Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  Even the very ground upon which she walked was a marvel. The road was neither the dirt of which all the roads in the north consisted, nor was it the gravel over which she’d walked many leagues once they’d crossed the sea. It consisted of a series of strangely regular stones that had been carefully placed in a pattern that rendered the surface smooth and very nearly flat. Such a road would never turn into a bog of mud when it rained or when the snows melted in the spring. But how could thousands, no, tens of thousands, of stones be laid so carefully and for such distances? It must have taken many men generations to make! And how had they made the stones so uniformly flat?

  She couldn’t understand how anyone could hope to find anything here in this vast unfamiliar sprawl. Brynjolf pointed out strange markings that apparently served to identify each building, but they all looked essentially the same to Fjotra, and it seemed that Brynjolf could make no more sense of them than she could. They were searching for the castle where the Comtesse de Domdidier was said to reside, but with whole rows of the strange castles extending for as far as the eye could see on either side of the road, how could they hope to find it?

  She noticed two green-liveried guards standing in front of a closed iron gate of the strange castle she and Brynjolf were passing. They appeared to be torn between staring at her and gawking at her brother. She felt self-conscious and aware of their impoverished appearance, so she pulled her stained cloak more closely about herself.

  Brynjolf, a powerful young man who stood more than a head taller than the larger of the two guards, stopped and placed his hand on his sword hilt before turning to address the men.

  “Where do the Comtesse Domdidier be?”

  The two Luteceans looked at each other in apparent surprise, as though they found it unbelievable that Brynjolf spoke Savondese.

  “The two of you are looking for the comtesse?”

  “Yes, I be Brynjolf Skulison. This be my sister. We come many leagues to see the great lady.”

  “You’re Dalarn, you are,” the taller guard said. “What business could a pair of ragged young reavers possibly have with the Comtesse de Domdidier?”

  Fjotra grabbed Brynjolf’s arm. She could feel his tensed muscles. He was not accustomed to being questioned by mere huscarles. She squeezed hard, but he took a deep breath and drew himself up. She kept squeezing until he finally glanced at her and, irritated, shrugged his arm out of her grasp.

  “What was that for?” he snapped in Dalarnsk.

  “Don’t be causing trouble, Bryn. Hold your tongue and be gentle,” she replied in the same language.

  He grimaced at her, but for now he was keeping his temper under control, and that was all that mattered. He reached into the leather bag he wore slung over his shoulder and produced a yellow scroll with a broken seal. “I be told to give this if anyone ask.”

  The taller guard took it from him, unrolled it, and showed it to the other guard, who whistled softly, then nodded at Bryn in a more respectful manner.

  “Do you see that jaunstone manor at the top of the hill there, on the right side?” The first guard pointed at a building about two hundred paces away. His companion rolled up the scroll and handed it back to Brynjolf.

  Fjotra thought she saw the building the guard was pointing at. It was a larger castle than most in the vicinity, although not so large as some they had seen in the heart of the city. Two very tall trees that were shaped almost like thick green masts stood at what looked like might be the gate to the comtesse’s residence. Its walls were made of yellow stone rather than the veined white rock from which most of the other castles had been built. Square red ornaments hung on either side of the big holes in the walls, giving it a bright and festive appearance.

  “I do see it. I thank you, sirs,” her brother said.

  Both men laughed. “We’re no sirs, boy,” the taller guard said. “But give our regards to the comtesse, will you?”

  “The honor be to me,” Brynjolf said solemnly, and he did his best to bow in the way her father’s man had taught them was common for nobles in the south.

  One of the guards appeared to turn red in unexpected pleasure of the compliment, and the other one experienced a sudden coughing fit, but they both bowed deeply to him in return.

  It seemed as if Hrolfstan had known what he was doing when he’d instructed them on how they should behave in Lutece. These Savoners were indeed a refined people, much dedicated to their strange and ritualistic etiquette.

  But then, unexpectedly, one of the guards blew her a kiss. Fjotra, not knowing what the proper response would be, could only manage to blush. Fortunately, Brynjolf had already turned toward the comtesse’s castle or he might well have forgotten himself and cleaved the offender’s skull in two.

  The walk uphill was arduous after what had already been a day spent on their feet. Fjotra found herself starting to sweat under the hot Southern sun. She clung to her brother’s arm and wished, not for the first time, that they had stolen some horses after beaching the longboat. It would have taken precious days from their travel and saved her feet the blisters that now turned every step into a momentary kiss of fire. But Hrolfstan had been firm, they were here as pleadants, not reavers, and they dared not risk any acts of theft or violence aimed at the very people from whom they hoped to obtain assistance.

  The comtesse’s castle was protected by a short, decorative wall outside it, but it had no gate, which made Brynjolf snort in disbelief, and it stood farther back from the stone road than it had looked when viewed from below.

  The grounds surrounding the building seemed false, as if the trees and bushes had been fashioned by some skilled artificer rather than grown from the ground, and a little path made of red stones that matched the color of the square ornaments, which she could now see were carved and painted wood, led to a fountain that stood between them and the two large doors of the front entrance. The leaping waters created a rainbow of light that shimmered and danced in the mist, and Fjotra, amazed by the leaping colors, clapped her hands with delight.

  “It’s just some kind of water magic,” Brynjolf said, seeing that she had fallen behind. “Come now, we had better hope she is to home. I don’t know what we shall do if she is not here.”

  “Or if she will not receive us.” Fjotra had been worrying about that since before they’d climbed aboard the snekkja to begin crossing the Small Sea. Why should a high-ranking Savoner noblewoman be willing to aid them, or even speak to them? What little they had to offer was unlikely to be of much interest to a southern woman who lived in a castle of yellow stone. What possible use would she have for raiding ships, swords, and fighting men?

  “She will receive us,” Brynjolf said grimly. “I promise you that, sister. The Comte has been true to his word, and his letter has seen us through every obstacle. It will not fail us now.”

  They rounded the fountain and came upon the comtesse’s guards. Bryn had to give up his sword to them, but then the men immediately recognized the stamp on the letter and escorted them through the broad red doors of the magnificent dwelling.

  Fjotra’s eyes fell upon a huge, high-ceilinged entry, which was chiefly decorated with the golden light that came in through the gaps in the walls. She caught her breath at the magnificence of it. Inlaid into the white stone floor was an image of the comtesse’s arms in blue and black and gold. She attempted to touch the edge of it with her battered sandle. But somehow her foot passed through it.

  Brynjolf laughed at her. “Turn around, Fjo. Do you see how that window matches the pattern? It’s a colored glass, and it is cleverly placed so that when the sun shines through it, it creates the image on the floor.”

  “How wonderful!” Fjotra breathed. “Is that what the holes in the walls are called?”

  “Windows?” Her brother laughed. “They’re not holes. Well, I suppose they are, really, but they’re covered with a hard glass you can see through. It is the same thing they use to make the goblets they drink from here.”

  “They’re be
autiful. Why don’t we put windows like this in our castles?”

  “The glass is easily broken. Much too easily. It would leave them indefensible. We make our enemies break through our walls. We do not dig the holes for them! These people are too soft. Lutece probably hasn’t seen a battle since Sigfrid Gold-mouth raided it with his three hundred ships.”

  Fjotra nodded, disappointed. How lovely it would be to have more light inside the grim towers of Raknarborg. What meager shafts permitted entry by the arrow slits were pathetic compared to this. Her eyes were drawn from the window to the sight of a beautiful woman with long red hair descending the broad, carpeted staircase from the landing above. This must be Comtesse de Domdidier, she thought. The woman wore a simple and unadorned blue gown, but it shimmered like the mist above the fountain, and the two gold bracelets she wore on her wrists looked substantial enough to gild a dozen breastplates.

  She looked younger than her twenty-six years. This, despite the fact that she had been widowed two summers past when the previous Duc d’Aubonne had fallen in battle against an army of marauding orcs. Some said the comtesse was a paramour of the king. Others whispered that she was the secret mistress of his unmarried heir, the Red Prince.

  The comtesse carried herself with the lazy certainty of a lioness, and while her dress covered most of her body, it left most of her white breasts exposed. And yet she was no dull-eyed whore, her gaze was clear and appeared to take in everything in an instant. The comtesse reached the bottom of the stairs, and their eyes met. Fjotra found herself quickly looking aside. The intense curiosity in the other woman’s green eyes was more than she could bear, and for some strange reason, she felt a sudden impulse to cry.

  “You have travelled far.” The woman’s voice was a little lower than Fjotra would have guessed from her youthful appearance, but it was warm and sounded almost friendly. “And it is a warm day for a long walk. May I offer you refreshment? Come this way, and we shall sit down.”

  “I thank you,” Brynjolf said in Savoner. Fjotra only nodded.

  They followed the comtesse into a large, bright room with strange, fat-looking chairs with pretty patterns covering them. Fjotra suspiciously prodded the plump seat with her finger. It was very soft to the touch. She looked up and saw the comtesse smiling at her.

  “You may sit down upon it safely, my dear. It is merely a cushion. You will find it comfortable, I think.”

  Fjotra sat down. But the chair seemed of a mind to swallow her whole. She nearly leaped to her feet again. The comtesse laughed, and Fjotra blushed furiously. But the comtesse’s laughter was not unkind, so Fjotra tried to settle herself upon it again. She looked over at Brynjolf. He was scowling, although she didn’t know if it was out of embarrassment at her ignorant behavior or disapproval of the soft comforts of Savoner civilization.

  The Comtesse sat on one of the overstuffed chairs that faced Fjotra. It was marked all over with pretty green flowers that were the very shade of the comtesse’s eyes, and Fjotra wondered if that was a coincidence or not. “Do tell me your names,” she said. “The Vicomte’s letter merely said that you had come from across the sea. The Sea Nordique, I assume. You are northerners, are you not?”

  “I am Brynjolf, son of Skuli,” her brother said. “She is my sister, Fjotra Skulisdattir.”

  “My, what a reaversome name,” the comtesse favored her with a half-smile. “Do you know, it occurs to me the Viscomte is not much interested in etiquette, so he has not informed you that here in Lutece, one customarily addresses a noble as ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady.’ However, I invite you to call me ‘Comtesse’ as a mark of my particular favor. Now, Brynjolf, am I correct in assuming that your father—Skuli, did you say?—is a gentleman of some importance in the Iles de Loup?”

  Brynjolf looked as puzzled as Fjotra felt. “Illdalupe?”

  “The Wolf Isles, I think you would say it.”

  “Skuli is not gentle man, Comtesse. He is great warrior and king over the Fifteen Clans!”

  “Is that so,” the comtesse sat back and raised her eyebrows. “Fifteen, you say? My goodness.”

  “All fifteen,” Brynjolf assured her proudly. Fjotra noted that he didn’t see fit to mention that eleven of the fifteen were now gone.

  “Why, I dare say that makes you a prince of reavers, does it not? And you, Fjotra, are therefore a princess. I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you should honor my humble abode with your royal presence!”

  Fjotra had the vague impression that the comtesse was laughing at them, and certainly the older woman’s eyes showed an amount of amusement, but she didn’t appear to be mocking them in a malicious manner. Fortunately, Brynjolf was too taken with her flaming hair and half-exposed bosom to notice, or he might have taken offense. Fjotra was not inclined to do so either, since Hrolfstan had told them the comtesse would be their best hope. So, she simply smiled, a little uncertainly, not wanting to say anything that might cause offense.

  Two servants entered bearing a tray upon which were the most beautiful painted cups that Fjotra had ever seen. They had little blue birds painted on them, birds that were feeding upon a rose-petaled flower.

  She took a cup with a nod of thanks and sipped at the cold liquid inside. It was sweet, sweeter even than mead, but with a strange taste of sour curds to it as well. But she liked it very much indeed, and she drained the cup with her second try at it.

  “You have never tasted lemons before,” the comtesse surmised as she indicated that the servant should pour Fjotra another cupful. “Or sugar, I suppose.”

  Fjotra shook her head.

  “I see you understand me, Fayo…Fjotra. Do you speak?”

  “A little,” Fjotra replied shyly. “I not know lots the words. Brynjolf, he speak good Savone.”

  “He is more intelligible than one might have expected, at any rate.” The comtesse looked more closely at her brother. “I will say you are a handsome lad. Are they all made so large across the sea?”

  “Gudruk the Mighty, he be one head higher than me,” Brynjolf replied. “Many Dalarn be big, be the best warriors. Skuli be not so big as me, but he greatest warrior of all!”

  The comtesse sighed. “One can only imagine. Well, my dear prince and princess reaver, now that we have all been refreshed, perhaps you might enlighten me as to why my darling Saint-Aglie believed it was so vital for the two of you to honor me with the privilege of a visit. Not that I object, you understand. I confess, my interest is partially piqued due to the fact that our dear viscomte’s interests appear to be growing ever more esoteric. Some might even say erratic. I do hope he isn’t going mad. Yesterday it was Wagrans, today it is reavers, what will tomorrow bring? Dwarves? Mountain trolls?”

  Brynjolf exchanged a significant look with Fjotra. He clearly had no more idea what the comtesse was talking about than she did. About all she could gather was that it had something to do with the viscomte who had given them the magic letter. They had argued all the way to Lutece over the best way to present their case to the comtesse, but despite the many hours of discussing the matter, they had never come to a firm decision.

  Fjotra made up her mind and glared defiantly at her brother.

  “There is evil. Big evil come. It kill…all. It come to here, to Savone.”

  The comtesse’s green eyes narrowed, but she did not appear to be either shocked or skeptical. She merely pursed her lips and looked to Brynjolf for further explanation.

  “The loup-garou, you say, comtesse. Or loup-diable? We say aalvarg, they be beast they walk like Man.”

  “Ah, you refer to the ulfin, of course,” the comtesse nodded. “Yes, I know whereof you speak. An army of ulfin invaded the north coast many, many years ago, with rather less success than your forefathers have enjoyed over the centuries. The Duc de Montreve, whose daughter married my late husband’s great-grandfather, smashed them at the Battle of Crociers. They say more than ten thousand ulfin were killed that day, so many that afterward, the duc gave all of his knights and men-at-arms three
wolf pelts each.” The comtesse smiled, a little wolfishly. “No ulfin has been seen in Savondir since that time, and I don’t believe they ever dared to cross the Nordique to trouble us again.”

  “No, they take our islands first.”

  “You are saying that the ulfin are attacking your people? That the reavers are themselves reaved?” She smiled and shook her head. “You must understand that the news will not be mourned in Savondir. Of course, it does explain why our northern shore has been relatively unmolested in recent years.”

  “No, Comtesse,” Brynjolf said, shaking his head somberly. “I say the aalvarg defeat my peoples. Only Raknarborg stands. When it fall, they kill the Dalarn. All mans, all womans, all childs. And then they cross the seas to come here, to kill your people. To kill Savone…Savonne.”

  Fjotra closed her eyes. She could vividly recall the terror of their desperate retreat from their village of Garn to the last remaining fortress in Ulvoen.

  “Are you well, Fjotra?” The comtesse was leaning over and holding her hand. “For a moment, I thought you might faint.”

  “You help, lady. You need help.” Fjotra took the comtesse’s delicate hands in her own and implored her. “You need know. If Dalarn no can come to Savone, we all die!”

  The Comtesse de Domdidier looked from Brynjolf, to Fjotra, then back again. Then she nodded and smiled brightly. “Well, we certainly can’t have that now, can we, my dears?”

  “You help us?”

  “I will ensure you receive an audience with the king. The assistance you seek can only come from him. I can promise you nothing in my own right. I am merely a woman. I have no armies, I cannot use a sword, and I fear even my household guard has been chosen with more concern for aesthetics than martial valor. Nor can I give you permission to settle reavers on my lands. For one thing, my comte is too small, and for another, it has no access to the sea.”

  “But the viscomte say with you we must talk above all!” Brynjolf protested. “You say you can give no help?”