by A J Allen
Moon rays shone through the high window bathing the Strathwald men’s quarters in a pallid light. The noble family’s insignia of the vigilant, potent stag and crossed battleaxes on a shield of forest green hung over Robert’s bed, the same as it did hundreds of leagues away at Aidondell, his ancestral home on the lush borders of the forest that shared its name.
Robert struggled to keep his eyes closed but even the comfortable goose down pillow and quilted comforter did little to soothe him to sleep.
His three new male protectors—Quinn Spargo, Jardani Phearson, and Wulpher Nancombe—kept whispering about the incident with Simon Blackfyre in the Great Hall, despite his telling them to keep quiet.
Just be happy it’s Marcus’s bloody problem to deal with and not yours or mine.
He sat up in bed. “If I hear another damn word from any of you about what happened tonight, I’ll request new protectors be chosen—as is my right—before we greet our first dawn together. Now, do any of you wish to return home?”
The stubby and burly, olive-skinned Quinn looked away with a mischievous smile, jutting out his already-prominent chin. “No, your Lordship. I don’t much fancy returning to the Mournstead farm. The master and the missus are not kind people, but not as bad as some from the sounds of it.”
“First names only, Quinn. Remember? We call each other by first names until the rites are finished.”
“Sorry. It’s a difficult thing for someone like me to get used to. Thank you, Robert.”
“And what say you, Jardani? I am not keen on keeping anyone against their will who does not want to be here, since they are certain to lessen my chances of being chosen.”
Jardani, the wiry son of a freeman fish merchant, stretched his long arms and yawned. “What am I going to do back in Dilswith Bay? Skin and gut fish in my parents’ market stall from sunrise to sunset?” He scratched his stubbly beard.
“I’ve nothing against Simon and there must be a reason the Holy Seer said those things. But all this takes some getting used to and we’ll all sleep better once they explain things good and proper, right Wulpher?”
Wulpher, or the Earl of Ghaerming—the son of Duke Branston Nancombe of Ghaerming—was the same height as Robert, portly with smooth, fair skin and rounded features. “I agree with Mister Phearson, that is, Jardani. I was as shocked as any by what I saw, yet, having been raised by slaves as most noble children, I hold no grudge against any man, regardless of station.”
He rolled over in his bed. “My family expects me to fulfill my obligations and I will not disappoint them. At least we’ll all be home before the winter sets in.”
Quinn took a deep breath. “I overheard Marcus saying something in the hall. Maybe he’s right.”
Robert yawned and rubbed his nose. “How so?”
“Each young lord can disagree with the Holy Seer’s decision and request new protectors, but Marcus said by doing that they might fail the first challenge.”
Wulpher examined his fingernails. “She’s testing your ability to lead already, Robert. Very sly for the wily old woman.” He lay back in his bed.
Robert puffed up his down pillow. “So, I’m the same as a General commanding his troops in war?”
Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know, but maybe we’re supposed to learn how to work together no matter how different we are.”
Jardani rubbed his eyes. “That seems the biggest challenge to me. How can we help you win the crown if we can’t work together as one?”
Robert reflected on the advice of his protectors. None was eager to leave and all had spoken wisely. Robert lay on his back.
“Then I guess I’m stuck with the lot of you until the end.”
Jardani whistled. “I hope that includes Felicity Craverston. Any man should be as fortunate as you, Robert Strathwald, to have that enchanting vixen help him win the crown. And if you do, would she perhaps wear the Queen’s?” He clapped his hands. “Now that’s a challenge worth having in any man’s life... and bed.”
Jardani and Quinn laughed and made bawdy comments not out of keeping with Felicity’s bewitching allure. Yes, she would make a fine Queen indeed. Robert shook his head and chuckled. “All right then, enough of that. This isn’t your local tavern and the young lady is not your serving wench.”
All fell silent except for the snoring Wulpher.
“I will count this as our first victory in a challenge.”
Robert lay on his back “Good night and sleep well,” he said. This time, he didn’t close his eyes but stared up at the arched ceiling at the shifting, swirling shadows of a heavenly, tantalizing young woman who seemed to kiss his heavy eyes with the caressing sleep of his deepest longing and desire.
Chapter 5
Pencils and Books
Simon had barely managed to keep his head up during Lord Rabek’s droning sermon praising the illustrious history of the five patriarchs and the Rites of Succession.
He allowed only a single yawn to escape but even that had been enough to draw looks of scorn from the other nobles and Lady Bellemar. Rachel nudged his foot and pinched his arm. “Cover your mouth at least,” she whispered.
Simon winced and rubbed the twinge on his skin. He inwardly and silently sent his thanks to Rachel for keeping him awake; he had almost missed the complete list of Zadicus Tiberion of Coranthium’s decedents for the last thousand years.
After the excruciating boredom of the temple service, Jack sat at the breakfast table pointing out the faces of the remaining protectors assigned to the other families.
Mildrith Pitcaster and Tanca Nakashian were seated at the Velizar table, Solina Goncharov and Morwyn Tanner at the Tiberions’. Only Robert had introduced his protectors by name, simply as a courtesy to Marcus.
Felicity Craverston, though, had remained seated at the Strathwald table. Rachel explained to Simon that after the scene the previous night in the hall, she was still uncomfortable about meeting him and there was nothing Robert could say that would dispel her misgivings.
Jack chewed his bread as he spoke. “Mildrith is the daughter of a stonemason and wishes to join her father’s guild, the only one in all the Kingdom allowing women. With good, strong arms like those, she can carry her weight in stone, I’d wager.”
Simon studied the compact woman with ruddy and swarthy skin. She appeared cautious and quiet around the others at her table, except for Balasi Wendaru with whom she seemed quite at ease.
Jack stabbed a link of fat sausage with his fork.
“And Solina Goncharov is the only daughter of her noble family,” Jack said. “Apparently, she’s not overjoyed the Holy Seer chose her over her brother, nor was she happy when Lord Lionsbury arrived to deliver the news.”
Long-legged and supple with pale, gauze-like skin and a sensuous mouth, Solina constantly tugged at her braided brown hair whenever she spoke with Callor—which was most of breakfast.
Simon swallowed his last mouthful of kippered herring and leaned over to Jack. “I believe the young lady has taken a fancy to him. Perhaps she fancies herself the next Queen.”
Jack looked up. “Lord Ambrus Goncharov of Struzik wishes to have his only daughter married as soon as possible which is, in all cases involving beautiful and eager young ladies, far too soon for the likes of Callor Tiberion.”
“And what of Morwyn and Tanca?”
“Morwyn is owned by a southern shipping merchant. Look at the size of her. What fool here would dare do a single thing to make her angry? I overheard the guards saying she pummeled a foreign captain who… ahem…. wanted her to unload more than just his cargo, if you get my drift… and she gladly accepted ten lashes for the pleasure of knocking the bastard over the pier.”
Jack motioned toward the Velizar table. “Tanca is the ambitious son of a high-ranking tax official in Avidene. The Nakashians, like many prosperous freeman families, have noble aspirations for both titles and land. Morwyn will be valuable in physical contests but I’m not sure how Tanca will improve Goran’s chances… yet who
can say which hidden talents we each possess?”
Simon needed to remind himself how simple it was for the privileged—like the Jack Evermeres of the world—to be so easily dismissive of indentured people like Morwyn Tanner. “Any word yet on when Dominique Velizar will be joining her brother?”
“None. Either she will or she won’t, and if she doesn’t, the competing families gain the advantage.” Jack swallowed. “The others are leaving. We should go.”
The protectors assembled on the grass of the inner ward, all holding their parchment common books and freshly-sharpened slate pencils. Each group of five stood in a semi-circle beneath their family banner in front of the raised dais.
Lord Lionsbury conferred with Lady Bellemar and Lord Fromund. Dowrick sat motionless like a sentinel, observing the gathering with saturnine eyes.
Simon studied old man Rabek who was busy as usual, jotting in his journal.
He was sure he had to be warier of Rabek; who knew what the old man had written about him in his journal?
Lord Lionsbury stood and addressed the gathering. “We are glad to see that the heirs of each family have accepted the Holy Seer’s wise decisions. Last night I promised I would explain to you how these rites are to be completed and how you will be judged.”
He stepped off the dais and strode to the middle of the grass. “Each of you, sixteen protectors and four contenders in all, are to be trained in the sacred ways of the Asmadu Vohra, and their ancient art of spiritual warfare—Soru Kentay.” He rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
Simon had never heard such names before. He wanted to ask Marcus but thought better of speaking out of turn after his previous incidents. He wasn’t going to let the weasly old man write yet more poisonous sentences about him. Staying quiet would be the best thing to strengthen Marcus’s chances and his own.
Lord Fromund lurched suddenly to his feet. He leaned on the table to steady himself, snorting and sniffing the air as though catching a sudden and horrible wind of some unpleasant odor. “Each of you shall receive the necessary training for a specific period of time, no more, no less. You may think each noble family is here to compete against the other… but that is not entirely true.”
Lady Bellemar rose gracefully.
“The most difficult challenge is not striving against each other like warring barbarians but learning to fight as a single, unified force in spite of your differences and your dislike of each other. That is the way of Soru Kentay and the path you must follow if you hope to fulfill your sacred duty in these rites.”
Lord Lionsbury advanced toward the assembly. “And therein lies the great mystery of how our King will be chosen. Not as the ultimate victor, the last man standing, but as the inspired leader who unites all under a single, righteous cause as ordained in the sacred text of these rites.” He motioned back toward Lord Rabek, hunched over his book, his squirrelly face only an inch from the parchment as his writing hand moved across the page in steady, unbroken strokes. His Lordship continued.
“I understand that most of what I have just said is bewildering to most of you. I will answer a few questions from each contender but only as far as I am permitted, as previously instructed by Lord Rabek.”
Marcus shot his hand up first. “Your Lordship. I’m certain I speak for all present that we understood we were not to be trained as common soldiers or even as honorable knights depending on our station, or to engage in lethal combat of any kind.”
“That is true, Marcus. There is nothing common whatsoever about the training you shall receive and you will not wreak bloody havoc on each other. The enemy you may face together lies outside these walls and outwith the borders of our known lands.”
Robert was standing close to the most stunning female protector, Felicity Craverston. She whispered something in his ear. Robert raised his hand.
“Are you speaking of the eastern lands beyond the mountains? Are we preparing for war?”
His Lordship paused and looked at the ground. “If it comes to battle, it will not be as any living have known before. The first and only time our people faced such an enemy was during the founding of our Kingdom under the wisdom and courage of the five patriarchs. It was the exceptional training and fierce loyalty of the Asmadu Vohra that allowed our ancestors to prevail over their enemies. You are the very first protectors to be trained in their mysterious art since that time.”
A cold, troubled expression tensed Robert’s face. “What kind of enemies are you speaking of, my lord?”
Callor laughed. “Robert, stop acting like a frightened chambermaid. What are you and Marcus afraid of? When I’m crowned King, as I would have been by the King’s Council, I’ll lay waste to any land or people who dare to oppose my God-given majesty and the ruthless might of our Kingdom. I’ll let you both join in the battle too, unless your mothers won’t let you stay up late and get your hands bloody. I tell you… you don’t see Goran flinching away from a good fight, now, do you?”
Goran furrowed his brow.
“I speak for myself, Tiberion. You’d do well to remember that.”
Callor scowled and retreated a few steps behind Elric Skobb and Damien Reutiger.
Goran now faced the assembled protectors. “When Lord Lionsbury speaks of Soru Kentay, he speaks of the most powerful mysteries of our people. As a member of the Council Guard, I learned of the existence of many secrets that few know outside these walls, yet they existed for me only as words on old parchment... until now.”
He bowed to his Lordship in respect.
Jack whispered something into Marcus’s ear. “My brother, Jack, raises a good question, your Lordship. If the rites are to be completed by the first snow, how will it be possible to train all of us in these ancient arts you speak of? Only those of noble birth or freemen of sufficient wealth have ever received training in swordsmanship and other combat techniques, and we certainly don’t count ourselves in the same illustrious company as the fabled Asmadu Vohra.”
Rachel nudged Simon. “I bet I can ride and shoot better than any of these young lords and ladies, maybe even better than you,” she muttered. Simon gave a half-hearted grin and looked away. The slate pencil and book were useless tools in his hands. Humiliation and ridicule were sure to follow once the other protectors were aware of his ignorance.
“And what of this mysterious enemy, my lord? How are they any different from any others faced by our people?”
Lord Lionsbury paced the ground. “Your concerns are duly noted, Marcus. At this point all that I can say is that each one of you shall receive the necessary instruction required at the appropriate time—just as dictated by the sacred laws.”
Lady Bellemar rose. “Our most Holy Seer, Lady Murik of Wraithburn, is recovering from her sudden illness. Her monks are busy harvesting her garden and all should be ready for this evening’s initiation ceremony. For now, I want you to open your common books and turn to—”
Callor snickered behind the backs of his friends Skobb and Reutiger.
“Are we to be trained as farmers then? An army of peasants with pitchforks flinging dung against our enemies?”
Marcus had a prankish grin. “Then you’ll certainly lay waste against our enemies, Callor, for most of it will be coming from your own breeches.”
The assembled protectors burst into laughter. Except for Skobb and Reutiger, even those under the Tiberion banner had to turn away to conceal their smirks. Callor fixed the murderous fury in his eyes upon Marcus.
Lord Lionsbury, smiling, raised his hand. “Enough, gentlemen. Be seated and open your books. Your first lesson in Soru Kentay is to learn the important history of the five patriarchs and how they each fought to build our great Kingdom of Miradora.
“At the conclusion of Lord Dowrick’s teaching and as a reward for your long journeys, you will be allowed to exercise and practice whatever martial skills you may currently possess. Wood practice weapons, including wasters, will be provided. All activity will be strictly supervised and those ordered to
stop must do so immediately.”
He walked back and re-took his chair on the dais.
Everyone obeyed as instructed. Simon sat but was too nervous to open his book. He rubbed the black leather binding until his thumbs were smudged.
“It’s all right.” Rachel shifted closer. “Jack told me. I can help you if you wish.”
“I’m embarrassed. I still can’t understand why the Holy Seer would allow someone like me to be part of this. I can’t even write my own name. I can’t even read my—”
“Then let me show you. Look. Hold the pencil like this.”
She clasped Simon’s hand in hers and guided it in small, flowing motions across the page. His fingers tingled from her touch.
“S... I... M...O... N. Simon. That’s how you write your name. That wasn’t so hard, was it? You know a little already. Compare it to mine.”
Simon marveled at what lay on the page before his eyes. His writing was rough and jagged next to Rachel’s graceful script but he could read it. And it was his name, writ bold and large, just as he’d always longed for it to be.
“I copied out the alphabet before the lesson,” she whispered. She tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “You practice each letter and try to write your last name by sounding out the letters. After that, why don’t you try mine?”
The warmth in her honeyed amber eyes was as soothing as her warm fingers.
“Thank you.” It was as much as Simon could do to hold back a tear or two.
Lord Dowrick paraded with his hands clasped behind his back, up and down in front of the assembly as though addressing soldiers before a battle.
“Few outside these walls know what I am about to say to you. Like many cultures, ours is steeped in myth and misunderstanding, but as protectors in these rites you cannot afford to indulge the superstitions of lowborn peasants and slaves.” He stopped and faced the protectors. “For the benefit of those without a formal education, you should know the Asmadu Vohra were the elite fighters under the shared command of the five patriarchs. They were fearless mercenaries chosen from the four corners of the known world and possessed the greatest fighting skills ever witnessed in war.”