by Karen Miller
“Bryn. It’s not too much longer we’ll be, I hope.”
Bryn shrugged. “I’m in no hurry, Highness.”
A sensible man, Bryn was. Wived, and fathered twice over, he’d not lived in the Vale his whole life. Of his thirty-eight summers he’d spent the first eleven in Vharne’s north-west, in the sleepy township of Croft. But then the sorcerer’s beasts came for Croft’s people—and inside a day Bryn was the only Crofter left in the kingdom. Found half-starved and wandering the empty township, he was made one of the king’s foundlings until he came of age. These days he lived quiet, and never spoke of Croft.
But he’ll have to now, Ewen thought, brooding at the man from beneath lowered lashes. He’s the only man I know who knows the north-west, he is. And he survived beasts, he did, meaning he’s a man with an instinct for trouble.
The Hall’s doors swung open and in came Ivyn, his expression wary. Behind him came Clovis, and with Clovis walked Iain Noyce. Last of all was Tavin.
“Highness?” he said, one eyebrow raised, his look meaningful, and gestured him aside.
Ewen joined him near a window. “What?”
“Send Clovis to the king’s chamber, son,” Tavin murmured. “There’s a map in his desk we’ll be wanting.”
A map? What was this? “Clovis. To me.”
“Highness?” said the secretary, instantly attentive.
Still staring at Tavin, he said, “Fetch me the map you’ll find in the king’s private desk.”
“Highness,” said Clovis, discreetly baffled, and withdrew.
Tavin touched his elbow. “I’d have told you earlier, Ewen, I would, only—”
Only they’d been sharp at odds, then busy in different directions. “Tell me now.”
“Best not,” said Tavin, with a glance at boggle-eyed Ivyn. “A tangle, this is. But I’ll steer you through it.”
Yes, you will, Tavin. Or we’ll be more than at odds, we will. He turned. “Choose a seat at the table, all of you. We can make great decisions on our arses, I say.”
Noyce and Bryn found a chair each without fuss, but Tavin and Ivyn danced, hackles raised over who’d take the chair on the right of the king’s seat. As swordmaster that place of power belonged to Tavin—but Ivyn, being Ivyn, saw the privilege as his.
Tavin won.
Hiding a grim smile, Ewen sat in his father’s place. Clovis returned moments later, carrying a slender roll of parchment. He held it out. “Highness.”
He took the king’s mysterious map. “Sit, Clovis, and we’ll begin.”
Defeated, Ivyn had claimed the secretary’s place to the left of the king’s seat, so Clovis sat beside Noyce. With everyone attentive, even Ivyn, Ewen set the rolled map before him, folded his hands on the table and touched his gaze to each solemn face.
“You’re summoned here on the king’s business,” he said. “First there’s this for you to know: there’s trouble in Vharne.”
“More wanderers?” said Noyce, snorting. He was a man close to Tavin’s age, fashioned of whipcord and as snappish as his dogs. “A kingdom of empty cottages we might be, but still that’s no secret. Haven’t I been sending my hounds far and wide? No animal better scents brain-rot than my bloodlines. My bitches can’t whelp pups fast enough.”
Ewen eased himself on the king’s seat. I’m about to ruin lives. My bad night has given birth to a worse day. “The trouble’s more than wanderers. Prince Padrig is dead.”
Noyce and Bryn gaped at him. “Dead?” said Bryn. His face crumpled. “Highness—”
“A tragedy it is, yes,” he said, deliberately harsh. “But we’ll hold our tongues on that, we will.”
Noyce leaned forward. “And the king, Highness?”
“He can’t say,” said Ivyn, scowling. “No word there is of Murdo or my brothers. But my cousin died of brain-rot, so it’s likely—”
“You snot!” Tavin bellowed, making Ivyn jump. “That’s for you to decide, is it? Is that your arse in the king’s seat? Was it you the king gave the Vale to, for safe keeping?”
“Swordmaster…” Ewen rested a hand on Tavin’s arm. At odds they might be, but Tav would always have his back. “Stand easy. Ivyn’s unwise in his fear.”
“He’s unwise in his puppery!” Tavin spat. “It’s your arse in the king’s seat, Ewen. That demands respect, that does.”
He stared hard at his cousin. “Ivyn’s nephew to King Murdo, Tavin. He knows about respect, he does.”
Pocked face flushed dark red, Ivyn hissed a breath between his teeth. Then he nodded, stiffly. “I spoke out of turn, I did. My cousin’s dead. I’m grieving.”
“It’s true?” said Noyce, breaking the taut silence. “Prince Padrig was rotted?”
Stink and pus and festered flesh. “Yes,” said Ewen, blinking. “It’s true.”
“Spirit’s mercy,” Bryn whispered. “Then there’s a chance the king’s rotted too.”
“A chance, but not certainty, Bryn. So I’m riding to find him, I am. And it’s you I want, riding with me.”
“Me, Highness?” said Bryn, uncertain. “How can I help?”
The trick was to sound confident, no matter what he felt. “The king was at Neem. Not far from the Croft, that is. Could be he struck trouble thereabouts. You know that part of Vharne, you do.”
“Yes, but—” Bryn rubbed his face. “I was a boy when I knew it.”
“Good enough, that is. You’ll remember the land, I say. Bryn—” Ewen shook his head. “You’ve got family, I know. But I have to ask.”
“It’s the king,” said Bryn. “I’ll ride with you.”
“You want me for my hounds?” said Noyce. “I’ve got a bitch and two dogs I can spare. They won’t work for strangers, though. Strangers they look on for biting, they do.”
“So you’ll ride too?”
Noyce’s smile was close to a snarl. “I’ll ride.”
Spirit bless them. Ewen let himself show a small smile. “So that’s four of us, and three barracks men.”
“And the swordmaster?” said Ivyn, glowering across the table at Tavin.
“Tavin holds the king’s seat while I ride.”
Ivyn choked. “A swordmaster?”
“Your choice is it, cousin?” he retorted. “Not where I sit, it isn’t.”
Pinching his lips shut, Ivyn dropped his gaze.
“Right then,” he said, reaching for the rolled map. “There’s this to consider now.”
Help me, Tav.
He spread the parchment flat to the table, and every man save the swordmaster leaned close for a better look.
“What’s this?” said Ivyn. “That’s not a map I’ve seen before.”
Tavin cleared his throat. “It’s a spirit map, it is. Those red lines mark Vharne’s spirit paths. The king used it to ride safe beyond the Vale, he did.”
What? Ewen stared at him. You know this, and I don’t?
“Spirit paths?” said Ivyn, disbelieving. “What are—”
“Places to walk in Vharne that hide a man from beasts and any sorcery-touched creature,” said Bryn. “A spirit path saved me when those beasts ruined the Croft. Not that I knew what a spirit path was then.” His plain face twisted. “If I had…”
Ivyn’s disbelief hardened to suspicion. “How do you know now?”
“Bryn,” said Ewen, when the man hesitated. “You’ve leave to speak. It’s important, this is.”
“The king told me,” said Bryn. “A few years ago. When we spoke of the Croft, and how I survived. Still grieve that day, I do. Murdo wanted to ease the guilt in me, but said to keep quiet after. There were some who’d not understand, he said. Best it is spirit paths remain secret. So I held my tongue, I did.”
Ewen stared at the map, his belly churning. So Tavin knew. Bryn knew. Who else did the king trust more than his eldest son?
“The spirit path that saved you, Bryn,” he said, pushing the fresh hurt aside. “How did you find it?”
Bryn shifted in his chair. “Stumbled across it, I did.
”
“How?”
“Well…” Bryn rubbed his chin. “I felt it.”
He glanced at Tavin, who twitched one shoulder in a doubting shrug. “What did it feel like?”
A slow, remembering smile warmed Bryn’s face. “Like drinking sunlight, Highness.”
“Drinking sunlight?” scoffed Ivyn. “And eating rainbows too, I suppose?”
Ewen flicked him a warning look. “Cousin.”
“Like I say, it’s a boy, I was,” said Bryn of the Croft, defensive. “But I swear, Highness, that’s the truth.”
“And I believe you,” he said swiftly. “Bryn, would you know a spirit path again, crossing it?”
“I would,” Bryn said, nodding. “It’s not a feeling you forget.”
So now Bryn had to ride with him, no changing his mind. With the king never once mentioning spirit paths, this survivor from the Croft might be his only chance.
Why didn’t you trust me, Father? Did failing in the Eastern Vale ruin me for you?
“Spirit paths…” Clovis traced a fingertip along one faded scarlet line joining the Vale to the distant village of Arble, in the east. “I’ve read every book in this castle and found not a word about spirit paths.”
Tavin stared at him. “Secret, man. Know the word, do you?”
“It’s sorcery,” Ivyn declared, leaning back in his chair. “Burn the map, Ewen. No sorcery in Vharne. That’s the law.”
Though he was hurt, and angry, he’d not hear the king accused. “Murdo trucks with no sorcery, cousin. Spirit paths. Given us by the spirit, they are.”
“You say,” said Ivyn, sneering.
“Yes!” he snapped, and slapped the table. “Here I sit in the king’s seat, Ivyn. Until Murdo returns it’s Vharne’s king, I am. This map’s no sorcery, I say.”
“And this is you being king, is it?” said Ivyn, puffed up and set to bluster. “Banging your fist and laying down the law?”
Blustering back at Ivyn was a waste of good breath. “Are you chained here, Ivyn? You can walk. I won’t stop you.”
Ivyn folded his thin arms stubborn across his chest. “It’s my brothers lost out there. Taken down these spirit paths by the king. Did Van and Lem even know what they travelled? Did the king confess his secret map?”
“Most like he did,” said Tavin, rolling his eyes. “For that’s the way you see a secret’s kept secret, I say. By mouthing on it every chance you get.”
Ivyn’s face turned cold. “It’s a rude man you are, Swordmaster Tavin.”
“Rude or not, he’s right,” said Ewen. “Talk of the map stays between us, or there’ll be trouble.” He slid the parchment a little closer. “Now let’s decide which paths the king most likely chose to ride.”
“You don’t know?” said Ivyn. “Cousin—”
“The king had no thought I’d need to follow,” he said, struggling to hold his temper. “Ivyn, enough.”
“Spirit paths,” Ivyn muttered. “A sparkling notion, that is. And what’s to save us from brain-rotted wanderers?”
“We’ll have my dogs,” said Noyce. “They’ll scent a man with brain-rot long before he’s dangerous close, my reputation on it.”
“Really?” Ivyn sneered again. “Hide us like a spirit path, will it? Your reputation?”
“Ivyn—”
“Cousin, I’ll have an opinion!” Ivyn snapped. “Best you accustom yourself to it. Best you don’t mistake me for that cow-hocked horse you ride.”
“Ivyn, you listen,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Murdo is Murdo. What he swallows is his business. But you won’t overspeak me in this Hall.”
Ivyn scowled, his pocked face blotchy. “Padrig’s dead, Ewen. My brothers’ lives are risked. I’ll speak on this matter, I will. Leave aside brain-rot, for now. Murdo rode these spirit paths to keep himself safe. And that means we’ve sorcery loose in Vharne, does it? With not a man beyond this castle warned of it? The truth’s out tardy, Ewen.”
Trust Ivyn to pick up that thread and tug on it. But before he could counter the claim, Tavin was slapping the arm of his chair.
“Sorcery in Vharne?” said the swordmaster, scornful. “Beetles in your brain, you’ve got, Ivyn. Every man in Vharne knows the rough’s a dangerous place. Riding the spirit paths was Murdo being cautious, is all. Fault a king for caution, would you? That’s clever, that is.”
Ivyn ignored him. “Like you say, cousin, it’s your arse in the king’s seat. As the king, do you swear before witnesses Vharne’s not fallen prey to sorcery?”
Right now it’s suspicion, with no certain proof. “I swear,” Ewen said, meeting Ivyn’s hostile stare. Feeling the weight of Bryn and Iain Noyce, watching. “And I tell you this, cousin. The king followed these spirit paths and I’m following the king—to whatever end might come, be it sorcery or brain-rot or relief to find him whole. What you do, you can do. I’m done twisting your arm.”
Chewing at his lip, Ivyn stared at the map. “It’s my brothers out there,” he whispered. There was pain in his voice now. For all his bluster, he did have a heart.
“Then ride with me to find them,” said Ewen, and rested a hand on Ivyn’s shoulder. “It’s safe I’ll keep you, I say.”
Closing his eyes, Ivyn nodded.
He felt his mended arm ache, and his heart thud, and the sorrow for Padrig painfully simmering. Then he looked at Tavin.
“So it’s settled, it is. Come the dawn we ride for the king.”
Hours later, Ewen worked alone in the Hall. It was late, darkness outside the castle and beeswax candles within. Sworn to silence, Ivyn and the other two men were hurried home to ready themselves for leaving the Vale at sunrise. Tavin was back in the barracks, seeing to the horses and his barracks men’s needs. Elsewhere in the castle Clovis organised provisions and prepared for his prince’s absence. A good man, he was. Loyal. Not a soft-heart for flattery.
Between him and Tavin I leave the Vale in good hands.
“Here, boy,” said Tavin, returning unannounced. “Best you take this, I say. Spirit knows what manner of strife you’ll ride across beyond the Vale.”
He carried his favourite longsword, Blood-drinker, in its elaborate leather scabbard. He’d killed that beast with it, and he loved it like a woman.
Slumped at the table, Ewen set down his inked quill and pushed aside his scrawl of notes. Then he held out his hands, and watched Tavin place the sword across them. The weight of it woke his right arm but he kept the pain from his face.
“Sure of this, are you?”
Tavin hitched a hip onto the sturdy table’s corner. “What do you think?”
With the greatest care, he put down the sword. “I think it’s an honour, I do.”
“It is. And?”
He looked up. “And I think I should’ve known of that map before you.”
“You were shitting in a nappy when Ewen the Elder told me of that map,” said Tavin. “Every king tells his swordmaster, Ewen. He tells no-one else.”
“He tells his heir.”
Tavin nodded. “On his death bed.”
“He told Bryn, he did.”
“Take that up with him, you can. I swore Ewen the Elder and Murdo my silence, boy. I keep my oath.”
He wanted to bang the table again. “You broke your oath. If you could break it today, Tav, why not break it last week?”
Eyes hooded, Tavin stared at him. “Because we didn’t burn your brother ’til this morning.”
A surge of pain. Padrig. He sighed. “All right.”
There was a fireplace in the Hall and a fire in it, brightly burning. Tavin slid off the table and eased his way to the hearth. Fingers rasping his stubble, he stared at the flames. The fire’s warm light stole years from his seamed face, painted it over with youth and vitality. But underneath that he looked old and weary.
Ewen stared down at the map his father had guarded his whole life. Tav and me, we’ve been fighting all day, it feels like. And in the morning I ride out of the Vale into the rough
and if this task goes ill with me I might never see him again. “Tavin—”
“You need to hold your tongue a while, Ewen the Younger,” said the swordmaster. “Some things to say, I’ve got. Not kind, all of them.”
He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fists. “Words or swords, Tavin, you never spar kindly with me.”
Tav flicked him a look. “Sure of that, are you?”
He dropped his fists to the table, feeling sick. “So you lied in the tiltyard? When you swore you never spared me, that was a lie to my face?”
“A lie of sorts,” said Tavin, a touch of discomfort in his voice. “The whole truth is I never fought you to my full strength, Ewen.”
Pushed to his feet, scalded, Ewen stared at Vharne’s swordmaster. “Why not?”
Tavin’s callused thumb jerked over his shoulder at Blood-drinker. “Why do you think, boy? My full strength killed a beast.”
Three-quarters turned away from him, Tavin was, but enough of his face was visible to reveal fear as well as weariness, harsh memories flickering like fire shadows.
“A battle-blooded swordsman can’t unblood himself, son,” he added, talking softly to the flames. “Sparring turns to warring in a blink, Ewen. I’ve seen it. The king’s son, you are. Kill you, would I, not to prick your pride?”
“You say pride.” Slowly Ewen lowered himself until the king’s seat was polished and hard beneath him. “It might be. It might be I need to hear I’ll ride from the Vale a ready man.”
Tavin shifted round. With his spine to the flames his face was plunged into shadow. The tapered beeswax candles on the table picked out the whites of his eyes.
“I don’t know if you are, boy. You’re blooded, it’s true, but our strife’s bigger than that. Vharne’s a land turned skeleton, Ewen. Sorcery near stripped its bones clean before you were born. We call your father king because even when beasts roamed amongst us we’ve always had a king. But Ewen, there are dogs in the Vale with more fleas than Vharne has subjects for your father to rule—or you, after him.”
I don’t know if you are, boy. Rankled, he folded his arms. “I know that.”
Air hissed between the swordmaster’s teeth. “Boy, could be I’ve got a useful thing or two for saying. So best make up your mind—am I Vharne’s swordmaster or am I a sand-mannikin in the tiltyard?”