Inheritance

by Simon Brown

The man extended a hand and Lynan felt compelled to take it. “Jes Prado.” He pointed to the two men behind him. “And these are Bazik and Aesor.”

  “Migam,” Lynan returned shortly. “Are you a farmer hereabouts?”

  Prado nodded. “I know your face. Do you have a brother?”

  “No.”

  “A cousin, then?” Jes stretched out his hands to warm them by the fire.

  “Possibly. I don’t know all my uncles.”

  “Then maybe it was your father.”

  Lynan swallowed. “I don’t think so.” Shame burned his face.

  Prado wagged a finger. “Now, I know there’s some connection.” He held a hand up. “No! No, don’t tell me. I’ll remember. Where are you from, Migam?”

  “A village, just north of Ebrius Ridge.”

  “I haven’t spent much time in that region, I’m afraid. No clue there. Is your father a merchant? Someone who travels?”

  “No. He was a farmer. He grew wheat.”

  “Was a farmer? He’s dead? I’m sorry to hear it. Did he ever buy slaves for his land?”

  Lynan looked up, horrified, before he could stop himself. “No!”

  “Ah, then maybe we haven’t met,” Prado said evenly.

  Lynan stood up, but two heavy hands rested on his shoulders and gently forced him back into his seat.

  “There was a man called Elynd,” Jes continued. “He was much like you, Migam, if older and broader, but I can see you will fill out with time. He was husband to a great woman, but he met with a terrible accident.”

  “He was murdered,” Lynan said sullenly, no longer seeing any point in continuing the pretense of not knowing whom Jes was talking about.

  Prado shrugged. “He was a victim, Migam, a victim of a political decision.” He cupped his chin in his hands and stared into the fire. “If I have it right, Elynd had a son with this woman, a son now wanted for regicide, a crime generally regarded as being even more terrible than slavery.” The man laughed softly, sending a shiver down Lynan’s spine. “And here you are.”

  Lynan tried again to stand up, but the grip on his shoulders became painful. Fingers dug under his collarbone.

  “And the big one in your company must be Kumul Alarn. There are few others who would fit that description. I can’t remember the names of the other two, but they’re unimportant. I think the largest reward will be for you. Large enough, in fact, for me to reform my company. What do you think of that?”

  Lynan glared at the man, saying nothing.

  Prado sighed, extracted a small knife from behind his belt buckle and leaned across. Lynan tried to pull away. “Bazik,” Prado said, and the man holding him placed one strong hand behind his neck and used the other to cover his mouth. Lynan struggled even harder, but the second man now came and stood in front of him and punched him once under the diaphragm. All the wind in his lungs exploded from him, and his eyes watered in shock and pain.

  Prado smiled disarmingly as he placed the point of his knife against Lynan’s jaw, just in front of his right ear. “Rendle did not say in what condition you were to be given him, only that you were to be alive. This will teach you to answer questions from your betters.”

  Lynan’s head exploded with excruciating agony as the small knife bit deep and dug across his jaw in a line to his chin. His cry was stifled by the hand across his mouth.

  “In the old days, when I was a slaver and not a captain, I would not have marked my merchandise in so visible a place. But I have to admit it was satisfying doing that to the son of Elynd Chisal.” Prado wiped the knife on his boot and tucked it back behind his belt. “Think of this as your initiation into adulthood. Welcome to a life of pain, although in your case it sadly looks like being a short life.” He pulled out a kerchief and wiped at the blood streaming down Lynan’s throat and neck, then forced it into Lynan’s hand. “Keep it against the cut. It will serve until we have more time to do a better job.”

  Lynan closed his eyes and desperately tried to overcome the pain threatening to make him pass out.

  Prado nodded curtly to the man holding Lynan, and he yanked his prisoner to his feet.

  “Keep quiet,” Bazik whispered in his ear, “or Jes will cut you again.”

  Prado led the way out of the inn, the other two taking Lynan. It was raining outside, and the shock of the cold made Lynan gasp. Blood and water ran down his shirt. He was pushed and dragged around the side of the inn where three horses were tied to wall stakes; full saddlebags and swords hung from their saddles.

  Prado held Lynan by his hair. “You can make this ride easy on yourself. You do what you’re told and you’ll be reasonably comfortable, but cross me and I’ll match your new scar on the other side of your face and you’ll be dragged behind like a legless dog on a lead.” He patted Lynan’s head and laughed. “Don’t look so bloody miserable, boy, things will get a lot worse than this for you before your life is over.”

  “What about his friends?” Aesor asked.

  “Too many for us to take on by ourselves. This is our prize.” Prado mounted one of the horses and put an arm out for Lynan. Lynan hesitated and he was punched in the kidneys for his trouble. Strong hands hooked under his armpits and lifted him behind Prado. “Hold on, Your Highness; you don’t want to fall off.”

  The other two mounted their horses. Prado gave a hand signal and the party moved silently out to the main street and then north headlong into the rain, the sound of their passing lost in the night.

  Chapter 20

  It had been as unexpected as it had been desired. Areava and Sendarus had been in her bedchamber discussing a future that might include the two of them together. Neither had mentioned the marrying of royal houses, or the combined destiny of two great peoples; it had been about making one life out of two, about having children, about growing old together. And then, as if predestined by God, the talk had turned to holding and passionate kissing, and finally to making love.

  Afterward, when Sendarus lay sleeping with his head across her belly, she had felt the Keys of Power glowing with a bright warmth between her breasts. She traced a finger along his spine, his neck and cheek, and kissed him lightly on his forehead, then gently moved his head aside and left their bed.

  She wrapped herself in a cloak and went to the window to look out over her city and her kingdom. She was not sure what it was she was searching for—a sign perhaps—but she was content to see that everything lay still under the moon and stars. It made her feel as if the universe had expected what had happened between her and Sendarus, and accepted it as part of some destiny. She turned back to her bed and silently watched her lover sleeping on, his mouth curved in the slightest of smiles, and then she saw her blood on the sheets. She was surprised there was so much, and then felt the stickiness between her own thighs.

  Perhaps all great things begin with blood, she thought. Love and birth and death. And new reigns.

  A breeze stroked the nape of her neck and she shivered. It felt like the caress of a cold hand.

  Olio knew as soon as he saw his sister the next morning. He did not say anything to her but watched her and Sendarus closely during their breakfast together. The habits they had fallen into as a courting couple were still there, but changed with a new knowledge of each other. Olio wondered who else would know. Areava’s ladies-in-waiting, of course, which meant the whole court would hear the news before the end of the day. That made up his mind for him. When the plates had been cleared, Olio leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” she asked, clearly pleased.

  Olio did not answer but smiled knowingly at the couple. Sendarus blushed.

  “Is it that obvious?” Areava asked. Olio nodded. “Then it is just as well it happened with a prince,” she said dryly.

  “Indeed,” Olio said. He licked his lips, and asked carefully: “Are you intending to go further?”

  Areava and Sendarus said “Yes” at the same time.

  “And when will you m-m-make
a formal announcement?”

  “We had not discussed that,” Sendarus said.

  “It is something we cannot decide by ourselves,” Areava said, and sighed. “We are of royal blood. Our engagement and wedding will be state occasions. Our love is ours alone, but our marriage will be a public affair. As well, the coronation is next week. One thing at a time.”

  “The Twenty Houses will not like the news,” Olio pointed out.

  “Good,” Areava said simply.

  “They will accommodate themselves, surely?” Sendarus asked, still surprised the royal family had not the unstinting support of the nobility. His father, with less power and authority among his own people than Areava among hers, would nonetheless never tolerate open dissent; he would force the issue and decide it in his favor, as always.

  Areava exchanged glances with Olio. “Since I have no intention of accommodating them, they will have to.”

  “Softly, sweet sister,” Olio advised. “They are still recovering from your ascension.”

  “As am I,” she said stiffly, her brown eyes hardening. “But they must learn the kingdom’s welfare comes before their own.”

  “And again I say, softly. You have p-p-problems in the north, and can do without new p-p-problems here in Kendra as well.”

  “Haxus?” Sendarus asked. “I have not heard of this.”

  “Nothing has happened yet,” Areava told him. “But reports from our posts in Hume indicate Haxus is moving troops to our common border. King Salokan has tried nothing yet, but may before the coronation.”

  “The coronation would be a good time to announce the engagement,” Olio suggested. “Tomar and Charion will b-b-be here. And your father, Sendarus. It would m-m-make it a double celebration.”

  Areava nodded. “That makes sense. If it is to be a political event, then we must use it to best political advantage. The Twenty Houses may not like the news, but the provinces will be pleased.”

  “It would have been simpler had I been a scion of one of your Twenty Houses,” Sendarus said lightly.

  “Then you would not be with me now,” Areava said tartly. Sendarus was taken aback by the change in her voice. She reached out and took his hand. “Forgive me. But I find little in my uncles and cousins that amuses me.”

  Duke Holo Amptra found little about his niece, the queen, that amused him. He sat on a stone seat in his garden watching the birds in the trees bicker and fight, swoop and peck. It reminded him of the Twenty Houses and their relationship with the Rosethemes.

  If only Usharna had had a brother, none of the Houses’ present troubles would exist. She would never have ascended to the throne, and the Keys of Power would not have been held all together in the hands of a woman. It was not right that so much power be concentrated in a single person.

  For a brief moment he had believed everything had been put right with Berayma’s ascension to the throne. But then that hybrid spawn of Usharna, the despised Lynan, like his father before him, had struck at the core of the Twenty Houses. The fact that Lynan had drowned while trying to escape made up little for the crime he had committed. But at least Lynan had been a true son of Kendra, unlike this foreign prince who had so easily—so casually—plucked the new queen as if she was nothing more than ripe fruit. It seemed to Holo that things were going from bad to worse, and he prayed with heart and soul that on his death his son would come into his inheritance in a world put right again.

  He saw Galen enter their grand house and a moment later appear in the garden.

  “You were not at the palace for long,” Holo said.

  “No need to. Everyone is talking about it. The rumors are true. Areava and Sendarus are to marry.”

  “When will they announce it?”

  “Probably at the coronation. That is what I would do.”

  “It must be stopped.”

  Galen shook his head. “It cannot be stopped. We can do nothing against Areava. Grenda Lear has suffered enough shocks the last few weeks, and Salokan will need little excuse to try his hand against the kingdom.”

  “Then those rumors about Haxus are true as well?”

  Galen sat down next to his father. “I think we will soon be at war.”

  “You realize what will happen if the marriage does go ahead and there is issue.”

  “Yes. The royal line will be separated from the Twenty Houses, perhaps forever. Once Areava marries someone not of us, a precedent has been set.”

  “It is disastrous.”

  “Perhaps not, father.”

  Holo looked up at his son in surprise.

  “Perhaps, father, what the royal line needs is new blood. Perhaps including the kingdom’s other royal houses in our own royal line is best for Grenda Lear.”

  “We made the kingdom,” Holo argued, his voice almost pleading. “It is the Twenty Houses who have always provided the kingdom’s rulers, who have united almost all of Theare under one crown. We have not failed yet.”

  “Our family failed in one thing; our loyalty to the crown.”

  Holo turned his face away. “That was a long time ago. My brother was punished for his crime.”

  “But not the Twenty Houses. We all let him thrive, Father. He was our responsibility.”

  “This is not something I wish to discuss. It has been kept a secret for many years now.”

  “But we cannot afford to forget.”

  Holo sighed deeply. “You think Areava should marry this Amanite?”

  “No. But I do not think I have the right to stop it. None of us do. And more pressure from us would only further determine Areava along her course.”

  “Then we are lost.”

  Galen shook his head. “Nothing is ever completely lost.”

  “The Rosethemes would put a rabbit warren to shame, and Marin’s family is little better.”

  “I have no doubt of the couple’s ability to have children. But royalty is vulnerable and always seeking support. We must bide our time and, when our support is called for, step back into our rightful place in the shield wall. We must win back our influence, not force it on Areava. You know how she will react.”

  “So again we must wait.”

  “Yes, but perhaps not for long. War has a habit of uniting the great families behind their rulers, and of binding rulers to their great families.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Primate Northam had heeded the urgent message from one of his priests in the city. It was a wet, blustery day, and his cloak did little to protect him from the weather as he made his way cautiously down cobblestone alleyways made treacherous with rain. He found it ironic that on those days when weather made poor lives even more miserable, the old quarters of the city where most of the poor lived looked at its best. Under a bright sun the leaning, two-story oak-and-clinker-board houses appeared faded and dark, but rain made the wood and peeling whitewash glisten, temporarily giving them the illusion of newness and even a kind of gaiety.

  There were three chapels in this quarter, and Northam prayed he was heading for the right one. It had been some time since he had last personally inspected them. The rain forced him to keep his gaze downcast and he almost passed by the chapel sign. He knocked on the door and hurried in as soon as it was open. He threw back the cowl of his cloak and immediately smelled the stained wood of the pews, a bitter smell that always reminded him of his childhood. In the background he could also smell porridge cooking, and he heard the voices of people chatting in the kitchen. Certainly nothing seemed awry.

  The priest who let him in took his cloak. He was smiling.

  “Your message said it was a matter of utmost urgency,” Northam said. He pretended to look around. “I see no emergency.” The voices from the kitchen broke into laughter. “I certainly hear no emergency.”

  The priest did not look remotely apologetic. “Believe me, your Grace, it is an emergency. Please come into the kitchen.”

  Trying to look patient rather than cross, Northam followed the priest down the hallway, through the chapel proper and int
o a brightly lit room. He smelled more than porridge now. Cider and bacon, as well, and fresh bread. The priest had two guests. The primate cursorily inspected their faces and then froze.

  “P-p-primate Northam!” Prince Olio stood to greet him. “How wonderful you could join us.”

  “We will make a merry company,” Prelate Edaytor Fanhow said, rising as well and shuffling sideways along his bench seat to make way for the newcomer, something made difficult by the prelate’s girth.

  “Your Highness! I had no idea! And Prelate Fanhow!” He looked at the priest, who was grinning from ear to ear. “This is a surprise…”

  “God’s teeth, Father, sit down,” Olio ordered, and waved at the space Edaytor had made for him. The primate did as he was instructed. “We have a wonderful p-p-plan to help those in Kendra, but it needs your cooperation and… well, silence.”

  “My cooperation and silence, your Highness?” he asked. The priest placed a spoon and an iron bowl filled with porridge still bubbling with heat in front of him. Northam tried to hide his discomfort. He felt like a rabbit who had been invited to tea with a wolf. He looked up at Olio’s smiling face. Well, a genial wolf, perhaps, but were they not the worst kind?

  “Eat your p-p-porridge, man,” Olio commanded. “Edaytor and I want to set up a hospice.”

  Northam gingerly tasted the porridge. It had been laced with honey and made him feel warm inside. He swallowed a whole spoonful. He had forgotten how good porridge could taste, especially on a cold, wet day. “A hospice? Where?”

  “Right here,” Edaytor said. “This is the largest of your chapels in the old quarter.”

  “But who would run it?”

  “Ah, that’s where you come in,” Olio said. “We need an extra cleric. Or a lay servant if you can spare one.”

  “Your Highness, forgive me. As much as I admire your wish to help the poor of Kendra, one priest cannot do much by himself, especially for the seriously ill. You need surgeons for that, and in the whole of Kendra there is only one with any skill and that is Trion, and he already does what he can at his own hospice.”