by Jacob Cooper
Calder Hoyt looked around at that statement to ensure himself again that they were alone and then knelt down with his hands upon Kathryn’s shoulders. He briefly remembered it had not been so long ago that she was still shorter than him, even when he knelt. Now he looked up into her eyes more seriously.
“If you know something, part with it now, quickly. Many lives hang in the balance.”
Kathryn took a deep breath and exhaled.
“The High Duke assassinated Lady Kerr and murdered those of her hold. It was some of the servants that came after Lord Kerr’s death, people Lady Kerr had trusted in her vulnerable state. They were Khansian Guards.”
Lord Hoyt blinked more rapidly and shook his head slightly. He opened his mouth.
“Wait, there’s more,” Kathryn said. “The things that were spread throughout the Realm of Lord Kerr and his wife—that they were traitors and usurpers—are all false. Many believed this but it was accepted by most eventually from the constant onslaught of misinformation. You know this, but it was all to divert attention.”
“I know no such thing, daughter.”
“It was all to divert attention!” Kathryn repeated in a vehement whisper. She did not bother to argue what her father actually believed about the Kerr family.
Lord Hoyt sighed. “Divert attention from what?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I know that what I’ve said is true. Now with the denouncement of Lord Therrium, you must see it as well. Some plot is afoot and I see the High Duke at the head.”
Calder Hoyt recalled the meeting he had been summoned to six years earlier, an emergency session of the Council of Senthara. He had been a voice of dissent in that meeting where they declared Thannuel a traitor, but eventually gave in. He was never fully persuaded, however, but for the fear of his family’s safety, he agreed to a motion he felt was abominable. His daughter’s words seemed uncannily accurate and were disturbingly finding a small hold in him.
“It is probable that something similar happened to Thannuel as did to his wife,” Kathryn continued.
Lord Hoyt shook his head. “No assassin could have bested Lord Kerr. The man was beyond any other man in the Realm in skill of steel, not to even speak of his natural wood-dweller abilities. A much greater force would have been required to take him down, one that would have been impossible to sequester or even infiltrate into his woods. No, it’s more likely those he plotted with turned on him. What was he doing outside the walls of his hold at such a late hour? Something had to have taken him by surprise.”
“And what of his daughter, Reign? Did Lord Kerr have her tag along to his secret traitor’s meeting? Was she, still under the age of innocence, part of it as well?
“We don’t know what befell his little girl. It may have been completely unrelated.”
Even as he spoke the words he knew he did not believe them and he saw Kathryn’s facial expressions confirm what his own could not hide. He also knew there was someone, or something, that could have overcome Thannuel… something he kept secret by an oath he made when becoming Lord of the Southern Province, something he never wished to face.
Calder knew Kathryn was pointing out the inconsistencies in the account as told by the Granite Throne’s pronouncements. And, she apparently knew something more than he did, or at least thought she did. His daughter was gifted at seeing issues at many levels, a gift that he was often proud of. At this time, though, it had grown frustrating. He knew this was because he himself did not have answers for her questions, the same questions that had plagued him but for fear’s sake had let them settle like stale dust. He had a feeling that old dust was about to be kicked in his face.
“Yes, the young girl. Reign was her name, you are right. Good memory. You are only a year younger than she would have been now. I don’t believe they ever found her body.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Kathryn said solemnly.
Lord Hoyt glanced down and then back up quickly to his daughter’s eyes. They were locked on his. He stood up and took a step back.
“Kathryn, what do you know?”
“A great many things.” Her voice was steady and confident. “I am betrothed, father, to Hedron Kerr.”
“I have something to show you,” Lord Hoyt announced to his daughter. The past few hours since Kathryn revealed that Reign and Hedron Kerr were still alive had been the most hectic and stressful of his life. No clear direction presented itself, and every path discussed was perilous in its own right.
“What is it?” Kathryn asked.
“Not here. Follow me.”
The sun was setting in the west. As they made their way across the hold grounds covered in stone and copper tiles, Lord Hoyt looked southeast to see the reflection of the orange and purple sky off the Schadar’s burning sands over a hundred miles away. The mirage was beautiful to behold and gave the illusion of being level with the skies as one looked out toward where the horizon should have been. None was discernible in the twilight hours looking east on clear evenings.
They arrived at the stables and Lord Hoyt dismissed the stable boys who were mucking the stalls and brushing the horses.
“Father, what are we doing here?”
“Patience. Isn’t that always what mother is telling you?” He didn’t see her expression but heard the scoff that escaped her lips.
They came to one stall that held a large, dark brown horse with a patch of white along its snout that ended just before its nose. The animal’s tail wagged sporadically, shooing away flies from its hindquarters. After they stopped at the stall, the horse held its head high and straightened up to its full height. It looked proud.
“This horse,” Lord Hoyt began, “was found the morning after Lord Kerr was slain. I didn’t know he had been killed until a couple days later, but that’s not why I’m telling you this.”
“Why, then?”
“It was obvious the horse had been running all night. His movements were lethargic and he was matted in sweat. Some of the hold guard found him on our side of the Roniah, drinking from the river. Muddy horseshoe marks on the bridge at the Roniah Crossing indicated it had crossed from the other side, from the wood-dweller’s side. Master Gernald brought it to my attention and we brought him to our stables.”
“I am not sure I follow. He’s beautiful, but—”
Hoyt entered the stall with the horse and kicked some hay from a corner, revealing a small wooden hatch. He lifted it and reach down inside. Pulling out the items hidden under the covering, Lord Hoyt asked, “Do you know what this is?”
Kathryn took the material and spread it out. “It looks like a horse blanket or skirt of some kind.” The blanket was a dark rich blue with a green trim. Thinly woven but extremely fine workmanship.
And then she saw it. A golden shield with a white four-pointed star flare that would rest directly under the horse’s neck.
“Wellyn’s sigil!”
“And this,” her father said, handing her a saddle.
She took it and found the same symbol stamped in the leather on either side of the saddle near the stirrups.
“This blanket and saddle were on this horse when he was found. We know he came from the Western Province and we know he had been sprinting for some time, probably covering a decent amount of ground. He was found the morning after Lord Kerr was mysteriously killed and his daughter went missing.”
“What does it mean?” his daughter asked.
“I was never sure, but needless to say it was curious. Adorned as he was, and as well trained as he is, it led me to believe he belonged to a member of the Khansian Guard.”
Kathryn went pale.
“Not wishing to be hasty or rash, I instructed Master Gernald to hide the saddle and blanket and keep him in the stables until we could figure things out. Well, that never happened and he just became part of the cavalry.”
Lord Hoyt paused. “But, if what you have shared with me tonight has merit, then maybe this horse’s appearance some six years ago makes sense.”
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br /> “It is true, what I’ve said! I swear it by the Ancients themselves!”
Lord Hoyt looked down and shifted his weight. “I know.”
“What are you going to do, father?”
He swallowed hard. “Something that I am sure will mean our doom, my daughter.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Holden and Ryall
Day 15 of 1st Dimming 412 A.U.
RYALL REALIZED HIS CHAIR WAS ABSENT an instant too late to prevent him from falling to the ground and landing hard on his backside. Even as he hit the solid ground in the Changrual monastery he knew this was reprisal for putting wine in his best friend’s inkwell yesterday. Several hours of transcription work had been lost before Holden noticed.
“Blast the Cursed Heavens, Holden!” Ryall swore when his breath returned to his lungs. He noticed his chair about a foot to his left. Holden was failing in his effort to look innocent where he sat directly across from Ryall’s writing desk, stifling a laugh. The small commotion had generated some small laughter from the other adherents in the hall.
“I know it was you!” Ryall snapped after standing up and brushing himself off.
“Why, whatever could you mean?” Holden retorted with mock innocence while holding up his hands in a guiltless gesture. Of course, his right hand held one end of the string that had its other end tied to a leg of the chair in question. Holden’s shock of red hair looked as disheveled as ever, adding to his mischievous appearance.
Seeing his enemy in the prank war holding the weapon of his embarrassment in such a taunting way brought out the best in Ryall.
“That was useless,” he said. “I’ve got a small bruise but you lost hours of work thanks to my last prank. I’ve lost nothing.”
“Just your pride,” Holden retorted. “Oh wait, you understandably never had any. Why be proud when you’re…you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think my overwhelming wit is reason enough.”
“More like lack of wit!” Holden countered and started to laugh with the crowd the contest had attracted, other adherents leaving their writing desks to gather around. Ryall did not laugh, but instead stood silent just staring at Holden with a slight grin. Becoming aware of his friend’s unfaltering gaze, Holden’s laugh quieted. He knew that look, having seen it for most of his childhood, and began to sense something was amiss.
“What?” he asked, more wary as the moments passed. He tried not to appear anxious, but his eyes were darting about the room everywhere. Ryall just continued to stare.
“Look everyone, Ryall’s demonstrating his almighty wit!” Holden declared. This caused more laughter from the onlookers, but Holden was using this as a distraction to continue to scan the hall and figure out just what Ryall was up to.
“Holden, how long have we sat at this desk opposite each other?” Ryall finally asked. “Eighteen cycles? I think ever since we entered the monastery.”
“So?”
“So, I think we are all a little tired of the stench radiating from you. In fact, I think we all agree it’s high time for a bath!”
And with that, Ryall produced a pull string of his own and gave one quick yank before Holden could register what was about to happen. A deluge of water was released from a bucket strategically placed above in the rafters, drenching the redheaded boy. An eruption of “oohs” and laughter echoed throughout the hall. It was just then that old man Kabel happened to set foot in the transcription hall to witness Holden being doused by his unwelcome mid-afternoon shower.
“What’s the meaning of this?” his old squeaky voice croaked. “Answer me with truth or by the Ancient Heavens I’ll have every one of you—”
“It was me!” Ryall confessed almost in a bragging tone as he stepped forward. “Holden is just the poor, innocent victim of a higher mind at work. Mine.”
“Not so!” Holden shot back at Ryall, not even caring to address the old custodian. “Who was it that got his fingers stuck together last span for the whole day, thinking a jar of southern amber wax to be soap?”
Ryall stood on his chair, hoping to make his answer somehow stronger. “Who woke up three days past with a hairless chest?”
“Who got fire rash on their crotch?”
“Ants in their soup!”
“Manure in their shoes!”
“Kerosene in their mouth rinse!”
“Their sandals’ straps cut!”
“Wood pulp in their sugar!”
At that last one, Holden looked questioningly at Ryall. “I don’t remember that,” he said. Ryall bit his lower lip, blushing slightly.
“Well, you would have at evening meal.”
Glancing over at old man Kabel, the two boys saw the effect of their performance. Kabel’s mouth was agape with his eyes staring wide in utter disbelief. The old man hobbled in place, back and forth from leg to leg as was typical when he was too astonished or flustered to make any comment, earning him the nickname “Hobble Kabel” among the young adherents. The two boys couldn’t contain it any longer and bellowed with laughter. Ryall nearly fell off the chair he perched upon from his body shaking in hilarity. Holden rolled on the ground, his wet robe leaving a small puddle on the stone floor.
“Enough!” Kabel yelled, hobbling furiously, but his attempt at regaining authority through raising his voice came out more like a crow cawing uselessly at the sun. “Enough! Enough! Enough! I will march you straight to the High Vicar on duty and have him deal with you!”
Their laughter continued even after Kabel yanked them by their ears and hauled them away.
“Blasted Heavens! We’ve been waiting here so long my robe is nearly dry.” Holden looked abashed for using such language, remembering where he was. The two perpetrators had been sitting outside the High Vicar’s office since mid-afternoon and now had completely missed evening meal.
“What do you think will happen to us this time?” Ryall asked. He did not sound overly concerned.
“Perhaps they will finally see you for the worthless bag of hair and bones you are and expel you from the monastery,” Holden jabbed.
“If only the Ancient Heavens would be so kind—”
“But where would you go, Ryall? Your father would never accept you back after being dismissed from the monastery. He barely accepted you in the first place. No doubt he has been breathing sighs of relief ever since he sent you here and they granted you entrance.”
The two boys had grown up together in the Eastern Province, barely a span apart in age and both sons of minor houses. They were also both third sons. This fact alone charted their destiny in life. Lord Grady Orion sat as Provincial Lord of the East, the largest province in all the Realm. Third sons, according to Lord Orion, were only granted to men of his province to serve the Ancient Heavens and were therefore required to enter the Changrual Monastery when fourteen years of age. Holden and Ryall had dreamt together of someday scaling the Jarwyn Mountains and crossing over to the Falls of Olin on the east side of the great mountains. From there, they would take the journey down the perilous precipice to the Sea of Albery and sail out beyond the Runic Islands to meet the sun where it rose every morning.
Holden had since accepted his status in life, but Ryall seemed determined to stubbornly hang on to his dreams of adventure and voyaging beyond the Realm. He stared at the ground without actually seeing it as he answered his long-time friend wistfully.
“The world has never seemed to want us, third sons of minor houses. It is as if our fates were determined for us without us even being asked. I want to be free, free as the birds that fly through the sky and as the whales that roam the deep. Can you imagine what it would be like? No one to answer to and nowhere we must be. We would live as we choose, no one to force us. Can’t you feel the…the…”
Ryall didn’t know the word he was searching for. Freedom, autonomy, liberty, independence all ran through his mind, but they were somehow inadequate. The feeling he was trying to describe was somewhat ineffable to him. Holden listened to his friend but also just
stared down at the ground. He knew Ryall had retreated inside himself again and was not seeing the stone and dirt they both plainly stared at as he voiced his greatest desires.
Ryall finally settled on “power” as the assistant resident Vicar opened the door to the High Vicar’s office and motioned them in. As Ryall arose, he heard the sound of clothing being ripped and then felt a draft. He looked behind him to see the seat of his robe still on the bench were they had been sitting and his backside bare.
“Southern amber wax,” Holden mused. “Sticky stuff.”
Half a span later, Holden and Ryall made their way through the basement chambers of the monastery, each with a mop and bucket of soapy water. This was the last day of their punishment to scrub the monastery from top to bottom. The High Vicar on duty had spared them from the pain and humiliation of a public caning, preferring hard labor to force out disobedient tendencies over corporeal punishment. The basement chambers were always saved for last. No one visited these lower parts after dusk. Ryall wasn’t sure why anyone would visit them at all.
“I’m not sure what they hope for us to accomplish down here,” Holden groused for about the hundredth time. “Wiping down these old stones and rocks only makes them wet. There’s no hope for them actually getting clean.”
“We found out the same thing about you a half span ago,” Ryall jeered. “That bath in the transcription hall hasn’t done you any good.”
“And my mop,” Holden continued, not rising to Ryall’s jab, “is worthless on this rough stone. Look at it, shredded and frayed.”
“Perhaps you could use my ruined robe. It’s not good for much else these days. In fact, you can have it as a trophy.”
At that, Holden did crack a smile though it was mostly masked in a flickering shadow created by the single torch held in a crude sconce on the wall just above their heads. Amber wax, a product of the industrious Southern Province, might have been the most adhesive substance known. It was used often in construction applications of all create, mounting objects to walls and by healers to help seal wounds. And, of course, in Holden and Ryall’s prank war.