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

by J. Wesley Bush

  The boy sprang quickly from his sleep pallet and inclined his head. “Good morrow, sir.” He was perhaps thirteen, freckled, and gangly in a way that said he would eventually be tall.

  It took some time for the grizzled serjeant to rise. A scar ran down the left side of his face and half his right ear was missing. “Sir.”

  Addison froze, nearly greeting them with “God’s grace upon you,” as warriors of the Order might. All his planning had gone to getting hired by the company, not to what came after. In truth, he had spent little time in the company of free swords. “Morning.”

  “Just so’s you don’t say good morning,” the serjeant said blearily, rubbing at his forehead. “The ale they peddle in these parts is murder for a hangover. Your bunk is there. Probably still has fleas from the last sonofabitch who slept there.”

  Addison motioned to Brinley, and the groom helped take off his armor. “I heard he drowned in the Washford.”

  “Aye, fell from his horse during the crossing. We all miss him,” the boy said, without much conviction.

  “Drunk in the saddle, as usual.” The serjeant kicked a strongbox under the knight’s cot. “I guess this is yours now. Captain sent the belongings to Quenton’s family, but lock and key are still inside.”

  Addison took a seat on the bed and began working at a knot in his bootlaces. Serjeant Furtick watched him closely. “Don’t remember seeing you. What company did you ride with before?”

  “Yantel’s Lancers. Have you spent any time in Great Keferi?”

  “Not for twelve years or more. Still, you look familiar.”

  “You were in Keferi?” Brinley cut in. “Is it true the ladies plait their hair with mud?”

  “Only in the villages,” Addison said, but Serjeant Furtick cuffed the boy in his ear.

  “Men are talking, so boys are silent.”

  “No need for that, Serjeant. Brinley here is part of the lance.”

  Furtick swatted a fly on his neck. “Needs to learn his place. That’s part of serving.”

  Addison looked up from the knot. “We all have to learn our places, serjeant.”

  “Sir.” Furtick stood and pushed out of the tent.

  The knot finally gave way, and Addison handed the boot to Brinley for polishing. “Thank you, sir, but he’ll get his revenge on me later.”

  “Only if he wants flogged.” Addison looked the boy over critically. “That accent. It’s from the coast of Eastmark, I’d wager. Red Cliffs?”

  The boy grinned in surprise. “Right beside them. My father scratched a living in the soil.”

  “It’s rocky in those parts,” Addison said cheerily, pleased to find someone from home. “A tough living.”

  “That’s why my old man ‘prenticed me to Sir Quenton. Weren’t enough land for all of us.” Brinley spit on a persistent bit of mud and wiped it with a cloth. “Course, if Jandaria is as rich as I hear, I can take care of him with the plunder.”

  “Jandaria’s wealth isn’t in gold or gems, boy. It’s in horses and goats, fertile soil and free people. No one will get rich from this war.”

  Suddenly restless, he left the tent to investigate the camp. It was orderly and disciplined, with sentries at regular intervals and deep latrines dug far from the stream. Near the water was a circle of tents. He could see women there, minding children and washing clothes in the stream. Wavy, dark hair tumbled down the shoulders of one, reminding him of Helaena.

  “Bachelors do well to avoid the wife tents.” Addison turned to see a thin knight with a pointed Aventir beard. “If you’re looking for a woman, the whores’ camp is just beyond those trees. Only respectable women are allowed inside the stakes.”

  “I have a commitment already,” Addison said. “No need to worry about me.” He thought first of his vows to the Order, but then also of Helaena Harlowe. Many in the Order paid innocent court to noble ladies, others not so innocent. The Order frowned upon such intimacies but allowed it as an outlet for men sworn to celibacy. Addison had always found the practice stupid: if a man was hungry, why wave food in his face? With Helaena, though, it would almost be worth it.

  “Good. Those damn women cause half the fights in this camp.”

  “I only see nine tents. The rest stay home on the farm?”

  “Aye. Single men go into winter quarters with us in Dandrenor. The family men return home for the harvest and come back in time for the campaign season. Unless there’s a siege, of course.” The knight extended a hand. “Sir Clive, Paldrick’s lieutenant.”

  “Sir Conred.” Addison took in the camp with a gesture. “You run a tight company.”

  “One of the best,” Clive said proudly. “You’d do well to earn a place with us, especially given what Priest-King Leax is paying. He’s desperate for real cavalry.”

  The two had reached the edge of camp as they walked, and stood staring toward the Belgorshan border. Beyond the hillside meadow on which they camped, tall trees loomed as far as his eye carried. From everything Addison knew, Belgorsk was the forest, a dark, primitive place where men lived like animals and primeval horrors dwelt in the glades and rivers. “I’ve never met Belgorshans on the field. From what I hear, even their noble horsemen favor javelins over lances.”

  “That’s true. The forest is ill-suited for charges, so the nobles prefer light horse they can use to harass an invader. That’s all well, until you invade a place like Jandaria.” His patrician features lit up with greed. “Then heavy cavalry like us can name our price. Have you met your lance?”

  “Only briefly.”

  “You’re replacing a great fighter, but a piss-poor man. Serjeant Furtick despised Sir Quenton and poor Brinley went in terror of him.” Clive motioned toward the smoldering fire pit on the west side of camp. “Grab yourself some stew. It’s likely to be the last hot food between here and New Oster. We were long in recruiting and the Captain wants to make up time. Cold rations and forced marches from now on.”

  That afternoon, Addison brought his lance outside the camp for drills. While he had no intention of going to battle with the company, he needed to act the part, and no worthy knight would ignore the training of his men. Furtick fought exactly as Addison expected, a long campaigner for whom war was a business. He invested no emotion in his strikes.

  Brinley was practically untrained. Two years in service, and he still held a short sword like a kitchen cleaver. Sir Quenton really had been as useless as teats on a bull. “He promised my old man to make me a squire, but didn’t want to pay squire’s wages,” Brinley said apologetically.

  Sleep was short that night. His lance pulled watch from the first to the third bell and the camp awoke at four. The sky was just brightening in the east when they finished filling in latrines and breaking camp. They set out for New Oster as a shining company, with fresh horses and polished armor.

  CHAPTER 24

  I t had taken weeks, but Larissa no longer gawped like a villager when walking the streets of Chimkant. The press of strangers was familiar now. Cries of shopkeepers, filthy gutters, and the clomp of horses on cobblestones had once overwhelmed her senses but were now just part of life. She was starting to make sense of the Oberyn-Jandari patois that was the language of the streets.

  She could even walk beneath overhanging second storeys without fear they would tumble down on her head, now that Sir Gladwin had explained how city carpenters could work such feats.

  But the Green Lady still fascinated her. After growing up on the dry savanna, the sight of so much water was stunning, even befouled as it was by the city. Fish glinted in its depths, barely seen beauty under a veil of dark water.

  “We must make haste, child,” Magus Tancred said, pulling her by the arm. “The trial is beginning, and they will undoubtedly notice if I’m late.”

  That was true, as Magus was one of the judges. Larissa took a deep breath and hurried to catch up. Soldiers had brought a hedge witch to Chimkant two days before and Larissa had dreaded the trial ever since: the woman had gone to the dark f
aie and would almost certainly be executed, Larissa’s greatest fear realized.

  They left the river two blocks later, passing through a row of merchants' houses. Each was impressive, but they were dwarfed by the estate looming behind them, more of a fortress, really, with stone walls and rounded towers. “Who lives there? It’s half as big as the bloody king’s castle!”

  Tancred smirked. “Stop cursing. Act like a lady and folk will treat you as one. That is the humble town home of House Lockridge,” he said, putting a hand behind her back and hurrying her along. “It’s even more impressive inside. He has the best gardens in Chimkant and a fine chef. And these days, he’s keeping the glaziers busy remaking the place on Aventir lines. The Aventiri prefer light, open homes.”

  “How goes his—,” she struggled for the word in Oberyn. “His investigation? Sir Gladwin says Lockridge has a suspect under lock and key.”

  A shadow crossed Tancred’s expression. “He does, but I’m afraid you know nearly as much as me. He’s keeping the details to himself.”

  “And that worries you?”

  Magus nodded. “Ordinarily, I would be called in to put a geas on the suspect, forcing him to tell the truth. Lockridge is keeping me away for some reason. I fear he suspects me.”

  “Then he’s an idiot.”

  “Lockridge is far from an idiot, but the power seems to be going to his head.”

  As they reached the end of the merchant row, she smelled the welcome scent of fresh bread. The air also carried sounds of angry voices. “We’ll need to box around the Baker’s Quarter,” Tancred said, turning left at the intersection and taking them well out of the way. “With the shortages, there’s liable to be another bread riot.”

  “I thought Jandaria sells grain,” Larissa said, then remembered the correct word from her lessons. “Exports it. How do we have shortages?”

  “The king is buying and requisitioning grain by the wagonload to prepare for war with Duke Harlowe. Merchants are hoarding it, expecting prices to rise further when war breaks out.” He hesitated a moment then added, “And the Vyr are setting fire to fields all along the borderlands.” Larissa looked up sharply. “I swear we’ve heard nothing of Far Ingarsby.”

  Twenty minutes later they reached the steps to the Godhall of Augur Maedoc – he’d been a warrior, and so naturally was the favorite augur of the Jandari. Its domes loomed over the city, and Larissa had wanted to visit ever since arriving in Chimkant. Magus had said that after two centuries of work, it was still unfinished, and Larissa would likely be in her grave before it was. She’d been raised to think in seasons, not centuries, and admired men who could devote themselves to a task they would never live to see complete. Best of all, he said she would one day help the builders with her pacts. Joy filled her when she imagined being a part of something so grand.

  It balanced out the queasy fear she had of becoming a monster, a sinistrous panther. She had seen a drawing of one in Magus’s book, A Menagerie of Great Faie. It looked abominable, like the twisted spawn of a cat and a bat. Magus said the artist had exaggerated in his drawings, but that didn’t stop Larissa from constantly running a tongue over her teeth, testing for fangs.

  They climbed the marble stairs into the Godhall of Augur Maedoc; the hall inside was almost impossibly vast, capped by a domed ceiling painted the blue of a noonday sky, with clouds rendered so cleverly they nearly fooled the eye. Jandari normally stood to worship, but rough-hewn benches now lined both sides of the hall, occupied by a jumble of tradesmen, beggars, farmers dressed in darengai, and even a handful of nobles. Everyone was equal in the godhall.

  A high table with three chairs sat just in front of the altar. Eldest Hoshaber, who spoke for the faithful in Jandaria, sat on the left. Larissa had seen him only once before, but his kindly smile and soft white hair were easy to remember. The man at the center, Lord Mackmain, was the king’s Justiciar, and memorable in quite a different way. With a long face and piercing eyes, he reminded Larissa of a hunting hound. The table held an inkwell, a parchment, and a shallow copper pot suspended over a candle flame.

  “Find a seat and pay close attention to this trial,” Tancred said. “If you are unwise, your fate could one day be the same as hers.” He strode to the front and took his seat among the judges.

  Larissa squeezed in next to a sweaty farmer whose boots were caked in red mud, feeling suddenly homesick. A keening moan issued from one of the side chapels, and then the sound of scuffling feet. Two guards dragged a young woman to the center of the room. A steel and leather bridle was clamped over her mouth – the gossip’s muzzle – leaving only wild eyes visible, searching the room like a trapped animal. Manacles bound her wrists and her fingers were twisted in unnatural directions.

  Would that someday happen to her as well? “What’s wrong with her hands?” Larissa asked the farmer, grateful for a chance to speak Jandari instead of Oberyn.

  “They always break the fingers,” the man explained. “Only way to be sure she won’t make a sacrifice and try escaping. Or try revenging.”

  Lord Mackmain stood and directed the guard to take off her muzzle. A wave of revulsion crossed his face. “Midya of Kemersar, you stand before this holy tribunal accused of child murder and the darker crime of consorting with dark faie. How do you answer these charges?”

  The witch laughed. “Avishag is no dark faie. She is the Queen of Life and Death. She will find her way into this reality once more, I swear to you. Go on believing his lies,” she said, jutting her chin toward Eldest Hoshaber, “but Avishag is a goddess.” The crowd murmured in shock. Larissa could feel the tension in those around her. It was only the presence of so many guards that kept them from attacking the woman.

  “Dear lady, you refused an advocate. Are you certain we cannot provide one?” Magus asked. “You damn yourself with these words.”

  Another laugh from the witch climbed up Larissa’s spine and set her ears tingling. “No, I condemn myself with my words. Only Avishag can damn She will reward me for my service and curse you in the life to come!”

  “Midya, your own husband delivered you over to us,” Eldest Hoshaber said sadly. “Your infant daughter lies rotting in the sands of Kemersar. Does this seem a goddess worth serving?”

  Lord Mackmain cut his hand through the air like an executioner’s blade. “Let be, Hoshaber. This one is beyond us.”

  “But none are beyond the High King’s mercy.”

  “To the Abyss with your mercy!” she shouted at them, broken fingers writhing within the manacles. “Kill me and be done with it.” Larissa recoiled at the madness and venom in the woman’s voice.

  “Very well, witch.” Lord Mackmain dipped his quill into the inkwell and signed the parchment. He poured a spot of black wax from the copper pot and set his signet to it. “By this seal, you are condemned.” Eldest Hoshaber and Magus each did the same.

  “Guards, ready the wagon for her trip to the blightyard,” Magus stood, tying on his cloak. “Larissa, please join me.”

  Did she imagine it, or did the woman glance up at her name? A low chuckle sounded in the witch’s throat and Larissa felt lunatic eyes upon her as she crossed to Tancred. The crowd grumbled as it stood from the benches and began to leave. “We traveled two days for this,” one gaily-dressed girl complained to another. “I expected more.”

  Guards loaded the witch into a caged wagon made of blackwood, with black pennants flying from each corner of the railings. Two black horses pulled it along. Lads brought mounts for Larissa and Tancred and the party set off for the blightyard. She wanted to ask Magus why the witch seemed to know her name, but fear kept her silent. They wended their way through the streets of Chimkant. City residents were no strangers to the cart, for some hid themselves as it passed, while others uttered curses or prayers for the occupant. A group of children trailed alongside for several blocks, calling for the witch and then shrieking in delighted fear each time she noticed them.

  Once out of the city gates, the road led into fields of co
tton and rye and orchards full of trees that Larissa didn’t recognize. Beyond them she could see the Shield Forest from which the fields were carved. All of it was a blur as the witch’s laugh played in her mind. What did the woman know? Simply for the distraction, she asked, “Why do they call it a blightyard?”

  “Nothing grows where witches and warlocks are buried. Not in any land. Some believe it is corrupt magic that poisons the soil, but this is false. It is their blood itself.”

  “How do you know?”

  Tancred hesitated before answering. “I’ve tested warlock blood. Not on people, of course, but rats and a dog. They suffered… ill effects.”

  “Ill effects?” Larissa felt suddenly queasy.

  “They changed, became violent and erratic. The rats devoured each other. As for the dog, we had to put her down.” The cart left the road, bouncing on to an unmarked trail leading into the woods. Larissa and the magus followed.

  “So evil magic affects both soul and body.”

  “Exactly,” Magus answered, sounding pleased with her reasoning.

  Ahead, Larissa saw the cart pass through a black iron gateway, though the gate wasn’t needed to mark the cemetery. It was the most desolate land she had ever seen; where previously they rode through lush woods, here the ground yielded only the knotted trunks of dead trees. Round funeral stones stood on all sides, many of them ancient and wind-blasted, engraved with the deeds of the dead. Larissa was glad she couldn’t read them.

  The cart halted at the far side of the field, where two gravediggers stood by with spades, a fresh grave at their feet. The guards wasted no time in pulling Midya from the cart and standing her by the hole in the ground.

  “I always hate this part,” Magus said, dismounting the horse and pulling on thick leather gloves.

  “You?” Larissa asked, hurrying to follow.

  “It is part of the job of magus, one you will share when you succeed me someday.” He approached the witch, pulling a dagger from his belt. She laughed hysterically at the sight of it, a sound like hyenas mating.