The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “You may call me Auren. I am Eroh’s grandfather.” Auren didn’t turn to the high chastor as he spoke, just faced blindly ahead.

  He is blind, Lenoden had to remind himself. He has no eyes; that cannot be an act. And yet he’d seen the old man follow faces before, seen him move through the Swamp without hesitation. Whatever deepcraft he wields, at least he knows to hide it in front of Benedern.

  “Auren?” The high chastor raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t have… is that a common name among the swamplings?”

  Auren tilted his head slightly, not quite in Benedern’s direction. “Have I said something wrong? It is only a name.” Lenoden was wondering the same thing—he couldn’t see anything strange in it.

  “No… not yet, I think.” There was a curious glint in Benedern’s eye now, though. “Tell me, why would a swampling seek aid from a Knight of the Storm? They consider it a divine duty to slay your kind, and they are not wrong. You must know that.” It was a mild rebuke; the high chastor would have been within his rights to call for the old man’s head.

  Lenoden answered before Auren could. “Their people exiled them. They seek a life above the mist.” Best end this line of questioning. Who knows what the old man will say? “We have reached an understanding—they can be trusted.”

  “I should hope so,” said Benedern, turning back toward Lenoden. “I hate to think what they might have witnessed. What they might reveal if their loyalties change.”

  “Why Ulman, what could you be suggesting?”

  “Come now, Castar. I’m not a fool. Prince Josen dies in the Swamp under mysterious circumstances and a few days later you produce the last Windwalker? There is more to that tale than you are telling.”

  “Very perceptive.” Lenoden had expected no less from the high chastor. It made no difference—they understood one another now. “Josen wished to make the boy’s heritage known. Admirably idealistic, but naïve.”

  The high chastor’s eyes widened. “God Above, the damage he might have caused. The Convocation would be undone. The people would never trust us again; how many in the order would come to doubt their faith? And the Peaks would be divided—those hatreds run too deep to lightly cast aside. There would be those who sought the boy’s death, Windwalker eyes or no.”

  “Then you do not think the swamplings should be spared?” Lenoden was certain that Benedern’s ambition outweighed anything else, but he preferred to be doubly certain. “Josen thought the boy a sign of the Sky God’s forgiveness. If a swampling boy bears the Windwalkers’ mark, perhaps it means we should end our purges.”

  “And then what? You know as well as I that the Nine Peaks are held together by fear of the swamplings. Without them there would be no controlling the lowborn, no keeping the duchies in their place.” Benedern shook his head. “It cannot happen. As you said, these two were banished. They do not stand for the swamplings as a whole. Prince Josen was… led astray by the trickery of the Deep. However you dealt with him, the Lord of Eagles guided your hand.”

  “I thought you might see it that way.”

  “Did you?” Benedern regarded him with searching eyes. “Did you have this meeting in your thoughts already when you left Prince Josen in the Swamp? Are you that calculating?”

  Lenoden considered correcting the high chastor—he hadn’t planned nearly so far in advance. Prince Josen had meant to steal an opportunity from him, and he had reacted. Everything else had come to him later. But why disillusion the man? Let him think my web is so well-woven, if he is fool enough to believe it. He held his tongue.

  “I don’t understand you, Castar,” Benedern said after a moment’s pause. “You speak as though you have thought about this for a long while, but why? You want for nothing. You are as wealthy as any man in the Peaks in coin and in influence. Only the Eagles can say their lines have held power for as long as yours—rulers of Goldstone since the Rising, since Castar the Faithful. All of that, won through steadfast fealty to the crown. Your own father died fighting the rebels for King Gerod. Why risk everything by making a lie of that loyalty?”

  Lenoden snorted dismissively. “What does it matter how my father died? I was a child. I hardly knew him.” His memory of Holden Castar was little more than an imposing silhouette with a booming voice. “A brave and noble man, everyone says. Gave his life for his king, a pride to Castar’s name. I have been told again and again to learn from his example. But I learned a different lesson: men die for the king, but the king dies for no man. I would rather be the man others die for.”

  “So we come to the purpose of this meeting at last,” said Benedern. “And to a true and just king, he will show the path to salvation. You would make yourself the king the Word speaks of, with the boy as your standard.” He glanced back at Eroh, and his gaze lingered for a moment, as if unable to look away from those golden eyes.

  “Who else? Do you think Josen Aryllia could have ruled the Peaks? Or Rudol? Neither of them wants the crown, nor has the worth to wear it. I admit freely that I am not a selfless man; I am not ashamed of my ambition. But I would also be a better king than either of Gerod’s sons, and I have no wish to see the Peaks suffer under their rule.”

  “But to take the crown, you require my support.”

  “As I said before: invoking the Word of the Wind means nothing without the support of the Convocation. I couldn’t begin to cite the passages I would need, and I hardly have time to learn the Highspeech. Your influence among the highborn may be weak, but the lowborn still fear the Sky God’s wrath. They will do as you tell them.”

  “And why should I want you on the Throne of Air?” Benedern asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You have the boy, but if I claim that he is meant to guide another, the people will believe me. Whatever you promise me, Edmon Dasson would offer the same and more; he is a devout man, and of Windwalker blood. You are neither. Why should I support another king who cares nothing for the counsel of the Convocation?”

  “Because if you support me, I will be king.” No jests now, or feigned insouciance; this was what Lenoden had been waiting for. He leaned over his desk and held the high chastor’s eyes fast with his own. “Thirty years ago, you chose the wrong woman. Don’t make that mistake again. Dasson? He is pious, yes, and humble—and as dull as a day-long sermon. He lacks the men to take the throne by force of arms, and he certainly won’t win it by force of personality. Who else? Ines Terene? Another Eagle, given, but even if she was willing to steal her nephew’s birthright—which I greatly doubt—she is too old and her duchy too distant. None of the outer duchies would be much use to you, for that matter. That leaves Falloway in Greenwall. Don’t be blinded by some distant relation to Carris of the Fields—Grantley is nothing but a senile old man, and I intend to make his daughter my wife. Who, then, would you choose over me?

  “The boy is the key, and he is mine. Let us say you do preach that he is destined for another—Eroh himself remains in my grasp. The Peaks divide; some follow me, some you, some the king. It becomes a costly war, one that no side can win quickly or decisively. Support me, though, and the Throne of Air will be mine. I am admired for my service with the Knights of the Storm; the people love me as they do not love Gerod or Rudol. I have been very generous with my outer duchies—Sunhome and Orimscourt will support me. And you will bring Skysreach and Seastair with you. Five of nine duchies already—six, if my efforts in Greenwall are successful—without a drop of blood spilled. I have the wealth, the men, and the reputation to make this happen. And most importantly, I have the boy. There is no man in the Peaks who can say the same, and you know it.”

  “It seems you have thought this through for me already,” Benedern said. “How convenient. Tell me, what price did you decide I would accept?”

  Lenoden ignored the sarcasm. “When I am king, the High Eyrie will return to the Plateaus, and you will sit on my council. The Convocation will take its rightful place in the Peaks once more, and history will say that Ulman Benedern made it so. You needn’t worry that I won’t kee
p my promises—my claim will depend on the appearance of piety. There is no one who can offer you more. So make your choice.” And stop pretending we don’t both know what it will be.

  Benedern silently stroked the center-most orb of his many-eyed crown, his lips pursed in thought. “You make a fine argument,” he finally said. “But what if I choose to remain loyal to the Aryllias? All I have to do to stop you is… nothing. Without a push from the Convocation, the lowborn will cleave to what they know. And whatever my issues with Gerod, he is old, and sick. He will not be king forever. Josen cared nothing for the Word, but he is gone, and Rudol has always seemed a dutiful lad. Why risk treason at all?”

  “Rudol?” Lenoden laughed. He’d already won; this was simply Benedern’s last show of defiance. The high chastor couldn’t let himself appear weak. “Rudol does what his father demands and what I ask of him, and not always in that order. He already has his masters, and you are not one of them.”

  “An answer for everything.” Benedern sighed, and his shoulders fell. For a moment, he almost looked small. “The Wind of Grace seems to blow in your direction. I must follow where it leads. Perhaps this is the salvation the boy is meant to bring—the restoration of the High Eyrie, the spiritual salvation of the Nine Peaks. Too long have the king and his dukes ignored the speakers of the Word. If this is the path to change, then so be it.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Castar. Just tell me what role you would have me play.”

  “The role of high chastor, of course,” said Lenoden. “I cannot simply reveal the boy and demand a crown. But if the Convocation says that I have been chosen to rule, how many will follow? Then I might reluctantly accept their request.”

  “And what do you intend to do about the current king? There is a reason so few wars have been fought in the Peaks. Taking a fortified mountain from out of the Swamp is all but impossible—no duchy has ever been taken but from within. And what about supplies? The five duchies you are already counting as yours cannot feed an army between them.”

  Lenoden shook his head. “I will take nothing by force if I can avoid it,” he said. “I do not wish to be seen as an usurper, or to spend thirty years of my reign rebuilding the Peaks. Power over the unwilling is temporary—it invites rebellion. Look at what happened when the outer duchies decided they were being mistreated. No, I will be a savior. The people will beg me to take the throne, and the king will give it to me.”

  “You think Gerod will simply hand you his crown because the people ask him to?” Benedern asked incredulously.

  “As you said, Gerod is old and sick. When he is gone, Rudol will have no master but me. I can persuade him to do what is best for the Peaks.”

  “When Gerod is gone. You seem quite… certain that we will not have long to wait.” Benedern glanced toward Tammen with a raised eyebrow.

  “And you seem a bit too eager to hear it. Hardly pious of you.” Lenoden grinned. “But I am only advocating patience. I hope he lives out the year, truly. We have much to do before we act, and besides that, the heir apparent died less than a cycle ago with me as the only witness. Even if I could be certain of success, were Gerod to die now, any man who didn’t suspect my hand in it would be a fool. No, I can wait for his illness to do its work, if it means avoiding a war. He is closer to the grave than he would have anyone know. Enlighten His Eminence, Marcas.”

  Tammen inclined his head. “My ears at the Tower say that medicines have had little effect. He has no more than a year left, I am told. They have taken to providing extracts that dull his pain and calm his cough over any attempt to cure him.”

  “And even those are ineffective,” said Lenoden. “He was hacking up blood when we spoke last. He would never have let me witness that if he could help it.” He stroked a knuckle against his beard and smiled. “Do you see, Ulman? The time is coming. We simply need to make the appropriate arrangements. Whatever insult you’ve been dealt, you must attend the coronation. Let it be seen that you wish to make things right between crown and Convocation. That you are offering your hand, and Gerod won’t take it—which he certainly won’t. When his illness claims him, I want it said that it is a punishment from the Above for his impiety. If the people doubt the king, they will doubt his heir, and succession makes people uneasy at the best of times. The comforts of prayer and prophecy will suddenly seem very appealing.” He gestured toward the spot where Eroh had been standing. “And that is when we will reveal the last Wind—what in the Deep?”

  The boy wasn’t there.

  Lenoden surged to his feet. “Where is he?” He rounded his desk, his eyes scouring every corner of the study. “Marcas, where did he go?”

  Tammen’s beady eyes opened wide. “I… Your Grace, I didn’t notice the door open, he can’t have—”

  “Well he clearly isn’t in here!” Lenoden swept a hand pointedly from left to right—there was nowhere for the boy to hide.

  Auren began to laugh.

  “What is funny about this?” Benedern demanded, heaving himself from his chair. “The boy is more important than any of us. He is your charge—you should have been minding him!”

  “Ah, but how is a blind man to watch over a child?” Auren’s chuckling didn’t cease. “He does this sometimes. He can move very quietly when he is inclined. I don’t imagine your politics were as interesting to him as they were to me.”

  “Come, then!” Lenoden threw open the door. “Before the wrong person sees those eyes.”

  “He may be hard to find, if he doesn’t wish to be found,” Auren said without a hint of concern. “But I would suggest we start with this eyrie of yours. He did want to see the eagles.” He made a show of groping sightlessly before accepting Benedern’s offered arm, and let himself be led into the hall.

  Lenoden didn’t know how the boy could have made it as far as the eyrie, but as they searched the corridors, it seemed more and more likely. If Eroh was in the castle, no one had seen him—the servants met Lenoden’s barked questions with confusion. The main gates could only be opened by the gatehouse guards; the boy couldn’t have passed through unseen. That left the walled passage from the courtyard to the eyrie. It was locked and barred, and only Lenoden had a key, but it was unguarded. Perhaps he is small enough to slip through.

  “Tammen, keep searching the grounds. Use only men you can trust.” Leaving his steward to handle that, Lenoden led Benedern and Auren to the eyrie.

  The passage from the Goldfort’s courtyard opened into a small garden enclosed in a stone wall; at the far end, a short staircase ascended the first of the eyrie’s nine tiers. At the front of the temple, a longer stair with a landing at each tier climbed the exterior of the temple all the way up to the nest at the apex. At the seventh tier—already well above the highest tower of the Goldfort—Lenoden followed the wide circular ledge around the temple’s exterior, toward the aviary. Looking down from so high on the eyrie, the mountainside below appeared little more than a steeply sloped plunge into the mist, but he ignored the view. He had seen it before, and heights didn’t bother him. It was the boy that he was afraid for—everything depended on the boy.

  Benedern was panting heavily from the rapid pace by the time they reached the aviary, and even Lenoden’s brow was damp with sweat, though Auren seemed unaffected by the ascent. As they rounded the curve of the wall, the outdoor falcon pens came into view first—spacious enclosures where the messenger birds were kept for much of the year. The birds were well trained, largely quiet but for the occasional screech and the flapping of wings as they hopped from perch to perch. The pens blocked the path forward, so that the only way to continue was to pass through the aviary. Lenoden strode through the doorway, the others following close behind him.

  “Can I keep him?”

  As soon as they were through the door, Lenoden heard Eroh’s voice—there was no mistaking that mixture of curiosity and serenity. Wind of Grace, thank you. He hurried down the corridor toward the sound.

  “Even
the chastors… that is, I don’t… We don’t…” The birdkeeper’s voice. It was impossible to send a message by falcon without dealing with Chastor Ivon—a man better suited to handling his birds than preaching to people. Even unseen, it was clear from the trepidation in his voice that he didn’t know what to say to this strange eagle-eyed boy. Finally he settled on rote dogma, and grew more confident. “No man is the master of these birds. We simply provide care for those that need it. How can any man keep a spirit so pure that the corruption of flesh cannot bind it to the earth?”

  Lenoden strode down the hallway and into the interior aviary, a vast round room filled with perches for birds of all kinds. The smell of droppings was terrible, almost overpowering. Benedern cupped a hand over his nose as they entered.

  Untrained younger falcons sat tethered to perches along the left of the chamber, hooded but obviously nervous. Recessed into the curve of the right wall were dozens of roosts housing a variety of birds, from common thrushes and swallows to colorful creatures from Sunhome that Lenoden couldn’t name. In the center of the room was a stone pedestal, perhaps ten feet high and five wide, topped with a rough nest of twigs and grass and scraps of fabric; in that nest sat two fully-grown eagles. Every eyrie had such a breeding pair—the birdkeeper’s pride and joy. These two were handsomely feathered in brown and gold, but their wings were clipped and their eyes lustreless from years of captivity.

  At the foot of the pedestal, Chastor Ivon—a scrawny man with a bald crown and a messy ring of hair about his temples that nearly swallowed his chastor’s circlet—stared at Eroh in awe and confusion. A third brown and gold bird perched on the boy’s shoulder, no larger than a sparrowhawk; its eyes were keen and golden like the elder eagles’ must once have been, near identical to Eroh’s. The little bird—too small for an eagle, Lenoden thought, though it could be nothing else—fastened its gaze on the newcomers long before Eroh or Chastor Ivon noticed their arrival.

  The birdkeeper was still trying to explain the restrictions on bird ownership, though he seemed embarrassed to be citing the Word at a boy who bore the Sky God’s mark. “Only a chastor may train—”