by P J Berman
‘Does that not risk a revolt though if so many people are displaced?’
Feddilyn gave a light laugh.
‘We give them homes, don’t we? They should be grateful for that. All we ask of them is a share in their harvest.’
‘As all noblemen must, clearly,’ Zethun said, keeping a blank face.
‘Of course,’ said Feddilyn, visibly trying to read Zethun’s expression.
‘Zethun, you are young and full of idealism. With that passion and energy, you would be a useful ally to me in the Congressate. Think on what I have said.’
Feddilyn patted Zethun on the shoulder.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me. Ah, Erritwyn,’ he said, getting the attention of another guest.
Zethun was still thinking about what Feddilyn had said when he exited the castle to leave later that evening. As he called for a boy to bring his horse, he heard a hurried cry from behind him.
‘Zethun, wait.’
He turned and saw that an elderly Congressor had followed him out. Zethun recognised the man but couldn’t place him. He looked rather out of breath.
‘I must speak with you,’ the man said, gathering himself.
Zethun’s mind raced as he tried to remember the stranger’s name.
‘Hoban Salanath,’ the man said, smiling, as if reading his mind, while shaking Zethun’s hand firmly. ‘You probably don’t remember me. You were but a small boy of not more than, oh, ten or twelve I should think, when we last met. Your father and I were good friends and I’m afraid the Congressate will be very much worse off for his loss.’
‘Well I hope I can live up to his standard, Congressor Salanath,’ Zethun replied, sensing genuine feeling in Hoban’s words and glad that his failure to recall his name hadn’t caused any offence.
‘Only time will tell, but there are more forms of power than becoming a Congressor. Do not choose that path simply because your father did. I saw that you were speaking with old Feddilyn there?’
‘Yes, I was,’ Zethun said, interested to see where Hoban was going with this.
‘Be careful. He has already made himself a close ally of the new King. I guarantee anything you say to him will soon reach the King’s ears.’
Zethun smiled. Evidently Hoban and Feddilyn were not the best of friends, but then again this was politics. He’d have to pick a side sooner or later.
‘At the moment it may prove difficult to get him to come around to my politics, let alone the King himself, but with my policies I am aware that will be the case with much of the Congressate,’ Zethun said.
‘Interesting,’ said Hoban. ‘What form could such radical ideas take?’
‘I believe that while this Kingdom requires strong leadership, many men and women abuse the system and take far more than they need. The common people need to be led, but they must also be protected from such extravagance. Any politics that continues to take advantage of the people will surely end in revolt.’
‘That is indeed a great risk,’ Hoban sighed. ‘But if those are your views, a position as a Congressor might not be the right path for you. You will be able to fight for the rights of the common people much more if you were to become one of Kriganheim’s Demokroi. The city’s next public assembly is very soon, so if the position appeals to you I suggest you travel there sooner rather than later. I have my contacts and I should have no trouble helping you become appointed, but while I do that you should take the time to get to know the local people. That will help you win their support.’
‘I will think on it, but I would certainly be most grateful for your assistance, Congressor Salanath.’
‘Oh please, call me Hoban,’ the old man chuckled.
‘I would be most grateful for that – Hoban,’ Zethun said; slightly uncertain, wondering if he had found an ally promising genuine support after all.
‘I thank you for your offer,’ Zethun went on. ‘But there is just one thing. Before formally accepting I must have your word that my acceptance would mean that I will be allowed to be influenced by no factor other than the will of the common people. Many of the Demokroi are simply pawns for one Congressor or another. I will not be one of those.’
‘It warms my heart to hear you say that Zethun,’ Hoban said, putting his arm around the younger man as they slowly walked towards Zethun’s horse, which a boy had just brought round. ‘I can see that you do not want to compromise on your principles. An alliance between you and Feddilyn would force you to do that. Stick to what you believe. This will be a hard fight that requires the energy of a younger person such as yourself. I assure you that if I had any ulterior motives I would have already attempted to put them into practice. But as you see, now I am just an old man without the energy to fight a battle that I now realise that I should have started many, many years ago. It’s not something I can do on my own, but together Zethun, together we can win this fight.’ He clasped both Zethun’s hands and looked straight into his eyes as he spoke. ‘Will you agree?’
Zethun still sensed that Hoban might have another reason for wanting to be back in Kriganheim, but he also saw some sincerity in his face.
‘Well Hoban, you flatter me with a most appealing offer, yet I must give it some thought first. I am soon to head home to Kriganheim anyway. I’ve no family left now, so I plan to sell my Asrantican estate and live a frugal life in an ordinary city house. Would it be agreeable if we could meet again in Kriganheim and I could give you my answer then?’
‘Of course,’ Hoban smiled, looking surprised. ‘I look forward to hearing your answer. ’
‘Then I will see you in Kriganheim, my friend,’ Zethun assured him with a polite bow of his head.
Chapter 4
THE PREDDABURG CITADEL, RILDAYORDA, BASTALF, BENNVIKA
‘So what answer will you give?’ Yathrud heard his son Bezekarl ask. They were in one of Yathrud’s private rooms in the citadel of Preddaburg, situated at the north of the coastal city of Rildayorda.
Yathrud, Governor of the southern province of Bastalf and Silrith’s uncle by marriage, stood reading the letter that had been brought to him, while Bezekarl sat at the mahogany table and ate.
Not one to let his emotions show, Yathrud contained his private rage so that outwardly he maintained a veneer of control and strength. Untamed anger was never the answer.
He was a tall man of fifty-five, with long grey hair and a silver beard. He wore a dark blue tunic and black breeches. The seventeen-year-old Bezekarl was similarly attired, though his tunic was green. He too had a thick head of hair, though he lacked the flowing golden locks with which Yathrud had attracted many a female in his youth. Instead, his was black, but his lack of effort to tame it was its defining feature and as a result, it resembled an overly-used mop and his beard was a scraggly mess. Yathrud had long since given up trying to convince him to address such things.
Hanging on the walls along with various portraits was the Alyredd family standard, a vertical column of three golden dragons on a scarlet background.
As for the Preddaburg citadel itself, it had been built on a hill that overlooked the city, so the large windows on the room’s south wall saw that it was well lit and it was also the perfect spot from which to survey the full view of Bennvika’s newest provincial capital in all its glory.
The interior of Yathrud’s quarters were no less impressive; the place was full of luxurious couches and cushions. Sitting himself down opposite Bezekarl at the large table that formed the room’s centrepiece, Yathrud silently reread the letter again. Bezekarl waited patiently for an answer.
This latest development put Yathrud in a difficult position, as he was the first member of his family to be the Governor of any of Bennvika’s provinces. This reward and his reputation had been hard won on campaign with King Lissoll; just a Prince at the time. Together they had taken this land, bringing civilisation and order to those of the Hentani tribe that lived here. In just a few years, the former Hentani town had grown to a great Bennvikan port city, Rildayorda. This name,
given to it by the Bennvikans meant ‘City of the Wilds,’ but in truth, it was anything but that. Already, with its great temple, its theatre and with the beauty of the citadel itself, Rildayorda was fast becoming the jewel of the south; an honour of a gift to be sure.
But Lissoll’s favour towards Yathrud had come at the price of great jealousy from the other nobles, especially once the Prince had become King. This would not make the task he now faced any easier, but it was his sense of honour that made up Yathrud’s mind. After all, Silrith was family. That had been another reward for his military successes and his closeness to Lissoll; a marriage to Lissoll’s younger sister, Princess Monissaea, making him Silrith’s uncle.
‘There is only one response, my son and you well know what it is,’ Yathrud said eventually, with a deliberate mix of calm and assertiveness.
‘Err, this one’ he told a female servant who had entered and brought him two meals. He pointed to indicate his choice, a plate of beef surrounded by raisins and apple slices instead of one bearing similarly dressed lamb. He called for another servant and in moments one came forward, a young man this time, who had been waiting almost invisibly at the side of the room in case called upon.
‘Burn this,’ Yathrud instructed him, handing him the letter. The servant took it with a bow and headed towards the door, followed by the girl carrying the rejected lamb. Yathrud waited for them to pass through and click the door shut, leaving him alone in the room with his son. Then the old Lord turned his attention back to Bezekarl.
‘The slander that letter contains is an absolute outrage,’ he said, grimacing as the ungainly Bezekarl tucked into a leg of chicken in a most ignoble fashion. He couldn’t have been more different from his cousin Silrith. Yathrud thought of the happy memories of Silrith’s childhood and teenage years. He may not generally have been one to take much notice of children, but ever since her birth, Yathrud’s bond with Silrith had been something to cherish. He remembered teaching her to be headstrong, of telling her stories of his battles and of giving her a sword on her sixteenth birthday. Initially, unbeknown to Yathrud at the time, she had taken the weapon with her when she had visited her friend Lord Oprion Aethelgard, who had subsequently trained her in its use, though she had told him of this in a letter. The fact that it had also been Yathrud who had accidentally given away to her father that she was learning to use the sword rather than owning it simply as an ornament, was a painful memory. Yathrud hoped he wasn’t the cause of some of the evidence that Jostan was distorting to sully Silrith’s reputation. When he had found out, King Lissoll had flown into a rage and Silrith, amid much scandal, had been banned from going back to Hazgorata to visit Oprion for over a year.
However, her ban had eventually been lifted and as far as Yathrud knew, the swordplay tuition had started right back up again. Yet now it seemed that her strength of character and her unwillingness to behave in a way that was usually expected of women in her position were the very personality traits that were being used against her by Jostan. The boiling rage at this was all too much for Yathrud, who was struggling to contain his anger.
‘He goes too far. If only the other Governors knew the Princess like I do, they’d read this message and see that every word that is said here about her is a slanderous lie. I held the Princess when she was but a tiny infant. I helped mould her into the woman she is. I think I have known her long enough to know her mind and her heart.’
‘It will certainly come as a surprise to the Congressate,’ replied Bezekarl. ‘They expected Silrith to be named Queen. Surely at least one or two of them know her well?’
‘I do wish you’d refer to her as the Princess rather than just use her name. She is of royal blood and you are only the son of a provincial Governor. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘Sorry father.’
‘But, that aside, you are right. It will be a surprise to the Congressate, but I can’t see them having the stomach to take Jostan on in a political fight. That falls to us.’ Yathrud relented.
He smiled at the incredulous look on Bezekarl’s face, as his son clearly had no idea what to read into that last statement.
‘Father, I know what you’re thinking. But are you sure it is wise? Have you considered what might happen to us?’
‘Not for a moment and I intend to keep it that way so as not to change my mind. I intend to do what is right, not simply what is safe.’
‘Can you really be that sure of what the Congressate will do?’
Yathrud laughed as he chewed his food.
‘There are few societies more predictable than the Congressate. Their powers on this issue are highly limited.’
Over the years Yathrud had tried his best to school his son well in the world of politics. He knew, or at least he sincerely hoped, that Bezekarl would remember that the only way the Congressate could deny Jostan his Kingship would be to vote unanimously to declare him an enemy of the state and that would surely never happen. To name a person an enemy of the state was often seen as a last resort and if it concerned an individual of power, it was a risky move to orchestrate. Only when it was a unanimous vote could such a law be passed and once it did, it would be every citizen’s duty to kill the person it denounced, or assist another to do so. To have this happen to a monarch though would be utterly unprecedented. The only monarchs to be deposed in Bennvikan history had been removed through military rebellion.
‘The Congressate will be no obstacle at all for Jostan,’ said Yathrud. ‘It is full of old politicians with no stomach for a fight. He’s probably brought them to heel already.’
‘Yet they do have their uses, father, don’t you think?’ Bezekarl said, refilling his wine cup.
‘What I think is that their uses may be about to become especially superficial,’ said Yathrud. ‘In fact, some would say that it is already the truth that in practice they are nothing more than a tool to help the King control the common people. That is why it falls to us to take matters into our own hands.’
Bezekarl still looked concerned by the prospect, but Yathrud simply smiled.
‘Gasbron,’ he called, ‘Bring the messenger back in.’
The door behind them opened and dressed in his segmented armour, chain mail, green tunic and cape, Yathrud’s battle-hardened, dark, scarred, clean-shaven Chief Invicturion marched the messenger back into the room. Yathrud smiled again as he stood, turning to face the messenger.
‘Tell the King that we most heartily accept his demands and that we greet this news with the utmost pleasure.’
‘I will do so my Lord.’ The messenger bowed and left. Once he had heard the messenger’s footsteps grow distant enough, Yathrud turned to Gasbron, keeping his lined face cold and stern.
‘Gasbron, I have a job for you.’
THE HALAEVIA VALLEY, ASRANTICA, BENNVIKA
Riding through the Asrantican hills, Zethun revelled in the solitude he’d been starved of for the past few days. Most nobles wouldn’t have dreamt of travelling alone and would be accompanied by an entourage of bodyguards and servants, sometimes with trains of fifteen or twenty wagons. Zethun would have none of that. No, for him, some bags for his luggage, a dagger for defence and his horse for company would more than suffice.
The green of the hills and the clarity of the soft country air also gave one a chance to reflect. His interactions with Lord Feddilyn Rintta and Congressor Hoban Salanath had given him much to consider. For sure, he knew that he was much against everything that Lord Feddilyn represented. The man believed in nothing but the expectation that the poor should live at the mercy and the whims of the rich; an idea shared by much of the nobility, as Zethun had long known. The question was how to tackle this. Hoban’s offer suggested one path, but Zethun still had the niggling feeling that there may be more to Hoban than first met the eye.
As he was thinking this, he began to hear many distant voices and he saw a cloud of dust rising from far below him, between the hills. Intrigued, he turned his horse in the direction of the Halaevia Vall
ey, the main pass through Asrantica’s great natural beacons. Cresting one of the tall, grassy hills, he looked down to find the valley teeming with people, carts and pack animals.
Seeing the sheer weight of humanity on the move took Zethun’s breath away. This was no army, but a rabble of desperate people, marching headlong up the northern pass. Zethun guessed they must be bound for Kriganheim, displaced from their homes by Feddilyn. This was the cost of one man’s greed. He knew that Feddilyn wanted to gain further riches through the export of Asrantica’s natural resources and the extortion of his subjects; thus filling his pockets with gold and increasing his influence with the new King. But here was proof of the effect this was having on the province. Clearly Feddilyn didn’t care that his plan left the people of his own lands with the choice of either starving or escaping.
From his lofty position cresting hilltop after hilltop, he followed the column of refugees for a time, wondering if any of them had any idea what they would actually do when they got to Kriganheim, if indeed that was where they were heading. He guessed that most of them would at least try to settle there, but he was sure that as the legions of starving people kept entering the city, the locals would become less and less welcoming. Such is the terrible hate that lies within people the world over, even those who think themselves good, he surmised sorrowfully.
All this could be avoided if it wasn’t for the greed of the rich. That made up his mind for him. It may be a risk to make a political alliance with Hoban, as Zethun still had his reservations about his trustworthiness, but it was a risk he had to take. Too much was at stake for Zethun to worry about the risks to him personally or to his career.
Chapter 5
THE FOREST OF USTAHERTA, USTENNA, BENNVIKA
Downtrodden, dishonoured, vilified, helpless, shocked. Poor Silrith’s brain was running out of words to describe how she was feeling about what had happened to her. It was some days now since her arrest, but still her mind was continuing inexorably around the same old circle; the same old maze. Confused, violated, scared, angry, vengeful. Alone. Totally, undeniably, alone.