“What did he say?” Katrien whispered as she followed Tenori and Amadi from the meeting-house.
Tenori glanced back over his shoulder at the people who were beginning to settle back to their business. “He says there is a room for us here, if my home becomes unsafe.”
Chapter 13
E ight long, cloudless days passed, the sun beating down relentlessly on Doran and his company, the desert stretching into infinity. Sometimes his guards would shoot at lizards and rabbits with strange arrows fletched not with feathers but with some sort of fronded plant; otherwise they simply walked in silence, alert and tireless.
When Doran saw the first glimpse of the coast, wreathed in fog and dull gray in the distance, he thought it was nothing more than another damnable mirage. He scrubbed sand from his eyes and blinked a few times, but the gray line persisted.
The line of ocean vanished a few times as they approached, hidden beneath the smooth yellow flanks of dunes, but always it reappeared, hardly growing any closer. They camped in the barren wasteland once more, and Nejeela told him that they would reach the coast before noon the following day.
“Thank the gods!” Doran groaned.
“What?” Nejeela teased. “Are you tired of our company?”
“Of course not,” Doran said, his face feeling a bit hot. “But this blasted desert is going to drive me mad before long. How do you stand it?”
“We almost never need to,” Nejeela said. “No one really lives in the desert—even the nomads usually spend their time closer to the grasslands up north. The land around the great mountain is green and lush and beautiful. You should come see it for yourself someday.”
“I’ll try,” Doran said. He would miss Nejeela when they said their farewells, though he knew it was useless to say as much. He was a cripple—he had nothing to offer her.
As they continued plodding along the next day, his escort seemed quieter than usual. A port city rose into view as soon as they passed over the final dune, similar to the one they had started at aside from the surprising number of tall-masted ships anchored in its crescent-shaped port.
“The southern seas are wracked with storms,” Nejeela said when she noticed Doran staring. “This is where sailors shelter if a storm is coming. They mostly see Cheltish ships here, though a few Itrean ships sometimes travel this way.”
Doran looked at her in surprise. “I thought they were a bit more cautious than that.”
“Trade with Itrea may be illegal, but then so is trade with pirates, which happens often enough,” Nejeela said with a smile. “The goods they bring from Itrea are far too valuable to turn away.”
As they drew closer to the port, Doran could see it was a bustling harbor indeed. One long dock stretched out into the water, and along it a steady stream of people milled about, unloading cargo and examining their ships.
“Does this mean a storm is coming?” Doran asked, eyeing the cloudless western horizon. Faint wisps of clouds trailed on the air behind them, but nothing that resembled a storm.
It was the translator, Koresh, who answered him this time. “Tomorrow. It takes a full twelve days to sail south to our capital, and none want to risk it. This town will be packed with sailors by the end of the quarter.”
“But we don’t need to worry about that?”
The translator gave him a half-shrug. “We leave you here. It is up to your Cheltish escort to decide if they brave the storm.”
“Don’t scare him,” Nejeela reprimanded. “The storms are much worse to the south. It has to do with the warm winds coming up from the tropics, I think. You should be fine when you sail north.”
Doran nodded, hating the pity in her tone. Did she not realize he had been a sailor himself, as accustomed to ships as any merchant? “And what about you?” He tried to banish those thoughts. “How are you going to return home?”
“We wait until the storm passes, and then we join the next merchant ship south,” Koresh said flatly.
With Nejeela’s look of pity seared into his vision, Doran was grateful to arrive in the bustling town at last. Almost at once, their party was descended upon by a group of colorful merchants, all wearing breezy white shirts topped with multicolored tunics and plumed hats.
“Prince Doran!” called the man in front, an older gentleman with curly black hair down to his shoulders. “We are honored to welcome you aboard the Fair Fortune. I hope your travels have gone well?”
“Yes, thank you, milord,” Doran said.
He wished he could dismount and greet the man properly; instead he felt awkward as he towered over his Varrilan escort and the new Cheltish arrivals alike. As his Varrilan escort unpacked and handed over his belongings—most of them caked in sand—to the Cheltish sailors, Doran sat in silence and wished himself invisible. At last the curly-haired sailor wished the Varrilans a safe journey and helped lift Doran from his horse.
“Take care,” Nejeela told him, clasping his hand.
Doran did not feel altogether charitable toward her after she had revealed that pity, nothing more, was the true reason for her companionship, so he merely said, “You too,” trying his best to summon up a smile.
“There’s talk of a storm on its way,” the curly-haired sailor said. “So we’d best get under way before sundown. If we sail until sunset, we might make it to a harbor where we can wait out the worst of the wind.”
“Great,” Doran said. “The sooner we can leave this bloody desert, the better.”
The sailor chuckled. “I’m of the same opinion myself. I’ve got the highest respect for the Varrilans, but I don’t know how they can stand living like this.”
“Apparently their major cities are a lot greener,” Doran said. “What was your name, by the way?”
The sailor puffed up his chest fractionally at that. “Captain Ardenforth at your service, my prince.” He gave a stately bow.
It was a relief to return to the sea after endless days of passing through the featureless desert. As monotonous as the waves could seem, at least they were moving, and at all times a line of land hovered in the eastern horizon.
As the storm began to pick up, Captain Ardenforth insisted that Doran take shelter below. Deprived of his horse, Doran asked the deckhands to set him on his bed, wondering what would happen if the ship sank.
The rocking of the ship soon made him abandon the letter he was trying to write to Laina, so he lay down and tried to think about the new opportunities that awaited him in Chelt. To his surprise, he soon fell asleep, and when he woke the sea was calm.
The morning was clear and still, so the deckhands were easily persuaded to bring Doran onto the deck, a blanket draped over his shoulders against the morning chill. The sky was a delicate blue, the last shreds of cloud burning off as the sun graced the horizon, and the deck smelled clean and briny from last night’s rain.
* * *
Seven days later, the spires and arches of Torrein rose in the distance. Though Doran had never seen it before, he had read of this elegant city, southernmost in Chelt and built to welcome the warm sea air.
He tried not to think of Nejeela as their captain ordered the sails reefed for the approach, and then folded away altogether. Of course she pitied him. If he wanted to stay sane, he needed to expect that wherever he went. He couldn’t let it surprise him.
Drawing closer, Doran realized that a surprisingly formidable crowd had gathered on the docks to greet their ship. They must know he was on board.
Grimacing, he lifted the blanket from his shoulders and folded it away, straightening his back so he could face the crowd with as much dignity as he could muster from a sitting position.
“We have a litter ready for you, majesty,” Captain Ardenforth said from behind Doran as the ship slid gently into place at the docks. Deckhands all along the ship threw ropes to a row of waiting boys, who lashed the ship into place with nimble hands.
“I appreciate it,” Doran said. He just hoped they could maneuver him onto it without the crowd seeing how useless he really was.
As the crowd sent up a cheer, two of the deckhands lifted him and transferred him to the litter, which was thankfully already waiting on the ship. Then, in a dizzying motion, they lifted his litter onto their shoulders and carried him down the sloping gangplank. Doran tried not to look at the water far below, at the angle of descent that nearly had him tumbling headfirst onto the weathered planks of the dock.
Then they were safely down, and he was able to draw back the curtains and wave to the crowd, which cheered as though he was their own king.
“Long live King Doran!” a few voices rang out.
It was all very flattering, though Doran dreaded the day when he revealed that he could never take his father’s throne.
The crowds began to thin out as they climbed the sloping streets through town, until only the occasional passerby raised a hand to greet the king. From this vantage point, Doran was able to admire the harbor stretching out beneath them, the domes and spires and arches sweeping high above the buildings that encircled the waterfront.
At the very top of the rise, they reached a white stone building with balconies arcing away toward the sea from every west-facing room, different levels layered against one another like shells clinging to a rock.
He felt a spasm of dread at the idea that all of these levels might be separated by stairs, that he would never have the freedom to make his way through the place unaided. Yet when the two sailors delivered his litter to the front door, he was greeted by two men in crisp uniforms pushing a wheeled wicker chair, and beyond he could see that the floor sloped naturally between rooms inside the manor.
“You’ll love it here, I bet,” one of the sailors remarked as they transferred him to the wheeled chair. He was trying to crane his neck around the corner to get a good look at the gleaming white walls and vast spaces within.
“Thank you very much,” Doran said, giving each of the men his best attempt at a smile. “Please give your captain my regards.”
The sailors bowed and retreated, their backs receding quickly as they picked up momentum on their way down the slope.
Then Doran was left alone with his new household.
“Whose home is this?” he asked, running a hand over the wheels of his new chair. “I would hate to be an inconvenient guest.”
“It’s no one’s, milord,” one of the butlers said. “King Luistan uses it when he makes state visits. Otherwise, he keeps a household running so he can entertain diplomats and royal visitors whenever they come to Torrein.”
“That’s a relief, then,” Doran said. He had been given precious little information regarding the arrangements his father had come to, and had half-expected to find himself dead in the middle of the desert due to a miscommunication.
“Are you really a king, milord?” the butler asked, squinting at Doran. He was young and still awkwardly built, as though his body hadn’t quite grown into its frame yet.
“Not a king, an heir,” Doran said heavily.
“Ah. It’s just, I’ve never heard a king say ‘thank you’ before.”
“Well, prepare to be surprised,” Doran said drily, while the older butler gave his younger companion a dour look. “Would you mind giving me a tour?”
“Certainly,” the older butler said when the younger man opened his mouth. “Please, allow me.” He took the handles at the back of the chair—Doran lifted his hands quickly away from the wheels and rested them in his lap as the butler started through the spacious entryway.
The house was not built like any Doran had seen before. Instead of a grand hall for entertaining, it simply had the entrance hall, shaped like an uneven circle with a high ceiling and rooms leading off in every direction. Branching off from the same large space lay the dining hall, much smaller than any Doran was used to and yet still grand, with its arched windows and white stone walls. This room was separated from the entrance hall by a sloping floor, and the next room away from this had a wooden ramp propped over the stairs. Clearly some effort had gone into preparing for Doran’s stay.
There were two great bedrooms leading away from the main hall—Doran immediately took a liking to the one closest to the dining room, as it afforded views back over the town—and a great library behind these, with a much smaller window facing north to the rolling hill country. Doran tried not to betray his immediate excitement when he saw the library. His own father had never owned a proper collection of books, since it was so difficult to get them sent to Lostport; he had read every volume they owned, even the tedious ones, at least five times over, and he hungered for more.
The tour concluded in a great bathroom with a marble tub large enough to fit three. Though the house was much smaller than his own, it displayed luxury on a scale he had never encountered before.
“Ah, here’s your things,” the young butler said, wheeling Doran backward out of the bathroom while he was still trying to take in the vast array of colored soaps and unguents on the shelves. Three more sailors had appeared lugging his bags, which they deposited in the doorway before taking off.
“You don’t have much stuff, either,” the butler commented. “Were you disinherited or something?”
Doran choked, and it was a moment before he realized he was laughing. “No, of course not. We just spent ten days walking across the desert, or I would have brought my full collection of books and clothes.”
“I deeply apologize for Fabrian’s behavior,” the older butler said. “It has been a while since we last hosted a guest, and he is very new.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Doran said. In truth, he was grateful for the young man’s honesty. It appeared that royals here in Chelt did not associate much with commoners; if Doran was surrounded by servants and townsfolk tiptoeing around him, he would soon go mad. “And what time are meals taken here?” He wanted a chance to start poring over his new collection of books uninterrupted, and did not wish the formalities of dining to interrupt him.
“That is entirely your decision,” the older butler said pompously. “We live to serve.”
Doran sighed. “What does the rest of Chelt do? I think I should follow their customs while I remain here, don’t you?”
Between them, the butlers explained that they ate a small breakfast whenever the lord of the household woke, an enormous meal shortly after midday, and a small evening supper—usually soup.
“That will suit me just fine,” Doran said. “And now, could you please take me to my room?”
“I’ll send a servant to help you unpack,” the older butler said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Doran said quickly. How many servants did this household have? “I’ll call on you if I need assistance.”
“There is a bell in your room, milord,” the older butler said. “If you ever wish for us to come, it hangs by the door.”
“Thank you,” Doran said. “And what was your name?”
“Duffrey, milord. Aleric Duffrey.”
The two butlers bowed on their way out, the younger man—Fabrian, that was his name—somewhat belatedly.
Once he was alone in his room, Doran immediately put his hands on the wheels of his chair and tried shoving it forward. It did move, albeit slowly, and he blamed his weak arms for that. The wooden wheels were not comfortable to hold—they bit at his palms, leaving deep indents from the effort—yet he managed to maneuver himself to the bedside, where he believed he would be able to get himself into bed. It was a small triumph, yet it was the most independence he had felt since his accident.
He took great pleasure in unpacking his suitcases by himself, wheeling himself from one end of the room to the other as he filled the shelves with clothes and books. He was grateful for the lack of drawers—he doubted he could have managed them alone if they gave even the least resistance—and he enjoyed the way the room took on a more homely look once it was filled with his belongings.
When the suitcases were shoved into the corner by the door and everything was arranged to Doran’s satisfaction, he wheeled himself over to the w
indows, which ran from floor to ceiling along the entire curving wall that faced the sea. A door led out to one of the balconies he had seen at his first approach, and he rolled himself onto the curving outdoor space, relishing in the wind and the smell of the sea.
* * *
Five days after the rains had begun, Faolan’s home was an utter disaster. Most of the new arrivals from Whitland were still camped out in his entrance hall, and the entire manor was beginning to reek of sweat and mildew. Fifty pairs of boots were tracking mud across the white marble floors many times a day, and though he had not gotten the chance to do a proper inventory, he was convinced several of his possessions had gone missing. In particular, a decorative sword that used to hang on the right wall of the entrance hallway had vanished without a trace.
At least Laina was keeping herself busy assisting the kitchen staff. With five times the usual mouths to feed, she and her two foreign friends were needed every waking hour of the day. Faolan had expected his daughter to whine and cause trouble while she was trapped indoors, but instead she was acting the obedient daughter he had always wished for.
A small part of him wished she would act up again. He missed her spirit.
“The dockmaster predicts the rains will ease tomorrow,” Harrow said, coming up behind him. Faolan realized he had been standing at the top of the stairs for ages, staring disconsolately down at the chaos below.
“And what then?” Faolan said grimly. “Will my problems vanish with the clouds? No, these Whitlanders are here to stay. Whatever we might persuade them to believe, we are desperately short on supplies. The road is washed out, and what little news has made it through tells me there is not enough stone for another foundation. We are stalled with hardly anything to show for our troubles.”
“Have you sent for more stone?”
“You know I have!” Faolan folded his arms in irritation. “But it takes a long time for anything to make it down that blasted river. Except Whitish troops, apparently! I wish Katrien was here. She always knew how to placate people.”
The Fall of Lostport Page 17