by S J Hartland
“Straight after Kaell dumped Penn-John in the dirt, he went to the crypt,” he said.
“Why the crypt?”
“I often found him there. It’s quiet and the priest, Gabrian Eastman, rarely speaks. What I tell you now I recall from his book, the story as he wrote it down.”
Kaell
He felt safe in the sept. He knew every cobweb in every murky corner, every crack, every slanting shadow. He knew how shards of sunlight washed stone walls golden, how the moons bewildered darkness with silver beams.
In summer, the airless chamber hazed with heat. In deep winter, the afternoon sun struck the chamber’s imposing statue of Khir and the god’s marble eyes glittered knowingly.
Khir often watched him. Sometimes a floorboard creaked in an empty room. Alone in the mountains, eyes followed him. Maybe a lizard in grass. Or a bird on a branch.
It never scared him. Real fear, the terror that woke him sweating, Kaell had known only once. That was the night the sept became a prison, when priests bound him and marked him as Khir’s. Six priests, one from each realm of Telor, even the Icelands; though his tutors said the Damadars bent their stiff necks to a deity called Ghani-Jai.
“An old god, that one,” Arn once told him. “Vengeful. Sent his death riders to punish kinslayers and oath breakers. No one escaped a death rider. Even kings and lords.”
Kaell shivered, fascinated. “I read about death riders. They say you can’t kill them with steel.”
Arn knew the stories from his father. “More truth to these old tales than what’s in those books Vraymorg makes you study.” He tapped his nose. “The past will out, Kaell.”
The past will out. Arn said that a lot. Along with “you’re as prickly as a mountain pear,” or, “drink and swing, boy.”
At a step, he half turned. The priest, Gabrian Eastman, nodded and moved away. Kaell often wondered at the man’s past. Two names meant Eastman was someone. Of noble birth.
Another footstep. Stealthy. Close. Kaell slipped his knife into his palm and sprang up.
“Stop! It’s only me.” Annatise Caelmarsh flung her hands to her face.
Kaell gaped. “Sorry. I thought—”
She smiled. A warm, wide smile, full of promise.
His skin oddly hot, legs unsteady, Kaell hastily returned his knife to his belt.
“I should know better than to creep up on a hunter. Are you praying to Khir?” She dropped beside him and peered about. “This chamber is smaller than it looks outside.”
Kaell knelt again. His knee touched hers. Should he move it? That felt rude somehow.
“We have a crypt and a temple at Knight’s Spike.” Annatise shook her dark hair loose onto her back. It was not straight like Alyssa’s but curled at the ends. Kaell thought it beautiful.
“The Spike was an important shrine to both Khir and Cyrah. Before King Roaran that is.”
“Really?” She must hear his rattled heart.
Annatise nodded. “Roaran destroyed the temple. My ancestors rebuilt it when he died.”
“I see.” He didn’t. Words did not translate. Not with her blouse laced tightly at her breast.
Annatise caught him staring. “You looked at me like that before.”
“What?” His cheeks fired.
“It’s all right. I looked at you, too. Made father angry. I just suffered his ranting about keeping away from you. Said you were—it doesn’t matter. What does he know, anyway?”
Her breasts moved as she gestured. Kaell watched with an uncomfortable fascination. “He’ll be angry to find you here.”
She flashed him a conspiring grin. “He thinks I’m resting.”
“Why are you—did you follow me?”
“I saw you from my window. Are you upset I’m here?”
He gulped. “No.”
“Good.” She slid her hand across the floor to cover his. It was small and soft. Kaell wondered if her red lips would be as soft if he kissed her. A dangerous thought. Dangerous but thrilling at the same time. That racket picked up in his chest.
“You can meet me here later,” Annatise said. “During the feast. There’ll be a feast, won’t there? Always is. Meet me here then. No one notices who’s missing at a feast.”
Kaell laughed nervously. “I can’t. I promised my lord I won’t make trouble.”
Annatise snatched her hand away. “What do you care? You serve Khir. Everyone knows a bonded warrior does not bow, even to kings. You should do as you like.”
“It’s not like that. It’s just—” He snatched a ragged breath. “You’re to wed the king. Everyone says so. I shouldn’t even be here alone with you. Your father would have me whipped if he knew.”
“My father doesn’t know a thing. He drags me around from one boring castle to another, one feast to another. He only cares that I smile and simper and look pretty.”
“You are pretty,” he blurted. “More than pretty.”
She unfolded a pleased smile. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Kaell stilled, shocked. He did, but knew he shouldn’t. “If I kiss you, the king’s intended, I’ll end up in his head house. Besides, my lord said—”
“My lord said. My lord said. Do you always do what you’re told?”
Kaell thought of the times he ran away. “Don’t you?”
“Why should I?” She tossed her head again. Such glorious hair. Dark brown but glinting red in the afternoon sun. Not gleaming blue-black like Vraymorg’s. His lord looked different to most Mountains men.
“If I did, I’d have no fun.” Annatise’s bottom lip jutted. “And I want to have fun. Before my father weds me to some old king.”
“Cathmor? He’s young, I think.” Kaell couldn’t remember.
“He’s old. I’ve seen him. Twenty-five or something.”
“You saw him? In Dal-Kanu?” Wide-eyed, he forgot her hair; even her breasts.
“Many times,” she replied loftily. “Haven’t you been to Dal-Kanu?”
“No,” Kaell admitted.
“Have you been anywhere?”
“Dal-Decma, for a tournament. I disobeyed my lord,” he said boldly. Though Dal-Decma, the Place of the Rivers, didn’t sound as impressive as Dal-Kanu, the Place of Kings. “Did you see the blood lake?”
“You see if from every castle balcony.” Still that imperious tone. “But it never flows blood anymore. Not like it once did when a king of Telor died. I bet you don’t know why.”
He smiled. “I bet I do.” If not worldly, he was at least well read. “Centuries ago, King Rainer cast a spell to make it a lake like any other.”
“A pity.” Annatise rose, her skirt lifting to reveal bare calves and ankles. “Imagine the thrill of those old ceremonies when the priests cut the new king’s wrist so his Caelan blood turns the red lake to water again. So—will you meet me later?”
He hesitated. “We shouldn’t.” Then more firmly. “No. If we’re found together, your father will drag me before the king and demand he punishes me for the insult. Whipping’s one thing; the noose is quite another.”
“No one will catch us.”
“My lord will know. He always does. I think he sees through walls.” Kaell laughed self-consciously. “Then he’ll have this disappointed look on his face. Such a look. Arn says it’s enough to shame even a seasoned courtesan.”
She slid her hands to her hips. “What would you know of courtesans? My lord this, my lord that. I can’t disappoint my lord. Goffren was right—you’re a child.”
“Don’t say that.” Kaell jerked to his feet.
“A man would want to be alone with me. Maybe you don’t like me.”
“I like you,” he protested.
Mischief glinted in her brown eyes. “Maybe you don’t like women. Goffren says you like goats.”
“That’s stupid.”
“He says all the women here are ugly and men prefer goats, or sheep or something.”
“That’s even stupider.” His anger at Goffren grew. He didn’t hit the foo
l hard enough.
“If you’re not brave enough.” Annatise flicked hair behind her shoulder. “I’ll bet Goffren will meet me.”
“Goffren? You wouldn’t.” That sly beast didn’t deserve a pretty girl like her. That decided him as she clearly knew it would.
“I’ll meet you,” Kaell said. “On the second moon.”
Val Arques
Sweat trickled down Vraymorg’s jaw. The fire’s heat, the scents of lavender and rose oppressed. The sword weighed on his ribs like a stone.
He could no longer talk about Kaell. It hurt to even think of him.
Rozenn traced a bead of moisture down his neck onto his breast. Her touch was careful as though she feared breaking his powerful, warrior’s body.
But it was his mind that was fragile. And he didn’t even know it. He thought it protected, like his heart. He didn’t realise something broke in him until he unwrapped Kaell’s sword in the snow and held it in his fingertips. Now all of him felt raw. Exposed.
“Val Arques Caelan. I remember the first time I heard your name,” Rozenn said. “You weren’t real. Just a name, a story from the past. A possibility.” She sighed. “I am almost sorry—”
“Sorry?”
She looked away. “Nothing. A musing. About what might happen if neither of us were who we are. If our choices did not already define us. Go on with your story, Val.”
Vraymorg shifted, deeply uncomfortable. “I can’t.” His mouth tasted stale. “I cannot tell it. I’m not sure why I spoke of this at all.”
“You cannot stop now. You’re so close, Val.”
“Rozenn, please.” He rocked his head on the pillow. “I can’t.”
“Make me understand what was so terrible. So far I understand only that you had to suffer a visit from the vile Caelmarsh, and his petulant daughter manipulated Kaell into a secret assignation.”
Vraymorg shivered. “I didn’t realise the danger. They were king’s men, you see. Surely Kaell was safe with king’s men.”
He thought back. “The next part of the story is mine. I suppose it began about the time Kaell and Annatise were in the crypt, arranging to meet later that night.”
Nate Caelmarsh advanced the instant Vraymorg entered the guest chamber. “It’s intolerable,” he snapped. “I sent for that wretched boy half an hour ago.”
You sent for him? Whose castle was this? “Kaell should be at his books.” He kept his tone even. “I’ll have him found.”
“His books?” Caelmarsh scoffed as Vraymorg sent a guardsman off. “That’s how you prepare a warrior? The boy must train from dawn to dusk, don’t you say, Paulin?”
His captain contemplated something beyond the window. “That’s how it’s done on the Downs where I trained as a bladesman.”
Caelmarsh pounced. “Exactly. You’re soft on him, Vraymorg.”
“The Lord of the Mountains knows best, I’m sure,” Paulin said.
Vraymorg threw him a hard smile. He longed to retort that while Paulin learned to swing a blade on the Downs, harsh Serravan masters, long dead, had taught him the language of swords.
“On most days, the master-at-arms drills Kaell until dusk, often with weights on his arms and legs to build strength.”
He detailed specifics of the boy’s training with sword, spear and bow. “He’s proficient in each weapon but excels with the sword. I doubt anyone this side of Dal-Kanu can beat him.” Certainly no one from the Downs.
Paulin laughed. “That leaves the other side of Dal-Kanu.”
Vraymorg eyed him acidly. Kaell would undoubtedly thrash this braggart. “If you mean the Isles, I studied every text on Serravan methods. Kaell is a match—”
“For Aric Caelan even?” Paulin sneered.
“I’ve not seen the boy fight.”
“If your pup is as good as Aric Caelan you stand to make a fortune.” Caelmarsh sniffed. “The king puts up gold at every tournament for anyone, heralded or not, who can put the Isles whelp in the dirt. Break a bone or two and Cathmor would knight them on the spot.”
“Men say the Caelan brat’s secret is his tactical knowledge,” Paulin said. “Aric’s fast, I’ll give him that. But for one so young he out-thinks opponents as much as out-fights them.”
Vraymorg nodded. “A good warrior is more than a machine. He needs instinct. Knowledge. I’ve taught Kaell not only swordplay but lessons learnt from past battles.”
On more than one night he and Kaell argued until dawn about the strategies of commanders and kings, dissecting sieges and skirmishes. Not Paulin’s business. Nor the bruises, the nights Kaell could hardly crawl into bed, the wounds, the broken bones, the tears. The arguments.
“I recently instructed Kaell on using a cape as a shield. It’s obscure, but a bladesman must be able to turn anything to advantage.”
“You train him yourself, then?”
Vraymorg held Paulin’s insolent gaze. “When I can. If duty draws me away, my captain drills Kaell. Arn Tranter. A Downs man. Perhaps you crossed swords with him?”
“The man who pulled your bad-tempered boy off Goffren?” Paulin’s lips twitched. “Why should I know him? I don’t trade blows with peasants unless it’s on the field of war.”
Vraymorg showed his contempt. “Arn Tranter. He’s as well-born as you.”
“Tranter? That’s a name I’ve not heard in a long—” Paulin frowned. “Still, I don’t trade blows with those beneath me.”
What did that frown mean? “Instead, you set your acolytes on boys half your age.”
Another sneer. “I doubt Goffren will thank you for calling him my acolyte. If this boy can’t take a verbal lashing, how can he lead men against ghouls?”
“He’s led my men against ghouls twice. Successfully.”
Caelmarsh whipped up a hand. “Enough. Isn’t that our purpose here? The boy will soon be sixteen. The king must be confident this bonded warrior will not turn against his own kind. As well you know from an incident in the past, a rogue servant of Khir’s is dangerous.”
He yawned. “All this tedious talk of training. Paulin and Goffren can test the boy’s skill tomorrow. Tonight, I test his temperament. If we find the wretched child, that is.”
“Kaell,” Vraymorg said. “His name is Kaell.”
“Kaell is in the odd-looking building near the walls,” Paulin said. “I saw him go in.”
And said nothing? “I’ll send a guardsman.”
“No need.” Paulin resembled a cat set to pounce. “A guardsman sent him this way.”
Someone knocked at the door. Paulin edged up a brow. “And that will be him.”
“My lord?” A guard peered in. “You sent for Kaell?”
Vraymorg beckoned to the figure behind. Kaell rushed in and dropped to one knee.
“Forgive me. I was in the crypt.”
“With the dead?” Caelmarsh sounded puzzled. “Whatever for?”
Vraymorg pondered Kaell’s guilty face. “It has a sept,” he said.
“And what were you doing, boy?” Caelmarsh rapped fingers against his belt. “I ordered you here a while ago.”
“Praying, grand constable.”
“Praying?”
Paulin laughed loudly. “Is that what they call it here?”
Vraymorg considered Paulin uneasily. The man behaved like he knew something.
“Well get up,” Caelmarsh said. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. Stand straight.” He rubbed Kaell’s shirt. “Silk? My, my. Paulin is right. You look like some effeminate fool from the Isles. Get rid of that. The cloak too.”
“My lord constable?”
“Grand constable,” Caelmarsh corrected. “Take it off.”
Kaell glanced at Vraymorg He paused, then nodded. Caelmarsh might be horse dung but he was the king’s chief law bringer.
“Don’t look at Vraymorg.” A vein throbbed in Caelmarsh’s throat. “I act for the king and you will obey me without hesitation.”
Kaell untied his cloak and folded it over a chair.
“What are you, boy?” Paulin crossed the room in two strides. “A washerwoman?” He grabbed the silk shirt and ripped. “The grand constable told you to take it off.”
Kaell’s breath hissed out. “Get your—”
Vraymorg grasped Paulin. “You forget yourself, captain. The Lord of the Downs may be the king’s constable, but who are you?” Captain of the Cesspool, he guessed. “Lay a hand on Kaell again and I’ll instruct you on how we do things in my lands.”
The strained silence held too long. Then Paulin laughed. He swept Vraymorg a mock bow. “As you say, my lord. I forget myself.”
Caelmarsh clucked. “Yes, you forget yourself, captain.” The pair exchanged a look Vraymorg couldn’t unravel.
The Downs lord rounded on Kaell. “I told you to undress.”
Cheeks flushed, the young man untied laces and dragged his torn shirt over his head.
“The rest.”
“Stop.” Vraymorg thrust his bulk forward. “What do you think you’re about?”
Caelmarsh did not bother to hide the fury glinting in his eyes. “Keep out of this, Vraymorg. The boy is bonded to the gods, the property of the king and the temple. Valuable property I must examine to make certain it is unflawed and properly kept.”
Shoulders tensed with disgust, Vraymorg slapped the air with a palm. “He’s not a slave on the block. Not a possession.”
“The king declares he is.” Caelmarsh’s lips slitted to a sneer. “How dare you question your king. In fact, I’m fed up with your presence. I tolerated it until now but it you cannot shut up then leave.” He paused, then in a tone laced with contempt added, “My lord.”
Vraymorg thrust his balled fists beneath his cloak. He ached with the strain of containing his anger. One word and it ignited. So he said nothing.
Beyond the windows, dusk weaved a dissonant array of grey and pink. The wind carried the scent of ash from the walls and the kitchen’s clatter of pans and plates.
“I will shut up,” he muttered, his anger tamed to a simmer.
“My lord?” Kaell still held his discarded shirt, his arm suspended in the air.
“You, boy.” Caelmarsh jabbed a finger. “What did I tell you to do?”