And So It Begins

by R. G. Green

  “Get them to the hospice. There’s enough of us here to keep him from going anywhere.”

  The wounded. This single, very-much-alive northerner they had trapped in their midst had taken their attention from the Defenders who had been injured during the brief battle, and several heads turned to the ones aiding those still struggling. None were so badly hurt they had to be carried, but more than a few leaned heavily on their comrades, letting themselves be shuffled forward, ever closer to the cobbled streets of Gravlorn. As the progression out of the camp lengthened, the whole and unburdened began to swell the ranks around their captive, closing off his escape but never crowding the northerner or the prince.

  Gresham appeared at Kherin’s elbow, his head uncovered and the stands of his hair hanging limply from his balding crown. Jarak joined him a moment later, flanking Kherin’s opposite side, a bow held easily in one hand, a blue and black fletched arrow dangling from the other. The blacksmith didn’t show the discomfort Gresham did, didn’t shift nervously in place like the Leader, but merely waited for orders.

  None came immediately, and the northerner rose slowly to his feet when it seemed the Defenders would draw no closer, his focus never wavering from the second Prince of Llarien. He was taller than Kherin, and bulkier, even without the padding of armor. His hair was thick and darkened by the rain, and hung in sodden ropes down his back, almost hiding the strip of leather that had pulled most of it from his face. The bloody animal skins appeared to be made from reedbuck, a more rugged version of the deer that roamed the countryside of Llarien. The boots he wore were simple but effective, and made from the same skins. But for all his animalistic appearance, the intelligence in his eyes was clear. They were dark but fully aware, and holding something more than mere hostility. Standing this close, Kherin would have called it surprise.

  “What is your name?” he asked sharply, breaking the silence that had fallen around them.

  The northerner didn’t react, didn’t attempt to speak, and never took his eyes from the prince. The continuing rain beat dully against the earth, splattering the mud in thousands of tiny eruptions. The circle had grown so still, not even the sound of breathing interrupted its steady patter.

  “Do you speak our language?” Kherin tried again. He doubted the northerner did, or would admit to it when surrounded by hostile strangers, but he couldn’t help the sliver of hope that just maybe he could be understood. He needed that sliver, if this northerner was going to be any use at all.

  But the northerner didn’t so much as blink.

  Kherin’s lips tightened at the complete lack of reaction. “Take him to the cells in the city,” he said at last, speaking again to the Defenders without averting his gaze. “Get him dry and fed. We need to keep him alive.”

  “There are no cells, my lord,” Gresham answered hesitantly.

  The words snapped Kherin’s gaze sharply away from the stranger, and the Leader forced himself to stand straighter under his glare.

  “We have no cells in Gravlorn, my lord,” Gresham repeated, louder this time. “We haven’t had need of them before now.”

  Kherin’s head spun to Jarak, and the blacksmith nodded.

  “Cells were built when Gravlorn was raised, but they have since been turned into shops and taverns,” Jarak explained evenly. “With so little activity from the northerners during recent years, the people began to think them wasted space, and so put them to other uses.”

  Kherin barely kept the reply he wanted to make from reaching his lips, but had to grudgingly admit the choice may not have been pure folly. Before this season, the prison cells would most likely have been nothing more than rat-infested hovels. Add to that the fact that the Defenders here, in addition to being the mostly likely cause of any trouble in the city, were also in charge of protecting it, and it was extremely doubtful they would arrest one of their own, or risk their welcome in the city by arresting its citizens. Even the Delfore Defenders would have been outnumbered and overruled had they tried to enforce something resembling laws. Kherin nearly spit in disgust.

  “Then take him to an inn in the city and keep him under guard,” he ground out instead. He looked directly at Gresham. “Schedule the rotation to make sure he is never left alone. Not when he eats, not when he sleeps, not when he takes a piss.”

  Gresham looked about to argue, but Kherin stepped forward. “He may be more likely to kill himself than try any of you. Make sure he never gets the chance.”

  He saw Gresham swallow, but the Leader nodded in reluctant obedience, and Kherin turned back to the center of the circle. The northerner hadn’t moved and gave no sign he understood the conversation, though he never took his eyes from Kherin until he was forced to, when he was turned away by the Defenders taking charge of him. The blood on his skins said he was wounded, but his steps didn’t falter as he was led from the camp. Kherin said nothing when Gresham accompanied them.

  Jarak stayed but kept his silence while the remaining Defenders disbanded, both prince and blacksmith watching impassively while the men scattered. The hum of their voices began nearly as soon as their backs were turned, yet Kherin waited until they had moved farther away, until he was sure they were out of earshot, and he and Jarak were all but alone in the middle of the camp. Jarak waited patiently until the prince at last turned to face him.

  “All right, what happened, Jarak? How did we not know they were gathering on our side? How long have they been here? Why did they attack, what were they after, and why did they leave when they could have won?”

  Even as he asked the questions, Kherin was aware of how deeply grateful he was that Jarak was from Delfore, and was therefore someone who knew better than to flounder with justifications and excuses and wouldn’t waste time with conjecture and guesses.

  “They crossed the river to the east, my lord,” Jarak answered calmly. “Most likely in the heaviest growth between here and Lorn. It seems unlikely they crossed as a whole, but not entirely impossible they crossed unseen if spread over a short period of time. We have not seen fires or smoke to indicate a camp, but patrols stick to the riverbank, and a camp without a fire is possible even in this season if they are acclimated to the elements. We weren’t expecting their attack, and so we weren’t prepared for it, and we do not know if it was planned, spurred into being, or because they were bored. Overall, I would say we were lucky, my lord.”

  “Lucky” described exactly what they were right now, though Kherin wondered bitterly just how many Defenders truly realized that.

  “Why here?” he asked, glancing idly around the camp. “Why here instead of Lorn?”

  Jarak didn’t answer immediately, and Kherin went on without waiting.

  “Because maybe they already know what is—or isn’t—in Lorn,” he answered himself, and scowled at the implications. The northerner who had taken his life had done so in Lorn, as had the Defender who had been in league with him. Because Lorn had been tried and discarded was a legitimate possibility.

  “Find out where they are taking him,” he said then, turning to face the blacksmith. “Find out who is being charged with guarding him and what schedule Gresham has come up with.” He glanced around the camp. “Find me at the hospice when you are done.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Jarak said immediately, sketching a salute with the arrow still in his fingers and then following the path of the wounded into the city without hesitation.

  Kherin watched his back until he vanished from sight. Then he turned and made a slow path back to the riverbank. The storm clouds had grown darker with the promise of heavier rain, but had not yet turned the day into night. The northerners had long since vanished into their own lands, and the plains he could see across the water appeared unchanged from any other day he had looked at them. It was a wonder that he never saw their movements even on clear days, despite the flatness of the northern shore. In fact, he had never seen the evidence of camps on their side of the river, or anything involving homesteads or villages, even though they never seeme
d far from the water’s edge. It had never occurred to him until now to wonder why.

  With a frown, he turned back into the camp and began making his way to the city. Willum would be able to tell him the status of the wounded, and Jarak would let him know the condition of the northerner. Derek would have no doubt learned of the attack by now, and he would tell him anything else to be learned about the reactions in the streets. Adrien would want to know how things stood—if he was awake, which, Gods willing, he would be. And if Gresham was worth what his father paid him, there would be a search of the trees later tonight.

  But all of that aside, for the moment Kherin had exactly what he had been after: a northerner, alive, on Llarien soil. Exactly what he needed to learn what it was that was happening and why, and how to stop it.

  He just needed to figure out how to use him.

  “THE Open Door, my lord,” Jarak reported bluntly, addressing both princes in the warmed room of the hospice as he named the inn, though only one was aware of his words. He continued to relate the schedule Gresham had made to guard the northerner: three Defenders on duty at a time, two inside his room, one outside the door, with at least one of the three being a Delfore Defender at all times. Kherin didn’t doubt the presence of Delfore men had little to do with diplomacy and more to do with Gresham’s attempt to raise his favor in the opinion of both princes, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes at exactly how far that sort of catering would go to pleasing his father. But he left any thoughts on the matter unsaid and accepted Gresham’s scheduling without contradiction. Let the Leader win the small battles, and he would be less likely to fight over the larger ones. Adrien and Derek should be proud of his understanding of the tactic. Besides, Kherin admitted silently, Gresham wasn’t the enemy, just a poor asset.

  He shifted his position on the bed to stretch one leg out in front of him, easing the cramp in his knee, though he had taken no injuries in the fighting. His leather armor was piled against the far wall, and it would need tending, but he was sure another poor Defender would appear in the night to see to the task. He turned his head to Adrien, who remained still and soundly asleep, and undoubtedly oblivious to what was happening in the world around him, and then pulled his leg back as his eyes slid to the shadowy presence near the corner, though there was too little light to gauge his reaction to Jarak’s report.

  Derek had offered few comments of his own, but instead had listened thoughtfully from his position against the wall, his arms crossed lightly across his chest while his feet remained crossed at the ankles. The darkness of his clothes and hair let him blend easily into the recess of the corner, with only the lighter reflection of his skin ensuring that none would miss his presence. Derek hadn’t interrupted as the report was given, and Kherin’s eyes snapped back to Jarak as the blacksmith finished relaying the names of who would be on guard, and when.

  Jarak nodded when he saw Kherin’s attention return. “We will be ready when you are prepared to question him, my lord.”

  “I’ll be ready shortly,” Kherin told him, glancing again from the trader to Adrien and then out the rain-splattered window. Though the evening was still early, the clouds had finally succeeded in darkening the skies, and rain fell steadily against the pane of glass, though not heavily enough to constitute a storm.

  “As you will, my lord,” Jarak said immediately. It was Derek who finally dismissed him, and he offered a salute to both of them before leaving. Jarak’s turn at guard would be later that night, when it was more likely Kherin would visit the northerner. Even if it hadn’t been planned that way, Kherin wouldn’t argue with it, and it was unlikely Jarak would either. He watched the rain trail along the glass as his thoughts turned over the opportunity and the problem that accompanied it.

  “What are you going to ask him?” Derek asked quietly after a moment, stepping from the shadows and reading his thoughts as easily as if he had spoken them aloud.

  Kherin let out his breath but didn’t miss how the trader’s voice remained subdued even though they were alone in the sickroom. The question itself was direct, cutting to the most important aspect of the situation, as all of Derek’s questions were prone to do. But though he had little doubt Derek had already learned more than what Kherin knew from just the simple gossip on the streets, none of it was going to make the coming interview any easier. He shook his head slowly as he watched the rain streak down the window.

  “I haven’t got as far as actually framing the questions,” he admitted quietly. “I really haven’t thought further than ‘Who are you?’, ‘Why are you here?’, and ‘What did you do to my brother?’.”

  Derek laughed, drawing Kherin’s eyes from the rain-smeared glass. “Succinct and to the point, at least. But only effective if he answers in kind. You may be lucky if he answers at all.”

  “And that’s assuming I can make him understand the questions,” Kherin added sourly. He let his gaze fall to his brother again, and took in the stillness—the calmness that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than sleep. It was good to see Adrien at peace, even though he was likely tempting fate to acknowledge it. Seeing Adrien like this eased some of the trepidation he felt concerning the trader. Some, but not all.

  “The cut on his back continues to heal,” he said suddenly, forcing a change in his thoughts as he pulled himself to his feet.

  Derek met him at his brother’s bedside and offered silent assistance as Kherin eased his brother to the side, twisting him slightly to bring his back into the light of the candle lamp. The exhaustion that let Adrien sleep kept him from waking during their handling, though the frailness of extended bed rest was heartbreakingly evident in the lack of flesh covering the elder prince’s bones. Derek said nothing as Kherin swept the ends of his hair from his brother’s neck, and he avoided the trader’s eyes as he bent to loosen the bandage that had only recently been replaced. Adrien seemed to be healing at last, but Kherin wasn’t certain he could bear seeing the mirror of the worry he was so carefully trying to control in the trader’s gaze in the event that the healing had inexplicably reversed.

  But it hadn’t, and he knew Derek’s watchful gaze followed his finger as he traced along the red, crusty mark, the scar that should have formed weeks ago just beginning to be seen under the thick surface of the scabbing. Why it had taken so long, Kherin couldn’t begin to understand, but the certainty that it was somehow linked to the seizures—and the sudden lack of them—seemed unquestionable. Thoughts of the blood magic Derek himself had told him of filtered into his mind, though how this was connected to that was as much of mystery as the magic itself.

  But the answer was here, Kherin was sure, guarded and contained in the Open Door Inn, waiting for Kherin to find a way to understand it, any of it: the mark, the language, the purpose of their presence in Llarien. Kherin had what he needed, if he could only figure out how to use it.

  “Do you still think Dar knows something about the northerners that can explain this, because of his work in studying their history?” Kherin asked without warning, replacing the bandage and easing his brother back down, and all without looking up to see Derek’s eyes. The catch he felt in his lungs was acknowledgement enough that he knew the answer before the trader spoke it.

  “Anything he knows is likely to be more than any other in Llarien can claim,” Derek answered him softly, standing straight once Adrien had been settled again. “And even if what he says doesn’t help right now, it will be to our benefit to know who exactly is on the other side of the river. It’s perhaps something we should have known long before now.”

  Which meant that Derek would still be leaving in the morning. Kherin nodded but felt every bit of the weight of what Derek said and the truth he already knew. The truth he had known about Derek for most of his life.

  “You’re good at what you do, and if there is anything to learn, you’ll learn it.” He hated saying those words, because it was an admission that Derek’s leaving actually may be for the best.

  Derek smiled softly
, preparing to speak his next words, but he stopped when sounds outside the door drew their attention. Whoever the visitors were, however, they didn’t come to the sickroom, and the relief Kherin felt was made audible in his sigh. And the change in Derek’s smile said that whatever his words would have been, the moment for saying them had passed. Instead, a hint of amusement entered the trader’s eyes as he looked back to Kherin in the following silence.

  “Two attacks by northerners in less than a week, and now one is under guard on Llarien soil,” Derek said dramatically, stepping nearer. “One would almost think we were at war.”

  Kherin grinned bleakly as he turned to meet the trader. “I take it the rumors are running rampant again?”

  “That is an understatement, my prince.” Derek answered, brushing his fingers through the prince’s hair, a habit that increased the longer he remained in Gravlorn. “I think it is only the taunting of the whores that keep a large number of Defenders from deserting.”

  Kherin’s smile firmed at that. “I would accuse you of jesting if I didn’t think it was the truth,” he said almost seriously, and then he sobered as he studied the trader’s eyes. He had heard the report from Jarak, but he still hadn’t heard what it was Derek had learned on the streets. “So what did you see while you were out there?”

  Derek’s hand fell away as he shrugged. “Well, to give credit where credit is due, Gresham is organizing the Defenders to search the trees, toward Lorn and Oxlan. And while your prisoner is secure, the innkeeper is unsure whether to curse the loss of business or celebrate the notoriety his business will gain.”

  “He should concentrate more toward Lorn,” Kherin mused quietly, stepping back to resume his place on the edge of his bed and ignoring the part about the prisoner for now. “That’s the direction they seem to be coming from. And he should send a message to the Leader at Lorn, and let them do likewise.”