Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  Muray pointed out an inn at the center of the group of buildings opposite, immediately below the hill upon which the official residence loomed.

  “The Silver Arms,” he said. “The Hay’s family owns it. My ken insisted that I put you up there.” He stepped aside at the base of the steps leading up to the veranda. “My lord, my lady, and honored guests – if you please.”

  Despite his reticence in the presence of so much obvious wealth and the soul-dampening weight of ancient and proud – perhaps even smug – civilization, Aram smiled at the dramatic delivery of the announcement and led Ka’en up and over the threshold into the enormous inn. He stopped.

  Aram had become used to being the object of wonder as he’d traveled throughout unknown lands riding upon, and accompanied by, horses – those mythical beasts of legend, heretofore unseen in these lands, and believed by many to have vanished millennia ago.

  But now, it was his turn to wonder.

  Never had he seen such opulence. Golden light, provided by hundreds of candles set in a crystal chandelier, flooded the vast entrance hall of the inn. The floors were of dark wood, highly polished, and elegant drapes, the color of silver, hung from the walls and framed the windows. Perhaps most remarkable, there was glass everywhere, in seeming profusion. He’d encountered glass before, of course; indeed, Lancer’s house had several glass windows, but in small square bits. In many instances where the glass in Lancer’s house had been broken or lost, squares of wood had been leaded into its place, for it was a rare commodity, certainly no longer produced in Wallensia.

  The windows of the Silver Arms contained glass in massive rectangular sections. The chandelier overhead – which, Aram was convinced, would impress Kelven himself – was made of many crystals of several sizes, which caused the abundant light to be diffused in such a way as to dazzle the eye, rendering a thousand small rainbows upon the walls and floor. There were hundreds of small flames up there among the crystal, producing the stunning display, and Aram wondered briefly how those candles were lit, and by whom. He looked at Ka’en. She had her hand over her mouth and was gazing about with wide eyes full of wonder.

  Findaen, Wamlak, Mallet, and Ruben seemed about on the verge of scampering back out into the dark streets in the face of such unimagined luxury. Muray, grinning, retrieved his father’s letter from Aram, stepped away from them and crossed the room toward a desk on the far side. Here, he showed the letter, and produced the purse of money. These twin actions brought staff fairly running toward the rough and travel-worn strangers.

  The three servants, two young men and a young woman, dressed in silver tunics, halted in front of them and bowed.

  “Welcome to the Silver Arms, sirs, and madam,” said the oldest of the three. He glanced around, noting only Ka’en’s small bag, which she clutched to her breast – the bags of monarchs were out of sight, beneath Mallet’s cloak – and then looked at Aram uncertainly. “Are your things in an oxcart outside? We will gladly deposit them in your room.”

  Aram shook his head, feeling suddenly poor and diminished by a simple question enunciated by a young servant, and felt oddly compelled to explain himself. “We have no things; we have traveled far on horseback” – again, there were widened eyes – “and have traveled light. We come to see the Hay.”

  Recovering in remarkably quick fashion, the young man let his eye rove over Aram’s clothes, noting the soil and wear of the road. He smiled brightly, eager to please – for no doubt a rumor of the stature of these strange, barbaric people had reached the ears of his employers – and he indicated stairs leading up at the right side of the entrance hall.

  “If you will allow me to show you to your rooms, and if you will place your clothing outside the door, we will have it cleaned and repaired as necessary.” He paused, frowning. “Have my lords, and my lady supped?”

  “No.” Aram shook his head. “We’ve had nothing this evening, but –”

  The young man pointed the other way, toward a broad archway. “The other guests have gone into dine already. But I will gladly prepare a table to accommodate your group, sir, if – “He hesitated as he noticed Aram frowning darkly in the direction of the archway, and a light seemed to flicker on behind his eyes. The young man was nothing, if not perceptive. “If you would like, sir, I will have supper prepared to your request and brought up to your rooms – would that be acceptable?”

  Surprised at such willing and unexpected accommodation, Aram smiled with relief and gratitude. “Yes – that will be fine. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the man replied, and led the way up the stairs to the floors above.

  When they had been deposited in the rooms paid for by Eoarl’s gift of money, and their meal requests taken, Ka’en sat on the enormous bed, and gazed around in amazement and delight. “I never knew anyone lived like this.”

  Aram stood in the middle of the floor; his boots deep in textured rugs and took in the utter luxuriousness of the place. After a moment, he shrugged. “Why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t everyone, for that matter? You, Ka’en, more than anyone, should sleep in a room like this – always.” He went silent then, and his brow darkened as he compared the opulence around him to the realities of their own, often meager, existence.

  Ka’en got up and went to him, standing close and pulling his arms about her as she laid her head on his chest. “Life is not about how you live or where you sleep – it’s about who shares it with you.”

  His dark thoughts faded and he smiled down at her. “You really think that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, because it is true.” She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “I’d rather sleep in the wilderness with you for the rest of my life than spend one night in a place like this without you.”

  Her body was warm, soft, and yielding against his. “Well, then,” he said, “since I am here with you, in this magnificent room –”

  Sometime later, there came a discrete knock on the door, and supper was wheeled into the room on a cart. They sat and ate, drank fine wine, and laughed and talked the evening away. In these amazing surroundings, it became an easy thing to forget about everything but each other.

  The next morning, Aram awoke to bright sunlight flooding in through the high windows. Ka’en was already up, dressed, and examining his clothes, which had been cleaned and the rents repaired. She looked over as he sat up in bed.

  “This is some fine workmanship. And, look –” She rose and went to a table by the door, where she poured steaming dark liquid into a cup, which she held out toward him after sniffing at its contents. “Kolfa! They brought it a while ago. It’s hot, and of the finest quality. I’ve never tasted a cup like it.”

  Aram glanced out the window. “The sun’s pretty high, and we meet the Hay this morning. You should have awakened me.”

  She laughed. “You were sleeping like a baby. Besides, Muray came round and said that your letter had been accepted, and that we were expected just after midday.”

  Aram frowned. “Did he think there was a chance that the letter would not be accepted?”

  “I don’t know.” She brought the cup to him and then sat in a chair near the bed as he sipped the kolfa. “But I talked with the girl that brought our clothes and the kolfa – we need to pull on that cord by the door when we’re ready for breakfast, by the way – and she said the Hay rarely sees anyone. He a very strange sort of man, I guess. Evidently, he relies on his mother to conduct most of the business of government.”

  She gave him an odd look. “Muray stated, however, that the Hay sent word that he was particularly anxious to meet with you. Why would that be, Aram? How are you known in this part of the world?”

  He shrugged, frowning. “I’m not known in this part of the world. At least, I don’t know anyone – I’ve never met anyone from here that I recall.” His frown gave way to a smile. “Maybe there was a code in Eoarl’s letter – something we didn’t see but that someone in the government would recognize.”

  He glanced out the w
indow once more, noting the position of the sun, and then set the cup aside and lay back. Looking over, he gave her a meaningful smile. “It seems that we are not pressed for time, then.”

  She sipped at her kolfa and smiled back at him, happily. But then she glanced over at the cord hanging down near the door. “Perhaps we should get some breakfast in you first.”

  He held out his hand to her. “Breakfast can wait awhile,” he said.

  Aram slept for a while longer then, waking when Ka’en kissed him and whispered in his ear that midday approached. He bathed and dressed and prepared to go up to the Great Hall to meet with the young and reputedly “odd” ruler of the land of Lamont.

  They found Findaen and the others downstairs in the dining hall, which was shared with several other finely-dressed folk. The roughly-clothed men from Derosa seemed oblivious of the social disparity, however; they were laughing and talking together easily. Muray sat with them, grinning as usual. When Aram and Ka’en entered, Mallet immediately stood and demonstrated the reason for their collective good humor.

  “My lord, and my lady,” he bellowed, lifting a glass high, “you really must try this.”

  The dining hall was wide and long, as opulent as the rest of the place, with high windows that looked forward, out onto the square, lit with the morning sun. Compared to such a room, Lancer’s hall, which Aram had always thought pretty fine, was small, rough, and almost shabby. Aram placed Ka’en in a chair and sat next to her, grinning at his friends.

  “What is this that I must try?”

  Findaen filled a glass from a crystal decanter – something else Aram had never seen – and slid it across the table toward him. He held up a cautionary hand. “Before you drink, my lord, I must ask you a question.”

  Aram picked up the glass and looked at him, waiting.

  Findaen licked his lips, glancing sideways at Muray. “Muray says that we’re paid up for three nights.” His eyes flicked toward the decanter before coming back to Aram’s face. “Do any of us have to go with you up the hill?”

  Frowning, Aram looked at Muray. “What is the – protocol, I believe your father called it – in this circumstance?”

  Muray’s gaze went to Aram’s sword. “My ken gave me instructions, Lord Aram – and I have repeated these instructions to everyone, everywhere – that you are an important lord, and that you are to never be challenged for your weapon.” He glanced around at his newfound friends. “But the Hay is high and mighty in his own right – and if you showed up there with a small army, well –”

  Mallet roared with laughter. “We’re a small army?”

  Muray eyed him with an acid smile. “You’re a small army, Mallet.”

  Aram smiled and held up his hand, calming the revelry. “So, then – Ka’en and I go alone.”

  “Yes, except for me.” Muray nodded, suddenly solemn. “I think it best. My ken thought so, too.”

  “When do we go up?”

  Muray glanced out the window. “The bells will sound after midday, at the end of luncheon. At that moment, the doors to the palace will open. The line is sometimes pretty long,” he gave Aram an odd glance, “but I suspect that you’ll be moved to the front of it.”

  Aram watched him a moment, and then looked down and considered his glass. “What’s this, then?”

  “Real whiskey,” Wamlak answered.

  Aram shot him a glance. “But I’ve had whiskey before.”

  “No, my lord, you haven’t.” Wamlak shook his head, almost sadly. “Drink up, and then see if you can still say so with any certainty.”

  Aram held it up, watching the light play in and through the honey-colored liquid, and then he brought the glass under his nose. Sharp odors of grain, earth, and charcoal wafted from the amber liquid. He tipped a bit of it into his mouth. It was like honeyed fire, with undertones of wood and smoke. He felt his eyes open wide.

  “See!” Findaen said, and he shook his own glass in front him. “See – this is real – this is the real thing. This is why I asked if any of the rest of us were expected above, for I doubt that any of us will be able to walk within the hour.” He became suddenly somber. “Lord Aram – would it be possible to purchase some of this and take it back to Jonwood?”

  Aram thought about the two sacks of monarchs secured to Mallet’s belt, and then about the main reason they had come to this place, to trade some of those golden coins for smaller denominations of currency.

  “Let me talk to the Hay, first. If all goes well – well, how can we enjoy this and not include Jonwood?”

  Mallet leaned toward him. “We can take some back for ourselves, too, eh, my lord?”

  Aram grinned. “I wouldn’t even think of leaving the rest of us out of the consideration of such fine, quality whiskey.”

  Mallet, already quite drunk, beamed a lopsided smile, and his eyes grew moist. “You are a fine prince, Lord Aram.”

  They sat and talked the rest of the morning away, and Aram was careful not to indulge in too much of the finest libation any of them had ever known. Still, he was startled when a bell tolled, seemingly right above the inn where they sat, six deep rolling tones that echoed over the town.

  He stood and reached for Ka’en’s hand, bringing her to her feet, and then he looked at Muray. “You’re a strong man, aren’t you, Muray?”

  Muray stood, a slight frown creasing his features. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Aram looked at Mallet. “Give him the bags, Mallet.”

  Mallet reached under his long, heavy shirt – which showed signs of recent mending – and produced the two mesh bags of monarchs. He handed them to Muray, who accepted them, his frown deepening at the surprising weight. He looked at Aram with a stunned expression as it dawned on him what it was that he held in his hands.

  Aram smiled as he turned toward the front hall of the inn. “I’m not quite as poor as I may appear,” he said.

  28

  Immediately behind the inn, the two halves of the avenue came together again and broadened out, but the street ended after just a hundred yards or so, at the base of a series of very wide steps that led up to the entrance of the palace crowning the hilltop above them. These steps, made of worked stone, were an impressive architectural feat, as was the construction of the building towering above them. It was all intended, of course, to showcase the potency and benevolence of the man that dwelled within its walls, but the building itself seemed to gaze proudly and protectively down upon the city below.

  As Muray had suggested, there were others climbing up the broad steps toward the entrance to the palace, but as they became aware of Aram and Ka’en, by singles and in groups, they instinctively moved aside and let them pass. It was as if they understood that this tall, dark man accompanied by a beautiful, regal woman, represented business of an import that exceeded their own.

  There was a crowd at the double doors of the entrance and Aram heard voices raised in protest. Facing the throng, a rather muscular, copper-haired man, clad in a silver robe with a golden braid on one shoulder, stood alone in the middle of the arched entrance. He was in the process of denying entrance to all comers.

  He noticed Aram, Ka’en, and Muray immediately when they arrived at the top step; and with quick, impatient movements, shushed the crowd and bullied them aside, allowing Aram and his companions to approach.

  The man watched them with sharp, shrewd eyes as they approached, noting Aram’s rough appearance, Ka’en’s regal bearing, and especially the two bags that Muray carried with knotted arms. In his hand, he held Eoarl’s letter, which he tapped with his finger as Aram stopped in front of him.

  “You, sir, would be the subject of the Commissioner’s letter, then? Lord Aram of the west?”

  “I am Aram.”

  “And I am Edwar, Captain of the Hay’s swords.”

  Aram examined the man, even as he was examined in return. Edwar’s blue eyes contained more than shrewdness, much more. There was intelligence in them, and powers of calculation. The Hay might be a str
ange man, as was said of him, but he had at least one very capable man in his employ.

  Edwar folded the paper and placed it away beneath his robe. “You wish to see the Hay on matters of commerce?” His eyes flicked toward the bags, but they also strayed to Aram’s sword and rested there a moment, and a certain hardness alloyed itself to the steely shrewdness in his eyes. He met Aram’s gaze. “A matter of precious metals, in particular, I understand?”

  “My principality lacks a diversity of coinage. I had hoped to acquire not just silver and copper, but currency made of such metals. Is this possible?”

  Impatience flashed momentarily through Edwar’s clever eyes. “Why ask me? I do not speak for the Hay.” His gaze rested for another long moment on the hilt of the sword, and he stiffened, as if he wished to protest its presence, but then he moved quickly to one side, and motioned toward the interior of the hall. “It is my understanding that the Hay is anxious, for some reason, to speak with you, sir. Let us not make him wait.”

  Aram felt a momentary twinge of exasperation at the captain of swords’ peremptory manner, but he brushed it aside, and still holding Ka’en’s hand, he stepped into the hall, followed by Muray.

  Edwar fell into step beside him. “The Hay will not speak with you,” he said. “But he will hear your petitions. Therefore, though you must face the Hay as you speak, and direct your requests to him directly, it will be the Dame Regent that will engage you on points of interest. Do you understand this?”