The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands)

by Glenda Larke

  They headed for a copse below them, off the road and closer to the walls of Gromwell. They were still on the far side of the river and all they’d have to do was keep an eye on the bridge to make sure none of the soldiers came their way. As they hid the horses among the trees, he said, “There’s a war going on over there. They are lobbing cannonballs at the walls. People might be dying inside, or maybe starving.”

  She looked at him oddly. “So?”

  “In Oakwood, and in Beck Crossways, and along the roads, everything looks normal. People take their produce to market. The farmers plant and harvest. The students go to tutorials.”

  “I guess that’s the way with wars sometimes. Some people suffer terribly; for others it’s just an inconvenience, and for still others, an opportunity. I think the oddest thing about this one is that many folk don’t know who their real enemy is. They get it all wrong, and talk about fighting Primordials or Shenat, when they should be looking at their own Prime and his clerics. They say they’ll fight for the king, when it’s their prince who’s on their side.”

  “Do you know Prince Ryce?”

  She gave a laugh that sounded more despairing than amused. “I’m a cooper’s daughter, Perie, brought up on a dusty, noisy street in the port of Gore. A cooper’s daughter who dreamed high. Who wanted to be a lawyer. That girl never thought to meet a pontifect, let alone a prince.”

  “You met the Regala.”

  “Not the highlight of my life, I assure you.”

  “You know what I think the worst thing is about what’s happened? It’s that no one can find the shrines.”

  She shrugged. “Really? I can take ’em or leave ’em myself.”

  “A lack of shrines means it’s harder to find a connection to the Way.”

  “So?”

  “That means folk have no…” He thought of his father, and how much shrines had meant to him, especially after Ma had died. “Folk have naught to turn to for comfort. They’ll lose heart. They feel abandoned. Might mean they’ll turn to sorcerers making promises they ought never to believe.”

  “Could be,” she admitted, albeit grudgingly.

  “Unseen guardians would never abandon us. Never. People should believe that and be patient. If it’s Fritillary Reedling who sent the shrines away, then she ought to bring them back right quick, or it’ll get worse. Folk need them.”

  “Do you?” she asked.

  He touched his breastbone. “I have oak in here already. I don’t need a shrine. It is already part of me.”

  She stared at him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Without a heart of oak, I couldn’t do this.”

  Her stare widened, and then she looked away uneasily. “I don’t know what Fritillary did, or why,” she said. “I can make a guess. Do you remember that Shrine on the Clouds? The lancers tried to cut it down, and when that didn’t work, they tried to burn it.”

  “I remember. It wasn’t much damaged.”

  “Because none of that lot were sorcerers. Sorcerers are out there now, though, and they can destroy shrines and shrine keepers and maybe folk with witcheries too. I think Fritillary has hidden them all to keep them safe.”

  “You don’t win a war by hiding.”

  “No, but maybe you can by sending a couple of sorcerer-killers.”

  He was horrified. “Do you mean – we could be the only people who can make it so that the shrines can come back?”

  She shrugged. “Do you know of any others tripping around the Va-cherished lands killing sorcerers?”

  “Pickle me sour, Gerelda…! Oh. Sorry. Proctor…”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, lad. Considering what we do, I think we’ve got to the stage where you can call me Gerelda.”

  “Are you sure Pontifect Fritillary had something to do with the disappearance of the shrines?”

  “She must have done. Because if she didn’t, it was Valerian Fox. And that is too horrible to contemplate.”

  Not a comforting remark. He turned his attention back to the castle.

  “That’s the prince’s standard still flying from the tower on the right,” she said. “Which means he still holds the castle.”

  They found a patch of brush at the edge of the copse where they could lie down comfortably, out of sight and yet with a fine view of the holdfast’s walls and main gate. It wasn’t an encouraging sight. The gate, built from huge wooden beams, was so battered it was hard to say what held the remaining splinters together. Part of the walls were little more than rubble. One of the towers had been partially blown away, leaving it looking as if a winter gale would topple it entirely.

  “Is it supposed to look like that?” Perie asked.

  “I’ve passed this way before, and it wasn’t half-ruined. It looks as if it’s only a matter of time before Prince Ryce loses the castle.”

  “How long?”

  “Depends on how much gunpowder the lancers have and how much food and water and arrows the besieged have.”

  “Can’t we do anything?”

  There was a long silence as she considered. “That’s an army of Grey Lancers,” she said at last. “We are two people. I did think that if they were using a sorcerer we might try to even it up a bit by killing him. Now we know there isn’t one, it would be ridiculous for us to risk our lives. I can’t see any point in dying just for the pleasure of sending a handful of lancers to their Va-less death. No, we push on to the north.”

  He knew she was right, but her words settled into his stomach like a greasy meal.

  14

  Caged Dove

  “Come to gloat?” Bealina asked.

  She’d been standing at the window of her tower room – her prison – looking out over the city of Vavala, and she’d seen in the glass the reflection of the man who entered behind her. Even with that distorted image, she recognised him. Prime Valerian Fox, now wearing the robes of a Pontifect, living in the Pontifect’s palace in Vavala, playing the part he had no rights to usurp, for all that he said he’d been fairly elected even though no Shenat cleric or shrine keeper would have supported his candidature, not even Lowmian ones.

  Well, she would never give him the title.

  She turned in time to see him doff his hat and bow.

  “I regret I was not here to greet you on your arrival this afternoon,” he said. “I trust that my son Ruthgar acquitted himself well, looking after you.”

  She shuddered and said nothing. Ruthgar Fox, dead-eyed and cold, had met her on her arrival, telling her that he was acting on behalf of the Pontifect. She’d found him even more frightening than his father, if that was possible.

  “Anyway, I am here now, to welcome you to my palace.”

  “Not rightly yours, I believe. It belongs to the true Pontifect.”

  “Do not aggravate me, Princess. It is not wise. I wish you well and I hope your journey was pleasant.”

  “I’m alive. One must be grateful at least for that much, when one travels in the company of violent and undisciplined murderers.” She’d never said a truer word. There hadn’t been a single day when she’d not wondered if the two of them would live long enough to see another dawn. She glanced over to where Garred played in the corner of the room, content for the first time in days.

  “I’m glad Prince Ryce was sensible enough to allow you to leave with Prince Garred,” he said. “It would have grieved me if you had come to any harm in Gromwell, my dear.”

  “So gracious of you, when it is you who have endangered us, and still do. What you have done is treason. There will come a time when Valerian Fox loses his head to the axe.”

  “Madam, you have been ill-advised on the facts, I feel. I merely obey my liege lord. King Edwayn’s orders were to besiege Gromwell Holdfast until such time as his grandson is returned to Throssel – as he has charged Prince Ryce to do. It was Ryce’s choice to defy his liege lord. One does not do that with impunity.” He nodded towards the prince, who was lining up a row of toy soldiers on top of a hassock. “Princ
e Garred shall be returned to his rightful home, to be acknowledged the king’s heir. I assure you, Your Highness, that I have every intention of seeing the young prince on the throne one day.”

  “My husband is the rightful immediate heir to King Edwayn, not Prince Garred.” She marvelled that her voice remained steady, but her hands were clasped behind her back to stop them shaking. “Customary law dictates that the king’s eldest son is the acknowledged line of succession.”

  “You haven’t heard the latest decree, then? No, I’m sure you have. You just refuse to accept that King Edwayn has declared Ryce unfit and therefore Prince Garred is the heir. I do believe that is the king’s prerogative.”

  “Only because you declare it so. The king’s mind, alas, is not capable of rational decisions.” Thanks to your sorcery…

  “Come now, my dear, surely you know your husband’s failings. You will have observed Prince Ryce’s lack of interest in the governing of his nation. Why, look at Gromwell Holdfast. No cannon on its walls, and yet it has been Prince Ryce’s holdfast since he was eighteen, with the lands and income of the demesne surrounding its walls. He squandered the money, when he was obligated to maintain it as a bastion for the protection of the kingdom’s northern borders. He is not a proper candidate for the throne.”

  “Indeed, I do know my husband, sir. Better than you, I think.”

  He shrugged. “Prince Garred can be raised differently. He has a mother to guide him in his education. You and I could raise him to be fit to take on the governing of Ardrone.”

  “And my husband?”

  “There is no reason he cannot stay there in Gromwell, living off his own estates, if he bends his knee to his king and confirms the right of his son to succeed his grandfather.”

  She almost laughed in his face. Did he think she was so witless to believe that? If Ryce left the protection of the castle, he was dead.

  Perhaps he already is.

  No. Don’t think such…

  “If it was the king’s order to bring Prince Garred to Throssel, then why is he here, in Vavala? You disobey the king, Master Fox!”

  “I merely do what is best for Prince Garred’s safety. The kingdom is rife with disorder and treachery, whereas Vavala is mine to guard. I think we have to come to an understanding, you and I, Princess.”

  “By which you mean your understanding of what is best for yourself, not for me, nor Garred. What choice do I have? You have my promise of compliance to your wishes, if that is what you need. I am no more than a mother who wants what is best for her son, after all. As you say, one day he will reign.”

  “Accept my guidance in all things and you will be there at his side. Disobedience, on the other hand…” He approached her, and it was an effort of will not to flinch. He reached out suddenly and caught her chin between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. Dropping his voice to a cold whisper, he said, “There are many castles in Ardrone, where a grieving widow might live out her days behind walls. And then there are other… beguilements of companionship for a lady of refinement to enjoy.”

  She brought her forearm up and knocked his hand away, a swift angry blow. “I am aware of my position. I do not need threats to understand it. To save my son, I abandoned my husband. As I assume your ambition is to be the driving force behind the throne, I believe your legitimacy will depend on the health and longevity of Ryce’s child.” She nodded to where Garred sat in the corner, his eyes wide as he watched. “There is no one who will look after him as well as I do.”

  “And you think that is enough to keep you safe? Brave words, from a powerless woman with few friends.”

  He couldn’t let her have any illusions, could he? Va above, he was an evil man. She felt it again then, a horrible black tarry touch that rubbed across her soul – then it was gone. Her breathing raced, driven by her terror.

  “Confine your activities to caring for your son, and all will be well. Step outside those bounds, and you will be parted from him. For ever. Do you understand?”

  “Your actions speak for themselves. I will do whatever is needful to keep my son alive and well.”

  “Then we understand one another, madam. I shall return.”

  Without another word, he turned and left her alone with her son.

  Garred ran to clutch at her skirts. “Don’t like bad man. Tell him go way.”

  “He’s gone now.”

  “Me want Horntail.”

  “He’s not here, darling—”

  “Yes, is! Me see him!”

  She stilled. “Where?”

  “Horse.” He pointed to the window. “There. Me show Mama.”

  She picked him up. “You saw him from there?” Earlier he had been sitting in the embrasure, looking out with his nose pressed to the glass, but the tower was in the centre of the palace. A corner of the city streets, while visible from that window, was a long way off.

  He nodded. “He gone now.”

  She followed the line of his pointing finger, and wondered if it was possible. “I’m sure we’ll see him soon, then. But he’s a busy man, you know. He has to look after his horse, and sharpen his sword…” She prattled on to distract him.

  “He’s all gone,” he said. “Like Papa.” His sadness made her heart ache. What kind of life lay ahead for him?

  “I’m here,” she said. “Mama will never leave you.”

  She had no idea if she spoke the truth.

  15

  Lost in Time

  Sorrel had never been to Hornbeam before. It was a port, best known for its shipbuilding and repair yards. As soon as they berthed, Lord Juster sent his officers and crew scurrying about on matters pertaining to the spice cargo, and the sale and repair of his other two ships.

  As Saker and Sorrel were not involved in any of that, and Juster’s only order to Ardhi was to help the other two, they left the ship together to gather information in the town. On the docks, they separ ated, Saker to head towards the nearest chapel to renew contacts with the clergy, and Ardhi to glean the gossip of sailors and dock lumpers in the less salubrious part of the port. Sorrel, glad the two men had accepted her ability to look after herself, searched for someone with a healing witchery. Specialist healers – such as a boneknitter or a feverbreaker – might have been hard to find, but no one was ever far from a general healer. She was soon directed to a modest shop several streets back from the wharves. The young man behind the counter was selling herbs, salves and medicines and there was no faint glow about him that would have told her he was using a witchery.

  “Good morrow, sir,” she said with a polite smile. The air was filled with a smell of spices, deliciously redolent of the Summer Seas, and for a moment she was transported back to the islands and the wafting scent of nutmeg flowers.

  “In need of a salve, mistress? Or perhaps a philtre, a tincture, a potion, or maybe a tonic?” he asked.

  She blinked, wondering how they all differed, and said, “I was told I could find a healer here.”

  “That’d be my father.” He pulled aside the curtain that divided the shop from the back of the building. “This way, mistress. Pa, patient here to see you.” He jerked his head, indicating she should enter.

  The healer was a balding man with wire-rimmed spectacles perched towards the end of his nose, through which he peered at a scatter of ink drawings on the table in front of him. “Fascinating, fascinating,” he said. “Look, lass, look. Your insides! The internals! Beautiful, beautiful.”

  She glanced at the drawings, and decided she’d rather not. Her only knowledge of anatomy involved sword slashes releasing ropes of foul-smelling guts on to the deck of a ship, and the horror on the face of a sailor who knew he was going to die in agony. She didn’t need to look at pictures.

  “What’s the problem, lass? Indigestion? Rashes?” His gaze dropped to her waist. “Babe on the way, hm?”

  “No, no, none of that.”

  He took a closer look at her then. “Hm. You’ve got a witchery glow. A fellow healer, I assume,
with a question.”

  “No.”

  “Hm.” Carefully he removed his spectacles, folded them up, and put them on the table. “I haven’t seen anyone with a witchery, other than healers, not for half a year. Not since the shrines went.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. When that happened, I was in Karradar, on board a ship. We’ve just returned to Ardrone and I’d like to know what happened while we were gone.”

  “Ah, hmm.” He slipped the drawings of internal organs into a folder, and put them into the table drawer. “Best sit, then. Your name, hm, lass?”

  She sat where he indicated. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Yes. Perhaps wise, given what happened to your like. Hmmm.”

  She muttered something unintelligible, wondering if the length of his murmurs were somehow linked to his doubts about the subject matter, or suspicion of his listener.

  “Well,” he said, “one day, all those with witcheries – except healers – received a message from their local shrine keeper, asking them to come to their local shrine the next day. Hmm. At first, most thought it was a note just to them, you understand. Even when they realised all the locals with witcheries, other than healers, were at their shrine, probably they had no idea it was happening all over the land. Hmph!”

  “Everywhere?”

  “Ah-hmm. All over the Va-cherished Hemisphere on the same day, so I’ve heard since.”

  “Lowmeer too?” She was utterly shocked.

  “So I’ve heard. About the same time Vavala fell and the Pontifect was killed.”

  “She died?”

  “That’s the word on it. She died.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “Fritillary Reedling? Just like that? Hmm. No.”

  “So, they went to the shrine, then…?”

  “Whatever they was told at the time, I’m not sure. Most came hurrying back to their homes – grabbed up belongings, food, fam ilies too some of them, but then they vanished, along with the shrines. Hmph!”