlet seemed to funnel the sounds of the explosions quite spectacularly – and the burning lava, now miles behind, was still visible as a distant fiery glow.
Lord Kierven’s Sweet Rose soon joined them, leaving nothing behind in the strategic fort but oil-fuelled fires in every building. The nobleman’s heart had sunk, seeing the lack of the Mador Opal instantly as a very bad omen, but he praised his crew as they sailed eastward into the indistinct day.
“This entire venture depended far too greatly on pure luck along with aid from Lord Arven.” He remarked heavily to his first officer. “T’would have been a miracle indeed if everyone had come out of it alive and whole – may Arven bless their souls.”
“Amen.”
*
Advancing cautiously under as much cover as the eruption could gift them, concealed amid the dust clouds, steam and smoke that were being blown from the land down the inlet, General Pasqua hung back, keeping close to the dark northern slope so as to gain more concealment. His watchman, General Rabonnard, uncomfortably ensconced in the crow’s nest atop the main mast, his nose and mouth covered with a damp cloth, could see the very tip of one of the Pearl ship’s masts far ahead – heading into clearer air as they sailed east and so more visible.
Wait – the shores straighten ahead, there’s a view for leagues.>; Rabonnard told his new captain. Are you really going to follow them, Pasqua? They outnumber us considerably.>; There was a measure of doubt in his mental tone.
Don’t be stupid, fool. We’re waiting for Master Cheltor’s input. I just want to get out of this potential death-trap alive, with our prisoners.>; Pasqua replied shortly. “Drop the anchor!” He yelled to Tegene. “Keep watch – and on the volcano behind us, too.” He ordered, and headed for the main cabin.
Master Cheltor sat to one side, his sword belt naturally still around his hips, bandages wrapped around his left thigh, both upper arms and across his face, hiding his left eye completely. Shuim was leaning over a second figure, the captured captain who sat on a stool, mostly naked from the waist up as the General finished wrapping a thick bandage around her right shoulder, breast and upper arm. There was a second bandage about her ribs, below her breasts, but the cuts on her arms and thigh – somehow mirroring the ones that she had inflicted on Cheltor – had not yet been dealt with. Her red hair was tousled, her face pale – she had lost quite a lot of blood from the knife wound, for her torso was streaked with it and it had soaked into her leggings. Despite her discomfort and disquiet, however, she was resolutely maintaining a stoic silence with regard to her injuries.
“We have stopped, Master Cheltor. The enemy were briefly in view, heading for the ocean.” He reported respectfully.
“Dear Arven, what sort of terminology is that?” Phellos commented in a tone of low contempt. “Who put you in charge, idiot?”
Pasqua stared at her for a moment. “Master Cheltor did, actually, woman, since I know the most about ships of all of us.”
“Then I will pray to Arven for a storm to quickly sink us!” The woman said levelly, slowly pulling back on the ripped and blood-stained shirt Shuim had removed earlier.
“Shut up, Phellos.” Cheltor ordered but in a mild tone. “You might have destroyed Cal’Badon rather effectively, but you, along with some of your crew and your ship now belong to the Emperor of the Jajozeli Empire – Gornen, take her to the hold, and restrain her well.”
His lungs certainly had not been affected by his injuries – another General came through the door and grinned. “As you command, Master Cheltor.” He said respectfully. “On your feet, bitch!”
“My name, General, is Captain Phellos.” She retorted, but could not halt a visible wince of discomfort that she quickly suppressed, as the jajozeli-razine deliberately took hold of her right upper arm and pulled her upright.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain – I’m sure, however, that you are going to deeply regret ever meeting us!” He laughed coldly as he marched her out of what had been her cabin, a large, scar-faced General who had suffered few injuries during the battle.
“That I do not doubt.” She sighed quietly.
The lower passage was unlit, until Gornen made a small sphere of light that bobbed along near the beams of the low ceiling – they both had to duck a little to advance. The forward hold, it seemed, had been hurriedly rearranged when the jajozeli-razine had wrested control of the vessel. The boxes, bundles and food supplies were now piled rather messily in the passage, whilst Phellos found herself joining a clearly dispirited group of frightened, injured men and razine locked where her cargo and so on had been.
“Captain!” Lunde cried sharply in dismay as Phellos found herself bound tightly at wrists, ankles and knees by the General in the doorway, then knocked to the floor with no regard for her injuries.
“Oh, bugger, Captain!” Old Dhell muttered succinctly as the hold door was slammed shut and locked firmly, leaving them in complete darkness.
“Bugger indeed, good Captain Dhell.” Phellos answered with a sigh, trying to ease the discomfort of her bandaged shoulder. “Who else has been captured, Lunde?”
“Rynn, Captain.” Rynn piped up from over to the left, one of the newest members of her crew; the young razine had joined at Lerat nearly a year earlier.
“Zeron, Captain.” One of the middle-aged men of her crew stated levelly. “I was here with Dhell – they used their talent to neutralise us, the bastards.”
“Fereyne, Captain, Ma’am.” Another voice stated in Selithian, one of Lord Kierven’s men. “I’m sorry we failed you, Ma’am -.”
“We have not failed, gentlemen – I released the volcano and its might from beneath Cal’Badon and our companions are well ahead sailing towards the open ocean, apparently – that’s why the ship is presently at anchor.” Phellos related with some satisfaction. “We might wish that we had died – that bloody General Cheltor raised a damned portal and he’s a weapons master of note – but I nearly killed him and we’ve dealt the bastards a huge blow: the city is turning into a vast caldera, it seems, so it will be completely useless for decades at least – there’s nothing else of use in this inlet, if the men leaving have destroyed the forts as they intended, so we’ve hopefully limited or even stopped their depredations on this side of the continent.” She hissed as she jarred her shoulder.
“Captain, are you badly hurt?” Dhell asked, a moment before Lunde could speak – the old fellow was most solicitous, and she managed a grim, toothy smile in the darkness.
“Well, Cheltor and I were exchanging blows for quite a while – both of us were injured. How about you lot?”
“Nothing worth mentioning, Captain.” Lunde said with stout bravado – but Phellos knew that he was lying. With her power, although still exhausted from raising the magma, she could tell that he had suffered some concussion as well as a long gash to his back; Dhell was nursing a mass of cuts and bruises where he had been literally thrown to the dock from the deck of the ship; Rynn had been patched up with bandages around his abdomen, fortunately the knife had missed anything vital; Zeron had similar wounds to his back and shoulders, whilst Fereyne had both a broken shoulder and a broken nose.
“That’s good, I suppose – it could be worse for all of us. Let’s rest.” She suggested with mock cheerfulness. “At least we can stretch out in here.”
“Aye, Captain.” Dhellos agreed promptly. “It’s larger than my fishing boat, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it is.” And she had to suppress a half-despairing burst of laughter at his ready answer. She had hoped that everyone else had got away – so she had prayed, during her desperate battle with Cheltor – but neither had they escaped through death.
Phellos winced again, her injured shoulder agonising – the General had cleaned it and bandaged it, a courtesy she had not really expected, but with the bonds holding her wrists so, and the ones on her legs, she could not get into a comfortable position on the bare planks of the hold. And she supposed that her cohorts were having similar problems. The fact that their enemies had taken the time to tend them was rather worrying, to her mind: it did not bode well for them and she was quietly concerned at their captors’ purpose. They all knew what the jajozeli-razine were capable of, and she breathed deeply, resolving to hold off fear at all costs for it would only weaken her.
Time passed slowly in the darkness, as they felt the swell of the sea beneath them, hearing the occasional boom reverberating from the mountains around them, as the ground heaved. Huddled on the planks, hungry, thirsty, restrained by their bonds, the prisoners could only lie there helplessly, wondering in silent trepidation what was happening – and what the future would hold for them, in the merciless hands of their enemies. No one came. It felt as though a lifetime had passed before they finally heard the anchor being raised and the Mador Pearl slowly set off eastward.
* * *
The campaign to re-take Clirensar continued apace. Duke Pualyn had stated bleakly, his face pale but resolute, in their first meeting after their return from the heart-breaking remains of Callorton and Home Farm, that the only safe way to enter the city that he could think of was to use the siege engines that had been designed and constructed as part of their strategy as their main weapon, or else lose thousands upon thousands of men storming the gates that concealed who knew what defensive structures. The commanders, both noble and military argued this for a day, but in the end they all agreed with Pualyn’s bleak assessment.
The engineers and mathematicians were then in charge for a period, poring over plans and calculations, improving and improvising the frameworks to throw even larger rocks, or bundles of spears or something else – fire was suggested, but each adaptation was worked through quite slowly, the calculations checked, so as not to endanger those working the machines. The soldiers fretted at the delays incurred, but it was impossible to advance otherwise; it was painful, to see the city, so loved by many, so vital to the region’s and the kingdom’s economy, being steadily destroyed, but no one could think of any alternative.
Once the engines were built, the rest of the army simply had to defend them. The enemy commander sent out a number of sorties during the five days at the start of the siege, but these halted after the latest horrific assault, during which at least seven thousand jajozeli died – more of a blood-bath than a battle, to the attackers minds. The beautiful and carefully managed coppiced woodlands that circled the Sare valley were in danger of disappearing entirely, so much wood was required to burn the bodies that littered the ground, threatening all their health.
“D’you think that that bastard in charge is discouraged at all, at losing so many soldiers?” Jerryn asked Pualyn, after the latest mounds of the enemy dead had been systematically consumed by fire – the stink had sickened them all, whichever way the wind had blown. They were both on horseback, on a hilltop a good half a mile from the city walls, looking out over the hard, heavy, dangerous work going on at various points around the city, surrounded by the Flame Guard as always.
“I bloody hope so!” The young duke responded coldly. “He deserves it, certainly.” He still harboured a single-minded determination to slaughter General Tequan himself, no matter what happened or what obstacles were in his path – and nothing anyone could say would persuade him to pursue a slightly less risky agenda. “It’s going to cost a fortune or two to rebuild the city, perhaps more and I bet they’ve stolen the contents of the treasury and everything else of value they’ve found!”
“Oh, more than likely, Pualyn.” Jerryn agreed with a heavy sigh. “But even if it takes the rest of our lives and most of the money in Tenarum, we will restore Clirensar. You know, I thought this part of the siege might take much longer – that’s what all the textbooks say, isn’t it? Those huge tomes purchased from the universities in the Protectorates, that we studied in our lessons. It’s been six days since our people started throwing rocks and already there are some bloody big cracks in the city walls.”
“But cracks ain’t going to let us in – it still will take time, Jerryn – don’t get your hopes up.” Pualyn said and managed one of his now rare smiles. “You’ll see, we’ll rebuild the city walls twice as thick next time – then nothing will dent them. Don’t forget that we’ve been refining the designs every few days, judging by what’s happening – I think your father was rather surprised to discover he had such a flair for engineering.”
“Yes, all those figures and angles make my head spin, frankly.” Jerryn commented.
“Liar, I’ve see you sat there poring over the plans.” The duke countered, and stretched in his saddle. “I tell you, when this is over, I won’t miss wearing all this.” He patted his mail shirt. “Provided we all survive the next few days, Arven willing, of course.”
“Amen to that.” Jerryn said earnestly. “But I’ll cope with the discomfort, it’s all this hanging about, it’s somehow worse than the initial battles were: we were too worried to consider just how terrible it would get – and it will be again, won’t it? Be terrible when we do finally get inside the city? I sure as hell didn’t think about the end of the process.” He shuddered.
“Are you sure you were thinking at all, highness?”
“Probably more than you were, Clirensar.” The prince laughed and Pualyn, after a short pause, did also. “Come on, let’s find some lunch: I’m starving.”
“We could mark the day using your stomach, lad. At this rate, you’ll be twice the size you are now by midsummer, greedy.”
“Oh, shut up, Pualyn – then Lennarn can try to rob more pennies from us at stepping stones or dice.”
“It was a bad day when that man learned to gamble – for the rest of us, anyway. Why can’t you use your magic to turn the dice in our favour, hey?” Pualyn complained and the valet grinned broadly, winking at the guards.
“Idiot.” Jerryn stated with brotherly affection, but the joking words set him thinking – he ought to ask the razine more about the power that could quite often sense deep within himself, but it was utterly peculiar to consider using it properly, as he used his hands, for example, rather than mostly exercising his mind as he strove to protect himself from everyone else’s fear and anger. With the days slowly passing, spring now advancing towards summer, he could feel the Flame inside, late in the night when he was drifting towards sleep, something simultaneously both alien and part of him. It was frightening to acknowledge that he actually bore a third of his God’s strength inside him . . . and he and Ethrayne had been so innocent, so ignorant.
Dear Arven, please protect her from our enemies!>; He repeated the heart-felt prayer again – the words were almost always in some part of his mind: he was determined to utter the prayer at least five times a day, even if their God was imprisoned helplessly in ice – or sick of hearing the words.
*
The mood in the plain command pavilion was still serious, if rather more positive that it had been before the battle had commenced. Although, of course, awful events might occur again the future to put them at a serious disadvantage, the allies had acquitted themselves as a group thus far. They were no longer novices. Even the newest volunteer walked with assurance now, yet most of them still detested the job that they were undertaking, even if their enemies were doing their utmost to slaughter them in return.
“So, we should be able to advance on the city tomorrow?” King Marrand asked eagerly, as the commanders came together for the evening meal that night. “The other gates are neutralised? You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, unless the jajozeli can fly, your Majesty.” Commander Vedeigne grinned – they were rather pleased with the massive pits dug before the south and west-facing gates of Clirensar and the huge ramparts made from the soil and rocks from those holes – it had been risky, but the soldiers digging had been protected by ‘roofs’ constructed from shields fastened together and a second layer of wet cowhides, so no matter what the defenders had thrown down from the walls, it had mostly been deflected without causing much injury. Those two gates could now be held securely by only a few hundred allied soldiers each, unless the enemy were particularly tricky and illogical. They should be too deep and wide for ladders to easily cross. They hoped so, anyway – it had been an enormous undertaking for the already worn soldiers and their superiors, for Jerryn had suggested that they all help in the work. His superiors had agreed with this, eventually after a great deal of arguing, but not enthusiastically.
Any sensible defender, of course, would concentrate his soldiers around the gate that the attackers would throw themselves against – But they were not really sure whether General Tequan was sensible, or logical. Well over fifteen thousand jajozeli lives had been thrown away, so far in the conflict. It seemed that Tequan’s master, the Betrayer, counted those lives not at all – unlike the allied kings and commanders who, conversely, fretted probably too much over the lives spent in trying to liberate Clirensar.
“There’s something nasty waiting for us inside those gates, I’m sure.” Jerryn was convinced of it and most of the others agreed with him – especially after that brief discussion with General Tequan so many days before. “I just wish we could prepare for it!”
“But we are prepared, Jerryn.” The High-King tried to reassure him. “When we finally get through those gates, or past the walls, we will all progress most carefully, expecting all manner of pit-falls and traps with every step – the enemy have had plenty of time to construct all manner of things. But we will neutralise them.”
The prince nodded agreement, but his mood had darkened. And it’s all for me!>; He added silently, his worry evident. “Dear Arven, I feel such a coward -.>;
Am’maiya, you are not a coward. There are risks enough without you and Pualyn being right in the van.>; Mhezal countered firmly. We are leading – there will be fighting enough for everyone, I’m sure.>;
That’s what’s worrying me most, your Majesty.>; Jerryn admitted quietly. There’s no alternative: we must destroy them – but so many families will lose their fathers, sons and brothers . . . I keep praying that we are worth their loss!>;
You are gaining wisdom, Jerryn and, like you, I and the others can only pray that it is.>; The razine said.
*
Some strange-minded individuals, whilst appreciating the sheer hard work and technical advances of the siege engines, took a rather different approach to the task of freeing Clirensar from the jajozeli. Instead of looking at the walls and gates of the city, they studied the great limestone cliff that formed its eastern side and, indeed, the actual edge of the castle above. This extended from the bank of the river, a natural barrier at the east of the wharves at the foot of the city walls to the north, and stretched south, a pale precipice jutting out of the green grass and rubble that formed its foot, a good two hundred and fifty feet tall if it was an inch, topped by the rear of the castle.
“We could climb that crag, you know.” Captain Robard stated one evening to the High Prince, when he had delivered his usual report on food supplies and sanitation.
“What crag?” Kerrenan had asked – it had been a long day and he was unusually tired, having been up since before dawn, supervising the additions to their water supplies.
“That crag, highness.” Robard pointed in the direction of the city, although they were in the prince’s tent. “The one the citadel’s stood on.”
“It’s vertical – how on Iullyn could anyone climb it?” He asked, shaking his head. “And, more importantly, why would anyone climb it?”
Robard grinned, and shrugged. “We like climbing cliffs – me, Lieutenant Harrisen, some others. We even go out into the Edge Lands beyond Lerat to the north and scale those crags, bottom to top – you wouldn’t believe how exhilarating it is!” He paused and grinned broadly, a tall razine with greying hair and soft grey-blue eyes in a square–chinned face. “We do it because it’s exciting, but – we’ve been thinking and planning a little – if anyone could get up that cliff when the occupiers were all concentrating on the walls and so on, it might be possible to get over the walls above and attack the bastards from the rear. They certainly wouldn’t be expecting it, would they?”
Kerrenan looked at him for a long moment. “You haven’t been drinking, have you, Robard?” He asked in a level tone. “That’s the most – most ridiculous idea I’ve heard yet!”
“Actually, it’s not ridiculous, your Highness, not if you think about it properly.” Robard protested, but in a mild, reasonable tone that exuded confidence. “You have never climbed rock faces for amusement and the challenge and I bet none of the jajozeli have either. They won’t be considering the remote possibility that anyone would even attempt to ascend that cliff to attack them – it looks far too smooth to climb, at first glance.” He grinned again, a mischievous expression that made him look almost like an errant schoolboy. “But it isn’t, you know.”
“It isn’t what, Robard?” The High Prince asked, in a slightly weary tone. “Stop smiling like you’ve stolen an entire cake and got away with it – dear Arven, explain!”
“Harrisen and I went to look, yesterday, when we were off duty: just marching about the perimeter, and we climbed a good thirty feet up from the base in a short time: it’s full of useful little cracks and ledges, as far as we can tell, and those of us who know what to do could climb it rather easily, bearing ropes and weapons – and we could haul up less confident men and kit by those ropes, then go and attack the enemy in the most secure part of their stronghold. No one from the citadel above could possibly have seen us there at the base for a moment, there’re overhangs and bushes near the summit, undergrowth at the bottom. If we had a hundred men, or so – there are ten of us amongst the company who like scaling rock faces – we’d have ten each to guide up the face, say – then we could possibly make a difference, couldn’t we?”
Kerrenan stared at him. “You know, this year seems to be the year of the absolutely ridiculous suggestion – first it was Ashanner and Phellos’ idea to attack Cal’Badon and now this! I ask you! Robard – this is utterly stupid: you have no idea whether you’d be able to get over the walls on the edge of the cliff.”
“True, but Duke Pualyn would know, wouldn’t he? We could ask him: he grew up there – he knows the citadel intimately.” Robard suggested then. “Of course, there’re bound to be guards around even on the back walls, but there doesn’t look as if any extra breastwork has been added to the walls, as far as we can tell. And we could always descend quietly if we can’t get over – fasten the ropes to a safe point and climb down, before we hauled up anyone.”
“You’re very confident in your abilities, Robard.” He noted then. “But – dear Arven, what about losing your grip and falling? That ground below the cliff is covered in rubble – we had a look in the area, in case of any caves or passages into the rock and it’s nasty! You’d be dead and broken if you fell – dear Arven!” He shuddered. “And you’d have to climb at night, so there’d be no visibility – no, it’s too dangerous, Captain.”
“But your Highness, for the risk to a few of us – only ten initially – we might be able to significantly assist the final assault on the city, when that moment comes.” Robard continued in his persuasive fashion. “Only ten men with the knowledge to climb the rock, which might help save thousands – or hundreds, at least, when the gates are stormed. I’m confident we could initialise it, you know – and we could put together a plan, highlight the sort of equipment we would need, which is really only very good, long ropes and maybe some iron hooks. Please, your Highness – could I put a proposal together, and maybe ask Duke Pualyn about the layout of the citadel? We will not attempt it, if the commanders veto the plan, of course – but for a bit of effort on my part, please?” He paused. “It’s only a waste of mine and Harrisen’s time, after all, in addition to our tasks.”
Kerrenan looked at the razine, a level-headed man who was considerably older and more sensible than he was himself – generally. He must be confident, he acknowledged to himself, and felt a strange mix of emotions – a surge of excitement that such an audacious scheme might possibly succeed, plus doubt that it was at all possible.
“All right, Robard, you can ask Duke Pualyn if he might agree to assist your hare-brained plan, and come up with a proposal to lay before the commanders – but I don’t really think that they’ll support it.” He conceded. “And you’ve got two days.”
“Thank you, your Highness – honestly, you won’t regret this, I’ll get on with it immediately.” And Captain Robard dashed off like a man a good few centuries younger.
*
Reports came through from Orran from Captain Ashanner, giving details of the success of the destruction of Cal’Badon and the loss of Captain Phellos and so many others. It was bitter-sweet, that so many brave individuals had been lost – and amazing to hear even a little of the volcanoes that had emerged from the very earth to wipe out the city.
The arranged discussion took place two evenings later, during the dinner-meeting that extended beyond the usual reports from the scouts, supply logisticians and regular patrols that took place earlier. Unlike Ashanner and Phellos’ intentions for attacking Cal’Badon, Captain Robard did indeed create a most detailed presentation, including drawings of the projected route up the nearly eighty-yard wide cliff-face, the sorts of knots that he would suggest to hold the soldiers secure on the rope, one of which he brought to show its strength and a report on what he intended to do, if and when he managed to scale the walls at the top of the precipice. He spoke confidently and was clearly at ease, even when describing a process that was utterly alien to nearly all of his audience.
“His Grace has provided Harrisen and myself with a great deal of information on the layout of the castle.” Robard bowed politely to Pualyn, who was sitting beside Prince Jerryn with a non-plussed expression on his face, as if he were struggling to decide whether to laugh or be amazed at the plan. “Clearly, the enemy didn’t think of scaling the cliff – they hardly needed to, if they managed to infiltrate a few Generals or soldiers through the main gates: and the lack of awareness of the population around Clirensar after their take-over certainly points to some such subterfuge.” He sighed. “It was clearly an audacious scheme, for who, logically, could have anticipated it? Perhaps, this idea of ours is equally as audacious, as mad as the High-Prince declared. As to whether they have not even considered the precipice as a possible risk, we cannot assume anything – they are Generals, after all. But hopefully, we will be able to clamber over the wall at a critical moment and startle them enough that a hundred and ten allies will make a considerable difference to the outcome.” He straightened, produced a final sheaf of parchments showing a detailed plan of the layout of the walls and buildings that abutted the cliff top and grinned widely from face to face, his eyes twinkling.
“I know that most of you think we’re crazy, I can read your thoughts and faces, but – well – it’s something that might well work, at a minimal risk to the allies as a whole. I’ll leave you to discuss the matter, your Majesties, my lords and gentlemen, but if you come up with any questions, please just ask Harrisen or myself, we’ll be happy to answer them. We’ve done our best to cover most sensible propositions, but we acknowledge that we might not have thought of everything.” He bowed low and strode from the pavilion, leaving silence in his wake.
“He’s mad!” Duke Agamn of Amorry commented after a moment, but reaching for one of the sketches of the cliff front, frowning down at it. “I’ve never heard anything so – so utterly, completely mad!”
“Oh, I don’t know, Agamn.” His king, Namayomn, countered, shifting his shoulders. “He’s certainly identified a route that no one’s considered before.”
“Because no one’s stupid enough to climb up precipitous rock faces, your Majesty.” Commander Vedeigne muttered. “Dear Arven – can you imagine it?” He shuddered.
“I take it that you don’t want to volunteer, Commander?” Jerryn asked with a smile.
“Dear Arven, no!” Vedeigne exclaimed vehemently. “Men like them might like such a challenge, but the sheer thought of hanging off a cliff with all that air beneath my feet fills me with horror.” Then he smiled happily. “But I’ll say this: I never would have expected a suggestion such as this in – not ever, so I might be willing to wager that the enemy haven’t: I’ve watched your faces and all of you were clearly as stunned as I was at the captain’s proposal. Might it work? You know, it’s a possibility, your Majesties, my Lords.”
“It’s audacious, but it’ll delay our advance, surely.” Tarlan, the Crown-Prince of Derravale objected. “We have been delayed by the adaptations to the siege engines – and surely speed is of the essence, gentlemen?”
“Yes, but once we begin our final assault, we have no idea how long it will take – it won’t be a couple of days, that’s for certain.” Marrand countered seriously. “Our advance will be slow and careful. The alternative plans of this group wouldn’t hinder the main business of taking the north gate in any way.”
“What do you think of Robard’s idea, Pualyn?” Jerryn asked, aware that his friend had been very quiet on the matter, although he must have known of it to draw plans of the citadel. “I bet it’s something you’ve never considered.”
“Dear Arven, no! But, from an attacker’s point of view, Robard’s right: surprise will be on their side, and I must admit that there will be parts of the ramparts over the cliff where enterprising men could gain access to the castle, unless the enemy have done some amazingly invisible stonework, which I doubt.” He shrugged. “It might well work – and it would be to our advantage if even a hundred men could get in at the back.”
The discussion went back and forth until quite late, pros and cons being tossed into the discussion, along with simple declarations of sentences like - but it’s simply stupid to climb a cliff so high – yet, in the end, the commanders did agree to assist Captain Robard, Lieutenant Harrisen and the others get to the point where they could assail the rear of the castle once the army were advancing through the city below.
On hearing of this, the next morning the rock climbers started finalising their requests for equipment such as ropes, hooks and so on with complete enthusiasm, and put out the word for volunteers to join their ascent of the cliff face. A surprising number, to the commanders’ amazement, did so. Apparently, scrambling up vertical rock faces was more popular than anyone had imagined.
* * *
Dawn arrived all too quickly, once their plans, equipment and men were all prepared – along with replacement siege engines, metal-work and wooden beams, in addition to the huge mounds of supplies brought in from Fosten. So many days and nights had been spent poring over their plans, the building and arrangements organised, that it was almost a let-down for the day to finally arrive: an anticlimax of a vast proportion.
The eve of their assault, of course, had been largely sleepless for many, ordinary soldiers as well as the commanders. So much was resting on their hard work and efforts now on in.
The first light of day was initially marked by the cessation of the actions of the machines lobbing rocks rhythmically into Clirensar, as the allied forces gathered on the mud-churned field on the outer curve of the River Sare, watching the High-Prince who was commanding the mixed group that, protected by the innovative interlocking-shield roof that they had devised, was driving an enormous iron-tipped tree trunk towards the massive gates that gave admittance to the city; the ram was resting on a specially low slung wheeled cart that took the oak tree’s great weight, it’s massive, thick wheels moving ponderously but inexorably. The sound of the ram colliding with the ancient timbers was deep and seemed to travel right through the ground as well as through the air.
Boom! Again and again and again. Rhythmically, almost like a huge drum. It seemed that the very walls on either side of the gates shivered slightly with every blow. Boom!
The defenders poured molten lead down onto the crew pushing the battering ram but, with their locked shield roof, the injuries sustained from the red-hot metal were, luckily, negligible. The allied soldiers amassed out of bowshot of the walls watched and jeered – cheers and shouts echoed up and down the valley as the ramming continued.
The sun had moved perhaps two finger breadths or so above the horizon when the first few initial splits finally showed in the thick gates. Finally, to the attackers’ relief, the wood was starting to weaken and the cracks quickly lengthened and widened as the men kept ramming the tree trunk against it.
Another huge roar set any remaining wildlife in the area into instant flight when the great gates burst open with a crash that could be felt as well as heard. As arranged, as drilled into them, the ramming crew quickly hauled the battering ram backwards out of the gateway and shifted to the left of the road to permit the fiercely yelling vanguard through – five thousand volunteers comprising men and razine from every army, under the High-King. Behind them, hundreds of archers waited in lines, bows and arrows held loose in their hands, ready and poised to fire.
There was a moment where everyone at the front of the army seemed to stop, staring for a moment, freezing: a fifty-foot high wall had been built right across the main street, maybe a hundred feet inside the gates. It was a solid-looking barrier upon which a company of the enemy soldiers were stood, shaking their weapons, jeering.
“Well, that’s different.” Mhezal commented drily, before raising his sword to point it straight at the wall. “Burst!” He shouted in razine. A flash of power ran through the mind of everyone within five miles before, to the allies amazement and the enemy’s dismay, the stones of the wall began to topple as if there was no mortar fixing them; no solid ground supporting them – as if a river had washed its base away, or an earthquake had shaken its solidity to rubble. The jajozeli on the parapet ran for their lives as the wall collapsed, leaving a heaped mass of rubble in the twenty-foot wide street, nearly as high as the buildings to either side. “Attack!” Mhezal yelled then, rousing his troops from their momentary abstraction.
“Good God!” Jerryn remarked to Kerrenan, from their vantage point out of arrowshot of the walls – the High-Prince had retreated there, his men having moved the ram further out of the way of the armies. “How – I mean – Lord, that was power!”
“Father doesn’t often display it, but he has talent beyond most razine.” Kerrenan said with a grin. “He’s been itching for something physical to do for days – though it will tire him considerably. You’ll be able to do things like that just as easily quite soon, Jerryn.”
“Yeah, if you give me a century to study, maybe.” The young man sighed deeply. “There’s no way I’ll master anything soon.”
“It will not be much more than a year, I’m sure.” The High-Prince answered. “Look, they’re inside – isn’t it marvellous?” His enthusiasm was contagious and Jerryn found himself grinning broadly.
“Yeah, we’ve been planning for this for moons!” He agreed, then sighed a little. “We’ll have to rebuild the entire city after this -.” Then he ducked, along with everyone else in the vicinity, at a loud explosion that sent a cloud of dark smoke into the sky from within the city. “Dear Arven, I’d rather be there than here!”
Slowly and carefully, the troops advanced through the ruined gates and over the remains of the wall, protected to a certain extent by the arrow storm of their archers, sweeping their combatants off the walls and rooftops. Some soldiers began trying to clear the rubble of the inner wall out of the way, handing it back out beyond the city gates as the others strode forward – all grateful for the presence of the razine amongst them: able to give warning or an odd, mental sort of shielding against arrows and missiles from the rooftops above.
The next thousand men to enter Clirensar simply concentrated on getting to the rooftops themselves, with bows and arrows and hooked lines; the buildings lining the main road were swiftly broken into and the upper levels quickly attained, where they began to range outward to secure the area around the gate for the purposes of both advance and – if necessary – retreat. Keeping hold of the ground that they had taken was certainly a priority. No one wanted to do this monumental task a second time.
To their dismay, it quickly became apparent that the enemy commanders had altered the layout of the city during their occupation. It appeared that the detailed maps they held might well be useless: buildings had been torn down, other walls and different routes constructed, around the fixed points of the cathedral and the castle above. Reports were gathered and passed back along the companies: don’t rely on the maps, go carefully – and make plans if possible as you go. Their advance, it seemed, would be far slower than anyone wanted, but that would surely be preferable to rushing into a situation where they might lose men unnecessarily.
“It looks like a labyrinth in there.” Mhezal reported wearily late that first evening, having returned to the command pavilion after hours of slow, careful progress. He was as tired, as aching and as dirty as anyone he had led that day – battle taking no notice of rank or position. “It’s a right bloody mess! I’m sorry, Pualyn, but it is.” The High-King continued after taking a drink of wine. “Buildings are pulled down or ruined, roads are blocked, new roads are lined with removable barriers at some points I think. They’ve really worked hard at making the city impenetrable since they took control and it will slow us down considerably, just trying to work out if a construction is solid or designed to collapse on us! Let alone neutralising any traps they’ve made! And we’ve not had a sniff of a jajozeli General all day – not a one!”
He had passed on command to Colonel Varle of Derravale for the securing of their occupied portion of the city overnight – about five thousand men were now ranged throughout an area a couple of hundred yards on a side, where they lit lines of bonfires to assist the guarding, to prevent the enemy from sneaking up in the darkness.
“So the Generals have holed up in the castle?” Pualyn asked heavily, then answered his own question. “Of course they are: it’s the strongest defensive structure in the city. They’ll want us to work for every step to the citadel. What a mess!” From what he had seen, the state of his home had completely shocked him: he had not expected to find such a drastic alteration since the moons of occupation, even though, logically, he knew he should have done. The wholesale destruction had reawakened his depression.
“It’s a complete mess. Well, there’s no help for it: we’ve got to keep advancing, even if it is a step at a time, at a snail’s pace.” King Marrand said, trying to return some positivity to the meeting. “We control all the hinterland, don’t forget Pualyn – there is nowhere for the enemy to go – they cannot escape and we know all the sally-points and secret exits.”
“That’s what’s worrying me.” King Namayomn of Amorry growled. “They’ll be trying to kill as many of us as they possibly can – wholesale destruction indeed.”
“And trying to get their hands on me, of course.” Jerryn interjected then. “If they took me hostage, God forbid, they’ll be able to walk right out unscathed -.”
“Over my dead body!” Kerrenan retorted vehemently. “It’ll never happen!”
Then there is no chance or uncertainty in battle, highness?>; Jerryn asked rather acidly, so that no one else could hear. No matter how well protected I am, we can’t guarantee a bloody thing and you know it!>;
*
Thousands of jajozeli died, in fierce and single-minded defence of their positions, over the next three days as the allies slowly and painfully advanced, removing the traps, demolishing defences and making their own. By the fourth evening, they held the northern half of the city entirely; by the afternoon of the sixth day, they held Clirensar, up to the castle walls which loomed ominously above them in a way that none of them had ever before considered: Clirensar was a truly formidable structure. It was utterly depressing to stare up and up at the Betrayer’s standards flying from the towers in wind-swept defiance.
In addition, they had found no sign of any survivors from the jajozeli occupation of the city – although they had found plenty of bodies and bones, in various states of decomposition, in the streets and in houses and other buildings. It was frightening, to think that after all their moons of worry, the citizens of Clirensar had been apparently massacred: men, women and children alike.
Nerves were very taut as the commanders rested that sixth night in the range of servant’s and ancillary buildings at the edge of the cathedral complex. They had thought to use the cathedral itself as a new headquarters, but the old edifice, with its ancient buttresses and high windows seemed to have been deliberately targeted by the servants of the Betrayer: there was a palpable air of desecration about the place to Jerryn’s senses that went far beyond the piles of filth and corpses and the destruction that had occurred there. Even walking into the previously hallowed space made him almost physically sick – he had had to stop, breathing deeply to control it, whilst his guards and companions had begun to search the building.
“I can’t stay in here – they’ve deliberately destroyed Arven’s ground!” He muttered to Tymain, scanning a heart of horror rather than what had been a peaceful, hallowed hall. He did not start to feel better until he had walked up and down the perimeter courtyard for a while. Most men wondered what had affected him, but the razine amongst them could feel what he had – and it was oddly reassuring to see that Mhezal, Kerrenan and the others were just as pale and sickened as he had been.
A group of walking wounded had already volunteered to start cleaning up the cathedral and its associated buildings, as others were removing the rubble from the streets, continuing the movement of masses of food, equipment and all the associated ephemera of war that was required for the movement of the commanders – and thousands of allied soldiers guarded the hard-won perimeter of the city and continued to search the rubble, possible tunnels, existing buildings, cellars and even the sewers to flush out every last trace of ambush and threat from the enemy. Some additional traps and groups of well-armed, determined enemy soldiers had been found in their midst, but not as many as they feared: the talent of the razine was central to the location of the danger-points, along with the intimate knowledge of Pualyn and other denizens of Clirensar, in securing their own safety. But still, the razine returned to search for a second or even a third time – just in case!
On searching the area, the advance guard had found the large pilgrims’ hall the best remaining space to house the command – and its associated kitchen, sleeping rooms, offices and dormitories were ideal for the group; and, after a finger-tip search of every nook and cranny and a scrub, much more comfortable than even the best-appointed tents and pavilions – most of them agreed that they felt more secure with solid walls and slate roofs surrounding them.
“Dear Arven, I’m sick of this place!” Pualyn muttered, that first night, safely encamped in the visitors dining hall that adjoined the ruined garden that had previously been such a delight. Tymain was passing along the pulled-together tables where the commanders sat, bearing a jug of watered wine, followed by Lennarn with a second, filling goblets and mugs after an excellent supper. “It keeps jarring me: things have been altered so much, it just feels – utterly wrong!” He shuddered with feeling.
“Yes, I agree.” King Marrand said. “It’s certainly quite deliberate, of course: to wound us all. But who could have predicted such atrocities? I’m sorry, Pualyn.”
“Well, we know for certain who’s to blame, your Majesty – that bastard in charge up in the castle, and his master!” Pualyn jerked one thumb in the general direction of the citadel looming above even the cathedral’s rooftops. “So many folk must have died -.” His voice cracked slightly, but every man spoke up and nodded, admitting to their own distress: the cathedral had been stacked high with human remains, in many rooms beyond the hall also; there had been even more clear evidence of the atrocities committed against the priesthood and the general citizens, in many places. The knowledge sickened them, wounded them – but it also tempered the nerve of every soldier of whatever rank, increasing their determination to succeed.
“Thousands and thousands, men, women and children.” Jerryn nearly whispered the words and shivered. “They are cruel – bred to serve their master, the Betrayer, without question. Emotion, morality and common feeling are leached out of them in childhood, it seems. He has created a realm of monsters, trying to make them in his image – mirrors of his own depravity.” With a sigh, he looked around the tables, and shrugged. “We owe it to our dead to destroy the jajozeli!”
“Amen!” Pualyn grated and they all raised their cups in a toast. “Destruction to our enemies!” Everyone repeated his words.
*
The main gate to the castle complex faced south-west, halfway along that range of the roughly diamond-shaped walls. It was atop a gravel-strewn steep slope up which the road zig-zagged in the open – any approach, of course, would be a nightmare, beneath the well-armed defenders that filled the walls above, brandishing their weapons, yelling loudly even as the sky to the east started to lighten. Now, from the safety of the far edge of the rubble-strewn square that bordered the steep way and hopefully out of reach of arrows or other missiles, the advance forces could see the Generals who had so far proved absent from every single confrontation from the war of attrition that had, finally, brought the allies to the final push. There were about fifteen of them, their power clear, all dressed in black and grey, stood as two groups above the gates that would given admittance to the citadel.
“At least there are more of us than there are of them, the rats!” The High-Prince commented, his tone dark. “Bastards! That’s a truly well-constructed outer wall!” He continued in a lighter manner, and nodded.
“Thank you.” Pualyn offered a quick grin, although his face was pale under his tanned skin. “It’s pretty much perfect from the inside – that’s how my ancestors designed it, at least, although we never knew who we were meant to be guarding against . . . wolves, maybe, or bears from the mountains to the south, the odd bandit over the centuries . . . oh, shit, this is going to be just awful!” That was almost a moan.
“Yeah – our old centres are all built most robustly, but before the Betrayer we had no enemies. Lerat is the same. Perhaps some influence from Arven suggested defensive construction – I don’t know.” Mhezal suggested then, frowning. “I might pursue that with Archpriestess Gailla at some point in the future.”
“Philosophy, your Majesty?” Crown-Prince Tarlan enquired.
“When we have time for such.” The High-King answered steadily, his gaze level as he shifted in his saddle.
In the end, ignoring the fact that it took a great deal more time and effort to achieve, the combined armies set about using some of the tons of building stone and roof slates to turn that hundred yards or so of lethal approach into a virtual tunnel on its uphill slope. They constructed large barriers from beams and doors throughout the city, that could be lifted into place, to protect the builders, a mish-mash of metal and wooden structures held together with rough metal frameworks that acted as shields, proof against most of the almost continual barrage of missiles from the castle walls that were mitigated, as far as they could do so, by the razine ‘blocking’ their soldiers – in effect, using their power to divert the arrows, fireballs, rocks and so forth harmlessly. Even with determination and goodwill and extremely hard work, they managed less than ten feet a day.
Jerryn assisted in this shielding after the first day, under the High-King’s tutelage and found the process exhausting. Even though the razine used their strength as a group and thereby increased their overall effectiveness enormously, as a novice the prince discovered that even the concentration required to focus properly left him as tired by noon as if he had been fighting all day.
“You’re actually doing very well, Jerryn, but this is a hard task, one that many do not try to master until they are rather capable at other roles.” He was told with a grin, when he complained at his weakness. “We’re all assisting for a set period, more or less – don’t try to strive all day, man! And look: hardly anyone has been injured.”
“It’s like trying to hold an anvil above one’s head for a day.” Jerryn wiped sweat from his face. “Am I really helping, or are you humouring me, your Majesty?”
Mhezal shook his head, and Kerrenan laughed aloud. “You’ll be much stronger than most of us when you reach maturity, Jerryn, but you’re starting very well – don’t try to do too much at a time, though.” The High-Prince suggested.
“All right.” He conceded and frowned. “Have you heard from Captain Robard lately? Are they still intent on their climb?”
“Dear Arven, yes!” The High-King breathed a chuckle – reassuringly, even he was also finding the block of the enemy missiles difficult today, as it seemed that a whole wall had been dismantled to enable the stones to be thrown down from the castle walls with deadly intent. “He and Harrisen have their equipment in place and are just itching to begin, when we give them the word.”
“I hope they’re patient men: this is going to take forever!” Jerryn grumbled with a sigh, looking up the slope at the defenders atop the wall – again, a couple of Generals were visible now, clearly keeping an eye on them. “D’you know, I’m surprised they haven’t emerged to attack us, though – they have the advantage of the crag, and any sortie wouldn’t be a final commitment: a well-armed company could destroy the wall our men are building quite simply and we wouldn’t find it an easy matter to stop them.”
“Yes.” Kerrenan agreed, also glaring up at the gates. “When we get closer, I expect they will, but we’ve still got a good distance to go.” He sighed and shook his head. “Dear Arven, I’ll be so glad when we’re in the castle – as long as we command it!”
*
Captain Garane of the Flame Guard was one of the men killed late in the evening, three days later, when the jajozeli did launch a surprise assault that cost both sides a good few thousand men – the fighting raged down the steep road for most of the night, garishly and unevenly lit by torchlight. All the commanders were involved there before the castle: there was no chance to ensure that Prince Jerryn or Duke Pualyn or any of the kings were not in the van.
When the gates opened, on that warm spring evening, Marrand and Mhezal looked at each other – “Shall we send them?” the King of Tenarum had asked doubtfully and the High-King grinned and actually rubbed his hands together as he had, by mind-specch, given the command to the waiting rock-scrambling group who had been loitering at the eastern edge of the wharf, ready and waiting. This might not be the final assault, but – it was the first time the gates had been opened since the allies had stormed into the city. They certainly didn’t want to be pushed back – too many had died to get to this pivotal point.
“They’re on their way, Marrand.” He said. “Let’s take the castle if we possibly can!”
*
The ten razine, in the quickly fading light that was naturally covering the eastern face of the cliff as the sun vanished behind the distant western hills, ascended the cliff with a speed that, to the men and razine waiting at the foot, was nothing short of spiderlike. Each had long coils of rope with hooks around their bodies, and their weapons were fastened to their backs; climbing in mail was hard, but none of them cared to proceed without it.
Robard was the first to make the point where the natural rock met the cut stone of the eastern defence of the citadel, finding his way up the cliff by touch and instinct alone, it seemed. There was even a sort of ledge almost three feet wide in parts, where he could sit, uncoil the rope, and hook it into a crevice where the metal stuck and ground quietly. Rope descending!>; He silently warned the razine below. Start climbing when you’re ready.>;
Aye.>; A reply came from Cull on the ground – backed by an enthusiasm that made the captain smile.
Lieutenant Harrisen was next to reach a point further along the ledge – and both estimated that they had ascended as quickly as they had hoped: the sky beyond the light-blocking crag was still showing a vague orange light that was steadily fading, even though it was now pitch black on the rock face. I’ll take charge here, Robard. You’d better see if we can get over the wall.>; He said drily, puffing slightly as he checked his own rope for security. Rope descending.>; He also called down. It’d be a complete bitch if we’re stymied by the wall itself!>;
Have faith, Harrisen! Trust in Arven.>; Robard said breezily. See you soon.>; And he got up, heading to the north, his left hand caressing the base of the wall, the sound of his footsteps on the rock only a faint crunching that was swallowed by the overriding sound of the wind at this height, gusting along the crag, making the flags on the poles far above crack every so often.
After some yards, the shelf widened and began to climb; his night-vision showed him only a higher section of rock, as far as he could tell and the stonework to his left abutted up to it, fitting securely, but his fingers could feel a slim crack or gap between the wall and the natural limestone, as if perfect abutment had been impossible for the masons who had laboured so long on this impressive construction. The crack was only a few inches wide and seemed – when he ran his hands upwards as far as he could reach – to vary in width. Also, he could feel the levels of the building stone, which heartened him even more.
Excellent! We should be able to climb up here: there are finger holds aplenty.>; He sent with a satisfied air. Thank Arven! Send the men to the right, but tell them to lean to the left: it’s a narrow ledge at first.>;
Yes, we have six up so far.>; Harrisen replied. And two more nearly up. Take care.>;
For some unknown reason, climbing, heights and narrow pathways had never worried Robard – vertigo was unknown, he never felt dizzy or unsure of his footing. He reached up with his right hand and found a hole that three fingers fitted easily into; his left, the top edge of one of the stones that made up the wall – and raised the left foot so that his toes rested on another edge. In this way, he hoped to ascend the final thirty or so feet and, thanking their God all the way, he did so – peeking over the parapet rather like a small boy checking that a landowner is out of the way before dashing in to an orchard to steal fruit.
I’m up!>; He sent cheerily.
That’s bloody wonderful! Get out of the way, let’s secure the wall: they’re starting to climb behind you.>; Was the answer from Cull, close at hand, as Robard edged over the wall and down onto the walkway, which seemed empty. Judging by the faint sounds of shouting and banging that he could now hear, the battle for the gate was occupying everyone’s attention – which was better than they had hoped, truth be known. It was now full dark, but there were a few torches around on the perimeter wall that showed it was otherwise empty – so the sentries had been called to join the general melee, which was even better! Robard crouched down, unfastened his weapons from his back, and continued to thank Arven, even as the first of the Tenarean climbers slipped down from the parapet, his mail grating slightly on the stone. The entire group wore dark clothing, to hopefully blend in with the enemy.
“Shit!” The man whispered, hunkering down to Robard’s left, and reaching for his own secured weapons. “Oh, shit, Captain!” It was a simple statement of mingled terror and elation that made the razine crack a broad grin.
“Get yourself straight, then secure the far side, Dann – you’ve done well, thank you.” He suggested, buckling his sword belt, straightening his weapons.
Behind him, a second, then a third – regularly, the ‘crazy’ volunteers reached what would probably turn out to be the most precarious of rest points, until the hundred and ten were ranged out across the back edge of the citadel, all pretty clear of their position in relation to the yells, clangs and screams coming from the area across the buildings, where a great deal more light was arranged, some from torches, others from fires, or so it looked.
“Let’s advance – fifty five each to left and right, as we arranged. Move carefully, I think it’s about the middle of the night by the moon – may Arven protect us all!” He hissed.
“Amen!” They whispered as one, and they set off, so far, so incredibly, somehow invisible to the enemy.
*
After so many days of relative tedium and inactivity, it was a relief to abandon thinking, talking and straining his mental muscles for simple action. Jerryn battled with the rest of the Flame Guard, Pualyn and Kerrenan step by step up the road they were striving so hard to command, towards the castle that was so familiar, yet so chilling: home to Pualyn and Ethrayne, yet a nest of vipers. His arms and shoulders ached terribly as he hacked, thrust and fought and killed, his feet slipping in the gore that covered the cobbles, the mail an agony of weight, even though it saved his life on numerous occasions. His companions, his friends, were close beside him. They all pushed relentlessly but so, so slowly up the road, whilst the enemy strove desperately to push them back down again.
“For the glory of Arven!” He shouted, knocking another jajozeli soldier aside with the side of his sword – stunned, injured or dead, he did not know. It was heartening to hear the words taken up by his compatriots around him, despite the horrible screams and shouts and the deafening clash of battle, of weapons ringing, or of making final and horrible contact with living bodies.
“For Arven!” Echoed from thousands of throats, as distinctive as bells, from the walls above and the ruined city below.
Eventually, when the half moon was sinking towards the west into cloud and thicker cloud was covering most of the sky to the east, promising rain before dawn, the first twenty or so fighters attained the flat space before the massive gates, pressing the jajozeli who had worked so hard to destroy them back against the ancient wooden structures where they had no escape, cut down as more and more allied soldiers reached the level ground. Cries of “Arven!” continued to be shouted out.
Then, amazingly, sounds of fierce fighting and yells could be heard from within the castle, behind the gate that blocked them. “Arven – for Arven and the Am’maiya!” Rang out, amid shouts of dismay – it seemed that the intrepid rock climbers had succeeded beyond all expectation or even belief. Their fight was not swiftly concluded, even so – it ranged on and on, until, with a boom! and a harsh creaking, the gates opened slightly inwards, revealing only a crack, a thin view of badly lit bodies struggling, fighting beyond.
“Get in here!” Captain Robard yelled from the archway above the gate, waving one arm enthusiastically – then ducking a spear that sailed past to his left. “For Arven and the Am’maiya!” He cried, then vanished.
Jerryn swore rather graphically, from where he stood, only about fifty feet now from the level area. “I don’t suppose I really thought -!” He muttered, and swore again.
“Same here, Jerryn.” Kerrenan uttered different curses in admiration.
“Bloody brilliant!” Pualyn breathed, then swore himself. “Shit! I’m going to have to rebuild the rear wall of the entire structure, if we survive!”
Jerryn had to quickly suppress a completely irreverent burst of laughter that threatened to take over. “Come on, let’s get in there!” He yelled, brandishing his bloodstained sword. “They’re vastly outnumbered – who’s with me?” The men around then shouted agreement.
Jerryn, you’re meant to stay back from the van – away from the Generals.>; Kerrenan said silently, his tone respectful. They’re very tricky bastards -.>;
Yes, but – by Arven, Kerr, what would you do, if you were me? And it’s not as if we’re outnumbered, is it? We must have killed most of the jajozeli by now -.>;
But it’s the Generals we’re worried about!>; The High-Prince continued.
Dear Arven, yes! We have the Generals to eliminate. But I can’t stay further back – I can’t!>; Jerryn shrugged. And it’s not as if it’s just us men alone: you’re here, all the Protectorate razine – I’m going in.>;
I have a bad feeling about this!>; Kerrenan’s tone was worried.
What will be, will be!>; Jerryn’s gaze was straight and unafraid, despite the horrors they knew would await them beyond the gates – the last stand of the jajozeli. I’ll keep alert, promise!>; And he strode forwards with the mass of soldiers, men and razine shoulder to shoulder. He briefly wondered where his father and the High-King and the other commanders were – sure that he wouldn’t be able to bull his way through what he knew would be their stern instructions to remain further back in safety – but they were nowhere in sight, although he guessed they were not far away. Everyone wanted to take part in what would be, hopefully, the final all-in fighting action.
The soldiers at the front, already on the level, were using brute strength to open the gates wider and awful deep grating sounds accompanied the slow movement of the huge leaves, inching inwards until – with a crash! – the left hand side flew backwards, all resistance suddenly gone. The allies dashed through, finding broken beams and stunned jajozeli who had been trying to hold the gates; the remaining dark-clad rock-climbers were fighting manfully for their lives against a mass of the enemy.
“For Arven!” The shout went up again, and the jajozeli were outnumbered – hundreds of men and razine seemed to be advancing into the first courtyard of the castle, and Robard’s remaining men cheered loudly, the sound deafening as it echoed off the surrounding walls and buildings.
“Help us hold the walls!” Lieutenant Harrisen yelled from above their heads, waving one arm urgently – he, Robard and some others were being sorely pressed by a larger group. Instantly, at least a hundred of the allies were racing for the steps which led up at various points and the fighting above on the battlements was soon as fierce as in the courtyard.
Quickly, the jajozeli were being pushed backwards through the archway that led on to the castle as more and more soldiers flooded through the outer gate, Jerryn, Kerrenan, Pualyn and the Flame Guard amongst them. Flickering torchlight lit up the moving bodies more than the daylight that was now growing, though it was weakened by the rainclouds that indeed had blown over and now had started to drizzle, which at least cooled them at first.
Amazed, Jerryn stopped for a moment, looking from point to point, shocked at the savagery that seemed to have descended upon the combatants – desperate pitched battles were taking place everywhere he looked, somehow more shocking than anything that had happened before simply because this was Ethrayne and Pualyn’s home, their castle! Excitement filled him anew, negating his bone-deep weariness at fighting half the night. After so much heartache and sheer bloody hard work and worry over the last moon and a half, it was exhilarating to finally reach the castle’s outer court! He took a breath and ran to the rescue of one Derravane soldier being menaced by two burly jajozeli soldiers and cut one down, then continued with his small group as close as they could keep, despite the jostling bodies and pockets of fighting – under the arch and into the huge main courtyard that fronted the castle.
Fighting occupied them all within moments – the jajozeli were as reckless as anyone could be, faced with almost certain death. The ranks of the allies could only determinedly hold their ground and survive – cutting down the soldiers of the Betrayer as quickly, as safely, as they could.
Then, in a heartbeat, the atmosphere in the courtyard utterly changed. Jerryn shivered as power assaulted his senses – fury and hatred hit him so hard, it was almost physically painful. He had to pause and shake his head to try and dispel it, as a burst of fear filled him. Shit! Perhaps I should have obeyed them, after all . . . But it’s too late now!>; He thought to himself, trying to mask that fear with bravado.
“Generals!” Kerrenan’s bellow sounded harshly even above the fury of battle. “Beware!” Jerryn – to me!>; He sent.
Oh damn!>; Jerryn abruptly remembered just how frightening the aura of the blond General had been, that day over a year ago above Tenum City –then, how scared he had been, seeing the bearded General who commanded this force that had held Clirensar, and his cohorts. Belatedly, he turned about, but he couldn’t even see the High-Prince – too many fighting groups separated them. Fear seemed to be turning into despair: General Tequan was after him – he had discarded that one cold fact: this whole campaign, destroying Ethrayne and Pualyn’s family, the entire city and its innocent population and thousands upon thousands of soldiers had been instigated by the enemy simply to facilitate his capture! He began to spit swear-words under his breath. Where are you?>; He sent to Kerrenan.
Ha!>; That was a silent shout of triumph, but although it drowned out Kerr’s response, it was not from very close by – just within the courtyard. Got you, boy!>;
There was still a good chance of retreating, then! He thought with relief and set about forcing his way, so slowly, back towards the promised safety of the archway to the outer courtyard – a step at a time -.
Amid the struggling figures, the piles of bodies that threatened to trip them all, the melee of humans, razine and jajozeli, Jerryn stared back towards the castle – his attention caught by the clear and strong menace exuded by one tall being who moved confidently and surprisingly easily through the battle. Gulping, turning back to face the danger, Jerryn could only pray that he would be strong enough, despite his deep tiredness, facing one such as this – a foot taller than he, fresh, hugely strong both physically and mentally – He knew that the razine were mortal: he had seen enough of his compatriots killed, after all – but could he kill the General?
“Bastard!” Rang out then, as loud as Kerrenan’s warning shout had been – and Jerryn glanced to his right some way, to where Pualyn stood, somehow alone. Tall, grim faced, the young duke then followed that assessment up with an entire litany on the commander’s antecedents and unsavoury habits – most eloquently, as befitted a man of his rank and education.
“Ah, good morning your Grace.” The fear that the simple sound of Tequan’s voice evoked in the prince was ridiculous, even though the commander was now concentrating on Pualyn and not himself. “I am so pleased to meet you again.” He waved his left hand, indicating the castle and city at large, smiling. There was a clear element of mockery in his words as he closed on Pualyn – everyone else alive was melting out of the way.
Pualyn snarled as he attacked, his sword ringing as it knocked the General’s blade aside. Tequan laughed, moving swiftly for such a bulky man, swinging his broadsword – his left handedness often proved a great advantage, but the duke simply transferred his blade to his left hand likewise: being ambidextrous had never proved such a god-send!
Jerryn continued to try and retreat away from the duel, but the surrounding fights impeded him, as it did the razine and his Flame Guard – they were all wading through knee-deep mud, it seemed, for all the progress any of them were making, trying to keep from being spitted on some enemy soldier’s sword as they advanced. Not everyone was battling for their lives – not a few were stood, transfixed, as Pualyn and Tequan fought and they too blocked their movement, their retreat. Jerryn kept glancing around – praying for Pualyn’s survival – but Tequan was taller and bulkier and his big frame, wild hair and beard were a bluff: he was fast and light on his feet, his thrusts and movements uniformly smooth, graceful . . . Pualyn was leaner, as well as tall, strong and a superb swordsman – his skill with weapons was legendary amongst those who had trained with him since childhood in Clirensar and Tenum City, as well as since this war had begun.
It seemed that the two were very evenly matched, although Pualyn had been fighting for most of the night. Their faces set with concentration, the duel continued, their weapons ringing, scraping, sparking as they collided again and again and again . . . Then, in a moment it seemed that Tequan misjudged slightly: putting just a tiny amount more weight behind his thrust, perhaps. In the blink of an eye Pualyn curved around the long blade and – his Black Fell-forged sword ran unstoppably into the General’s chest, as close to his heart as possible. Tequan’s expression instantly became one of utter shock. Blood ran from his mouth as his young opponent yanked out his blade with a grunt, changed his grip – tossing it into his right hand with a flourish – and beheaded him with one swift stroke.
“For my parents and everyone else you murdered.” He said evenly and smiled, relaxing with a breath as the body collapsed.
A huge cheer of approval went up from every throat of every allied soldier there.
“Very well done, your Grace!” Jerryn shouted across, raising his own sword in salute, relief flooding him. It was strange – yet again, feeling a razine, even a jajozeli-razine die so close at hand was jarringly intense – revolting – to one with the abilities he was learning, involving power that he could not block out. But, he also was damned pleased that the General was dead.
“Thank you, Highness -.” Pualyn looked back, grinning, as he finished the honorific – the smile vanished from his face, replaced by shock. “Jerryn – look out -!”
Lennarn cried out agonisingly, then a heavy weight landed full on Jerryn’s upper back, knocking him to the cobbles – but, forewarned just enough, he had tightened his grip on his sword hilt and, having just about managed to turn over onto his side rather than be useless on his front, used that metalwork, secure in his fist, to batter hard at the person who was struggling to pin him down and disarm him – a blow took the General right in the face and sent him reeling backwards, falling over a body that was only one of tens within a few feet. But as Jerryn leapt back up to his feet, breathing heavily, even more bruised and battered, another two Generals launched themselves at him. Dimly he could hear his friends shouting, but he could only focus on the two jajozeli-razine now attacking him with intent, all too aware that the third was back on his feet, blood pouring from his nose.
Damn them all to hell!>; He spat silently, all too aware of their danger, their strength – it was clouding his mind a little and it bloody hurt: their power surrounding him, trying to weaken his resolve if possible -.
Fighting for his freedom, his soul, Jerryn thanked his instructors for the years that they had pushed him and pushed him and worn him out. Fighting, battling them as best he could – he had faced three enemies before, but not three jajozeli-razine! – he noticed odd things at random, thrown into his head: the oldest looking of the three had thick, wavy black hair and a bleak, grim light in his hazel eyes; the one who appeared youngest had light brown hair and an open handsome face; the third, who might be somewhere in between, had darker brown hair and an old scar almost horizontally across the left-hand-side of his face from broken nose to ear. But none of them looked ‘evil’ – any one of them could be razine rather than their deadly enemies: a separation that was profound and absolute, created by the Betrayer.
That cut must have hurt.>; Part of his mind decided, all weariness forgotten in the simple necessity of protecting himself. And he noted that none of the three were much more than a few inches taller than he.
Spinning, focussing tight with his mind as he had been taught, Jerryn caught scar-face right across the face with the very point of his sword and felt relief flood through him for a moment as that General fell back, bleeding profusely and certainly neutralised: Jerryn could feel his pain for an instant before he managed to block it, and had seen pale bone clearly as blood had welled up into the gash -. Thank Arven!>;
But there were still two more of them and although they were only intent on capturing him and thereby constrained somewhat, the Generals were both fast and talented.
He was aware, at the edge of his notice, that his companions were desperately trying to assist him, but other Generals and jajozeli soldiers were blocking them fiercely – dimly he could hear Pualyn and Kerrenan shouting, striving but failing to break through the living barrier, no matter how many they managed to cut down.
I bloody-well walked right into this – this is simply my fault!>; Jerryn castigated himself using every curse word he had ever heard, the rhythm of the words in his head matching his movements as he attacked and attacked, trying to force the two Generals away into the soldiers blocking them from his friends, or else trying to disable or kill them -.
Then, out of nowhere, there was an intense pressure in his head – a pain that seemed somehow far greater than he could absorb. Jerryn felt it like a sword-thrust right through his mind, and it was agonising! The High-King had used his power as a physical force to destroy the wall that had blocked the road at the entrance to the city, but this – this was an amalgamation of the power of all the remaining Generals, unified, amalgamated and used as a weapon against the allies. The black-haired General before him, trying so hard to disarm or disable him, was coordinating it! He bit his lip, gritting his teeth against crying out – but heard others shout in pain around him – dear Arven, it was terrible! It weakened his body, ruined his coordination – and part of him realised that the pressure, the pain and immobilising strangeness was not just affecting him – on the edge of his vision, for he dared not change his focus, he could see both men and razine collapsing, some more than others – they were screaming in agony – others reeled, stunned, on their feet.
As a weapon it was brilliant, he acknowledged – if part of him was aware that it could not be sustained for long: that much he had learned over the moons from the razine. It was terrible, it was unstoppable, occurring without warning with such a devastating effect.
No, you bastards!>; He uttered the silent protest, striving to do all that Bahlien, Kerrenan and Mhezal had taught him – but somehow the sensation only worsened and his own power was somewhere lower than his boot soles, along with his spirit: he could do nothing to counter it -.
A far more physical agony took him a moment later – only a few heartbeats had actually passed since the terrible pain had begun – his right arm was struck with all the weight of the black-haired General through the flat side of his sword – and he screamed out, dropping his own weapon from a hand rendered useless – he felt bones grinding as he tried to hold onto the hilt -.
“Ha, got you!” The black-haired General quickly cut through Jerryn’s sword belt as the brown-haired, younger General laid his blade at his throat, his other hand tight in his hair as he swapped the cumbersome, blood-stained sword for a slim, razor-sharp dagger cold and lethal against his windpipe. The other General had his left arm in a painful, locked hold that threatened those joints and bones. They then quickly shoved him into movement, heading at a half-run back towards the castle, even as the debilitating pain began to fade.
Jerryn! Where – what -?>; Kerrenan’s voice bellowed fearfully in his head, sounding somehow weakened. Shit! Jerryn!>;
Don’t put anyone in danger, Kerr – secure the city – Ow!>; Jerryn broke off his silent instructions as the older General tightened his grip – he felt his elbow and shoulder joints grate slightly. Even so, he struggled for a moment, tried to break free, but to no avail.
“Jerryn!” That was Pualyn’s voice, not too far away, clear above the clash of weapons. He sounded anguished – Jerryn hoped he was still unhurt.
“You can always proceed from here with both arms smashed, boy. Silence!” The General hissed in his ear, keeping up the relentless pressure and heading quickly towards the dark entrance to the guard room and quarters, the range off to the right of the main castle with its fine elevated entrance.
One on his right, one on his left – and Jerryn could feel only discomfort from their proximity, along with the intense pain throbbing through his right arm, hanging useless, flopping painfully at his side – jarred with every step, banged by the brown-haired General who still held tight to his hair, moving close enough that their mail shirts scraped against the other, the physical discomfort replacing the slowly fading mental pain that had coursed through everyone in the vicinity. Jerryn could only obey, startled and cowed by the sheer physical pain of it and overwhelmed by the cold triumph he could sense within his captors. Only a very short time had passed, that was all he could tell – behind him, he could hear the allied forces gaining their feet, their senses, as they recovered from the flash of pain, as they continued the battle, fighting desperately to reach him – A door was slammed shut behind them and locked, cutting off the tumult outside in the courtyard.
Quickly, the Generals searched him, hauled off his mail shirt and padded undershirt with absolutely no care for his broken arm, dumping them on the floor, then searched him from head to foot, much more thoroughly. They found his gold chain, of course, the one that had belonged to his mother, with the large silverly pearl and, lately, Ethrayne’s betrothal ring fastened with it and removed it, the General stuffing it into a pocket in his uniform. Jerryn hissed, fighting back both nausea and fury for neither would be of any use at all – dear Arven it hurt!
After only a few moments delay, his captors hurried him on still with the knife at his throat, a fist locked on his left arm, a burning torch held in black-hair’s free hand, marching him swiftly and expertly into a corridor, down dusty steps – along and down. He could hear voices somewhere nearby, echoing strangely, people moving – weapons clinking. Were the enemy planning another ambush here? Behind, Jerryn finally heard one distant blow on the outer door, but they took him around a corner, through a series of empty storerooms, firmly closing and locking the doors behind them, even removing the keys. A landing there actually led up a further flight of steps and, now, other than their breathing, the sound of their boots scuffing slightly on the stone floor, silence surrounded them.
The Generals’ route through the lower reaches of the castle was one of great familiarity, Jerryn realised through the pain that was increasing in his arms: they had had moons to gain a great knowledge of the citadel, after all, probably as good as Pualyn’s and far better than his own. They led him unerringly, without a pause, the fresh torch slowly burning down. Jerryn wondered if they meant to go to ground somewhere down here, beneath the complex, perhaps somewhere secure; yet their route was always downwards, now traversing ancient passages and narrow, steep stairways, noting the increase of dust and cobwebs – this area had not been used for years upon years. Was there really a way out down through the crag to the open air, he wondered? But Robard and Kerr and many others had discounted the existence of any escape route or cave system within the cliff and the crag behind.
“Halt!” The black-haired General yanked him roughly to a stop in a small room, four or five levels and many hundreds of yards from the main courtyard, or so Jerryn guessed. His legs were shaking – he had been up for over a day, fighting for half the night, his broken arm throbbing in time to his heartbeat and the discomfort was spreading. He felt weak and useless and utterly stupid.
“The boy looks beat.” The younger General commented, having finally sheathed his dagger.
“Strap up his arm, Jaike – carefully.” The older jajozeli-razine ordered bleakly.
“That bastard killed General Tequan!” He retorted, grabbing Jerryn’s injured arm so that he could not halt a cry of pain.
“Careful, Jaike! So, Tequan is dead: we have the boy! That was why we came here. He needs to be able to use his arm again. The Commander knew the risk – we all do: any of us could also be dead. Anyway, he’d lost his command – you heard the communications from Master Cheltor – and this is what we came for! Hurry!” He urged.
“General Oxttyn.” He conceded and Jerryn managed to catch his breath as the brown-haired one – Jaike – turned to a number of leather saddle bags that he had not noticed in the shadows, rummaging for a moment and pulling out a canvas bag. “Keep still, boy.”
“They’ll be right behind you.” Jerryn said, wishing that his words were only the truth, all too aware that they were only wishful thinking. Jaike cut away his right sleeve and ran his fingers up and down his arm, making him flinch.
“At least his bone ends are aligned for now – but we’d better get out quickly, get it set properly.” Jaike muttered.
“You’ve got no chance of escaping!” Jerryn continued, wincing, knowing they was just words with no substance, no truth.
“That’s what you think, boy?” Oxttyn slapped Jerryn hard across the face, even as Jaike started lashing three foot-long lengths of wood around his forearm with quickly ripped strips of his shirt sleeve. It hurt horribly, but somehow he gave no reaction to it to his abductors.
“Careful, Oxttyn!” He spat with a glare. “Pirris!”
Oxttyn grunted. “Soldiers have already lit fires in many places beneath the castle on our route to this point, boy. The bitch’s brother and your friends will be rather too busy trying to save this heap of rubble in case it falls down around their ears, before they can even think about starting the search for you!”
“Dear Arven, you bastards! You’ve – wrecked the entire place!” Jerryn hurled with reckless anger – but broke off, wincing visibly as Jaike tightened the last strip of material on his arm, tight just below his elbow.
“Quiet, boy!” He ordered, arranging a sling neatly over his arm, knotting it securely behind his shoulder, then produced a dark cloth that he wrapped around Jerryn’s mouth, pulling it tightly between his teeth – an effective gag that caught his lips painfully against his teeth, knotted roughly at the back of his head..
Hey!>; Jerryn protested, struggling but too late.
“Silence!” Oxttyn glared and raised his fist meaningfully again before the prisoner’s face. “Or I’ll break a few more bones. Tie him, Jaike.”
Gagged, with a length of rope noosed around his neck and now able to smell a faint hint of acrid smoke that had already bypassed the many locked doors and steps that separated him from the surface and his friends and family, Jerryn was helpless as the two Generals marched him on quickly, weapons in their hands, the packs they had prepared over their shoulders, both carrying fresh torches as they continued into the deep darkness beneath Clirensar.
Jerryn!>; That was an agonised call from the High-King somewhere above.
Sire -!>; He answered swiftly, but a heavy blow to the back of his head stunned him, fire and pain blossoming and he fell insensible to the floor.
“That’ll shut the boy up – let’s go.” Oxttyn growled, sheathing his sword, handing the torch to Jaike and then bending to haul Jerryn up, lying him over his shoulder.
* * *
Jerryn awoke groggily. A place at the back of his head hurt sharply, the rest of his head just pounded; his right arm throbbed in sympathy with his head; his body ached and his mouth, behind the painful gag, was bone dry and tasted revolting, his tongue swollen. Instantly, clearly, he had remembered all that had happened – which explained most of the pain he felt. He was laid on bare, cold stone – no wonder his back ached. He opened his eyes to stare upward at a strange, irregular roof in what, he realised, blinking in a dim wash of light, seemed to be a natural cave. Shifting his position slightly only confirmed that his ankles and knees were bound tightly, his left wrist raised above his head and fastened to something behind him.
Where am I? Is this today?>; He wondered uneasily and coughed hard, painfully, failing to keep it contained. Despite his question, however, part of him knew that it was still the same day, but he wasn’t sure how. Somewhere out of sight he heard movement and a shadow moved – General Oxttyn appearing, even taller and more imposing from the floor he realised, from the right.
“Good, you’re back with us.” He stated, glaring. “I suggest you do as you are told, boy – you are the means to bring my family and myself back into favour, after that episode with the brat! Behave, else I’ll kick you firmly into obedience!”
As he raised his right leg and lowered his huge boot almost into Jerryn’s shocked face, the prince believed him, even as he struggled to understand what the General meant – favour? Was the ‘brat’ Ethrayne? What on Iullyn had happened?
“Understand?”
Yes – yes, Sir.>; He replied, the only way to communicate through the gag.
“Not sir, boy. My Lord General.” Oxttyn snapped, and that large boot slammed hard into his side – and another pain was added to the rest. “Understand?”
Y-yes, my Lord General.>; Jerryn’s mental tone was very meek – cowed by the General’s ready descent into violence and threats, but already he was trying to think of a way – anyway at all – for him to escape. Ethrayne, of course, had attempted it and so would he, if he could do so!
“Just keep that in mind.” The General said, leaning down to unfasten the rope that confined his left wrist so tightly, then pulling him into a sitting position and looping the rope back around his throat. “I strongly suggest you cooperate – you’ll walk when I tell you to, stop when I tell you to – and you will not try to communicate with the bastard razine or make a sound, boy, else prisoners will die!” He undid the ropes at ankles and knees, and hauled Jerryn to his feet. “You’re thirsty – you’ll get water later, if you behave. Move!”
The cave had seemed to have a roof nearly as tall as the cathedral, from the ground, but the uneven roof was barely high enough for the General to stand upright in, a smooth-walled empty oval with a floor that sloped down towards the light that highlighted the odd shapes of an outcrop. The rope around his neck in Oxttyn’s grip was choke-tight and Jerryn stumbled on numb feet and legs into what was a smooth passage in the limestone that descended to the left. Downhill, the light was a bit brighter after the darkness, and after a short distance he could see that it was real daylight leaking around a jumble of undergrowth-covered rubble that rested partly on the rock, but mainly on dark, damp, smelly earth.
Jerryn stared, amazed: there, kneeling bound on the wet ground and guarded by three hard-faced jajozeli were three prisoners dressed in filthy rags. They gazed up at him with despair in their eyes.
“You no doubt recognise these slaves, prince?” Oxttyn demanded and he nodded quickly even though he wasn’t sure that he did. “I will introduce them: Benner, Captain of the household guard; Poppy, maid to the old Duchess and Hella, sister-in-law of the new Duchess. All kept here so carefully by Commander Tequan, waiting for you. If you misbehave, boy, then these three will suffer dreadfully -.” He paused as Jerryn choked on the gag, quickly suppressing all sorts of protests. “Now sit down and don’t move!”
Hostages! Hostages against his compliance! Jerryn’s thirst faded as simple dread took over along with nausea, for how could he possibly try to escape his fate when these poor, terrified souls would be tortured and killed? What could he do, but obey? He sank down onto the wet ground, jarring his right arm of course – the rope still tight on his neck, now in the hands of one of the soldiers, trying to suppress any reaction, taking a closer look at the prisoners.
Poppy, a middle-aged woman with greying hair, tried to stifle a sob behind her tied hands, tears trickling down her dirty, bruised face. Jerryn thought he recognised her, one of Duchess Riyala’s maids, but there had been many. Hella, he did remember: a pretty girl in her twenties with soft brown hair and smiling eyes who had been wedded to Dettar, Lyria’s oldest brother, mother of Dymia and Serren and she also looked thin, terrified and badly used, with cuts and bruises on her face, her hair matted and dirty – as had Benner, a previously solid officer who was now only a shade of his former self, his face thin, his dark eyes bloodshot and scared. Jerryn felt even sicker, just trying to imagine the sheer brutality they must have witnessed and been subjected to since the jajozeli-razine had taken the city, so many moons before.
Gradually, the light faded away ahead of them, beyond the overgrown rock-fall that almost completely hid the entrance to the cave system. Sat there, feeling the water slowly seeping into his clothes, aching all over, Jerryn wondered what his friends were doing, how his father and Pualyn were managing – and just how the Generals intended to get them out of the base of this crag when he knew that the allies would be targeting it for attention. Quietly, he reached out within his mind as he had been taught, only to meet a strange barrier that had been clearly constructed by his captors: it somehow felt jajozeli to him, anyway and making contact with it only increased his discomfort.
From where he stood in the narrow gap at the side of the fern-covered rocks, Oxttyn glanced back at him and grinned in a self-satisfied sort of way.
Slowly the darkness blanketed them. Jerryn’s thirst now burned at him, along with the other discomforts and humiliations he felt, but he supposed the General could sense them so he did not bother to complain. His fellow prisoners probably felt even worse than he did -.
A low hoot, similar to the call of a little owl, sounded from outside and Jerryn’s heart thudded in his chest. Oxttyn stuck his head out outside and repeated the noise, the sound echoing slightly in the cave and the soldiers quickly got to their feet, their weapons and mail jingling quietly. Jerryn was dragged up and shoved past the cowering hostages until he felt the General again take hold of the hair on his head. He could hear the others stumbling along behind as he was pushed – without being able to see anything in the darkness, he was tripping over stones and tussocks and lord knew what, although Oxttyn moved like a cat.
High above, the rainclouds that had poured water on the armies all morning had dispersed and stars gleamed remote and beautiful, leaving the thick undergrowth in velvet blackness. Jerryn blinked to try and clear his vision and became aware that off behind him, the blackness blocked by a lumpy deeper darkness that must be a hill, one of many on this side of the city and also far above and at a distance, he could see the great mass of the crag upon which Clirensar was constructed – the torchlight far above on the walls were almost as tiny as the stars. His heart sank even further: somehow, the jajozeli-razine had managed to find a passage from the crag that actually led out beyond it and into the countryside beyond – no wonder no one had found any caves at the foot of the cliff! Now they were downstream of the wharves – and pretty-much out of reach of any rescue! His heart quailed and despair filled him.
At least.>; the thought came to him unexpectedly, a little boost to his sinking spirits. At least they had to carry me all this way – if he hadn’t knocked me senseless, I could have walked. I hope they both ache abominably!>;
The Generals must have been communicating silently for secrecy’s sake, for the only noises were natural: an owl, off in the distance; a fox, closer; the rustling of leaves in the wind, which would certainly cover their movements and, somewhere not far ahead, the gurgling sound of the river Sare. Jerryn tried to make his eyes work, but he could only just make out the hillock and the crag behind it along with the fact that where he was stumbling through thick vegetation on very soft ground, was a good foot or two lower than the land to either side. He wondered if they were perhaps in a stream gulley and found his supposition confirmed when Oxttyn marched him into a soggy muck that sucked at his boots, getting wetter the further he stepped, slurping – but it was certainly a lot quieter than the natural sound of the river racing past. They waded through about six or seven feet of knee- to thigh-high water and mud, until the rippling, dark but slightly sparkling Sare was right before them – Jerryn thought he was going to sink forever into the cloying, smelly mud that was trying to claim his water-filled boots – with one arm useless, a rope on his neck, he was helpless -.
Here.>; A voice whispered in his head and Jerryn shuddered at the touch of the General’s power. Something long and flat had glided almost silently up from the right and a rope was tossed out for the soldiers to grasp, whilst a hand – Jaike’s – grabbed his shoulder and hauled him from the mud, into colder water that splashed quietly against him, yanking him over the gunwale into the bottom of a boat with only a few muffled bumps – and Jerryn’s silent curses as he banged his broken arm repeatedly, pulled further to the right and out of the way, crouching down on his knees, his head down as ordered. He could hear the others climbing aboard – one woman whimpered – and he could sense that Oxttyn was right behind him, despite the warning of the rope on his throat. He spat silent curses as the boat rocked slightly against their weight to the side, before they spread out a little – he was shoved down, his arm was pinned beneath him and it hurt! The only good point was that the river water and the mud could drain out of his boots, but that just made his clothes wetter. He heard an oar being employed, to push them away from the muddy bank and turn the boat about, and then they were out in the current and being sped away from Clirensar.
*
Shivering in his wet clothes, his arm aching desperately, parched and exhausted, Jerryn did not dare to move until he felt hands removing the gag from his mouth, then one of the soldiers helped him to sit up and handed him a water skin; it was certainly not a General. The assistance was rough, admittedly, but to sit up was better by far than being slumped achingly on his front. The feel of water in his arid mouth was simple bliss. He swallowed, coughed as quietly as he could and drank as much as he could – until the water skin was removed and the gag was refastened just as tightly.
“You’ll get more later, perhaps.” General Jaike said quietly from where he sat at the tiller, to his right. “Remember, boy: silence or the slaves will suffer.”
He shuddered, huddled there, the rope a firm reminder of his position and tried to get his bearings even as he wished that he could get up to ease his cramped muscles. As far as he could tell in the night, the boat floated in the middle of the river which was a good hundred feet wide close to the city – they probably were passing the ruined farms east of the city and fields and woodland. Straining to look upstream, Jerryn realised that he could no longer see the torch-topped crag that held Clirensar: they could be a league or more downstream already, for he looked about – he could see nothing. He wondered, shivering at the cold wind on his still-wet skin, how long they had been on the river, how far they had come. Damn them all to hell!>; He spat miserably, the malice evident in the Generals’ auras choking him as much as the rope about his neck.
Helpless, he watched clouds hide the stars above, only able to guess at the passing countryside for an age until, on towards dawn, his eyes gritty from over a day without sleep (could he discount unconsciousness, he wondered?), the first faint light touched the horizon ahead to the east, a mere wash of grey. The soldiers passed around the water skin to the prisoners again, before a large, brown canvas tarpaulin was unfolded from the bow of the boat.
The four prisoners were all forced to lie flat in the bottom of the boat – severely restrained in Jerryn’s case – and the cover was stretched out over the greater part of the craft, hiding the contents from view, as if protecting a cargo from the weather. It was a design that had been in use on the Sare and the other main rivers of Tenarum for a century at least – and the craft looked completely innocent, guided by the two cloaked Generals, three labourers at the bow, their weapons all concealed, going with the steady flow of the river.
Stifled somewhat by the dark canvas only a few feet above his head, aching in mind and body, Jerryn eventually drifted into an uncertain sleep where he was menaced by massive, hulking figures, to wake slightly more clear-headed, to what turned out to be a slowly darkening sky. Somehow, despite thirst and a terrible hunger, he had slept half the day away.
“The sleeping beauty awakens.” Oxttyn grated, his tone conveying mostly menace. “How’s your arm, boy?”
It – it is painful, my – my Lord General.>; Just in time he remembered the title: this was not the time to antagonise his captors, when he was so helpless in the bottom of the boat. To his intense embarrassment his stomach gurgled and his bladder was screaming for relief. P-please, Sir -.>;
Oxttyn’s silent, mocking, laughter was the only answer and Jerryn was unable to block the sharp, malicious amusement that the jajozeli-razine let him sense – probably they had done something else to stop him using his abilities, for the all controls and blocks that he had been taught appeared useless.
Misery filled him for a while, until a memory surfaced from the previous day, from just before everything had fallen apart around him: the delight on Pualyn’s face as he had decapitated that bastard Tequan, exacting some well-deserved retribution! The death of the commander of the occupying force did much to buoy his flagging spirits -.
“I suggest you dwell on some other event, boy, else I’ll start my own retribution on your hide!” Oxttyn said, kicking him roughly at the top of his left thigh as he helped Jaike start to roll back the tarpaulin.
The soldiers were folding it carefully from the front, letting the fresh night air in now that there was no chance of being seen.
I don’t understand, Sir – ouch! My Lord General.>; Jerryn amended at a second kick, fearing for his ribs.
“Your little bitch cost me my son!” The General hurled the words viciously, yanking Jerryn to a sitting position by his hair.
Y-your son, my Lord?>; He quavered. Do you mean Ethrayne?>;
“Whom else?” He kicked him again, then cracked him almost exactly where he had been knocked out the previous day – the lump still tender, his headache returning with a vengeance
“Oxttyn, the fault was Inajo’s!” Jaike interjected then firmly, laying one hand on Oxttyn’s shoulder as he raised his huge fist. “His mistake, not the girl’s. And most certainly not his Majesty’s. You will leave the prince alone!”
The older General gazed with furious eyes at the younger, then at Jerryn in the fading light – and Jerryn was unable to control his bladder when faced with the threat there – this General hated him beyond sense. Relief was mixed with intense embarrassment, but he couldn’t even move! The Generals above him seemed frozen as he assumed they wrestled mentally for control. Finally, snarling, Oxttyn strode back to the stern and the rudder.
“Watch your tongue around General Oxttyn, boy.” Jaike warned him in a low voice, starting to unfasten the rope that had constrained his neck since his capture. “He bears a grudge and you are its focus as the brat is far out of his reach!” He then removed the gag.
But – Ethrayne -.>;
“The pair of you are a focus of some kind.” The younger General shrugged, then reached for a water skin and a second bag being offered by one of the soldiers, pulling out a strip of dried meat. “Eat and drink quickly: the cover will be replaced soon for security.”
Confused, miserable, frightened and ashamed – almost every emotion existing boiled within him, but they were all negated as Jerryn finally could assuage his burning thirst, before attacking the tough, salty strip that would certainly keep him well occupied as chewing practice. He wasn’t fooled into thinking that one small piece would fill him, but it had been nearly two days, he guessed from a quick breakfast before dawn on what had turned out to be their final assault on the citadel, since he had eaten a thing – yet at least that awful sensation of hunger receded a little, as he chewed and swallowed.
The other prisoners were further towards the bow, cringing away from the guards – but he could sense that General Jaike was close and watching him intently, the proximity, the sense of his power thrilling Jerryn’s nerves.
“I should have stayed at the back of the assault!” He muttered unhappily to himself, thinking back to his reckless stupidity, overruling Kerr and Pualyn before the gates.
The General snorted. “It would have made no difference, boy: you were always our one focus once the brat had been captured. We would have taken you within a few days, no matter what you or your elders devised, or where you were guarded!”
“You’ll never get through Orran, my – my Lord General. There are ships and the razine – they will block -.”
This time Jaike chuckled coldly. “Oh, we’ll get through Orran, boy! It might cost them a few more lives, a little more damage, but we’ll reach the sea safely.” Then he took the water skin away, proceeded to tie Jerryn securely, replaced the gag and the canvas was pulled back out and secured to cover the boat. By then it was full night. Later, a hard rain fell, loud on the tarpaulin. Some, of course, found its way into the bottom of the craft, soaking the prisoners with cold water. But at least they were covered.
Jerryn lay still, his broken arm hurting even more than it had when he had been lying on it the previous night, trying to get enough mental control together to properly concentrate – to try and raise even a tiny part of the power that he had been learning how to control . . . But he was worrying about Oxttyn’s intense hatred, his mention of Ethrayne – dear Arven, what had occurred? He wondered. Also, he was fretting about the safety of the other prisoners: the threat to torture or kill them if he rebelled – he knew that he was not cold-hearted enough to condemn anyone to pain and death, no matter what! He tried to clear his mind, again and again, but failed . . . The aura of the Generals, also, was sharp, cold and uncomfortable – almost painful in his head . . . The night passed, the boat moved down the river, rocking slightly now and again as they crossed confluences with many the other streams that met the larger river . . . He achieved precisely nothing at all – except, once, late in the night, a very brief touch – someone else’s sense of relief -. Then the barrier, the block that the Generals had created around him slammed down hard and he was left with only an even more intense headache. All his worries returned and despair plunged him into the depths . . . It kept on raining.
Eventually the night gave way and the canvas took on shape and colour above him as the boat continued downstream. Jerryn wondered if he was imagining it, but it seemed that he could feel a heightened alertness in the two Generals, although he could see little except a bit of the frame of the boat and the canvas above him – for the Generals were both behind him, he could only really see parts of their legs if he craned his head painfully over. He supposed they must be closing on Orran, or the populous area upstream of it . . . but there his imagination failed – he was just worrying that more people would die. General Jaike’s assurance only unnerved him further.
They floated on, accompanied by the continuing rain, which only cleared sometime in the afternoon – the farmers would be blessing Arven he knew. There was certainly a heightened tenseness in the air, he had not been mistaken, but the Generals did nothing different to any other travellers, he thought – leaning at the stern, calling hallo! to passing craft heading upstream, or perhaps on the riverbanks. He thought he sometimes heard noises other than polite greetings – the moos of cows, the raucous sounds of ducks and so on – and, clearly, the sounds of birds in flight overhead: geese or ducks, he guessed, hidden above the canvas, now and again. It was an ordinary day in the eastern vale of the Sare, the farms, villages and little towns that were dotted about, completely unaware of the danger slipping past – the threat of two Generals and three soldiers who were prepared to wreak havoc in their determination to take him from Tenarum. Awful images filled his mind: the destruction of Callorton and Home Farm and in Clirensar itself – and Jerryn prayed fervently that the craft would be allowed to continue unchallenged, the innocent locals completely unaware of the dreadful violence passing so close to hand . . . His hunger and thirst returned, almost as burning as the previous day . . .
It was growing dark yet again when something finally changed and Oxttyn steered the boat towards the left hand bank. The soldiers removed the tarpaulin; the stars were just starting to appear through a rustling net of tree tops – they were moored by a stand of tall trees on the edge of the river, the woodland and undergrowth completely unable to block a chilling breeze that made the prisoners all shiver now that they were uncovered. They were released from their bonds, allowed up and provided with water and more dried meat, then briefly allowed to climb onto the bank – accompanied – to relieve themselves and stretch their legs.
“We are close to Orran.” General Oxttyn informed Jerryn when the two soldiers marched him straight back to the boat. He could hear more muffled crying from Poppy and Hella, and he could sense their wretched fear – it made him feel quite sick again. “We will continue later tonight.”
“They will know you are on your way, my Lord General.” The Prince dared to diffidently point out, wondering why Oxttyn would bother to tell him such information. “They will search every single boat coming down the river, I’m sure -.”
“Shut up.” The General ordered, but not in a fierce, angry way – his opinion did not count for shit, Jerryn supposed.
The night passed slowly as the half moon crept across the sky, dodging clouds with dubious success. It was chillier – Jerryn and the prisoners feeling it acutely through their damp, inadequate clothing. The moon was sinking towards the distant hills to the west when the prince was trussed up again and tied to the framework - but this time he was not gagged, although he was fastened up tightly alongside Poppy, Hella and Benner, all four of them forced onto their knees in the stern, Jerryn right beside Oxttyn, the others close beside them with their weapons loose. The tarpaulin was tidily packed away and they resumed their journey, a number of long oars set out, ready for use.
Arven protect the people of Orran – everyone!>; Jerryn prayed.
Knelt there, wedged uncomfortably against General Oxttyn’s muscular legs, he found the onset of dawn both faster and slower than normal, relishing the opportunity to remain upright, having been confined on his back for two days solid. The ropes that tightly bound him, the shivering of the others increased his fear as, gradually, the woodland and farmland they swept past were replaced by cottage gardens, then the dusty, messy outskirts of a large settlement. Boats, barges and larger craft in various states of repair were docked at various wharves that took over the edges of the river, the muddy foreshore now visible. The sun had only just risen ahead of them when the boat moved out into the wider estuary.
“There.” General Jaike pointed quickly to left and right then straight ahead. “As reported, Oxttyn: the Orbain Pearl, Veddock Pearl, Cerris Opal, Jaece Pearl, local ships – and -.” He laughed aloud. “The Mador Opal.”
“Tricky.” Oxttyn glanced from side to side, clearly assessing the situation. “So, the survivors from the sacking of Cal’Badon have returned to honour – Man the oars!”
The three soldiers and General Jaike went to the middle of the boat and picked up an oar each, perching on the narrow boards fitted for the rowers who usually manoeuvred such craft when adjustment was required.
“Oh, damn it all! Captain Ashanner!” Jerryn gasped, suddenly recognising the man at the wheel of the absolutely huge ship on their left that approached swiftly, that seemed intent on sinking them.
“Keep back, bastard, or the prince and these others will die!” Oxttyn roared, laying a knife at Hella’s cheek – the woman screamed shrilly on cue, as if it had been rehearsed in a drama.
“You’re surrounded, General!” Ashanner shouted back, his face set. “Phellos has blocked you most effectively – surrender! Release your prisoners! You won’t get a hundred yards!”
“Not a hope, bastard!” Jaike shouted back from where he rowed strongly, grinning broadly. “Keep your ships well away – Orran can burn again for all we care!”
Dear Arven!>; Jerryn prayed, gulping as the Orbain Pearl swept past far too close, so that the shallow craft rocked nastily in its wake. Do I want to drown? Should they just sink us -?>;
Jerryn!>; That silent shout was unmistakeably the High-King’s and the prince stared up at the stern of the Pearl, turning in the current, to see Mhezal beside Ashanner, his gaze intent. But, he wondered in confusion, how on Iullyn had the High-King managed to reach Orran before them? Horses could gallop, but had to be changed, whilst the boat had glided along on probably the straightest, quickest route.
He came for me!>; The thought came to him suddenly, a horrible feeling of guilt only worsening his fear: too many people had died already!
Now!>; Oxttyn gave a mental bellow that probably even humans could hear, as the Sweet Rose and the Crimson Rose closed in from the right – Then, a moment later, there was a loud crash! and boom! from the Veddock Pearl, the ship furthest away, closest to the ocean. Practically everyone in the vicinity turned to stare first at Captain Skendon’s ship and then, open mouthed, at the swinging arm of the mangonel on board the Mador Opal, before it was hauled back again, creaking – as the crew of the Veddock Pearl raced to put out fires, another burning missile flew overhead to land with awful effect in one of the recently rebuilt warehouses on the northern bank of the river.
“No!” Ashanner cried in heartfelt anguish. “Phellos!” His voice was clear across the water.
“Oh, damn it!” Jerryn whispered in shocked disbelief. “The bastards!”
The High-King started swearing sulphurously, as did some of the other people on board the ships that had been about to block and board Oxttyn’s river boat. The Generals laughed and jeered, well pleased at their deception.
“We hold your dear friend’s ship – she and others are also our prisoners, bastard Razine!” Oxttyn used the insult indiscriminately, relishing the telling. “Now, Master Cheltor can keep raining fire upon you – we can mutilate a few civilians –.” Poppy wailed this time, again almost as requested. “Or you can retreat, drop anchor and live to see another day!”
Jerryn -?>; Mhezal’s contact was broken – Jerryn winced as pain struck his mind hard from the power they were expending.
“The prince belongs to his Majesty, ruler of soft-minded idiots! Do not interfere or he will suffer much worse than a broken arm and some bruises!” Jaike warned, as those on the Mador Opal prepared the mangonel again – and a burning mass thumped down amid the crew still working to contain the liquid fire that had previously fallen on the Veddock Pearl.
“Very well, General.” The High-King acquiesced heavily, with obvious reluctance. “Jerryn – I’m so sorry -.”
“Get out of our way!” Oxttyn spat. “You have moments, bastards – or prisoners will start dying!”
It was almost as though a massive wet blanket of despair had fallen in a moment over the estuary and the city around it, as the tiny boat bobbed along, propelled by the current and the sweating soldiers at the oars, heading out to where the Mador Opal menaced the allies, now displaying clearly the Orran-made standard of the Jajozeli Empire, cracking sharply in the wind that was rising. The other craft were swiftly moving to berths out of the main river, men hauling desperately on ropes – except the Veddock Pearl, still trying to smother the fire.
His knees and his mind numb, Jerryn watched the huge ship closing, noting its dark-stained timbers, the thick netting that hung down the outside of the hull amidships, the height of the masts, hardly moving on the rocking wavelets that threw the little river boat all over . . . the sun was shining, shaded somewhat by the half-furled sails, the sky was clear – summer was approaching, after all – the air warmer. It was a good day for a voyage, perhaps, but not the one he was about to undertake so unwillingly . . .
Oh, dear Arven – please, take care.>; He sent silently, but he did not know whether his plea escaped the jajozeli barrier. Protect yourselves – look after my father – I’m sorry!>;
The motion of the boat increased awfully – the water was choppier for some reason in that area, the waves riding in from the ocean meeting the current of the river in an unexpected, unpleasant manner, but the soldiers and General Jaike rowed relentlessly and the boat was alongside the ship all too quickly. Two soldiers hung on to the bottom of the net, striving to hold the boat relatively still, whilst Oxttyn untied Jerryn from the other prisoners – all hindered by waves now breaking over the gunwale as they were moved by both the river current and the waves, almost crashing fatally into the hull of the Mador Opal.
The rope was secured twice around his waist and under his arms, then tossed up to the ship – caught by a General up there and pulled tighter as Jerryn stumbled and the boat bucked.
“Climb.” Oxttyn ordered.
“Oh.” Jerryn glanced down at his right arm, took a breath and shuffled forward – only a step or two, then he was before the net, the huge ship moving crazily at a completely different tempo to the boat. Praying silently, he stepped across a horribly wide gulf of glinting water – grabbed with his left hand – pulled his left foot onto the net at a higher point – and hung there, completely unable to move from his position with only one hand as the ship moved wildly.
“Move!” Oxttyn shouted. “Move, you – coward!”
That stung, along with the string of swearwords. Jerryn gritted his teeth, tried to brace his feet – slid his left hand a little way up the net – then the rope tightened under his arms and it was hauled up – he found himself hanging at a distance from the ship, holding on as tight to the net as he could with his left hand, as the ship moved, dipped, and he hit the hull hard when the waves shoved the ship the other way – dear Arven, that was unnerving – as they continued to drag him up the side of the ship, his right arm banging on every bloody knot of the net, it seemed – he suppressed his reaction to the pain, did his best to climb – But then he was at the level of the gunwale, trying to brace himself and not fall over onto the deck. Hands grabbed him – the ship pitched, nearly throwing him back to the sea, which would have been preferable – helped him over. Below, he could hear the women’s cries as they were forced up the net in his wake – Jaike and the soldiers cursing them.
“That wasn’t so bad after all was it?” Oxttyn had climbed up behind him, then laughed aloud, at the success of the mission perhaps.
Jerryn shivered, and turned to stare up the estuary, noting that the decks of the razine and Tenarean ships were now full of people, staring back.
“Let’s get you out of that rope.” A new voice remarked and the length that had hauled him up the ship’s side was unknotted. He was free of bonds, but a large hand closed on his right shoulder. “Move, boy.” Jerryn flinched: it was the sort of voice he recognised from all his years of weapons training and the lined, lean, cold-gazed figure before him, even though sorely injured and bandaged as he was, certainly confirmed his supposition.
The deck seemed enormous – the masts with the sails cracking in the wind, a wave causing him to stagger – alien, unknown. He had heard the anchor being hauled up, and glanced again towards Orran as they neared a dark doorway beneath the stern deck, startled to realise that they were already heading out to sea: the towers of the castle were more distant, the ships a little smaller. They had passed the Veddock Pearl and he was relieved to see that the fires had been extinguished. He was steered away from the three prisoners – poor people! – who he realised that he had not even dared speak to yet – they were shoved roughly towards the bow where a hatch was open. He heard commands from above him, speech from the sailors – only part of him realised that they were all jajozeli-razine. Then, he was a dim passage and his view vanished.
“Let’s sort your arm out, boy, and you can rest.” The tall, imposing General said, steering him firmly towards what seemed to be a ladder rather than steps. “Welcome to what was the Mador Opal – we call it Phellos’s Folly now.”
* * *
“This way!” Pualyn yelled, turning as others hammered desperately at the locked door that blocked them, making his way along the building to a door that was inset to the right – he and those following him had to leap over bodies all over the courtyard to reach that side entrance to the guard room, seriously slowing them – but they raced through rooms and corridors that were partly filled with rubbish, trying to catch up with the Generals who had abducted the prince.
The young duke’s knowledge of the citadel was complete, right down to the oldest cellars, but the jajozeli-razine had a head-start on them – doors were locked, slowing them down again – and they occasionally faced determined groups of enemy soldiers whose sole purpose seemed to be to die, delaying them!
“Where the hell are they going?” Tymain demanded, after they had thundered down a dusty staircase. “Are there any secret passages here, Pualyn?”
“Not that I know of in this part of the castle, not into the bedrock. “Pualyn slowed, breathing heavily. “Of course, there might be – oh, shit! There might be. Come on!”
“Hang on!” The High-King said, raising one hand in warning. “I smell smoke, Pualyn – let’s not rush ahead: clearly the bastards have carefully set traps for us.”
“They’ll not escape!” Pualyn asserted stoutly, even though he knew that he was only hoping for success. “Carefully, then, your Majesty.” He led them on, fifty men and razine, through a series of barrel-vaulted cellars into another corridor – and the smell and the slight pall of smoke only increased. Ahead, they could now hear fire crackling, then a heightened roar, a little like a wild animal, as something flammable caught hold -.
“Back! Get back!” Kerrenan shouted, as there was a deep rumble – a crash – and thick clouds of dust and rubble were added to the thickening smoke. “Oh, damn it all! We can’t do anything but extinguish these bastard fires, else the castle will be down around our ears!”
“But – Jerryn! We’ve got to rescue Jerryn!” Pualyn’s tone was anguished.
“We’ll do our damnedest, Pualyn, but not until we’ve secured your home.” Mhezal said heavily. “Where’s the closest well?”
The duke stared at him, his fear and distress clear to all of them. “So I’ve got to do exactly what Marrand had to do to me: tell him we’ve lost his son?” He asked rather plaintively. “Oh -.” He started to swear rather eloquently.
There was another crash and they started to retreat as quickly as they could, looking nervously along the corridor towards the site of the fire.
“Water, Pualyn, we need water!” Tymain stated urgently. “And buckets – lots of bloody buckets! Come on!”
Pualyn shuddered. “Water – buckets – come on!” He took the stairs two and three at a time, but he was slowing as he climbed. He was thinking again, his mind clear. “We’ll get organised, start others searching the citadel methodically when the fires are out – Dear Arven, we’re losing so much of the day – That bastard really planned this minutely, didn’t he? Wish I could kill him again!”
“Yes, I know what you mean.” Kerrenan agreed, keeping level with him. “Still, that’s another General out of the way for good!” He grinned in a very satisfied way. “And you fought him with great skill – congratulations, your Grace.”
“Thank you, your Highness.” Pualyn managed a quick smile in return.
Behind them, Tymain barked a rough laugh, then coughed – the smoke was definitely increasing.
Returning to the main courtyard, the found that a state of organised chaos had descended as the other kings and commanders – under Marrand – started the movement of bodies, the collection of weapons and so on. He turned, his hand on his sword hilt, as Pualyn and the others reappeared. He looked tired, his face lined and there were blood stains on his mail.
“Your Majesty – Generals captured Jerryn – We chased them, but there are fires in the cellars. Dear Arven, I’m sorry, Sire – we cannot advance until the lower levels are safe, the fires out.” Pualyn explained quickly, rubbing at his smoke-reddened eyes, sagging where he stood.
“I heard it from Robard and Vedeigne – oh, clever, clever people!” Marrand shook his head, obviously suppressing his emotions as much as the rest of them. “Hey, you’re one of the duke’s men -.” He called to a weary captain who had just laid a bushel of arrows on a barrel nearby. “Look lively, man: buckets, water – his Grace will direct you! Let’s get this citadel secure!” He barked. Another man determined to try and suppress his fear and sorrow in more hard work.
“At once, your Majesty.”
*
With the best efforts of the couple of hundred men and razine assigned to fire-fighting, it was after noon before the various blazes were out, although that portion of the lower castle was badly damaged – not even Pualyn dared to try and find a route around the lower cellars yet, to risk more dangerous collapses – whole rooms had vanished into blackened rubble. There was no way – yet – that they had found around that area and they supposed that the damned Generals had probably reached their escape point out of the city by now.
The High-King left the fire-fighting to others and found a quiet room above the guard’s quarters where, supported by Kerrenan, he concentrated his innate talent on trying to find Jerryn. There was a barrier, however, set most securely around him: the prince was effectively hidden until – one call got a quick response – then – he felt sudden pain, then nothing.
“Damn them! They’ve knocked him out, Kerrenan – somewhere near that cliff to the east. I thought there’d be a sally point into the city below, you know, but perhaps there’s a crack or passage down – it’s limestone, after all! Let’s tell Pualyn – we need to get the wharves and river patrolled quickly – Bastards!”
“It’s a good thing Mother can’t hear you, Father – she would be shocked. I’ve never heard you swear so much.” Kerrenan said in a poor attempt at humour.
“We live in interesting times, Kerr.” His father stated sadly. “Let’s start looking for Jerryn: if there is a way down, it’ll be some time before they reach the ground.”
It took time to assemble a group of razine for Mhezal’s plan to hopefully trap the enemy, for the soldiers were scattered about the castle and city on various missions – from trying to find alternate routes through the fire-damaged lower levels; to conducting a room-by-room search for any jajozeli; to carting out the dead and bringing in more of their vast array of supplies; to tending the injured. So many thousands of soldiers, intent on so many vital tasks.
Pualyn and Tymain coordinated the smothering of the fires, of which they found five in various places towards the east of the citadel, some less successful than the one that had collapsed the ceiling during their initial attempt to find Jerryn, fuelled by broken furniture and lamp oil. They also had a number of jajozeli soldiers to eliminate, the men who had lit the fires. It was later afternoon by the time that they emerged from the cellars to find that King Marrand, King Namayomn and Crown-Prince Tarlan had set up a healer’s station in the servants dining hall, whilst the walking wounded from previous battles set about beginning the task of clearing the mounds of rubbish that so many moons of occupation had created – and, most importantly, the cooks set about preparing a meal in the vast kitchens.
“Dear Arven, I’m exhausted.” Pualyn muttered, sinking down on a filthy tabletop in one of the household offices, his face despondent. “And look at the state of this place! The servants must have been heartbroken . . . I bet there’s no one left . . .” He shivered. “But – I can’t believe it! We’ve actually got the castle and city back!”
“Yeah, but look at the price we’ve paid, Pualyn: they stole your lady sister and murdered your honoured parents and now they’ve taken the prince on their retreat!” Tymain pointed out diffidently. “Jerryn was correct, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, by Arven, it seems like it – and the Generals had moons to search for any possible way they could get into the rock beneath our feet – and moons to chisel their way through, if necessary! – Oh, damn, I need a drink!” He got slowly to his feet. “Let’s find the others – we’ve going to have to set some engineers to shoring up those damaged areas -.”
“We’ll sort that later, Pualyn.” The High-King had stuck his head around the door. “I’ve set the appropriate standards on the flagpoles, sent messengers to Foston – thought it might reassure everyone watching from outside. Marrand has some Rothern red to hand.”
“What are we going to do about Jerryn’s capture, your Majesty?” Tymain asked, rubbing at his face vigorously.
“Kerr and some others are outside, checking the wharves and the cliff face – they’ll patrol the river too; others are on alert in the city in case the caves open there. But -.” He sighed deeply. “Let’s face it, we’ve no idea where any passage might emerge, how long they’ll wait – or how well prepared they are.”
“Oh, they were well prepared, your Majesty.” Pualyn agreed. “At least their leader’s dead – but this place is a complete mess, isn’t it?” Mhezal nodded sadly in agreement.
“The main structure is all intact, Pualyn – the rest is mainly rubbish and deliberate defacing of the castle. We should be able to clean up and sort it out quickly enough, I’m sure.” Tymain tried to make light of the broken windows, walls, furniture and so forth so clear to all of them.
*
The High-Prince’s group of razine started at the wharves that were set below the crag that formed the eastern wall of the city and the castle far above it. As a precaution, they moored every boat and barge remaining on the river together under armed guard, but they suspected that the Generals already had their escape-route completely set up and ready for darkness – and, logically, that’s what they would all have done.
Fighting a dark despair that was usually completely alien to his nature, Kerrenan did his utmost to locate any cave systems running down through the limestone, but did not find much that was any use. The openings they investigated were all too small for fully grown adults to squeeze through and although there were passages inside, not even their combined power could find any exit points.
“Back to eyes and ears, then – let’s go.” Kerr said with a sigh. “Right, half of us will mount up, the rest on foot – and half on this bank, half to the north. We’ll track slowly up and down until nightfall, and fresh eyes and ears can take over then – those bastards will be out here somewhere!”
But even so, riding up and down the grassland bordering the river banks; investigating streams, hollows and dark spaces along the way for three miles or so – and with a boat rowing up and down in addition, they found nothing. Darkness fell; other men and razine relieved them. Noises could be heard – animals moving about; calls of various types; owls hunting – an odd thump! once or twice – But although they were all diligent, alert and determined to succeed, they found absolutely nothing.
Then, shortly after first light, the now obvious escape point was discovered by the closest patrol: although the extremely muddy little stream bed in the hollow had been studied, no one of course had thought to wade up it and stare through the apparently impenetrable vegetation at the base of the uneven, gorse-covered hill – it was a good few hundred yards from the actual crag.
By dawn, an exhausted Kerrenan admitted defeat – he had refused to rest and had walked up and down on the south side of the river bank all night, searching with his power; he had been sure that the enemy would break out of concealment during the hours of darkness. Receiving the news with a fatalistic calm, Kerr himself had stared at the marks of passage in the mud, then struggled through the muck up past his knees and his muffled, varied curses told them all they needed to know: the Generals, of course, were quite capable of concealing such a place and, obviously, they had. The High-Prince emerged still swearing, foul mud covering most of his clothes and stepped straight into the river.
“A couple of you take supplies and plenty of torches and follow the cave up and back – have we got parchment and charcoal?” He asked, climbing, dripping, out of the water – but a little cleaner, his boots spouting water. “At least Duke Pualyn will have one escape route for the future.” His tone was cold.
“You really ought to rest Kerr.” A razine captain offered diffidently, holding out the reins of his horse.
“Yeah, I suppose I should – I’ll go and report and hopefully get a bath, too.”
*
There were copious amounts of both hot water and breakfast up at the castle and Kerrenan was shown to a suite with a bath as soon as he reported to Commander Vedeigne what they had discovered – too late. It was immensely galling that the enemy had snuck through in such a manner – but even Kerr knew that they had done all they could to locate Jerryn in the circumstances. He bathed, ate a little, then fell asleep on a comfortable bed despite the sense of guilt that filled him – stupid, he knew, to apportion himself responsible for the failure, when everything that could have been done had been: the enemy had simply outsmarted them, knowing the terrain so much better.
It was early afternoon when he woke, dressed in clean clothes that hardly contained any heavy metal work, dry boots on his feet and found his way through the castle to the High Hall, which looked and smelled freshly scrubbed. The commanders were clustered around a large, badly-battered table, poring over maps.
“Kerr, did you get some rest? Are you hungry?” Pualyn asked, looking up at his approach. “Please, fetch the High-Prince a meal.” A soldier hurried off.
“Thank you.” Kerrenan stretched. “I must have slept, I don’t remember. Oh, I’m sorry -.” He broke off then – it had been said enough times, he supposed.
“Your people have found a whole labyrinth of passages and caves rising up and around from that hidden entrance, Kerr.” King Namayomn said admiringly. “Another group are still moving upwards inside the cliff – the whole area seems riddled with caves. They’re making plans as they advance and have found where the cellars become the caves, but the fire-damaged sections will stop their egress that way.”
“There was a narrow crack, that apparently had been hidden behind and full of rubble, forming the connection, right in the corner of a tiny room full of ancient boxes – and none of us had any idea of its existence.” Pualyn marvelled, shaking his head. “Apparently it had been made larger, to accommodate people.”
“So what do we do now, gentlemen?” The High-Prince asked, as the soldier returned with a tray holding bread, soup, sausages and cheese, along with wine and beer for the group at large. “Thank you.”
“I will take a handful of people to Orran: warn the city and the ships, so we’ll hopefully be able to intercept the Generals at the estuary, or maybe upstream.” His father stated gravely. “With the Pearls and local ships, we’ll be able to block them easily -.”
“I’ll join you -.” Kerr began, but broke off when Mhezal shook his head.
“No – you’ll stay here and help the coordination, Kerrenan – there might well still be traps or enemies within these old walls.” He ordered and Kerr nodded acquiescence.
“I want to be there.” King Marrand stated then, his tone calm, but with the air of a man expecting argument.
“Your Majesty!” Commander Vedeigne protested. “I – excuse me – but you can’t -.”
“I bloody-well will! I’ll keep out of the way. But I’ve got to be there.” Marrand replied.
“Very well, Marrand, I don’t see why not – you are ruler here, after all and you won’t be in danger. But you have not asked me how I propose to reach the port before our enemies when they have the advantage of at least half a day on us.” Mhezal pointed out, smiling.
“Well, I was wondering I must admit – how can such an impossibility be achieved, your Majesty?” King Namayomn enquired dutifully with his eyes wide.
The High-King laughed – Namayomn was quite willing to ask questions and viewed the world with great enthusiasm, for a man in his early thirties. He was well capable of command, but also acknowledged that others sometimes knew a great deal more than he – and that knowledge never upset him, unlike some others in the command structure. “We will use our power to make a portal – a gateway – straight to Orran. You can call it magic, I suppose – we don’t very often make these portals: it’s very tiring and it can be quite uncomfortable. That was what Ashanner meant in his report on their attack on Cal’Badon: the enemy Generals were able to fight back at the end of the night, because they created a portal from Ban’Lerracon across those endless mountains.
“Right – gentlemen – let’s get armed up again. We will reconvene here shortly. I want six volunteers.” He glanced at the razine around the hall, who nodded.
“Very well, thank you, Mhezal.” Marrand turned and hurried out, Orthen right behind him; the High-King and six tall, stern-faced razine close after.
“Magic?” Lord Gorman asked of the hall at large. “Dear Arven, whatever next?”
Kerrenan smiled, but he was obviously preoccupied. “It looks spectacular, but as my father said, it’s very tiring. I’ve made a portal twice – in emergencies – put me flat on my back both times, a bit like wearing two lots of mail and fighting all day – or trying to climb a mountain. Worse than we all felt yesterday, definitely.” He tried to describe the sensation then shrugged. “It’s bloody useful, but I don’t like it.”
“Will your ships still be at Orran?” Duke Agamn asked.
“Yes, your Grace, they’re resting and re-stocking their supplies, getting goods for trade. And I know Captain Ashanner is still praying that the Mador Opal under Captain Phellos makes it back to safety – he is most distressed that there has been no sighting since they left Cal’Badon – it was her talent that raised the volcanoes, after all.”
“It is most certainly magic!” Sergeant Sevanter affirmed politely. “And Lady Ethrayne and Prince Jerryn will one day be so talented?”
“One day they will, yes.” Kerrenan agreed with a sigh. “And much more besides.”
A short while passed as the men considered his confident words – Tymain smiled: it seemed that some of the nobles still had difficulty with the concept, even after a year. He had been keeping a personal note on who had trouble with the very existence of the Am’maiya, just because it seemed prudent – not that he would think of acting on it, simply to possibly protect them. Though they would probably never require such protection from one such as him, when they could command so much of the Flame of Arven . . . He prayed that Jerryn was all right, that Ethrayne was as safe as possible, yet again.
The two kings and the razine soldiers returned in a group, all fully armed, mail and weapons jingling musically, helms on their heads – both kings wearing rather damaged surcoats.
“We’d better move the table, gentlemen, if you please.” Kerrenan suggested, winking at Pualyn – now looking forward to the spectacle, if he could not be part of the force heading to Orran. “That’s it – over by the far wall – Lord, what’s this made of, your Grace? Iron?”
“Simple oak, your Highness.” Pualyn protested.
“Humph! That’s it – one oak table shifted – phew.”
“Thank you, Kerrenan – Please, everyone please stand back – I don’t want to injure anyone by accident with this.” Mhezal said, standing alone in the centre of the hall, raising his palms facing outwards at shoulder height. Everyone stared avidly – the men of the kingdoms hardly dared to blink as the High-King straightened, took a deep breath, and exhaled. The six razine were ranged behind him in pairs and adopted an identical pose. Marrand stayed where he was, surprise on his face – he shivered, as did Tymain and some of the others, as power flared in the great hall, invisible, but definitely tangible . . . Then light flared like pale lightning from their hands, all focussing on a single point some ten feet before Mhezal, the white-ish light somehow spinning itself into a sphere about five feet above the ground . . . The power in the hall increased until even the most unimaginative could sense it – their teeth on edge, their skin itching, the hair on their heads and bodies even standing on end – some men shivered at its touch . . . There was a crack!, a far brighter flash and the ball of light vanished, leaving an oval opening that, viewed from behind the High-King’s position before it, showed a four-foot wide and eight-foot high view of bright green, with a few clustered buildings visible to the right, trees to the left, the grey-blue sea shining beyond.
“Dear Arven!” Nearly everyone there repeated Tymain’s words.
“Your Majesty?” Mhezal gestured politely. “Will you join me?”
“My word – yes, thank you your Majesty – I’ll take care, honestly.” Marrand grinned wickedly at the others and stepped forward at Mhezal’s side.
“Just walk, Marrand and don’t worry: it will feel odd.” And together they walked forward, stepping from the faded tiles of the High Hall onto lush green grass, the six razine close behind them. Marrand shuddered – there was a strange lurch, a stink of an odd metallic nature – he felt almost dizzy for a moment as he stepped across so many tens of leagues in a moment. The rest of the commanders watched, amazed, as the small group stepped out into clear sunshine – then vanished from their sight as the gateway suddenly ceased to be with a burst of harsh noise and a strong metallic smell.
*
“Bloody hell!” King Marrand shook his head, staring around him – seeing the sea – the estuary – city – ships – the flatter countryside by the coast. “Oh, dear Arven!” He shuddered again as if at an icy draught in an aftermath to the travelling. It had been momentary, he supposed, but it had felt horrible.
“I know, it’s quite unpleasant – come along, please. I’ve told Ashanner to warn Lord Kierven, or I don’t know what he’ll think.” Mhezal smiled and they all set off towards the pale line of the road that wound prettily towards the city gates about a quarter of a mile away. “You’ve got to admit, however, that it’s arriving in a manner that certainly gains everyone’s attention.”
“Mhezal!” Marrand laughed at the joke, but his eyes were dark. “Is this actually going to do any good? Can we rescue Jerryn, d’you think?”
The tall razine sighed deeply. “Honestly? I can only pray, Marrand, like you. This has obviously been planned meticulously by the enemy, so it all depends on what their intentions are – how they will bypass Orran, whether they’re expecting one of their ships to pick them up – and who they’ve been in contact with. I’m praying, Marrand, that we can block the Generals’ route and regain your son.”
“Oh, please Arven we can!” The King of Tenarum breathed.
The city gates opened before them and a number of people emerged to meet them, a mixture of men and razine, some clearly injured. Getting closer, Marrand recognised Captain Ashanner and Lord Kierven, the enthusiastic sea-trading Lord of Orran.
“Your Majesties – welcome to Orran!” Kierven said, bowing low – the razine had obviously told him who was approaching. “My word! How may we assist you?” He bowed again and gestured politely. “I can tell from your faces, and from what Ashanner related earlier, that there is trouble somewhere. Please, come up to the castle.”
After savoury snacks and a restorative goblet of wine, the group sat in silence in Kierven’s meeting hall, digesting the news, thinking. Nothing else needed saying, for now, which Marrand was grateful for – anger, guilt and fear raced around inside him and despair followed those emotions, threatening his equilibrium. All his concerns for the kingdom that had been focussed on poor, lost Ethrayne were increased infinitely, it seemed . . . Part of him wanted to scream and curse Arven soundly, although that wasn’t fair – Jerryn had known of the danger, had warned them all – and he had not shirked from his duty. No, it was the Betrayer – He felt cold for a moment and took a large gulp of wine, trying not to let his fears show.
“Oh, blood and sand!” Kierven said eventually. “So, the Generals are on their way downstream? Of course they are.” He answered his own question. “It’s quick and easy to travel on the river at this time of year – there are many craft. If they set off last night – well, three or four days at most – likely three – to reach us.” He rubbed his hands together. “So we wait a little – keep watch – then blockade the estuary.”
Marrand had to smile at his boyish enthusiasm and uttered silent prayers for Ethrayne – Jerryn – the kingdoms – and all the thousands who had died in the freeing of Clirensar . . .
That evening, at a hurriedly arranged sumptuous dinner, the attackers of Cal’Badon and the liberators of Clirensar exchanged basic details of their separate, audacious campaigns. It was very strange, almost disrespectful in fact, to reduce their hard days of fighting and their slow advances to such short narratives and Marrand supposed the men and razine who had willingly and courageously sailed into the heart of enemy territory so boldly, felt the same as he. And, amazingly, despite all their reservations, the attack on the southern port had succeeded, although at a terrible loss and not simply because the brave, resourceful Captain Phellos had not returned from awakening the fire of the very earth! He added another prayer for her and her cohorts, for good measure.
“You must be weary, your Majesty.” Lord Kierven said, noting his King’s introspection amid the conversations. “You have had a busy moon and the night passes on: it’s simply wonderful – you ousted the enemy and retook the castle yesterday! That is a great success, despite your loss, you know. We should meet at breakfast. Let me show you your suite, Sire.” He rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Kierven, I apologise for my silence – it’s just -.” He shrugged, as they left the hall.
“I know, Sire – we all felt the same when the Mador Opal failed to rejoin us after Captain Phellos had raised the volcano: fury and misery filled us -.” The younger man grimaced. “It must be so much worse for you. I wish there was more that we could do – well, we can pray and plan as best we can. Please, let me guide you -.” He turned towards the sweeping staircase, but Marrand saw the shadow in his eyes and realised that the Lord of Orran had taken the death of the brave, beautiful, strikingly unique woman badly, however he tried to deny it to himself.
*
The next day passed in a flurry of preparation on board the four razine and Kierven’s two ships, in addition to many other small boats and craft in the vicinity, once the news got out regarding the impending intended escape by the hated enemy with Prince Jerryn their prisoner. Men were sent upstream to watch for suspicious-looking craft sailing downstream and the rebuilt wharves and dockside were emptied – just in case, although this was only the second day, the city was made ready for action.
Of course, the only boats arriving coming downstream were well known, guided by local folk . . . by nightfall, despite their knowledge, the tension all over was still great enough to be cut with a knife.
“I bet they’ll try and come through at dawn.” One of the local fishermen suggested. “Everyone’s busy at dawn, ‘round here, Majesty – If there’s a ship out there -.” He shook his head and sucked his teeth.
“I think you are correct, Captain Vicaro.” High-King Mhezal agreed, to the man’s open-mouthed amazement – and he smiled. “Instinct, Captain, instinct.” He tapped his nose. “However it works, we all depend on it.”
“Oh, bloody hell!” Marrand clenched his hands into fists. “Hell – hell – hell!”
That night passed sleepless as the men and razine moved to their respective crafts. Mhezal joined Captain Ashanner on the Orbain Pearl, whilst Marrand and three of the razine soldiers remained with Lord Kierven on the Sweet Rose – with strict orders to keep out of the way, that neither man intended to obey.
“I hate this waiting more than anything, I think.” Marrand admitted to Kierven, late in the night. “Battle is revolting – but at least you’re busy! This is worse.”
“Thank Arven you have said so, your Majesty – I thought I was quite mad, you see.” The Lord of Orran answered with a shaky laugh and a tone of great relief. “It is awful – but with any luck we will rescue his Highness – please Arven!”
The stars moved all too slowly, creeping along to the west at a snail’s pace until, beyond belief, there was finally a faint hint of greyness that showed the eastern horizon and banished night and – unlooked for, as everyone stared east in relief at the arrival of a new day – that was surely the Mador Opal, heading towards port! As it came, a figure on the stern deck, details hidden by the increasing light behind, waved most enthusiastically. The crews on the waiting ships all waved back as the ship came on and the sun rose bright behind it -.
“There!” Lord Kierven pointed upstream to a low, long river boat coming down right in the middle of the stream. “There they are – look!” His tone was fierce. “Let’s go!” He ordered.
Marrand watched, his heart in his mouth, as the Orbain Pearl swept towards the small craft, where four figures rowed – others were huddled together at the stern – And he saw his son, knelt there with other cowering figures at the feet of the General who steered -.
Captain Ashanner shouted, from the northern side opposite their own, but the words he called were not clear across the water – the wind was rising. The General replied contemptuously, the tone evident even if the words were not. Marrand clutched at the rail tightly as it seemed that Ashanner would crush the little boat into the depths of the river. Then – he felt power -.
Now!>; The word clear in his head, most strangely, as the Sweet Rose moved parallel to the Orbain Pearl, closing on the boat -.
Crash! – Boom!
Every single person turned in shock to the Veddock Pearl – then swivelled to stare at the swinging arm of the mangonel at the bow of the Mador Opal that was cranked back. The crew and Captain Skendon were suddenly trying to quench the fire that had been dropped upon them. As the rest of them watched, aghast, another missile flew out of the contraption to hit one of the long storage buildings on the north bank of the Sare.
“Oh, dear Arven no! Please no!” Kierven whispered. “The bastards!”
“No! Phellos!” Captain Ashanner’s shout of loss and shock echoed from bank to bank.
The Generals on the boat jeered – speaking coldly and precisely in Selithian, threatening them and their prisoners – But Marrand was not really listening to the insults and demands, his brain had frozen in denial and disbelief.
They had heard screams – women’s screams – from the boat: Jerryn was obviously not the only prisoner.
More fire rained onto the Veddock Pearl – everyone on the ships and land shrank down in horror.
Jerryn!>; Mhezal’s shout, however, broke through Marrand’s inertia – when had he ever been able to hear their mind-speak?
“The prince belongs to his Majesty, ruler of soft-minded idiots! Do not interfere or he will suffer much worse than a broken arm and some bruises!” The General shouted confidently.
“Oh, damn them all!” Marrand muttered in horror as the High-King reluctantly agreed to the terms.
“Get out of our way! You have moments, bastards – or prisoners will start dying!” A second voice warned, shaking the prince as he held him securely.
What else could they do? The ships all had to turn, moving back to their spaces at the docks – and they were forced to watch the boat, looking smaller and smaller as it moved into the wider channel, slowly approach the Mador Pearl – watch Jerryn, they supposed, be hauled up onto the ship by rope, the others following quickly.
Marrand stared, tears in his eyes, as the Mador Opal raised her anchor almost before everyone was over the rail, the mangonel poised again to rain destruction upon them. She set her sails, the standard of the Betrayer clear the whole time, turned elegantly and headed into the newly risen sun. Despair filled him. He had watched the enemy abduct his only son and heir – take him away for some evil purpose!
It was very hard, he found, not to curse Arven now.
* * *
Everyone there at Orran, whether on board ship or on the docks, who was not directly involved in extinguishing the last flames that had so threatened them watched the Mador Opal vanish into the newly risen sun on a beautiful early summer’s day that now was as cold as the depths of the southern winter.
Standing there on the deck of the Sweet Rose, Marrand had had one last glimpse of Jerryn’s face – small, hardly really visible at such a distance – as the boat had rowed past; he had looked drawn, pale, frightened. In his mind, he could see the little boy of five, just one random image out of countless memories: lying on the hearthrug in Sarant’s private sitting room during one winter visit, with an equally small Ethrayne and a number of wriggling puppies, giggling, Riyala and his sorely missed wife, Tanallyse, laughing as they tried to restore order and get them to bed . . . But what had happened to the world? How had so much been destroyed in a single year? First Ethrayne and now Jerryn stolen away -.
Dear Arven, please protect them!>; He prayed desperately.
Aboard the Orbain Pearl, the High-King remembered his first meeting with an already ancient Bahlien, on his accession to the throne, when the then acting Archpriest had told him of the prophecy in the Book of Days – Was it really over three hundred years ago now? He had been concerned – two young humans were surely not going to be strong enough to contain so much God-given power! How could they possibly face the sheer might and the ruthlessness of the Betrayer? But Bahlien had convinced him that they had no real say in the matter: their roles would mainly be ones of support when the young couple accepted their destiny . . . And now, barely a year after they had taken the Flame he and all his people had failed! They had effectively condemned these courageous youngsters, who were barely even adults, to a terrible fate!
Captain Ashanner mourned the loss of Captain Phellos – brave, beautiful, independent and brilliant – who had excelled, taking on their exclusive male world, ensuring the defence of the Protectorates and the Selithian Kingdoms, winning the respect of everyone she met – and raising profits with her cargoes . . . Knowing the cruelty of the jajozeli-razine, especially since it was she who had single-handedly raised the volcano, he prayed fervently that she was already dead and followed that up with a prayer for the prince and those other poor souls.
“Bastards!” He spat, coming back to himself. “Those bloody clever bastards! Sire, if we had only known -.”
“How could you though?” Mhezal asked impatiently, watching the ships around them tie up at the docks, wishing to get off the ship – go and find a large wine skin perhaps. “If they could knock everyone in the castle area sideways with power, razine and human both, to grab Jerryn – and hide their exit point from Kerr and everyone else who had been looking – the Generals didn’t have to do anything to make us all think that the amazingly resourceful Captain Phellos was coming to our rescue – Dear Arven, protect them!” He sighed deeply. “Let’s go – we’ve got to face Marrand, and I suppose we ought to return to Clirensar.”
“Berthing promptly, your Majesty – dear Arven, I only wish -.”
“Aye, don’t we all.” Mhezal sighed heavily.
It only took a short while, and they were back on the southern dock, all of them very self-controlled, their faces pinched and rather pale – it had been a traumatic morning for all of them.
“Have you told Kerr that Jerryn is beyond our help?” Marrand asked bluntly. “We should get back – Pualyn will need our assistance.”
“Yes, of course, Marrand.” Mhezal agreed. “I’m - .”
“We all regret it – apologising for things we could not have anticipated gets us precisely nowhere.” Marrand waved one hand dismissively – but the razine were not fooled: it was all an act, but who could blame him? Those in power sometimes required the strongest armour around their feelings.
In the end, it was nearly noon when the High-King was ready to raise the portal, for Lord Kierven and the other ships’ captains, led by Ashanner, insisted on accompanying them – all weighed down with wineskins and some delicacies from the lord’s cellars.
When the razine-raised portal appeared, shimmering strangely, in the muddy field north of Clirensar, there was a great flurry of activity about the city as the temporarily-fixed gates were opened and the young duke met them at the bridge over the Sare, alone but for the High-Prince.
“We are pleased that you are back safe, your Majesties, gentlemen. Please, come on up to the castle. It’s still pretty basic, but we’ve been cleaning everything in sight since you left – just to keep occupied.” Pualyn said with a low bow. “Dear Arven – I’m so sorry your rescue failed.”
“As are we.” Marrand said and gestured. “Let me introduce you all as we go, gentlemen – Lord Kierven of Orran you may know.”
“I thought you looked familiar, my Lord – it must be years.” Pualyn greeted the older man politely.
“Four at least, your Grace.” Kierven was equally as formal.
“And Captain Ashanner of the Orbain Pearl; Captain Eltham of the Jaece Pearl; Captain Skendon of the Veddock Pearl; and Captain Amdor of the Cerris Opal.” Marrand continued.
“Captains – my Lords – so you led the attack upon Cal’Badon – we salute you.” Kerrenan said rather unhappily as they set off up the road, the gates being closed behind them, the soldiers of all armies saluting them. “Your loss – as ours – is terrible.”
“Aye, terrible indeed.” Captain Ashanner’s tone was sad. “It’s nice to see you again, your Grace.”
“And you, Captain.” Pualyn tried to smile, but failed. “May I ask why you are all bearing wineskins and bundles?”
“My idea actually – to celebrate our successes and to drown our woes together and so save heaps of messing about.” Kierven replied with a poor attempt at humour.
There was a certain amount of drinking later in the High Hall, but an awful lot more talking went on as the participants in both separate groups did their best to describe all that they had been through since their last meeting. Jerryn and Phellos and the others lost were mentioned sadly and with great respect – at dinner, however, Marrand got to his feet and urged that they stop regretting and worrying and start planning – their goal, of course, was to liaise with the Archpriests and to work towards rescuing the Am’maiya. His short, impassioned speech ended with a heart-felt prayer to Arven that raised a rousing cheer.
*
Pualyn had had his own suite cleaned out for King Marrand and they had all worked hard to clean other rooms for the other kings, but his parent’s suite had been badly damaged by the occupiers and was not going to be usable until the problems had been rectified. He himself had claimed his sister’s rooms, although, strangely, many items including her four posted bed, curtains, carpets and even her sewing box had simply vanished – whereas everything else apart from the bits of her wedding dress seemed to be untouched. He, Orthen, Tymain and Lennarn had carried in furniture from elsewhere in the castle the previous afternoon, during their ‘big clean’ – it had certainly kept them busy.
Finally alone, the young duke had finally acknowledged his deep fear for his sister – the evil she might be facing brought home with stark reality seeing the destruction of so much, never mind the even more obvious ‘object lessons’ left for them to find: the bodies of family retainers who must have died only a few days before in revolting circumstances to be still recognisable! Pualyn prayed that she was safe, unworried by such evil as they had seen here. He had considered destroying the whole structure, discovering yet another well full of corpses – but, logic won: the city’s strategic importance was undeniable, it would simply be folly to try and rebuild it elsewhere, or even atop this structure – and the cost would be ridiculous!
Seeing the deliberate vandalism that ranged from tower to cellar; the single-minded ruthlessness of enemies who had held his home chiefly to get the best possible opportunity to take Jerryn into captivity, no matter how many lives were lost – and practically the entire jajozeli force had been wiped out: tens of thousands of them had been killed, other than the few who had escaped with the prince, on top of the probable tens of thousands of the allies who had died – just for Jerryn! It was chilling and affected him deeply.
Another thought plagued him: If so commanded by Arven, would thousands on thousands of his worshippers – from Selith and the Protectorates - also willingly sacrifice themselves, as the jajozeli had done? . . . Wasn’t that what they were doing, though? He shuddered.
Pualyn prayed that Ethrayne and Jerryn, along with anyone else in the enemy’s hands, were as safe as possible. That night, he finally slept properly for the first time in moons, it seemed – although Ethrayne, Jerryn and his parents walked through his dreams with Lyria. Killing the leader of the jajozeli had laid some of his worries to rest, the one who had slaughtered his parents and so many others; he was still pleased that he had managed to despatch him in straight combat – although he knew full well that it had been luck, as well as his own skill, that achieved that end: General Tequan had been a damned fine swordsman – it had been a bloody close thing!
*
Morning came, blustery and sunny, and the armies dispersed to their designated tasks, after a hearty breakfast – by now, most of the city had been searched most assiduously for bodies, but they went through again, building by building, from attic to cellar; others continued to pile up and then cart out the rubble into one of the lesser market squares – a good proportion of the bricks, stones, beams and tiles would be re-usable, the rest would be hardcore for roads or some such. One large group were despatched to the large camps that the jajozeli had carved out of the woodland to the south and a number of engineers were down in the cellars of the castle, carefully clearing the collapses caused by the fires that had so facilitated the Generals’ escape with Jerryn. Pualyn led his friends and the rest of the Flame Guard, hoping to finish their search of the castle – cleaning, cataloguing damage and so on – whilst others carried on clearing the last of the bodies from the wells around the citadel and in the city below. The tasks were not pleasant, but they all had the sure knowledge that finishing them would make the city and the castle habitable again.
The Kings and commanders were discussing the great sea voyage that would be undertaken by the Mador Opal to reach Enlath – four moons at least, the ships captains’ asserted to the horror of most of the group, with likely few opportunities to take on fresh water or supplies.
Ashanner wondered uneasily whether the jajozeli had raided towns along the coast before sailing into Orran – he was not sure how many food supplies the Opal had had in storage and offered to return to the port and so sail out and check on the safety of the unprotected settlements.
It was mid-morning, when a soldier came to inform them most politely that visitors had arrived: the Duchess Lyria, her maid Greta and Archpriest Bahlien, with a troop of soldiers.
“Here?” Marrand spluttered, looking around the rather worse-for-wear hall at the other men. “Dear Arven, it’s hardly suitable -.”
“Then you require ladies to undertake the cleaning, your Majesty. We might do a rather better job than soldiers.” The young duchess stated, sweeping in regally, despite her plain travelling clothes and her pale face, her hand on the old Archpriest’s arm.
“Your Graces -.” The High-King greeted them with a sweeping bow, as the group rose to their feet. “I – well – is this really appropriate?”
“It’s entirely my fault, your Majesties.” Lyria admitted with a smile. “As soon as your letter arrived, saying you were close to taking the city, I started organising: there are thirty women with us who have volunteered to help with the cleaning up. You’ve made quite a good start – for men.” She conceded, glancing into the corners at the mess that still lingered.
Kerrenan started to laugh at that and quite a few of them joined in as Lyria, Bahlien and Greta were quickly shown to seats and wine poured.
“Lyria has the soul of a garrison commander.” Bahlien admitted with a huge sigh and a wide smile. “As soon as I received your message that you had taken the outer city, Mhezal, our young duchess flatly insisted that we set off – with our accompanying ladies from Tenum. She would not take no for an answer: she had everything planned.”
“Tymain, will you go and bring our duke and Sevanter, please? They’re somewhere in the castle.” Marrand asked and the young man bowed and hurried away. “You have heard that Jerryn has been abducted, my dear?” He asked tensely.
The blonde woman nodded gravely. “His Grace told me at once – oh, it’s just terrible.” She admitted.
“I felt that – explosion – quite clearly, Marrand, even two days north of Foston. Dear Arven, it’s an awful thing to happen!” Bahlien said sadly. “I have brought the Book of Days with me, but I myself have not been able to find anything useful at all within its hallowed pages. So if any of you want to read through it, please feel free.” That explained the heavy-looking, bulky bag that had been slung across his body and now rested close by on the table. “We feel such guilt, Lurco and I.”
“We all feel guilty, your Grace.” The High-Prince admitted.
“I realise that you have suffered terrible losses, quite apart from his Highness’s capture, but I am so glad that you are safe – that you have freed Clirensar. I have little experience, of course, except that simply terrifying afternoon when – when Ethrayne was taken away, amid so much bloodshed.” Lyria faltered and took a deep breath to settle herself. “Yet you must have had an awful time – day after day of it, having to try and retake our own city. The graves and burn sites will be prominent in the landscape for centuries.” She shivered. “The whole world has changed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes indeed, dear Lyria.” Marrand agreed wearily. “So, how was your journey?”
Small talk occupied them nicely for a while until. “Lyria!” Rang from two throats simultaneously – Pualyn and Lieutenant Sevanter had both stopped in the doorway, staring in shock and some disbelief – then the soldier grinned and waved her husband forward. Tymain entered behind them bearing a new wineskin which he quietly laid on the table beside King Marrand.
“Oh, Pualyn!” Lyria pushed back her chair, leapt to her feet and met Pualyn halfway across the hall, laughing and crying all at once – thanking Arven for keeping so many of them safe. She squealed as Pualyn lifted her up and span about, kissing her soundly.
“But, hang it all, darling. Lyria, how are you here? The entire city is a complete wreck -.”
Grinning, Lyria explained again. “I bullied the Archpriests and everyone else, darling, until they relented. I’ve brought thirty hard-working ladies to assist in getting this place – and the city – back to normal.” She answered as he set her back down. “We won’t get in your way, Pualyn, but this hall needs a thorough scrubbing at least.”
“Dear Arven!” The duke blustered for a moment, shaking his head.
“Oh, please let me help, Pualyn! It’s been simply awful, waiting day after day for those sparse messages that came back to the palace. And I’ve lost all my family too, except for Sevanter here – There can’t be any jajozeli left alive in the complex, surely? I’ve just got to help too – after everything. I owe so much to you and your family, darling!” There were tears in her eyes, but she scrubbed at her face and managed a smile.
“Well, no – Lyria, dearest – heavens, you’ve brought a troop of women with you?” Unexpectedly, Pualyn chuckled – it was quite ridiculous, but she and Bahlien and Greta were nodding and they all seemed very pleased with themselves. “Who am I to stand in the way of spring cleaning, your Grace? Where are these cleaners? It’s going to be a bad job in parts, you know.”
“Yes, we know.” Her tone was sober.
“We took a day at Foston to get organised and we arrived at the last fort last night – we left the group there at the edge of the vale. I bullied the soldiers with us to get some of the tents and kitchens organised.” Bahlien admitted. “They can be here in a short time.”
“Then we’ll start in the morning.” Pualyn agreed. “And you have just completely ruined my surprise announcement, dearest.” He complained rather plaintively, ruffling his hair.
“Oh, what might that be?” Lyria asked archly, grinning at her brother who was shaking his head.
“I found the keys that Steward Pentar and Reeve Thomur would have held – the treasury does not seem to have been touched at all, your Majesty: it was securely locked -.” Pualyn paused at the cries of surprise around the hall -. “And I found this letter on top of one of the caskets that held some of the family’s assets -.”
“Your grandmother’s pearls?” Lyria asked, her quivering hands at her mouth. “Oh, your lady mother loved those, Pualyn. Are they still safe?”
“Aye, and the rest.” His tone was cool, but his voice shook as he continued. “Everything . . . The letter – here.” He unfolded a rather blotchy palimpsest of great antiquity and cleared his throat.
“ ‘Greeting Duke.
‘Thank you for the use of your home. We have taken all we wanted: the Am’maiya, not your gold – but your steel was most welcome.
‘Your wealth is intact – you will need it all in the years ahead, preparing for the inevitable occasion when your sister and the prince – broken by our Master to his service – return to assist him in destroying your civilisation! Prepare to lose, servants of a defeated, defective god.’ ”
He paused and took a breath. “I’m glad I killed the bastard so convincingly!”
“Do they learn their offensiveness at school, d’you think?” Sevanter asked Tymain. “That is a really nasty letter.”
Pualyn grinned. “So we’re actually not quite as poor as we feared, my lady, your Majesty.” He bowed first to his wife and then to Marrand.
“Good, because good, hard-working cleaning ladies just won’t work for free, my lord Pualyn.” The duchess replied primly before anyone else could speak – and more laughter ran around the hall.
*
Three days had passed and the small but effective group of women, aided and abetted by the womenfolk of Foston, had finally let the commanders and kings back into the High Hall, moving on industriously to the dining hall and castle kitchens. Archpriest Bahlien had set the great Book of Days in the centre of the scrubbed and now highly polished table and a few of the kings, officers and lords had glanced through it, although no one had yet sought to read it properly. Maybe it was its legendary reputation that deterred them, perhaps something else entirely – but although they had all sworn their oaths to Arven and had fought hard and shed blood for their God, perhaps the reality of the myths that governed their lives was too immediate for even the razine amongst them.
Tymain had popped in to the hall on his way to breakfast, just to report that the engineers had stabilised the greatest part of the collapse that had prevented their initial pursuit of Jerryn’s abductors – the cellars and the greater structure were no longer in immediate danger of falling in.
“That’s bloody good news.” Pualyn agreed, looking up from the parchment that he had been scribbling on, stretching his right hand which ached slightly. “It’s very good news – thought we’d lose something huge like half the castle. Are you going for breakfast, Tymain?” He had risen early, along with Lyria who was leading the clean-up in person and had been checking inventories and accounts.
“Well, yes, but -.” Tymain paused, suddenly feeling an urge to look at the Book of Days, although the vast size of the tome awed him – he had never been much of a reader and books were expensive. “Go on ahead, Pualyn, I just want to -.” And he sat down at the table, pulled the Book closer and opened it.
Pualyn watched him for a moment – Tymain was frowning down, his forefinger moving under the line of writing, his mouth silently saying the words that he read there – But it was rude to stand there staring, so he turned and left the hall, shutting the door quietly. Tymain never heard him leave.
“Have you seen Tymain?” Duke Agamn asked, helping himself to steak and eggs. “We were going to continue gathering scrap iron together this morning.”
“He’s just picked up the Book of Days, Agamn, he may be some time, judging by the look on his face.” Pualyn answered lightly. “He told me that that huge section of ceiling and buttresses in the cellars is stable – then, just sat down at the Book and opened it. He hasn’t even eaten.”
“Then we had better not disturb him, Pualyn.” Bahlien said with a lenient smile. “I wondered who the Book would attract, of all of you.”
“How strange.” Lyria frowned, considering, smoothing her plain linen gown that had become a uniform of a kind for the diligent women of the kingdom, cleaning. “Are you saying that the Book of Days is a –a lodestone, Bahlien?”
His smile broadened at her hesitant description. “Yes, for the right people – don’t ask me how because I actually have no idea – but I am sure young Tymain will not be our only reader. He may discover a passage or a meaning that we past students of its pages have all overlooked – that was how I found the prophecy regarding Jerryn and Ethrayne in the first place.”
“How very peculiar.” The High-King commented. “But would it not be so much easier if important information was just there in plain sight on the page, Bahlien?”
“Well, yes, but the Book of Days was not written by men or razine but by Arven himself and that just seems to be the way it has always worked, I’m afraid.” The old razine explained with a smile and a shrug.
“Obviously the mind of our God is definitely not like our own, but surely that is what makes him our God, because he is so different?” King Marrand suggested, sounding puzzled. “I mean – we must be rather mundane in comparison, even the notable of us.”
“It might be one reason, yes.” Bahlien agreed, getting to his feet. “I will take some food and drink for the young man to break his fast when he remembers his needs.” He bowed his head politely to the table at general, picked up a jug and a serving plate holding bread, cheese and cold cuts and left the hall.
“He is a very – singular person, isn’t he?” Pualyn asked politely.
“Oh, yes indeed.” Kerrenan agreed with a smile. “Archpriestess Gailla learned everything she knows from him – he’s quite singular and sometimes quite annoying.”
“Kerr!” His father chided him mildly, then chuckled. “I have read the Book of Days myself, not long after I became High-King and I cannot really say what I read yet, on occasion I have – flashes of inspiration or vision or something – See? I cannot explain it – the Book is far more singular than Arven’s priests.”
*
Sustained by the occasional bite of food or gulp of drink placed in his hand – that he never tasted or even really noticed – Tymain read steadily through the Book, feeling its words somehow sinking deeply into his heart or soul – nearly all of it made absolutely no sense at all, but there were points where the words were clear – ‘And behold, my loyal servants. In the time following the promise . . .’ was the first – the passage describing Jerryn and Ethrayne, ending ‘In the hands of the Betrayer always lies despair.’ That actually made him weep a little, silently, even as he read on.
Then, a long time later, another section jumped out at him:
‘”Despair will wring our hearts,
Yet out of trial and tribulation,
Out of slavery, even,
Will emerge such Strength,
Such Fury as may even break
The bonds of Imprisonment.
From the loss of Self
Will emerge Power enough
To shake beloved Iullyn.
The Sister of the Iron Duke,
The Son of the Eastern Realm ~
Despite The Betrayer’s despicable
Evil, such Evil as
Good people cannot envisage ~
In time they will break
The bonds that then Imprison them.
They will be free to rest in the Arms
Of the One Betrayed.’”
He read aloud, the archaic script as clear to his eyes as if it were printed letter by letter for a child at school – and shivered deeply, suddenly realising that he sat in candle-lit darkness – that he was desperate to relieve his bladder – and then that the Archpriest sat opposite at the great table, charcoal stick in hand, having clearly just written down what he had read out.
“Your Grace – I -.”
“You have done us all a great service, young man.” Bahlien said seriously with a soft, rather sad smile. “You have found the next passage of the prophecy, although it’s not the most hopeful at the moment, is it? How do you feel?”
“I well – gosh, have I been reading all day?” Tymain got up, stretching his muscles with a sigh. “Me? But – excuse me, your Grace -.” He made a dash for the narrow doorway that led to a privy beyond a plain waiting room and emerged a short time later, frowning a little, his mind clearer – remembering. “Am I really the first to find that prophecy? “ He asked plaintively and the old razine nodded. “Dear Arven, no! We can’t tell the King – Pualyn – of – of ‘such evil as good people cannot envisage’!” His tone was anguished.
“We will hope to highlight ‘they will break the bonds that then imprison them’, young man.” Bahlien answered gravely. “The whole message must be imparted, Tymain, or the results might possibly alter – Iullyn, all of us, might end up burning in eternal flame -.” He paused as the young soldier shuddered. “I don’t think anyone has gone to bed – they’re all waiting in the dining hall. Come and tell them the next part of the Prophecy, Tymain.”
* * *
Jerryn was pushed through a second door just inside the passage which opened into a bright room that clearly showed Phellos’s personality, although the prince only dimly realised that – with the tall General right on his shoulder and finding two more standing waiting, his inner discomfort and fear only increased.
“Sit.” He was pushed to a stool near the wide bank of windows, where a second General removed the sling and started to unfasten the knots holding the splints in place on his arm. “The Prince of Tenarum, welcome.” The tall, commanding, injured General was speaking, his remaining eye shining bright as he stared at Jerryn.
“Sir.” He finally managed to speak, around a grimace as the splints came away – and the throbbing of his arm worsened. It was only at that point that Jerryn realised that he could understand the jajozeli language – and, amazingly, had been speaking it too. He groaned – at first disbelieving his own ears and mind, then understanding the continuation of what Mhezal and Kerrenan had been describing, regarding his power: it had happened with the Protectorate language, without any outside interference, and obviously had again, when faced with the new tongue spat at him by unfriendly enemies. But – dear Arven! He still found it hard to believe: that his power had affected the change quite naturally.
“You will address me as Master Cheltor, boy.” He stated crisply. “My colleagues you will address as Lord General – do you understand me?” And he glared coldly. “You will mind your manners, else you and your fellow prisoners will suffer the consequences – ask the ones brought from Cal’Badon: Phellos will encourage your obedience, I’m sure.”
“Oh, indeed she will!” The General now checking the alignment of Jerryn’s broken bones spoke with malicious amusement. “Don’t move, boy.” He ordered – and yanked at his arm. Jerryn bit back a cry of discomfort, but tasted blood in his mouth: he had bitten his lip hard.
“When your arm is healed, I will undertake your training: bringing you back up to strength. It will be interesting to compare you to your – betrothed, isn’t she? – Ha! Thought that would get your attention.” Master Cheltor barked a laugh as Jerryn sat up straighter. “Yes, I instructed her for some moons – and she also showed a deplorable lack of sense. I really do recommend obedience: we have a long voyage ahead of us.”
“Yes, Master Cheltor.” Jerryn muttered, wincing as the General started wrapping clean bandages around the splints that were now set around his forearm. “Can I – may I ask, Master: General Oxttyn – he a-attacked me, on the river – he mentioned his son, Lady – Lady Ethrayne – retribution – She wasn’t hurt, was she?”
“Were you injured?” The General asked promptly.
“I don’t think so – well, not seriously, Lord General – he kicked me a few times.” Jerryn answered.
“General Oxttyn would do well to remember that afternoon completely.” Master Cheltor snapped. “His son presumed – well, Inajo disobeyed all directives and his Majesty took his life in payment. The brat was shaken, but unhurt. Our colleague was sent to Clirensar in the depths of winter to begin restoring his family’s honour – or freeze to death!”
Jerryn choked at that terse explanation, but stopped himself from demanding more details.
“General Oxttyn will restrain himself – And you, boy, will be most respectful, remember, for not only your own well-being depends upon it: if you want your fellow prisoners to eat regularly; if you want them to remain relatively healthy, I strongly suggest meekness on your part!”
“Y-yes, Master Cheltor.”
“Excellent. Shuim, take him to the hold – the prisoners are allowed a meal and water.” Cheltor ordered.
“Aye, Master.” Shuim pulled Jerryn up by his hair, then punched him hard in the stomach, twice, so that the young man half-folded in on himself, groaning – trying to hide his dismay at this new pain from beings who could sense his every discomfort. “Move, boy!” He ordered, releasing Jerryn who attempted to stand vertical but with little success. “Soft!” Shuim commented to Master Cheltor.
“He’ll soon harden up adequately – we’ll see to that.” Master Cheltor answered with a cold laugh.
With a full water skin over his shoulder and what looked and smelled like a pail of gruel in his left hand, Jerryn uncomfortably and reluctantly followed the General back out onto the deck, staring with wide eyes at the vast expanse of green-blue waves that now surrounded the ship – Tenarum, and the large estuary of Orran, were already tiny in the distance, a good few leagues away, hazy and indistinct. He prayed that the Protectorate ships would not try to pursue them – prayed that no one else would die because of him and Ethrayne! He staggered slightly as the bow – middle – then the stern – was lifted by a large wave, unused to the movement, the wind that cut through his tattered shirt – and concentrated on following a straight route along the deck towards the bow where a hatch was open. There were other Generals around, staring at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on General Shuim. If he didn’t look at them, perhaps they wouldn’t hurt him – he hoped not, anyway.
Descending the two nearly vertical ladders with the bucket in his left hand and his right arm strapped up was not easy, but Jerryn found it less of a challenge than he had the netting up onto the ship: down was easier than up and there was just enough of a slope for him to use the bucket itself on the rungs as a balance – the prospect of a meal after nearly three days of near starvation was too good to throw away, especially when he suspected the other prisoners would be equally as hungry. A short, nearly dark passage followed, to a thick wooden door that the General opened with a key and two bolts. The prince was pushed into a foul-smelling dark space and the door was slammed shut and locked right on his heels.
“Is that Prince Jerryn?” A female voice asked from the darkness to his right, sounding weak and tired.
“Captain Phellos?” Jerryn answered as heartily as he could manage, all courage and hope leaching out of him. “Yes, it’s me, I’ve got food and water -.”
“Thank Arven!” That was a Clirensar-accented male voice to the left.
“Who’s closest – Zeron, help his Highness sit down – you’re injured, aren’t you, Highness?” Phellos took charge. “Please don’t drop the food!” She urged.
“I’ve got a broken right arm, General Shuim punched me, but otherwise I’m pretty much all right – so far.” He replied politely. Hands touched his legs – Jerryn almost jumped – and the bucket was found and set down on the planks before the hands supported him down so that he could sit without toppling in the darkness. “Thank you – but please, Captain Phellos, call me Jerryn.” He carefully took the water skin loop from over his shoulder. “Here’s water, too.” And, after a few gropes, it was taken from his hands by another. By your eagerness, I suspect that our worthy captors are a little lax regarding mealtimes?” He made it a light-hearted comment and one male voice ahead of him snorted in agreement.
Indeed – but later, young man.>; Phellos replied silently. “Right, where are Poppy and Hella? – Beside me, of course. Let’s get you two and Benner fed along with Jerryn. Pass that pail, gentlemen – thank you.”
The stuff in the pail was still warm at least, had looked pale and mushy as a whole out in the sunlight and tasted of meal or lentils of some kind, slightly seasoned with onion – very, very bland, but at least it was filling – Jerryn ate his large, quite soggy handful (there were no bowls or spoons) slowly, relishing the resulting fullness if not the consistency or flavour of the food, then drank – but Phellos silently warned him not to drink his fill: there was not enough water for them to do so.
“So, what happened at the port, Jerryn?” Phellos asked after a while, when everyone had finished eating. “Benner here wasn’t too sure – can you tell us?”
“We are far out from Orran, the coast is receding – I doubt the Pearls or Opals will chase us.” Jerryn remarked, wincing – his stomach muscles were still suffering from Shuim’s blows. “Not with the threats General Oxttyn made, or the attack on the razine ship in port.” Slowly, carefully, he briefly described what he had seen – and the crewmen muttered amongst themselves, sighing deeply at the danger so narrowly averted. “I thought we would be drowned at one point, when Captain Ashanner crossed our route – sorry about my terminology, Captain – but, unfortunately, we weren’t. Sorry, Benner, Hella , Poppy.” He commented with a sigh. “It’s been a frightening few days since I was captured – four days ago? But these three people must have been prisoners for moons. The allies have re-taken Clirensar – Duke Pualyn has killed General Tequan in single combat – and – and here we are . . . Sorry.” He shrugged in the darkness, fighting a sudden fear.
“Glad to hear Tequan was despatched. Who brought you here?” Lieutenant Lunde asked after introducing himself.
“General Oxttyn and General Jaike. Oxttyn hates me – he hates Ethie – Ethrayne – much more: something happened in Ban’Lerracon. I expect the remaining Generals in Clirensar are all very dead by now. How many are you? Were you all captured at Cal’Badon?”
“Forgive me my rudeness, Highness -.”
“Jerryn, Phellos.” He reminded her with an attempt at a chuckle. “And you’ve obviously had bad time of it.”
“It’s not been fun, Jerryn.” Phellos also tried some false humour. “We have myself, Lunde and Rynn who are razine, plus Captain Dhell, a brave fisherman from Rothern, and Zeron and Fereyne who were also members of our crew.”
“I’m honoured to meet you all. Poppy was one of Duchess Riyala’s maid’s, Hella is the sister-in-law of the new Duke and Duchess -.” The woman sobbed at that. “Benner was a household guard Captain – sorry, I don’t know you.” Jerryn admitted.
“That’s a’right, sir – just a man-at-arms.” A gruff voice said. “Young Pualyn killed General Tequan?” He demanded fiercely. “Thank Arven – the bastard!”
“Yes, decapitated him. Glad to impart some good news.” Jerryn replied. “But it’s terrible, Phellos – you were captured, despite your victory.”
“Rousing a volcano is a strange sort of victory, Jerryn but yes, we were successful – Cal’Badon was turning into quite an impressive fire pit when Cheltor’s Generals got the Opal away from the dock.” She stated. “I injured the bastard, as you will have seen, but he disarmed me before I could finish him: stabbed me in the shoulder!”
“Those bandages look impressive around his face, you came very close to success there too, Captain.” Jerryn noted, having participated in and seen enough hand-to-hand combat over the last few moons to have a relevant opinion. He sighed. “And then Oxttyn wouldn’t have been able to use the river as an escape route – oh, damn it all!” He took a deep, rather shaky breath to calm himself. “But it’s Oxttyn I’m scared of most –though I haven’t met the rest yet, have I?” He briefly explained the matter, as far as Master Cheltor had confirmed it, and shivered. “He hates me because his son was killed by his own Master – well, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“They ain’t very sane, Highness.” One of the Protectorate sailors confirmed then. “They moored up twice on the way to Orran, north of Fansport we suppose – pretending to be the Opal, I expect – who’d expect the enemy after all? They slaughtered both villages – killed everyone, fired the buildings and boats, loaded up all the animals, food and water . . . O’course, it’s moons to sail to Enlath from this side of Selith -.”
“Enlath? That’s half around Iullyn, isn’t it?” Jerryn asked, his courage failing. “It took Pualyn over a moon to reach Lerat!”
Calm, Jerryn, please.>; Phellos’s silent voice was as weary and as wounded as her ordinary one – clearly, she and the others had suffered considerably since their capture. We’ll be here for moons and our captors are – complicated, with nasty habits – not just that one who picked on you. I expect most of us here are alive simply to provide entertainment – and to keep you obedient. I’m deeply sorry, Jerryn -.>;
“Oh, damn it all!” He muttered.
*
Time passed with a terrible slowness there in the complete darkness of what – Phellos explained during that long day – was a space twenty-five feet long and twenty feet wide, one of four cargo holds at the bottom of the ship. There was nothing there but themselves, and a single bucket that, of course, was completely inadequate for its purpose.
The mere concept of incarceration in such conditions was appalling, but Jerryn gritted his teeth and controlled his horror – for surely everyone else felt just the same and they were all in this together.
Such insanitary arrangements were unpleasant, yet the darkness was far worse – and Jerryn found its effects more challenging even than the terrible thirst and hunger that soon became second nature to him – meals for the prisoners being rather infrequent.
The ten of them were huddled close together, for a little warmth and comfort – and the darkness felt a little less oppressive when one could touch the person next to you, hand to hand. Jerryn could not imagine what Hella, Poppy and Benner had suffered during their imprisonment in what had become their prison for moons on end; nor what Phellos or her men had been subjected to since their capture at Cal’Badon – all were suspiciously quiet on such details – but after his nightmare journey from Clirensar with the Generals, he was beginning to realise that perhaps the legends of the enemy’s evil were under exaggerated, that anything was possible of such monsters.
They were sat in darkness, with only the movement of the ship around them, sometimes manageable, sometimes plunging through what seemed to be mountainous seas – unlike the three prisoners from Clirensar, Jerryn didn’t feel even remotely sea-sick, for which he thanked Arven profusely; occasionally they could hear footsteps above or beside them as the Generals walked along the passage on some task, or caught muffled, indistinct voices in conversation. It was utterly impossible to calculate the time of day beyond their prison.
It must have been a day at least, Jerryn guessed imprecisely, before he could relax enough to try to sleep despite the hunger that had returned to haunt them – it was as if that tasteless handful of mush had never been consumed. He had spent a long period in silence, simply trying to absorb the grim reality of their situation and some on a silent conversation with Phellos – who reluctantly acknowledged her weakness, trying to survive on meagre rations with her injured shoulder, but who was nevertheless positive in a way that Jerryn admired wholeheartedly even if he could not emulate her confidence.
I am sure that your betrothed is being guarded most carefully, Jerryn.>; She stated, realising how frightened he had been by Oxttyn and Cheltor’s brief description of the events that had led to the death of Oxttyn’s son. Ensuring the security of the Am’maiya would be paramount: their King would hardly permit any risk to your lady.>;
isn’t really very reassuring, Phellos! If that was what Oxttyn’s son attempted – oh, dear Arven -!>;
Jerryn – lad – we’re in quite enough bother here, please don’t go making yourself more!>; She urged him sympathetically. It happened moons ago, whatever it was – I am certain that your betrothed is safe . . . Perhaps not happy, but safe. The Betrayer would ensure that.>;
Jerryn reached up with his left hand to scratch at one cheek, then the other – he was starting to really notice the whiskers that were making his face itch, missing the annoying necessity of shaving. Yes, I know you are correct, Phellos – dear Arven, of course you are, I’m only a fool! This is – is just -.>; Words failed him there, but images span in his head that expressed what he felt and he felt the captain’s silent, mental agreement. And here we are, waiting on our captors – I bet they make me clean out this space – dear Arven, I hope they make me clean out this space at some point! If I’m well-behaved and polite and subservient, we all get to eat, too – I hope.>;
And what do the rest of us do, lad, hey?>; Lunde asked, breaking into the conversation with false brevity.
You? You know already, Lunde: you ensure my obedience, my manners, my meekness, of course.>; He replied with a shudder. And – by Arven – they’ll bloody get them, I hope!>;
They’ll probably hurt us anyway, Jerryn: don’t forget, their interests are often perverse. You at least should be inviolate, like your young lady – but the rest of us -.>; Phellos shrugged both physically and mentally at that.
But – Captain -.>; Jerryn stopped and took a breath. Oh, dear Arven I hope not!>; But his prayerful words were not delivered confidently, having met some of the Generals.
*
Days passed with a creeping slowness even snails could not have equalled – they had received five further meals, spaced widely apart, before the Generals came with buckets and Jerryn’s earlier prediction was proved accurate: he was ordered to clean the hold. Even with a short handled shovel, a scrubbing brush and sea water, it was a hard job, one handed – and the other prisoners were marched up on deck, whilst he scraped, scrubbed and did his best, determined that lives and well-being hung on how well he succeeded. At least, after a lot of sweaty work on Jerryn’s part, the fug dispelled a little, the mess was all washed up – for there was no alternative for the prisoners – the planks wet, but clean. He leaned back, stretching his back, wincing -.
“Not bad, boy.” An unknown voice remarked from the doorway behind him.
“My Lord General.” Uncertainly, Jerryn turned to gaze up at a auburn haired individual with hazel eyes, as tall and as muscular as the rest, his left hand trembling from the work, not daring to get to his feet yet, for menace exuded from the stranger, stinging him.
“Lord General Robonnard to you, boy. Get up, bring the equipment.”
“Lord General Robonnard.” He acknowledged quickly.
Jerryn bundled the buckets and brush and shovel all together; they were heavy in his left hand, stepping as quickly as he could into the dim passageway, all too aware how foul he smelled as he clambered up the ladders and out onto the main deck into gusts of chilly rain blown on a sharp wind, the sky and the vast ocean both grey and menacing. The other prisoners were all huddled by the bow on their knees – and the prince finally saw their faces, pale, drawn, the men’s increasingly bearded as he was, cuts and bruises clear and their eyes that held only fear and despair.
The buckets were taken from him, and two of the jajozeli soldiers brought over fresh buckets of seawater that were simply poured over the group of them – it was cold, stinging awfully in their many cuts, leaving them shivering, yet a little cleaner overall.
Then General Robonnard grabbed Jerryn, dripping wet, and dragged him to the main mast where he was lashed tight with rope – sheer fear made him struggle, but a few hard blows to his face and torso ensured obedience, blood running from his nose.
“Please!” He begged. “Please d-don’t -.”
“Silence, boy, else it’ll be worse for the others.” He hissed, kneeing Jerryn hard in the groin.
Laughing, two of the Generals grabbed Poppy from the midst of the group. She screamed shrilly, but they ignored that.
Jerryn stared, appalled, but did not dare to breathe a single word of protest as she was raped – General Oxttyn stood right beside him now, grinning as if daring the prince to fight or shout out. The prince could sense the satisfaction and lust in their captors, such awareness only making the rape even worse for he could not block it.
It was a prolonged assault – every General apart from Master Cheltor took part in it. Sickened, Jerryn watched because he must, realising that there were much worse things in existence than the (so simple in comparison) horror and violence of battle – and he was probably going to witness every single one of them! Poppy fainted, in the end, her screams long-since choked down to heaving sobs, an ordinary woman of middle years thrown into a nightmare come to life. Jerryn prayed to Arven, although it didn’t really help – but it did keep him focussed on keeping silent.
Eventually, the Generals dumped her to one side, Jerryn was released and the group were locked up again in what was now the safe darkness of the hold – with food and water, besides. They comforted Poppy; ate and drank, yet none of them talked much – shocked and shattered by the utterly unnecessary violence that had descended. Jerryn considered, then, how death could be preferable to life.
*
The ship continued into the wide ocean; days passed, but day and night were indistinguishable – marked only by the unannounced arrival of those buckets of mushy food at odd intervals. Every so often, Jerryn had to clean the hold, then usually – but not always – endure the torture of one or more of his fellows, there on the main deck. This horror was seldom avoided except in the roughest weather and they all learned far more than any of them had ever imagined they might, concerning the indignities meted out seemingly at random. Rape was common for any of the group, as were floggings, beatings and so on.
Despite the darkness and the privations they were subject to, they all grew slowly stronger, their injuries gradually healing.
Only Jerryn was exempt, forced to watch every agonising session from the main mast, trussed up helplessly before, if blood had been spilled, he was required to scrub the deck clean – and if he was a little slow or missed a speck, he was then beaten, or whipped, the Generals always careful to avoid his right arm. After one punishment session when Zeron had been eventually knocked unconscious, his blood coating the dark planks, Jerryn had descended back to the hold with the usual meal and stale water – distributing it as usual, but he himself could not eat: he felt weak and utterly sick and terrified, huddled up in despair, fighting silent tears.
Is this my fault?>; He asked himself silently, his misery blocking even Phellos’s attempts to reassure him. Dear Arven, how can any of us survive this? I wish I was dead! We’ve got – m-moons to travel!>; That knowledge was somehow even worse.
Later, when his self-loathing and utter depths of misery had lifted a little, Phellos and Lunde edged across and both embraced him, one on either side, just offering support – comfort . . . But any attempt at hope or comfort was useless, here, although he appreciated their presence.
The strangest thing that occurred, he dared not reveal even to his friends: one night, when everyone was sleeping as well as they could, Jerryn clearly sensed Ethrayne’s mind close to hand even though he could somehow tell that she was really half the world away – so much so that he sat up as quickly as he could, feeling her touch, as familiar as ever - Jerryn!>; She said in a tone of relief. Oh, Jerryn -!” Then the contact vanished, before he could respond, yet he treasured that brief contact more than gold, holding it close in his heart and mind to lift his spirits.
Days followed days. Gradually, Jerryn noticed that his right arm was pretty-much usable again, although it felt weak – which was shocking: had they really been incarcerated here for a moon or so? He told his fellows that his broken bones had mended, although Fereyne’s shoulder, broken at Cal’Badon, was slower to heal – and their dismay and surprise was as great as his own.
The Generals had kept an eye on the passage of time, it seemed and Jerryn found himself up on deck, alone, a few days later in the late morning, when General Shuim declared him fit, removing the bandages and splints. Then, to his dismay, Master Cheltor claimed him for a practice session – though he had done little for over a moon but scrub floors at odd intervals and this unarmed practice against such a strong, implacable opponent was merciless and humiliating. The other Generals watched on, jeering and hurling insults at Jerryn, who was flat on the deck, dazed, for most of the bout as he strove to get his muscles to work as they used to – Cheltor barking commands that he tried his utmost to obey, to avoid yet another hard blow.
Finally as the sun sank towards the west, he was released to the hold with a bucket of food and, surprisingly, slightly better spirits than he had felt since arriving on board. Proper physical exercise, even though he had been so shockingly slow, was far preferable to seeing others attacked and beaten for his ‘education’ and their captors’ enjoyment.
Although he was still having to clean the hold, Jerryn found that the violence against his fellows became less common as he was on deck most days from then on, facing one or another of the Generals, sometimes two or three in combat – shouted at, naturally, by Master Cheltor who certainly proved to be the Master he claimed. With extra exercise, came actual daily meals – only one, but much better than before. The random violence against the others still continued, however – and nothing Jerryn could do, he imagined, would halt it entirely.
Then, late one evening after Jerryn had returned sweaty and exhausted to the hold, the ship came to a stop, the sound of the anchor dropping loud in the space – they had docked, probably in the Bertaan Archipelago, Phellos suggested – hundreds and hundreds of leagues across the Faell Ocean. Amazingly, hot water and soap was provided to the prisoners for washing themselves and the hold, along with clean clothing for all of them. Lastly, real food was provided: meat, bread, vegetables and cheese, for a couple of days at least.
To their shock however, Hella was dragged away during this period, screaming in desperate fear. They did not see her again, never discovered what had happened to her.
*
All too soon, the ship set sail again and the collection of islands set so randomly in the middle of the ocean quickly receded. Then, the combat and torture sessions resumed – and the violence against the prisoners worsened, also: Dhell was beaten to death on one beautiful sunny day. Jerryn had cried out, purely in shock and horror, which led to the extensive rape of Phellos – General Oxttyn informed him coldly, with a sneering smile, that this was happening simply because the prince had protested, so he had better bloody learn to keep silent until spoken to! – again, everyone but Cheltor abused her. It seemed that the Master had different perversions to the others, although he certainly enjoyed watching the spectacles when they occurred.
That sunny day led to Jerryn himself feeling the Generals’ violence at first hand, for an intense fury filled him at the indignities meted out to his friends, their complete helplessness – and he finally told their captors exactly what he thought of them, their ancestors and their habits, whereupon they released him from his bonds at the mast and proceeded to beat him, painfully and eventually, into unconsciousness.
Jerryn awoke to darkness, feeling nothing but agony through his body. Something told him that it was the morning after the violence had stunned them all. He could feel a hand on his left arm, Phellos’s, and reached up with his right hand to pat hers.
“You’re awake, finally.” Phellos said with evident relief. “Dear Arven, Jerryn – you shouldn’t have -.”
“Oh, stuff that!” Jerryn replied, groaning as he strove to sit up – Dear Arven, everything hurt! Stuff was not the word clearly projected in his mind, however. “I just couldn’t take it any more – I’m so, so sorry – how do you feel, Phellos?”
“Pretty much as bad as you do, lad.” She answered with the grim humour that they attempted after each nasty episode, which caused the prince to curse again. “I’m only sorry that Cheltor got me – us – I prayed then that those flying burning rocks would sink the ship: then we would have all died in the fire descending on the city!” Phellos hissed, pulling her strained muscles painfully. “None of us would be here then.” And she sighed.
“No, I’d be slogging, probably barefoot, through those mountains to Ban’Lerracon instead. You know, Captain, when I thought of a sea voyage, I must confess I imagined something a little more luxurious – d’you know what I mean? Something less stressful, too. This is most disappointing.” Jerryn murmured, repeating a litany of curses in his head.
The red-haired woman choked a laugh that was almost half a sob – and they embraced, simply to feel a sympathetic body close, acknowledging their weakness and their need. The others joined in, all feeling particularly low.
“Am’maiya, your lady is most fortunate to be betrothed to such a fine young man. You must keep strong, Jerryn.” Phellos said with fierce intensity.
“I’ll try, Captain, Ma’am but – oh shit! I don’t want to meet their master if his servants are this evil!” He declared. “Can we sink the bloody boat from here, d’you think? I’d rather drown!”
“It’s a ship, lad.” Lunde corrected him automatically. “They’re jajozeli-razine – they’d know instantly if we tried to sabotage the hull or anything else.”
“Damn it. It floats on water, so if I say it’s a boat it is a boat, Lieutenant.” Jerryn replied with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d throw myself over the side, but I bet they’d pick me up, the bastards! Oh, dear Arven – ow!” Moving suddenly caused most of his body to protest most strongly. “I – only – poor Dhell – oh, I’m sorry -.” And, finally, Jerryn wept, his inner armour severely cracked if not broken into shards.
As expected, food and water were a long time coming after the prince’s transgression, but the combat sessions continued relentlessly, along with other periods when Jerryn was separated from the rest and forced to learn to write jajozeli, which occurred after the physical exercise. The alphabet was strange, the grammar stranger, but he determinedly did his best to take in their sparse explanations, sat in the main cabin with Jaike or Gornen glaring at him, scribbling peculiar letters on parchment. He did not dare to ask questions now – he just obeyed their commands, especially since the beatings and torture also continued, at intervals.
More affected by all the horrors that had occurred around him than he had first realised, Jerryn quietly tried starvation as a weapon, refusing three meals in a row, not discussing the matter with any of his fellows, determined to find a way out – the only way out he could think of. His death, he felt, would stop the violence against the others; it would ruin the Betrayer’s intentions; it was all he could think of, to escape this hell! Yet when he did not eat the fourth serving of the still largely tasteless food served, although his insides hurt from hunger, especially after each day’s relentless physical exercise, the Generals hauled him up on deck in a cold, driving rain, trussed him up there to the main mast as normal and simply force-fed him.
There were too many of them - nothing he could do would stop them, their hands tight around his throat and jaw, someone holding his head still by a hank of hair – and they suppressed his gag reflex as well. To ram the point home completely, they also used their power to strike at his mind with pain when he continued to try and struggle, however uselessly. He never knew how they knew that he was not eating, but they did. It was painful and humiliating. Master Cheltor promised dire and revolting consequences against the other prisoners if he dared such a stupid move again.
Lunde and Fereyne, separately, both managed to provoke the Generals enough to escape into the finality of death during their last sessions as victims and Poppy, who had always been the quietest and most frightened of the group, just willed herself to die in utter despair, refusing all food and water – the Generals only laughed at that, forcing Jerryn, Rynn and Zeron to throw her corpse from the ship.
Gradually, day by day, his life in Tenarum faded out of his mind. Ethrayne – reclaiming Clirensar – the Flame of Arven, even – all receded as fear and horror took precedence. It seemed, now, that this nightmare voyage would never end. The Mador Opal would circle Iullyn for eternity and they, the prisoners, would just exist. Suffering.
* * *