The River King's Road

by Merciel, Liane

  They can stop arrows? Bitharn felt a cold touch of doubt: what she couldn’t shoot, she couldn’t kill. She had little skill with anything but knife and bow. “What else?”

  She felt Kelland hesitate before he spoke again. “Soulbinding,” he said at last.

  “Soulbinding?”

  “They trap the souls of men in corpses. Sometimes their own, sometimes others’. In Ardashir and Kai Amur, the Zhardians developed this to a high art. Many of them chose to kill and preserve their own mortal bodies, seeking immortality. The Kliastans … inflict it on others, partly as a form of torture and partly to create weapons of war. It is an ugly thing.”

  “I can imagine,” Bitharn murmured. What would it be like to be trapped in one’s own rotting body? Could they feel the decay of their flesh? See the revulsion on the faces of those who had once loved them? She hoped not. She hoped she would never find out. “That’s what they’re doing?”

  He nodded. “They took the dead at Thelyand Ford and turned them into slaves. Men fought their own dead brothers in the mud. Tireless, merciless, and never-ending … for there were always more corpses to be had. But those, at least, we never forgot how to destroy.”

  Small reassurance, but it was something. Bitharn let her gaze drift away through the wind-brushed forest. The white stone of the River Kings’ Road glimmered softly in the dark. The night had grown cloudy, and neither moon nor stars could be seen, but the road shone with its own quiet light, a luminous ribbon in the shadowed wood. She could just make it out through the trees.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bitharn said without thinking. There was nothing like it in Calantyr. They had magic there, some of it grand, but theirs was a young kingdom and it did not have the same weight of mournful history that she imagined for this road.

  Kelland followed her look. “Athra lumenos,” he said, the High Rhaelic flowing as smoothly as if it were his native tongue. He had adopted the tone of a Dome lecturer, a habit he had when reciting history from his lessons. Sometimes it annoyed her, but tonight Bitharn found it soothing. “Stone of the light. The Knights of the Sun mined it, or made it, and the Wayfarers laid it down long ago, when all these little realms were part of Rhaelyand. We’ve forgotten the art since then, or perhaps our prayers have grown weaker, but the old stones hold their magic. They built the imperial roads of athra lumenos so that they would shine all through the night and travelers would never be lost in the dark. Rhaelyand is gone, but the road shines on. People still follow the empire’s old lines, building their towns and castles where the road leads, rather than bending the road to themselves. Through their holy gift, the gods still guide the shape of history.”

  “It’s a wonder no one steals it.”

  “It does no good removed from its purpose.” She could hear his smile, if not see it. “Break a piece from the road, and it loses its light. Athra lumenos was made for the common good; it will not avail the greedy.”

  “Oh.” Bitharn wondered how many people had tried, and how badly they’d been disappointed when they chipped away a little of the gods’ light for themselves, only to find it flickering out between their fingers. Was it so selfish to want a fragment of beauty for oneself? Was that so grievous a sin?

  She listened to Kelland breathing beside her. Steady, familiar, yet infinitely fragile. “Can you defeat a Thorn?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  THEY WERE BACK ON THE ROAD the next morning. At every hamlet there were babies to bless and illnesses to cure, rumors to gather and gossip to share. While Kelland tended to the sick and injured, Bitharn talked to the patients and their kin, sifting through suspicion and half-truth to find whatever crumbs of real information she could.

  They administered justice too. Among Kelland’s powers was the Light of Truth, within which all lies were revealed. Whenever a local liegeman or village reeve had suspicions that a criminal lurked among his commonfolk—or, more likely, knew of one and wanted to demonstrate his loyalty to his lord’s peace—he called upon Kelland to interrogate the suspect and confirm his guilt. Then the criminal was denounced and hanged, and Kelland and Bitharn rode on.

  Their presence kept the peace along the border. Word of the Burnt Knight’s ride spread swiftly through town and village, and Bitharn knew that men who might otherwise have gone raiding across the river stayed at home for fear of attracting his condemnation. The hangings helped with that as much as his holiness did, but she still didn’t like them.

  “They only give up those men to impress us,” she muttered once as they rode away from a newly decorated dule tree on a gray and drizzly afternoon. The hanged men were accused of burning down an Oakharne farm with its family inside. Kelland’s prayer proved their guilt, so they swung. “If you weren’t here, they’d be just as happy to cheer and join in.”

  “They might,” Kelland acknowledged, “but their reasons are less important than their actions. So long as they keep their lord’s peace, half our work here is done.”

  The other half, however, remained stubbornly unfinished. Only one girl had seen the Thorn, if that was what she’d seen, and all she could give them was a garbled story about a woman in black with moonlight for hair. A small company of Baozites had ridden through recently, leaving a trail of havoc in their wake, but no one had seen them for over a fortnight, either.

  Finally, having exhausted what they could learn on the Langmyrne side of the Seivern, the Celestians turned toward the bridges of Tarne Crossing.

  Two days from Oakharn, they saw the crows again.

  There were fewer birds this time, for there were only two bodies to feed them, and both were badly burned. It looked like someone had laid one atop the other and made a half-successful attempt at building a pyre in the forest for both. There hadn’t been enough wood to finish the job, but neither was much left to interest the crows. Man or woman, young or old, Bitharn couldn’t tell through the charring and rain-bloat. She couldn’t even say what killed them.

  One of the bodies, however, didn’t seem human at all. The crows avoided that one, preferring to squabble over the gobbets of flesh clinging to the other’s bones.

  “Look at this,” Bitharn said, holding up the skull and wiping wet ash from its jaws with a gloved finger. The teeth protruded hideously from the jawbones, curving up on bony, gristle-wrapped prongs that stuck out like flayed fingers from a palm. The skull might have been a man’s, but there was nothing human about those teeth.

  “Ghaole.” Kelland grimaced. “A Hound of the Night. Put that down.”

  “Gladly.” Bitharn tossed it into the trees. “What is it?”

  “It was a man. Until the Thorns took him. The ghaole—the Hounds of the Night—are among the soulbound. Legends say ghoul-hounds could smell better than dogs and run faster than deer. Their touch froze their victims’ blood, and they could not be killed, for they were already dead.”

  “Well, somebody killed that one, if that’s what it was.” Bitharn shrugged, flinging her braid over a shoulder as she got back into the saddle. “And if somebody else could kill one, I daresay we could too.”

  9

  The old lord was dying.

  On this, Blessed Andalya and Ossaric’s personal physician agreed: the lord’s heart had been broken by grief, and repairing that wound was beyond any of their arts. Neither herbs nor purges nor Celestia’s bright magic could restore happiness to a soul that had lost it. There was nothing they could do.

  So Ossaric lay on his sickbed, shrouded from the world by a canopy of linen so fine it was translucent, and waited for death. He seldom spoke and never ate; he only slept, and asked for the dust of dreamflowers in water when he woke, so that he might slip back into slumber and out of the nightmare that was his life.

  Meanwhile Leferic sat on his chair and ruled in his stead, Lord of Bulls’ March in all but name.

  On occasion he went to visit his dying father, more to show filial loyalty than out of any genuine grief. His liegemen expected such things. On these visits he sat by his father�
�s bedside in a hard wooden chair and read his quartermaster’s reports or correspondence from neighboring lords. Lord Ossaric never said a word to him—never even turned to look at him—while he was there, and Leferic always left as soon as he could.

  He detested the sickroom. Braziers burned constantly to keep the air warm enough for the old man’s thin blood, and incense choked the room to mask the overripe smells of age and decay. It might have been bearable if his father had given him a kind word, or acknowledged his presence … but he never did, and Leferic had better uses for his time.

  He felt no real regret, though he knew he should. Fratricide was monstrous, but patricide was worse yet, and if his father died of grief, then Leferic would be the one who killed him. By all laws of god and man, he would be guilty as a murderer of the worst stripe.

  Somehow he couldn’t seem to care. If his father wanted to die of a heart broken by the loss of his first son, even as the second sat by his side, then Leferic was perfectly content to let him. They’d never been close. Galefrid had always been the favorite, and the extent of that was becoming all too clear.

  They didn’t even look alike. Lord Ossaric was dark of hair and stout of body, or had been, before sorrow grayed and thinned him. Galefrid had been the same. Leferic, on the other hand, took after his late mother: tall and thin and lanky and blond, with a narrow, foxlike face that looked more clever than brave.

  No surprise his father showed him no kinship. He’d never looked or acted it before. Every visit only renewed the bitterness, and Leferic was always glad to leave.

  After one such visit, as Leferic was closing the door between the two red-cloaked guards who watched over his father’s slumber, Cadarn came to meet him in the hall. The northerner still wore the white bearskin cape with the head snarling over his shoulder, but he had traded his leathers for mail beneath it. “Your knight in the west causes trouble, Leferic-lord.”

  “What do you mean?” Leferic asked. He saw Heldric coming toward them and raised his fingers slightly to delay the answer until the older man arrived.

  The gesith did not hurry down the hall. Heldric would never allow himself to be seen doing anything so undignified. But it did seem that the old liegeman’s step was a shade faster than usual, and that his mouth was set in a harder line than Leferic had seen there before. A hand rested on his sword hilt, and his bow when he came to them was not a courtier’s obeisance, but the terse gesture of a warrior to a commander in the field.

  “Sir Gerbrand has raised the flag of revolt,” the gesith said. His eyes were chill under wintry gray brows. “Not openly, but not far from it. He claims that ‘bandits’ are running wild in Littlewood. Conveniently these ‘bandits’ manage to avoid his own men while raiding across the river and striking at your soldiers. My lord.”

  “The knight in the west,” Cadarn agreed in his ponderous, heavy-accented speech. “He is unhappy about his man’s execution. Now he says that bandits killed two of my company. He is lying, Leferic-lord. No bandit would dare raise blade to my men.”

  “No,” Heldric said. “Bandits are dogs. They choose easy prey, not foreign mercenaries with heavy arms and light purses. The absurdity of Gerbrand’s pretense is its own insult. He means for your liegemen to see through it. And you.”

  “Then we must answer it,” Leferic said. “Can he be dealt with directly?”

  “That is my wish. Blood must be repaid with blood.” Cadarn crossed his arms beneath his cloak, his mail clanking. “I will accept no price in silver for this.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. My liegemen doubt my strength, not my wisdom. Thoughtful of Gerbrand to reassure them.” Leferic smiled. At least he thought it was a smile; it did not feel like one. “Cadarn, take thirty men and go to Littlewood. Send word as soon as you’ve caught the bandits, and keep as many alive as you can. Let them see that this Mouse has a taste for blood.”

  THE NEXT MORNING LEFERIC SENT FOR Sir Brisic. The old knight had been one of his father’s most loyal liegemen. Galefrid had squired for him as a boy. He’d never been close to Leferic, though, and puzzlement showed on his bluff sunlined features when he answered his lord’s call. “The—your man said you wanted to see me.”

  “I do.” That was true, but only just. It wasn’t Brisic that interested him, but Sir Merguil, the younger of the man’s two living sons. The knight had been in Tarne Crossing, handpicking mercenaries, all through the Swordsday competitions. No fool, Sir Merguil had correctly assumed that the best way for a younger son to win lands and riches was to carve his own fortune out of the world. Now he had the better part of a company assembled, already paid for and equipped, and Leferic wanted to use them.

  The servants were setting out breakfast in the solar. Leferic waited until they finished and left. He took a plate of bread and honeycomb, gesturing for Brisic to do the same. “I will be riding to Littlewood soon.”

  “Gerbrand?”

  Leferic nodded. He saw no point denying it; he meant for everyone to know. Rebellion would not be forgiven under his rule. “His disobedience is insulting. He wants to provoke me. Well enough: I will answer. Dying men are allowed a last wish.”

  “I had nothing to do with his rebellion,” Brisic said quickly. He still seemed to be trying to guess what Leferic wanted with this audience; his brow was creased and he piled food onto his plate without much attention to what he was taking.

  “Of course not,” Leferic said, letting a note of surprise slip into his voice. Actually he had wondered about that. Brisic and Gerbrand had campaigned together under his father and were known to be friends. Neither had any love for the Langmyrne, who had killed Brisic’s second son and held Gerbrand for ransom when he was young. He didn’t think Brisic would be foolhardy enough to send armsmen to support Gerbrand’s defiance—not yet, anyway—but he had little doubt that Brisic had tacitly encouraged it and would be quick to join at the first sign of success. Or, he thought irritably, if his father died and took Brisic’s last shred of loyalty with him.

  “I would never doubt your loyalty,” Leferic lied. “The reason I summoned you was entirely the opposite, in fact. Littlewood will need a strong hand after the traitor is put down. I understand your younger son has shown himself to be a skilled leader of men.”

  “Merguil?” Brisic stuck his fork into a bit of bacon and examined it, shaking his head as he pushed the greasy meat away. “He’s brave enough, that much no one can deny. He’s not tested, though. He was going to lead a company in Thelyand a few years, make his fortune there. Edarric, on the other hand …”

  Leferic lifted his cup to conceal his disapproval. He had no interest in giving Littlewood to Edarric, Brisic’s oldest son and heir. Uniting Littlewood to Helsennar, their ancestral hold, would make them the wealthiest knights in Bulls’ March, after Leferic himself, and might encourage inconvenient ambitions. But Merguil was already a grown man with young sons and ambitions of his own. If he came into land, he would not soon give his sons’ birthright up to his brother—and he should be suitably grateful to the lord who granted him his own hold, unlike Edarric, who would merely be increasing the size of his estates.

  “I need a man who knows his way around a battlefield,” he told Brisic. “I thought Merguil might be ideal. His men seem to love him, and he’ll get as much experience in Littlewood as he would on the banks of the Thelyand. More, maybe. The ironlords make no man’s practice puppets, and King Merovas has little coin left for hireswords. But, as you say, he is not tested. Sir Halebran might make a better choice.”

  Brisic purpled and nearly choked on his porridge. Sir Halebran was a sensible and courageous man, and he’d distinguished himself in the handful of armed clashes that had disturbed Bulls’ March over the past decade. It was Sir Halebran who had ridden out to capture the Slaver Knight and brought him to justice in Langmyr, no small feat of bravery considering the chances that the Langmyrne would hang him too.

  But Sir Halebran was sworn to Breakwall, and it was dead Lord Vanegild, his master, whose cow
ardice at Widows’ Castle had cost the life of Brisic’s middle son.

  That was a stupid campaign and doomed from the start, and Sir Halebran had played no part in its failure—the man wasn’t even anointed as a knight then—but Sir Brisic had never forgiven or forgotten the price of Lord Vanegild’s cowardice. To this day he hated all Breakwall men.

  “He’s not even a Bulls’ March man,” Brisic protested when he found his breath again.

  “He isn’t,” Leferic agreed, “but he’s steady and competent and he knows how to handle a command. A man can always swear new oaths.”

  “The knights’ll be outraged if they hear you’re passing them over to hand Littlewood to a Breakwall man.”

  “Sir Halebran has always been loyal to Oakharn. As we all are. He served my father well, and he saved our honor by taking the Slaver Knight. I am certain that the knights of Bulls’ March will welcome him once he swears fealty to my father.” That was a lie too, but there was enough truth in it to make Sir Brisic doubt. “Still, he wouldn’t be my first choice. I would indeed prefer to keep Littlewood in closer hands.”

  Brisic grimaced. “Let me talk to my boy. See if I can make him see the light. He’s bent on winning glory over the ironlords, but there’s good sense to what you say. He might do better to stay closer to home.”

  “Tell me when you have an answer.” Leferic took another sip of bitterpine tea, pleased that his gamble had paid off so well. He’d made the offer to Brisic rather than Merguil partly because he knew the old knight did not want to lose another son—and there was a very good chance of that happening if Merguil marched against Ang’arta—but also because Merguil was cleverer than his father. The son might have seen through Leferic’s dissembling and pressed for better terms, whereas the father was blinded by his wish to stymie a Breakwall man and win honors for his son.