There was livestock as well, sheep and goats and cows and chickens. Even a few pigs, ready to be sold to the highest bidder, butchered, cured, and laid up against the harsh months to come.
Jayson rode his horse beside the wagon filled with a mountain of corn. His companion, a young man by the name of Teak, sat on the wagon bench guiding his own horse by the reins. Jayson kept his hood over his head, his face low, but his eyes were alert, taking in every sight, every movement. He listened too for any hint of trouble. So far, there was none.
“We should raise our prices,” said Teak. “We could use a few extra coins this season.”
Teak, a native of Hestoria, was dark-skinned with long, muscled limbs strengthened from a lifetime working on farms. He had a kind, unassuming face that matched his demeanor. He was one of the few men Jayson trusted.
Jayson waited until they had passed by a scowling Vatéz guard before replying. “I suspect every farmer has the same thought as you.”
“Our corn is the best in the region. Some farms didn’t even get full crop this year, with this drought growing worse by the day.”
“No arguing that,” Jayson said. “Go ahead then and get whatever you can for this lot.”
Jayson and Teak found a good spot near the center of the town square beside the auctioneer’s block. Once the wheels were locked and Jayson was certain Teak had things under control, he turned his horse back toward the gate. “I’ll be back for you before nightfall,” he told his companion.
“I wish you’d stay,” said Teak. “I hate doing this alone.”
“You’ll be fine. In fact, I fear for any man who would try to cause you trouble.” Jayson said this with a grin, and Teak laughed. They both knew he was right. Teak wielded his sword with an ease and confidence few men possessed, just as he wielded his sickle in the fields.
“Where will you go?” asked Teak, removing his cloak and hanging it on the corner of the wagon. Nauvet-Carum was nearly two days’ ride from Ashlin, Jayson’s plantation in the north.
“Don’t worry about me,” replied Jayson. “Just weave your magic and bring us home an empty wagon and a full wallet.”
Jayson nodded his farewell and then turned his horse toward the city gates. He made sure to pull his hood forward as he passed through, avoiding eye contact with the guards who were too busy inspecting incoming wagons to notice him. Only once he was far down the road with Nauvet-Carum behind him did he breathe easy. He wondered if he should have come at all. Whenever he ventured off Ashlin, which he rarely did, he ran the risk of being recognized. The hood and his gloves helped conceal his slitted pupils and clawed hands, but all it would take is one Vatéz guard to look him in the eye for his cover to be blown. And if the Vatéz should arrest him, what would become of the Guardians seeking refuge at Ashlin?
Jayson half laughed to himself. The Guardians and their families would thrive of course, just as they had been doing for the past several years. They didn’t need Jayson, not really. He wasn’t one of them, though they treated him as if he was, always with gratitude and kindness. But the attention only made Jayson feel more isolated. Or at least it made him wish to be alone. Not that he didn’t like having the Guardians around. Their jubilant enthusiasm for the land, and for their children, infused Ashlin with life and hope, something that had been missing before their arrival.
Still, there were times when he wanted to be alone, truly alone, without Nira his housekeeper rapping on his door delivering tea or being summoned by Gerard or Teak to offer an opinion on this, that, or the other. These occasional trips to the harvest auctions were his only opportunities to get away.
Jayson passed at least two dozen wagons on the road outside Nauvet-Carum, but by the end of the first hour, the road was empty. Jayson’s horse trotted along, and Jayson breathed in the fresh air. Winter was coming. He could smell it. The scent of pine was stronger than normal, as was the fragrance of the north wind blowing down from the mountains. They had already sewn the year’s last crop of winter wheat, and the Guardians were set to dig irrigation ditches, one of Teak’s suggestions. Teak was quite extraordinary when it came to updating the farm. He was full of ideas and was good at implementing them, which is why Jayson didn’t worry about the Guardians should something happen to him. They would manage the farm quite well without him for years, perhaps generations to come.
Jayson traveled alone with his thoughts for another few miles until he came upon the small village of Partha. Surrounded by a waist-high stone wall that had likely been erected generations earlier and was now crumbling in place, Partha was marked by a few dozen cottages connected by dirt lanes and dotted with sprawls of green pastures. Jayson pulled on the reins. His horse whinnied in protest, but stopped obediently, pawing the ground, anxious to move on.
Jayson drew in a deep breath. The stench of ash no longer corrupted the air here, but the smell of it in his memory was as strong as ever. After tying his horse to a fence post, Jayson made his way through the village on foot with unhurried, almost hesitant steps. It had been over four years since he’d first walked these paths and had stood beside Brommel listening to his wail of grief. He had pitied the man then, had hated the Vatéz for their cruelty, for what else could it be, burning a woman and her baby alive in their own home? Jayson remembered how the soot of the blackened remains of Brommel’s home burrowed into every pore of his skin, as if it were a parasite. The oiliness of it remained fixed in his brain for days afterward, long after Brielle and her daughter were buried and the ash had washed away. But the memories of that day had never left him and never would.
Jayson reached the end of the lane where it came to a dead end at a wooden fence. The wood was still brown and healthy, had only seen one or two seasons, he was sure. He could still smell the sharp tang of sap in its fibers. Beyond the fence was a small pasture of grass and wildflowers. A single sheep stood grazing contentedly, its thick coat gray with dust. The cottage, or what had remained of it, was long gone. The burnt roof had, over time, broken down and melted into the earth. The stones had been used to build other cottage and to repair the village wall. Jayson leaned his elbows on the fence and watched the sheep, its jaw shifting round and round as it chewed on a tuft of grass.
That was the way of things, wasn’t it? he thought. Time had a way of healing wounds, of changing things. He wondered how long it would take for Hestoria to forget the injustices of the Vatéz altogether, or would the Vatéz ever let them forget?
“It was best to move on,” said a voice from behind Jayson. It had not surprised him. He had heard the old woman’s unsteady gait moving toward him, and he remembered her voice. “A year can seem an eternity,” she said.
Jayson turned and smiled. “Magda.”
The woman was hunched over, her advancing years evident on her face and hands. Her hair hung in twisted gray tendrils gathered into a loose tail. She hobbled forward, closing the gap between herself and Jayson, and though she barely reached the height of his shoulder, she wrapped her fragile arms around him. Jayson returned her embrace and kissed the top of her head.
“You look well,” he said. “Still looking after your chickens?”
Magda shrugged. “I have to eat, and they give me eggs in exchange for a handful of grain. I’d say it’s a fair trade.”
He nodded toward the sheep. “It’s a nice spot. I think Brommel would like to know that this place is alive and beautiful, like his wife was. He would be pleased.”
“He is,” said Magda.
“Have you heard from him recently?”
Magda took Jayson’s arm. “Come, have some supper first. Keep an old woman company for an hour, then we’ll talk about Brommel.”
3
“How many?”
Brommel was a burly man, intimidating by most standards. Not a native of the Isle of Imaness, he had come from Hestoria, a refugee fleeing from the Vatéz. His dark skin guaranteed that he could never fully blend in among the island’s natives. When he walked through Dokur, eyes turned on
him, wary and judgmental. But he always kept his chin up and set a scowl on his face to play the part expected of him.
He stood now before the one man in Dokur who could not be intimidated by him. Chancellor Prost was a thin, pale man advanced in years. In truth, Brommel could crush him with a single blow if he ever had the inclination to do so, but this was the man who paid Brommel’s wages. He was second only to Lord Fredric, ruler of Dokur, and Brommel was obliged to respect him.
“How many?” Brommel asked again impatiently.
Prost sat behind an ornately carved wooden desk in the circular room Lord Fredric called his own. The ceiling of the room was a design of stained glass two stories above. The walls were decorated with tapestries, and a fireplace boasting an energetic flame occupied the space opposite the desk.
The chancellor dipped his quill into a well of dark ink and signed his name with a flourish to the scroll before him. Only once he read the document again and nodded with satisfaction did he acknowledge Brommel’s question.
“You will collect only one on this journey,” said Prost, rolling up the scroll. He picked up a stick of yellow wax and held over a candle flame on his desk, then swirled the melted wax onto the scroll’s edge. He pressed his ring into the seal, a miniature dragon in flight. “You’ll find him beyond the canyon in the southern village of Quendel.”
“And where do I take him?”
Prost held out the scroll. Brommel took it, as he had taken a hundred scrolls before.
“You will deliver him directly to the mine.”
“The mine?” It wasn’t that Brommel had never taken men to the mine before, but most indentureds worked out their debts on plantations owned by the richest owners on Imaness. To be sent to the mine instead meant that whoever this man was, his debt was to the king himself.
Prost pulled a loose thread from his robe. “The man is originally from Dokur,” he said. “He borrowed against his father’s property and has failed to make good on his debt.”
Through all this, Prost spoke as if the effort wasn’t worth his time. He never raised his eyes to Brommel but dismissed him with a disinterested wave of his hand. “As usual, you will be paid half your fee now and the balance on delivery.”
Prost opened a drawer in the desk, removed five coins and stacked them on his desk. Only then did he look at Brommel, a dare in his eyes. Brommel would not let Prost intimidate him. He swept up the coins and headed for the door. He didn’t bother bowing, as was customary. He took his leave and was glad to be out of the man’s presence, out of the Fortress altogether. Despite having lived in Dokur for some time now, he had never gotten used to the place.
He hurriedly moved through the outer doors of the Fortress and through the gate into the bustling streets of the city. He turned north to the sea where Dokur stood on a cliff overlooking the shore. The sound of the waves resonated through the city so that most inhabitants failed to hear it anymore. But Brommel could not help but hear every wave’s violent collapse upon the one preceding it. The never-ending barrage of sound drove him insane, especially at night when his mind was vulnerable to the memories, and the sound of the sea served to always remind him how far he was from Hestoria, from Brielle, and why.
Brommel moved along the path, ignoring the judgmental glances as best he could. When he slipped into the darkened alley, he felt a sense of relief as the shadows hid his face from view, if only for a few moments before he opened the door to the Dragon’s Head Inn.
Here, no one raised an eye or turned his nose at Brommel’s entrance. Here he was among those like himself, men considered outcasts, thieves, and sometimes worse. Today the room had but a few visitors, just a lone grizzled man at the corner table eating a plate of roasted potatoes, and a pair of young ruffians haggling near the fireplace. It was a small barroom with a staircase leading up to a second floor. The layout was similar to The Seafarer Tavern, though the tavern had a better reputation. But it was here that Brommel felt most at home. He stepped up to the bar, pulled a coin from his waist pouch, and laid it on the counter. He said nothing because the bartender, a stout man with an unkempt red beard and no hair on his head at all, already knew what he wanted, and a minute later a heavy tankard of ale stood foaming in Brommel’s hand. He took a long draught and relished the warmth of it sliding down his throat into his gut. He wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. Immediately, he felt guilty. Young Rylan, his son, hated to see him drunk, and how could he blame the boy? If he timed it right, though, the boy would be in bed asleep before Brommel made it home. He would look in on Rylan, of course, as he always did, but then escape to his own room where he would pack his things for the morning and try to sleep. The prospect of facing another night of demons shook him to the core. He drained his tankard and plunked another coin on the counter. The bartender swooped it up before it even had time to settle and filled Brommel’s glass.
“How many?” he asked. Brommel blinked and raised his eyes to the bartender. “How many do you think you’ll be having tonight?”
Brommel reached into his pouch and wrapped his fingers around the remaining coins. As he drew them out and dropped them onto the counter with a bright clink, he fought off the tightening in his chest. He would need a few more of these to silence his dreams tonight, and to give him courage to face the morning and the dreaded journey that awaited him.
4
Erland, the Captain of the Vatéz Guard, had seen Ivanore hundreds of times, strolling in the courtyard, her dress caressing her legs like a bride’s veil. Every movement betrayed her royal heritage, the way she curled her fingers as she caressed a flower petal, or how she bent her knees and lowered herself to retrieve something she had dropped. The very tilt of her head, the curve of her lips was elegant and beautiful, and her visage was one Erland carried in his mind and heart whenever he was far from Auseret.
Erland had imagined himself speaking to her countless times, but their conversations had only ever been official. “Good morning, Milady.” “The Minister wishes to speak to you, Milady.” She was Arik’s sister, after all, and Arik was Minister of Hestoria now while Erland was a mere soldier. At least that’s how he thought of himself. True, he had risen through the ranks to reach the highest position a man like himself could attain, but in his heart, he was the same man who had been conscripted into the army a decade ago, a farmer’s son with no education, no birthright. He had no right to desire a princess. He dared not even speak to her.
It didn’t matter now anyway. He had his duty, to serve Arik and the Vatéz and to root out Guilde sympathizers. That’s what Minister Arik had ordered him to do, though how he was expected to carry them out had not been explained. Years earlier, before the Guilde had vanished, Erland had successfully tracked them down to the village of Alay Crevar. They had arrived too late, unfortunately, and the Guilde had already moved on. Erland still believed if he had continued on the trail they would have caught up to them, but instead he was forced to carry out then Minister Emir’s orders to punish any village found to have aided or housed the Guilde. It took hours to round up all the residents, the men, women, and children, to dig them out of their hiding places and herd them onto the bridge. Even then, with the hundred or so inhabitants gathered together, their eyes betrayed no fear. They thought they would be reprimanded, that maybe some of the men might be arrested. They were resigned to their punishment. But when Erland’s men pulled their swords from their scabbards, everything changed. They could not run, for Erland’s men stood on either end of the bridge. There was no way to escape save to jump into the river below, and a few did but were dispatched immediately by Erland’s archers, so no one else followed suit.
The soldiers advanced unhurriedly, as if wanting to draw out the experience — or hoping Erland might give the order to cease. Everyone, soldiers and villagers alike, seemed to believe that at any moment, this would end. None but Erland knew Emir’s true intentions.
As the soldiers came within a blade’s length of the huddled villagers, some he
sitated, glancing up at their commander with questioning eyes. One of them, among the youngest, was visibly shaking with fear. The lad bit down on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. This weakness made Erland feel both disgusted and ashamed. But there was no room for either in the heart of a commander.
“Commence!” Erland had shouted. Then, drawing his own sword, he drove it into a woman standing beside his horse. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, but no sound escaped her lips as she crumpled to the ground. There was one still moment of silence. The lad with the trembling lip steeled himself, his eyes growing a look of decision. He shouted like his leader and buried the tip of his blade into the chest of an old man. After that, the soldiers began the slaughter.
It took only a few minutes then, and soon the bridge and his men were drenched in blood.
“Throw them over,” commanded Erland. And the men, adrenalin still pulsing through them, heaved body after body over the side of the bridge into the shallow river. Erland had hoped the water might carry the bodies downstream toward the sea, but there were too many of them and the current was weak. The bodies heaped up one atop another, the water finding its new course around the growing pile of corpses.
When they were done, Erland could see that his men’s strength was depleted. They could not carry on like this. They would need rest before they could continue their hunt for the Guilde. He called them off the bridge and ordered them to take refuge in the houses of the dead. They ate their food. Changed into their men’s clothes. Washed in their wells. Slept in their beds. The men said little, slept deeply. The next morning, they were on their way again, but something had changed. There was a tangible sense of power among them. Some of them had killed before, but most had been boys fresh from their father’s farms. The nights had been filled with childish banter and laughter, talk of girls back home, of dreams of the future. But now they had somehow transformed into men, into soldiers. The talk between them now was subdued, serious. Erland heard no mention of tomorrows.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 2