Waylaid looked up at the sun, shining down through the light tower. The floor overhead was much higher now, easily twice the height of a Fomor. The light was directed onto the floor, where it bounced off the white glazed tiles and shone on the baths themselves. Two were heated, though their fireboxes were set low in the midst of summer, and two were cold, for washing off after steam. Of course, there was a steam room adjacent; the steam poured out of the south side room and was drawn up the light tower like smoke up a chimney.
A lovely young Fomor woman came in through the archway to the east. Her hair was a wave of black curls cascading down the back of her robe like a spill of ink on the thick white fabric. She smiled at him, removed her belt and took off her over robe. Waylaid looked around for Seth, but he was shining his lantern at the arch to the west, strangely still in the dark.
She handed her robe and belt to the servant, demurely keeping on her loincloth, and stepped toward the steam rooms.
“Will you be joining me in the bath, my lord?” she asked.
He couldn’t help admiring the view. He hadn’t seen a proper woman in more than five years. Her skin was a smooth and even brown. This priest’s daughter had clearly never been darkened and splotched by the sun as he had. Her eyes were dark and outlined with black ink to be even more dramatic; a slight dot of red was on each cheek, the mark of a priestess, a woman of his own caste.
She turned, showing off her breasts to him, lifting her arm in the attitude of a question, of which she knew the answer. Breasts were a common enough sight in a Fomor household that a proper gentleman should hardly notice, but after all this time among uncivilized folk, he found his breath quickening. She smiled, and with the knowing look of the seductress, she knew she had him.
Waylaid cleared his throat, his arm confusedly moving between the signs for kind regard and painful regret.
“I need to keep moving, oh most beautiful of women, but I shall endeavor to keep that assignation in the near future.”
“You are most kind,” she said. “As disappointed as I am that you’ll not be joining me, I may allow you to make amends in the future. So, on that account, I’ll tell you that the stable is right through there.” She pointed at the eastern arch, then stepped into the steam room.
The servant stepped up to Waylaid and asked him, “Master Waylaid, what are you doing?”
He turned to face the man, blinking away the dust or cobweb that had temporarily obscured his vision. The Fomor servant faded away, leaving a Daen warrior priest.
“I’m wondering why I’m not in the steam room with a beautiful woman.”
“I suspect,” said Seth, “that it might be because we don’t have a steam room, or possibly because neither one of us are beautiful women.”
Waylaid blinked, and again, and realized that he was standing in a cold damp cellar, with no indication of any steam and no openings on any walls. There was a pain inside, a dislocation between the vision and the reality, as though he was almost in two places at once. It faded, and he felt the solidity of the world around him again.
He walked over to the eastern wall and saw the lines of the arch there; huge blocks of stone made the arch while smaller blocks filled the inside.
“What is on the other side of this wall?” Waylaid asked.
“Huh?” Seth thought about it for a few moments, “I guess that would be the stable.”
“Is there anyone blocking the stable?”
“How would I know?” said Seth, and there was a moment of quiet while Waylaid looked at him, appraisingly.
“Obviously,” Waylaid said, “by looking.”
Seth twisted his lip and bit back an argument, then he jogged back up the stairs and out of the trap door into the kitchen. Waylaid looked about the room, finding a long pole and a small copper hammer. The hammer was of Fomor make and had been here a long time, long before the Judge’s Library was laid on top of the original Fomor foundations. It was old and had likely been discarded as often as it had been picked up, but this job was perfect for it.
He laid the pole against a stone at shoulder height and rapped the end with the hammer. The brick popped out. Waylaid looked through, into a stall for a pony. It had backed against the far gate and looked quite alarmed at the sudden motion of the previously stable, stable wall.
It turned from him and kicked out against the stall door. The pony was pale gray with a thick black stripe down its back. It pranced heavily around the small stall, tiny dark eyes staring balefully at the back wall through its black mask. Waylaid could see that the small stallion’s coat was more worn across its chest than its back.
Good, thought Waylaid, that is a chariot pony, and exactly what I was going to need next.
Seth scrambled down the incline to the stairs, quickly rejoining Waylaid, as he knocked a second brick from the wall.
“Its clear, old half-hand said that he would keep everyone out of it, but what are you going to do?”
It seemed obvious to Waylaid, but he spelled it out.
“I am going to leave by way of the stable, in a chariot that you will hitch to a matched pair of ponies.”
Seth nodded and grimaced at the great load of brick that stood between Waylaid and the exit he planned.
“Is there another hammer?” he asked. “I could work on this side for a while.”
Waylaid looked at him and placed a hand in each of the spaces left by the bricks.
“You must understand, these arches upon which the Library stands were built by Fomor. The master builder intended this, a lowly bathing room, to last for a thousand years. Each block of his construction weighs roughly the same as I do and there is little we could do to shift even a single block today. This part of the wall here, the brickwork filling in the center of the arch, was done by Ruad bricklayers and their Bolg slaves. For the Ruad these are stones of a great size, for you these stones appear to be sturdy bricks, but for me they are nothing but child toys, rocks that I might skip across a stream.”
The hole he had made on the left was just smaller than his hand; Waylaid stuck his fingers in and wiggled out one of the bricks. He lifted it, to show it to Seth, who nodded.
“Yes, that is a brick. What of it?” Seth asked.
Waylaid held the brick delicately in both hands, twisted, and it shattered across the center.
“Dust, a bit of clay and some hay. Construction that might have been done by a child but hardly the quality of this arch.” He rubbed his left hand across the heavy stones that arced above the wall he had begun to break. “I wish I knew this builder. He was one of the ancients, and he built a work of art.”
He put his fingers into the two handholds he had broken through and spread his feet. Gripping the wall, he braced his legs and pushed against the wall. A ripple started at his calves and grew to a wave in his back; his arms shoved. He gave the wall a mighty shake. The wall puffed dust. Waylaid took a deep breath and shook it a second time. The wall cracked down the center. On the third shake the Ruad bricks pulled away from the original Fomor stonework on the sides of the arch, and the wall began to slump. Waylaid pushed, throwing his weight against the wall, and it fell into the stable in a rumble of masonry.
Waylaid stepped across it, and was quickly followed by Seth. The giant quieted the stallion, which was starting to get upset. Waylaid had a firm and quiet hand with beasts, so it did not scream. The mouse-gray pony was about the height of a Ruad’s shoulder. With Waylaid it looked like a big dog, and quickly enough seemed as happy as a puppy to be under his hands.
There were six chariots shoved against the right hand wall resting on their backs with their shafts pointed at the ceiling above. Seth jumped and grabbed the crossbar, which nearly touched the ceiling. It fell with him attached, and he landed running backwards. The chariot rolled to the center of the room. He looked back at Waylaid’s catch and decided on a big gelding from one of the left hand stalls. This one was a dark gray, and thicker across the shoulders than the stallion.
“Your cat
ch there is a fighter.” Seth explained. “This lad here is quiet, but a worker. He’s the only one who can match the stallion, but it’s a good choice if they have to pull the two of us.”
Seth found the breast plates on a stand near the entrance and buckled them over the horses’ chests. Grabbing their leads, he efficiently harnessed the two ponies to the crossbar at the end of the shaft.
Waylaid carefully sat down in the chariot and pushed himself backward till his back was braced by the front wall, facing out the rear. Most of the chariot was made of woven slats like a basket, but there was a frame under all of it which gave it shape. His rump filled the end of the cart, and even sitting, his head stuck above the shield wall of the chariot. He could have rested his arms on the high shields, but he leaned forward to get below the chariot walls and out of view. It was good concealment, but it gave Seth very little space to stand.
The frame of the chariot was bent oak staves, which gave solid handholds for the driver, rider, and the tall spears which usually stood above the driver, to display his war banner. Seth looked at the rack of chariot weapons and banners, but decided that it was better to just try to sneak the chariot out the gates.
He cracked the whip, and the matched ponies gave a start. Fast as a shot from a bow, they pulled the chariot the length of the stable. Seth ran along behind, grabbing at the chariot’s spear rack for speed. The ponies had run this many times before, if less heavily loaded, so they turned up the ramp to the Eastern Way without command. Seth put his shoulder to the back, helping the overloaded chariot up the ramp. He had to duck his head to avoid the overhang as the ponies trotted out onto the side road, but he grabbed the spear rack with both hands to avoid being left behind.
“Coming through, coming through,” Seth shouted, jogging behind the chariot, and the crowd parted before him. In bare moments, they had coursed the chariot from the stable to the end of the Eastern Way. Seth shouted, “Cha cha,” and the ponies dragged the chariot in a hard right turn onto East Gate Road, heading toward the gate. Seth took a running step and was starting to leap onto the tailgate when the ponies hit a clear point in the crowd and started to run.
Seth cursed his luck and took two huge running steps. A small man in the crowd stepped wrong and collided with him. Seth nearly fell, his legs sliding out beneath him, his right hand barely holding to the side of the chariot. Waylaid reached out a hand and pulled him in.
The crowd, turning to the disturbance, saw Waylaid sitting in the chariot, head plain as sunrise to everyone in eyeshot. He smiled at them, a frightening rictus of a grin that wouldn’t charm a doddering fool. Silence spread from them, as the crowd witnessed their escape.
Seth set his feet on either side of the chariot, bracing his legs against the outer rail and hooking them under the chariot straps. He caught up the whip and reins. “Apa, apa,” he shouted, and the ponies moved faster, pulling at the overloaded chariot with a will. A shout went up to stop them from escaping, but the people on the East Gate Road cleared the center of the road to open a path for a Daen chariot. They weren’t involved, but they knew that blocking a Daen chariot could easily mean death.
As they outdistanced their pursuers, Seth asked, “Why in the Blessed Mother’s name did you show yourself?”
“I couldn’t have them in the Library, could I? They might harm the scrolls.” Waylaid smiled. “So I figured I would lead them out of the gates.”
Seth shook his head in disbelief, as the crowd chased after the fleeing chariot.
CHAPTER 5 THE HALL OF THRONES
Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty-Seven of King Cail’s Reign
What a mighty beast, that hound I lead,
Full match for a man, in the mightiest deeds;
Skin like an ox hide, Voice a battle cry,
Awake o my foes, thy death is nigh!
- The Scroll of Warlord Lugh of Gorias
Master Keynan knew he was late again, but it hurt his head too much to jog. He looked up to where the top of the grove could be seen above the high white walls from outside East Gate. He was supposed to be there, under the pillars, supporting Aunt Brea. She might need his support today, there was something malevolent going on and she was sure to get mixed up in it. Keynan felt a sense of paranoia, like someone was watching him, or maybe it was just his hangover.
The pillars of the Holy Grove could barely be seen from outside the walls, but inside they were immense, ten times the height of a man. You could also see the palace from outside the gates, but it was at the top of the hill. From the turn onto East Gate Road, it sort of looked like the Ruad Palace sat on top of the Blessed Folk’s Holy Grove. There might be something symbolic in that. Nothing else in Ard was near as large. From outside, Ard appeared to be a wall, some wooden pillars, and a white palace topped with shining brass shingles.
Keynan pushed his way through the crowd at East Gate with the morning near half-sun. His morning headache kept him from moving at more than a fast walk, and he lived halfway around the Dragon-damned city and out into the woods. At least they had gotten the main gate open by the time he was there, though the press of the crowd in the wall door was painful.
The wall door was made so that a single Ruad could pass through, with head bowed. If the main gate wasn’t open, Keynan had to crouch, nearly on his knees, to get through the wall. With the main gate open, the only problem was the slow plodding pace of the ox cart in front of him, moving up East Gate Road to the palace.
It was only a hundred paces farther down East Gate Road to the Holy Grove. It wasn’t living trees, like in a traditional grove, just giant logs standing in the ground. The branches had been stripped from them, but they were woven into an awning high overhead. He considered working his way under the shade of the grove, as the crowd and the sun were heating him up. But the crowd looked like more of a press than he wanted to deal with, so he pushed his thin frame around the crowd, taking the long route around the grove to the ovens.
He was wearing the traditional green-dyed hard-wool Forest Master vest over his long linen undershirt. The dark green hood and mantle rested on his shoulders. The sleeves and leggings were tied onto the edges of the vest, but he hadn’t bothered putting his arms and legs into them, so they flopped about like extra limbs. His work clothes were made of hard-rolled and sheep-oil dipped wool felt. They were stiff and a bit uncomfortable in the sun, but for a life lived nearly entirely outdoors and under the constant affection of the dogs, little else would stand up.
The hounds loved him and he loved the outdoors, but such things led to scratches and nips that could easily get infected; better to have a cup of wine and toast your good health than complain about a little sweat. His clothes were clean at least, well, mostly clean. He had washed them in the stream yesterday morning, when he went for a swim.
Keynan had worked the dogs all yesterday afternoon. The dogs were in good shape, at least. They had enjoyed their dinner of milk gravy and hard biscuits. He had run the dozen of them for half the afternoon, and they had slept through dawn for once. Baby Blue was finding anything, no matter how he moved it or hid it. That half-grown bitch was a wonder.
He had laid down a lure, dragging the pelt of a wolf behind the chariot for half an afternoon. He had expected the dogs wouldn’t have it tracked till nightfall, but by the time he had returned the chariot to the Library, collected his wine and…
Wait, he thought, I did get a loaf of bread off that Ruad girl.
Memories came flooding back of the previous night. There had been a drum and a horn and a pretty girl and, by the Good Father’s Mighty Manhood, a fine reason to be up late. Though, perhaps, Aunt Brea wouldn’t approve. The Blessed Folk were famous for…cross-breeding…at every chance they got. But she might think that the royal line should abstain from that custom.
He wasn’t much of a prince. Royals were expected to be warlords, but he wasn’t much of a soldier and had only suffered the Mother’s Blessing once. Auntie Brea could call the Blessing every day, probably had when she was
at war. Her hair rose, her voice swelled, and her eyes went black. She went beyond swordsmanship into a region of power and perfection that only she could master.
The Blessing was draining, mentaly and physically. You couldn’t control yourself when you felt it, and you suffered the blindness and weakness when it passed. Nightmares still haunted him from the Bolg wars, ten years back, though a good cup of wine and some soft company dimmed them nicely.
It was hard to buy food for coin in Ard. Most food was handled through family and servants with careful and intricate trading arrangements. Servants, or Aunt Brea’s priests, knew what they owed to whom and handled food by the crate of eggs, barrel of milled wheat, or side of smoked pork. Spending a coin, even so much as a Bolg copper ring, required finding someone who had made extra and was willing to part with it.
While it might be hard to find someone to sell just any food in Ard, there was inevitably a Bolg boy selling bread by the ovens, especially in the mornings of court. The boy was willing to take two rings for a loaf, and the guard by the gate stood him a cup of wine and a jug of water for half a loaf. He walked a pass behind Aunt Brea’s throne; the crowd knew him for a member of the court, so they tended to let him through.
It was cooler in the grove. The shade was nice, though the press of the crowd made it a lot less comfortable. Mistress Brea was listening to a case; the poetry was good, the timing and inflection good. It was a poem from the Nuada series, not a bad one either. But storytelling is an art form, and this fellow clearly hadn’t grasped a lot of the nuance of how a man should present that poem.
Still, always good to hear a good poem. The man immediately went on to something boring though, so Keynan slipped away. He’d never been much interested in war stories. By the time he found his post by the gates, the morning was well past half over and court was nearer the end than the beginning. Well, he made it for part of court, and there hadn’t been a riot. That was close enough to doing his job for his measure.
If anyone had wanted him, they would have found him. Even among the Daen, his own people, he was considered tall. In the courtyard, with its crowd of mostly Ruad and Bolg, he was like a giant. His grandfather Lugh was half-Fomor and his great-grandfather had been a king among the giants. But Fomor are big and square with dark skin and dark hair; he was light of hair, pale of skin, and thin enough to be mistaken for a Ruad, at a distance. Apparently, some of the Ruad girls found that attractive. The fact that he was twice as big, in the important places, as any Ruad didn’t hurt either.
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