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

by Vox Day

  Marcus turned away, shaken to the depths of his soul. He had looked up to his cousin for as long as he could remember. He hadn’t been as close to Fortex as he was to Sextus, who was of an age with him. But he had grown up with Fortex and had always envied his confidence and easy smile.

  How was it possible that such a fiery spirit could be gone from the world? How was it possible that it could be snuffed out in mere seconds? He could feel the tears begin to fill his eyes. How could his Father have done such a terrible thing? To order the death of ten thousand goblins was one thing, but the execution of his own nephew? It was unthinkable. And then Marcus thought of his uncle, of Magnus, and a chill of pure fear ran down his spine.

  Our House is Amorr, Father, yes. But what will happen to Amorr if your iron honor has broken House Valerius in two?

  FJOTRA

  Fjotra whirled around in delight. Never had she known that such delicate cloth existed, much less how lightly it would fall about her body. Wearing the dress felt as if she were almost naked, and yet the fabric caressed her skin with a feathery touch that was a joyfully sensual experience.

  Amelot, the comtesse’s lady-in-waiting, who was supervising her preparations this evening, surveyed her with a critical eye. She was an older woman with the first streaks of grey in her hair, and she did not appear to be entirely pleased with the results.

  “I do hope my lady Roheis knows what she is doing tonight. I should have thought she would have you dressed in some sort of barbarian splendor, draped in wolfskins or the like.”

  Fjotra paid the comtesse’s woman no mind. She was too enamoured with the look and feel of the cloth—the “silk”—to be overly concerned with whatever Amelot was saying. “I see look-glass?” she asked hopefully. “I see me?”

  For the two weeks since their arrival, the Comtesse de Domdidier had hosted her and Brynjolf in her house, preparing them for this evening’s ball. It was the strangest two weeks Fjotra had ever known, and in some ways, the most arduous. Every day, she was awoken early by Maronne, a pretty maiden about her age, and taken for a walk in the gardens behind the house—a structure, she had soon been informed, that was not, in fact, un chateau, but un manoir—and given her first language lesson of the day.

  During dinner that first evening, the Comtesse had nearly laughed herself to tears when Fjotra had innocently asked her, through Brynjolf, how she could possibly expect to defend her “castle” in the event it was attacked by the inhabitants of one of the many castles nearby. Fjotra had turned bright red, mortified by her ignorance, but upon thinking about it later, she realized it was a useful lesson in the vast difference between life on one side of the White Sea and the other. She would have to think twice about all of her assumptions. And even then, she realized, there was a very good chance she would be wrong.

  After that first morning lesson with Maronne, during which they would walk together and the other girl would point out objects and make her repeat the names for them, they would meet for a breakfast that, except for the ornate nature of the preparations, could easily have passed for a feast in Garn. Fresh bread, softer and sweeter than any she’d ever tasted, still hot from the ovens and covered with an astonishing variety of jellies that came in every color of the rainbow, smoked herring, cheese, and golden beer that was lighter and yet more flavorful than any brewed in Ulvoen.

  After breakfast came a second language lesson, again with Maronne, followed by dance lessons with Amelot and a man named Henriot. The dances were slow and languid compared with the more strenuous dances to which she was accustomed, but she enjoyed them far more than she did wrestling with the awkward Savonner tongue. Sometimes the comtesse joined them, and Fjotra was amazed by the effortless way she glided about the floor in Henriot’s arms. Comtesse Roheis even danced with Brynjolf a few times, but something—probably the close proximity to her beautifully curved figure—proved to be too much of a distraction for her brother, and he regressed badly whenever she was his partner.

  After a light repast at midday—usually wine, cheese, and more of the wonderful bread—they were permitted an hour of rest, after which came yet another language lesson. An older servitor by the name of Huguet instructed her, this time in the grammatical rules and conjugations of Savonnaise. The comtesse didn’t expect them to be fluent, but she made it clear that they had to be capable of engaging in simple conversations by the day of the Duchesse’s ball.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent practicing the ballad they were to sing if the opportunity presented itself. It was a simple, abbreviated variant of the Arrow King’s death song. But with Huguet’s help, Brynjolf had adapted the lament and translated it into the southern tongue. It was a tale of the coming of the wolves to the Wolf Isles and the death of the Dalarn people. Fjotra found she had to focus on her singing rather than the words or she would find herself thinking of her burned, abandoned home and start to cry.

  We were forced to flee

  Our land abandoned

  Brave bold warriors

  Fought through the night

  We seemed to carry

  Burdens of sorrow

  Throughout the dark nights

  We fled the hunters

  Amelot brought Fjotra a looking glass, and Fjotra admired herself in it. “Yes,” Amelot said with a withering shake of her head, “I suppose this is all new to you, reaver girl. Naturally you must be curious about your appearance. Never fear: That mass of white hair will set off the blue to perfection once we arrange it properly. I am aware you are an illiterate barbarian, but that is no excuse for behaving as if your hair is nothing more than a nest for rats. It’s a pity the color of the dress doesn’t quite match the blue of your eyes, but it’s close enough as to make no difference.”

  Amelot rang a bell, and a young girl appeared. They exchanged words too rapidly for Fjotra to even try following, and a few minutes later the girl returned with the comtesse herself.

  Fjotra bowed to the comtesse, who smiled and air-kissed her cheek before stepping back and looking her over critically as if she was an ornament the comtesse was considering as a decorative addition to the chamber.

  “She’s lovely, my lady,” Amelot said, “but I wonder you don’t wish to play up the barbarian aspect. So much more dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “To be sure, but you fail to grasp my purpose, Amelot darling. There is no chance that either she or her brother could possibly be mistaken for anything other than what they are, even before they open their mouths. My object is not to belabor the obvious but rather to demonstrate that the dread reavers can be tamed, perhaps even civilized with time.”

  “It will take more than a pair of pretty young reavers dressed in the height of fashion to convince any of the nobles north of the Deinar that they are harmless, much less that they should be succored. It’s their lands that the reavers have been pillaging for centuries. They’ll want their pretty heads on poles.”

  The comtesse smiled. Fjotra thought she rather resembled a cat when she did so. “In that case, we are fortunate that His Majesty resides well south of the Deinar River. I don’t see how the northern nobles count for much these days. Vevenny can be persuaded. It’s in his interest, after all, since he’ll be the first to have to fend off the wolves should they cross the sea again. The Victomte de Verdanne isn’t important enough to matter either way. No one will care what he thinks. And the new Duc de Montrove is unlikely to express any opinion at all, seeing as he is still at his mother’s breast.”

  “Do you think Montrove might be an option for them?” Amelot asked. “I imagine its walls need to be rebuilt, or at least repaired, after the Red Prince took the city. And from what I heard about the way his men sacked it, I imagine it may well need to be repopulated too.”

  Comtesse Roheis waved her hand dismissively. “The rumors were exaggerated. Charles-Phillipe himself assured me there was no serious pillaging. Why, he didn’t even have the entire garrison killed, only the officers. I thought it was extraordinarily generous of h
im to permit the duc’s little son to claim his inheritance. He would have been entirely justified to extinguish such a traitorous line. Of course, even a rebel’s son is going to create less trouble when he is an infant than any of the other claimants for the duchy were likely to cause. Especially since the child permitted him to name Sieur Charibert as the ducal guardian. The good chevalier will stamp out any treasonous embers still glowing there.”

  “There is…war in Savonne?” Fjotra wasn’t able to completely follow the two women’s conversation. They were speaking too quickly for her. But she understood enough to make her worry.

  “Never mind, ma cherie,” the comtesse said quickly. “One of the great…clan leaders, you would say, was foolish enough to rebel against the king, and the king’s son put an end to the rebellion. But that was months ago, and you will meet the king tonight. You must be sure to smile at him. He likes pretty young girls, and he would be a great ally for your people. Now, we have more important things to discuss, such as what jewelry you are to wear!”

  It was dark by the time they were bundled into the comtesse’s carriage. The wagon was black and was painted on the side with her totem: an argent beast on a field of alternating blue and yellow stripes. The carriage moved with a strange swaying motion, a little like a snekke with the waves coming against its side. The seats were comfortable enough, though, being overstuffed pillows similar to the divans in the comtesse’s manor, but Fjotra thought she’d prefer the freedom of a horse to being trapped inside a land-boat.

  In their own language, Brynjolf, sitting across from Fjotra, said he thought it was strange that the comtesse’s totem was a bear, since she was about as unbearlike as it was possible to be. But Fjotra insisted it was a strange southern dog.

  The comtesse, looking amused, listened to them debate the issue. Finally, she leaned forward and placed her hand on Brynjolf’s arm.

  “It is not a bear, nor is it a dog, but a lion, my dears. It is a large and very dangerous beast, similar to a cat in the way that a wolf is akin to a dog. Tonight, you must be aware that you will be surrounded by every sort of dangerous beast. Even lions, in a manner of speaking. So guard your tongues, do not drink too much, and say exactly the words you have been practicing. Do you remember?”

  Fjotra and Brynjolf both stared at her, astonished and a little alarmed.

  “You speak our tongue?” Fjotra asked.

  “A little,” the comtesse said with a mysterious smile. Then she shook her head and laughed before switching back to Savonner. “Why do you think you were sent to me, my pets, of all the nobles in Savondir? I spent three years as a lady-in-waiting on the north coast. One of my closest friends there was half-Dalarn. Now, try it again, and try to enunciate each sound.”

  “I beseech your Majesty,” Brynjolf began, with a bow from the waist and a flourish of his arm. His Savonner accent was improving quickly, Fjotra thought, although she thought he looked a little ridiculous in his outlandish clothes and with a silver circlet resting on his head.

  The comtesse interrupted him. “You need not repeat it now, my prince. If Henriot hasn’t already drilled it into your head, you’re not about to perfect it now. I will also remind you of one more thing: Do not wander off with anyone. You especially, Brynjolf. You’re different and exotic, and I daresay there may be women there who will turn your head. But you are to stay within sight of me at all times, do you understand?”

  Brynjolf nodded. “Yes, Comtesse.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Fjotra said.

  The carriage moved along slowly in jerks and halts for what Fjotra guessed was about half a bell before it finally came to a stop in front of a magnificent edifice that was nearly as large as mighty Raknarborg, though without the three towers of the northern fortress. Unlike the comtesse’s manoir, this was a proper chateau, with proper stone walls defended by pike-bearing guardsmen in heavy metal armor. The flames from the torches attached every few paces along the wall seemed to dance off their polished breastplates and cast strange shadows on the cobblestones.

  Henriot opened the door and stood aside as Brynjolf stepped down from the interior, then gave Fjotra a hand before assisting the comtesse. She whispered something in his ear, and he nodded grimly before climbing back into the little land-boat.

  There were many other carriages lining the cobble-stoned street outside the walls, some pulling away and others waiting to disgorge their passengers. In the torchlight, the Duchesse’s guests were a riot of colors and perfumes, and the whole crowded scene struck Fjotra as a bizarre, beautiful fantasia. Somewhere nearby, she could hear masculine voices singing, accompanied by a stringed instrument of some kind.

  A tall man in a black cape smiled at her as they passed. A moment later, an older, overweight woman wearing enough gold to purchase a longboat and crew looked her up and down and then sneered at her. Fjotra was too overwhelmed to be offended. She simply stood there and stared in confusion at the people flowing through the gate on all sides around her. “Come along, Fjotra,” she heard a familiar voice call. She looked ahead and saw the comtesse on Brynjolf’s arm, beckoning to her.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, it’s all just so…wonderful!” She stared in awe at the moat that surrounded the chateau, surmounted by a wooden bridge. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never even imagined anything like it.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying the bridge and the crush at the carriages, but I imagine you’ll find the ball itself to be even more entertaining.” The comtesse took Fjotra’s hand to prevent them from being separated again, and together the three of them walked over the wooden bridge that spanned the moat. Below the bridge, floating on the water, there were four little boats, each holding two singers or a singer and a musician playing a wooden instrument that sounded a little like a lyre.

  They entered through a gate into a courtyard that was brilliantly lit by torches fixed high up on the walls. The courtyard was immense, larger than the comtesse’s entire garden. It was almost like finding the country in the heart of the city: a stony field under a clear and starry sky.

  Everyone appeared to know the comtesse, and not a few of her acquaintances, after greeting the comtesse, stared at Brynjolf and her with unmitigated astonishment. However, the comtesse did not see fit to introduce them to anyone yet. She merely nodded pleasantly to the various lords and ladies and exchanged noncommittal pleasantries in lieu of satisfying their obvious curiosity, looking past the newcomers and toward the chateau. Fjotra wondered if she was looking for the king or for someone else.

  Looking up, she saw the wall surrounding the courtyard was thick enough that guards could patrol it high over their heads. One…two…there were six guards in all. They were armed with a strange sort of weapon that she hadn’t seen before. She pointed them out to Brynjolf, and he told her they were a special type of bow called a crossbow. The weapons looked deadly, although their strange shape made her wonder how the string was drawn, and she shivered when she realized how easily the men standing atop the wall could turn the courtyard into a butcher’s pen full of helpless people. It made her uneasy, and she wished they could go inside the chateau. It might not actually be any safer, but at least she wouldn’t feel so exposed.

  Brynjolf felt it too, she could see. He kept his back to the nearest wall, barely took his eyes off the guards, and kept feeling at his side for his nonexistent sword. Given the way he then proceeded to run his right hand over his left wrist, she suspected he might have ignored the comtesse’s orders to leave all his weapons at the manoir.

  “Ah, there he is,” said the comtesse. “Come, both of you. I must introduce you to a friend of mine.”

  She led them to a tall, lean man with a short, neatly trimmed beard and dauntingly intelligent eyes. When he looked at her, Fjotra had to resist the unconscious urge to shrink away from him. She had grown up among enough killers to recognize one when she saw one. He was accompanied by an even taller woman in a green silk dress with hair as white as Fjotra’s own. But it wasn’t
until she noticed that the woman’s ears were pointed that she realized the woman was an elf. She gasped. She had heard tales of elves before, but she never seen one. Truth be known, she hadn’t actually believed they were real.

  “Magicien Theuderic,” the comtesse said, “how good it is to see you! And you, as well, Milady Everbright.”

  The man called Theuderic kissed the comtesse’s hand. He smiled, but Fjotra could see that it never touched his brown eyes. “My lady, you look lovely. How the priests will be ruing their vows tonight.”

  “I doubt there will be many at the ball tonight, Magicien. May I present Prince Brynjolf d’Ulven and his sister, the Princess Fjotra de Raknarborg?” The comtesse turned to Fjotra and Brynjolf. “Your royal highnesses, this is Magicien Theuderic of L’Academie Royale, and his companion, the Lady Everbright of Merithaim. She is, as you may see, an elf.”

  Theuderic grinned at her. “Roheis, you are unconscionable! Only you would dare to dress up two Dalarn reavers and pass them off as royalty!” He glanced at the elf and squeezed her hand. “And here I feared we would be the talk of the ball.”

  “They are not true prince and princess?” the elf woman said quizzically. Her accent was strong enough that Fjotra, much to her surprise, could hear it even through the Savonner. Fjotra thought the exotic woman was beautiful despite her unnatural slenderness, perhaps even more beautiful than the comtesse. But she sensed there was something sorrowful behind the elf’s green and slanted eyes.

  “Their father is what passes for a king in the Iles de Loup. I tend to doubt Skuli Skullcrusher’s line compares favorably with the Miridines, much less your own royal lineage, Lady Everbright. But he is the ruler of the Dalarn there. We usually refer to the son and daughter of a ruler as a prince and princess, do we not?”