Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  “Your mother is angry,” Arthur said, his eyes smiling.

  “What mother wouldn’t be?”

  “A good mother. You deserve to be treated better.”

  “I can’t complain.” Though she thought she deserved better too, now that she heard her own opinion in another mouth she felt she had to defend her mother. “She has always been so poorly treated herself. Only the other day I heard…but you don’t want to her that.”

  “Perhaps I do.”

  “There are some who grumble about her smell. ‘You can smell it on her, and the princess is little better,’ they say.”

  While he did not like his stepmother, especially given her religiosity, Arthur was incensed that any would say such a thing about the queen, and worse, about his own sister. “Who said this?” His eyes were suddenly afire, and he gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles whitened. Despite his intelligence and kindness he could be quick to anger. He was also renowned, not only for his feats of arms, but also the occasional recklessness of his bravery. For a crown prince he was far too careless with his safety. She thought she should not have told him of the whispered insults, especially those about herself, though it gave her satisfaction that someone other than herself was offended.

  She tried to deflect his anger. “It’s not important.”

  “The honour of my sister will always be important to me.”

  His chivalry was renowned at court, and Sophie thought she heard one of her ladies sighing. She trod on Amelia’s foot as accidentally as calculation would allow.

  “Ow! Sophie!” Amelia gasped, but nothing could wipe the adoring expression off her face, and she continued to stare with wide open eyes at Arthur. Katherine observed Sophie’s ladies with mild amusement. Her love was indisputable, but clearly tempered by an awareness of her husband’s faults.

  “What I mean is, my mother has suffered that sort of thing since Father married her. It can’t be easy to be so hated by all the people who should look up to you.” A daughter, she thought, to excuse herself, owed a mother no such respect.

  “They should be careful what they say of the queen,” he said, scowling. His duty to the royal house was as close as Arthur could approach to concern for his stepmother’s feelings.

  “I do wish she wouldn’t spend so much time with the puritans though.”

  “And Father with the priests.” He nodded, watching the priests and monks about the king. “Priests shouldn’t speak through the king’s mouth, not even the Bright Arkon. Father concerns himself more and more with the world to come. I wish he was more advised by men of the world than men of the cloth. Look, even now.”

  Sophie looked to the throne. The arkon of Thulathra leaned away from the king’s ear and the king spoke.

  “It is our fond wish that the testament of the right honourable count be respected. What is the will of the Sun but divine law? What is our law but the image of His law? To pray to Him is the duty of all who value justice. Like as our subjects bow to us and look to us for guidance, so also should all bow down to Him whose realm is eternal that His light might guide them through the long night. The licence shall be granted.”

  The count bowed deeply and repeatedly as he stepped backwards away from the throne.

  “Religion has its place,” Katherine commented diplomatically.

  “And should know its place,” Arthur added, “When priests are too close to a king more than a chantry or a cult’s coffers are at stake. History should make kings cautious of the motives of priests. The Dispute of the Three saw a palace coup instigated to win a fight between cult factions. A throne was usurped because a schism resulted in three arkons disputing the sky god’s will. The Night of Knives did not only affect the cult.”

  “Yes,” Katherine said, “but the winning arkon had his throat cut in his sleep by the very knife that killed his competitors after a counter coup only two days later. Politics always has many dimensions, and the priests who meddle risk as much as they gain.”

  “I don’t trust priests,” he said, stubbornly, but softened under the pressure of her mildly amused smile. “I know your piety is balanced, my good lady, and only wish your moderation was more common.”

  “You wish that I was more common?” she teased.

  “I’ll show myself wise and not answer your wit.”

  “You are as ever a good husband.”

  “But a wasted soldier. There’s a lot of trouble in the east and yet Father keeps me at court, where my only armour is words that always prove poorly suited to my purpose.”

  “I’d rather you were here and tongue tied, than there, and dead. Life is so soon ended in a skirmish, and words matter less than the breath to make them.”

  “A soldier must fight. A prince must lead. Let fate decide when I must fall.”

  “Let fate wait. Your family loves you,” she said, and added hopefully, “and the city needs you. Would you abandon those who need you most to suppress a rabble many miles away?”

  “I’ll fight the rebels,” said prince Richard enthusiastically.

  Arthur punched his son affectionately in the arm. “Your enemies will run away at the mere sight of your ferocity.”

  “I’ll fight with you, Father.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I’m not as strong as you yet.”

  “You will be, son.”

  “I don’t know much about fighting, Richard,” Sophie said, “but I know you’ll be good at anything you put your heart into.”

  “There are many things he can do well here,” Katherine said.

  “And I’m sure he’ll excel at all of them.”

  “Like his father, when he wants to do something there’s little chance of stopping him.” It was a statement directed more at Arthur than Richard.

  “Though you never stop trying.” Now it was Arthur’s turn to smile. “No need to worry though. Father is determined to let the rabble run riot while I sit in the palace uselessly.”

  “If they’re just a rabble, why do they need the crown prince to defeat them?”

  “Harvests have been poor this year, and many peasants join the traitor, Conner Mac Naught. Peasants have little skill in arms but great force of numbers. Still, for them to have survived so long with Augustyn’s knights hunting them, I think there must be something more behind what we see. But whatever they are, a small troop of my knights would show them the folly of challenging their king. They forget too soon the Day of the Red Reaping.”

  “Many would forget that day, if they could. A thousand people executed. The heads of men, women and children scattered like grains of wheat on the winnowing floor. I’d rather not see another day like it. But they should return to their farms peacefully.”

  “Where they fear to starve. They find bravery in robbing and murdering other peasants, and when they rob they eat. Only fear will send them to their homes. And only war will teach them fear, if history will not.”

  “On their farms they have little time for history. The closest most peasants come to knowledge of the past is the tales of bards.”

  “I love the tales of bards,” Sophie enthused, and Amelia and Kat agreed.

  “They have their place,” Katherine said, “but you girls also have the education to know what is fantasy and what is truth. A peasant does not. A peasant hears pleasant nonsense and mistakes it for history.”

  “WHY HAVE YOU NOT CRUSHED THESE SLAVES?” At the king’s shout the great hall was silent. Before the king Augustyn knelt, his head bowed. The king’s eyes bulged from his head, and spittle flew from his mouth as he accused The Duke. “Do you join yourself with base men to bring destruction to our kingdom? You will not have our crown. Why do you aid them?”

  “Great majesty, I fight them with all the strength I can.”

  “You have men in Gwendur in the east. You have men in the march of Glede in the west. Why do you not fight with all your strength where our realm is overrun? Why do you not treat our enemy as your own?”

  �
�My lord, my men in the march circle Glede to save the realm from the predations of the Fiks. And more. They fight to take back, to your glory, that great city lost to your kingdom for so many years. Even now they strive to drive the Fiks from your kingdom for good. We will burn their long boats and drown them in the sea from which they came. They will learn to fear your wrath.”

  “And what of you, Amery?” the king asked. “Where are your men? Do you think to bring them to Thedra? You want our crown?” The king took off his crown and held it out, as if offering it to Amery. “Here. Take it.”

  “No, most terrible majesty. It is not mine. I only serve you.”

  “Then where are your men?”

  “They are…”

  “On their way here. Don’t deny it.”

  Both dukes stared in amazement at the king. Even the Bright Arkon, for all the king’s favour, seemed discomforted by this raving. Arthur, seeing an opportunity to change his father’s mind, strode forward now.

  “Father. Let me fight the rebels. I will crush them swiftly. I will bring peace to your realm.”

  “No. Do you not hear? Amery’s troops are coming for our crown.”

  Amery spluttered his innocence.

  “Don’t deny it. I know. I know.” The king put his finger to the side of his nose. “I know all. As the sun knows all. I know all. King of the gods. Sun King.”

  The arkon of Thulathra was clearly disturbed by this apparent heresy. The kings of Ropeua had always claimed divinity was their fate at death, but not one had confused himself with the Great Father, the king of the gods. Whatever the disputes between kings and priests, none had ever gone so far. There was no precedent. But the king was a devoted patron of the Priests of the Sun. Sophie could see the arkon’s face struggling to reconcile his faith with his cult’s material interests.

  Then the tension was gone. He had struck on an interpretation of the king’s words that he found acceptable. With satisfaction, he said, “As Thulathra above, so the king below.”

  The king looked at him. “Indeed. As above, so below.”

  He turned back to the dukes. “And you are below us. You must not think to have our crown.”

  The dukes both vociferously protested their loyalty, their honour, their integrity.

  “The lesser should bow before the greater,” the arkon said with satisfaction.

  The king nodded. “You hear?”

  “Yes,” said Augustyn.

  “Yes,” said Amery.

  “Yes,” said the king, nodding.

  “Yes,” said the arkon, smiling.

  “Now you must crush these rebels. No, son, you must stay by our side. We are surrounded by enemies. You must be our shield.”

  “I will always be your shield, Father,” Arthur said with resignation.

  Chapter 12: Alex: Thedra

  Blacksmiths’ Way.

  No anvils rang, no hammers fell. The street was as quiet as a mouse in a trap. Alex had waited until after sunset, then followed the two city watchmen at a distance as they approached the street on their circuitous but predictable way through the city.

  “Ten of the clock and all is well,” they called out as they passed down the street. Though the moon was only four days past full, the projecting upper stories of the buildings – the domestic apartments above the shops, some of which met from opposite sides of the narrow street – meant that there was only a narrow, interrupted strip of prismatic light down one side of the cobblestones. The single lantern of the city watch provided the only man made light in the street, a dull yellow glow barely penetrating the shadows, swinging at the end of a long pole which the constable extended up to illuminate the shutters and windows of the buildings’ cantilevered upper stories, at least the ones which did not meet. These shutters were mostly flung open in the hot summer night, almost an invitation for thieves.

  There was a blood curdling screech. The constable with the lantern pole lowered the lantern to street level and extended it into the darkness. Four eyes shone red like glowing coals in the sudden light. The yowling tomcats displayed sharp toothed snarls then ran further into the dark, one stopping for a moment to turn back his glowing eyes and hiss defiance. The men muttered and laughed and continued on their rounds.

  With the help of Rose’s balms Alex had quickly recovered from the beating he had taken two nights before. He had even had a bath, at least he had gone for a swim in the caldera and washed the stink off his body and clothes. Now he felt he had to make up for lost time. Then there was the little matter of revenge. Most of all he had to steal back what had been stolen from him. Not that he had any moral qualms about theft; but it should be done with skill, not brute force. As a professional he was offended by their lack of thieving skill. And that beating had hurt his feelings. It was as though they thought he did not respect them enough. It was a rule of Alex’s never to disrespect any man more than was necessary. Necessity, like justice, being a conveniently malleable concept.

  Alex squatted in deep shadow at the end of the street, watched the movement of the constables of the watch and listened to the low murmur of the city, some part of which was always awake.

  Though he might have accepted the open invitation and entered by the window if he had arrived a few hours later, there was a chance at this hour that one of the blacksmith, his wife, children and prentice might still be awake. So instead he would enter via the workshop, which had a double door to allow easy access to the forge from the street and, if he remembered right despite the other night’s beating, no slot for a bar on the inside, just a lock to pick. Brandon’s shop was not far from the entrance to Blacksmiths’ Way. Observing from the end of the street, Alex calculated that he would have plenty of time to pick the large, clunky looking lock and slip in before the constables of the watch turned at the other end and came back. Of course, he would not know for sure until he saw the inside of that lock. He hoped it was not too complex a mechanism. All going well, he would get inside, find the bone sword, and gold accumulated by a lifetime of hard work, inflated prices and low wages to prentices, and be back in North Bank before twelve of the clock. If the residents were sleepy enough he might also find some pretty trinkets of the wife, hidden under the bedroom floorboards, or maybe carelessly kept in a locked chest; something to cheer Rose up.

  He darted toward the door, a silent shadow flitting through silent shadows. Suddenly he stopped, shrinking into a deep shadow. Something unusual was happening. There were sounds within. He listened carefully. It was not only within this shop, but all down the street. At a distance he had mistaken the low murmur and shuffle for the general background sounds of the city. But now he clearly heard hands on the insides of doors, and keys being shoved into locks. There was no time to run back to the end of the street. Two doors were already about to open between him and there. Quick as a cat with a mongrel nipping at his tail, he threw his grappling hook to the eaves of two meeting cantilevered sections and climbed up the rope, drawing it after him. He was brightly lit by the prismatic rays of the moon up here, so he darted up and over the peak of the roof. He ran lightly across two roofs until he reached a convenient junction between two ridges. Here one ridge cast shadow into the hollow between, so that he could hide. The hollow was also low enough that he could see part way down the street, under the nearest cantilevered section.

  The door of every shop down the street opened, and cowled, robed figures stepped out, carrying unlit torches. What was this? The city watch turned around, as surprised as Alex. The torches were then lit, and the blacksmiths fell into line. The robes and cowls were a vivid orange in the torchlight, like robes of fire. Alex drew back some way from the edge, and lightly ran across the rooftops to the end of the street. There he squatted in the shadow behind a forge chimney, looking down at the strange procession. The blacksmiths processed along and out of the street. What an opportunity! He could rob the whole street, or at least all the homes of bachelors. But his curiosity got the better of him. What were they up to? After all, you
could rob a blacksmith any night, and part of the fun was the danger of him being at home.

  He followed them from the rooftops. In many places he could lightly leap from one projecting upper story to another to cross the narrow streets. Where the streets were too wide for this he silently dropped to the cobblestones in shadowy areas, then climbed up the other side.

  The torches wended their way through the city, the men making little sound. None spoke. Their footfalls were light for such big men. They passed along Carter’s Fall Lane, near the outer walls, then turned back toward the centre of the city via Cobblers Alley. There was the Spur and Saddle tavern, and later the Hawk and Mew inn. But Alex soon lost interest in landmarks. He ignored the streets he had jumped over or traversed at height. He would be able to trace the way again if he wanted. He thought he knew where they were going now. Whichever way they turned they always turned back toward East Gate. Now they were turning into Main Street, the long, wide thoroughfare – lit at intervals by torches and guard stations beside brightly blazing braziers – which ran in a quarter-circular arc along the centre of Outer Ring; in North East Quarter from North gate, through the great market of Thedra, and then to East Gate.