by CJ Brightley
He looked a bit like his father the king. It wasn’t hard to guess why he was fleeing out into the winter snow. Rumors of Nekane Vidar’s intent to seize power had been making their way through the army and the mercenary groups for some months.
“You’re Hakan Ithel, aren’t you?”
His shoulders slumped a little. He looked at the ground and nodded slightly.
He had no real reason to trust me. Vidar’s men would be on his trail soon enough. No wonder he was frightened.
“My name is Kemen Sendoa. Call me Kemen.” I stood to bow formally to him. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance. Is anyone following you?”
His eyes widened even more. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“Then we’d best cover your tracks. Are you going anywhere in particular?”
“No.”
I stamped out the fire and kicked a bit of snow over it. Of course, anyone could find it easily enough, but I’d cover our trail better once we were on our way. A quick wipe with some snow cleaned the bowl and it went back in my pack.
He stood wrapped in my cloak, looking very young, and I felt a little sorry for him.
“Right then. Follow me.” I slung my pack over my shoulder and started off. I set a pace quick enough to keep myself from freezing and he followed, stumbling sometimes in the thick snow. The wind wasn’t quite as strong in the trees, though the air was quite cold.
I took him west to the Purling River as if we were heading for the Ralksin Ferry. The walk took a few hours; the boy was slow, partly because he was weak and pampered and partly because I don’t think he understood the danger. At any moment I expected to hear hounds singing on our trail, but we reached the bank of the Purling with no sign of pursuit.
“Give me your knife.”
He gave it to me without protest. He was pale and shivering, holding my cloak close to his chest. I waded into the water up to my ankles and walked downstream, then threw the knife a bit further downstream where it clattered onto the rocks lining the bank. Whoever pursued him would know or guess it was his, and though the dogs would lose his trail in the water, they might continue downstream west toward the ferry.
“Walk in the water. Keep the cloak dry and don’t touch dry ground.”
“Why?” His voice wavered a bit, almost a whine.
I felt my jaw tighten in irritation. “In case they use dogs.” I wondered whether I was being absurdly cautious, whether they would bother to use dogs at all.
He still looked confused, dazed, and I pushed him into the water ahead of me. I kept one hand firm on his shoulder and steered him up the river. Ankle-deep, the water was painfully cold as it seeped through the seams in my boots. The boy stumbled several times and would have stopped, but I pushed him on.
We’d gone perhaps half a league upriver when I heard the first faint bay of hounds. They were behind us, already approaching the riverbank, and the baying rapidly grew louder. I took my hand from the boy’s shoulder to curl my fingers around the hilt of my sword. As if my sword would do much. If they wanted him dead, they’d have archers. I was turning our few options over in my mind and trying to determine whether the hounds had turned upriver or were merely spreading out along the bank, when the boy stopped abruptly.
“Dogs.”
“Keep walking.”
He shook his head. “They’re my dogs. They won’t hurt me.”
I grabbed the collar of his shirt and shoved him forward, hissing into his ear, “Fear the hunters, not the dogs! You’re the fox. Don’t forget that.”
He stumbled and twisted a bit in protest, but I kept my hand firm and pushed him forward again. Gradually we made our way upriver, keeping the water always above our ankles. The princeling was trembling, and I didn’t let go of his collar, afraid he would fall.
“I don’t think I can go much farther.” His voice shook.
The baying of the hounds had grown no closer, and I relaxed a little, but we were hardly safe yet. “The crossing isn’t far.”
He said nothing else, and I kept us going until the ford. The crossing itself took only a few minutes, but the water came up over our knees. I kept us in the water for half a league up the other side of the river before finally moving us away into the trees.
My feet were a raging ache of cold and I was shivering almost uncontrollably. But I didn’t trust the boy to keep steady, so I pushed him ahead of me for another hour through the growing darkness. Finally we reached an ideal shelter, a grand old tree that had finally been conquered by time and fallen, leaving a broad trunk stretched out on the ground. The boy collapsed to sit with his back against the tree while I gathered wood for another fire, this one small and subdued. A few hills would hide the light from anyone at the river. It was dangerous if they were close behind us, but we’d both lose our feet if we didn’t have a fire soon.
We sat by the fire in silence, the heat stinging our faces. He glanced at me from time to time. I was content with the quiet, and he spoke first, as I was preparing the last of the tubers to roast. I should have been hunting as we walked, but I’d been too cold and too intent on listening for pursuit.
“Please forgive my curiosity, but I’ve never seen anyone like you before. Where are you from?” His voice had the soft lilt of the highborn.
“Llewton.” I smiled at his look of confusion. “I’m Dari. There aren’t many of us in Stonehaven. The Dari are from the east, and the few in Erdem are mostly near the eastern border.” He waited, watching me, so I added, “I was a foundling in Llewton. I served under your father until about four years ago.”
He leaned forward in interest and I handed him the bowl of kiberries and the first steaming skewer.
“I’ve never seen a Dari before.”
I grunted and when he flinched back I laughed. “Do I frighten you?”
“Should I be frightened?” He flung the question back with a bit of fire and I smiled.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so already.”
He smiled then. “Thank you for your help. I haven’t thanked you properly, and I do apologize. Normally I have better manners.” He tucked into the food with good will, studying me closely.
I couldn’t blame him for his curiosity, but I admit it made me self-conscious. We Dari are much taller than Tuyets and much darker. Dark brown or black eyes are normal, but an unfortunate few of us have green eyes. I am uncommonly tall even for a Dari. For all my looks, I have lived among Tuyets all my life and speak Darin only haltingly.
Normally I would have wrapped up in my cloak close by the fire and slept soundly, one hand on my knife in case of trouble but unworried and relatively comfortable. To sleep with one eye open and yet rest well is an invaluable skill for any warrior.
The boy offered me my cloak. I shook my head, and he looked relieved, with a quick, almost embarrassed smile. He wasn’t suited for harsh weather, and it was less trouble to simply give it to him than be slowed if he became ill.
The night was long and cold, the wind cutting through the trees. My wet breeches didn’t dry much. I amused myself by trying to identify the animals in the darkness by the sounds they made. Once I heard the far off cry of a wolf, and much closer the sudden sharp cry of a rabbit dying, probably caught by an owl, and the soft rustle of rodents in the leaves and snow. I tried once to lie down, but the ground sucked the warmth right from my bones, so I spent the night pacing round the fire, feeding it wood when it got low.
Hakan slept the sleep of the dead, only a shock of yellow hair sticking out from the end of my cloak. My eyes were gritty by the time the sky began to turn grey. I left him and went hunting, taking two purflins and a dove in less than an hour. I wanted to get an early start, but when I returned the boy was still asleep.
I cleaned the birds, roasted them for our lunch, and wrapped them in a bit of cloth before finally waking him.
“Up with you now, we’d best get on.”
He rubbed his eyes blearily. “It’s early.”
“Do you want to
be in town with a warm bed tonight?”
He nodded.
“So do I.” I slung my pack over my shoulder and started off. He followed me, my cloak still wrapped around his shoulders.
“You didn’t sleep?”
I didn’t answer. He could hardly have made the night warmer, and he needed the rest more than I did.
“I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely apologetic and I smiled a little.
“We’ll reach Four Corners by late afternoon. Do you have any money?”
“Why?” His voice was cautious.
“It makes paying for things like beds and dinners easier.” We walked in silence for some minutes before I questioned him. “Are you going to explain why you were fleeing the palace?”
“My father died last night. I mean, the night before I left. Yesterday morning Tibi woke me early and told me to leave immediately. He gave me money and told me not even to stop by the stables because they were too easy to see from the windows. I snuck out through the kitchen.” He sounded very young, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Who’s Tibi?”
“My tutor, Tibon Rusta.” A childish nickname, then.
“You trust him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You left then?”
“Yes. I went out the eastern gate and through Stonehaven.”
Rusta might have paid dearly for that warning, but there was no point in bringing that to the boy’s attention. Or perhaps it had been convenient for Rusta to send Hakan out to his death in the snow rather than to open himself for accusations of assassination.
“What are you going to do?”
He was silent, as I had expected. I wondered how much he knew of the coup we had all expected.
Vidar had been positioning himself to take over for months, and nothing had been said about the prince. The boy had been almost forgotten in the palace, his father taking no great pains to give him responsibility, to let him earn the respect of the people.
The king’s health had been declining for several years, but in the last few months he’d grown much worse. Vidar, the seneschal, had assumed more responsibility each day, and by many accounts he had been competent, though rather harsh. But he wasn’t the heir, nor was the prince young enough to require a regent to rule before he came of age.
“Do you have any friends who would shelter you?”
There was a long silence, and finally he said quietly, “Perhaps some might, but they’re all in Stonehaven. I’m not sure enough to ask them.”
I cursed inside. He had no friends, no plan, no sword, no horse, and no idea how to survive alone. It would have been so simple to leave him to fend for himself. I might as well kill him myself; he’d be lucky to last a day.
I wouldn’t last much longer without a cloak, either. My lungs stung from the frigid air. My hair and shirt were damp from the snow and my back ached from the constant shivering.
The throne belonged to the prince by right. With the support of the army, removing a usurper should be easy. I wondered what the army would do, whether they would cast their support behind the seneschal or whether they would hold out for the prince.
My soldier’s oath was fulfilled when I was honorably discharged from the kedani, the corps of foot soldiers. I could have walked away. But when I served the king Hakan Emyr, I did so for love of Erdem, not for love of the king. Every soldier swears allegiance to the kingdom, not to the king’s person.
The hereditary rule of the king is well established, but there’s logic in it. The army supports the heir because the heir is trained from childhood to be the best possible leader for the country.
This had been the system in Erdem for generations, but it began breaking down with the king Hakan Emyr, the boy’s father. He didn’t earn the respect of the people and, at least when I served in the suvari, the horsemen, and then in the kedani, there were serious doubts about his leadership. Discontent. Distrust. Fears of Tarvil marauders from the north had begun to rise, and questions of border security had become much more pressing as the army dwindled. There was little money to pay soldiers, and many simply retired, took their pay and left to find better jobs. Disillusioned. The word wasn’t strong enough.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was miserable, and I waited for him to explain. “I don’t know if I want to be king.”
Odd that he questioned it. I would have assumed that, being born to the throne, he would have accepted the idea. “Why not?”
Again he was silent, this time for long that I stopped and turned around to face him. “Why not?”
“The job of a king isn’t easy.”
“So you only want to do easy things?” I didn’t bother to hide my scorn.
“No!” He frowned. “I don’t know if I can do it well. I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer for it if I’m not a good king.”
“Yes. The position carries responsibility. You’d shy away from that?”
He hesitated. “I assumed the threat came from Nekane Vidar, my father’s seneschal. If he seizes power, perhaps he’ll be better for Erdem than I will.”
“Why?”
He flushed and stared at the ground. “You should know. He’s a warrior, battle-tested, with a good grasp of strategy and tactics. We’ve heard reports all winter that Tafari is preparing to invade. I don’t have any experience, and I’m not good with a sword. I would think it would be better for everyone if he was in charge of our defense.”
I turned around and began walking again. Right enough, Nekane Vidar the seneschal was battle-tested. I’d served under him distantly, when I was not long out of training. I hadn’t spoken to him, of course, but I knew him by sight and reputation. At the time, at least, he’d been respected, though not well liked. Harshly demanding and quite competent.
I’d believed him loyal to the kingdom and to the king himself. He was wellborn and served as a suvari officer before he had been appointed in the king’s ministerial staff, rising to the rank of seneschal some five or six years ago. I hadn’t particularly liked him, but I wouldn’t have thought him likely to send assassins after anyone. He was more direct than that. But perhaps I was wrong. I wouldn’t rule out anything yet.
2
I filled my canteens at a small creek and gave Hakan my second one. He’d need his own soon. The forest was filled with the immense silence of winter, but small sounds punctuated the stillness. The snow squeaked sometimes beneath my boots and once I heard a fantail hawk.
“Where are we going?” His voice followed me.
“First to Four Corners for supplies. Then northeast, to the hills. I know them well and there aren’t many patrols anymore.” I set a quick pace and could hear him panting behind me, but it didn’t stop his questions.
“You served in the army?”
“In the suvari for the first four years, then I was transferred to the kedani.”
“Why?”
“There was a shortage of qualified officers.”
Many had been killed in the long foolish campaign to the northeast against the Tarvil. It had gained the king nothing and cost him many of his best men. I’d been transferred to a position above many men with years of experience on me. I was fortunate they were willing to recognize my skill and forgive my relative inexperience. My talents for tactics and strategy had then earned their trust, but not every young officer is lucky enough to be given that chance.
“How long is the term of service?”
“Volunteers have the opportunity to retire or reenlist every three years. Foundlings like me serve for twenty years to repay the king’s purse for our education and training. We’re not slaves; we’re paid, though it isn’t much.”
“Twenty years! That seems harsh.” He was breathless now, and I slowed a little and shrugged.
“When you’re king, you can change it as you see fit.”
“You don’t think it was unjust?”
“In what way? I received a good education, though I remain l
acking in some subjects. Most officers come from orphanages.”
In fact, many orphans and foundlings eventually command volunteers with more exalted positions in life, since we begin our training as children. The army generally rewards merit and talent over the status of one’s birth. It can result in odd tensions, but for the most part, it’s accepted, for we’ve had much success even in badly conceived actions.
He ran up beside me and looked up at me, almost falling over a rock as he took his eyes from the path. “Honestly, you don’t feel that your misfortune at birth was used against you? That you were taken advantage of?”
“What good would that do?” I shrugged again. “I’ve no complaints, but if you would seek my counsel once you have your throne, I could probably find in myself some suggestions.”
That was the most I’d said in several months, and I clapped my mouth shut to press on. He followed me in silence for some time, but I wasn’t surprised when he eventually thought of another question.
“What age does a foundling enter the king’s service?”
“Normally sixteen.” I knew the question that would follow.
“Normally?”
“I entered the king’s service on my fourteenth birthday.”
“Why? That’s so young.”
“Because I was very good. Besides, I was nearly as tall as any Tuyet man by then.”
“Into combat at fourteen?” His voice sounded incredulous.
I wondered if he thought I was lying, and decided I didn’t care enough about his opinion to be offended. “Skirmishes, yes, but my first real battle wasn’t for another year.”
He was quiet a few moments. I heard the trilling call of a mountain lark. We’d left the trees to follow the spine of a low hill toward the northern spur of the great forest, and the wind was stronger in the open. My damp shirt stuck to me and the ice flakes felt like little knives on my face. Hakan would have to get his own cloak at the first opportunity.
“How long have you been out of the army?”
“I was discharged four years ago, but I’ve served as a mercenary on occasion since then.” Would he require an explanation of that too?