“We should be safe from the prying eyes of the patrols here. They’re everywhere. But they pay little attention to us, as long as we don’t have strangers with us.”
“They’ve already seen me.”
“Yes. Damons travel through here occasionally, so your presence is not that unusual. But they’ll want to know where you are at all times. Once they realize you’ve given them the slip, they will start looking for you in earnest.”
They walked through the semi-darkened barn to a tack room, where Darikani found some old cloaks bearing the Craftsman design. Rydah immediately stripped off his Damon insignia and began putting on the outfit of the lower caste.
“You having come in wearing Damon clothes might actually work out better when it comes time to leave,” Darikani told him. “We’ll leave your carriage out front of the cafe. When you return from our visit, you can don your cloak again and stroll along the storefronts as if nothing was amiss. If you are challenged by guards, just explain you were looking for new crafts and lost track of time.”
“Yes, that might work. I imagine it will help if I act indignant at being questioned.”
He smiled. “The mark of a true Damon, m’lord.”
Rydah wasn’t sure if Darikani was insulting the Damon caste or trying to make a joke. Either way, they were in this together now and, if caught, might end up being hung side by side. Rydah thought that gave Darikani a lot of latitude to make jokes at Damon expense.
Darikani looked at Rydah’s new outfit. “You look like a legitimate Craftsman,” he said. “But I worry that guards might recognize you.” He turned and rummaged through a wooden box of old clothes and pulled out a shapeless hat. “Would you mind, sire? It would help cover your Damon hair.”
“Not at all—if it means not being spotted.” He donned it. There was no looking glass, but he imagined he looked silly. The brim of the hat hung down over his eyes, forcing him to rotate it until he could see. The Craftsman looked amused.
“Come on, I have two horses we can use.” Darikani stopped, then turned back. “You do know how to ride, m’lord?”
“Yes,” he said evenly. The Fyrads might be a third-class Damon, but they were still Damon. Riding lessons had been the norm growing up, although his father did not own any horses himself.
Darikani saddled up two horses and the men mounted them. “We can’t act as if we’re in a hurry,” he said. “If we’re stopped, let me do the talking. If worse comes to worst, and they discover you’re the strange Damon who just rode into town, tell them you put on a disguise so you could negotiate a better price for their crafts.”
Rydah nodded. Darikani thought far ahead, making him a much better spy, despite his lower rank. He gained new respect for his guide.
They clopped outside into the bright sun, letting the horses walk slow, heading east, away from the center of the village. They passed a small patrol of two guards, who let them ride by unchallenged.
They left the village behind and continued east along a narrow road. “How much farther?” Rydah asked after several lapars had passed.
“Quite a ways—we’re going in the wrong direction, right now. I wanted to make sure we weren’t followed.”
Nervously, Rydah looked over his shoulder, seeing no one. “We have to turn around and go back?”
“Not that way. We’ll have to go south.”
They reached a junction with the overgrown ruts of a cart path, leading south. Darikani rode on for a few hundred capeks, then pulled off the road and dismounted. He led the confused Rydah back along the edge of the road until they came to the cart path again.
“Here,” Darikani said, pulling his horse to a stop. He looked around. The road was deserted. He began rummaging through the saddlebags.
Darikani pulled out four squares of rough leather and some ties of the same material. The Damon became even more confused. What was he up to now?
The craftsman began tying the leather to the hooves of his horse. Rydah suddenly understood.
“So the horse won’t leave tracks, right?”
“Right,” he said. “There should be some in your saddle bags as well.”
Rydah got down and found them and soon both animals’ hooves were tied up like holiday gifts.
“We only have to do this for about a half-league,” Darikani said. “Just far enough so a passing patrol won’t get curious as to why two horses were heading down an abandoned cart path. We have to walk them so their hooves won’t dig into the soil. Stay inside the wheel rut if possible.” He led the way down the right-hand rut.
Rydah followed along the left, putting his feet one in front of the other. “Where does this road go? Why was it abandoned?” Rydah asked.
“It led to the Harpton farm. They were killed last ryne.”
Rydah covered his surprise. “What happened?”
“They were all hung by the High Lord’s men for failure to pay tribute.”
Rydah was shocked. He hadn’t heard anything about this! He couldn’t imagine High Lord Bandar having a family killed because they couldn’t pay their taxes. Imprisoned, maybe, or having their farm seized, sure. But killed?
“How could this be? Did they riot? Spread sedition?”
“No. Harpton struck a guard when he arrested his oldest son, Barktar. They were going to imprison Barktar until Harpton could pay. When Harpton hit the guard, they hung the whole family, on the spot.”
Rydah had to ask, though he didn’t really want to know. “H-how many were in the family?”
“Five. Harpton, his wife, his son, and two daughters.”
Rydah’s mind reeled. “The High Lord’s men killed two girls?”
Darikani swung his eyes toward the Damon, slyly pleased to observe Rydah’s shocked expression. “Yes. The guards said they were acting on High Priest Kendam’s orders. He felt they had to be taught a lesson. A lesson for all of us.”
They walked in silence for nearly a mile, Rydah’s head filled with the news. He had thought Bandar was a benevolent leader. Surely he couldn’t know what his men did out in the field, could he?
They came to a meadow overlooking a run-down farm. The main building had been burned, and the fields filled with old stubble.
The Harpton farm.
“We can remove the pads now. We’re going to ride through the woods west until we are well past the village, then we’ll be close.”
Rydah couldn’t take his eyes off the farm, a question on his lips. “How old were the girls?”
Darikani let the question hang in the air as they observed the burned farm. “The older was thirteen, the younger, ten.”
Rydah felt the breath catch in his throat. How could the priests allow that? “The soldiers burned their house down as well?”
Darikani looked up as he removed the pads. “Yes. And seized the land. Although they haven’t done anything with it. It’s just hectares going to waste.”
Darikani finished before Rydah did and waited patiently astride his horse until the Damon stuffed the pads back into his saddlebags. He made no move to help the Nobleman. In other circumstances, that would be considered rude. But Rydah was too stunned by seeing the farm to notice.
Chapter Twelve
They rode on, the sun beginning to fall low on the horizon. Just after sunset, when the light diffused through the darkening forest, making Rydah fear for wild beasts, Darikani stopped.
“We’re just north of the farm,” he spoke in low tones. “Soldiers have searched the farmhouse already and haven’t found the Acolyte. But as we approach, we have to be very careful for there might be more patrols. If they spot us now, they’ll know something is up.”
Rydah followed along behind the man as he rode through the trees. He wondered how Darikani could see in the gloom, but apparently he had been this way many times. They came to the edge of the forest and looked out across a field of paplet, a grain used in bread-making. Ahead, Rydah could see a small farmhouse and a few outbuildings. Candlelight flickered from the windows.
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“Stay here, Damon. I will ride up and make sure it’s safe.”
Rydah, fearful of being left alone at the edge of the dark woods, almost spoke up, then bit his tongue. This wasn’t what he had expected when he decided to help his brother! Intrigue, disguises, murderous patrols—he was in way over his head.
He watched, trembling, as the Craftsman disappeared into the darkness ahead of him. His horse snorted, startling him. Rydah wanted to spur him forward, just to get away from the trees, where he imagined long arms of vicious creatures reaching out to him.
He waited five lapars, then dismounted and walked a short ways ahead, into the field, just to give him a little space from the trees. He stood there, going over in his mind some of the documents he’d edited for Bandar. They had always been uplifting words, full of hope and love—that the high priest could condone murder seemed impossible. Bandar would be as shocked as Rydah had been to find out what his guards were doing. Perhaps he should be told…
Horse hooves alerted him of a rider’s approach. He held still, fearful it was a passing patrol. Soon, Darikani rode up out of the gloom and dismounted.
“It’s safe, m’lord, but we must hurry. The Acolyte doesn’t want to stay any longer. He plans to confront his father.”
Rydah mounted up and they rode toward the lights. A man came out to take their horses. They went in without knocking on the door.
Inside the small one-room hut were four people. A hunched woman that Rydah took to be Memma’s illegitimate sister, Athela, and a short overweight man wearing the tunic of the Merchant class stood near the old fieldstone fireplace. But his eyes did not stay long on them. Acolyte Lepdar, wearing the magnificent cloak of the highest order of Damon, stood in the center of the room, tall and proud. His long wavy hair was tied back, as was the custom when riding. The Acolyte looked tired. Rydah wished he’d brought his Damon cloak with him. He worried he might be considered unworthy to be in the Acolyte’s presence.
Sitting at the table was his step-niece, Symal, looking small. “Lord Rydah!” she exclaimed, putting a hand over her mouth.
Rydah hadn’t seen her in two rynes, but she looked much the same: dark hair, beautiful face, wide-set eyes that men could lose themselves in. Only now, she had filled out into the full bloom of womanhood.
“Damon?” The Acolyte said, suspicious, taking in his garb.
“Yes, m’lord,” Rydah said, bowing. “I am Lord Rydah, son of Fyrad, brother of Farda, at your service. Forgive my humble appearance.”
Acolyte Lepdar relaxed slightly. “No need to apologize. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way. I solved no problems by running from my father. I’ve decided to return and tell him I will not marry Princess Wenelle. My heart belongs to your niece, Symal.”
Rydah glanced at his niece and noticed she had been crying.
“I’ve come at my brother’s request to see if we can’t figure out some way to avoid trouble for everyone,” he said, picking his words carefully. “I fear that Symal might fall out of favor with your father.”
If being thrown in prison and possibly beheaded is “falling out of favor,” then yes, he thought.
The Acolyte shook his head. “I will let nothing befall Symal. She is safe from reprisals.”
Rydah thought of the Harpton’s farmhouse, not far from here. Was she really safe from Bandar’s anger? Or Kendam’s?
“Sire, before you make your decision, could you tell me what it is that your father demands?”
Rydah knew most of the story, but perhaps there was something he was missing, some tidbit of information that might help him come up with a solution.
The Acolyte sighed, then nodded. “Sit down, Damon.” He sat next to Symal, and took her hand. “I’ll tell you what my father is trying to achieve by forcing me to marry that bluta.” Rydah tried not to smile at the Acolyte’s characterization of Princess Wenelle.
“As you may know, Blethryn vies with High Lord Narzdal of the Caspan region for the mining riches of Couldar, which lies between our two priestdoms. We’re negotiating with them, but talks are going slow. Meanwhile, our spies tell us Narzdal is plotting behind the scenes to obtain an advantage.
“Narzdal’s army isn’t as large as my father’s, so he would dare not attack us on his own. But Narzdal’s cousin is none other than Wenelle’s father, High Lord Syran, who controls the Garspar region to the north. So far, Syran has resisted his cousin’s entreaties that they combine armies. While Narzdal tells him it would only be to help in the negotiations, Syran fears it could lead to an all-out war.”
Rydah’s mind raced as he absorbed the intrigue behind the thrones.
“Syran has no desire to take on my father,” Lepdar continued. “In order not to offend Narzdal, he secretly contacted my father through intermediaries. Together they arranged the marriage between his daughter and me. Once the wedding takes place, Syran can truthfully tell his cousin that he could not go against his son-in-law’s family and upset his daughter.”
The Acolyte paused to stroke Symal’s cheek. “Their plan is brilliant—except for one thing. No one asked me what I thought of marrying Wenelle. I’ve only met her once and I can’t imagine being married to her. She is a simpering, giggling, shallow woman, certainly not worthy to share my portion of the priestdom, small though it may be.”
The Acolyte turned back to Rydah. “When they presented their plan to me, I had been trying to figure out how to ask my father for permission to marry the daughter of a Craftsman, a delicate matter, to be sure.” He smiled ruefully. “I thought I could eventually convince him of my true love for Symal.” He nodded to Rydah. “And that her step-father used to be a Damon would work in her favor.
“I admit I panicked when my father told me I had to marry the princess for the good of the priestdom. I knew my brother had done that, but somehow I thought that I would be allowed to marry whomever I chose, since I was not heir. I remember stammering out a tepid response, then I fled at the earliest opportunity. I evaded the palace guards and rode straight to your brother’s house to speak to Symal.
“I didn’t realize what a stir my disappearance would cause. No sooner had I reached Symal, I heard that guards were out in force, looking for me. They gave me no time! I took Symal and ran.” He looked embarrassed. “Not a very Noble action, to be sure. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
Rydah kept quiet, his mind racing. He didn’t see any way out.
“I’ve come to realize I have to face my father and tell him I’ve found the girl I want to marry.” He took Symal’s hand. “I should’ve done this as soon as they told me about the arranged marriage. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing. In the morning, I will ride out alone to find a guardsman and tell him Symal and I need escort back to Blethryn.”
Rydah could see the trap tightening around Symal. “Your father is very angry,” he said. “He’s worried about you. He might take out his anger on Symal.”
“No, no. He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it! Trust me, Symal will be safe.”
“Do you think your father will allow the agreement with Syran to disappear? To let Syran join forces with Narzdal? To go to war over Couldar?” Rydah watched the Acolyte’s face for clues.
“I don’t know,” Lepdar said. “They’ll just have to think of another way.”
Rydah again thought of the Harpton farm. Was the Acolyte’s father capable of such iron resolve? Would he risk alienating his own son in order to secure the agreement with Syran?
Rydah’s mind raced. In his mind’s eye, he could see the pained expression of his slave, who sacrificed herself to give him time to solve this problem. He had no idea what to do.
“Lord Rydah.” Rydah’s head snapped up.
“Yes, my Acolyte.”
“Why have you come? I know you are Farda’s brother, but what do you think you can you do?”
“I’m not sure, my Acolyte. My brother thought that as a Damon, as he once was, I might offer some assistance.”
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��Can you?” He seemed genuinely interested. Or maybe just desperate.
“I’m not sure, sire. I need time to sort it all out.”
He sighed. “Time, unfortunately, is something that is in short supply.” He rose. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your long journey.” He turned to the smaller man. “Natrus, we’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ll make sure no harm comes to you for harboring me and Symal.”
Rydah panicked. That he could come all this way and disappoint everyone seemed impossible to accept. “Sire!” he blurted.
The Acolyte stopped. “Yes?”
Something came to him, something he didn’t quite understand. He remembered a question Jenya had asked. “Princess Wenelle,” he said. “What does she think of the arranged marriage?”
Lepdar paused. “It’s funny,” he said. “But the bluta has a man she loves as well! She was no more interested in me than I was in her! Can you imagine? That she could prefer one of her slow-witted Farzan men over the High Acolyte of Blethryn?”
Rydah suddenly staggered with the threads of an idea. Something he read once came back to him. It was a wisp, a chimera. He wasn’t sure of the details, far from it, but it was a start.
“Acolyte Lepdar,” he begged. “Please…let me implore you. There may be something that can be done. But I need to do some research. I must return to Blethryn. I apologize for not thinking of it sooner. Please, can you stay here for two more suns until I can return?”
The Acolyte’s face darkened. “No. I will not hide from my father like some wayward boy. The High Acolyte of Blethryn does not scurry from the light.” He turned to Symal. Seeing the tears forming in her eyes, he stopped, then reached out to touch her face. Rydah could tell he truly loved her.
“I am concerned about Symal, of course,” he admitted. He turned back to Rydah. “Tell me what you can of this research.” He folded his arms across his chest, as if daring Rydah to convince him.
Rydah blanched. He had no good answer. “High Acolyte Lepdar, in good conscience I cannot. I deeply apologize. Anything I say might be in error. I recall reading something in some priestly documents that might help you. The memories are just too vague right now. Can you wait until I return?”
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