by Jeff Wheeler
The Aldermaston bristled, his emotions flaring to anger again. “Your…your daughter, as you said.”
The Prince turned and looked at him, a penetrating look. “In time, you will care for her as if you had been permitted to rear your own. She will heal the chasm in your heart that was breached when your lady died last year. Though I cannot expect it of you now.”
The Aldermaston was like a huge gray stone. His face impassive, his eyes speaking quite loudly, How can you ask this of me?
The Prince plucked a bud of ripening fruit from the stem and held it close to his nose, smelling it. He turned it over in his hand several times. “What else would you know from me before we leave for Comoros?”
“Tell me of my enemy. Tell me of the woman who will bring about my death.”
“She is hardly a woman yet. The Queen of Dahomey is with child, I believe.”
“Yes, I did hear that she was.”
“The child she carries is your enemy.” The Prince looked amused at the Aldermaston’s shock. “When I said your enemy was the Queen of your realm, what I meant was that she will be. The king’s current lady wishes me dead. But she will be poisoned herself by a kishion from Dahomey, giving the king the excuse to marry again. The Dahomeyjan king will offer his young daughter. She is your enemy, Aldermaston. An unborn babe. But does it not make sense? Are not the Myriad Ones called the Unborn? This child will be very powerful. There is something in the lineage of that family, especially the daughters. They do not require a kystrel to manipulate the Medium after their training. When they use one, it does not leave a mark on their flesh. She will have enormous power at controlling emotions. Men will do her bidding, even those you think impervious. Be warned, Aldermaston. You will be betrayed in the end by someone you trust.”
Martin noticed the narrowing of the Aldermaston’s eyes. His lips were hard and white, his expression growing chalkier. “Will you tell me who?”
The Prince shook his head. “It is not important that you know it. Remember that those from Dahomey are expert at cunning. They are quite devious. But remember also that the wisdom of the Medium is greater than all the cunning of the Myriad Ones.”
The Aldermaston turned away, shaking his head slowly. He seemed in agony. With a violent gesture, he rounded on the Prince. Martin stepped forward, wondering if he would need to restrain the old man.
“You ask too much of me!” he roared. “I have never met you before, Prince Alluwyn. Yet you come here to my Abbey and tell me it will succumb to the Blight. That there is nothing I may do to prevent it. You presage my death in a most cruel manner and yet I must invite the very serpent who will bite me into my trust and care? That I must shield her in Muirwood for the purpose of my own destruction and to protect your daughter who must be abandoned here as a babe?” His face was livid. “How can you ask this of me?”
The Prince was calm, his voice soft-spoken. “I do not ask you to suffer needlessly, Aldermaston. It is not I that requires it of you, but it is the Medium’s will. I am but the messenger. When I leave, it will be up to you to try and thwart the future. If you even can. I am only trying to prepare you for what is to come. It will take great courage to face this Queen, your enemy. I have written this all in my tome and I will put a binding rune on it. You will not be able to speak of it to anyone.”
The Aldermaston clenched his fists and stepped closer, his size towering over the Prince. “You mean to say that I cannot even tell your daughter who she really is? I must raise her as a wretched when she is truly the heir of the kingdom of Pry-Ree? Why? Again I must ask…why?”
“My wife is the daughter of Sevrin Demont, who was very strong in the Medium. The strongest in this kingdom and he was only an Earl. I am the strongest of my family, even stronger than my grandfather who was renowned for his Gifts. The houses of Lleu-Iselin and Demont will produce a child who will be exceptionally strong with the Medium, Aldermaston. Her Gifts will emerge at an age that will startle you. By the time she is fourteen or fifteen years, she will be ready to pass the maston test, even if she has never glimpsed or understood the meaning of a tome. Believe me, our enemies will be watching for her. Think of how powerful she would become with a kystrel? Think if she became proud or vain or filled with her own self-importance. If she is to fulfill her destiny – the destiny which I shared with you – then she must never know who she is until the Medium teaches it to her. That is the only future I see where she can successfully accomplish her task. She is a voice of warning before that most terrible Blight comes and devastates the seven kingdoms. She must go to Dochte Abbey, to the very nest of vipers and proclaim it there. Only with the Medium compelling her, guiding her footsteps and her words, will she be able to do what she is meant to do. Any distraction of feeling or selfish inclination will destroy her.” He took a step forward and grabbed the Aldermaston’s arms. “I have seen that future, Aldermaston. I have seen the death of this land. I have also seen its rebirth. Just as these tree limbs will hang barren of fruit and leaves during the winter, the season will come on its heels and new life and growth will take its place. It is not for her alone that I do this, but her entire progeny and for all those who will survive and prosper because they heeded her warning. By this final sacrifice, I can save my people and yours. You must be her father while I cannot be.”
The Aldermaston’s mood shifted. He was a keen man and he had picked up on something the Prince had said. Martin saw his eyes narrow. “You said your…wife. You are not married currently. Is that also a glimpse into the future?”
The Prince smiled cryptically. “We are married already, Aldermaston. She was bound to me by irrevocare sigil, though we have never met. I dare even suggest that our unusual marriage was one of the reasons Comoros invaded Pry-Ree. It is also the reason I am finally suing for peace. She was coming to me by sea and was captured at sea and is now being held for ransom at Pent Tower where my father died. The king is not a maston though. He will insist we marry again, and we will to please him. But she is my wife and will forever be. Though it feels as if every Myriad One in existence thwarts our attempts to unite.”
The Aldermaston shook his head, amazed at the revelation. Martin wanted to sneer at him. He had been in Dahomey when the ceremony happened – not inside the Abbey, of course, for he was not a maston. But he had met the girl and brought tidings of her back to the Prince.
The Aldermaston cleared his throat. “There are rumors, muttered gossip really, that Sevrin Demont’s wife wore a kystrel. They say she was the cause of his downfall at Maseve. That it was how she persuaded the marriage to Demont to occur.”
The Prince looked unmoved. “I have heard worse rumors.”
“Is it true? You say Demont’s blood is strong with the Medium, but did that strength come legitimately? Do you marry the daughter of such a one? I know your wife was never allowed to study at Dochte, for she was not the daughter of a king, but her mother may have taught her.”
“That is my concern and none of yours. Thank you, Aldermaston, for your hospitality. My men are rested and we ride in the morning for Comoros. Martin, will you show me that giant oak in the woods you discovered? I would not want to leave Muirwood without seeing its mighty branches.”
The Aldermaston looked as if he had aged another dozen years during their interview. “You are welcome to roam the grounds as you see fit. There is an excellent view of the Tor from the slopes of the cemetery.”
The Prince smiled and nodded. “Yes, the cemetery. I imagine the view will be splendid. Until it floods. Thank you again, Aldermaston. Come, Martin.”
The Prince walked through the lush apple orchard. The buzz of flies wafted in the wind. Martin glanced back at the Aldermaston, who paced the orchard, collecting his thoughts and emotions.
Martin coughed in his hand. “You did not tell him about the cider, my lord.”
The Prince shook his head. “He has enough to worry about. He would not care for us to visit the Tor if he knew what else I have seen.”
“W
ill he obey you?” Martin asked. “Will he raise the child as you instructed?”
The Prince cocked his head slightly, giving Martin an unnerving look. “That is why I must leave you here, Martin. You must guarantee she reaches Dochte Abbey when it is time. You will not be going with us to Comoros. ”
Martin stared at him in shock, his insides writhing with pain. “By Cheshu!” he hissed.
* * *
“The king arrived with the Earl of Caspur. Not the king of Dahomey. Our king. There was great enmity between Colvin and Caspur, but the king forbade them to quarrel. He said he wants to bring peace to the realm and heal the rift between Demont and the Queen Dowager. He intends to pass the maston test at Dochte Abbey and the Aldermaston has agreed to let him try. The king has joined my private lessons. He is nearly my age and very clever. He knows about reading but he has not had the patience to learn engraving. He whispered to me that he will have his scrivener do that for him. He attempted to read over my shoulder and see what I write in my tome, but I did not permit him. It is for my secrets and not to be shared. He is very kind and his humor reminds me somewhat of Edmon. I miss those evenings in the kitchens of Muirwood. How simple and peaceful they were. Here there is studying all day long and dances and fetes until late into the night. The cider is delicious but I only sip a little. Colvin will not drink it. During the dances he broods. I wish he would ask me to dance. Sometimes I stare at the dancers with great interest, but he ignores me. I do not think he cares to dance.”
- Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE:
The Holk in Doviur
Ships of every mast and size thronged the port of Doviur. Hundreds of gulls squawked and swooped, mirroring the commotion existing on the piers below. The horizon was a tangled skein of ropes, poles, masts, and large hooks and cranes. Lia kept the Cruciger orb hidden within the fold of her cloak and stared at the spindle as it pointed the way she needed to go. Her request was simple – find me a ship that will bring me to Dochte Abbey. The orb obeyed, allowing her to weave in and out of the crowds, through plumes of charcoal smoke and the sick aroma of decaying fish.
The vessels were of different sizes, but they were similar in design. Tall masts rigged with triangular sails, some folded, some flapping. Burly men worked to load and unload the ships, some cursing and others struggling against their burdens. As she had experienced in Comoros, she could feel no trace of the Medium in Doviur, and she had not felt it since leaving the cave that morning. The Myriad Ones skulked and sniffed, enjoying the feelings of anger and impatience that permeated the air. Lia walked purposefully, feeling stronger and yet wondering how she was going to beg passage aboard the vessel she found. She had some money given her by the Aldermaston, but she was not certain what it would cost.
As the orb led her closer to the ship she sought, her mind wandered at what she would say. Though she desired passage to the Abbey, she realized that it may not be possible to land there directly and there might be some foot travel required. Desperately, she wanted to reach Dahomey, to find Colvin and warn him of the dangers they faced. The Medium continued to guide her, but there was a worried twist in her stomach, a feeling that every delay should be avoided.
The orb spindles changed direction, leading down a dock aisle. Berthed at the end of it was a ship that dwarfed those around it. Instead of triangular sails, it was rigged with several square sails, with a hive of masts and rigging. Sailors thronged the deck, some scurrying up and down ropes. The sides were dark and caked with slime and pitch. It was enormous, a huge mass of wood and cloth and rope. A small row of barrels were pushed up the gangplank, probably provisions for the journey. Several discarded ropes were being collected and wrapped. It seemed as if the loading was nearing an end.
The spindles pointed towards the ship unmistakably. Summoning her courage, she concealed the Cruciger orb and advanced. As she drew near, the whistles began and several members of the crew took immediate interest. They were a rowdy sort. She grit her teeth as she approached.
“What seek ye, lass?” one of the sailors crooned. “A kiss ‘ere we disembark?”
“Do not waste your charms,” said another. “She is my girl and came to bid me farewell.”
“In the frigid depths of Sheol,” said the former, shoving the man. The retaliation was swift.
They spoke her language, but with an accent strange to her ears. It reminded her a little of Dieyre’s manner of speech. Both he and Colvin had come from farther north.
“I must speak with the captain,” Lia said firmly, pushing her thoughts at them with her will.
“But does he wish to speak with you?” replied the man she addressed, his expression regarding her with interest. “What is your business?”
She nearly told him, but the Medium whispered to be silent. Instead, she gave him a serious look, shoving the thought at him again.
“Who are you, lass?” said another sailor, one coiling a rope.
“I must speak with the captain.” A thought struck her mind and she said it before she could stop herself. “He is expecting me.”
There was a surprise in their faces. “Expecting you?” one challenged disrespectfully.
The one coiling the rope jammed him with an elbow. He was older than the two young sailors, his face grizzled and pocked, but he was notable for very sharp, gray eyes. He observed Lia and nodded. “I will take you, lass.”
“You will take her, Malcolm? What right do you have…”
“As much right as any man here. Shut your mouth before I do. Follow me, lass.” He did not look back at her and started up the gangplank. Lia shuddered involuntarily and followed, for the commotion on the dock had attracted the eyes of the crew. Many whistled and jeered at her and she swallowed the deep feeling of nervousness that clung to each breath. She saw that several had noticed her gladius, which raised eyebrows and infused them with curiosity. She kept her hood up, hiding her tangle of hair, but she could see them peering at her face as she approached. The sailor with the rope, Malcolm if she had heard correctly, reached the main deck and turned back, offering her his hand to assist her. When she took his grip, she felt the Medium spark between them. He stared into her eyes and she returned the look, but neither said anything.
She walked across the crowded deck, feeling the leers and grins surround her. He shoved past several rude sailors who hung so close there was hardly room to pass. Lia followed, uncomfortable by the press of bodies. A few whispers reached her ears that she had been purchased by the captain to sport with on the journey. Greedy eyes stared at her hungrily and a spasm of panic nearly threatened her composure. She trusted the Medium implicitly, but she felt she was in real danger. Guarding her fears, she kept her face solemn and resolved as she walked, remembering her courage when she had faced Almaguer’s men in the Bearden Muir.
Another man stepped in the way, one with hair as black as midnight and a wary look. “Who is this, Malcolm?”
“The captain is expecting her,” replied her escort.
“Do your work. I will take her from here.” He gazed at Lia with confusion and distrust.
“Sorry, sir. I must bring her to the captain.”
He spoke the words softly, almost too soft to hear, but Lia felt the spark of the Medium. The black-haired man started, looking confused, and then railed on the crew to get back to work. His gray-eyed gaze met hers and then he led her under the bulkhead into the narrow passage back to the captain’s quarters. He did not knock, only twisted the handle and pushed the door open.
“The Aldermaston will see you now,” he said, nodding to her.
Lia startled at the word, then gave him a thankful bow and proceeded. Upon opening the door, she saw the lushly furnished quarters and smelled the strong scents of breakfast lingering in the air. The captain was older, probably in his fifties, with streaks of gray in his reddish hair and beard.
Lower your hood.
Lia obeyed and entered the quarters, shutting the
door behind her.
The noise drew his attention and his eyes lifted to her face. The effect of seeing her was unmistakable on his countenance. He paled instantly, his eyes widening with startled shock. His mouth parted silently, gaping. Sweeping the hat from his head, he crushed it against his leather tunic. She had never seen him before in her life, but he stared at her as if he had known her all the while.
Say nothing.
Lia stared at him, guardedly, feeling her hair fall about her shoulders as she shook it loose from the cowl.
“No,” he said with a moan, shaking his head. He rubbed his eyes, blinking furiously. There were tears glistening there. He wiped his mouth and beard, staring at her, struck by so many conflicting emotions that she pitied the haunted expressions. Never had she had such an encounter – been the source of so much distress at meeting a man for the first time.
Lia stared at him, waiting for him to speak.
His chest heaved with emotion, his face tortured with regrets. When he spoke, his voice was half-strangled. “How you do look…like…her.”
“Do you know who I am?” Lia asked.
He nodded slowly. His teeth were bared like a wolf’s. “How can I forget the face that has been my demon these many years.” His lips quivered, tense as leather stretched over drums. “By Sheol, look at you!” He swallowed and started to cough.
“I seek passage to Dahomey,” Lia said firmly. “You will bring me to Dochte Abbey.”