At the farmhouse a guard immediately escorted them inside. They were led to a room where Dendrick was sitting at a table covered in scrolls with young Lord Estin and a middle-aged man.
Dendrick stood and announced Wilek. “His Royal Highness, Wilek-Sâr Hadar, the First Arm, the Dutiful.”
“Lord Estin,” Wilek said.
“Your Highness, thank you for coming,” Lord Estin said.
He and the stranger stood and bowed, both eyeing Kal’s scars warily. Estin was near Trevn’s age, with the bony shoulders and stretched limbs of a boy growing too quickly into a man. Dark circles rimmed bloodshot eyes.
“This is Elderman Raeden.” The boy gestured to his associate. “We are the last of the official government of Farway. The others were lost when the city . . . fell. Won’t you sit and join us?”
Wilek and Kal sat across the table from the other three.
“How many casualties?” Wilek asked.
“Impossible to know for certain,” Estin said. “Elderman Raeden has compiled several lists. One naming bodies that have been claimed, another for those who were seen, um, drowning. Do you have the total casualties, Elderman?”
Elderman Raeden reached across the table and riffled through some scrolls. He found what he was looking for and unrolled it. “At last count that list totals nine hundred and forty-three souls.”
Wilek’s heart sank. “That many?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Highness. We also started a list of those reported missing. That total is . . .” Raeden picked up another scroll and read from it. “Three thousand two hundred and seventeen, but we suspect it’s truly much greater.”
Greater than four thousand, lost. “What was the population of Farway?” Wilek asked.
“Last census was after the war,” Raeden said. “At that time the population of Farway was eight thousand two hundred forty-two. It’s grown some since, not a lot, mind, but . . .”
“Do you have a list of survivors?” Wilek asked.
“No,” Raeden said. “We do have a list of over four hundred orphans.”
Wilek pulled out a chair across the table from Estin and sat, shocked by the magnitude of what had happened here. “You must have some guess at the total living and dead.”
Estin nodded. “My guess is that sixty to seventy percent of our population perished in the, uh . . . Gods!” Estin rubbed his eyes. “I still don’t know what to call it.”
“They’re called fall-ins where I’m from,” Harton said. “Small ones are fairly common.”
“And you’re from?” Estin asked.
“Rurekau, originally.”
“What?” Wilek said, straightening in his chair. “Kal said you were from Highcliff.”
“Trained in Highcliff, Your Highness,” Harton said. “Not born there.”
Wilek met Kal’s gaze and could tell from the set of the man’s jaw that he hadn’t known that either.
“A fall-in, then,” Lord Estin said. “A fall-in pulled our fair city into the Lowerworld.”
“What are you dealing with now?” Wilek asked. “What are your plans?”
“This morning we were focused on recovering survivors, but I think we’ve given up hope of finding any more,” Estin said. “So now we’ll focus on getting the survivors medical attention and temporary shelter. Once everyone has somewhere to go, we’ll try to place orphans into families.”
“Children are vulnerable,” Raeden said. “A guard patrol stumbled onto a slaver headed for Raine with a caravan of a dozen children. We arrested him, but who knows what else is hidden in the chaos.”
“We need to dig new cisterns,” Estin said. “We’re quickly running out of water.”
“And we’ll have to appoint a new sheriff to sort out the hundreds of fights over animals and equipment that people helped themselves to or mistakenly claimed as their own,” Raeden said.
“After that, we’ll think about relocating and rebuilding,” Estin said. “But I don’t know where we could rebuild or if we should. I had hoped the rosâr would advise me.” Estin met Wilek’s gaze, looking every bit his young age.
“I will advise you in his absence,” Wilek said. “That is why I’ve come.”
Lord Estin sighed. “I’m incredibly thankful. As the youngest son, I wasn’t groomed to rule.”
“You seem to be handling it well,” Wilek said.
“Elderman Raeden has done most of it,” Lord Estin said.
“I hope you can see that is not the case,” Raeden said. “This young man has saved hundreds of lives with his quick thinking. Mikreh blessed us all when he spared him.”
“Where were you when it happened?” Wilek asked the boy.
“Walking across the practice field. I don’t remember falling. But I woke up with my face in a pool of mud, still gripping my waster. I don’t know the man who pulled me out, but we did our best to help others. There was little we could do. We watched a house sink under the mud with people trapped inside, screaming. It was terrible to watch and be helpless. Elderman Raeden was outside the city.”
“I was evicting tenants from some nearby farmland,” Raeden said. “Ironic, isn’t it? Today there are seven families in that house, including the one I evicted. I was inside when the shaker came—just a gentle one. I bid the family good-day and headed back to the city. There I found a mob of people congregated outside the city gates. Over their heads I could see the temple spire tip sideways. I pushed to the front and found men with shovels and picks, breaking up fallen walls and hauling the bricks, branches, furniture—anything they could find—trying to make bridges so people could crawl out, but the mud kept sucking everything down.”
Wilek had no words. He could not even imagine what these men had lived through.
After a long moment of silence, Estin stood. “You must be hungry. Let me show you the dining hall.”
Wilek followed Estin to a room in the back of the farmhouse. It must have once been the front sitting room, as it had a fireplace and tapestries on the walls. Three long tables had been crammed inside and were packed with people. The walls were also lined with people, some sitting, some standing, all holding a bowl or chunk of bread.
“I’m terribly embarrassed, Your Highness,” Estin said. “I assure you there is plenty to eat. I’ll have a maid bring a tray to the study. You and your officers are welcome to eat there. Elderman Raeden and I can clear the table and—”
“Do not think of it,” Wilek said. “We brought food enough with us. We will eat at our camp.”
Estin bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. You’re a good man.”
Such a compliment from one so young made Wilek smile. “As are you, Lord Estin.”
Wilek made plans to meet Estin and Raeden first thing in the morning to start on the recovery efforts, and then he, Kal, Harton, and Dendrick left the farmhouse.
The makeshift camps of refugees ran one into another across the entire field, creating a web of guy ropes and clotheslines between tents and wagons that would be easier for Wilek to go around. Tired from days in the saddle, he chose to walk Foxaro. His men followed suit with their mounts. They took their time, regarding the people along the edge of the encampment.
Sorrow creased every face. Not one child was giggling or running about. These people had suffered a harrowing ordeal.
And Father wanted him to make sacrifices to Barthos. Such a thing was unthinkable.
“Agmado Harton!” a woman yelled.
A pretty young woman stood holding a child’s hand a few steps from a crowded campfire. She walked toward them, glaring all the while at Harton, and nudged the child toward him. “Here’s the result of taking your pleasure, you foul dallier.”
Before Harton could respond, two men stood up from the campfire, and Kal whisked Wilek away. “Best leave Harton to them, Your Highness. That’s no place for you. Dendrick, take care of the horses.”
Wilek and Kal walked on toward their camp. “That child looked at least eight years old,” Wilek said, glancing back. “Harton would only
have been eleven.”
“I’m beginning to think Harton has a habit of bending the truth,” Kal said.
Wilek sighed at that. “You think him older?”
“Don’t know what to think,” Kal said.
At Wilek’s tent Kal assigned several guards to the door and went back for Harton. Wilek ate his evening repast alone and pondered the grievous things he had seen and heard. He was still eating when Kal returned with Harton. The backman had a bloody nose and his tabard had been ripped down the front.
Wilek wasted no time with his accusations. “You are older than you claimed, Harton, and a Rurekan citizen.”
This seemed to throw Harton off guard. “Uh . . . yes, sir. I wanted into the King’s Guard, but you have to be under twenty to join the ranks, unless there’s a war. No one asked about my citizenship.”
Wilek gestured to Harton’s ripped tabard. “What happened back there?”
“Kalenek cannot hold a sword,” Harton said, sneering at the shield. “There is something wrong with his—”
Kal cuffed Harton’s ear. “He’s talking about you, boy.”
“Are her allegations true?” Wilek asked.
Harton shrugged. “I passed through these parts years ago and paid her well. Don’t whores take precautions not to get with child?”
The servant girl in Dacre came to mind. Wilek wanted none of this. He had never been concerned with what his men did in their spare time, but if it reflected poorly on him . . . “Regardless,” he said, “the child is yours?”
“She can have him,” Harton said. “What would I do with a child?”
Wilek released a slow breath. “I don’t think she fears you will take the boy away. I think she hopes you will assist her in raising him.”
“I can’t raise a child. I told her the same.”
“If you don’t want children, you should take more care where you plow fields,” Kal said.
“No, sir,” Harton said, angrily now. “Women who bed men for coin should know how to take care of such . . . matters. It’s not my problem.”
“Typical Rurekan morals,” Kal mumbled.
Harton glared at Kal. “You dare speak of morals?”
“Enough!” Wilek set his jaw, furious that he had hired a Rurekan as his backman. “In light of the suffering this community has endured and this woman’s public display and how it may reflect on House Hadar’s reputation, you will give her money to provide for the child. Do so in public so that witnesses will see it happen.”
“But I brought no coin,” Harton said. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”
“I will loan you a gold,” Wilek said.
Harton’s mouth gaped. “But that’s two week’s wages!”
“Fair point,” Wilek said. “I will loan you two. This is not a game, Harton. I will not allow your behavior to taint my retinue. Do you understand me?”
Harton lowered his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Dismissed,” Wilek said.
Harton stormed out of the tent.
Wilek fell back in his chair. “What say you, Kal?”
“About Harton or Farway?”
“Yes.”
Kal took a deep breath. “Harton has become increasingly worrisome. He is late most mornings because he is not alone. He moves through women quickly. And there have been some altercations between some of the serving women in Castle Everton.”
“He has hurt them?”
“No, the serving women fight with each other over him. He’s as virile as Prince Janek.”
Wonderful. “I have no time for this.”
“Don’t worry yourself with Harton,” Kal said. “I’ll handle him. What about Farway? What do you think of Lord Estin?”
“Remarkable, for one so young,” Wilek said. “Remarkable regardless of age. He is more organized than Dendrick. I only hope I can offer him something he has yet to accomplish.”
“One so young simply wants the assurance he is doing the right thing,” Kal said. “Hold his hand for a week and you will have a devoted man for life.”
“A better man I could not buy.”
“He might make a good backman,” Kal said.
Wilek chuckled. “Farway needs him more than I do.” He sat silently for a moment, lost in thought until an idea presented itself. “Will you do something for me, Kal?”
“If I can.”
Wilek withdrew a roll of leather from his pocket and held it out. “Take the rune sketch into Magonia and find a translation.” He was asking a lot. Kal would not only be temporarily abandoning his role as Wilek’s shield, he would be illegally entering Magonia and returning to the place that had scarred him during the war. “You hesitate. Think no more on it. I should not have asked.”
“You are my sâr,” Kal said. “You can ask anything you want of me. You can demand it.”
“I would never demand something like this, not of you. It would almost relieve me if you said no. If something happened to you while chasing after a mystery that might not be solvable . . . I would not forgive myself.”
“Every mystery has an answer,” Kal said. “We must learn who is plotting against you. I will go, but I require coin and a backman. Not Harton.”
Wilek grinned. “Name the man and he is yours.”
“Novan Heln,” Kal said. “He is young enough to pass as a backman and light-skinned enough to not stand out in Magonia.”
“A wise choice,” Wilek said, wondering if Novan might make a good backman if it came to that. “What Harton said about you not being able to hold a sword. What did he mean?”
Kal sighed heavily, looking at his boots. “They were beating him badly when I arrived. I drew my blade and scared them off. All but one. He and I crossed swords. I nicked him, and he ran. Then I lost my grip. Only the women and Harton were still there, but . . . it was embarrassing, Your Highness.”
“It happens,” Wilek said. “At least you had already chased off the men. Might have lost you otherwise.”
“That thought crossed my mind as well,” Kal said.
“Leave in the morning,” Wilek said. “I want you back as soon as possible.”
Kal nodded and left to make the necessary preparations. Wilek sat alone in his tent with his thoughts, surrounded by death. He was tired of death. A sâr should be strong, should lead with courage and purpose. His father lived in fear, and Wilek wanted to be different—had to be. For too long he had been complacent, unsure. In coming to Farway he had saved these survivors from the horror of human sacrifice. He had made a difference here.
Too bad the people could not choose the Heir.
Something grew within him. Like a father protecting his child, Wilek must protect his people from the evil that continued to rise against them. Whether that be from Janek, an assassin, their own king, or the wrath of an immortal god.
Whether or not he ever became Heir or king, he would not let evil win.
Trevn
In those days the root of Arman will be destroyed and usher in the end of all things. There will be mourning and weeping throughout the land. Brother will turn against brother, and their swords will dash each other to pieces. There will be earthquakes, floods, mountain fires, sinksand, and rocks that fall from the sky. And Armania, glory of the Five Realms, beauty of the gods’ eyes, will no longer be the head of all things.
Out of Magon will come one who prospers by deceit. He will crush the heads of those who stand against him. Therefore the gods will raise up for you many prophets. Their words will save the obedient and deliver peace throughout the realms.
—Rôb prophecy from the prophet Greela, House Hadar 468
This prophecy is partly responsible for the duration of the Centenary War,” Father Tomek said. “Can you tell me why?”
Easily. “My forefathers were afraid that compromise with the mother realms might bring about the fall of Armania,” Trevn said.
“Correct. Now read me the Kabaran prophecy and look for differences.”
Trevn read from the
second tablet.
Behold, I say to you, though the root of Arman will be destroyed, peace shall come between mother and father, and the two will be reconciled. And you, Magonia, though you are small among the five clans, from you will come a deliverer who will rule over all. He will crush the skulls of his enemies, turn their citadels to dust, and Magonia will become the ruler of nations.
—Kabaran prophecy from the prophet Theria, Magonia 4
“What do you notice?” Father Tomek asked.
Trevn pushed the tablets together and studied them. “They both talk of peace but in different ways. Rôb says a deceiver will come but prophets will bring peace. The Kabaran prophecy talks of a deliverer. Perhaps the same deceiver referenced in the Rôb prophecy?”
“Perhaps. Both are called the Root Prophecy. Why are they different?”
“They were spoken by different prophets,” Trevn said, which made him think of Filkin Yohthehreth. “Why are no new prophecies recorded by my father’s prophets?”
“They record them, but none have come to pass. There hasn’t been a true prophet born in Armania in over 120 years.”
A bold statement. “So, my father’s prophets are pretenders? Rogedoth’s as well?”
“It’s not a popular view, but it’s mine. That’s partly why I’ll never sit on the Wisean Council.”
“You should.” Father’s advisors were imbeciles.
“I’m not good at telling a man what he wants to hear. Have you finished your pages?”
“Yes. I finished early today. I have plans and didn’t want to have to hurry.”
“I praise you for your forethought,” Father Tomek said. “You are dismissed.”
Trevn left the classroom. Cadoc was waiting in the hallway, looking a bit pale.
“Are we still doing this, Your Highness?”
“Of course.” Trevn grinned and sprinted away. “Try to keep up!”
Trevn and Cadoc lay side by side on the roof of the carriage. Cadoc kept shifting, which made his scabbard scrape against the wood.
“Hold still,” Trevn said. “You’ll give us away.”
“Let it be known that I dislike this plan. I suspect Miss Mielle will too.”
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