Timble sat up and ran a tongue experimentally over his teeth. “Who put moss in my mouth while I slept?”
“A common effect of Belgorshan vintages,” the captain said, moving aside as a crewman offloaded cargo. “Time to go. The boat is nearly empty, and my crew are eager to see the town. Now about the passage…”
Gingerly, Timble rose and took hold of a piling. “Five orricks, as promised.” The coins appeared in his hand as if conjured.
Captain Timotei examined each piece with a gimlet eye. “Unshaven,” he said, rolling his thumb over an edge. “And aye, that’s Orrick himself, the murderous bastard.”
“Smooth seas and blind harbor masters,” Timble wished the captain, though the man was already turning to address a tall, beautiful woman in fine clothing, probably a local merchant. He left the wharf and ascended a well-worn street to the village of Harlowe Ford.
The town looked prosperous, which was good, as he was as much thief as jester. It also looked orderly, with at least two watchmen in sight. That was bad.
A godhall dominated the center of town, its blue domes freshly-painted. Shops lined the street on both sides, with living quarters on the second storeys. Timble followed his nose to an open-air tavern selling hunks of grilled goat on skewers. Eating with the locals would provide a chance to scout things out. If you’re going to hawk secrets inside a fortress, he thought, best know what to expect.
CHAPTER 5
S elwyn followed the Green Lady for six days, living first on pony meat and then on grubs, berries, and whatever he could find. Only a single boat passed during the time, a one-master that was likely a smuggler’s craft, as its sail was black and the crew ignored his cries for aid. Limping along with help from the boar spear, he trailed the river by day and slept in acacias at night. Once he was treed by hyenas for half a day until the beasts lost interest, and another time he hid among the rushes while brigands watered their horses.
The wound in his thigh had long since putrefied and begun to stink like sour bread. Blisters covered his heels, while fever scorched his brow. Rounding a bend in the river, he saw stony towers looming over the treetops in the distance. It must be the fever, he thought, rubbing a palm at his eyes, but the towers remained when he looked again. Home.
Soon he came upon a familiar homestead and stumbled to the door. Avrik the Carver opened at the feeble knock, his luxuriant eyebrows raising in surprise. “What happened, milord?” he asked in thickly-accented Jandari. His gnarled hands grabbed Selwyn by the shoulders and led him to a straw-filled mat. “Daughter, get Lord Harlowe some kaif.”
“I did it, Avrik. I killed an aksu-kal.” It was a silly thing to boast about now, but it was the only thing that made the suffering worth it.
“Maybe he also kill you. Need get you to the clark.”
They shared a bitter bowl of kaif and then Avrik’s family loaded him in a jouncing haywain. He fell asleep in moments, the ivories clutched tightly to his chest.
When he awoke, it was in his own bed on the third floor of Wicke’s Keep. It took some time before he believed it was real, but the sound of cattle bells through the window, the timbers overhead, even the prick of goose quills through the bedding told him he was home.
The clark sat near the door, bundled in his gray robes and adding herbs to a pestle. “He awakes,” the old man said kindly, sliding his chair closer. “Do you intend to stay with us this time, or slumber for another day?”
“The ivories?”
“Secure, young master; however, it’s your leg that concerns me. Though your fever has mostly broken, the corruption in your wound set very deep.” He peeled away the dressing to reveal pale worms wriggling within the angry, rancid gashes.
“Maggots?” It was disgusting to look at, but academically fascinating.
“Aye, maggots. Clarks and infirmarians of Aventir have begun using them in such cases,” the old man said, falling into his familiar, didactic tone. “It’s said they have a special fondness for putrescence and no love of healthy flesh.” He ground the contents of the pestle for a time, added oil, and then smeared it on the wound. Selwyn sucked in breath at the pain but made no complaint. He would soon be a knight.
“The leg,” he asked anxiously, “will I keep the leg?”
“So long as nothing changes, aye, you shall keep the leg. Now rest. Lord Wicke wants you fit to travel in one week. He’s already loosed a pigeon requesting that Duke Harlowe prepare your dubbing.”
“Is he angry?” Impending knighthood or not, Selwyn felt like a wayward child.
“Lord Wicke can speak for himself. Personally, I think you were rash and more than a little arrogant. My lord.”
His master came later in the day, carrying a parcel in hand. Aside from the sword at his waist, Lord Wicke looked nothing like a knight. His face was kind and soft, and the muscle was well hidden under fat. He often joked that the aksu-kal he slew was actually suicidal, yet he was a fighter for all that – Wicke cared nothing for the arts of war, but loved an intellectual battle. His father’s early death had kept Wicke from university, so he had poured his energy into Selwyn instead. “Good to see you well.”
Selwyn cringed at the disappointment in his voice. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been planning this since you got back from Aventir. A year away at university and you got above yourself.” Wicke sat down at the writing desk. “You asked if you were ready and I said no. And you bloody went anyway. Killing an aksu-kal can make you a knight, but it doesn’t make you a man.”
“If I don’t make this cohort of novices, it’s another three whole years before I can go to the Order,” Selwyn shot back. “I’m good with a sword and can ride, read, reckon, and rule. All the skills of a knight.”
“Don’t quote that nonsense to me. Those are the poor standards of a decadent era. A true knight is also honorable and wise. Was it honorable to deceive your lord? And was it wise to rush off, half-trained and lacking a man’s muscle? There’s a reason tradition waits for twenty.”
“What good is any of that in the Knights-Scholastic?” Selwyn asked, shifting to sit on the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing in his leg. “I don’t need muscle in a library and it’s intellect they want from me, not wisdom.”
“Nothing is more destructive than intellect untempered by wisdom. And you know it.” Wicke tugged at his beard, giving Selwyn a cast-iron scowl. “Look at the emperor’s bleeding sister, Clarice – a fine mind and used only for evil. You have tremendous gifts, the potential to be one of the great scholars of your generation, but without wisdom it will bring only misery. Duty before desire, isn’t that what I’ve taught you?”
Selwyn turned his eyes to the floor. “I just wanted to get started in life, to fight for Restoration.” Looking up, he saw the deep hurt behind Wicke’s anger.
“Princess Clarice just released a treatise on the Donation, claiming that the Commonwealth only used us against the Vyr and planned to give our lands to fair-haired Oberyn.” Wicke twisted a sad smile. “My plan was to send you next month to the Imperial archives to review her evidence, so we could write a response together. It was a surprise.”
Selwyn crumpled back into the pillows. A flush of shame joined with the fever to set his brow on fire. “I’ll stay here. Take my vows in a few years.”
“It’s too late, son. I’ve already written the duke. Tradition demands a knighting, and your father never breaks tradition.”
“I never thought…”
“Of course you didn’t,” Wicke said gently. “Children are selfish by nature. Don’t curse yourself too strongly. I’m partly to blame, taking you on as squire so young. It’s no wonder you’ve been in a hurry ever since. Now you’ve arrived much too early and must become a man.”
“I will. Please forgive me, Lord Wicke.”
“I forgive you. Despite being impetuous and prideful, you are quick to repent of mistakes. That is your saving grace.”
Having failed Wicke, who was so lik
e a father, Selwyn remembered that he was about to disappoint his real father as well. “When you wrote the duke, was his response angry?”
Wicke sighed. “The castellan answered, saying only that they would prepare. Don’t worry. It’s a great honor to have a scholar in the family, and Duke Harlowe will come around.”
“You spent too long in Oberyn kingdoms. True Jandari have no respect for scribblers.”
"Wars may conquer men’s bodies, but ideas rule their minds. Only a fool thinks otherwise. Garzei Harlowe is many things, but he’s never been a fool.”
That might be true, Selwyn thought, but stubbornness could appear a lot like foolishness.
CHAPTER 6
I t took a long while for Larissa’s village to sink into the endless green, but eventually it did, leaving her alone with the bowmaids. Her brothers had bawled like babies when she left, while the baby said nothing at all. Mother had stood to the side, lost as ever. “Be careful of town folk — they’re different,” was all the wisdom she had to give. The rest of the village had kept away like she was plague-struck.
The two bowmaids probably had no memory of Larissa, but she remembered them passing through on patrol. The older girl was the duke’s daughter. She thought Saafi must be from the Coaster folk; Father had said they dyed their hair flame-red with henna, and had a queer, soft way of talking. Instead of a darenga, she wore a belted kaftan of bright white cotton embroidered in red and black.
“How’s the pony?” Helaena asked after some hours. “He can be headstrong with new riders.”
“We’re getting on fine. How many days to the lord’s castle?”
“Shy of a week, since we don’t have the army in tow. Will this be your first time past the Sanguine Cliffs?”
Larissa gave the pony a kick and pulled even with the other two. “First time anywhere. The boys get to go ranging with the herds when water is scarce, but not me.”
“You speak good Oberyn. That’s rare on the frontier.”
“Father would go east for work during droughts. He taught me.” Larissa had pestered him endlessly for lessons, knowing Oberyn could be a way out of the village. Thoughts of family made her nose tickle and her eyes fog with tears. Now she understood the old curse, may faie grant your wishes. All she wanted was to go home.
Lost in melancholy thoughts, she only realized Saafi was addressing her when the girl called out, “Have they clamped the gossip’s muzzle on you already?”
Angrily wiping at her eyes, Larissa asked, “Gossip muzzle?”
Helaena kicked Saafi in the leg and then rode close to Larissa. “Don’t listen to her. It’s something they put on witches. Nothing for you to worry about.”
The jest fed all of Larissa’s fears. Tugging lightly on the reins, she brought the pony to a halt. “Tell me the truth – what are they going to do with me?”
Helaena seemed to hesitate before answering. “It all depends on you. Keep to the narrow path, and the seven duchies of Jandaria will honor you.” She paused, as if weighing the next words. “But few stay true. Power is tempting and the dark faie never rest.”
Larissa’s voice caught in her throat. “What happens to those who stray from the path?”
“The lucky ones are caught early and executed.”
“And the unlucky ones?”
“They lose both their souls and their lives. Tancred the Magus told me once that dark faie pacts are like belladonna fruit — sweet to the tongue, but poison. Eastmark bankers would blush to cheat their clients as badly as dark faie do theirs.”
Nothing is worth your bloody soul. Larissa shook her head. “I won’t never stray from the path.”
Helaena nodded. “Just follow the magus’s example and all will be well.”
“Will I live in King Randolf’s castle then?” The thought of living with lords and ladies was beyond frightening.
Helaena smiled encouragingly. “I think you’ll live in the Fieldstone Tower, with Tancred as your guardian.”
“And my family?”
“I don’t know when you’ll see them again, but as a pactmaker, you can help them. They’ll want for nothing.”
“As long as I keep to the path.”
“Aye, so long as that.”
Two days later they rode up a steep pass through the Sanguine Cliffs. They were so much grander than Father had described, giant gray walls of stone extending as far as the eye could see in either direction, covered with red-brown streaks like old blood. At the top of the pass was a castle belonging to Lord Dexter, where they stayed the night and then continued on.
The rest of the trip to Nineacre Castle was peaceful, though Larissa’s heart was troubled as she worried about etiquette, and this Tancred man, and whether she might already be damned. It was a relief when they finally arrived at the Green Lady. Her mind boggled at the sight of so much water.
She searched the waters for any sign of the Green Lady herself, the great snake faie that gave the river its name. Everyone said she was long dead, but Larissa wanted to be sure before setting out on that bloody great stretch of water.
A boat, no, a ferry, approached from the giant castle squatting in the middle of the river. The crew greeted Helaena respectfully and helped them load the skittish ponies aboard. Evening was falling by the time they reached the floating platform just outside the castle’s massive gatehouse.
They disembarked and led their ponies through the open gates. These were three times the height of a man and made the village night gate look like a pile of sticks.
Just after they entered, Larissa heard the rattling clank of chains, and the gate closed with a thunk. Guards were probably just securing it for the night, but it felt like a door closing on her familiar world. She leaned against the massive stone wall, grateful for its solidity.
CHAPTER 7
A ll in all, Selwyn reflected, there were worse places to be than Lord Wicke’s river barge. He rested on a plush cushion, his bad leg up on a plank and a horsehair whip at hand to keep away the flies. The river carried them south-east toward home, while two footmen with quant poles kept them from running aground.
Wicke wheezed in his sleep as Selwyn scoured his master’s armor with sand and a stiff brush. “I think I see Harlowe Ford ahead,” he said to the footmen. “Odd that we haven’t spotted another craft on the water.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you, milord? Priest-King Leax is holding them back. Won’t let any traders out.”
“That makes no sense — an embargo harms Belgorsk much worse than us.”
“As you say, milord.”
A half hour later, the barge eased past the town of Harlowe Ford, bringing back a rush of memories – friends, festivals, and mischief. He’d left to page for foolish King Randolf at age ten, then squired for Wicke, but had returned often over the years. He noticed the godhall had a new roof and one home was gutted by fire. Otherwise, nothing had changed.
“You must be glad to be home, milord.”
“Of course,” Selwyn lied, feeling a weight descend on him as Nineacre Castle hove into view. It was a fat frog sprawling over its lily pad of an island, the walls pale limestone mottled with moss and vine.
He nudged Wicke awake. “We’re nearly there.”
Wicke wiped a hand over his face and yawned. “And my armor, squire?”
“Polished while you slept, my Lord. One last time.”
The barge butted up against the floating dock at the main gate of the castle. This was cinched to metal rings in the wall and guards could release it at the first sight of an enemy fleet. The portcullises were up and a small crowd of onlookers clustered just inside.
His mother’s face appeared among them. Selwyn found himself jumping from the barge and hastening past the dockhands, nearly oblivious to the pain in his leg. Alethea Harlowe had a trace of gray in her hair now, but she was born a Swan and still had the pale loveliness for which that family was renowned.
Mother embraced him, planting kisses on either side of his face. Then she gave e
ach cheek a fierce smack. “What were you thinking?”
Trying to keep some of his dignity intact, Selwyn looked straight ahead. “I made a mistake.”
“Damned right you did. And for what? Five extra years of knighthood?”
“Five extra years in a library, Mother. A real library.” He ducked his head. “It was wrong of me. Wicke already told me so.”
“And part of you believes him.” She slipped an arm through his and guided him to the castle. “I’m just grateful you survived your misadventure. Now go see your father in our little library, but be warned, he is not pleased with you.”
Father would have to be faced, but first Selwyn wanted to see an old friend. He limped through the courtyard and made a turn for the stables as soon as he was out of sight. Breathing in the familiar smell of hay and horseflesh, he stepped inside.
“Here to see your new horse, milord?” A slumping, scraggle-bearded man emerged from the nearest stall.
“Mert! How have you been?”
“All’s well. I list a bit more these days, but I’m the same man. But just look at you. Near as big as your brother, I’d wager.”
“Did you mention a new horse?”
“Aye! The duke bought you a proper destrier. Come have a look at him.” Mert led Selwyn three stalls down, where a massive warhorse nosed at the bars. It was a fine animal, a dark bay with black points. His coat was glossy and the conformation looked perfect, with a horizontal neck, wide eyes, and a broad forehead.
The beast snorted at their approach. Selwyn averted his eyes and approached reverently, talking in quiet tones. “These last three years I’ve ridden an aging courser. Before that, a rouncey. This is certainly an improvement, but he isn’t why I came. Is Clapperclaw awake?”
The stablemaster nodded. “Aye, what’s left of him.”
Clapper’s reinforced stall was at the end of the row, its close-set bars shielding passers-by. The troll must have heard their approach, for his knobby head was pressed to the bars.
“Clapper!” Selwyn exclaimed joyfully, running fingers over the coarse, maggot-white skin. It made a noise that sounded pleased and terrifying at once, and rubbed its head against his hand. At least someone is happy to see me. The troll was nearly two centuries old. Cataracts glazed one eye and it looked as if the right claw hadn’t regenerated properly from the last time Father baited him.
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 3