“What am I supposed to do with half a horse?” said Gerald.
“Eat it,” said Mazael.
Gerald grimaced. “I had enough horse in Mastaria after Grand Master Malleus routed Mandor!”
“Your father has more horses than the Lord of Swiftheart,” said Mazael. “But, because I am a compassionate soul, I’ll give you my half of the second horse.”
Gerald laughed. “You’re too kind, I say.”
Mazael smirked. “I know.”
Timothy finished his spell. The crystal shimmered, rainbow light flashing from its facets, and he tucked it into his coat. “The spell is complete,” he said.
“Good,” said Mazael. “Any enemies nearby?”
Timothy’s eyelids fluttered. “Ah...no. There are some peasants in that house,” he pointed, “watching us...I suppose they were afraid to come out when they saw the bandits. Other than that...there is no one nearby.”
“Splendid,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep moving. Rachel! You can come now. The wizard’s done being distasteful.” Rachel rode to rejoin them, ignoring Timothy. Mazael offered Timothy a shrug and set Chariot to a walk.
They passed the peasant farmhouse. One of the fields behind the house had been left fallow for the season, and blood roses filled its furrows. It resembled one great wound, hacked and stabbed by thousands of knives. Mazael remembered Mattias Comorian’s words, and shivered despite himself.
2
In the Monastery’s Shadow
“I say, Mazael, I thought we had another day of travel. Is that the castle already?” said Gerald, squinting at the massive structure brooding at the top of the hill. A thick mist had risen up that morning, swirling around their horses' hooves like fingers of cloud. The fortress loomed out of the murk like a grim stone fist.
Mazael gave a curt shake of his head. “No.”
Here the land rose up into one of the Grim Marches' few craggy regions, worn spurs of gray granite jutting from the earth like jagged teeth. The rocks sported no lichen or moss, but instead tough weeds and small, rugged trees. Small brooks trickled through the hills, flowing their way to an eventual rendezvous with the Northwater.
Last night, Mazael had stopped at a dozen farmhouses to ask for lodgings. Two had turned them away, and the rest had refused to even open the door. At the last house, he had heard an old woman screaming out a prayer for Amatheon to protect her from the Old Demon. Disgusted, Mazael and his companions had bedded down beneath a tree. Unable to sleep, Mazael had kept watch most of the night, leaving him tired and irritable.
Gerald, who had seen Mazael in darker moods, was undaunted. “That fortress is a strong place. If it does not belong to your family, then who dwells there? Look at the way the ground slopes towards the walls! Fifty men could hold that place against an army. I cannot believe that it lies simply abandoned.”
Mazael yawned. “It doesn’t. That’s a Cirstarcian abbey.”
Gerald frowned. “The Cirstarcians? But...they’re the most powerful monastic order in the kingdom. Your pardon, Mazael, my lady...but Castle Cravenlock is something of a backwater.”
Mazael laughed. “So are most of these lands.”
“Why would the Cirstarcine Order establish an abbey so far away from the great cities?” said Gerald.
Rachel shrugged. “Who knows, Sir Gerald? The Cirstarcians are meddlers by nature. I cannot count the number of times Mitor has flown into a rage after meeting with an emissary from that abbey.” She gazed up at the walls with unblinking green eyes.
“The gods only know. And so do the Cirstarcians, I suspect,” said Mazael. “The Cirstarcians have been there as long as anyone can remember.”
Timothy smiled. “The Cirstarcians have always been a friend to wizards,” he said. “With the exception of the Arminiars, every other monastic or militant order in the Church condemns wizardry.”
Mazael grinned at him. “Conjuring the dead and lying with succubi and all that?”
Timothy grimaced. “If I had a copper coin for every peasant who believes that twaddle—I—well—I’d have more gold than Lord Richard himself.”
“You’d need quite a few peasants for that,” said Mazael. They rode between two crags of weathered granite.
Part of Mazael's mind - the dark part, the part that plotted how to kill everyone he met - realized it was the perfect place for an ambush.
Timothy jerked in his saddle and nearly lost his seat. His horse whinnied, tried to bolt, but Mazael wheeled Chariot around and put a firm hand on Generosity’s head.
“What is it?” said Mazael. For a moment, he thought Timothy had been hit with a crossbow bolt, and the blood started to thunder in his temples...
“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “There are men watching us, from the monastery. Six, I think.” His hand clutched at the wire-wrapped quartz crystal.
Mazael looked up at the fortress wall. “Are there, now? Well, let them look. It’s their road, after all. They can stare until their eyeballs shrivel, for all I care, so long as they don’t try to stop us.” He scratched Generosity behind the ears. The horse’s ears perked up. “Next time, try to keep your saddle. Sir Gerald and I didn’t rescue you from the bandits to have you break your neck.”
Timothy’s smile turned sheepish. “I fear that I have little experience with horses, my lord knight. And I sensed their presence...suddenly, that’s all.”
“We’ll work on your horsemanship later,” said Mazael.
“Mazael, let’s go,” said Rachel. “I don’t trust the Cirstarcians. Any number of those monks have been to Mitor’s court and they could recognize me. The Cirstarcian monks support Lord Richard. I’d rather not have them deliver us to Swordgrim.”
Mazael frowned. “Since when do monks abduct travelers from the road?”
“My lady,” said Timothy. “The Cirstarcians are legendary for their reclusive nature. They are likely watching us to make certain we are not one of the mercenary bands plaguing the countryside. If we leave them alone, they will let us pass in peace.”
Rachel glared at the wizard. “Let’s go. The gods only know what goes on behind those monastery walls. I’d rather not find out. Please, let’s ride before they find us.”
Mazael contrasted the smiling, cheerful girl he remembered with the suspicious woman he saw now. When had Rachel grown so fearful? For the first time, Mazael found himself wondering what had happened to Rachel since he had left.
What sort of woman she had become.
“I think the wizard is right,” said Mazael, “but if it troubles you that much, yes, then we’ll go from this place with all speed.”
Rachel sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mazael.”
They continued along the hill path and the monastery soon vanished into the mists behind them.
“A pity we couldn’t stop,” said Gerald. “I would have liked to make prayers at the monastery.”
“There’s a chapel at Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “You can make your prayers there.”
“True,” said Gerald. “But it’s been so long since I’ve been at a proper church for a proper prayer.”
Mazael shrugged. “The gods are eternal. I’m sure they’ll wait two days for your prayer.”
Gerald made a sound that was a curious mixture of a laugh and a sigh. “You never did care much for the gods, did you?”
Mazael laughed. “You’ve known me for—what—ten years now, and you’ve just realized it? I thought I trained you to be more perceptive.”
“You know what I mean,” said Gerald.
Mazael shrugged. “So what? If the gods exist, then they either ignore us, which is fine, or they take interest in the lives of men, in which case they are obviously cruel.”
“That’s impious,” said Gerald. “A knight is sworn to be pious.”
Mazael laughed. “Actually, my father tapped me on the shoulder with his sword and shoved me out the door. You remember, Rachel? After Lord Richard defeated him, my father wanted no one to interfere with Mitor th
e Mushroom’s inheritance. He gave me a sword, a horse, knighthood, and told me to leave and never return.”
Rachel frowned. “Our father was a good man.”
“Oh, I don't doubt that,” said Mazael. “Generous and kind, but weak and none too bright. Gerald, did you know that Lord Adalon had twice the men Lord Richard did? My father could have sat in Swordgrim and waited for Lord Richard’s army to starve. Winter was coming. Instead, he marched out to meet Lord Richard in battle. He didn’t want to seem a coward, you see. As Rachel said, Lord Adalon was a good man, but he was no commander. Lord Richard tore his army to shreds, killed my two older brothers, and took Lord Adalon captive. Now, what sort of gods allow a weak man like my father to lead his land to ruin?”
“Evil comes from men, and good from the gods,” said Gerald.
“And now it might happen again,” said Mazael. “Instead of Lord Richard Mandragon rising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock, Mitor will rise against Lord Richard. Unless I talk some sense into the fool, Lord Richard will crush the Cravenlocks once again.” Mazael smirked. “Like father, like son.”
They rode in silence for a moment.
“Mitor could win,” said Rachel.
Mazael stared at her. “Mitor? Defeat Lord Richard the Dragonslayer? And just how would he do that? A pact with the Old Demon and all the powers of darkness? His soul for the Grim Marches?”
“Mazael, that’s not funny,” said Rachel.
Mazael sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his beard. “Very well. How in the name of the gods do you think Mitor could possibly defeat Lord Richard?”
“Mitor’s no battle commander, like you said, but he has men who could serve him as one. Lord Marcus, Sir Nathan, Lord Roget of Hunter Hall,” said Rachel.
“Lord Marcus Trand is, as I remember, a bootlicking toad,” said Mazael. “Lord Roget is a scholar, not a warrior. And Sir Nathan...Sir Nathan could lead an army against the Dragonslayer...but Mitor considers him too old, remember?”
“Sir Albron could lead Mitor’s army,” said Rachel. Her face beamed at the mention of her betrothed. “He’s as good a fighter as Sir Nathan. He could defeat the Dragonslayer.”
Mazael doubted it. “Even if he could, what would he fight Lord Richard with? Mitor could probably call, say, ten thousand men to his banner. Lord Richard could easily call twenty thousand, maybe even twenty-five. Your Sir Albron had best be a damned fine commander, if he’s going to face those odds.”
“When we fight,” said Rachel, “we won’t just have the men of Castle Cravenlock and the other lords. The Knights Justiciar will fight with us.”
“The Justiciars?” said Gerald. His lips twisted into a frown beneath his moustache. “What do they see in this? Most of their land is west of my father’s holdings.”
“Yes,” said Mazael. “But they hold estates in the Grim Marches as well.”
“Lord Richard has been stripping away those estates from the Justiciars and bestowing them on his followers,” said Rachel. “When...if Mitor rises against Lord Richard, the Justiciars will follow him!”
“Really?” said Mazael. “If that happens, then the lords of the Stormvales will rise and join Lord Richard, along with the lords of the Green Plain. The Castanagents of the High Plain will come to join Mitor, along with Lord Malden Roland and all his vassals. The lords of Travia will probably become involved as well. If Mitor decides he wants to be liege lord of the Grim Marches, he might be able to do it, but he’ll rip the kingdom apart for years of bloody war...” For a moment Mazael saw an image of a vast, bloody sea. Chunks of meat floated in the gory ocean, and something within him found the sight beautiful. He shook his head and his vision cleared.
“Why does the prospect of war trouble you so?” said Rachel. “Mitor just wants to take what belongs to our family.”
“The Mandragons held the liege lordship of the Grim Marches before the Cravenlocks took it from them,” said Mazael, “and they were descended from the old kings of Dracaryl.”
“So?” said Rachel. “The Grim Marches belong to the Cravenlocks, Mazael. It belongs to us. Mitor wants to take back what is ours.”
“No,” said Gerald. “Pardon, my lady, but it is wrong. I saw much of war in Mastaria. Good men were slain on both sides. I slew good men, loyal and brave, with my own blade. I will face war again if I must...but only for a true and good reason. Lord Mitor is already a powerful lord. Let him be content with what he has. Those who are discontent with the gods’ blessings may find those blessings taken away.”
“My lord knight, if I may speak?” said Timothy. Mazael nodded. “I agree with Sir Gerald. I was a boy when the princes of Travia contended for the throne. I was young, but I remember the war very well...the fires, especially. The gods have mercy, the fires...my brother and my mother burned to death when raiders torched our house. If my lord knight would forgive my frank tongue...if Mitor would bring such death and misery to the Grim Marches, with no reason but his own power and prestige...then...then...he is much a murderer as those who threw the torches through the windows of my father’s house.”
“Don’t worry, wizard,” said Mazael. “I prefer honest men to liars.”
“They were just peasants,” said Rachel, so softly that Mazael almost didn’t hear her. For a moment he wanted to shove her from the saddle, until chagrin restored his control. What was he thinking? This was Rachel, his sister, his only friend growing up. What was wrong with him?
She would never have said such a thing as a child.
"Perhaps a war is unavoidable," said Gerald.
Mazael thought of the war, and excitement tingled through him, the fingers of his sword hand clenching. He could defeat Lord Richard. He could lead Mitor’s army and cast down the Dragonslayer and his son. What could stop him? What enemy had ever stood against him? But what would Sir Nathan and Master Othar say about this? He thought of their words, as he often did when the path seemed unclear.
“Sir Gerald is right. Timothy is right,” Mazael said. “If Mitor starts this war he’ll have the blood of thousands on his pudgy hands. Nobles and ‘just peasants’ alike.”
Rachel flushed. Mazael thought it made her look healthier. “I...that was a heartless thing for me to say. I should know better. I do know better. I’m sorry.”
Mazael smiled. “You’ve had a hard few days. Sir Tanam did kidnap you, after all.”
“Yes,” said Rachel, “but...that defeat killed Father. He died five years after you left. Mother died less than a month later. They wasted away, Mazael, they wasted away from shame. Father and Mother both made Mitor promise to restore the house of Cravenlock to its old glory.”
Mazael recalled his first clear memory of his mother. He had been no more than three or four years old. He had come into her bedroom and seen Lady Arissa crying, her green eyes puffy with tears. The sunlight shone through the window and glinted off her hair. He remembered that very clearly, the glint. When she saw him, she screamed in rage and pushed him out the door. He fell and cracked his head on the hard stone floor, raising a lump. Master Othar tended the lump, but Mazael had cried and cried. He cried for days. When he stopped crying, he no longer cared what his mother thought or did.
“You loved our parents, I know,” said Mazael. “But, Rachel, sister, they were both fools.” She started to protest. “You know that. You loved them, fine. Don’t follow their path to ruin.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Rachel. Her voice held little conviction. “Maybe...”
“My lord knight!” said Timothy. He swayed in his saddle and managed to seize the pommel. Generosity gave out a frustrated grunt. “Someone approaches!”
All thoughts of family and dead parents vanished from Mazael’s mind. “Where?” he said. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt.
“From the south,” said Timothy. He regained his balance and pointed. A narrow path came down between two crags and intercepted their trail. “Just one.”
Mazael frowned. “Just one?” Timothy nodded. “Well, let him
come.”
Mazael reined in Chariot at the fork in the path, reined up, and waited, Gerald at his side.
A horseman appeared in the mists, riding a gray mare. The rider was lean and slender, clad in an old green cloak with the hood pulled up, and armed to the teeth. Two daggers waited in his belt, the hilt of a bastard sword rose over his shoulder, and the staff of an unstrung longbow rested over the saddle horn. Mazael watched the man closely and frowned. The shape of the leg was wrong, the hip too curved. The rider was a woman.
The woman reined up the lean mare.
“Waiting for me?” she said, and pulled back her hood. Black hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her eyes were an odd shade of blue. Mazael had only seen that color once before, as a boy, when Sir Nathan had taken him to the mountains. The ice topping some of the mountains had been that strange, rich shade of blue. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere from fifteen to forty.
“We were waiting for you,” said Mazael. “I didn’t know if you were friend or foe. With these bandits loose through the countryside, it seemed safer to be cautious.”
The woman grinned. “Ah. You don’t know if I’m friend or foe, yet you sit here talking?”
“You could try to rob us,” said Mazael. “You wouldn’t like the results.”
She laughed. “Is that so? Well, let’s see who you are, then we’ll see if we’re friends or foes.” She pointed at Rachel. “She’s a Cravenlock.”
Rachel stirred. “How could you know that?”
“The eyes,” said the woman. “They’re green. Only Cravenlocks have eyes like that.” She frowned. “I don’t know you, nor do I know the man with the mustache, nor do I know that red-faced fellow with the goatee.”
“Very well,” said Mazael. “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland. The man with the goatee is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard, and the boy is Wesson Joran, Sir Gerald’s squire.”
“Sir Mazael Cravenlock?” said the woman. “You don’t look like a Cravenlock. You’re something of a hero in the Old Kingdoms.”
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