by Greg Curtis
It was good he thought that his father was finally back. And not simply because he was his father. He was also a master when it came to practical matters; someone who always seemed to know what to do. Especially in matters of trade and the Court. Marcus knew little of them and he wanted to know less. But that was no longer an option for him, and the life of a simple soldier was no longer to be his.
As he walked beside him Marcus couldn't help but think that his father looked older than he had a month or two ago. He looked ill. And maybe he had reason for that. After all his eldest son, now disowned, had killed his old friend King Byron and seized the throne. An act of both treason and shame. And then he had probably killed Edouard in the most despicable manner, by publicly whipping him and then throwing him in a dungeon to die. He was a kinslayer, the most terrible criminal imaginable. To add to his troubles he had returned to find his family homeless, the trading concern foundering without its base in the city, and the family name reviled.
But despite all of that he had set about repairing things as best he could. Simon had been publicly disowned. Announcements of his fate had been sent throughout every city in which the House of Barris had a market or a warehouse. He had had messages sent out to every one of their employees advising of the family's new home and of the loss of their warehouses and markets in Therion. He had even begun planning for the family to make a new home in Bitter Crest, something Marcus thought unwise given what he suspected Simon's plans were. He had done everything he could to repair the damage just as he always did.
He refused to give in to pain or despair. He refused to show any sign of weakness. And even here in this most dangerous of places, he walked boldly, showing no signs of either the infirmities of age or the crushing weight of his pain. To look at him you would think nothing was wrong. That he was simply a spry white haired gentleman in his best suit marching to a routine meeting. Marcus had to work hard to present the same demeanour as he walked beside him.
At least for the signing they weren't going to have to meet with Tyrel. After having lost his armour, clothes and weapons in the blink of an eye the first time, Marcus was not eager to speak with the power again. Ever. Edouard had been right about her. She was far beyond anyone he had ever met in terms of her might. And he had also been right about his need to be more circumspect in the company of the handmaidens. He could get himself into some serious trouble if he wasn't. Hopefully Denetta would understand, though he doubted it. There was nothing of discretion in her nature.
This time however, they were to meet with a woman by the name of Liandra Bowen, the head of the temple and the one who ran it. It would not be proper to expect a power to sign a deal with a mortal so they had been informed. Tyrel was beyond such matters. It probably wouldn't be safe either. And he was grateful for that.
“Count Severin, Lord Marcus.” A handmaiden came to greet them, and for once she was neither human nor demoness. Long glossy black hair hanging freely, skin that was just a tinge on the green side, and ears that poked up through her hair like arrow heads. She was a dryad, the traditional servant of Tyrel according to the stories. He wasn't sure if that meant anything though. Since his first visit to the temple he wasn't sure that the stories they'd been told had any basis in fact at all. “If you'll come with me.”
“Thank you my dear.”
Father was in a strange mood Marcus thought. At once both polite and almost grandfatherly as he smiled at the handmaiden and likely offended her with his words. But equally both serious and worried, though he hid the latter. If she was upset though the handmaiden said nothing, she just smiled politely and then led them further into the temple.
But she didn't escort them towards the shrine at the end of the long meadow as he'd expected. Instead she turned to the right and led them through the trees lining the meadow. That struck him as odd. But not as odd as when fifty paces past the trees the grass suddenly started gently sloping downwards and he realised that there was a valley running beside the long meadow leading to the temple. A valley that couldn't be seen from the meadow.
It was more than just a valley though, there was a village in it. Quite a big one.
Stretched out in a long line dictated by the shape of the valley, he guessed there had to be at least three hundred houses in front of them. And that in turn meant that it was home to as many as a thousand people. A thousand people living in or alongside a temple! And by the looks of things they'd been living there a long time. The fields were bursting with crops. The houses and other larger buildings were well appointed, with their thatched roofs in good order, walls painted and gardens tended to.
Seeing it Marcus was surprised. But his thoughts were also racing as he realised that they were being shown something that no one had guessed. That Tyrel's temple was more than just a temple. What it was he didn't know, but it told him that the hamadryad had plans. Plans that no one guessed.
Those plans appeared to involve a school. An actual school where children were being taught their lessons out in the sunshine instead of the classrooms. But it was a pleasant spring day so perhaps that wasn't so remarkable. But the archery range was a surprise. Yet half a dozen women were practising with their longbows while by the looks of things, a couple of trainers worked with them. There were muskets too, scores of them hanging in their racks, and a wall of swords to one side. It seemed that the handmaidens were being trained in the martial disciplines. That didn't seem particularly priestly to him.
As they walked down the gently rolling hill towards the town, he realised that there were more surprises to come. The first came when he saw the town's residents. Not only were they of all races, humans, demons and dryads, but they were also of both sexes. There were men in Tyrel's temple! Living there.
Then he noticed the white hair. Several of the women and the men had long loosely braided locks of white blonde hair running down their backs and heavily tanned skin. More Tenarri. Edouard had mentioned that it seemed strange that one of the Tenarri should be acting as a handmaiden for Tyrel. Especially given that they lived so far away. What would he think of half a dozen at least? And what did this mean for their alliance?
“Father?” Marcus had to ask even though he knew that it might already be too late. They were after all in the lion's den. It might not be possible to leave any more. But his father seemed calm. Unsurprised even.
“I always wondered. There were rumours. But I never knew for sure.”
“Never knew what?” Marcus was in no mood for riddles and cryptic comments. Especially not when he was walking into a strange town without any weapons on him.
“About this of course. The hamadryads' temple villages.
“Villages? She has more than one?”
“They have more than one,” his father corrected him. “This is just Tyrel's village. But there are, if the rumours are true, many more.”
“The powers?”
“The hamadryads. Most of the powers don't concern themselves with mortal affairs. Most retain the servants they need but no more. But among them the hamadryads stand out as something else.”
“Something else?” Marcus wasn't sure what that meant, save that it apparently meant they had villages.
“The hamadryads are interested in us. None of the others are. But the hamadryads get involved in the affairs of the realms. They have villages. They trade. They make deals – and now it would seem, alliances.”
Was that a good thing Marcus wondered? In the case of most powers it wouldn't be. He didn't want dragons, giants, titans and minotaurs interested in mortals. The cost in lives would likely be beyond measure. But were the hamadryads any different? He said as much to his father and got a helpless shrug in return.
“All I know is that once these were dryad villages. The hamadryads it is said arose from them and so they have a natural regard for them. A sort of kinship. But over thousands of years the dryads have been joined and now many others call them home.”
“Not so Count Severin.” Their escort suddenly
stopped and turned to face them her expression suddenly serious. “There are no “other races” here. All are one no matter their race.”
“As it should be.” Ever the diplomat the Count was quick to agree, quick to make sure no offence was received as he turned aside any thought of his words being a criticism.
It was a skill that Marcus was certain he would be expected to learn in time. But not one that he wanted to learn.
They carried on down the hill heading for a house at the end of the village. A simple cottage like all the others with wooden sides, thatched roof and a tiny puff of smoke rising from the chimney that told him that someone was home. Home and waiting for them. As they walked closer Marcus could make out a woman in a homespun gown like all the rest, standing in front of a table that had been set up in the garden waiting for them. This he guessed was Liandra Bowen, the head of the temple. And she was Tenarri.
There was something wrong with that. Profoundly wrong. He could have accepted a local human woman or a demoness in the role. He would have probably expected a dryad. But a Tenarri? A woman from thousands of leagues away? His father was right. There was something very strange about the temple.
Of course the strangeness grew as they walked into the garden and he realised that the woman was with child. Heavily pregnant. And that could surely only mean that there was a man in her life. And as he noticed the toys, wooden tops and balls neatly piled up against the side of the house, that man had apparently been in her life for some time. Long enough for there to be other children.
Marcus said nothing about it though, save to smile and nod politely as his father gave the requisite best wishes for the event after the introductions had been made. And he smiled and nodded some more as he sipped his rose hip tea, a concoction that truly did not appeal, while the agreement was read out loud by both parties. His father had long ago taught him that it was incumbent upon anyone, especially anyone there in an official capacity, to accept with good grace whatever hospitality was offered by their host. And somehow he managed to keep smiling and nodding as the two documents were signed and the appropriate prayers said.
But an hour or so later as he left the meeting with his father he couldn't help but wonder just what they'd allied themselves with. A temple or a trading house? Or something else? Something for want of a better word, political.
Still, there was one good thing to come out of the signing. If Edouard was still alive in Simon's dungeons, there would now be some representatives of the family living in Therion keeping a watchful eye for him if he should eventually make it home. Hand maidens living in his holding as they built their shrine there. And Breakwater was one of the closest towns to Theria. If there was word of his brother's fate, they would hear it there first.
Of course if by some miracle Edouard did manage to escape as he had promised Leona he would, and then went home, he was going to be surprised to find he had house guests.
Chapter Twenty One
Edouard had to concentrate as he sent his needle thin ray of fire into the stones in the side wall of his cell, something that was made all the harder by the pain and cold. And of course the constant worry he had that their gaoler would hear him or see the light of his magic and find out.
The last wasn't likely though. The gaoler spent much of his time there drinking behind his desk, and the rest of it sleeping off his ale. He seldom bothered them, which was for the good as far as Edouard was concerned. He wasn't a nice man, and he could be loud and nasty. Life had obviously not been good to him. He'd grown corpulent and pallid due to his long days spent underground with the prisoners, and worst of all, bitter. He hated his duty and he blamed the prisoners for his fate. Sometimes when he was in a bad mood he would take his frustrations out on them.
Usually he wasn't violent. But that was due more to his poor physical condition than anything more noble. The gaoler started puffing and wheezing if he had to walk more than a few paces. He simply didn't have the vigour to start whipping and beating people. The heavy mace he carried was more for show than anything else. Mostly he just screamed at them to shut up, seldom even getting up from his chair. Occasionally he threatened them by smashing his spiked mace into the oak desk in front of him. It made a satisfactory thump. He didn't like it when they made a noise. Possibly because he had a sore head from the ale he drank constantly. Of course sometimes he was simply spiteful. It appeared he enjoyed the power he had over them.
There were many ways in which he could be vindictive, and throwing buckets of cold water over them was only the beginning. Sometimes it was his piss that came through the little barred window instead if he was feeling really miserable. He would regularly throw their food through the slot, or the thin gruel that was called food, leaving them to scrape it off the floor if they wanted to eat. Other times he didn't feed them at all, choosing instead to sit at his desk and eat it himself. There was a reason he was unable to fit into his armour.
Several times he'd denied Edouard his drinking water, but with a small wooden bowl and the endless trickle of water running down the walls, that wasn't such a serious problem. It still tasted foul though, and heating it to kill whatever demons of pestilence and disease might swim in it didn't help. The other prisoners weren't so fortunate he guessed.
Often the gaoler would walk by the cells on what passed for his rounds, rattling the thick bars of their doors with his steel pike as he screamed at them. Just in case they were sleeping. He seemed to be of the view that if he had to be awake then so did they. But mostly he sat at his desk drinking from the piles of skeins of ale and cider he stored in it. More often he was prone, passed out on the floor beside it.
He was a disgrace. Marcus, if he'd had a soldier like him in his guards, would have had him up on charges. It was a terrible failing. When a military man was actually so fat that he could no longer fit in his armour and wandered around all day with the cuirass flapping open and his belly hanging out, it suggested that there were discipline problems with the squad. Serious ones. But whoever their gaoler's commander was obviously didn't care so much about those things.
He was not a nice man, and Edouard had no sympathy for what he knew would happen to him when they escaped his watch. Maybe, if he was really lucky and the world did have some form of natural justice, their gaoler would end up inside the cells instead of them. And Edouard would have dearly loved to be the one to have thrown him in them. Of course he planned to be long gone by the time that happened.
How long he'd been in the dungeon Edouard didn't know. There was no sunlight to tell him of the passing of days, and feeding time was irregular at best. His guess based on the logic of two meals a day was that he'd been a prisoner for eight days, plus however many more he'd spent unconscious after the whipping his brother had given him, and then after his crude attempt at healing himself. But he could be very wrong. Since that healing he'd spent much of his time in the darkness, rousing only every so often. He could have missed a great many meals as he slept. Edouard supposed he could ask the gaoler but that would just be asking for trouble.
What he did know was that other than Leona he'd had not a single visitor in all that time. He hoped that was because his family had managed to flee the city, and not because they'd been caught and were locked up in another set of cells somewhere else. There were several dungeons in the city. But he had no way of knowing. All he did know was that they weren't in the same dungeon as him. Often when the gaoler was asleep the other prisoners would talk among themselves, and while he couldn't make out much of their voices through the thick doors, he didn't recognise any of them.
Simon and his sinister adviser hadn't visited him either. He guessed he simply wasn't important enough for them to waste their time on. He was nobody of note. Just a minor brother to the false king. And he was safely secured. The chances were that they expected him to simply rot away and die in his cell, never to trouble them again. Meanwhile they had to cement their rule.
In fact he was surprised that they hadn't simply kill
ed him outright. They'd come close to it though. After days spent in fevered dreams he'd been kitten weak and starving from a lack of food. And for many more days after that he'd barely had the strength to raise a spark. Enough to warm his cell a little from time to time and cleanse his drinking water when he needed to drink, but little more. His work with his fire to heal his wounds had been only partially successful and his flesh had wrestled with the demons of disease and fever ever since.
But finally the last of the demons of sickness had left him and he felt awake and alert enough to begin work. Enough even to find the scraps of his vest that had been thrown in the cell with him and put it on. It didn't really keep him warm. But it did make him feel a little more like a man and not some animal trapped in the darkness.
It was time to escape.
He wasn't going to escape alone though. Apart from the fact that he would have felt guilty leaving anyone behind in this dark, damp hell, there was strength in numbers and he didn't want to have to end up fighting the entire city guard alone. If possible he didn't want to fight at all.