“Well, we knew that would happen eventually. Surely that’s not…” She trailed off, the sadness of her smile reaching her dark, liquid eyes. “It’s me, isn’t it?”
Isn’t it always?
“He wants me to Walk?” she went on.
“Perhaps. If we fail.”
She quirked an eyebrow, sauntered closer to him, and draped her arms around his neck. She smelled of grass and honey and sunlight.
“Do you intend to fail?”
“You know I don’t.”
She kissed him, her lips soft and cool. “Then why do you look like a boy who’s lost his favorite toy?”
“He wants you to come with us when we Span to Daerjen, so that if we can’t kill the lad, you’ll be ready to follow him back in time.”
Lenna shrugged. “He’s not a Traveler, and he’s always been impatient. Truth is, I wouldn’t necessarily need to find you in the past. I can kill the boy myself. It might not be a bad idea to take me along.”
“This is no festival we’re going to,” he said, voice dropping. “And Hayncalde’s soldiers won’t exactly welcome us with open arms. Now or in the past.”
The angles of her face hardened, though this made her no less beautiful. “You doubt my abilities?”
“Of course not. But–”
“But you’d be happier if I kept to my bees and never put myself at risk.”
That coaxed a smile, despite his fears, his lingering anger at the autarch. “That would be preferable.”
“Not for me. I’d get dreadfully bored, and while you were off plying your trade, I’d probably need to find another man. Or two.”
He laughed, and she kissed him again.
“This is what we do,” she said. “And if I didn’t, I would get bored. You know I would.”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“You’re meeting your men tonight then?”
“At the tavern. Sundown. Every night until word comes from Mearlan’s court.”
“Which means we’ll be busy all night, every night.” She stepped past him, toward the alcove that held their bed. As she walked, hips swaying, she began to unlace her bodice. “Come along then.” She glanced back, smiling once more. “And bring the honey.”
Later, as they lay together in a tangle of bedding and limbs, the golden glow of late day angling through the open window, he told her what he’d said to Pemin, his foolhardy challenge to the autarch’s authority over her.
She laughed, but concern shadowed her gaze. “You can’t speak to him that way. Not even about me.”
“I know that. But you should know by now that I can hardly help myself. Love turns all men into idiots.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“What can I say? As we get older, you and I, I grow ever more jealous of our time together. I don’t want Pemin spending even a bell of it.”
She touched her lips to his brow. “Foolish man. I’m a Walker. This is what I’m meant to do. And really, even if he is the most powerful man in Islevale, how much of my time do you think he can take?”
Chapter 8
16th Day of Kheraya’s Ascent, Year 647
The gentle roll of the ship on sweeps, to which he’d grown accustomed over the course of the journey, didn’t seem quite so gentle this final morning. Sunlight angling through the hatch onto the steps above Tobias’s pallet stabbed into his eyes like needles. Every footstep on the deck above echoed in his head like a war hammer. He levered himself into a sitting position, his movements deliberate, and still the motion proved too much. His head spun, and a queasy tremor roiled his stomach.
He had enjoyed the ales and the warm, giddy feeling that came with them. Only now did he understand what the priest in the palace temple meant when he railed against the evils of drink.
“Time to roust yourself, lad!” someone shouted from above at ear-splitting volume. Several of the crew stomped their feet on the deck, rattling his brain.
The laughter that followed served to further darken his mood.
He stood, swayed, was nearly sick. Steeling himself, he stepped around to the stairway and dragged himself onto the deck. The crew greeted his emergence with applause, whistles, shouted gibes – “You look half-dead!” “Dead? Nonsense, he’s a healthy shade of green!” “That side of the ship, sonny. A true sailor vomits to larboard!”
“Enough!” The captain’s voice. “He goes before the sovereign of Daerjen today. Give him some peace.”
A couple of the sailors patted his shoulder as they hurried back to work. A few offered encouraging words. Despite his current state he knew the teasing had been meant kindly.
“How badly off are you?” the captain asked, coming forward from the quarterdeck.
Tobias assayed a small smile, but wasn’t sure he managed more than a grimace. “I’ll be all right.”
“I know that. I’ve seen hangovers worse than this. But I’d prefer the sovereign didn’t tell your chancellor that I corrupted his new Walker. You do remember me telling you that we would arrive in Hayncalde today.”
He could hardly have forgotten. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.” She narrowed her gaze. “You know, you didn’t have to drink it all.”
“No?” Tobias said. “Would you have stopped, with all of them watching?”
“I’m their captain.”
“Even if you weren’t, you would have done what I did.”
She offered a shrug that conceded little, her eyes wandering over the shoreline. “Perhaps.” She pointed to something behind him. “There’s Hayncalde.”
Tobias whirled, nearly overbalanced. At the end of the gulf, nestled against a cove on the western coast, stood a wall of gray stone. Behind it, strewn over the gentle slope of the inlet, buildings large and small – some made of wood, others of white stone – lay together in a jumble, their red and gray rooftops creating a haphazard tableau. A large structure at the northeast corner of the city dominated the view, its towers and battlements made of that same white stone. The castle loomed over the coastline and the broad delta of a slow river. Above its ramparts, banners of red and white rose and fell in the warm breeze.
“The sovereign lives there?” Tobias asked.
“Yes. Hayncalde Castle. And that,” the captain said, indicating a gray stone structure with soaring narrow steeples that stood near the center of the city, “is the Temple of Sipar.”
He stared. Outside of Trevynisle, the temples were more apt to split, some worshipping Kheraya, the goddess, and others Sipar, her mate. Tobias and the rest of the novitiates had been drilled in the divisions. He had known since speaking with the chancellor that he would be living in a Siparite city.
You’re not a novitiate anymore.
He heard the words in Mara’s voice, and gave a small shudder, fear and excitement warring for supremacy in his thoughts.
“We’ll dock before the next bell,” the captain said. She started back to the quarterdeck. “Ready your things. I expect the sovereign will have someone at the wharf to greet us.”
Tobias hurried into the hold to retrieve his sack. At the sight of Hayncalde, his headache had subsided to a dull throb, and the queasiness in his gut had diminished. He soon climbed back up to the deck and took his usual spot by the rail, his sack at his feet.
The crew oared a powerful rhythm through the calm waters, propelling the Skate toward the middle of three wharves that jutted into the gulf. All three docks teemed with sailors and wharf workers. Several ships were moored to each wharf and dozens more bobbed on the waters beyond the pier, awaiting their turn to dock. Tobias had never seen a busier port.
A ship on sweeps maneuvered away from the middle wharf, creating space for another ship. None of the others moved to take its place, allowing the Skate to make its approach.
They’re doing this for you. They’re letting the ship dock so that you can join the sovereign in that grand castle.
It was as alien a thought as he’d ever entertained, yet he knew it was
true. His life had changed – was in the process of changing – in ways that thrilled and terrified him.
Before long, the crew had guided the Skate to the wharf. Two sailors jumped from the deck to the dock and tied the mooring lines to blackened metal bollards. Two others lowered the gangplank to the wharf.
Once the plank was in place, a young man in livery of white and red stepped away from a crowd of onlookers and positioned himself at its base.
Also for you.
Tobias glanced the captain’s way, but she was deep in conversation with her second mate. He searched the deck for Evan, or Ben, or Trem, or any of the others who had befriended him, but everyone was occupied with one task or another. He tried to catch the captain’s eye, and succeeded at last. She acknowledged him with a curt nod and a perfunctory smile, but otherwise didn’t interrupt her discussion.
He couldn’t say what he had expected, but this final exchange disappointed him. He knew he was being foolish, immature. He had been on the Skate for a bit more than a ha’turn, and would probably never set foot on her decks again. He had refused the captain’s offer of employment. Why should she care about him one way or another?
He shouldered his sack, hopped onto the gangplank and walked down to the dock. His pulse raced, and he had to resist the urge to wipe his damp palms on the legs of his breeches.
The uniformed man watched him, grave and attentive.
After all his years on Trevynisle, and so many days aboard the Skate with men and women browned by the sun and wind, Tobias thought the man’s skin unnaturally pale. His light blue eyes and straw-colored hair gave him a ghostlike appearance. Most of those on the wharf looked much the same. Tobias saw no one as dark as he was. Even having anticipated this, it made him self-conscious.
“You’re the Traveler?” the man asked, as Tobias stepped off the plank.
Tobias smiled at the dual meaning of the question. “Yes. Tobias Doljan, of Trevynisle.”
“Welcome. I’m Palry Farniss.” He spoke with a lilt that put Tobias in mind of Wansi. A pang of homesickness slid like a dagger through his ribs. “I’m the sovereign’s sub-minister of protocol.”
The title sounded impressive and it made Tobias wonder how many ministers and sub-ministers the sovereign employed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. He swung the sack off his shoulder and dug through it for the rolled parchment bearing the chancellor’s seal. “I have a letter of introduction…”
“I believe that’s meant for the sovereign.”
Tobias straightened, his cheeks coloring. “Oh. Yes, forgive me.”
“Do you have other possessions?”
“No, just this.”
“Very good.” The man gestured toward the city. “Shall we?”
He strode away from the ship and Tobias followed. Two soldiers, tall and brawny, fell in step on either side of them, seeming to materialize from nowhere. Their uniforms resembled Palry’s in color, but were less ornate. Both men carried swords, daggers, and muskets. The people on the wharf gave all of them a wide berth.
At the mouth of a cobbled road leading from the end of the wharf to the city, stood a white and red carriage harnessed to two large dun horses. Another man, also dressed in Daerjeni colors, sat atop the carriage box, reins in hand.
Palry opened the door and waved Tobias inside.
Tobias took a seat facing forward and was joined by the minister. The soldiers sat opposite them, the breadth of their shoulders making the generous seat look cramped. One of the men reached out through the open window and rapped twice on the roof. With a shout and the snap of leather, the carriage lurched forward.
The cobbled lane wound toward the massive city wall, which stood as tall as the keeps of Windhome Palace and was thick enough to accommodate the dozens of armed guards who walked its ramparts. The road itself was choked with men and women making their way to and from the wharf. Some carried wares from ships; many led crude wagons, drawn by horses or asses and loaded high with foodstuffs, or bolts of cloth, or wooden cases containing bottles of wine.
The carriage rumbled through an arched gate that was deep enough to shelter the carriage from the horses’ snouts to the rear of the coach. As the rattle of the carriage wheels echoed to a roar, Tobias eyed the walls and arch of the gate, noting the two oak and iron portcullises and the murder holes built into the stone.
Emerging from the gate into the city proper, Tobias was afforded a better view of the houses and businesses he had glimpsed from the ship. So close to the outer walls, the buildings were constructed of wood, gray and weatherworn. Most stood at angles, their roofs sagging, their walls leaning together like rows of drunkards supporting each other to remain upright.
The scent of brine and fish, so strong near the wharves, was overwhelmed here by the stink of urine, excrement, and rotting food. Rank water filled the spaces between cobblestones and flies swarmed around fresh piles of horse dung.
Several lanes – many cobbled, a few no more than dirt tracks – spread like tree roots from the main road, snaking into shadowed neighborhoods where a few lone figures walked. The minister’s carriage, though, angled northward, climbing to the castle. Wood gave way to white stone, strained walls and tired lines gave way to clean angles and tiled rooftops, silks and refined wools replaced rags and tatters. The fetor of the lower lanes receded.
Still they climbed, steadily closing the distance between their coach and the lofty white towers of the sovereign’s palace. Ravens circled the turrets, black as pitch against the azure sky, their rough calls nearly lost in the noise of the carriage wheels.
The lane rounded one last curve and straightened, revealing a second stone wall around the palace, this one nearly as thick and high as the city battlement. Soldiers patrolled these ramparts as well. The portcullis of the gate ahead of them was down.
The coach slowed, then halted. The portcullis rose with the clatter and growl of iron gears.
Once the barrier was up, the carriage started forward again, rolling through the palace gate and emerging into an open ward of grass and stone, a defensive perimeter. The carriage followed a narrow path to an inner gate, as well-fortified as the first. This one spilled onto a courtyard the size of those in Windhome Palace, and yet nothing like them. Tobias stared out at the ward, hardly daring to breathe.
White stone, as bright in the sunshine as fresh snow, surrounded the coach. At the center of a round plaza defined by rainbow tiles laid out in concentric circles, a fountain danced and gurgled. Gardens framed the plaza, the petals of their flowers a match for the tiles, and beyond these plots, rows of stone arches marked a walkway that encircled the entire courtyard. Tobias had never seen any place more beautiful.
The carriage halted beside yet another arched gate in the gleaming stone, framed by a mosaic of blue, gold, and red tile. The minister pushed open the carriage door and stepped out into the plaza.
Tobias grabbed his sack and followed.
“This is Trygar’s Ward, named for–”
“The leader of the Hayncalde Reassertion,” Tobias said. “We studied him. And his son.”
“Very good. The sovereign will be pleased to know you have some knowledge of our history. Shall we take you to him?”
Tobias’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Now? Can’t I have a little time? At least to change my clothes?”
“I’m afraid his instructions were quite clear in this regard. I’m to present you to him without delay.”
I’m not ready!
He didn’t say this. If he couldn’t so much as meet the man, how was he to serve him, and justify all the gold the sovereignty had already spent on his behalf?
He straightened, hoping his posture would convey confidence. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
They entered the keep through the archway, and climbed a winding stairway of black marble to the third and highest level. Palry led Tobias out of the stairway and down a lengthy, arcing corridor. An array of artwork hung on the gilded walls –
portraits, landscapes, still lifes – and white marble busts of men and women rested on occasional wooden plinths. Slotted windows, clearly intended for archers, allowed in some light, and candles burned in sconces.
Tobias walked by the paintings and sculptures, resisting the urge to stop and admire them all.
They halted before a ponderous door at the end of the corridor. Palry knocked and at a summons from within opened the door and gestured Tobias inside. Tobias entered. Only when he heard the door close did he realize the minister hadn’t followed.
The sovereign’s chamber was twice the size of Chancellor Shaan’s quarters back on Trevynisle. Sunlight streamed into the room through a bank of glazed windows, brightening the white walls, which were mostly bare, save for a few portraits behind the sovereign’s desk. A round rug depicting a vast battle scene covered most of the marble floor, its threads vivid and colorful enough to bring the violent tableau to life with disturbing clarity. As in the chancellor’s study back in Windhome, a cage crowded with messenger pigeons rested on a shelf by the windows.
A man Tobias assumed must be the sovereign stood beyond the desk, his form framed against the daylight, his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him. He was of medium height and build, his hair light and closely shorn.
He didn’t turn at the sound of the door’s close, nor did he speak.
Tobias waited, still and silent, wondering if he ought to clear his throat and let the man know he was there. He drew breath to speak, then stopped himself, fearing he might give offense.
Finally, he said, “Good day, sovereign. I am–”
“Tobias Doljan, Walker. Fifteen years of age, though only just. Yes, I know.”
“Y– Yes. I have my–”
“You may place your letter of introduction on the desk. Beside the chronofor waiting for you there.”
Tobias all but leapt to the desk, his gaze alighting on the chronofor. He reached for it, but stopped himself, remembering his letter. He swung the sack off his shoulder and pulled out the chancellor’s missive, which he set beside the device. His hand trembling, he then picked up the chronofor by its shining chain.
Time's Children Page 7