The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Verik touched her arm, and she turned to face him. He glanced toward the tent and couldn’t hide the shame in his eyes. He looks worse than I remember, he signed.

  He lives, Zerill answered. And his mind is intact. More than he deserves. He escaped the worst perils of healing.

  Only by chance. He is lucky that he can still move his own limbs, think his own thoughts. I’ve… I’ve dreamt about it, since. Reaching into him, forcing the wound closed while his flesh twists and pulls against my hands… Verik shook his head, as if to scatter such visions. The pain will never fully leave him, do you understand that? He may regain some of his strength, but his body will always be wrong. It should not be called healing. It is anything but that.

  She clasped his shoulder. You only did as I told you. It is my responsibility, not yours.

  How can it not be mine? I am sworn not to use the deepcraft for… that. A living spirit knows its form. It will never accept a reshaping. Never stop fighting against it. Verik glanced back at the tent again with a grimace. Even a highlander deserves better. I shouldn’t have done it, even at a grandmother’s order. And if someone else had asked me, I wouldn’t have. This is why Makers aren’t meant to be so close to anyone, Zerill. It was my own failing, and I’ve been warned about it before.

  A better friend wouldn’t have asked it of you to begin with, she signed. I’m sorry. And she was—she hadn’t meant to bring him such pain. Hadn’t meant to scream at him, to threaten him, to make him break his oaths. But she’d done it. He would never have put her in the same position; for as long as she could remember, he’d always been there when she needed him. Their friendship wasn’t strictly allowed, but that had never given him pause. Until now. If you feel you need… distance, I understand. But if there is even a chance that he can stop the purges, I have to do whatever I can to make that happen. And I… I don’t want to do it by myself. I would like to have a friend on my side.

  Verik looked away for a moment; his eyes landed on the suffering circle not far away, where dozens of Makers practiced their shared rites of meditation and control. He hung his head, breathed out through his nose, then straightened again. His hand moved, hesitantly at first. I am always… of course I am with you. I trust you. He offered her a weak smile, little more than a quirk at one corner of his mouth. I don’t know why, mind you. But when has that stopped me?

  It was exactly the response she’d expected, the one she’d needed. She hated herself for taking advantage of him, but to lose her closest friend so soon after Azlin would take more strength than she had.

  Thank you, Verik. She wanted to embrace him, to cry into his shoulder, but there were too many eyes watching, so she settled for a brief touch of his arm. I should go. The Kinmeet waits.

  Familiar worry-lines creased the corners of Verik’s eyes. Will the Lighteyes support you? he signed. I… we did this for nothing if they won’t.

  I know. Zerill could do nothing with the information Prince Josen had given her if she lost the faith of her kin—she led them in Azlin’s stead only until a permanent grandmother or grandfather could be named in Kinmeet. The kin might confirm the inheritance, as they had for her father and Azlin after him, or they might choose another. And considering Zerill had brought a highlander into the Kinhome, confirmation was far from certain. I have to believe they will, she signed. If any kin will understand what I hope to do, it is the Lighteyes. They are accustomed to highlanders, more than the others. Tarv and Nevris will be harder, I think.

  Verik nodded. Grandmother Nevris will not want to listen, if you speak loudly enough for her to hear you at all. And my uncle is almost as stubborn as she is. Choose your arguments carefully.

  I know the loudspeech better than anyone. That is an advantage, at least. She thought she could convince Grandfather Tarv of the Heartspears—he had always liked her, even if the union he’d hoped for between her and Verik had never come to pass. He hated highlanders, of course, but what he and his kin desired more than anything was to keep the Abandoned safe. Nevris of the Shadowfeet would be… more difficult. She had lived almost a hundred years hiding from highlanders, and the Shadowfeet were adherents of old traditions. Her mind would not change easily.

  Just be careful. If they will not listen—

  I will face the consequences if and when they come. But they will be even less likely to listen if I arrive late. She smiled, and hoped it looked more confident than she felt. Keep him safe until I return.

  She stood tall as she walked toward the hillock where the Kinmeet gathered, kept her head up and her back straight. It wasn’t easy. She needed the Lighteyes to see her as their rightful grandmother, strong and self-possessed, but she’d been less afraid facing a beetleback single-handed. She had never spoken in Kinmeet before, and the consequences for failure would be dire. Not just Josen’s death, or the loss of what might be their only chance for peace; she wouldn’t mourn the prince, and the idea of peace was still too far away to believe in yet. No, her punishment would be more personal. The one thing the Abandoned feared above all else: to be abandoned once more.

  She had misused a Maker’s power to save a highlander. If she failed to sway the Kinmeet, she would be banished for the rest of her life.

  17. Allies of Necessity

  Lenoden

  “What is so urgent, Castar?” High Chastor Ulman Benedern demanded in his powerful baritone, lumbering into Lenoden’s study behind Marcas Tammen. “It had best be worth the flight. My time is precious, and the baskets are hardly comfortable.”

  Lenoden stood calmly from his desk and nodded a greeting. “I didn’t ask you here for nothing, Ulman.” He deliberately eschewed Benedern’s title, just as Benedern had his. This was going to be a negotiation as much as anything; starting from a position of weakness would not do. “Do I strike you as a frivolous man?”

  “You strike me as a man who thinks his own concerns more important than anything else. Prince Josen is dead. The people turn to the Sky God in such troubled times, and I am first among the speakers of His Word. I haven’t time for anything less than a catastrophe.” Benedern approached, looming over the desk. The high chastor’s silver crown sat on his brow, completely encircled in golden eagle’s eyes of colored glass, the foremost of them at the center of a gilded sunburst. It felt as if Benedern was staring down at Lenoden with a dozen eyes at once.

  The high chastor stood more than six feet tall, broad-shouldered and wide-chested with a heavy gut that somehow suggested heft and gravitas more than indolence, and he used that size to his advantage. He was well aware that he intimidated people; he relied on it. In his sermons and elsewhere, he swayed minds with sheer presence, a giant covered from neck to ankle in a robe of golden eagle’s feathers. With the Crown of Eyes perched atop his mane of coarse grey hair, he looked very much like some many-eyed monster from a children’s fable. But Lenoden had seen real monsters in the Swamp. There were few things above the mist that scared him, and Ulman Benedern wasn’t among them.

  “You will be glad you made time for this,” was all Lenoden said.

  “Very well then.” Benedern eased his bulk into one of the large oaken chairs before Lenoden’s desk, arranging his robe of feathers so that he crushed as few as possible. Lenoden didn’t envy him that particular sign of office. “Speak your piece,” the high chastor said when he was settled, gesturing impatiently with one hand.

  Lenoden seated himself once more, taking care to avoid his scabbard. It was a nuisance sometimes, but he rarely removed it—people tended to do as he asked when they saw a sword at his waist. He didn’t think Benedern would be so pliable, but it never hurt to try. And I have other tools at my disposal. Glancing at his steward, he said, “Marcas, fetch our guests.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Tammen bowed and closed the door behind him as he left.

  “Guests?” Benedern raised an eyebrow. “Enough mystery, Castar. Come to the point. What is this?”

  “Let us call it an opportunity. One you will not believe unless you see
for yourself.” Lenoden absently stroked a knuckle against his beard, and let his voice take a casual tone. “While we wait, will you indulge me for a moment? A question has been bothering me lately, and it relates to why I’ve asked you here.”

  Benedern nodded brusquely. “Ask, then. But I hope I’m not to be kept waiting long.”

  “Not long at all,” said Lenoden. “Now, my question. I was too young when it happened to remember the Outer Duchy Rebellion, but you had just been named high chastor at the time, yes? Tell me, what did the Convocation make of Deoma Luthas’ claim to the throne? Her cause always seemed so pious, however misguided.”

  “It was treason.” Benedern’s response came a bit too quickly, and his broad mouth drooped into a scowl. “She and her supporters deserved their punishment. I spoke against executing her family, and Jeneth Berial’s, but only because it ended two Windwalker bloodlines. The children should have been spared, given to the Convocation’s stewardship until they came of age. But that was thirty years ago now. What does it matter?”

  “I thought you might have had some sympathy for her ideals. Returning a queen to the throne of the Nine Peaks, and the High Eyrie to the Plateaus. Certain… fringe members of your order have preached the former, and there isn’t a chastor in the Peaks who doesn’t long for the latter. King Kaleb’s reforms did not treat the Convocation well.”

  “Kaleb Aryllia.” Benedern sounded as if he wanted to spit. “A name I grew tired of hearing many years ago.”

  “But a hard one to avoid when speaking of rebellions—or of history in general, for the last two hundred odd years. Who else has wrought such change in the Nine Peaks? We fly in his baskets, move goods along roads he built. Duchies that were starving feed themselves off the trade routes and agreements he forged between us. He made the Nine Peaks a stronger kingdom, whatever else he did.” If anything would bait the high chastor, it was that. The Convocation preferred to avoid the subject—best not to pick at a healed wound, even if it had healed badly—but privately, they tended to view the First King as little better than the Deepwalker himself. Not a view Lenoden shared. Kaleb had pursued his vision until the Nine Peaks matched it. The sheer strength of that ambition deserved respect.

  Benedern’s glower didn’t disappoint. “Kaleb was a sinner who killed his own sister to take her throne. He built bridges and roads, had the baskets made? Just things. Paltry, physical things. What did he do for our souls? He banished the High Eyrie to Skysreach and led the Peaks into spiritual decay!” He drew a deep breath, visibily attempting to calm himself. “But you are not so ignorant as to believe that Deoma Luthas was fighting to right Kaleb’s wrongs, are you? There are many of them to right, but the Outer Duchy Rebellion was political, nothing more.”

  “You would know better than I do, of course,” said Lenoden. “As I said, I was too young to remember. But there is a certain rumor that has always made me curious. A question I have heard asked. I’m sure you’ve heard this yourself: if the outer duchies were only fighting against the supposed yoke of the inner, why hide it behind a spiritual crusade? Without the support of the Convocation, it seems purposeless. Anyone particularly pious would simply choose the side the high chastor told them to.” He leaned forward over his desk and steepled his fingers. “Unless Luthas and her followers believed that they would have the Convocation behind them. But why would they have believed that?”

  “Just what are you implying, Castar? I have no insight into the minds of traitors, and no time for imagined conspiracies.” Benedern’s indignation said as much as it hid. “If you’ve summoned me here just to muse about the past, you are wasting my time and your own.”

  Nothing left but to get to the point. If Lenoden’s suspicions were correct, the high chastor would not prove difficult to win over. Benedern wanted this, even if he didn’t know it yet. But he needs to know the stick is ready and waiting before I offer the carrot.

  “Let me say it plainly, Ulman: I believe the rumors are true. You had a hand in plotting the rebellion, or at the very least decided to take advantage of it. Either way, you pledged support to Deoma Luthas that you didn’t deliver in the end. If I had to guess, I would imagine you reconsidered when the rebels murdered Queen Shona. That turned opinion against them rather quickly, didn’t it?”

  Benedern’s face hardened. “I am the high chastor of the Convocation! I will not be—”

  “I understand why you did it, of course,” Lenoden said over the high chastor’s protests. “The Aryllias have never had much use for you. A high chastor in the Plateaus might challenge their power. Why risk it when a carefully selected pet can perform all the same rites? I’m sure you already know that Gerod has asked Renold Mulley to preside over Rudol’s coronation. But if a more receptive ruler held the throne, one who owed you a favor… bringing the High Eyrie home would be quite a legacy, wouldn’t it?” Lenoden offered a conspiratorial smile. “I appreciate ambition, Ulman. This world thrives on change, and nothing changes unless ambitious men make it so. In this case, I believe the changes you and I seek are… complimentary.”

  “I don’t know how you’ve dreamed up such nonsense, but this conversation is over.” Benedern started to stand.

  “Sit down.” Lenoden didn’t move except to place a single hand on the hilt of his sword. He found such overt threats distasteful, but Benedern would thank him in the end. And there was some satisfaction to seeing fear in the high chastor’s eyes. Intimidation means a bit more when there is something real behind it, doesn’t it, Ulman?

  Benedern halted, half-upright. “Don’t be absurd. You wouldn’t dare.” But he lowered himself back into his chair. “You are making a grave mistake. The Lord of Eagles is my shield. Your sword cannot stand against his will.”

  “I am only protecting you from yourself. If you were to leave here and tarnish my name, I would have no choice but to retaliate, and I do have a modicum of influence. A mutual loss. Neither of us wants that.”

  “And what do you want, Castar?” Benedern asked with a scowl. “You need something from me, obviously. Something that will damn us both, no doubt. Tell me; I tire of your games.”

  Lenoden let his smile emerge again. “Patience, Ulman. Marcas will return shortly. You will feel very differently when all is made clear, I promise you.”

  A knock came at the door moments later, as if on cue. Tammen’s muffled voice followed. “Your guests, Duke Castar.”

  “Enter,” said Lenoden. Tammen ushered Auren and Eroh into the room and closed the door behind them.

  Tammen had been thorough in disguising the swamplings—they were hardly recognizable. Their dirty robes had been discarded for clean chastor’s garments: Auren wore two eagle’s feathers on a thong about his neck, the sign of a senior apprentice; Eroh had no feathers, just a novice’s plain robe. Their skin had been dyed a rich brown, and the boy’s hair colored black. Auren’s hair remained grey—he was old enough that it wouldn’t raise questions—and he wore a cloth wrap around his missing eyes. A simple wooden cane completed the illusion, though Lenoden doubted he needed it. A blind old man, he called himself. There is more to him than that, but at least he looks the part.

  Eroh’s golden eyes, though, couldn’t be wrapped without blinding him, and unlike his grandfather, the boy was accustomed to sight. Instead, his hood was pulled low over his face. It wouldn’t hide much under close examination, but Lenoden hadn’t been expecting a miracle. We can still blindfold him if it becomes necessary. Right now, though, he wanted Benedern to see.

  “Don’t be rude, Ulman,” he said. “Introduce yourself. This would be the proper time to stand.”

  The high chastor narrowed his eyes at the jibe, but did as he was told. Heaving himself from his chair, he faced Tammen and the swamplings. “An old man and a child.” Benedern’s voice was laden with irony. “You were right, Castar. My eyes have truly been opened.”

  “Look closer.” Lenoden gestured for Tammen to pull back the boy’s hood. “Say hello, Eroh.”

  Ero
h clung to Auren’s hand, but when Tammen plucked the hood back, the boy looked up at Benedern and shyly said, “Hello.”

  A choked gasp escaped Benedern’s throat, and he fell to his knees. “Auna Celyn,” he whispered in the Highspeech, raising his face to the sky and touching the center-most eye of his crown with two fingers. “The Sky God’s mark.” He looked back at Lenoden. “Where… where did he come from?”

  “The Swamp.” He could have lied, but all the information was there for Benedern to divine the truth. Better to be honest now, make him feel trusted.

  “That explains a great deal.” Benedern thoughtfully stroked the centermost eye of his crown. “No one can know, of course. We must say he is an orphan of the Peaks or the like. I didn’t know swamplings could speak—that will mislead suspicion.” He leaned close to peer at the boy’s face. “The gold distracts from it, but he has swampling eyes. Too large, if one looks closely enough. We will have to see that no one does.”

  “So it is ‘we’ now?” Lenoden asked, allowing himself a slight grin. “I told you he would make you feel differently.”

  “This is a miracle, Castar. The Word of the Wind made real before our eyes. Do not cheapen it with gloating.” Benedern placed a hand on Eroh’s shoulder. “What are you called, boy?”

  “Eroh.”

  “You are going to change everything, Eroh.”

  “Oh.” The boy didn’t seem to understand, but he nodded solemnly. “Can we see the eagles now?”

  Benedern chuckled and rose to his feet. “The eyrie is right next to the castle. You can see all the eagles you like when we are done here.” He looked back at Lenoden with an almost childlike hope in his eyes. “Does he… does he know the Highcraft?”

  Auren answered first, mildly sardonic. “The magick of your Windwalkers? If he could fly we might have had less trouble escaping the Swamp, and I have not yet seen him bring back the dead or raise a mountain.”

  Benedern raised an eyebrow at the old man. “And who are you?”