Ravian's Quest

by Jerry Carpenter

  Princess Veletia sat demurely to his right and, as Lectus’s information had indicated, she was a very attractive young woman. Despite his best efforts though, she made little attempt at conversation and Ravian assumed that she shared the hatred that the rest of her fellow citizens seemed to harbour against their Tarcun visitors.

  The evening wore on.

  The food was plentiful and delicious. The wine was equally palatable and, as Lectus had warned, quite strong. Signs of drunkenness began to become apparent about the hall and Ravian became increasingly watchful of the angry blond giant.

  He turned to the princess.

  ‘So, Princess Veletia, how do you feel about political marriages?’

  It was an artless question and, although Veletia kept her eyes downcast, her face coloured.

  ‘I suppose that, sometimes, they are…a useful expediency,’ she said to her plate in a low voice.

  ‘But not if your heart is elsewhere?’ he said, more to himself than to her.

  ‘No, Prince Ravian,’ she said, looking at him directly for the first time.

  Ravian was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  ‘Ah! And you have already given your heart to another?’ he asked gently.

  She looked down again and nodded.

  ‘Yes, but please don’t tell my father. He has made it very clear that he expects me to marry you in return for a reduction of the taxes.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ravian said, realisation suddenly dawning. ‘The subject of your affections wouldn’t happen to be the large man over there who looks like he wants to rip my head off would it?’

  Veletia blushed furiously.

  ‘Yes,’ she almost whispered. ‘Godin.’

  A sudden thought struck Ravian.

  ‘Veletia, you are the oldest of your siblings, are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are all girls. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, as the oldest, would you not expect to inherit the throne after your father?’

  ‘Yes,’ Veletia replied, ‘but not if I become queen in another country. Groven law requires that this country’s monarch must rule from the throne here, at the palace. You need to understand that I’m not my father’s favourite. Bruntilia, my next-youngest sister is – and she is already betrothed to the third son of King Kenderast of Graftsen.’

  ‘I see,’ Ravian mused. ‘Things begin to make sense.’

  Graftsen, an icy, almost land-locked country in the northeast of the Grimspot Gris, had long been a close ally of Dekane and had been the first northern nation to declare for Bordwar’s alliance.

  ‘Very well, Veletia,’ Ravian said. ‘What if we did not marry, but it was known that you had convinced me to reduce the taxes anyway? Would that not elevate your standing with your father and your people?’

  ‘With the people, yes – but my father has little room in his heart for me.’

  ‘But if I made that announcement now, in front of everybody here, wouldn’t that give strength to your claim to the throne?’

  Veletia placed her hand on his arm, her grip fierce.

  ‘I would want that more than anything,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m sure that there would be a price, Prince Ravian.’

  Ravian smiled, even though he seen Godin half-rise to his feet, fists clenched, as the princess had touched him.

  ‘There is indeed, Princess Veletia – but it is not a high one. I ask only your promise that, should you gain the crown, you will never permit your country to join a northern alliance nor go to war with Tarcus again.’

  Veletia did not hesitate.

  ‘Very well, I so promise.’

  Even as his oldest daughter made her vow, King Paxim rose to his feet.

  As the Groven monarch began his speech of welcome, Ravian looked further along the table and met Lectus’s questioning, frowning gaze. The courtier had been watching his conversation with the princess and obviously suspected that something beyond the approved agenda had been discussed.

  Paxim’s speech was mercifully short and carefully neutral. He wisely avoided any reference to the past conflict – the mere mention of Tarcus’s name being enough to cause a rumble of low, angry growls. Instead, and to the confusion of many in the hall, Paxim emphasised the upstanding character of his royal guest, extolled his oldest daughter’s virtue and beauty, and then closed his address with a comment on the desirability and importance of blood ties between the royal houses of the Sapphire Sea.

  You double-dealing old charlatan, Ravian thought, as the king sat down to lukewarm applause.

  The hall fell utterly silent as the Tarcun prince stood to reply, yet he smiled as he looked around the hostile, drink-flushed faces surrounding him.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he began, ‘I must thank you for your hospitality. I know there has been a recent conflict between our two nations and I must say that, as a warrior, I had the deepest respect for my adversaries in that war. The time has come, however, to put the past behind us and move forward.’

  A muted roar of anger reverberated around the hall and Ravian had a fleeting vision of himself and Lectus being torn limb from limb. Further along the table, he saw his fellow Tarcun drop his head into his hands in despair.

  ‘I must say that I had heard tales of the beauty and modesty of Princess Veletia even in my own country,’ he continued. ‘Now that I have met her, I can see that there has been no exaggeration. Indeed, her reputation does little justice to so fair a maid.’

  As he spoke, he nodded first to a blushing Veletia and then to a smiling King Paxim, fully aware that Godin was glaring at him with pure hatred.

  ‘However,’ he continued, to the now ominously silent hall, ‘while extolling her maidenly qualities, Princess Veletia’s admirers have failed to mention her quick wit, her intelligence, and her great powers of persuasion. We have just had the most animated conversation regarding the Tarcun tax rate on Groven trade...’

  Another angry rumble surged around him at the mention of the bitterly-resented tax. Ravian waited, smiling calmly, until the hall quietened again.

  ‘…and Princess Veletia has convinced me that the rates should be reduced to their pre-war levels in the interests of both our nations. Her arguments have been utterly compelling and I shall ensure that this is done forthwith. You must all be very proud and reassured to know that your future monarch is such a capable stateswoman.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence before Godin, now beaming, leapt to his feet and led the hall in a roar of approval. It boded well, Ravian thought, that Veletia’s future consort had so quickly and correctly seized on the significance of his words.

  As the prince sat down, he smiled and nodded to Paxim, observing that the Groven king was managing to look pleased, angry and confused all at the same time. The only other person in the hall who did not look pleased was Lectus. Indeed, one glance in the courtier’s direction was enough to tell Ravian that his advisor was furious.

  ‘How dare you make such a speech without consulting me first!’ Lectus seethed. ‘You don’t have the authority to make any such concession!’

  The feast was over and they were in Ravian’s room in the Groven palace, the prince relaxing in an armchair as the courtier paced the stone floor, red-faced and very, very angry.

  ‘My Dear Lectus,’ Ravian said soothingly, ‘I can understand that you might feel upset, but an opportunity presented itself and I took the initiative. I’m quite prepared to take responsibility for my action.’

  ‘But what about the other Northerners? Now they’ll be wanting their taxes reduced as well!’

  ‘Personally, I think that it should be,’ Ravian replied calmly, despite his advisor’s impertinent tone. ‘We already lose more from the shipping that bypasses Tarcus to avoid the tax than we gain from it. That’s a decision for my brother though, and I suppose that he can make up some sort of politically acceptable reason for leaving the taxes on the other Northerners, or not, as he chooses.’

&n
bsp; ‘But the tax reduction was our main negotiating point for your marriage to Princess Veletia,’ Lectus hissed exasperatedly.

  ‘And what were we to gain from such marriage?’ asked Ravian. ‘A strategic alliance with Groven?

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘That wouldn’t have worked,’ Ravian told him firmly. ‘Obviously, you are unaware that Paxim has betrothed his second-oldest daughter to Kendergast’s third son. If I were to marry Veletia and take her to Tarcus, that would remove her from the Groven line of succession and, on Paxim’s demise, Bruntilia would ascend to the throne with a prince of Graftsen ruling beside her. I don’t think a strategic arrangement between Groven and Tarcus would be worth a gnat’s turd if that happened.’

  Lectus stopped pacing.

  ‘Ah…no, I wasn’t aware of that,’ he said, clearly surprised by Ravian’s revelation. ‘But, all the same, you’ve basing your strategy on the assumption that Veletia will inherit the throne when Paxim dies. There’s no guarantee of that – particularly as Paxim doesn’t seem the sort to allow fatherly feelings get in the way of his political plans.’

  ‘You’re quite right that there’s no guarantee,’ Ravian replied, ‘and, after what I’ve learned tonight, I wouldn’t trust Paxim as far as I could throw him. But, if Veletia does gain the crown, she’s given me her word that she’ll keep Groven out of any future alliance that would make war on Tarcus. She’s obviously in love with that big boy, Godin, and the pair of them would make good allies. We must do everything in our power to make sure that they don’t suddenly disappear from the road to their destiny. You have men in the court here, I presume?’

  Lectus looked smug.

  ‘Of course – some very good men, in fact.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ravian, ‘I suggest that you give them a good kick up the backside for not knowing or, possibly worse, not thinking to inform you that Bruntilia had been betrothed into the House of Kendergast. If I were you, I’d replace your present bunch of incompetents with men capable of watching over the safety of Veletia and Godin, and I would do it without delay.’

  ‘Er…yes, Your Highness,’ replied the now downcast courtier.

  ‘Oh come on, Lectus,’ Ravian chided him. ‘We’ve done well tonight. We leave here with the prospect of a real alliance with Groven and, my slippery friend, my bachelorhood is still for sale. Any businessman would say that we had made a good deal.’

  ‘I’m glad that Your Highness is in a positive frame of mind,’ replied Lectus, somewhat sulkily. ‘We have some testing times ahead of us in Grimspot Gri.’

  ‘Anything for our country, Lectus,’ Ravian replied airily. ‘Anything for Tarcus.’

  Chapter Four

  They left Bendim the following day, following the shoreline northwest towards the neighbouring kingdom of Kleeft and the passage into the Grimspot Gris. Kleeft occupied the whole of the large peninsula that formed the strait’s eastern shore and Canavast, its main harbour and capital, was located on its northern side, five day’s sail away.

  Ravian was quietly relieved that there would be no further prospective brides to deal with during their time in the Grimspot Gris, the next princess on offer being Flamina, the daughter of King Zecretes of Delenes. At the same time, he knew that their mission was going to be an increasingly uncomfortable one the closer that they came to Dekane – Canavast, for instance, was the very harbour where the Northern fleet had assembled prior to its attack on Tarcus – and the prince couldn’t help but feel that Jeniel had been premature in his decision to re-establish friendly relations with the northern nations.

  As they worked their way around the shores of Grimspot Gri, his foreboding was confirmed.

  Their reception at Canavast was merely surly, the residents of that large trading port having more to gain than most Northerners from improving their relations with Tarcus. The attitude of the host populations of Graftsen and Gerouf, on the other hand, was so palpably hostile that Ravian was forced to forbid any shore leave to his crew.

  Ravian also noticed that, the further they travelled into the reaches of the Grimspot Gris, the rougher and more unruly became the behaviour in the courts that they attended. The prince couldn’t help thinking that this hardness reflected the Northerners’ environment, as the Tarcuns experienced snow for the first time and it became so cold that they were forced to purchase fur garments in the style of the local inhabitants. By day, seals cavorted about Sea Eagle’s bow while, at night, wolves howled from the dark forests that covered the shoreline. Most mornings, they would find ice on the rigging.

  After two months in the Grimspot Gris, Ravian had firmly decided that the Northerners were welcome to it although, at the same time, he had developed a grudging admiration for a people tempered by their harsh habitat. The Northerners were certainly rough and uncivilised, but the prince had also observed that every man, woman and child seemed endowed with unlimited, ferocious bravery.

  ‘It’s all to do with their gods,’ explained Lectus during a quarterdeck discussion. ‘The northern deities are just as uncompromising as the land over which they preside. There is only one way to guarantee entrance to their heaven and that is to live a life of unmitigated courage and to die in battle.’

  ‘That tends to explain a few things,’ said Ravian, remembering the way that the Northerner crewmen had swarmed so suicidally aboard Sea Eagle during some hard-fought moments of the Great Sea War. He could not think of a single instance during the war when their foe had shown cowardice.

  ‘It certainly does,’ sniffed Lectus, who had already exhibited a tendency to judge people by his own criteria. ‘It’s a recipe for pure warrior savagery and very little else – as you will have noticed from the increasing plainness of the dinner fare as we’ve headed further into their heartland. They’re an illiterate, unwashed bunch of cave dwellers – although some of them are attractive in their own way. I often wonder what one of them would look like after a good wash and groom...’

  ‘Strangely, so have I,’ said Ravian, who had not been with a woman since Belice, ‘although I daresay that my wonderings have been of a quite different nature to yours. Do you think it’s possible that we are becoming inured to the rough nature of our hosts?’

  ‘I fear that may be the case, Your Highness,’ Lectus replied. ‘It’s probably to the good, really. I understand that Dekane makes the rest of Grimspot Gri look like a pristine tropical paradise filled with courtly pacifists. Still, once we’ve got the audience with Groinya out of the way, we can head south to more civilised reaches. Ah, Delenes – what a reward those blessed isles will after for our trials in this forsaken backwater.’

  Ravian could only agree. The idea of sailing into the heart of the cold, dark North, to meet with Groinya, son of the very king who had mobilised the region against Tarcus, had never held much appeal for him. Now though, he was becoming increasingly concerned that their visit to Durst, the Dekanian capital, was going to be as dangerous as it was pointless.

  It was snowing steadily when they arrived in Durst’s inner harbour, a breakwater-protected cove overshadowed by a craggy headland, and the Tarcuns could only just make out the dark form of Groinya’s castle atop the bluff, the high-walled citadel seeming to menace the very city it protected. Ravian had long since lost any joy in the novelty of the freezing white flakes and the prospect of a castle warmed by roaring fires had some appeal, so he wasn’t displeased when Groinya’s representative came to the quayside and requested that he attend an audience with the king straight away and spend the night as the Dekanian monarch’s guest. He quickly assembled Lectus, his standard bearer and honour guard, and, suitably escorted, trudged up through the city’s almost-deserted, snow-choked streets to the castle gates. There, seeing little point in making his men wait outside in the freezing cold, Ravian dismissed the thankful sailors back to Sea Eagle straight away.

  The king’s representative swiftly escorted the prince and his advisor past the gate’s guards and then led them through a series of dark gloomy tunnels
into the bowels of the castle and to their audience with the Dekanian monarch. As they were announced into Groinya’s throne room, the two Tarcuns found that, despite a number of blazing torches and a huge, roaring fireplace, it was a dark place – the animal furs covering the floor and walls contriving to absorb much of the flickering orange light.

  Still, thought Ravian, it suited Groinya.

  The Dekanian king was about Ravian’s own age and – where most Northerners were fair – Groinya’s features were dark and aquiline. He wore an unwelcoming scowl, his black, piercing eyes seeming to burn with some inner anger, and he sat upon a towering throne made from the bones of some massive animal. Ravian could not decide whether the several, rough-looking men who flanked the throne were guards or advisors.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve coming here, Tarcun,’ Groinya growled, after they had exchanged meaningless, customary greetings. ‘Wasn’t it you that rammed my father’s ship and killed him?’

  Ravian felt his own anger rise at such an ungracious, blunt beginning to the conversation.

  ‘I wouldn’t be here but for the order of my king,’ he responded coldly, ‘and he wouldn’t have sent me if the invitation hadn’t been received from your court. I can well understand that you may not have a fondness for Tarcuns, King Groinya, so I can only ask why you approved my visit.’

  ‘Because I wanted to meet the man who defeated my father – and tell him that he won’t be as lucky next time,’ Groinya shot back without hesitation.

  ‘Next time, Your Majesty?’ asked Ravian. ‘Surely your country has learned a lesson from the last conflict. Tarcus is a peace-loving nation – but it is also an invulnerable bastion. Any forces sent against us will certainly suffer the same fate as the last.’

  ‘Pah!’ Groinya spat angrily. ‘You Tarcuns have such a mighty opinion of yourselves. You were a lot closer to losing that war than any of you know. Why if –’