“One of us is wounded, Morem,” Lord Zelan said. “My son.”
Morem peered back through the darkness at Ander. She did not smile, and Ander thought her unwelcoming. Then she said, “My lord, we will make room in the guesthouse.”
Ander slid off his mare and was grateful when someone led her away to be cared for. Hon Kirian led the way into the guesthouse and pointed toward one of the cots that lined the walls. “Sit there,” she said. “This wound needs cleaned better than I could do in the woods.”
“Thank you, Hon Kirian.”
The thin man, Chiss, had gone out as soon as they arrived and now brought in a tub of warm water. Kirian dipped a clean cloth in the tub as Ander pulled his tunic away from the wound. He shivered as the water touched his side. Averting his eyes from what Kirian was doing, he watched the newcomers to distract himself.
Ander knew of Lord Callo ran Alkiran. He was actually his distant kin—the bastard nephew of King Martan, born of Martan’s sister, Sira Joah, by some unknown father. A bastard righ was rare; usually any such complications of righ affairs were disposed of, so as not to weaken the righ bloodlines and the precious mage talent. This one had been allowed to live, and not only that but also had been raised in the palace, under the King’s distant supervision. Ander had met Callo back in Sugetre; the man was almost thirty and had paid little attention to Ander, but Ander remembered the man’s amber eyes and the impression of his almost unbreakable control.
Lord Callo was in some kind of disgrace, Ander thought; he had disappeared from Seagard without leave, and the King had declared his estate forfeit. Now he was here, in tiny Littleseed of all places, by this Kirian’s word on his way to see his lord stepfather.
Kirian put away the wet cloth. “It is not so bad,” she said. “It is done bleeding, and seems to be a clean wound. But see where it is, across the ribs? If it had been deeper, it would have been serious. You had a close call. I do not have the proper herbs with me, so you will need treatment from Hon Jesel in the morning, at Northgard.”
“What I want to know is, who sent those men?” Ander said.
His stepfather replied. “I think they were Sword of Jashan. They wore gray, and no badge. One of them rode off when the color magery was loosed. Did they come through here?”
“We have seen no one else,” Morem said. “We have your prisoner locked up in the root cellar. A couple of our boys are watching to make sure he does not escape.”
“I’ll see him in the morning,” Zelan growled. “Get out of him whatever he knows. The rebels have an encampment somewhere nearby—I have begun to hear rumors.”
Callo grimaced in distaste. “No need, Lord Zelan. We can find out what we need by other means.” He glanced over to where the narrow-faced man worked over the packs. “Chiss,” he said. “Let us go and see if we can identify the rest of those men, before any of their friends return for the bodies.” The narrow-faced man handed Lord Callo his sheathed sword and sword-belt.
Before he left, Zelan gestured to his remaining Hunter. “Go with them. Take a couple of men from the village to help you bring back our own.”
The Healer paused and glanced over at the group as they walked outside. Ander told her, “My father does not trust Lord Callo. He wants witnesses.”
“He does not know us. But I can assure you that Lord Callo had nothing to do with the attack on you.”
Ander winced and pulled away. The Healer was wrapping the wound, and it hurt. She looked up at him with an apology, her eyes smiling. He gave back a tentative smile. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties; her face was slightly round, her skin fresh and clear, and her eyes a soft brown. He looked down at her hands as she finished her task, admiring their grace.
“Now,” she said, standing, “Do you want some mellweed?”
“No. There’s hardly any pain.”
“If you change your mind in the night, send someone for me. I will be on the other side of the guesthouse with one of Morem’s daughters. Just behind that door, see?”
“Will I sleep in here?” he asked, looking around. With Lord Callo, whom I do not trust? He wanted to add.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe.” She rose and took her leave heading for the other side of the guesthouse. In the center of the room, his stepfather stood eating bread and drinking ale, talking to Morem.
One of the village women brought Ander some bread and fruit. Ander thanked her and settled back on the cot, exhausted. His side did ache, but he wanted no mellweed. He wanted to wait until Lord Callo and the others had returned, to find out who had dared try to kill him. A sense of foreboding hung over him, as if his life was about to change in unpleasant ways.
He awakened sometime in the night. Booted feet echoed on the wood guesthouse floor; Lord Callo and the others who had gone out to investigate the attackers had returned. A single lamp was still lit. Ander watched through sleepy eyes as the men took ale and bread from the table and began to report their findings. There seemed to be some disagreement; he heard Zelan’s voice, tense with disbelief, although the men tried to keep their voices low to avoid waking the sleepers.
Lord Zelan stepped back from the others, shaking his head. Ander heard the words “King’s man” and all at once was awake, eyes wide, feeling as if the world had shifted beneath him. He drew a blanket around him and sat up to watch the others argue. Apparently, Lord Callo did not think the attackers were with the rebel group Sword of Jashan. Lord Callo thought the King his uncle had sent men to murder him.
Chapter Two
Ander sat on a stone bench in the shade of a tree near the practice ring. It was his training time, usually spent getting bruised up as Islarian tried to beat some skill into him. Today he was on the wounded list and so he had not shown up for his lesson; instead he sat, almost hidden by the flowering shrubs that partially surrounded the little bench, and watched Lord Callo.
Callo had left for the ring before Ander came down for breakfast. Lord Zelan said a few choice words about his stepson’s skill with the sword, and told him if he wanted to see a real swordsman he should go down to the ring and watch Lord Callo. Sick of his stepfather’s criticism, Ander grabbed a couple of slices of ham, piled it on some bread, and left the table. He had intended to avoid the ring at all costs, but here he was anyway, watching the best practice bout he had ever seen.
Islarian was a competent swordsman. He was known as an excellent trainer, which was why King Martan had sent him to Northgard. Even a King, who commanded armies, needed skill with the sword, King Martan said. A King must command the respect of the strong-willed righ and the mages.
Ander struggled with his training sessions. He was used to seeing the puzzled look on Islarian’s face when Ander failed to execute some maneuver that the instructor had gone over time and time again. Ander had grown to dread the matches Islarian arranged with other students; even wooden swords could deliver stinging blows. He could defend himself in a pinch, and all the credit for that went to Islarian’s stubborn persistence. Ander was a gifted color mage, and an intelligent student, but he would never be a good swordsman.
He did, however, know one when he saw one. Lord Callo was in the ring right now, giving Islarian a challenging match. The older man was almost glowing with the pleasure of having his skills tested for the first time in years.
After a few minutes of frowning concentration, Ander found himself watching the men in the ring with an artist’s eye instead of a swordsman’s. He opened his sketchpad, picked up his charcoal, and began to draw, trying to catch the controlled violence of Callo’s body as he worked. The man was in constant movement, so he contented himself with a flow of action—strong lines for Callo’s forearm, a fluid arc for the fair hair tied at his neck, a line to show the motion of his shoulders. The sword itself was wooden, but Ander took license and made it a strong stroke, a dagger of black steel.
He was just trying to figure out how to show the expression on Callo’s face when someone spoke.
“Th
at is very good,” Kirian said.
“Thank you.”
“May I join you, Lord Ander?”
He made room for the Healer on the stone bench, his eyes returning to the men in the ring. He indicated his drawing. “Do you think he would mind?”
“Mind your drawing him? I doubt he would care.” The Healer’s eyes were on his drawing again, then on the fighting man in the ring, then back on the picture. Her lips curved in a smile. “You’ve caught him, Lord Ander. It is—inspired.”
“Really?” He was not used to compliments. “I will give it to you. After I finish it, that is.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She settled on the bench, making herself comfortable. “If I may ask—how is your side today? Is there any swelling, any redness?”
“No. I’m fine. Hon Jesel gave me some herbs to drink. He said you did a good job of cleaning the wound.” He worked at the drawing, finding it difficult to draw Callo’s face. He decided to complete it with just a suggestion of expression, ignoring the fine details to show the man’s focus on the fight.
There was a shout in the ring. Ander looked up in time to see Islarian leap back from a strike, grinning. He had not seen the swordmaster grin before.
He continued to work on the drawing, but his thoughts were elsewhere now. “Hon Kirian—are you privy to Lord Callo’s business?”
She shrugged. “Some of it, perhaps.”
“Then do you know why the King’s men would attack me? I have been the acknowledged heir since my birth. King Martan has no children of his own, and he has never begrudged me anything. Are you sure?”
“Lord Ander, did you not listen through all the argument they felt necessary to have in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, I did. Lord Zelan was not convinced—he feels it was the Sword of Jashan, and I must say that makes more sense to me. But Lord Callo seems very sure about this, and he and Chiss know the one man from the King’s guard. I believe my father is likely to humor him in this. He is very amiable now with Lord Callo because he saved my life.” He sighed, putting aside the charcoal.
“It makes sense if King Martan no longer wishes you to succeed him.”
“Why would that be? What has changed?”
After a slight pause, Kirian said, “Has your lord father told you nothing of what he discussed with Lord Callo this morning?”
Ander grimaced. “He does not trust me with his affairs.”
“These are your own affairs. You are the heir to Righar. Why does he not trust you?”
Ander looked at the Healer. She looked pleasant enough, with her round face and friendly eyes. He felt an unexpected urge to confide in this common woman who knew nothing of him. “I am not the son he would have wanted. I am merely his stepson, and he has no heir of his own body. And I will leave Northgard, eventually, and he knows there will be no Collared Lord here after him.”
“So he is bitter.” Kirian swung her feet, which did not touch the ground. It was an oddly endearing gesture, making her seem more his own age. Ander felt his tension ease.
“I know little about the other Collared Lords,” she continued. “I was posted to Seagard, so I know about the Black Tide, and the Collared Lords there. This seems so quiet a land, in comparison. Why was a Collared Lordship created here?”
“There used to be icetigers living in the high mountains. They would come down every winter, and sometimes at other times, and kill animals and people. They were not like ordinary tigers, you understand—they were almost as big as horses, and vicious. There were other predators, too, that came over the mountains from Leyland—hungry wolves that were forced down from the north in bad weather. The legends say they were the god Chovolth’s creations.”
“Chovolth. He is a Leyish god.”
“The Leyish god of winter. The wolves and icetigers were his servants. People died from them every year, slain in the wild or even in their villages.”
“They sound like terrifying creatures.”
“The Collared Lords of Northgard were created oh, long ago, and bound to the Hunt. They went out and killed the icetigers. They succeeded so well that there hasn’t been one seen since I was born. There is no more need for a Collared Lord here. I won’t create another one, when I am King, and when my stepfather dies.”
Kirian looked over to the ring, where Callo and Islarian were finished with their match. Ander followed her gaze. Islarian was leaving the ring, but Callo stood for a moment, holding his own sword now. Callo raised the weapon in a ritual salute Ander recognized, having seen it in Sugetre.
“Because of this, your father will not tell you news you need to know to protect your own life?” Kirian asked.
Ander laughed. He knew it sounded bitter. “You don’t know him. He is a tyrant. My lady mother is in Sugetre right now, where I should be as well. But Lord Zelan ordered me to remain until I turn fifteen. He will not listen to my arguments, and King Martan has not interfered.”
“In this case, he proved wise. If you were in Sugetre you would likely be dead. Look, I will tell you–”
“Wait.” Ander stopped her, hand raised as he saw what was going on in the ring. Callo was going through an abbreviated form of Jashan’s sword ritual. Ander’s fingers itched for his drawing tools as he saw the straight posture flow into the ancient moves. Then he sat up, rigid, as he saw red fire crawl down Callo’s blade and disappear into his hands.
“Jashan’s sword!” he said. “He is a color mage.”
“He is. That is why the King has changed his mind about the succession. If you had listened . . .”
“But Hon Kirian, he was never a color mage before. I would have been told.”
“It is a new thing,” Kirian said. Ander turned to look at her. Her brown eyes were on the man in the ring.
“You don’t become a color mage by surprise, at his age,” Ander objected. “He would have known.”
“There were special circumstances. No one knew, until recently. King Martan knows.”
Ander put his drawing materials aside and jumped to his feet. “I must warn him.”
“He is in some danger?” Kirian asked.
“He could be. He must learn to control it. Look how the energy is all around him like that. Hon Kirian, he trusts you. Please come with me to talk to him!”
Callo was finishing the shortened ritual, his eyes closed during this final salute. He opened his eyes as Ander barreled into the ring, followed by Kirian at a slower pace. The energies which had clung to him like a lover faded into his hands as they approached.
“My lord!” Ander said breathlessly. “I did not know you were a color mage.”
“Neither did I, young lord,” Callo said. “Until a few sennights ago.”
“He says there is some danger,” Kirian said.
“The color magery—the energy—it is uncontrolled. It should not be visible when you worship Jashan in the form.” Ander felt heat rise in his face. It felt strange, addressing an older righ like this. But the man didn’t know, had never been taught, what Ander had spent years learning. “I am sorry to intrude on you like this, but it could injure you, or someone else. It is very dangerous, Lord Callo.”
Callo had sheathed his sword. “It is new to me, Lord Ander. I will have to learn how to control it in the ritual. I intend to use it as little as possible.”
Mage Oron had driven the lesson into Ander, how perilous uncontrolled color magery was. He must make sure Callo understood this, too, no matter if the swordsman took offense. “Forgive me, my lord, but until then, you should not do the ritual. It is very dangerous.”
Lord Callo’s eyes changed, behind that wall of control. “There is no question of skipping the worship. But I thank you for your advice.”
Ander felt like yelling in his frustration. “My lord. I know I am young, but I have been taught by the best mages in Sugetre since I was eight. I know what I am saying.”
Lord Callo looked as if he wanted to walk away, but the Healer’s hand was on his arm, detaining
him.
Ander said, “I will show you, if you will let me.”
“There are circumstances you are not aware of,” Callo said as if he would rather be discussing anything else but this. “You are very young, my lord. I doubt you could advise me on this.” He stopped and Ander saw that Kirian had tugged on his arm.
“Let him tell you,” she said. “It can’t hurt. Where else will you have access to a color mage willing to share his experience?”
“Kirian, you know my—unique circumstances.”
“Are you too proud to accept his advice?”
Callo made an almost imperceptible growling sound, but Ander’s ears caught it anyway. His eyes opened wider.
“You know I am not,” Callo said. “Any vestige of pride was burned out of me long ago.”
“Then let him show you, my lord,” she said. “Please.”
Callo looked at the Healer. Ander saw the lines of refusal in his face soften. The Healer had influence over this lord; that was certain. Ander would remember that.
Callo said, “I must ride a patrol. I want to help set up an enhanced guard for you, young lord, not study magery. Kirian, you know I am here only to warn Lord Ander of his danger and protect him from harm before we move on. I have no time for such lessons.”
“You cannot be riding patrols all day. You know the need for this.”
“I suppose I will consider it,” Lord Callo said. He inclined his head in a polite bow. It was clear that he was done discussing the subject.
“Thank you,” Ander said. “Good day to you, my lord. I hope we can talk about this very soon.”
Callo said a polite farewell, bowed, and walked away. The man did not resume the sword ritual. Ander sighed with relief; Jashan was the god of the sword and the god of color magery, and there was a synergy between the two things that could lead to unpleasant consequences if the magery was not held under strict control. So he had been taught.
Kirian also looked after Callo as he walked toward the training shed where Islarian had disappeared after their match. She said, “I do not think he will stop doing the ritual under any circumstances. My lord—will you make sure he knows what he should?”
Sword of Jashan (Book 2) Page 2