“Hmm...” Sernio muttered through his teeth “And you, how are you? You had me alarmed the other day.”
Gwern had had one of his turns right during his eagerly awaited visit to Sernio’s. A mild fit, one nevertheless strong enough to knock him to the floor. The librarian had been paralysed in fear, unable to react. Luckily, Gwern was used to getting himself through the attacks, and had recovered after a couple of hours of anguish.
“I’m fine today. Larois made me a herb soup. It’s delicious, and it’s good for you too – at least that’s what she says.”
“Trust her words. That woman knows certain things,” Sernio reassured him, snapping his fingers. “But now it’s question-time. Ready?”
“Yep!” Gwern responded, hopping on the chair.
“Good, let’s get started...”
***
“...And where have you been?!”
Dunwich was moving hastily, head down, along the main corridor in the Lances’ palace. He’d heard someone shout to him, but he couldn’t allow himself to waste any time. He had to look for information, to pay the right people for the searches he had in mind, and to plan a brief reasoning to back up his proposals at the next strategies meeting. He also had to work out how long he’d been out of town, as he’d lost count of the days on his return journey. His one real concern was to find Mordraud, and he already had a few ideas on where he could be hiding.
“What do you want? Do we know each other?!”
The Lance who’d stopped him unceremoniously was shorter but much stockier than him. A compact bull with a dim-witted face, made vicious by two beady eyes.
‘Have we stooped so low as to take such louts? No selection?!’
“Tessaro, second-rank cavalry officer. Personal assistant to Asaeld, the great commander of the Imperial Army. Should I go on?”
“Listen, Tessáro” replied Dunwich, intentionally mispronouncing the stress. “Who gave you permission to speak to me?!”
“Asaeld in person. He told me to look for you, and he was very angry.”
“Fine, out of my way then. I was just going to him.”
Tessaro coughed with self-assurance, without changing that malicious smirk that Dunwich would willingly have scraped from his face with a dagger. “Well then, you’re heading the wrong way. It’s down there.”
Without a word, Dunwich pulled away the arm Tessaro was squeezing and began walking in the opposite direction. “Bunch of moronic losers...” he whispered in disgust while he searched for the door to the captain’s private study.
Asaeld was waiting for him, seated in his favourite armchair, behind his black wooden desk with gold inlay that was one of the finest pieces in the palace. The room was heavily furnished in the dark tones of ebony, embellished with arabesque decoration in precious metals, from the prized furniture through to the glasses set on the table beside the fireplace. For Dunwich, that blaze of glimmering inlay, foil and ornamentation was pointless, grim and bad taste. ‘The Lances are becoming old maids – far from invincible warriors,’ he mused, chuckling to himself.
“WHATEVER WERE YOU THINKING?!”
Dunwich closed the door behind him with a tap of his foot.
“What’s the problem, Asaeld? Have we lost a scuffle?”
“You’re impossible! You’ve been away for twenty days! Do you realise that?” The commander’s face was afire and his knuckles were raw from the constant pounding on the desk.
“A family matter. All resolved now, so please calm down,” replied Dunwich distractedly.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?! I’m your commander, for love of the Gods! Show me due respect!”
Dunwich bent down in a formal bow after two curt clips of the heel.
“My family was in serious trouble. I had to find out what was happening, otherwise I’d have lost my concentration entirely,” Dunwich uttered humbly. “I beg your pardon, Commander.”
Asaeld seemed to be on the verge of exploding again, but the abrupt change in Dunwich’s attitude had disoriented him. He sank back into his chair and tossed a sheet of paper onto the wooden surface: it showed a web of lines in different colours and thicknesses.
“Have a look at this. I want your opinion by this evening. An attack plan in the Hann Creek area. I’m to present it to the infantry after dinner.”
Dunwich took the drawing without abandoning his stiff bow, looked at it for a moment, then dropped it back on the desk.
“This way we’d have to cover both sides of our ranks. If we were to move the attack near to Hazelnut Hill... do you know where I mean? Well, if we shift south, we can use the hill to cover our left flank.”
“But that would mean we’d be unable to press them against the Hann River at the point where it widens...” objected Asaeld, carefully observing the sheet.
“The Hann? It’s too dangerous in that spot. I think we should target the Hann Marshland and its island, capture them and then push into the gorges of the mountains stretching to the east. The watercourses in the south, crossing the rebel territories, are hazardous, because the foe have been navigating them for years, while we’ve only seen them on maps. We should avoid them.”
“So what movements do you suggest we make?”
Dunwich grabbed a stylus and dipped it in the black ink. A few swift pen-strokes and he’d set out a diagram for positioning the troops, almost without reflecting. Asaeld studied the results, with no indication of what he was thinking.
It was an excellent plan. Perhaps better than his own.
“I have to think it through. You can go now, and make sure you don’t play any more tricks on me. You have commitments to the Empire. The next time you do something like that...” Asaeld stared at him sternly, “...I’ll post you to clean lavatories at the front.”
“Certainly, Commander,” Dunwich replied, breaking his bow. “May I go?”
Asaeld nodded and Dunwich left at a brisk pace, not even saluting him.
“I’ve dismissed more respectful men than you, for more futile reasons,” muttered Asaeld to himself. “But they were all a lot less gifted.”
The Lance was still holding the attack plan improvised by Dunwich. He looked at it a moment longer, then scrunched the sheet up into a tiny mangled ball.
Asaeld went back to his paperwork with a half-smile on his face.
***
The bread was warm and fragrant. Mordraud took the loaf and slowly breathed in its smell, closing his eyes to savour that wonderful scent. He picked up a knife, cut four chunky slices, dipped the wooden spoon in the chestnut honey and spread it methodically, loading the bread as thickly as he could. A gentle column of steam rose from the pan simmering on the stove. He took a spatula and scraped off the milk-fat collecting around the edge of the pot.
Breakfast was ready.
Deanna had plummeted into a black mood, succumbing to a venomous depression that no fairytale, no joking and no light-heartedness seemed to alleviate. Adraman hadn’t come home since their violent nocturnal row, and four months had gone by without his news from the front, except for the dispatches on his army’s progress. She often cursed and chuckled in a morbid way, revelling at the idea that her husband was in fact dead, but then she would burst out crying at once and fling herself under the bedcovers, answering to nothing and nobody. Mordraud no longer knew what he could do.
The other servants wouldn’t help him, tired and fed up as they were of their spoilt whinging mistress’s behaviour. However, he couldn’t see her the way they did. That would have been too easy, and also too much in keeping with his initial plan – to get into Adraman’s good books and find himself a place among the rebels at last. But he purely wasn’t capable of dismissing her as barmy and not caring a damn.
‘Don’t you go getting any strange ideas, young man,’ he thought. ‘She’s untouchable. And you look like a tot with your mother’s milk still fresh on your lips.’
It was hard to resist Deanna’s wanton beauty. Her every movement, each time she opened he
r mouth to speak or to eat – everything seemed calculated to draw attention to her body. The closer the warmer season came, the thinner and flimsier her garments grew. Mordraud didn’t know whether he’d make it through a whole season of heat and sheer fabrics pretending to be just a boy, when inside he already felt like a man.
‘That’s enough now! Stay focused, lad... And think only of your goal...’
Mordraud climbed the stairs and opened the door to the reading room. Deanna was leafing through an old collection of stories about knights, without much interest. A warm golden light bathed the room, filtered by the fine linen curtains fluttering at the open window.
“Here’s breakfast. You must eat something – yesterday you didn’t have dinner,” Mordraud said with a smile. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Mordraud moved closer with the tray and stood still in front of her, without the slightest intention of giving up.
“Well Mordraud, did you hear what I said?! I’m not hungry!” barked Deanna, jumping to her feet. When she was in such a mood, she’d get cross with everybody, even him. But he’d got used to it.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not. You have to eat, and that’s that!”
Deanna scowled at him, then suddenly lowered her head, half-closing her eyes.
“What’s wrong? Have I got honey on my face?”
“No...” the young woman murmured. “It’s just you seem... erm... taller. Even your face has changed a bit.”
“What?! What are you saying?”
“Look.”
Deanna lifted a hand and touched her forehead. “When you first came here, I was taller than you by a whole head. Now just a couple of inches and we’ll be able to look each other in the eye.”
Mordraud blushed in embarrassment. Something’s not right, he thought. ‘I’ve always grown with harrowing sluggishness. It’s not possible – she’s making fun of me...’
“You’ve also put muscles on your shoulders,” she went on, finally breaking out into a smile. “I hadn’t noticed...”
Mordraud coughed and shuffled his feet, feeling terribly tense. Listening to Deanna comment on his body had hurtled him into utter confusion.
“Well... time goes by for everyone...” he muttered, settling the tray on the table noisily. “Oh, I’ve forgotten the honey pot. I’ll fetch it.”
His was a genuine retreat. Deanna hadn’t managed to tell him in time that the bread was already spread with honey, because he’d rushed to the kitchen, breathless and eyes wide in amazement.
“What’s she saying now?!” he lamented, floundering. “I really don’t think I’ve grown... I still look like the same child...”
Mordraud observed his hands. His breathing calmed until it was back to normal, and the nervousness that had gripped him disappeared.
His fingers seemed different.
They were longer, and the calluses from the sword he handled every night made his skin look slightly older. Even his wrists had turned thicker, and likewise all the way up to his chest. He was growing sturdier, and he hadn’t even realised. His torment returned with the violence of a slap.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, young man... Don’t even think about it...’
His endurance didn’t last long, of course. Deanna came to him in his fantasies, completely naked on the double bed, inviting him to join her, rubbing her thighs and opening them just wide enough to make him dream. He could picture himself from behind, as he advanced, towering over her. Broad well-defined shoulders, legs of steel, and arms that could tear the world apart.
“I could have done without this,” he moaned in despair, going back to staring at his fingers.
“I really could have...”
XIII
“Sernio, are you home?”
The old bookseller jumped in surprise. He was just peeling the second of two old soft potatoes, and wasn’t anticipating visitors that day. He opened the door to his shack and took a step back so his unexpected guest could enter.
“Saiden, sir! Please come in...”
He hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. Since the last time he’d stopped by in Eld and bought a bagful of books; Sernio had survived for months on the money he had left him. It was stunning how like his grandfather he was, Sernio reflected, as he beckoned him in.
Saiden was the grandson of Saite, renowned as a chanter in Cambria when Sernio was still a boy. He’d met him while working in the library at the Arcane. His grandfather was very famous at the time. One of the greatest harmonies experts in the history of Cambria. A voracious reader. His son, according to those who’d met him, at least equalled his father in ability, but had left Cambria when very young. Thus Saiden had grown up outside the Imperial territories, and hadn’t followed in his grandfather’s footsteps at the Arcane. They looked like two peas in a pod. The same hazel eyes, and unusually glossy black hair. His face bore the faint traces of fine lines. Astounding, mused Sernio. His spitting image.
“I’d like to buy a novel or two. I was passing through to order supplies for the cold season, and hoped you might have something interesting.”
“I have very little really...” Sernio replied, with an excessively servile manner. “But I am sure I can find something to your liking.”
Saiden lived at six days’ ride from Eld, going south. An especially wild uninhabited area. In a tower standing on the remains of a small deserted town eroded away by time. Saiden had explained to him that his family, including his grandfather, had owned the tower when the town was still inhabited. He didn’t require much company – he enjoyed being on his own. For many years he’d been a respected chanter in Calhann, on the Inland Sea Strait, but had tired of living surrounded by people. An elusive character, Sernio decided. But he stirred a natural sense of trust, although he was unaware why. Then again, he had met his family, which had left an excellent impression.
Sernio began searching through his books for something Master Saiden might appreciate.
“Do you still have pupils, sir? Would you like something for them too?”
“Yes, I have two or three. But they have to study other things – I don’t leave them the time to read my novels...” he replied, laughing.
The last time Saiden had dropped by, he recalled, he’d stocked up on historical novels. Romantic reconstructions of well-known moments from the past. Sernio dug out a couple of books he’d probably never offered him. The Dawn of Legend: Syl’s Second Imperial Era – a great read, he thought. He also took The Battle at Hann Bridge – a great classic. He handed them to Saiden, who thumbed through them and nodded in approval. “Excellent... Have anything older?”
“Well, you see... There aren’t many documents from the First Era, and the historians often debate on...” Sernio stopped and apologised. When he got onto the topic, he tended to talk too much. Master Saiden obviously already knew all these things, he thought. He must certainly have had the benefit of an outstanding education.
“No, please go on,” Saiden invited him, unexpectedly. He placed the books on the makeshift table and sat down on a log. Sernio fetched two glasses and a jug of water, and endeavoured to make himself comfortable opposite, despite his embarrassment.
“The historians have elaborated many theories on the First Era, sir... The only written evidence from that period already talks of Cambria, as the capital, Syl and Calhann almost as we know them today. No other documents are available to us that would help us reconstruct who initially settled in these places or what they were like during the First Era. I’m referring to the fact that we have no idea of the roots to the world we live in, sir... We are somewhat ignorant regarding our past, if you’ll allow me to use this expression.”
“Some say the First Era belonged to and was dominated by the Aelians, isn’t that so?” Saiden responded. Sernio nodded but with little conviction.
“Certainly. It’s believed the Aelians lived in that period,” he returned. “But what carried Cambria to
become our capital? And who were the Aelians. And what happened between them and us? We know practically nothing.”
Saiden puckered his lips for an instant. “We are nonetheless talking of one thousand five hundred years ago – it’s likely everything’s been lost.”
“Hmm, of course...” replied Sernio. He didn’t want to contradict him, but he found it most strange that there was a hole of such a size in the weave of history.
“It’s true many don’t even believe Aelians ever lived in Cambria,” concluded Saiden, going back to leafing through one of the two heavy tomes. “I can indeed see how the topic is an appealing one... The boys I used to educate in Calhann would also pose similar questions.”
“And what did you answer them, if I may ask?”
“That the Aelians existed, and they lost terribly against us,” exclaimed Saiden as if it were self-evident. “Besides, I’m convinced our people came down from Ankhar, and it’s precisely for this reason we have no written remains from an older period.”
Sernio stared at him in amazement. It was a brilliant theory. Lacking in evidence perhaps, but absolutely brilliant. That another continent lay much further to the north was common hearsay, but an idea founded on truth, in his opinion. Saiden’s suggestion offered a solution to many of history’s enigmas.
“Nonetheless, the mystery remains of the Aelians’ downfall... and, by consequence, how we came to take their place. Unfortunately, we know practically nothing about them.”
“They’re not so different to us,” Saiden commented. “We’re more alike than we might seem.”
“Have you ever met one?!”
“A couple,” replied Saiden. “I’ve been lucky enough to exchange a few words with them.”
“Fantastic...”
“Indeed,” concluded the chanter, getting up off the log. He took his books and placed some gold Scudos on the table. A conspicuous amount, too much really. Sernio went to refuse some, but Saiden told him the sum was fair. He left the shack and Sernio followed him outside.
Mordraud, Book One Page 20