The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this, my dear?” Salisbourne asked. It was funny how she’d never noticed how fatherly he acted around her until now.

  She smiled grimly. “I rather think I have to be, Uncle.”

  “Shall we then?” He extended an arm for her.

  The palace had a different feel to it. Nothing substantial had changed but the oppressive air had left. They were met by footmen who took up a position flanking them, with one more ahead and another behind them. Take away a servant’s pomp and they would be forced to admit that they were one step above the cleaning staff, she thought wryly. No matter that there hadn’t been a Council of Lords for well over two centuries, somebody somewhere had thrown together enough pomp to make it seem ceremonious. She smirked at the thought, and then quickly set her lips. It wouldn’t do to seem smug, now of all times.

  The amused surprise she’d felt at the pomp of the footmen was nothing to the shock she felt as they passed the men guarding the doors and stepping into the throne room. The room was packed with the lords of Anlan and their attendants and was almost unrecognisable. Sections had been marked out with each noble sat surrounded by their servants and staff. All wore their traditional scarlet cloaks and robes of office, trimmed in white fur, and more than one chain glittered around their necks. A broad path had been left leading to the throne itself, which sat silent and empty on its dais. Selena looked to Salisbourne and then pointedly down at their clothes, plain by comparison. “I think we’re a little under-dressed.”

  “It’s been taken care of.” He smiled with a wink. “Hanris, I'm afraid.” He shook his head in mock despair and led her to the waiting herald.

  “Lord Salisbourne, the Earl of Westermark,” the herald boomed from slightly behind them. Selena winced and forced a small smile onto her lips as Salisbourne was escorted inside by a footman. The crowd of nobles, for the most part, paid no attention. Even pomp grows commonplace eventually, Selena decided.

  “Her Grace, the Duchess Freyton of Druel, the Wash and the Eastern Reaches!” the herald boomed again and her smile turned slightly pained. Heads turned at the announcement and the low rumble of quiet conversation ceased as they turned to look at her. For a moment she felt exposed under the scrutiny. What must they think? An old family forced to sell its daughter into eastern nobility. She must be everything they despised. No wonder they gawked.

  She raised her chin, refusing to crawl down inside of herself, and followed the footman to her seat. Hanris stood waiting and smiled as she approached. Another fatherly smile, she noted.

  “Your grace.” He greeted her with a deep and formal bow.

  “Hanris.”

  She stood still so he could drape the formal cloak around her, fastening the ornate brooch at her neck. He stepped back, allowing her to take her seat before sitting in his own, far plainer chair behind.

  The procession dragged on with noble after noble entering the chamber. Though some turned heads the majority were ignored. The heavy robes and the heat of the chamber from so many bodies combined to make the place impossibly stuffy and Selena found herself almost dozing by the end of the procession.

  A brassy fanfare preceded the herald, though how the man could still manage to shout was beyond Selena. “His Majesty, King Pieter the Seventh. King of Anlan and Liege of the realm.”

  The assemblage stood and Selena buried a sigh as she hauled herself to her feet. Standing was becoming more difficult. In fact everything was becoming more difficult. Frankly, the birds had the right idea with eggs and nests, as far as she was concerned.

  Pieter made his way to the throne at a slow pace that was probably intended to be stately. As it was it looked awkward and, rather than giving the assembled nobles the chance to be cowed by his majesty and presence, it made him look petulant. He glared at those that met his gaze, dark eyes bright with anger as he looked from side to side. Here and there a noble gave their respects, which were met with a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement.

  Pieter climbed up on the dais and sat in the throne, arranging his robes and cloak around himself. Movement from the side of the chamber caught her eye and she raised her eyebrows as Salisbourne came to take up a position facing the assembled nobles with his back to the king.

  “My lords,” he began. “Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you to this, the first Council of Lords in over two centuries.” A round of applause drowned his next statement and he stood in silence as he waited for the noise to subside. As he began again Selena realised with dismay that he was actually going to make a formal speech. She groaned to herself and bit the inside of her lip, using the pain to keep herself alert.

  She dimly became aware that he was gesturing in her direction as he spoke. “…call our esteemed monarch to account. To that end I will surrender the floor to her grace, the Duchess Selena Freyton.”

  She stood, answering Salisbourne’s bow with a polite nod of her own and made her way to meet him. “The floor is yours, Selena. Now is the hour,” he whispered as they met.

  “My Lords,” she said, lifting her voice to fill the chamber. It wasn’t as hard as she’d imagined, acoustics did a lot of the work for her. “I come to Celstwin fresh from the Bjornmen invasion of our land, of my duchy. The Bjornmen have plagued the coasts of the Eastern Reaches and its neighbours for decades, raiding villages and pillaging what they can. This time, my lords, they have come not to raid but to conquer. Their forces have pushed past defences designed to repel raiders not hold back an army, and they have set entire villages to the flame, driving the peasants west out of their districts and their homes.”

  She had them now, she knew. A whisper could have been heard in the chamber whenever she paused to draw breath. She turned and waved at the king. “This man, your king, has ignored all of our requests, all of our pleas for aid. Our forces are outmatched. Only the king’s armies could hope to repel these invaders yet not one man has been sent. Our king denies the very existence of this invasion even as the Bjornmen push westwards, establishing their own farms and villages upon Anlish soil.”

  She allowed a hint of anger to enter into her voice, just enough to flavour the performance. “You sit upon your throne, your majesty, passing down decrees and lapping up the adoration of your sycophants. Yet it seems you forget that the throne has an obligation to the lords of Anlan, to the people of Anlan. An obligation enshrined by Abaram’s Pact itself, one that you have so casually ignored. You go so far as to claim that the Bjornmen threat was nothing more than my own imaginings. Celstwin lies in ashes, my king. Tell me now that this is the result of my imaginings.”

  She’d probably gone further than she ought to have and the gasps she’d heard from behind her as she spoke had highlighted this, but the result was clear on his face. Pieter seethed as he glared down at her and, as he stormed to her feet, she thought for just one moment that he might strike her. That he might rage down the steps that led to his throne and grab her by the throat.

  “Damn you for your impudence, Freyton,” he said in a voice made all the more powerful for its quiet. The next words, however, he bellowed out in a voice that rivalled the herald’s. “I am king here, in a line that traces back to Caltus and beyond. I do not recognise the authority of this council. Abaram’s Pact is ancient history. It is no more valid than the laws against harbouring droos!”

  He paused long enough to sit back down and leant forward, resting an arm on one knee. “I have permitted this little performance so far. It benefits the crown to demonstrate how traitors like yourself will be dealt with. Your mummery is at an end, Freyton. Know that an accounting awaits you.”

  “Threats, My Lord King?” Selena gave in to the drama of the moment. “Will you punish me? Do you intend to torture me as you did Lord Raysh?” She smiled sweetly at him as she saw the words hit home. “Did you think him vanished into thin air, your majesty?”

  Selena turned to the lords once more. “Lord Raysh, would you come forward please?” She didn’t need to turn to se
nse Pieter shift uncomfortably behind her as Raysh stood from a position almost lost in the shadows of the corner. He made his way slowly, leaning heavily on a cane.

  “Thank you for doing this, Raysh,” she murmured into his ear as he drew closer.

  “I came to Celstwin seeking aid against the Bjornmen,” she said, lifting her voice again for the chamber. “Baron Rentrew borders my lands and had travelled here for the same reasons. I’m sure Lord Raysh here is known to many of you. He was a stranger to me when I arrived but a close friend of Rentrew. When our king discovered he was privy to our discussions on how we might best convince him of the dangers our nation faces he took him.”

  She paused long enough to let the words sink in. “Raysh was abducted from his home, taken at knife point in the middle of the night. He was taken to a house in the poorest quarter of the slums, and there he was tortured. Our king, charged with the safety of the realm, kidnapped one of his own lords and did this.”

  Raysh ripped free the white cotton glove with his teeth, holding his hand high for all to see. The fingers were more like claws now, the flesh pared away from where the pad of each finger should have been and blackened from the coals that had seared the wounds closed.

  Selena let the gasps and cries of revulsion die down before she spoke. “Was Raysh plotting treason he could have been arrested like any other traitor. Instead Raysh, like Rentrew and I, was simply asking what we could do to try and persuade the king to take action. Bjornmen have taken half of my duchy or more. They push through Baron Rentrew’s lands and now, now they have set Celstwin herself to the flame. When would it have been enough for our king? He claims Abaram’s Pact is dead and gone yet he claims the throne on the basis of an ages old bloodline. He demands we honour the tithe and yet refuses to defend the realm.

  “This man,” she said, turning to stab a finger at Pieter, “has proven himself unworthy of the throne on which he squats, toad-like in his inaction. I call upon this council to do its duty. Remove this man’s crown and protect Anlan.”

  She fell silent as roars of outrage fought with cheers in the chamber. Pieter glared at her, hatred burning in his eyes. Though the chamber was in uproar he looked nowhere else and his fury shone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “On the whole I'd say that went rather well,” Salisbourne said, pouring whiskey into the crystal glasses.

  Raysh shook his head. “We’ve torn a nation apart rather successfully, yes. I suppose you could say that.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Raysh,” Jantson told him, reaching for the glass Salisbourne offered. “We all knew this was never going to be an instant fix. The important thing is that Pieter is deposed.”

  “And so now we are a snake without a head, fighting the wolves.” Raysh sneered. He glared at Salisbourne as the man made to bring the whiskey glass to him and stood with a grunt, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Salisbourne frowned and sipped at the whiskey. “What would you rather, old man? That we left Pieter in place?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Raysh snorted. “I just feel that events have taken on a life of their own. We should never have entered into the Council without a clear plan for what happens next.”

  “You know what happens next,” Jantson told him. “The Council will deliberate and a line invited to take the throne.”

  “And you plan to let just anyone take the throne do you?” Raysh asked. “If we’d planned for pure chance to rule we may as well have left Pieter on the throne. You know as well as I do that some of the noble houses are filled to the rafters with gibbering idiots. Take the Moorcroft’s for example? They have a line going back past Caltus and not a one them could match the intellect of an inbred sheep. Do you want one them on the throne? We may as well hand the kingdom to the Bjornmen now and have done with it!”

  “Raysh, calm down,” Salisbourne told him. “I never had any intention of leaving this to blind chance. The choice is an obvious one. I just wanted to discuss it with you first. That’s why she isn’t here yet.”

  “You can’t mean?” Jantson blurted, bolting upright in his seat and slopping whiskey over his hand.

  “Selena? A woman?” Raysh finished for him. “You can’t be serious. I’ll be the first to admit she is a rare specimen but come now, the nobles will never accept her.”

  Salisbourne smiled as he waited for them, sipping calmly at his drink. “Don’t be so quick to judge, Raysh. The nobles are not as closed minded as all that. In any event, it doesn’t matter what they think, it only matters what our syndicate thinks.” He stepped away from the drinks cabinet and began to pace as he spoke. “Consider it, a woman on the throne. She is a remarkable woman, but still only a woman. She’d never manage without support. The southern duchies in particular will throw a merry fit. If, however, the syndicate stands with her, then we, ourselves, have the throne. Selena is just a figurehead. In one stroke we prevent the same sort of centralised idiocy that Pieter’s reign embodied. The threat of empire is gone and the power of the throne dependent upon our cooperation.”

  Jantson nodded slowly. “So, in essence then, it takes us five steps closer to what Abaram had in mind with his pact.”

  “Exactly!” Salisbourne spun in place to point at him. “And without all that nonsense about a pact or written agreement. It was all stuff and nonsense if we’re honest, anyway.”

  “I think this could be workable,” Raysh muttered, easing himself back into the fine leather armchair. “This isn’t something you’ve just cooked up though, is it? Admit it?”

  Salisbourne gave a sly smile. “It’s something I’ve had in mind for a time. If I’m honest I really had no idea who could fulfil the role until little Selena came along, but she does fit rather nicely.”

  “And the child?” Jantson queried. “What about that?”

  Salisbourne shrugged. “The child is almost a boon. It’s fatherless. Freyton is long dead. Succession is assured without any meddling consort seeking to syphon off his own power and authority. Not only that but we can mould and shape the boy as he grows. Assuming it is a boy, of course.”

  “You cunning old bastard.” Raysh laughed.

  Salisbourne raised his glass in mock salute. “You’ll go along then?”

  “I will.” Raysh nodded. “There’ll be time before any coronation to work out the finer details and get any reluctant members of the syndicate on side, but, yes, I think it’s a workable plan.”

  “Jantson?” Salisbourne cocked an eyebrow.

  “It’s as good a plan as any I’ve heard,” the Earl nodded. “I suspect Selena may prove to be more of a handful than you take her for though.”

  “You let me take care of Selena,” Salisbourne said as he smiled. “She’ll have the child to busy her mind before too long anyway.”

  Jantson pulled a pipe from his waistcoat and thumbed some stourweed into the bowl. “When do you propose we broach the subject with her?”

  “She should be along any time now actually,” Salisbourne said with a wink.

  “You cut that a bit fine!” Raysh laughed.

  “I had it all in hand, old friend.” Salisbourne smiled. Conversation turned to other things as they waited, each casting frequent glances at the door until the servant finally knocked.

  “The Duchess Freyton,” the man announced.

  “Hello, boys,” Selena smiled. “Noses in whiskey? What a surprise!”

  Salisbourne raised his eyebrows as he lowered his glass. “I’d say after the day we had yesterday that we’d earned it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d say that you’ll always find an excuse, Uncle.” Selena laughed.

  “Can I tempt you?” Salisbourne cocked the decanter at her.

  “Be serious, Uncle. It’s barely past noon.”

  He shrugged. “Something lighter then? A wine, or perhaps a sherry?”

  “Really, I’m fine.” She sank down into an armchair close to the fire. “Now what’s this all about?” She looked around at the three men. “You all have that co
nspiratorial look about you.”

  “I thought it was time we discussed our next steps,” Salisbourne told her, settling into a chair.

  “I would have thought that was rather obvious,” Selena replied, giving him an odd look. “As soon as a new king has taken the throne, and order restored, I would expect our armies will march north. Even aside from their depredations in the Eastern Reaches we simply cannot allow for the attack on Celstwin to go unanswered.”

  “Yes, yes…” Salisbourne brushed that aside. “First, however, we need to decide who to place on the throne. This whole exercise becomes rather futile if we end up with another idiot like Pieter.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that I’ve rather blundered into something here?” Selena looked around at them.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Jantson chuckled, resting the crystal tumbler on his paunch. “We’re not going to insult your intelligence though, my dear. You know as well as anyone that whoever takes the throne is going to need the support of all the lords, with what’s coming. We simply can’t take the risk that some idiot will strike out on his own like Pieter did. You said it yourself. The invasion, the attack on Celstwin? They must be responded to.”

  “And so who did you have in mind?” She looked from Jantson to Raysh and settled on Salisbourne.

  Salisbourne drained his glass, twisting to set it on the side table. “We were rather hoping you might take a crack at it, my dear.”

  “Please don’t call me that, Uncle. It makes me sound about five years old.” Selena pursed her lips, looking up at the ceiling. “Why me?” she asked finally. “There must be others more suitable? For that matter Pieter must have relatives, someone else in the line?”

  “Second and third cousins.” Salisbourne waved a hand. “Their claim would be weak at the best of times and, after what’s happened, no one would bat an eye if we went another way.”