Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “He has indeed, Your Grace.” The chamberlain bowed from where he stood at the foot of the throne’s dais. “I had him quartered and fed until you were available.”

  Sathra stepped over to the window and peered down. A line of coaches moved through the courtyard below, pausing at the base of the keep’s staircase to collect members of the peerage. As pleasant as it had been to see them genuflect to her, she was pleased to see them leave. “Bring him now.”

  The chamberlain sent a liveried servant from the throne room with a glance and a gesture of his hand. Silence descended, broken by the faint breathing from the Royal Guard, the chamberlain, and the three nobles.

  Creaking leather preceded Urzgeth’s arrival. The huntsman’s supple leather coat stirred around his legs, the silver beads threaded through his long hair and coarse beard glittering. A broadsword’s thick hilt swung at his left hip and a quiver of arrows from his right; a black, polished longbow was slung across his back.

  Alyse drew a sharp breath at the sight of the Dushken. Marcus feigned surprise well, Sathra noted; his eyes widened a believable amount as his lips parted, but his pupils did not contract and the pulse beating in the hollow behind the curve of his jaw remained steady.

  She almost regretted never thanking Ankara for teaching her how to read people.

  “Urzgeth is the alpha of the finest Dushken pack in the whole of Anahar,” the grand duchess said as the huntsman came to her side. “I have had his pack, as well as three others, scouring the castle, the city, and the immediate vicinity. Two individuals were taken prisoner and executed the day of the murder, accomplices who made it possible for the assassins to infiltrate the keep.”

  “So, there were others?” Marcus asked.

  Urzgeth gave a curt nod. “Fourteen. Five took refuge in a village a day east of Feinthresh. They, and those who sheltered them, have been dealt with.”

  Alyse’s face paled. “A whole village?”

  Sathra favored her mother with a heavy-lidded look before focusing on the Dushken alpha. “I will tolerate no assassins in our midst, nor will I abide the disloyalty from which such plots may spring. Reprisal will be swift. What of the others?”

  “We have lost them for the moment,” the huntsman said, the complex weave of runes branded into his forehead shifting as his brow furrowed. “The five we caught parted company from the others, but could not tell us where the remainder intended to travel. We found little fresh sign, but I suspect they traveled north.”

  Marcus folded his hands behind his back and rocked on his toes. “A tough journey. If I recall my maps aright, the north of Anahar is mountainous. The Tauernen Mountains join with the Laithach range, do they not?”

  Alyse nodded. “The Sheranath Marches lay to the north, encompassing several valleys and peaks along Reesenat’s southern border. However, I can think of no reason the Reesenat would dare strike against Anahar; our borders have been relatively peaceful.”

  Sathra lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “More likely it is that a band of commoners decided they did not like their place in society. It does happen.”

  “By your leave, Your Grace, we will hunt down the remainder and kill them.”

  Doubt was evident on Marcus’s face as the Meridan faced Urzgeth. “Can you catch them? They have near a fortnight on you. Surely they have escaped through the mountains and are safely in Reesenat or even Caledorn. If they are not, and winter comes to the mountains here as it does in Merid, then they are as good as dead.”

  “We will catch them,” Urzgeth growled, baring the yellowing teeth in his elongated jaw.

  “Then go,” Sathra commanded. She held up her forefinger as a thought struck her. “Kill the rest, but bring back the ones responsible for Ankara’s death. I wish to make them suffer for their crimes.”

  Chapter 48

  “We’re out of food. It’s been three days since anyone has had more than a handful of berries, and we’re not finding a whole lot of those anymore,” Rathus said softly.

  Brenna chewed her lower lip. “It’s too risky. You don’t understand how dangerous it is to walk up to a door and knock on it.”

  “Minstrels aren’t always welcome. I’ve had my fair share of unhappy greetings.”

  “This is more dangerous than being chased off with a club.”

  “How?” Rathus asked, his voice rising as he threw his arms wide. He lowered his voice at Groush’s warning rumble. “We’re in a forest in the middle of the damned mountains. We’ve avoided anything resembling a road ever since those five left us. It’s been five days since we last saw any signs of habitation.”

  Brenna glared at Rathus and wrapped her arms around herself. Tristan knew it was from the chill – their breath hung in front of their faces with each word spoken – and for self-comfort. “It is too dangerous.”

  “Again, how?”

  “Dushken,” Groush said. The bull leaned against a pine, arms folded across his bare chest beneath a tattered quilt draped over his shoulders.

  Rathus frowned, his shoulders hunching. He had scoffed when the huntsmen were mentioned, dismissing them as a bogie story told to scare children into behaving. His opinion changed when Groush knocked him down and bared his elongated canines and sharp, pointed incisors within a handspan of the bard’s nose. “They couldn’t have found us so quickly. We’ve wandered every which way, even backtracking to confuse our trail.”

  The Hillffolk ran his hand through his wild hair. “They will find us in time. No need to make it easier by leaving a trail of people who have seen us.”

  “Can we be sure they’ll be sent? Look at us – a handful of ragged nobodies. The only thing we’d be a danger to is a meal.”

  Tristan sighed and shook his head. “They’re right, Rathus. Sathra had little love for Ankara, but she must avenge her death. Being seen is too dangerous.”

  The bard’s frown deepened. He had dismissed their claims that the grand duchess was a centuries-old woman recreating herself as her own daughter in some elaborate ruse. The young man sympathized; until he saw the Dushken for himself and witnessed Ankara’s magic, he had not believed either. It was odd to think of himself as more worldly when dealing with an older, more experienced man.

  “We don’t have much choice,” Rathus said, reverting to the original discussion. “I may have lost a little weight, and Groush looks as healthy as any normal man, but you look a fright. You need food and a warm place to sleep, or you will sicken.”

  Tristan wrapped himself in his ragged cloak. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Perhaps. What about the others? We’ve traveled harder than they are capable, particularly without food.”

  The young man glanced over his shoulder to the five remaining escapees. Two men, Deshan and Rashek, huddled in their threadbare clothes and blankets, their pale and half-starved faces shadowed with ragged beards. They at least had boots; the three young women with them – Sahra, Nisha, and Esra – had been too small for those taken from the soldiers killed in the dungeons. Nisha was the healthiest of the lot, but her pinched expression showed her exhaustion. Sahra, confined within the dungeons longer than the other four, verged on collapse; she had no stockings, and the cold rocks and rough terrain had torn her feet.

  As much as concerns about leaving a trail to follow were valid, Rathus was also correct. The Hillffolk – and Brenna as well – had been adamant that they rest little and travel fast. Five had balked at running through the wilderness, deciding to travel east toward the towns from which they had come. She was convinced they had been caught, and the fear in her voice every time they slowed or were forced to rest kept them moving as fast as their feet could carry them.

  “What are you looking at me for?” Tristan asked, realizing Rathus, Groush, and Brenna watched him expectantly.

  “It was your determination that got us out of those dungeons,” Rathus said.

  “I got us out,” Brenna bristled, giving Rathus a sharp look, “but they trust you. If you say go, they’ll go until they fall ov
er. If you say stay, they won’t move another foot no matter how much I protest.”

  Groush grunted, wry humor in his voice. “She’s right. You’re stupid, but you listen. We’ve told you what we think.”

  “I don’t want to be the one making the decisions.”

  “Who said want has anything to do with anything?”

  Tristan sighed and scrubbed his hands through his ragged mop of hair, and glowered at the cottage visible through the trees. Windows glowed with candle and firelight, and smoke rose from the stone chimney. It was a small, rude place, the roof of both the house and barn simple thatch. A crude pen held several sheep, their fleece thickening as the year slid into autumn. He could hear but not see several cows lowing. “We need food and some decent sleep, and if possible, warmer clothes. I’d rather beg for what we need than steal it.”

  Brenna sighed at his decision. “Fine, but we should be gone before the sun is too high come morning. I think it would be wise to keep these people from knowing much about us should the Dushken track us here.”

  “Agreed.”

  Rathus scratched his thickening beard. “Let me speak to them. I look fractionally more presentable, and we don’t want to overwhelm them with nine people at their door. Perhaps I can buy the food with an evening of song.”

  “More likely a bowl of poison,” Groush said.

  The bard ignored the Hillffolk. “Wait until I get to the door, then make for the barn. If nothing else, I might distract them enough for the rest of you to find a few hours of sleep.”

  THE BARN WAS FAR SMALLER than Dorishad’s. Three penned cows chewed their cud and watched Tristan with disinterested eyes as he cracked the door open and peered within. Sleepy clucks came from a henhouse built into the back wall. The aroma of hay and dung struck him, and he gritted his teeth against a sudden stab of homesickness.

  Impatience nettled him as he glanced toward the cottage to be certain no one was coming. He had to admit Rathus sang well when the bard’s voice, at last, rose in song. Though he could not make out the words, he did not need to; the nobleman was singing loud enough to cover any noise from outside.

  He gave a trilling, three-note whistle. Nisha was the first to emerge from the evening shadows, blue eyes wide as she hurried across the bare ground and slipped past him into the barn. Nervously, he cast another glance at the cottage to reassure himself nothing was amiss. Rathus’s voice continued uninterrupted, so he whistled the three notes twice. Esra hurried across the open ground, her arm around Sahra’s back as the younger girl hobbled as fast as her bloody feet could carry her.

  Deshan and Rashek came next; the latter’s bootheel had parted from the leather and snapped with each hurried step. Brenna followed close on their heels; she froze as Rathus briefly stopped singing, then hurried on and slipped past Tristan without comment.

  Groush alone was unconcerned with being seen or heard. The bull strode across the uneven ground, neither hurrying nor taking his time.

  The barn was warm despite cold air slipping through small gaps between the walls’ wooden boards. Sahra wrapped herself in the blanket she had been using as a cloak and sank to the ground, hidden from view by baled hay; her torn feet prevented her from climbing the ladder leading to the space under the thatched roof. The others disappeared into the shadowy loft like ghosts, leaving Tristan, Groush, and Brenna on the ground.

  “I still don’t like this,” the Anahari woman whispered, slipping her satchel from her shoulders and laying it against the wall. She rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her thin coat to ward off the chill.

  “That has been well-established.” The young man dropped his rucksack to the ground beside hers. “What would you prefer? Running until we fall over? Or were you going to slip off into the bushes and catch us a rabbit or pheasant when we started fainting from hunger?”

  “I didn’t see you finding berries and roots.”

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying. All you’ve managed to gather the last couple of days is grass and leaves. You’ve found plenty of roots but said we couldn’t eat them, and you say the berries you found are poison. Planning a special soup?”

  Groush pushed between them as they resumed their bickering and hopped the gate to the cows’ pen. The animals shied as his boots hit the floor but settled as he made no move toward them. “Enough arguing. It is the right and wrong decision. No point in arguing now.”

  Brenna shoved her hands in her coat pockets. “A decision can’t be both right and wrong.”

  “It can be if it’s a necessary one.” Tristan wrapped himself in his cloak and squinted at her as he sat on a hay bale. “You’ve been edgy since we started heading north. If it is so dangerous, why go this way?”

  “Where would you have us go? East, toward the desert? We’d have had to cross the whole of Anahar and several mountain ranges; we’d have been caught in no time. South? Anahar has one port, and it is mostly fishing boats; even if we had had enough coin to bribe a fisherman to ferry us along the coast, we’d have been caught. Groush, and you with your hair, leading a group of half-starved Anahari would draw attention.” She broke off as something squirted against wood, and realized Groush squatted beside one of the cows with an empty bucket.

  “We could have gone west.”

  “Sathra would expect that. Heading to one of the three passes into Troppenheim is an obvious move. Patrols – and possibly Dushken – would be waiting for us.”

  “You could have gone off on your own.”

  “To where? I told you, I have nowhere to go, but I cannot stay in Anahar – and neither can you. For now, our paths lay in the same direction. North is not much of a better direction compared to the others, though. We’re in Sherantar lands – close kin to both Sathra and Ankara. Word will have reached them of Ankara’s assassination and Sathra’s coronation.”

  “Can you be certain she’ll take the throne?”

  “It’s what she was being trained for, even if it was as Ankara’s puppet.” The young woman startled as Groush’s arm came over the side of the gate and pressed a flask filled with milk against her shoulder. She took it and swallowed a mouthful before handing the flask to Tristan. “Though still dangerous, the north is the best choice for us to make. The Sheranath, Sherantar, and Sheranti Houses will be calling their levies; Sathra’s ascension will not go unchallenged. If we’re careful, we can slip north to Reesenat’s border or turn west and enter Troppenheim or Caledorn.”

  “Troppenheim,” Tristan said after a moment. He got to his feet as Groush handed over another milk-filled flask, then crouched beside Sarah and pressed it into her hands.

  “Why Troppenheim?” Brenna asked when he resumed his seat on the hay bale. She anticipated the next flask Groush pressed against her shoulder. She tightened the flask’s cap, then rapped her knuckles against one of the loft’s supports and tossed it up. Murmured thanks drifted down as the flask thumped against the loft’s floor.

  The young man rested his elbows on his knees and thought through the question. “Gwistain is still a prisoner in Anahar. Someone needs to go to Caer Ravvos to tell them. Going through Troppenheim is probably the fastest route there.”

  Groush paused in his milking and pat the cow’s side as she lowed her displeasure. “They have likely known for months and sent an envoy to negotiate his release.”

  “They were probably lied to or turned away if that’s true. Regardless, the prince’s information needs to be passed on.”

  The Hillffolk lifted a bushy eyebrow. “You think you know what Gwistain was sent to find out?”

  “He told me,” the young man said with a nod. “I believe Ankara was helping Merid prepare for an invasion.”

  “Ankara would never support Seban Terador,” Brenna said, her voice firm with conviction. She frowned as he cast her a skeptical frown. “I don’t know what the Ravvosi know of their history, but we Anahari take pride in ours. I assure you, Ankara would not ally with Seban Terador.”

  “Maybe not directly. If there is su
ch animosity between Anahar and Merid, why would one of the merchants be on such cordial terms with Sathra? I don’t think the man I met was a mere textile merchant, even if I saw enough Meridan blue fabric to clothe an army.”

  Silence stretched for several moments, broken by the sound of milk splashing into the last of the empty flasks Groush carried. The Hillffolk rose with a grunt, smacking the cow’s rump before screwing the flask’s top closed. He hopped the gate and took a seat next to Tristan. “Caer Ravvos is hundreds of miles away, but why should you go? If this Sathra thinks you know something, it’s better to disappear. You might blend in with the people of Reesenat, maybe even those of Caledorn.”

  “Let’s assume, for a moment, that you are right about an alliance. Groush is right – Sathra won’t let you escape with that information,” Brenna said. “She will have people watching the quickest ways west. Messengers will alert her embassies in Troppenheim and the kingdoms of the Hegemony to watch for you as well. You’ll be murdered before you ever get within sight of Caer Ravvos.”

  “For someone who spent eight years as a prisoner, you know a lot about what she will do.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “You still don’t trust me. I saved your damned life, and I’m trying to give you the best advice I can. How many times do I have to remind you I wasn’t born a prisoner? Until I found myself in the dungeons, I was as well-educated as any other Anahari – if not more so.”

  “More so? Who the hell are you, that you’d be better educated than other Anahari?”

  “The daughter of a man with a lot of books,” she said as she jammed her hands in her coat pockets.

  Groush rolled his eyes as they resumed their bickering, and clapped Tristan on the shoulder as he stood and moved toward the hen house built into the barn’s rear. “Remember what I said about you being stupid but at least listening? Forget the last part.”

  Tristan’s face twisted with annoyance – at himself, Brenna, or Groush, he could not be sure – and he opened his mouth to apologize. His teeth clicked together as Hillffolk rumbled a warning growl. Footsteps moved toward the barn, and bright yellow light slipped through gaps in the boards. Realizing he had not heard Rathus singing for quite some time, he cursed and gripped his sword’s hilt. He hoped he might be able to defend himself and the others despite his ignorance of how to use it.