The stars were fading toward dawn. Jihan quickened his pace a little to arrive in time. Since the arrival of the sorcerer at Malcor, Jihan’s sporadic trips out of the fortress had become a daily event. Every morning before dawn he was up and riding out the north gate. So predictable had he become in this one thing that the guards would unbar the gate in anticipation of his arrival. Jihan didn’t want to be predictable, nor did he like the thought that an enemy could simply push the gate open to walk in, but he didn’t chastise the men. He wanted to get out as fast as possible. Besides, he never spoke to his father’s cronies unless he absolutely had to. Jezy was short on conversation, but he kept in practise with her.
“Don’t I my heart?”
Jezy snorted and nodded her head as if in agreement and he chuckled. If he’d been born with the gift for magic, he would have devised a way to make her talk back in truth. That would really be something to see. The stories said that Dragons could talk, but that was just a story. Dragons weren’t real except in tapestries and stories—the product of some artisan’s imagination perhaps, but wouldn’t it be amazing to talk such a one?
Jihan reached his favourite place and dismounted. He removed his cloak and laid it over the saddle. It wouldn’t be long now. He stood at Jezy’s head in the clearing and watched the last stars that composed the constellation called The Hunter fade away.
Then it happened.
Light lanced Jihan’s eyes as the sun cleared the horizon. He shaded them to watch the splendour that the God made happen each day. The few clouds turned fiery red then slowly faded to gold as light burst through the trees like spears. Already the mist was fleeing, burning away as the temperature rose steeply. It was only spring, yet already the temperatures were closer to those associated with the height of summer. This year the farms would be hit by drought. Warnings would go out to the people to be extra careful with untended fires—thatch needed little help in burning. Most of the houses in Malcor Town had tiled roofs, but the poorer villages and towns used traditional thatch roofs. Warnings would go out to the farms also, but they would not need them. Farmers were intimately aware of the seasons and would already know this year was going to be uncommonly hot. They would take precautions as their fathers had before them and their fathers before them, all the way back to that distant time before which such precautions were unnecessary. The weather had been held in the hands of mighty mages.
That time was long passed. The year was 1181 AF. More than eleven hundred years after the Founding, sorcerers did little more than kill with their magic. In Deva, great mages had built The Four with their power, but now those men were no more—except for a handful huddling in Athione waiting to die.
How Deva has fallen, Jihan thought with a sad sigh.
Jihan unsaddled Jezy and turned her loose to graze. She wouldn’t wander far from him. With bow in hand and quiver hanging from his shoulder, he walked to a huge oak tree with white circles drawn on it. The outer ring was clear, but the inner one was badly worn away from his earlier practise. He redrew the target with a piece of chalk he had left in the nook of the tree for this purpose. Once he was satisfied, he carefully paced fifty yards from the trees and pushed an arrow into the soil to mark the place. He did the same for one and two hundred yards.
Jihan breathed deeply and smiled at the birdsong. The mist was all but gone and the day truly begun. He knocked an arrow to his string and aimed at the centre spot of his target. From fifty yards out it looked roughly the size of his hand outstretched. He sighted carefully and held his breath. The day was utterly still. Not a breath of wind to mar his shot. The birdsong faded from his awareness as he concentrated upon target. He held his bow at full extension waiting for the right moment—the moment his instructors had taught him would always come.
“How will I know?” he had asked when first learning the bow.
“It is different for every man m’lord. You just know,” Arvid said.
Jihan waited and felt the certainty come. He loosed.
Thock!
The arrow drove home dead centre of the target, but Jihan took no notice. Already he was retrieving another arrow. He sighted and waited as before. A tiny breath of wind tugged at his hair playfully flicking it into one eye. He ignored it and loosed.
Thock!
The arrow drove home beside its brother so close that the arrowheads were touching. Twice more he repeated the feat before reclaiming the arrows. He carefully examined each shaft and discarded one of the four as damaged. Dropping the arrowhead next to his saddle, he walked to his second position. At one hundred yards, the centre of the target was hard to see. The light was not favourable to this shot, but that was one of the reasons Jihan preferred this time of day. One could not be certain of favourable conditions in battle. Making do with what one had was a good way to learn and improve.
Jihan sighted on the centre of the outer ring first, and then he adjusted minutely for the range. The centre was no bigger than his clenched fist now, but again Jihan released with confidence. He was always confident. If he hadn’t been, he would not have released the shaft.
Thock!
The arrow drove home into a previous split in the bark. Jihan frowned in annoyance as the shaft vibrated with the shock. He raised his bow again and waited for the annoying vibration to cease. The moment it did, he released another arrow to strike the target. Unbelievably it missed.
Jihan gaped at the tree as if it had moved. He couldn’t believe he had missed. Rather than repeat the error he went to investigate. He pulled both arrows from the tree and examined them side by side. He cursed when he found the reason for the miss. One arrowhead was badly fixed to its shaft. Maybe he should make his own arrows from now on? No, he would examine each one before filling his quiver. There were thousands in the armoury. It would be quicker to choose the best from among them than to make his own. With that in mind, Jihan went through the arrows remaining in his quiver. He snapped three in his annoyance at finding them flawed also. He dropped the arrowheads next to the first one and went back to his practise.
Thock!
Jihan smiled. He fired and fired maintaining an even rhythm between shots. The fourth arrow drove home and obscured the target. He retrieved his arrows and made his way to his final position. At two hundred yards, the centre of the target was smaller than a Gold. Jihan knew that it was, but he couldn’t see it no matter how hard he strained. The white outer circle was his only guide this time. One shot only would obscure the target. He held his breath for a long time. The moment was fleeting. More than once he felt it approach then recede. He waited but it didn’t come. He relaxed his quivering arm and panted.
Jezy was cropping grass and hadn’t seen his failure.
Jihan wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and breathed deeply. The sun was well up now flooding the clearing with its light. Birds were singing in the trees and he knew the fortress would be awake making ready for the judgement. He scowled at the thought of Athlone’s justice.
“The man wouldn’t know justice if it rose up and bit him!”
Jihan raised his bow. The target beckoned almost demanding that he release the shaft. He delayed waiting for the right moment. In his mind’s eye he saw Athlone appear before him. The moment arrived at the same instant and he released his shaft.
Thock!
Jihan walked to the tree and smiled grimly. At least Athlone was good for something. The arrow was embedded dead centre of the target.
Jihan rode back to Malcor thinking about the judgement and wondered how he could avoid it. Maybe he should pretend illness. No, that wouldn’t work. He was never sick. Perhaps he could just be unavailable. Malcor was large—easily big enough to hide from the guardsmen. Jihan scowled at the thought. He would not be a coward. He would stand with Athlone in judgement of his people and hope for the best. With that settled, he urged Jezy to a canter.
Once inside the fortress, he saw Jezy stabled and rubbed down before going to his room to change. He did not often wear his padded
coat and armour inside. Not since Yannis and Cowan had left had Jihan felt the need to go fully armoured through the halls. He took a quick wash and changed into lighter clothing. He felt much cooler in his silk shirt. He took a moment to settle his weapons back into the sash around his waste. His sword and dagger went everywhere with him of course.
Jihan left his room and prowled the halls waiting for the appointed time. Any other day he would have stayed away from the fortress until well after midday, but not on Tenday. This day of all days he could not afford to anger Athlone. If he did, Athlone might well set a punishment to rival all others he had ever set.
Jihan prowled the corridors in silence. He ignored everyone, and pretended not to hear them. The whispers followed him everywhere, but he gave away nothing of his thoughts. He had long since learned to apply his father’s coldest mask to his own features. It had the benefit of halting flapping lips—at least to his face, but it distressed him to resemble his father in anything, even in so small a thing as his expression.
“He makes me shiver to look at him—”
“…not cross him, no way—”
“Just like his father—”
The last one hurt, and Jihan nearly snarled something back. He managed to abort the instinctive urge to whirl on the girl. He kept walking at his normal pace as if he hadn’t heard her. He was nothing like his father! By the God, couldn’t they see? Obviously they could not, or they would not say such things. Perhaps the differences between them were so minor that they were essentially the same. No! He wouldn’t accept that. His father was a sadist. If Athlone ever had honour, he had it no longer.
I will not be him! I won’t allow myself to become him!
Jihan stopped at a door without a handle. By what trick of fate had he been led here? The women’s quarter lay beyond with all its mysteries. He made to turn away but he hesitated. How long was it since he had been through that door? The last time was the day he saw his mother’s badly beaten face. Almost eleven years ago that was.
Jihan thumped a fist upon the door before he could change his mind. The door opened to reveal Opina. She was one of the serving girls. Her face froze in shock when she saw who had come calling. She instinctively backed away to allow him entrance perhaps not even realising in her shock that she could have refused him. Jihan stepped through into another world, a quieter more peaceful world. It all came back to him. The dim lighting, the smell of perfumed ladies, and the scent of flowers, it all harked back to the better days of his childhood.
Without speaking, Jihan walked through the labyrinth of corridors, his only concession to courtesy an inclined head as he encountered the women who lived here. It was a strange reversal, he now thought. Outside of this place everyone—man or women—bowed and curtsied to him, but here he was an interloper and bowed instead of they. Jihan found the room without difficulty. He knocked and entered. Dust cloths covered everything and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped for this. He closed and locked the door then prowled his mother’s suite of rooms. Under the covers, everything was as it had been. He pulled a cover off the wardrobe and opened it.
Jihan’s eyes burned with the need to cry, but he would not allow that. He was a child no longer. His mother was dead, but her things were here to remind him. Her dresses hung awaiting their owner’s return, as they had since that day. He carefully lifted one from the rail and buried his face within the folds of lace. He breathed in and thought he detected her scent, but when he did it again there was nothing but a slight aroma of dust and old lace. Jihan replaced the dress and closed the door. He looked around but there was nothing for him here. He threw the cover back over the wardrobe and left the bedchamber. The windows in the sitting room were dusty, but a swipe with his hand allowed him to see the view. There lay Malcor Town a league distant and well beyond that a vague purplish colour on the horizon that was the Athinian Mountain range. How many times had his mother looked out of this window and yearned to be on the other side of those mountains?
Jihan turned away and studied the portrait above the fireplace. It harked back to the day of her wedding. Mother sat in a chair in her wedding gown and Athlone stood behind and slightly to one side of her with his right hand resting lightly upon her left shoulder. They were both smiling and obviously happy. What had gone wrong? All Jihan could think was that Athlone’s love for her was a sham—maybe to lure her. Athlone was well known for attracting the ladies in his youth. Thank the God that was no longer true. Jihan didn’t know what he would do if Athlone did to another woman what he had done to his mother. One thing was certain. When he was finished with Athlone, he would never do it again.
Jihan unlocked the door and left the room to find curious women in the hall. Again he was surrounded by whispers, but this time they were punctuated by titters and quiet laughter. He inclined his head to them but didn’t speak. He locked the door and pushed the key into his sash for safekeeping. His mother’s room would remain undisturbed.
It was time for the judgement, but Jihan did not concern himself with his lateness. He strode through the corridors and down the tower steps until he reached the ground floor. He could hear the murmur of conversation coming from the great hall as he approached. The doors were opened by two of his father’s cronies just as he reached them. He did not acknowledge the courtesy as he strode through. He stopped just inside the doors to survey the hall. He saw nothing to make this judgement in any way unusual. Behind him the doors clicked shut.
The noise quieted as Jihan moved to take his place upon the dais. Heads turned in his direction and elbows nudged causing more heads to turn. Athlone sat in his chair glaring. He was in a bad humour, but when wasn’t he? Standing upon the second step of the dais was Vadin. He was holding a sheaf of parchment with the names of the petitioners and their requests if known. Jihan ignored Vadin and climbed the dais. He turned and stood at his father’s right hand. He would have preferred to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else!
“You’re late, boy,” Athlone grated.
Jihan didn’t answer.
“Where were you?”
“Practising with the bow,” Jihan said keeping his words to a minimum.
If he hadn’t answered, Athlone would likely have set some kind of petty punishment—cleaning the stalls was an old favourite for insolence. Not that Jihan was bothered one way or the other about that, but it did waste what little time he was allowed for himself.
“You don’t need it,” Athlone grunted.
They both knew he was a master of the weapon, but practise was the only way to keep his skill. Besides, he enjoyed it. Jihan was skilled in many weapons. His teachers had been masters in their chosen fields. After teaching him the basics of each, they had demanded that he choose just one. He had said sword, dagger, bow, lance, fists, feet… and on until he finished their list. His instructors hadn’t been amused with his rebellion, but Jihan would not be forced. They worked him hard trying to make him choose one weapon—they even tried to bribe him with promises of reducing the level of work and pain they put him through. Yannis and Cowan were the only ones among his instructors who understood this side of him, but even they failed to realise where his determination came from. Although Jihan did enjoy weapon practise, he had wanted to be the best with every weapon so that he might one day kill them all. Jihan suspected that they had learned his motivations just before leaving Malcor. He was the reason for their sudden departure. Nowadays, if asked his preference he said sword, bow, and dagger in that order, but secretly he always chose the weapon best suited for the task. That, in his opinion, was just common sense.
Vadin called for quiet and the judgement commenced. Jihan absently listened to the proceedings. The usual things came before Athlone. Things such as so and so the farmer was said to have allowed his cattle to stray into another’s fields causing this or that amount of silvers in damage. Athlone ordered the cattle butchered and the resulting money given to the aggrieved party. It was a harsh judgement. Without cattle, the ma
n would lose the farm, but it was Athlone’s standard penalty for such cases. The owner should have ensured proper fencing, but Jihan thought that half the money should go to the owner. He would have ordered it so if he were lord.
Petty cases came and went, but near the end, Jihan snapped to attention as a man was brought forward in chains.
“This man, one Celek by name and a farm labourer by trade, is accused of the murder of a girl named Nerina late of Bluefield village,” Vadin announced.
Bluefield was roughly two days easy riding to the south. It was named Bluefield because its main industry was linen. The flax plant had blue flowers, and fields of the stuff were needed to produce sufficient fibre to make the linen. The fields looked as if a blue tapestry had been laid upon the ground.
“Who speaks for this man?” Athlone said in a bored voice.
A man in clothing that had seen hard use stepped forward and made his bow. “I do m’lord. I am Kelda m’lord. Celek has worked for me for many a year with no trouble out of him m’lord. I say he is innocent. He lives on me farm and don’t ever leave.”
“Never?” Athlone said. “I find that hard to believe man.”
Jihan nodded; so did he.
Athlone leaned forward. “Does he not go into the village to buy ale?”
“Never m’lord. He is a good boy. Besides, we make our own.”
“Hmmm,” Athlone said and turned to Vadin. “What do we know of the girl? Was she a tease… a wanton?”
Vadin glanced at his notes. “Nerina was quiet by all accounts my lord. She was young—barely fifteen. She helped her father serving tables in the inn. She was found naked in a ditch…” Vadin looked sick.
Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 Page 8