Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1)

by Kameron A. Williams

  His skin tingled, the hairs on his arms and shoulders began to stand. These visits were the highlight of Stroan’s month, the only intimate moment they’d shared since being separated. To have her right in front of him, her big brown curls nearly close enough to tickle his cheek, but forbidden to hug her and kiss her and take her away, made Stroan feel that abominable yet now familiar sting of helplessness. How he loathed the feeling.

  He let his hand drop to Yuna’s crotch and felt around until the stiff surface of rolled paper brushed against his fingertips. He pulled it out of her and closed his fingers, tucking it into his palm, reached back into his doctor’s bag and dropped it inside. He then forced himself to move on from Yuna, and continued down the line while noting which servants he would be kind to by saying they were ill or with child, for those Tiomot sent away at once, and Stroan took delight in the fact that even while being a fraud he could grant some of these women their freedom with just a few simple words.

  “She’s ill,” said Stroan, pointing at a girl that looked too young to be touched by any man. “And she is with child.” Stroan moved his arm to the far corner of the room, pointing at the Cyanan woman he had first inspected. Hopefully she would find a safe traveling party back to Cyana and never set foot in the mainreach again.

  “With child? Already?” Trinik’s thick brows furrowed as he looked to Stroan disappointedly.

  Stroan wore a face that he thought to be doctorly—solemn, and shamelessly indifferent. He only nodded.

  “Pity,” said Trinik, “the king did fancy that one.” The steward was looking the Cyanan up and down as Stroan exited the room.

  “Wait,” he called. The steward’s voice sounded sharper than usual as if he had just remembered something—or had just figured something out.

  Stroan stopped and turned slowly. Would this be the day he was found out? The steward smiled smugly and his eyes squinted, looking keen and knowing. Stroan didn’t say a word, but moved his hand into his cloak and gripped his dagger.

  “I nearly forgot,” called Trinik. “The king requests you at breakfast.”

  Stroan smiled. “This early?”

  “Of course not. The king won’t wake for some time.

  Come back in a few hours.”

  “Might you know why he summons me?”

  Trinik smiled, as if privileged and waiting to share the information. “Our doctor fell ill himself not long before we contacted you. He’s very old. I suppose our king wishes you to move into the castle.”

  “And your thoughts on this?”

  “My thoughts do not matter,” said Trinik, “not concerning this.”

  Stroan smiled slowly, keeping his eyes upon Trinik’s.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes,” the steward replied, dipping his head with the answer. “But our good king can be short in temper and mercy both. If you refuse he may end up killing you.” Trinik grinned spiritedly after the statement, but there was nothing else offered to make Stroan think it was a joke.

  “Thank you, friend,” said Stroan, broadening his smile. “You have told me what I need to know. I look forward to more friendly advice from you, since it appears we’ll be seeing each other often, now.”

  “You need only ask,” said the steward, smiling slightly.

  The steward was a kind man, Stroan felt, and genuine. He was the rare type that spoke plainly and hid no meaning in his face. It was clear he thought highly of himself, being steward of the king, but the man was not arrogant, and did not parade his status about haughtily like other nobility Stroan had seen. He seemed truly eager to help, which would usually cause Stroan to be suspicious; but in the case of Trinik he felt quite at ease. He seemed the kind to make good practical use of his title instead of flaunting it about for others to see and admire. He seemed that type of fellow—a good man, if Stroan’s readings were accurate, and if they weren’t, a good deceiver.

  Stroan left the castle and passed the early morning hours with a nap at the cottage he had appropriated. The place was polished and neat, just like the man he had hauled out of the city a few months ago. There was an unusual smell about that Stroan gathered was from the various bags of herbs and jars of tonics the doctor kept on his shelves. But after coming and going a few weeks he had gotten used to the smell, just as he had gotten used to being the doctor.

  He had received several messages, taken patients at his home and made a few house calls. To those who did not know the former doctor’s face he was the good doctor, Andor, and for those who did he was Raabin, who had just taken over his brother’s practice since he had moved to the Stroan wondered how long it would hold up. He found it astonishing that while he did nothing but a few spurious antics people would get better or get worse, and if they got better they credited it to him, and if they got worse it was the will of the gods. He could not lose one battle as a doctor it seemed, for his title alone made people put their life in his hands and trust that any silly or simple thing he did could make them better. And sometimes it did.

  They would all look so desperate, eyes wide and watery, like he alone held life and death in his hands, pleading for him to save their loved ones and friends. He would sprinkle them with herbs, douse them with tonics, and rub them in strange ways in strange places. Not once did any person have any inkling it was all a ruse. Only a doctor would not be questioned. It was by far his easiest concoction. One of Anza’s books said you could always tell who was closest in a family or group by their arrangement at the meal table, and after joining the royal family for breakfast, Stroan didn’t need Yuna’s letters to find out there was dissention among them. The long table stretched nearly the length of the room, but was not evenly filled with occupants. Instead there were guests crowded together at each end, with all the other parts of the table being bare, save the very middle where the food was set.

  At one end was the king, and at the other the queen.

  They were divided even at mealtime, though Stroan doubted they ate many meals together, and the arrangement of the other nobles was just as distinct. Prince Tharid sat beside his mother, and beside him sat a young and pretty lady he had queen’s blood, Kazakus her brother and his young son Antiah. At the other end, Tiomot was garnished with his cousin Jorin and his wife, Vacenia, on one side, along with their two adult daughters, and Banas and Krin across from them. Between both parties were two roasted pheasants, bowls of fried eggs, sliced loaves of bread, grapes and apples, and pitchers of water and wine. A servant girl stood on each side of the table to pass food and drink to the guests who beckoned, and Stroan recognized both women from the inspection early that morning.

  “This breakfast,” said Tiomot, mouth overflowing with food, “is to welcome our new doctor.” Remnants of poultry fell from the king’s hand as he motioned to Stroan. Stroan dipped his head with a prim smile. Most glanced at Stroan and nodded in approval—except for Jorin’s daughters who were occupied in their own conversation, smiling and snickering closely.

  The prince turned his eyes to his father. “Good,” he said. “We will be in need of doctors.”

  “With the war that’s coming.” The queen sat poised, taking tiny bites of food and nibbling on them for an eternity before starting on another. Her endless hair was pulled back and tied behind her head—and folded many times so it did not drag the ground.

  Tiomot sat up straight and stiff and puckered out his lips to a point. “With the war that’s coming,” he mocked, pitching his voice high to sound like Thae’s.

  The queen snickered at Tiomot, twisting her face in contempt, but said nothing.

  proclaimed him to be the new royal doctor without asking him, but he certainly wasn’t surprised. He only bowed his head and smiled when the king presented him, and any other time he looked his way.

  “Aye, war!” the king bellowed. “What of war? Who here is afraid of war?” The king gulped down his wine and beads of the red liquid trickled down his beard as he rested his cup back on the satin tablecloth. “Jorin? Banas, K
rin?” The king looked to his men expectantly.

  “Never afraid of war, my king,” said Banas, his raspy voice crackling out the words. Beside him Krin shook his head and smiled slightly.

  “If there is to be a war we will win it!” Jorin proclaimed, sounding almost as loud as his cousin when he raised his voice.

  “Ah, at least you men haven’t lost your nerve. A pity I can’t say the same for my wife and son.”

  “Women are expected to show such softness, cousin,” said Jorin, beckoning for a maid to serve him some more roast pheasant which lay far out of his reach. “But Tharid, I fear your father is right. You’ve lost your nerve.”

  Tharid was on his feet in an instant, sending his long black hair fluttering across his back. “I’ve lost nothing but my patience for you,” he said sharply, eyes gleaming down on Jorin from across the table, “and I can be very unpleasant when I lose my patience. Make another insult and I’ll show you just how unpleasant. ”

  “Now he shows some balls!” Jorin called, chuckling the whole time.

  mother’s—long, with a sharp nose, thin lips, and hair overflowing. “War has been the fall of kingdoms greater than this!”

  “There is no kingdom greater than this!” Tiomot roared, showing morsels of half-chewed meat between his jaws.

  “Then why not preserve it?” asked Tharid as he seated himself back down. “Why not build this kingdom higher instead of tearing it down with war?”

  “War,” Tiomot shouted, “is how this kingdom was built, and with war, my foolish son, is how it will be preserved.”

  “Dandil will be a more difficult foe than the mercenary bands of the highlands, Father.” The prince’s voice had lowered to a tone more somber and calculated than before. “He will not give up easily.”

  “We do not ask him to,” said Jorin, scratching his black curls with food-soiled fingers.

  Tiomot took a long drink of his wine and rose to his feet with boastful eyes. “I am a man of the highlands!”

  Tharid dropped his head and shook it faintly, and beside him, Thae sighed quietly and rolled her eyes.

  “Us highland men thrive on war!” the king announced, moving his eyes to his brother with a smile. Jorin smirked and nodded.

  “We were born into war,” Tiomot continued. “It was war that gave me this kingdom, when I came down through those Durnam hills and took every village I saw, killed every man that stood in my way, had every woman worth looking at!”

  Jorin laughed and chuckles started from Banas and Krin.

  “It is because of war, my misguided son and wife, that you sleep on silk instead of hay.”

  “We do not condemn war, Father, we only believe they should be chosen wisely. You are a conqueror without a doubt—”

  “But war with Dandil will not be good for this kingdom,” Thae cut in, seeming to finish her son’s sentence rather than interrupt it.

  “I think war can be good.” Another woman’s voice jumped into the debate and Thae rolled her eyes before bringing them to rest on Vacenia. “If it can be done, why not do away with those who oppose us?” Vacenia said, showing big green eyes to her king, her husband, and then to those across the table. “Our Snowstone is so much stronger than Cyana—we needn’t fear them. If they challenge us, why not get rid of them?”

  “Praise Padiir, she’s as hard as rock!” said the king with a full smile and gleaming eyes. “Look Thae, hear, learn, a true Snowstone woman!”

  “A true follower of her husband,” Thae retorted, “as she always is. So we’ll never know her own opinions—if she has any.”

  “I speak the truth as I see it,” defended Vacenia.

  “You speak to be heard.”

  “Kazakus,” the king called, cutting the two women’s dispute short. “You’ve been far too quiet regarding this matter. What is your opinion, man?”

  “Forgive me, my king. It’s hard to focus on much else with such delicious food before me.” The man’s face was in semblance of his sister’s, but with darker skin and his hair cut short.

  Tiomot grinned. “Eat as much as you can.”

  “I will, my king. As for my opinion, I agree with Tharid and Thae on this matter. We should show caution with such a decision.”

  “Bah, caution, you disappoint me Kazakus. I was told as commander of the Red Shoulders you never lost a battle. A pity you’ve gone soft.”

  “I never lost, my good king, because I chose my battles most carefully.”

  “Dandil’s army is shit, and so is Dandil! No one can stand against Snowstone!” The king’s shouts bade silence from everyone at the table, and most even stopped moving for a few moments. “And you, doctor?” The king turned to Stroan, his wine-splashed beard boasting a medley of soggy food particles.

  “I must be for war,” said Stroan.

  “Ah, war! You see? War! Even a doctor wants war!”

  It was at the end of the breakfast, when the talk of war had finally passed, and the guests’ stomachs were heavy with food and wine, that Trinik ran into the room with all excitement, yelling, “My king, my king! Someone defies you outside the city gates! He’s a madman, cursing you, cursing Snowstone!”

  Tiomot’s face shifted from sheer confusion to disgust in the moment it took him to set down his wine. “Well, have my guards not killed him?”

  The steward, looking afraid to speak yet at the same time afraid to keep his king waiting for an answer, blurted, “He’s quite the soldier.”

  “Have they not killed him?” Tiomot repeated, this time louder than before.

  “They cannot. He’s killing them. You must send guards down, the things he’s speaking of—”

  “What is he saying?” Tiomot demanded.

  Trinik froze, lips still, not batting an eyelash until the king called out again.

  “What is he saying?”

  “Lies,” the steward finally said. “Terrible lies.”

  “I will take some men,” said Tharid who was already on his feet.

  “I, too,” said Krin.

  “No,” ordered Tiomot. “If it is one man my son will handle it. Would you dispatch the whole guard for one drunk fool? Tharid, take a set down with you and be done with it.”

  “He’s bested the guards down below, do take care,”

  Trinik insisted.

  “If he’s beaten my city guards they deserved to die,”

  Tiomot said coldly. “If any are still alive they better have a good reason that the fool still lives.”

  Tharid marched out of the room, and his mother followed. Stroan waited until the king had left and slipped out as well, following Banas and Krin who were making their way out to the gates with Tiomot. From the courtyard, Stroan heard the prince and his men mounting up, and he kept on following the group to the castle gates, knowing the prince and other riders would be coming up behind him shortly.

  Shouts echoed from soldiers and nobles in the yard, and as Stroan ran forward he saw that the portcullis was already lifted. The horses’ hooves behind him drowned out the sound of his own footsteps, and he moved aside as the prince raced by with a set of guards following.

  Stroan had a mind to run right through the gates after them to see what the commotion was about, but didn’t dare do so in front of the king and other royalty, for they were all content to stand where they were at the top of the hill and look down upon the city in the distance. As only the doctor, he must certainly be content to do the same.

  Beyond the city, below on the plains that lay outside the gates was a man on horseback whom they all looked at, but from so far away the figure was obscure. Captain Krin passed a looking glass to the king, who looked for a while before giving it to Queen Thae. Thae looked long and hard before handing it to her brother.

  Stroan eyed the instrument, wondering if it would ever make it into his hands. After it had been passed to all , including the young lad Antiah, and was never offered to him, he bowed his head. “My king, may I see the face of this treasonous dog?”

  S
crutiny still lingered on Tiomot’s brows as he looked down onto the plain. “Aye, have a look, doctor.” He motioned that the glass be given to Stroan.

  Stroan put the tool to his eye and brought the distant world close, pulling the sight of the man’s face so close he thought they might bump heads.

  All at once Stroan’s heart stuttered, his skin tingled and both eyes widened. The man from the fire!

  15

  YARI THORN FLEW THROUGH THE CLOUDS, skipping over ledges and swinging her body nimbly through the rocks. She had paid a quick visit to her aerie to replace the clay-coating on the bottom of her quivers before setting out. No quiver, belt, shoulder or otherwise, would hold arrows in place as one leapt around the cliffs without some sort of aid. Other Condor archers had crafted their quivers with covers that could be fastened shut while flying, and the attached cover flap could be removed when it was shooting time and serve as a normal quiver. But it wasn’t an adequate solution, not for Yari. It meant that flying and shooting couldn’t be done simultaneously, and in the event they were attacked in the cliffs, their biggest strength—which was the ability to run over terrain that most folk could hardly crawl over— wouldn’t count for nearly as much if they weren’t able to attack while mobile. Further, these flap coverings often tangled and got snagged on the tops of the arrow shafts, and the time it took to throw off the flap for arrow access— although not long—may be a few seconds too late in certain situations. Yari’s way was far better. Clay.

  The clay was spread in a thick layer at the bottom of the quiver, and when she loaded her arrows she pushed each one gently until the tip stuck into the mud. The conditions at the bottom of the quiver, cool, dark and damp, and with the leather which naturally retained moisture, meant the clay did not dry for weeks. Her arrows were held perfectly in place. Since she had discovered the method she had seen less and less quivers with attached removable flaps, and more Condor flying through the cliffs wearing back quivers with shafts sticking out that didn’t bounce when they jumped or fall out when their bodies were turned flat or upside down.