"Where to, Aravon?" the Duke asked. "Fancy a stroll outside? It's a pleasant enough day."
"I'd like that."
Aravon leaned on the Duke as they shuffled down the bare stone hall, toward the heavy iron-banded door at the far end.
"I'm sure you've given our conversation a great deal of thought." Duke Dyrund spoke in a low voice.
"I have, Your Grace.” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “Is there…” He trailed off, hesitating. Now that the time had come to ask the question, he found he could not. He dreaded hearing the Duke’s answer.
“Ask, Aravon.” Duke Dyrund’s words echoed with gentle encouragement. “Whatever is on your heart, speak and I will give answer as I can.”
Another deep breath, and Aravon forced himself to speak. “Is there no way to tell only Mylena the truth? Let her know I still live.” The words poured from his mouth in a torrent beyond his control. “She can be trusted, Your Grace. She can keep secrets better than anyone I’ve ever met. And if she knows I’m still alive, it will make it easier for her to bear up under the strain of life in my absence.” Even more absent than he’d already been. But being away from home and being dead were two vastly different things. “I know you worry about spies in Icespire, but surely Mylena will—”
“Aravon.” Duke Dyrund stopped and turned to him. “I want to tell her.” Pain twisted his face into a frown. “I wish I could. I wish I could spare her the pain of believing you’re dead. But if we’re to have any chance of success, no one can know the truth. For her sake.”
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat.
“Think about it.” Duke Dyrund fixed him with a solemn gaze. “Until now, you’ve been nothing more than a Captain in the Legion of Heroes. One more officer among so many, a soldier among thousands more just like you.” His expression darkened. “But now, as you take on this new task, you will be operating outside the protection of a Legion camp. The Eirdkilrs will seek to strike back at the man who, by the Swordsman’s grace, is wreaking such havoc on their armies. If word ever got out who that man was, he—you—would not be the only ones in danger. How hard would it be for an Eirdkilr spy to slip into your home and take out our enemy’s wrath on your family?”
A chill ran down Aravon’s spine. His father’s mansion on Azure Island had only two guards to keep watch, and the Icewatchers protecting the bridges onto the island were far from competent and vigilant. It would be no difficult thing at all.
His thought must have been written plain on his expression, because Duke Dyrund nodded. “I wish there was another way, Aravon. Keeper’s beard, how I wish it!” He ran a hand across his face, and his expression grew sorrowful. “I would never inflict this on you or her if I had any other choice. But I can’t risk anyone finding out the truth and going after Mylena and your sons.”
“But surely you can trust Mylena to keep the secret!” Aravon protested.
“I believe I can.” The Duke nodded. “But are you willing to risk your family’s lives?” He searched Aravon’s face. “I am not. I can only imagine the pain you are feeling, and if I had any other way, I would seek it.” His expression grew stony. “But for what the Prince has asked of us, what the Princelands needs, this is the only way I can be absolutely certain your family is protected.”
Aravon wanted to argue. By the Keeper, he wanted to insist that Mylena could be trusted to keep the secret. And she could, he knew. Yet if there was even the slightest chance the secret could slip—if not from her lips, from someone else privy to the information—he could be putting his family in danger.
“If that has changed your decision,” the Duke began, “I can understand—”
“No.” For the first time since he awoke in this strange place, Aravon’s voice echoed with confidence. “No, Your Grace. My answer remains the same.”
Though it killed him to know his family would believe him dead, would be forced to bear the anguish of loss, to move on with their lives, he knew it was the only choice he could make. For their sakes, Captain Aravon is no more.
“Good.” The Duke nodded. “I must admit, I was concerned that you would have cause to regret accepting the Prince's request. Even the most honorable man would think twice before making such a sacrifice.”
“If there's one thing the General taught me, Your Grace, is that a man's first duty is to his city and Prince.” If not to his family.
“Indeed.” The Duke's voice had a tight edge. “If it's any comfort, the Prince will make certain your family is cared for. They will want for nothing.”
Aravon drew in a breath, but hesitated a long moment before nodding. “It is good to know.”
They reached the door, and Duke Dyrund pushed it open. Glorious golden sunlight bathed Aravon's face and he closed his eyes to drink in the warmth. A gentle breeze wafted toward him, ruffling his hair and billowing through the sleeves of his loose tunic to caress his bare flesh. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air. After days cooped up in the cramped, windowless room, being outside felt wonderful.
He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of Wolfden Castle rising in the distance. The stone fort, one of the first built by the early Einari colonists settling the continent of Fehl, rose a stately two hundred feet into the clear blue sky. Four white towers, one for each point of the compass, towered over the high walls and squat main keep. The walls of the city around the castle weren't visible above the treetops, but Aravon knew close to fifty thousand souls made their home in the shadow of the Duke's capital.
Aravon's brow furrowed. He gauged the distance to the fort and studied its brilliant stone face to try to ascertain his location—fewer than fifty miles to the southeast, he guessed.
“Where are we, Your Grace?” he asked. “I didn't know anyone had settled in the Black Marsh.”
Duke Dyrund shook his head. “They haven't. For all Eastfall knows, the Black Marsh is as uninhabitable as ever.”
Aravon was puzzled. “But—”
“Come.” The Duke led him toward a staircase on the outer wall of the house. The climb up the twelve steps proved more difficult than expected. The Duke had to half-carry Aravon up the last three.
The staircase opened onto a small balcony, complete with two wicker chairs and a small wicker table. Lord Eidan sat in one of the chairs, a stack of parchments spread out on the table before him. He nodded to Aravon before returning to his study.
Aravon leaned on the railing, gasping with the exertion. “What is this?”
Duke Dyrund swept a grand gesture around him. “This, Aravon, is your secret training camp.”
Chapter Six
“I call it Camp Marshal,” the Duke said, chuckling. “Where we'll marshal our special unit in the middle of the marshes?” He grinned at Aravon, clearly enjoying his own joke.
Behind him, Lord Eidan gave a soft snort and shook his head.
Camp Marshal measured roughly five hundred yards long and three hundred wide. A sturdy wooden wall, at least twenty feet high, rose around the entire camp, with two guards standing in the watchtower next to the camp’s only gate. A single large stone building—a sort of barracks, Aravon realized—stood near the gateway. Smoke and the sound of clanging metal rose from what could only be a smithy attached to the rear of the house. The other adjoining wooden buildings had to be stables, supply sheds, and the other structures found in a military encampment.
Out front of the stone barracks was a large training yard, at least thirty yards across and ten wide, occupied by straw training dummies. Racks lined the perimeter, bearing an impressive array of weapons—spears, swords, shields, and bows in every conceivable shape and size. And next to the earthen training yard was an archery field easily two hundred yards long, where cloth-covered targets sat on mounds of earth at intervals of twenty and fifty yards.
Aravon's eyes wandered toward the enormous expanse of cleared space that dominated the southern two-thirds of Camp Marshal. A broad array of obstacles—the sort common at Legion training camps—dotted the space: climbing walls as
high as thirty feet, rope nets, single ropes for climbing and traversing, muddy pits, zig-zagging trenches and earthen pits, and many more Aravon had never seen.
A flash of movement at the far end of the course caught his attention. A man raced through the obstacle course, bare-chested and bare-footed, clad in only a pair of simple brown breeches. His lean build belied the raw power in his arms, evident as he hauled himself up a rope using only his arms.
Aravon's jaw dropped as the man climbed atop the traverse obstacle and walked across the top of the sagging rope with the ease of a man strolling the streets of Icespire. He fairly raced up a thirty-foot wall, his hands a blur as he climbed with an agility any sailor would envy. His steps were light and graceful—his feet barely touched the ground as he leapt over the hurdles.
He glanced at the Duke. “Bloody impressive.”
Duke Dyrund gave him a small smile. “More than you'd expect.” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Zaharis!”
The man on the obstacle course turned and bowed as he caught sight of the Duke on the balcony.
Duke Dyrund beckoned. “Join us.”
The man strode toward them. Aravon noticed the way his feet barely left the ground, but he moved with the lithe suppleness of a beast of prey. He made no sound as he climbed the stairs and came to stand before the Duke.
Duke Dyrund gestured at Aravon. “Zaharis, meet Captain Aravon.”
Up close, Zaharis was a much more impressive specimen. He was shorter than Aravon, with pale skin, grey eyes, close-cropped hair of a boring brown, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from a perpetual squint. But the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and abdomen were like braided steel cables. When Aravon extended a hand in greeting, the man returned the grasp with surprising strength.
Aravon straightened. “Good to meet you.”
Zaharis nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he waggled his fingers and moved his hands in a series of gestures Aravon had no idea how to interpret.
“Yes, Zaharis,” the Duke said, nodding, “he is the one in charge. At least he will be once he's fully healed.”
The man's hands moved again and his brow arched in a curious expression.
Duke Dyrund shrugged. “You'll have to take that up with Draian. I'm not sure the Mender will like you giving his patients any sort of elixirs, even if they are absolutely miraculous.”
Zaharis gave a little snort and shake of his head.
Captain Aravon shot a puzzled glance at the Duke, Zaharis, and at Lord Eidan, who hadn't moved from his seat. The nobleman seemed unperturbed by this odd one-way conversation.
“Ahh, forgive me.” Duke Dyrund gave Aravon an apologetic smile. “Aravon, Zaharis is a Secret Keeper, from the Temple of Whispers in Voramis.”
Aravon's eyebrows shot up. A Secret Keeper?
Secret Keepers served the Mistress, goddess of whispered truths and secret trysts. The priests were known to be the foremost alchemists in the world, able to produce seemingly magical creations with mundane ingredients. Yet it was also said they dedicated their lives to seeking the hidden secrets of the world. They ever sought to unlock the mysteries of life on Einan—and now Fehl, it seemed.
What the hell is a Secret Keeper doing here? The Duke had to have a lot more clout than he realized to pull one of the Mistress' priests into his plan. The Secret Keepers' name had come from the zealous, often ruthless, methods used to safeguard the knowledge locked within their vault-like temples.
“Alas,” the Duke continued, as if the presence of the enigmatic priest was no great matter, “Zaharis, like all those of his order, communicates only through hand signals.” He waved his hands; the gesture resembled Zaharis' earlier movements. “I've yet to master its complexities.”
Zaharis rolled his eyes and responded. Something about the way his fingers moved told Aravon the Secret Keeper mocked the Duke.
His mind struggled to keep up with the latest revelation. A Secret Keeper working for Duke Dyrund? This “special force” the Duke had in mind certainly was shaping up to be truly special.
Zaharis’ hands moved again.
Dyke Dyrund nodded. “Of course. Freshen up and I'll have the others sent to the War Room.”
Zaharis bowed to the Duke and Lord Eidan. He studied Aravon, as if taking his measure. His expression revealed neither disappointment nor satisfaction. After a moment, he inclined his head and stalked back down the stairs.
Aravon's eyes followed the man's back as he retreated. When Zaharis had disappeared from view, he turned to the Duke. “A Secret Keeper? How?”
Duke Dyrund shrugged. “Let's just say Zaharis has his own reasons. But when he came to me with the offer to join my special force—and how he found out about it is a secret that only the Mistress herself knows—there was no way to turn him down. Trust me, when you see what he can do, you'll be glad of his presence.”
Aravon could only nod. Most of the priests he'd known in Icespire trended toward the rotund and bookish—save for the military-minded Swordsman Adepts and the Warrior Priests of Derelana. But he'd never seen a Secret Keeper outside the Temple of Whispers. Who knew their dull brown cowls and humble demeanors hid such impressive abilities? Had he not just witnessed Zaharis' lithe grace with his own eyes, he’d have never believed it.
A smile broadened Duke Dyrund's face. “And he's just the first of those I've gathered for this plan.”
“Tell me of the others,” Aravon said, fixing the Duke with a somber gaze.
“You'll meet them all before long. I warrant Draian will have you up and moving around in the next few days.” The Duke nodded toward Aravon's left arm. “That cast should come off in no time.”
Aravon glanced down at his arm, then at the obstacle course. Even when set properly, broken bones required time to heal. Some never fully recovered their strength or mobility. Would he ever hold a shield or stand in the battle line again? Or had the attack that killed his men now rendered him useless as a soldier?
He buried the worry for later. “Tell me what I need to know. Everything.”
Duke Dyrund's face grew somber. “The war with the Eirdkilrs must rage on without you, for the time being at least. I need you and your men here, focused on learning the skills that will make you Icespire's secret weapon.”
“And what skills are those?” Aravon arched an eyebrow.
“As I said, any man can learn to wield a sword or hold a shield.” Duke Dyrund ran a hand through his thinning hair. “But you and your men will learn a new way of warfare. A way of the shadows, of stealth and subterfuge.”
“Like assassins and thieves.” The words left a bitter taste in Aravon's mouth.
“Perhaps.” The Duke shrugged. “You can't deny their methods are effective.”
Aravon didn't return the Duke's smile.
“You and your men will need to operate independently of the Legion, perhaps even of Icespire. The Prince or I will have tasks that require your unique skills, but you will often be left to make your own decisions on how to accomplish those tasks.”
This surprised Aravon. The Legion operated on orders passed down from General to Commander to Captain to Lieutenant to Sergeant to squad.
“You'll operate beyond the Chain,” the Duke continued, “so you'll need to learn how to survive among the Fehlans. How to think like them, dress like them, even speak their tongue. You'll learn to read terrain like a scout and navigate like a ship's Captain. Simply put, you'll develop the skills to keep you alive on your own.”
A weight settled on Aravon's shoulders. Growing up in Icespire as the son of a General, he'd never had needed to fend for himself. The Legion had fed, clothed, and ordered his every moment of the last fifteen years. Now, the Duke expected him to shatter the structure that had kept him alive for so long.
The Duke fixed him with a solemn stare. “That's why you're here, Aravon. You and your men. You'll teach each other and, in doing so, learn each other's strengths and weaknesses. Just as the Legion was a brotherhood, this small group must
be as well.”
The Duke turned to Aravon, his expression somber. “Once you're out there—” He thrust a finger toward the south, toward the territory of the Fehlan clans. “—you've no one else to trust.”
“I understand, Your Grace.” Aravon tried to sound confident. “I will make sure we do not fail you.”
“Good.” Duke Dyrund nodded. His shoulders slumped as if beneath a heavy burden. “The Prince and all of Icespire are counting on you.”
* * *
The return journey to Aravon's room took a lot longer than he expected. The exertion left him exhausted, his leg, left arm, and ribs throbbing. He made no complaint to be back indoors—the arrival of heavy cloud cover had sent a chill wind blowing across the balcony.
Draian stood waiting for him at the door to his room. The Mender's brow furrowed as Aravon shuffled toward him.
“Oh, no, no, no.” He shook his head, tsking like a scolding mother. “Trust a Legionnaire to overexert himself.”
“The blame lies with me,” Duke Dyrund said. “It was I who insisted he climb the stairs.”
“Stairs?” Draian's voice turned shrill. “I said his leg was well enough for a walk, not a climb.” He took Aravon's arm from the Duke. Duke Dyrund seemed surprised to be dismissed by the Mender, but allowed himself to be steered away.
“Enough exertion for one day.” Draian opened the door to Aravon's room. “Time for you to rest, Captain.”
“We'll talk more tomorrow, Aravon,” the Duke called out.
“Yes, sir,” was all Aravon could manage before Draian closed the door none too gingerly in the Duke's face.
After the fresh air outdoors, Aravon found the room felt stale, heavy with the smell of dust, mold, and the herbs Draian used for the poultices on his wounds. Yet he welcomed the sight of the bed and the prospect of rest.
“In bed, now.” Draian's tone grew scolding. Once he had Aravon situated, he fussed over the bandages. It was only after he'd ensured there was no fresh blood that he stopped muttering under his breath. “I expect you to remain here the rest of the day, and all night. Is that clear?”
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