The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “A fine tale,” Rojer congratulated loudly. “Though I knew a man who told it differently.”

  “Oh?” Keerin asked imperiously, knowing a challenge when he heard it. “And who might that be?”

  “Arlen Bales,” Rojer said, and there was chatter throughout the room at the name.

  He looked at Keerin with mock incredulity as the color drained from the man’s face. “You realize, of course, that the boy in your song grew to be none other than the Warded Man, himself?”

  “Don’t remember a Jongleur in that story,” Gared said, and there was more chatter at that. “You want to hear a true story?” He slapped Rojer on the back, knocking him forward a step. “Rojer, play The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow!”

  Thamos put his face in his hand. Rojer turned, bowing to Rhinebeck as Keerin had. “Your Grace, I need not …”

  “It’s already being played in every alehouse from here to Miln,” Rhinebeck said with a wave. “Might as well hear it from the source.”

  Rojer swallowed, but he took out his fiddle and began to play.

  Cutter’s Hollow lost its center

  When the flux came to stay

  Killed great Herb Gatherer Bruna

  Her ’prentice far away

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  In Fort Angiers far to the north

  Leesha got ill tiding

  Her mentor dead, her father sick

  Hollow a week’s riding

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  No guide she found through naked night

  Just Jongleur travel wards

  That could not hold the bandits back

  As it did coreling hordes

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  Left for dead no horse or succor

  Corelings roving in bands

  They met a man with tattooed flesh

  Killed demons with bare hands

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  The Hollow razed when they arrived

  Not a ward left intact

  And half the folk who called it home

  Lay dead or on their backs

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  Warded Man spat on despair

  Said follow me and fight

  We’ll see the dawn if we all stand

  Side by side in the night

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  All night they fought with axe and spear

  Butcher’s knife and shield

  While Leesha brought those too weak to

  The Holy House to heal

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  Hollowers kept their loved ones safe

  Though night was long and hard

  There’s reason why the battlefield’s

  Called the Corelings’ Graveyard

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  If someone asks why at sunset

  Demons all get shivers

  Hollowers say with honest word

  It’s ’cuz we’re all Deliverers

  Not a one would run and hide,

  They all did stand and follow

  Killing demons in the night

  The Warded Man came to the Hollow

  Keerin seemed to shrink as the song went on. Gared roared the refrain along with Rojer, and others in the room took up the song. By the end, the Milnese herald’s haughty look was gone.

  The applause was louder at the end of Rojer’s song, with Gared leading the crowd with piercing whistles and his booming claps and cheers. Thamos joined him, and even his brothers clapped politely, save for Shepherd Pether, who merely sipped his wine.

  But from Jasin’s corner, there was silence until the rest died down, and then he, too, began a slow clap, walking toward the center of the room.

  “Your Grace—” he began.

  “Not now, Jasin,” Rhinebeck cut him off with a wave. “I think we’ve had enough of singing for one night.”

  Jasin’s jaw dropped, and Rojer flashed him a smile. “Not even Thirdsong tonight, ay? Perhaps we’ll call you Jasin Nosong from now on.” Before the herald could react, Rojer turned his back and rejoined the duke’s entourage.

  “And where is this Warded Man?” Pether’s mouth was a tight line. Not surprising, since Arlen Bales represented a direct challenge to his authority. Should Arlen be acknowledged openly as Deliverer, Pether’s position as the head of the church in Angiers would be effectively meaningless.

  “Over a cliff with the demon of the desert, as I told you all in my letters,” Thamos said immediately. “I was there, and have not heard credible tale of any seeing him since.”

  “He’ll be back,” Gared said, oblivious to the look Thamos shot him, or the way Pether’s lips soured. “Sure as the sun rises.”

  “You believe he is the Deliverer, then?” Pether demanded.

  All around them, other conversations died as everyone in the room waited on Gared’s response. Even Gared picked up on it, realizing that the entire relationship between Hollow County and Angiers might hinge on his response.

  “Was for me and mine,” Gared said at last. “Can’t deny the world’s changing, and it started with him.” He looked up, meeting Pether’s eyes with an intensity that broke even the Shepherd’s glare. “But I know Arlen Bales. He dun’t want a throne. Dun’t want to tell folk how to live their lives. All Arlen Bales cares about is killing demons, and that’s something every one of us ought to be able to get behind.”

  “Hear hear!” Thamos said loudly, raising his glass. His brothers all looked at him in surprise, but the count kept his eyes on Gared, avoiding their stare. The rest of the room responded instinctively at the motion, raising their glasses with a cheer.

  Rhinebeck, Mickael, and Pether, sensing the mood, drank the toast with practiced smiles, but Rojer could sense the unease that lay beneath.

  Leesha continued to be amazed at Araine’s masterful performance as a doddering old woman. She had one arm through Leesha’s and another through Melny’s, no act to the weight she put on them.

  There was no denying the effectiveness of the tactic. All the men at court, from the lowest scullery boy to Rhinebeck himself, were trained to leap to her bidding, lest the crone strain herself to exhaustion with the act of crossing the room.

  Leesha looked at Thamos as they passed, but the count affected not to notice.

  Nothing is settled, she reminded herself. Not until I make right with Thamos. She of all people should know that a mother’s marriage agreements were meaningless without the child’s consent.

  Wonda had the door. “Let an old woman lean on one of those magnificent arms,” Araine told her.

  “Ay, Mum,” Wonda said. Melny broke off with practiced ease, smiling as she took the lead of the crowd of women in the hall, escorting them to the evening salon.

  They approached the end of the hall where two large women stood at attention to either side of a great set of double doors. They were dress
ed almost identically to Wonda, and wore tabards bearing Araine’s crest. They were unarmed, but did not look to need arms to keep out most unwanted visitors. When they moved to pull open the doors, Leesha could see the barest impression of a short club hanging from the back of their belts, hidden by the loose tabards.

  They saluted as Araine approached, but their eyes were on Wonda.

  “You’ve become something of a legend in Angiers, dear,” Araine told Wonda. “Since your last visit, I’ve made some changes in the palace guard.”

  Another pair of women on the opposite side closed the doors, but these were clad in lacquered wooden armor and carried spears.

  Araine ignored the discomfort on Wonda’s face, turning to Amanvah and Sikvah. She surprised Leesha again, slipping effortlessly into Krasian. “Be at peace, sisters, and lower your veils. We are in the women’s wing of the palace. No men are allowed beyond these doors.”

  Amanvah bowed slightly, lowering her pristine white veil and undoing her headscarf. Sikvah followed suit. Unmarried, Kendall’s face was uncovered, but she wore her hair in a motley headscarf and removed it with a bow.

  The salon was filled with ladies of the court by the time Araine shuffled up the steps and down the hall. Women drank and lounged, discussing art, music, theater, and poetry. Princess Lorain commanded a knot of women, as did the Duchess Melny, the tension between the groups palpable.

  A trio of female Jongleurs in the court heraldic motley performed near the center. Two of them, young and beautiful, plucked harps, filling the rooms with soothing sound.

  The third was older, tall and thickly set. The motley patchwork of her gown was made of smooth elegant lines of colored velvet, embroidered in gold. Her voice permeated the room, bounced expertly off walls and ceiling designed to amplify those in the center of the room. The high soprano aria from Scaletongue, the opera about the mythical Messenger Jak Scaletongue, who could speak to demons, and delighted in tricking them.

  Amanvah’s eyes locked on the singer in that sharp, predatory way Krasian women had, Sikvah and Kendall’s heads swiveled as one to follow, like a flock of birds turning in unison.

  Amanvah and Sikvah raised their hands slightly, wiggling fingers in their secret language while continuing to watch the Jongleur. Leesha still had no sense of what the movements meant, but she knew from experience the Krasian women could speak as intricate a conversation with fingers and facial expression as they could with words.

  Pretending to adjust her hair, Leesha slipped on a warded earring. It was a tiny silver shell, molded around a curved bit of dried ear cartilage from a flame demon.

  She tilted her head slightly, and caught Kendall’s whispered words, even amidst the music. “Who’s that?”

  Sikvah leaned close to Kendall, her words the barest breath on the young woman’s ear, but Leesha’s earring caught them all. “She is the one who killed Master Jaycob.”

  Leesha’s stomach tightened. She had written the report to the city watch after the crime. Leesha prided herself on a sharp memory, but it cut both ways, as the image of Jaycob’s swollen and bloody body flashed in her mind, bones broken like kindling. He had been beaten to death by someone using their bare hands.

  From the size of the bruises, Leesha had always assumed the killer had been a man. There had been a purple handprint on Jaycob’s shoulder—where the assailant had gripped him to pull him into their blows. Leesha remembered measuring her own hand against it, like a child measuring against an adult.

  One look at the singer’s big hands, though, and she knew.

  “What do we do?” Kendall whispered.

  “Nothing, save the dama’ting command it,” Sikvah said. “This woman owes our husband a blood debt, but until he calls it due, we must endure.”

  The Core we must, Leesha thought.

  “Creator, that singing is giving me a splitting headache,” she said. Not loudly, but not quietly, either.

  Araine immediately picked up on it. “Sali, quit your warbling!”

  The Jongleur had taken a great breath for her next verse, but choked on it instead, coughing with great convulsion. She punched herself in the chest, trying to regain composure, and behind her, Leesha head Kendall give a tiny giggle.

  Leesha raised her voice. “If the ladies of your salon are as sick of another tired rendition of Scaletongue as I, Your Grace, perhaps the Princess Amanvah will bless us with something newer.” She glanced at Amanvah, whose eyes shone with gratitude.

  At a nod from Araine, Amanvah and her Jiwah Sen swept in on the unfortunate royal troupe, forcing them to stumble awkwardly from the center of the room.

  Kendall had her fiddle out, playing a few notes to warm the strings as Amanvah addressed the crowd.

  “In days long past, my people used music to drive back the alagai, turning them from their unholy purpose.” Her trained voice easily mastered the acoustics of the room, and her accent, rolling and musical, sent shivers through the crowd, commanding the attention of all, even the displaced Jongleurs.

  “It is time,” Amanvah said, “to return that power to all Everam’s children. Listen well.”

  With that, she began to sing, Sikvah and Kendall rising to join her, the three of them nearly as powerful alone as with Rojer at their lead. The song was in Krasian, but the melody wrapped them all close, and soon she could see women around the room mouthing the refrain as best they could, excitement on their faces as they remembered childhood lessons in the desert tongue.

  And in the corner, Sali stood with crossed arms, seething.

  CHAPTER 20

  SIBLING RIVALRY

  333 AR WINTER

  Rojer’s head was pounding when Sikvah shook him awake. He barely recalled stumbling into his chambers and crawling into bed with her. Amanvah and Kendall had their own rooms in the suite. Rojer looked to the window. It was still dark.

  “Creator, what’s the ripping emergency?” he asked. “Unless the walls have been breached, I mean to sleep through till noontime.”

  “You cannot,” Sikvah said. “The duke’s man is waiting outside. You leave at dawn for the hunt.”

  “Night,” Rojer muttered, rubbing his face. He’d forgotten all about it. “Tell him I’ll join them shortly.”

  By the time he pulled on his clothes a breakfast tray had been sent up, but Rojer only snatched a roll on his way to the door.

  “You must eat, husband,” Sikvah said.

  Rojer waved the thought away. “Going hunting with Duke Rhinebeck. Believe me when I say there will be food aplenty. Odds are I’ll return with a few extra pounds, and not from the game.”

  Sikvah looked at him curiously. “When Sharum hunt, they take only water with them. It is a test of survival.”

  Rojer laughed. “For many in the North, as well. But Royals hunt for sport. If the duke’s attendants chase a stag before his bow—and he manages to shoot it and not them—the cooks will turn it into a royal feast, ay, but the lodge will be stocked to feed an army in any event.”

  He kissed her, leaving Amanvah and Kendall to their beds as he headed toward the stables in search of Gared.

  He was fortunate to hear Jasin before he saw him, ducking into an alcove and hiding in the shadow of a statue of Rhinebeck I while he waited for them to pass.

  “You cannot mean that Milnese fop and ripping Halfgrip are invited, and I am not,” Jasin growled.

  “Lower your voice, boy,” Janson snapped. Gone was the obsequious tone he took with Royals and visitors. Rojer hadn’t heard that tone in some time, but he knew it well. Janson had used it often in the last days of Arrick’s service to the duke. “Rhinebeck doesn’t want you on the hunt, and that’s all you need to know. You’ll be lucky to keep your post at all after the mess you’ve made of your trip south.”

  “You’re the one who told me to have the soldiers drive the vagrants from the caravan grounds,” Jasin said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

  “I didn’t tell you to brag about it to the Hollowers,” Janson said,
“and if you so much as breathe a word about my order again, the black dress I have tailored for my sister will be a small price to pay to be free of the headaches you cause me.”

  Jasin wisely kept his reply to himself, and a moment later the minister was called away to attend some matter of the duke’s departure. Rojer strolled out into the hall, whistling a bright tune. Jasin looked up and scowled.

  “Sorry you won’t be joining us,” Rojer said as he passed.

  Jasin grabbed his arms, shoving him hard into the wall. He wasn’t a giant like Gared, but he was taller and stronger than Rojer. “I thought you’d learned not to cross me, cripple, but it seems you need a reminder of—”

  Rojer stomped hard on Jasin’s instep, circling his forearms in a simple sharusahk move to break the herald’s hold. He flicked his wrist, catching a knife in his hand and putting the point to Jasin’s throat.

  “Not afraid of you anymore, Nosong,” Rojer spat. He pressed the knife in, drawing a drop of blood.

  Jasin’s face went from pink to snow white. “You wouldn’t dare …”

  Rojer pressed harder, cutting off the words. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did to me? To Jaycob? Give me an excuse. I beg you.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Rojer and Jasin turned as one to see the speaker, Rojer twisting to block the blade from sight as he made it disappear up his sleeve. Lord Janson stood in the hall, glaring at them both. Rojer didn’t think he had seen the knife, but there was no telling for sure. Not that it mattered, if Jasin were to accuse him and show the puncture at his throat.

  But Jasin smiled, spreading his hands. “Nothing, Uncle. Simply an old disagreement.”

  Janson’s eyes narrowed. “Settle it another time. His Grace awaits you, Master Halfgrip.”

  Rojer bowed. “Of course, Minister.”

  “Another time,” Jasin agreed, turning on his heel and stomping back into the palace proper.

  “Halfgrip!” Rhinebeck called when Rojer made the stables. It was unclear if he were still drunk from the night before, or if this was a fresh inebriation, but it was barely dawn and already his words were slurred and the wineskin his page carried was only half full.

  “You can’t mean to hunt in that,” Pether said, pointing to Rojer’s motley with a short crooked staff that doubled as a riding crop. The Shepherd had changed from his formal robes into brown and green riding gear, fine silk and suede, with the crooked staff embroidered in gold on his fine wool jacket.