Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Larissa said, remembering her manners. He’s testing me, just like the magus did. She steeled herself for questions, but instead he chatted with her for the next hour, never seeming to notice the difference in their stations. She talked about Mother and her brothers and how much she feared the city. He told her about his manor outside of Chimkant and the horses he raised. He promised she could visit when training allowed.

  Finally, she asked the question that kept playing in her mind. “Does this sort of thing happen often? Murders, I mean.”

  “Rarely and only among the lower ranks. Rival claimants for a seat might come to blows, for instance, or a wife might poison a wayward husband. But no one has killed a duke in living memory.” He gave her a smile. “Don’t worry. The king keeps me busy, but I have time enough to watch over you.”

  She walked in silence a few minutes before asking, “Do you think the people who tried to kill the king might come after Tancred as well? The magus is important, right?”

  “He is important. If you have any doubts of that, just ask him. But he’s far too wily to be caught by a poisoner. I wouldn’t worry about Tancred.”

  “Good,” Larissa said thoughtfully. “He and I share supper together.”

  Sir Gladwin laughed. It was a kind laugh. “You’re going to do just fine in the capital. Well, things look as secure as we can make them. I should get back to the king; would you like to come? The magus will probably be there as well.”

  Larissa quailed at the thought of such powerful folk but nodded all the same. She had to get used to it.

  He led her to the royal tent, a vast, triple-peaked monster of green and gold cloth. Around it sat the grand tents of the king’s Council. Only two were modest, the one she shared with the magus, of course, and the tent of Eldest Hoshaber, speaker for the faith. The royal daughters slept in the massive, wooden carriage-house nearby.

  “Gladwin, is that you?” King Randolf ‘s nasal whine came from inside the tent. “Come inside. They brought tea while you were out. Taste it for me.”

  “After you,” Sir Gladwin said, holding the thick tent flap for her. Larissa stepped inside and blinked against the harsh light of at least ten lanterns. The king might burn to death in his tent, but no one would surprise him in the dark. He reclined at a small table, flanked by the magus and Duke Lockridge. A pot of tea sat in the middle. Sir Gladwin poured a shot into a pewter mug and gave it a careful sniff before downing it. Magus and the duke took a cup, but King Randolf declined. “I’ll wait a few moments and see.”

  “Will that be all, Sire?”

  “No, Gladwin, remain here. We were just discussing the second attempt to murder us. What are your thoughts?”

  Larissa retreated into the corner and sat down on a trunk. Sir Gladwin rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and considered the question. “It leaves the March exposed to invasion, with naught but a stripling boy to hold it, and a bookish one at that.”

  “Yes, yes,” the king said impatiently. “But who sought to kill us?”

  “In times like this,” the magus cut in, “it’s best to first ask who would benefit from your death.”

  Sir Gladwin nodded. “Agreed. For one, Priest-King Leax is strengthened by disorder in Jandaria.”

  King Randolf made a frustrated sound and poured some tea. “Leax is our close cousin and we have often visited each other’s court. Without strong evidence, I won’t think ill of him.”

  “Then the Vyr. They’re restive these days. Killing both you and the guardian of the March would appeal to them.”

  “The Vyr are mindless barbarians,” Duke Lockridge said, “This is much too sophisticated for them. The obvious choice is the Jandari nobles who opposed your election. Duke Harlowe had no love for you, but he was hardly the only one. House Shear voted against you and Duke Killyngton was your main opponent.”

  “We’ll know more once the clark has finished with the body,” the magus said. “I am anxious to know what poison was used.”

  Lockridge drew a skin from his belt and poured a cup of ruby wine. “You said it was magical poison. Are you sure it wasn’t just plain sorcery?”

  “I examined Harlowe and his boy myself. Pacts leave a trace of magic on those they touch, and I scented none upon them.”

  Pacts leave a trace of magic. Larissa repeated it silently a few times, committing the fact to memory.

  The king slid a cup to Lockridge and glanced meaningfully at the wineskin.

  “Sire,” Gladwin said, taking a half-step forward. “I haven’t tasted the wine.”

  “Duke Lockridge is the only man we fully trust,” the king said, motioning for Lockridge to pour. “If not for him, we would have eaten the tainted meat alongside Harlowe. It’s a queer assassin indeed who pulls away his victim at the moment of success.”

  “Sir Gladwin and I can only hope to save you one day,” the magus said drily, “and thus return to your trust.”

  King Randolf glared. “Our safety is not a subject of mirth, Magus. We would note that the poison slipped past both you and our hearthguard.”

  “Again, Your Majesty, I apologize.”

  Larissa saw the shame on Gladwin’s face, even if no one else seemed to notice. She decided not to like this king.

  “It is vital that we unravel this conspiracy,” King Randolf said, raising his glass. “We have decided to name Duke Lockridge as our Inquirer, giving him license to detain and question at will. He will ferret out the conspirators, wherever they hide.”

  The duke seemed genuinely surprised. “Your Majesty, I am grateful, however—”

  “No objections! All know you to be an honorable man, with the trust of both kingdom and Crown. I insist.”

  Larissa saw Gladwin and the magus exchange worried looks. Some of the Oberyn words were new, but she could tell something bad had just happened.

  “The dukes will oppose this move,” Sir Gladwin said. “Particularly the new Duke Harlowe. Justice belongs to him in the March. Even the common folk won’t like you abandoning the ancient right of jury.”

  “I’m forced to agree with Gladwin,” the magus said. “This will alienate friends the Crown needs.”

  The king threw his cup across the tent. “We will not be denied! They tried to kill us! If any man impedes Lockridge, I will raze his castle and strip him of all titles.” His voice rose yet higher in pitch. “As for you two, you failed us. If this were old Jandaria, you would have already cut your own throats in shame, and we’d be chopping your corpses into eight pieces for Tengra-Nu.”

  Larissa winced at the mention of Tengra-Nu, reflexively cupping her hand in the sign of warding and touching head and heart. This wasn’t at all what she imagined a king would be. Aside from the fine clothes, he was so much like the elder in Far Ingarsby, bullying people just because he could.

  Sir Gladwin inclined his head. “If there is nothing else, Your Majesty, I will resume my post.”

  “Yes, go then. And take Tancred with you.”

  Larissa followed them outside, trying to remain inconspicuous so they wouldn’t send her away. It was all too fascinating.

  “Take heart, Gladwin. At least Randolf doesn’t want me around either.”

  “King Randolf,” Gladwin corrected the magus.

  “Whatever the title, he is even more Lockridge’s man now.”

  “The king has always respected Duke Lockridge, but once he’s recovered from the shock, he’ll listen to our counsel again. If God is kind, more to mine than yours.”

  “Lockridge has pulled Randolf’s strings ever since he brokered the deal to elect him,” the magus said, pitching his voice low as guardsmen passed by. “But this new power is dangerous. He could be looking to settle old scores.”

  Sir Gladwin stood straight, locking his eyes on a distant point. “No more of this backbiting. The king has a right to pursue this conspiracy.”

  “Selwyn Harlowe is coming tomorrow to pay homage to the king. He won’t be happy about this. Come, Lar
issa.”

  Setting his chin firmly, Sir Gladwin ignored him. Larissa wanted to give his hand a squeeze but settled for a whispered, “G’night.”

  CHAPTER 16

  T he savanna passed in a green and red haze as Selwyn led Mother and Reyhan to the royal camp, his thoughts flittering like the insects scattered by their horses’ hooves: demands from his bannermen, Father gasping for air, castle logistics, failing Lord Wicke, failing Father, the oath of homage.

  I must pledge homage to King Randolf.

  That drew him back to paging for the king as a child, subject to his every petty whim. The vile little tyrant. How he hated Randolf.

  For several entire seconds, clean anger suffused him and he wasn’t ill with sadness or guilt. Instead he focused on the thousand indignities Randolf had inflicted on him during those years. Lost meals because he’d left a speck of mud on a boot. Always playing an ass or buffoon in the Court’s spectacles. Forced to stand impassively as the king mocked Father and the Harlowe lineage.

  Pride had kept Selwyn from complaining to his parents, that and a suspicion that Father had expected it and wanted to toughen him up. Why else send him to Court, when Randolf hated the Harlowes?

  His heart was still pumping with hot, angry blood as he crested a hill and caught sight of the royal camp. Its resplendent tents were desperately out of place in the harsh terrain. He doesn’t belong on my land.

  Sir Gladwin met them at the horselines, just inside the camp perimeter. If any man lived up to the knightly ideals, it was Gladwin. Pity he had to serve such a shiteheel.

  “Welcome, Your Grace,” Gladwin said, giving Mother a hand out of the saddle.

  It took Selwyn a moment to realize the title belonged to him now. “It… it’s good to see you, Gladwin.”

  “The king bids you join him in his tent.”

  Selwyn frowned. “Does he intend for me to swear fealty indoors?”

  “The king worries about assassins. A crossbowman could easily hide in this tall grass.” Gladwin hesitated. “He also asks that your weapons stay with your mounts.”

  Anger returned in a boiling rush. Mother, meanwhile, laughed coldly. “Right now, vultures and jackals are picking the bones of my husband. Can the king truly believe our family is a threat?”

  “I sympathize with you, my Lady,” Gladwin said, “but I must insist.”

  “I must insist you get buggered.” Sir Reyhan folded his arms. “No one is taking my sword.”

  The Harlowes secured their horses, Selwyn spending an extra moment on the knot, deliberating on how to answer. Challenging the king brought danger, but if he gave in now, King Randolf would only become more disdainful. He stood and turned to Gladwin. “I will serve no king who fears tall grass. We’ll do homage like Jandari, with sword and sky, or the king can scarper home without my oath.”

  “Your words border on treason, Your Grace.”

  “Go tell your king to come outside and I’ll swear loyalty.” Selwyn kept his gaze level until Gladwin turned and left for the king’s tent.

  “Hate seeing a good man like Gladwin working for such a cur.” Reyhan spit brightleaf juice into the grass.

  “It’s good to show backbone and I know what you think of Randolf,” Mother said, “but you must give homage. We cannot afford a rupture with the Crown.”

  “Understood.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Whatever Gladwin told the king, it seemed to work, because a few minutes later the royal guards began tramping down the grass just outside of camp, making a large clearing for the ceremony. A pair of courtiers brought out the traveling throne and set it in the center.

  Surrounded by guards, the king left his tent and hiked to the throne, silks fluttering in the breeze like a bird in mating plumage. He was dressed in gold and green velvet and swaddled in a red cloak trimmed with fur. His face was flushed a matching, angry red.

  Gladwin took a place beside the throne, while Tancred and the faietouched girl stood nearby.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Selwyn led his people to the circle and waited to be announced. No one asked for his sword, which was a bloody good thing, because he was of a mind to use it.

  A few minutes later, the herald rushed to the circle. “Duke Selwyn Harlowe, Defender of the March, to see His Majesty, Randolf, by the grace of God King of Jandaria, Duke of the Shield Forest, and Protector of the Covenant!”

  Hand on his sword hilt, Selwyn entered the circle alone, doing his best to project calm, though it was hard to keep the anger out of his step. Father is dead because someone had tried to snuff out Randolf’s worthless life. Stiffly, he pressed his hands together andand held them out to the king. “This day I swear to be your man: to take up no arms against you, to defend you against all threats, and to be faithful unto death.”

  Randolf took Selwyn’s hands, his lipless mouth curved in a smile. “We accept your love. The Crown swears to rule justly and to protect you from harm. We shall treat you as a treasured servant.”

  The magus cursed. “Those are not the words.”

  Treasured friend, not servant. Feeling as if he’d been bitten, Selwyn leapt backward. Looking down at the seated king, he made no effort to hide his contempt. “Your servant? Go hide in that carriage-house and scurry back home, you coward.” He turned his back on the king, drawing gasps from everyone, and stalked out of the clearing.

  “Seize him. Seize him!” King Randolf’s voice quivered with rage.

  Mother and Sir Reyhan met him at the edge and they walked quickly for the horses. Selwyn glanced over his shoulder to find Gladwin and a troupe of guards in pursuit.

  “Go to the horses, Mother.” Selwyn drew his blade and turned, thankful to see Reyhan do the same. Mother ignored him.

  Gladwin halted a few yards away and the guardsmen fanned out to either side.

  Selwyn and Reyhan shielded Mother as best they could, swords at the ready. “Just let us go,” Selwyn said, his voice cracking with tension. “This doesn’t have to turn bloody.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace. But the king commands your arrest.”

  “On what grounds?” Mother demanded. “Jandari dukes have always spoken freely to the king, and these are our lands.”

  “This isn’t Trenoweth,” Reyhan said. “Dukes have their rights.”

  “The young duke insulted his person,” Gladwin said, though Selwyn could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “I can’t allow that.”

  “And you know I can’t let you take him,” Reyhan said, holding his sword near the pommel and giving it a spin. “He’s a little shite, but I’m his hearthguard.”

  “Duke Harlowe, I plead with you – please come. You have my word that I will intercede with the king.”

  “We’re going now. If you follow us, we will fight.” Selwyn turned and set off for the horses once more, ushering his mother along. Sir Reyhan followed on his heels.

  “Should we take him, Sir Gladwin?” he heard someone ask.

  “Yes, but use the butt-end of your spears. By no means kill them.”

  Selwyn turned again and dropped into a ready stance. “If your men touch me, I will kill them.” Some part of him hoped to die. It might be a bloody relief.

  “Wait! The king commands you to hold!” The herald sprinted over the hill, waving his arms. “Allow them to leave in peace!”

  Everyone froze in place. “Why the change?” Gladwin asked as the breathless herald arrived.

  “The Council convinced him.” He gulped in air. “Mostly it was Eldest Hoshaber.”

  “Praise God for that.”

  Selwyn didn’t move for several moments, still primed to fight. At last Mother tugged his arm. “We must go.”

  His body still thrummed with energy and anger as they freed the horses, mounted, and rode from camp, but all too soon it faded, leaving him exhausted. “What happens next?”

  “Now you’re worried about consequences,” Mother said brusquely. “We needed the king. Have you forgotten about the Vyr, and did Pr
iest-King Leax slip your mind? Why didn’t you just go into his tent?”

  “I know I should have! I just… this was never supposed to be me!” Selwyn spurred his horse into a gallop. Thankfully, the others let him pull ahead and he rode the rest of the way to Nineacre in silent misery.

  That evening, he paid the price for his rashness. Duke Lockridge arrived with a century of royal guardsmen and a letter from the king naming him an Inquirer. Selwyn wanted to refuse entry, but Mother wouldn’t have it. “You let the king provoke you today, and now you’re going to atone for it. Besides, we all want to find out who murdered your father. Let Lockridge do his work.”

  CHAPTER 17

  M irko Bowback pulled one foot out of the mud and placed it in front of him. Then he did it again. The Long Rains had turned the trail into a swamp, and from what Vasik One-Hand said it had also turned a two-week march into a month, though it was hard to believe they had left the village only a moon’s turn before. Since then they’d passed dozens of villages like his own, each time the local lord joining the army, along with a few retainers and a band of peasants and slaves armed with scythes, axes, and forks. A few carts filled with the village’s winter provisions would also follow, pulled by gaunt horses.

  The lords drove them hard and the constant marching left Mirko’s back in agony. The mud gripped his boots so fiercely that he surrendered and went barefoot. Once they reached the Green Lady and turned south, black flies swarmed them so often they looked forward to the rains each day as the only relief.

  It was the happiest time of Mirko’s life.

  He hadn’t furrowed a field in weeks, nor sat alone in the darkness of his hut. He had seen his first river, and his first boat, and a rocky hillock carved with giant, weatherworn figures combatting a snake creature.

  Best of all, the lords wanted nothing to do with peasants and traveled together, leaving him in peace. The food on the trail was meager but eaten around a fire with others. His cousin Stepan was a friend to all who knew him, and at night the most interesting folk would join them: peasants, woodsmen, fisherfolk of the Green Lady, each of whom swore they had seen the Lady herself, even a butcher and a latrine cleaner from a real town. Free peasants normally disdained a slave like Mirko, but here they were united in misery. Their army had grown to five centuries, from what was said, and they were marching to a war.