by S J Hartland
“Father, let me find him. Warn him.”
Hatton did not reply, only went to the door to issue a command. When a servant returned with a tray, he sat in silence as Aric ate. More than once his gaze fell upon his son then darted away.
Aric put down his spoon. “What? What won’t you say?”
Shoulders hunched, his father still didn’t speak. The castle bristled with sounds, voices, thuds, footfall. Like a menacing undertone, the broiling ocean surged against the tower walls.
Aric sighed, understanding. “The king demands you surrender me. You should do it.”
“You are my son.”
“I am also guilty.”
“No.” Hatton rose, went to the window and flung the shutters wider. Wind flickered his greying hair about his face. He looked weary. Pity tugged at Aric.
I couldn’t save her Father. I’m sorry. Gods, I’d willingly give my life for hers.
“Father—”
“No.” Hatton gazed at the waves, or perhaps a ship entering the bay. The sea lanes about Tide’s End thickened with vessels at this time of year. “I won’t offer you up to appease this vicious man’s anger. If Cathmor wants war, then so be it.”
“Father.”
This time Hatton turned.
Aric snatched a heavy breath. He tried again. “Let me go. I must warn him. Kaell. He risked punishment or even execution to free me. Now he rides towards certain death.”
His father’s expression softened. “There is nothing you can do. I sent a messenger but the river is up at Dal-Gorma.”
“I must try. I failed to save my men, my sister. Let me at least try to save him.”
“Enough.” Hatton tapped his fingers on the wall. “That boy’s fate lies with his gods.”
“Kaell rides into an ambush because those gods turned from him,” Aric said. “Because of Ethne. She only healed Kaell with blood magic in the hope Cathmor wouldn’t execute me if Kaell survived. This is a matter of honour. If you stop me, you shame me.”
“Honour is an empty word, Aric. You’re ill. You won’t get to the Mountains in time to warn him. You’d risk your life for nothing.” Still his fingers tapped. The beat jarred in Aric’s temples. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stop it, he wanted to shout. Just stop it.
“I can’t just let him die.”
His father turned, advanced. He gripped Aric’s arm. “Swear you won’t leave Tide’s End. Vow you won’t go after this boy who may already be dead.”
“I cannot.”
Long seconds passed in silence. Hatton drew his hand away. “Then you will remain here, a guard at your door, until you see sense.”
Aric’s shoulders stiffened in disbelief. “So I am a prisoner. You can’t do that.”
The king’s gaze held no sympathy. “I can and I will.”
“I was ready to die in Dal-Kanu,” Aric said coldly. “I wronged not only Kaell but the men who rode with me. Cass—” His voice shattered.
Azenor. Dead, because he did not save her. Where was her accusing ghost? Where were the ghosts of those he didn’t protect? He deserved their curses.
“I led my men into an ambush. I was ready to pay for that, to put my head on the block for Cathmor’s executioner. Let me go. Helping this man will ease my guilt.”
“No. You’ll stay here until you see sense or—” His father shook his head.
“Or?’
Shoulders bowed, Hatton walked to the door. He paused.
For a moment Aric thought his father would turn and explain what he meant.
He did not. He walked out.
Heath
“We are but dutiful flies in fate’s knotted web.” Heath flicked his hand dramatically to an unseen audience. The gods, perhaps? Theatrical nonsense but only nonsense rattled about in his wine-soaked head.
Beside him on the castle walk, Judith hunched in her cloak. A miserable wind lashed banners bright with the Lord of Vraymorg’s insignia. Armed riders knitted through iron gates towards the frost-wet road to the lake.
Black clouds wreathed an ashen sky, dampening the dawn’s birdsong. Beneath the prick of rain, the air smelt of damp and cold.
His sister twisted her hair into a knot, a sure sign of irritation.
“Who’s the spider in your metaphorical web, Heath?” she said. “Kaell? Because he executed your oh-so-careful plan? How funny. Kaell snatches Aric before you snatch Aric.”
“A spider indeed.” Heath sighed to the heavens. The gods understood, surely, even if Judith did not. Life proved—bizarre. It entangled into confusion then unravelled into disarray. Ah, how poetic his drunken nonsense.
“Your tangled webs and your tangled words belong in a cesspool. You’re still drunk from last night. More wine than blood in your veins and this comes out of your mouth. Webs. Spiders. I’ve had enough of it.”
Heath hiccupped. “I am drunk. What else is there to do?”
“I should push you off this wall but you’re so full of wine you’d only float,” Judith muttered. “Once again, Aric Caelan is beyond our grasp. For we are here in Dal-Kanu,” she gestured. “And Aric is safely in Tide’s End.”
“Safely. An interesting word—”
Judith flicked hair from her brow with a frown. “You think Cathmor will tear down the walls of Tide’s End just to take Aric Caelan and hang him?”
“Come summer, Cathmor will tear down every wall between here and the sea to get at Aric. Oh, he wants Kaell in chains, too, but that’s a pleasure he’ll delay until that young hunter slays a few more ghouls. The greater good of the realm and all that.”
Again Heath elegantly fluttered a breezy hand.
“Stop waving your hands about. You’ll knock yourself out. So the king believes Kaell freed Aric?”
Heath glanced down at riders milling in the ward. Kaell sat tall in the saddle as if pretending his wounds did not trouble him. “I saw him do it, Judith. I hid in the shadows near that tower. I had a plan. Cursed boy had a plan, too.”
“Why not just take Aric from Kaell?”
“That spider had a bigger spider with him.” Who started this spider nonsense? Oh, that’s right. He did, with his blathering about webs. Served him right, then.
“I got this close to them in the ward.” He held out his palms. “I considered knocking Kaell out and grabbing Aric. But the fool boy turned around. I needed two of you, Judith. One Judith to distract the king. One to distract the spiders. Clear the way for little, old me.”
“I hate you when you’re sarcastic.”
Heath smiled coldly. “I hate me when I lose.” Probably why he drank so much. “Kaell and that man Arn moved quickly. Their plan echoed mine though I intended to be quieter and sneakier. Kaell proves very interesting, don’t you think? Why risk Cathmor’s wrath to save a man who tried to kill him?”
Judith fell silent. At length, she said, “He went to the crypt again before joining his men.”
“Kaell? Maybe bonded warriors talk to the dead.”
“Maybe you should go talk to the dead. When you’re drunk at least.”
“I’m worried they might answer back.”
She pressed her palms into the stone balustrade, her gaze determinedly on the men in the ward as if to ignore his nonsense. “You told Cathmor we’d send soldiers to help take Tide’s End.”
He shrugged. “I made that up on the spot to appease him.”
“But what if we do? What if we side with the king and snatch Aric when Tide’s End falls?”
Heath gripped the wall. What was that expression? Out of the mouths of babes—and sisters. If Cathmor marched on Tide’s End, every great lord would take sides. The king’s side, of course. The side of justice and all that.
Ah, Heath. I hate me when I’m sarcastic, too.
He grasped Judith’s hand. “We have no time to spare.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home. Before winter cuts off the Icelands.”
Judith halted on the stairs. “We can’t go home. Myranthe said—”
/>
“I know what Myranthe said. She doesn’t scare me.”
“She scares everyone. She scares me.”
“I’m too drunk for Myranthe to scare me. Anyway, thanks to you I have a plan.”
“You always have a plan,” she grumbled, dragging her feet as she followed. “She’ll still turn you into a toad.”
He flashed a lopsided smile. “I’d make a charming toad, don’t you think? Princesses will line up to kiss me.”
Kaell
Guards in the towers muttered about the “goat wind.” It blew in from the Mountains at dawn, its gusts driving cold rain and offering an excuse to mock the riders grouped inside the gate.
“We don’t want your foul wind here, goats,” soldiers jeered from the wall. A sentry leaning from the battlements crudely gestured.
“Want me to do that to you?” Smiler groped for his sword.
Kaell shook his head as he limped to his horse. The youngest Mountains warrior easily rose to provocation.
“Tired of screwing goats?” a guard called. “A pox on—” A soldier clouted his ears and pointed at Kaell. The sentries backed off. When Kaell looked up, none met his eyes.
“No discipline in Dal-Kanu,” Arn said.
Kaell shrugged and adjusted his bridle with stiff fingers. He wore moulded leather over mail, a shirt beneath, but still the wind, whatever its origin, blistered with autumn’s damp, miserable bitterness.
Riders huddled in grey and black capes cursed the gods for a likely dismal journey. Olier threw him a grin, others nodded or greeted him. But some looked away.
Unease curdled in his gut. Did his loss to Aric diminish him in their eyes? Did they doubt him? Did his lord also doubt him? Was that why he rushed to Kaell’s bedside?
Kaell slapped on gloves, resolute. This hunt was a chance to prove to Vraymorg that even without visions he could serve his gods. He must not disappoint his lord again.
At an odd creep at his neck, Kaell glanced up at the wall. Movement blurred; streaming brown hair, a woman’s whirling skirts. A man laughed. Boots clattered on stairs.
A hand pecked at his sleeve. Kaell turned. The king’s brother stood at his shoulder. A thin smile slitted grape-red lips beneath his beard.
“Cael-Carren?”
“I bring the king’s wishes for success. Good speed. Good hunting.” Cael-Carren nodded curtly. He turned and strode off. Disappeared as though never really there.
Kaell stood for a spell. Then laughed. A kinder farewell than he deserved. Generous, too, for Cathmor to send archers.
They clumped apart, rubbing gloved hands, expressions sour, their billowing dark-blue capes blooming among the Mountains men’s grey weeds.
Kaell always thought dark blue a curious choice for king’s men. Once only Serravan knights wore that colour, knights who long ago fought for Ryol Caelan when Cathmor’s ancestor Devarsi seized his throne.
“My weapons masters taught me the Serravan way.” Aric’s words snapped in his head.
Irritated, Kaell thrust the Isles man away. Bad enough Aric forced his way into his dreams. The familiar nightmare had struck near dawn with an assassin’s fury—the door, the raven-haired girl. And Aric, grinning as he hewed with steel.
Curse him. Would he, too, haunt Kaell?
“My weapons masters taught me the Serravan way.”
Which meant what? Kaell’s books hinted at secret rites Serravan warriors undertook beyond the Enarae, the veil-shadowing otherworld. Yet Aric’s style of swordplay held few surprises. Only the Isles man’s intentions deceived.
He swung into the saddle. Stifled a groan. Khir take Aric for this wound. Battle fever would mask the pain. When it washed away, he’d hurt.
Still, only one ghoul nest to destroy. A hunt to regain his companions’ trust, to prove his worth to his lord. Then home to the Mountains and whatever nastiness the priests intended to “fix” him.
Again, all because of Aric. Kaell really must thank him sometime.
Arn edged his horse close. “I rebuked young Smiler about his outburst.”
“The boy reminds me of a younger me.”
“Boy? Look who’s talking? Old-man Kaell. You flare up all right. But you were never that stupid.” Arn watched the portcullis lift. “Where were you?”
“The tombs.”
Arn glowered. “Let it go, Kaell. Let her go. She’s been dead three years now. Can’t imagine how you limped down to the crypt with that leg. How’s the wound?”
“It aches.” Everything ached, even his head—thanks to that cursed dream stealing sleep.
“Surely the king could wait until you were stronger.”
“It’s as well we’re away. Cathmor’s temper smoulders over Aric’s escape. He’s no fool. He knows it was us but can’t prove it.”
“Give him time,” Arn said. “Wonder what you’ll look like without a head?”
Hooves clattered on cobbles. Dawn fell soft as silk upon alleys, temples and homes worn with age. The stench from the king’s head house pawed, but beneath Dal-Kanu breathed with fragrant spices from its markets and storehouses. Exotic, Kaell thought. Exciting.
The slumbering city slowly woke inside its grimy walls.
Grumbling traders, carts piled high, reluctantly parted for the riders. A cowled priest stopped to gape. A wiry drunk stumbled from horses. A girl carrying a basket of apples blew Kaell a kiss and earned a distant smile.
“Poor lass doesn’t know she’s competing with a dead girl,” Arn muttered as the walls fell behind and the road wound through cropped, soil-scented fields towards the lake. A rising wind banked grey clouds.
“Hmm?” Kaell rubbed an itchy shoulder beneath his shirt, wondering if he should send outriders ahead. No danger yet, but perhaps in the Downs.
“Remember the king’s feast welcoming us to Dal-Kanu? Beautiful women smiled at you, watched you, hoped you’d seduce them.”
“I don’t remember.” Kaell had fallen into talk with a Falls warrior about an odd counter-weight siege weapon the King of Wardour used against a traitor lord.
Arn heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Very sad, my young friend. How about Judith Damadar? Word is she’s a Quisnaf-trained seductress. Mind you.” He scratched his bristling chin, thoughtful. “They say the king’s betrothed Azenor is almost as striking.”
“The king’s betrothed is dead,” Kaell growled. Guilt battered him. With Aric safe, he hoped it might lift. But still it palled, gloomy, heavy like a snow-draped winter.
“Prickly,” Arn muttered. “Didn’t sleep then?”
They rode in silence until the lake rippled inky at their backs.
Fields fell to forest; leaves dripped with rain, trees shivered, bent, soughed, swept green-jacketed branches low. Banners snapped. Cold, damp scents of autumn swirled. To Kaell these soft lands wafted of life. Unlike the Mountains where autumn smelt dead. Empty.
“No woman is as striking as the queen who visited Vraymorg when I was a child,” he offered as amends for his bluntness.
“Oh?”
Did Arn stiffen? Strange.
“Rozenn of Cahir. I was about nine. She and her soldiers found me on the road. Or I found them. I can’t quite remember.”
“The Queen of Cahir was at the castle for Cathmor’s wedding. You didn’t see her? She is exquisite. But as dangerous as a snake. You’d think he had more sense. Though it shows he’s not always so cold.”
Kaell turned to stare. “He?”
“Ah, something you don’t know.” Arn’s grin was more a leer. “Maybe I won’t tell you unless you promise no singing for the next two days.”
“Or I sing loudly and out of tune to torture you into speaking.”
“Ah, a brute hides behind that young face.”
“A singing brute. Queen Rozenn?”
Arn clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I suppose it’s hardly gossip soldiers or servants would tell a child.”
“Gossip about what?”
“About that visit from the Queen of Cahir
and where exactly she spent the night.”
“No, don’t tell me.” Kaell thrust a gloved hand over his ear. He spurred his horse forward. Rozenn was as perfect as the girl he dreamed of. A lovely vision, untouchable.
Arn bellowed laughter. His captain still laughed when Kaell fell back. “Tell me.”
“Promise you won’t turn it into a rhyme?”
Kaell touched hand to breast. “Promise.”
“She bedded our noble lord. Or he bedded her. Not for the last time, either. Rumour is they meet sometimes in the forest. A stranger delivers a single rose—Vraymorg disappears.”
“What?”
“Vraymorg. Our lord and master is flesh and blood after all.”
Kaell wriggled, uncomfortable at such talk about his lord behind his back.
Vraymorg was a force in the Mountains, hard, resolute but not unkind. He raised Kaell to survive, and if that meant a firm hand, then so what? Kaell had no right to expect more.
But he did want more. More of his lord’s attention, praise, his lord’s time. Just more.
Love?
If only that fear beneath his lord’s anger at Dal-Kanu meant he cared. Maybe Vraymorg couldn’t love him because Kaell disappointed him. Because he feared he raised a damaged, flawed boy.
He must show his lord he wasn’t.
“What did you make of our young Ice lord?” Arn asked.
“Heath Damadar?” Kaell welcomed distracting talk. “I wish I’d seen him. Everyone says they rarely leave the Icelands. The Damadars, that is.”
“A good thing that. On top of their wealth and power, they’re enchanters.”
Kaell laughed. “You make them sound frightening.”
“The eldest girl is. Myranthe. Some say her magic rivals Roaran Caelan’s, though it comes from a darker source.”
Kaell shivered. He glanced over his shoulder.
Arn laughed. “She’s not here, Kaell. Myranthe doesn’t leave her den.”
“So you say. But what do you know? Did you see him, Arn? Heath Damadar?”
His captain chewed his lip. “I saw him in the hall when they arrested Aric. Didn’t speak to him. Not for the likes of me to rub shoulders with wealthy, young Ice lords. But I swear a chill clung to that castle.”