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

by J. Wesley Bush

  Once they reached the keep, Selwyn sent Wicke ahead and called for Reyhan to remain. They rode out beyond sight of the castle, then Selwyn ordered a dismount and they let the horses graze. “Why did you leave your post?” Selwyn asked, rounding on his hearthguard.

  Reyhan smirked, his face practically begging to be punched. “Afraid some villager might stick a hayfork in you? I thought Wicke was protection enough.” His breath reeked of ale.

  “Your place is with me. And you know it.”

  The hearthguard’s features settled into a sullen mask. “My place was with Ardashir. Not his little shite of a brother.”

  Selwyn punched him in the face. The rough leather of his riding glove split the taller man’s lip in a satisfying way and sent him tottering backward.

  “You son of a whore.” Reyhan launched forward, grabbing Selwyn by the collar and slamming a fist into his eye. Pain lanced through Selwyn’s head. Reyhan tried throwing him to the ground, but drink had made him clumsy. Selwyn broke his grip with a forearm and came back with an armored elbow to Reyhan’s nose. It burst prettily.

  Roaring in anger, Reyhan pushed Selwyn backward and then kicked him in the stomach, flattening him to the ground. As the hearthguard drew his sword, Selwyn realized there was no other way it could have ended. The man outweighed him by six stone and had ten years more training. A few mugs of ale had changed nothing.

  “It was supposed to be Ardashir!” Reyhan shouted, mucus and blood pouring from his nose, and tears from his eyes. “That was what my life was for!”

  “Neither of us wanted this!” Selwyn watched the blade fixedly. “I’m trapped in it, but you’re not. You want free of the hearthguard oath?”

  “What am I without the oath?” Reyhan slurred brokenly.

  “A drunken bully. An empty man.”

  Reyhan looked at the sword as if it were an unfamiliar thing. Abruptly, he thrust it into the soil and fell on his knees. “Your Grace,” he said, pressing forehead to the ground. “I have no excuse. You can take my head.”

  Selwyn eyed the volatile knight warily. “He was your brother too.”

  Looking up with red-rimmed eyes, Reyhan gave a miserable nod. “That he was.”

  “Grief can make a man forget himself,” Selwyn said, standing and brushing himself off. “But the time for that is past. I need a hearthguard.”

  “One of my brothers then. Drakan could undertake the Hunt.”

  “It has to be you. Ardashir always said that when sober you were the best tactician he knew. I’ll need that in the days ahead.”

  “But I struck you…”

  Selwyn ran two fingers over his throbbing eye. “We were training. That’s the story we’ll tell at the castle, and let’s never speak of it again. Now stand up.”

  The hearthguard stood roughly at attention and sheathed his blade.

  “I doubt we’ll be friends, Reyhan, and I will never be Ardashir. But can we work together for the sake of my duchy and your oath?”

  “Aye, we can.” Reyhan pinched his nose shut. “And let’s have no more training sessions like this one.”

  CHAPTER 26

  P aldrick’s company had left Tethmere as a shining company, but a few days of marching took care of that. Rains turned the primitive road into a morass of stumbling horses and foundering wagons. Despite it all, Addison was happy as he always was when seeing a new place, for every land had its own beauty, even the blasted deserts of the south. In Belgorsk, it was the mystery of the forest, the sense that underfaie eyes could be watching from any bough.

  They reached the Little Neck River on the fifth day, crossing by ferryboat. A half day of marching brought them to the Green Lady, and they arrived at Leax’s camp outside New Oster that evening. A lordling rode out to meet them and Sir Clive presented their mercenary contract. The lordling directed them to a clearing near the city walls. The field was brimming with soldiers, mostly peasant conscripts, dressed in hides and furs and linen rags; those on duty carried hay forks or short-handled axes. They sheltered in lean-tos of brush.

  Dozens of mercenary companies also shared the field. Addison recognized many of the pennants, among them the Half-Moon Company, the red pony of Hendrick’s Hobilars, and the bear paw of a berserker company from Irmgaard. Thankfully, Yantel’s Lancers were nowhere to be seen. In lean times, they occasionally ventured north and the last thing he wanted was Paldrick learning of his ruse.

  Addison helped the company set up camp. The knights were exempt, but it went against his grain to watch other people work.

  “Wonder what the taverns are like?” one groom said as he tossed a load of muck onto a waiting tarpaulin. “I’ve a powerful thirst.”

  “And you’ll keep wondering,” a serjeant growled. “Word’s gone out, no mercenaries inside the city. There’s too bloody many of us and Leax fears a riot.”

  The news elicited groans from everyone, but things worked out in the end. Once the work was done, Quartermaster dispensed the weekly wages and as if by magic, alewives, laundresses, and women of low repute started making the rounds. With them came cobblers, curio makers, food vendors, and a host of others from the city, each looking to separate young troops from their silver orricks. Addison bought a trio of squabs from a gnarled old peasant. He broke their necks and handed them to Brinley. “Pluck these and spit them over the fire. Be sure that Furtick gets one as well.”

  That evening, Addison went for a walk, threading his way between the mercenary companies and taking note of their numbers. It was harder to gauge the number of Belgorshans, since many peasants were sheltering in the forest and household troops slept in the city. The dweorg mercenaries were burrowed near the river. Word had it that a full century of dweorgs had arrived, both heavy infantry and sappers. Back in his tent, Addison wrote down his best estimate on parchment: perhaps eight thousand mercenaries, over half of them horsemen; at least forty-five thousand peasants, though only a tenth of these had proper weapons or armor; and based on what he knew of the Belgorshan army, around seven thousand household troops. These latter were comprised primarily of poleaxemen, along with perhaps fifteen centuries of light horse.

  Addison heard boots slurping through the mud outside his tent. Quickly he dropped the quill and parchment into his strongbox and closed the lid. Serjeant Furtick ducked inside, giving it a curious glance. “Something of value in there? You might want to trust it to the company purser. He has a proper safe.”

  “Just writing out my thoughts. I find that it clears the mind; you should try it.”

  Furtick snorted a laugh. “Wouldn’t do any good. Can’t write much more than my name.” He flopped down on his bedding and started unlacing his boots. “Been trying to remember where I seen you before. You ever work caravan duty?”

  “Haven’t we all? Mostly ran from Great Keferi to the Sky Folk.”

  “That’s probably it then. I’ve trekked the sand road a few times myself.”

  “That must be it.” Addison managed a smile. “I’m going to find Brinley. Sir Clive said to expect an early morning, and it’s time for the lad to be abed.” Before he left, he clasped the lock on his strongbox.

  Morning did come early. Rather than the company clarion, trumpet blasts from the city walls roused the camp. Addison stumbled blearily from his tent to find the battlements lined with troops. At their center stood a vast hummock of a man, with a thick beard and furred cloak. Addison instantly knew him for Priest-King Leax. Bunked so close to the walls, he had a good view of the party flanking the king. Several great lords stood nearby, conspicuous in their fine clothing, as well as a dozen knights in amber-colored armor. Those would be the Chosen, Leax’s personal guard. At the edges of the party were even more interesting characters.

  “Sir, look! There’s Yaga the Giantess!” Brinley said, his voice excited but still thick with sleep. “And the Mingled Twins! You can see where their heads are joined.” He leaned in close and whispered, “A night hag set a curse on their mum.” He stood on the tips of his toes. “
Do you see the mule-faced boy? They say it was his mother that was the mule.”

  Leax’s menagerie of freaks was renowned: a woman with clawed hands, a tiny hunchback from Dagora, and others more unfortunate. “Do you think they were afflicted for your amusement?” he asked the boy softly. Brinley gave him a chagrined smile, then started to answer, but was cut off by Priest-King Leax’s booming voice rolling from the city walls.

  “Men of Belgorsk, respected allies, brigands and ne’er do wells! I welcome you to my ranks!” The crowd responded with a cheer. Leax raised his hands over them, receiving their enthusiasm. “The last of our numbers arrived this morning. The marshals of left flank, right flank and center are appointed.” He acknowledged the finely-dressed lords standing at his side. “Jandaria lies divided and ready for us! Her fruit is ripe for plucking! Who will take her with me?” he bellowed, eyes lighting up with savage joy. “Who is ready to make their fortune?”

  The men roared as one, young Brinley treading on Addison’s foot as he hooted and jumped.

  Leax grinned. “Before the Empire came to Belgorsk, no king would launch a war without a sacrifice,” he said, turning and motioning to someone behind him. Two guards shuffled into view, an old man held between them. After a moment, Addison recognized him as the elderly squab seller, though he was barely recognizable with a slit nose and his ears sliced free. What could he have done to draw Leax’s anger? “Perhaps we should reinstate the custom! This peasant dog spied upon you. He readied the Jandari to kill you! What does this traitor deserve?”

  Cries of Death! and Kill him! rose from the crowd, alongside more imaginative punishments. Leax nodded to the two guards, who then dangled him over the wall, each holding a leg. The king took a massive, two-handed ax from a guard and climbed up on to the battlements, straddling the crenel. He dangled the ax between his feet. “Our blades will tear the Jandari apart.” The ax rose over his head. Moaning in terror, the peasant struggled to escape his captors, seeming to prefer falling to his death. The ax fell in a blurring arc, splitting the peasant’s head like rotten wood. The blade rebounded from the stone wall. Leax lifted it again and brought it down on the dead man’s chest. Again and again he swung the ax until the peasant was carved in half. He spoke to his guards and the remains dropped into the filthy moat not twenty yards from Addison.

  Leax held the dripping ax overhead. “The gods of war have their sacrifice, the first of many to come!” Such words were blasphemy in both Imperial and Covenant theology, but Leax was hardly the sort to worry. The title of priest-king was an imperial innovation; since the emperor was reputedly God’s regent on earth, it followed logically that his subordinate kings must also priests.

  May the High King strike him for his blasphemy, and for so much else, Addison prayed silently.

  That evening Paldrick invited the knights to his tent for a feast. It was simple by castle standards, but a welcome change from rations. Senior knights dined at Captain Paldrick’s table, while Addison and the other bachelor knights perched on camp stools. Servants had placed trays of fish and pork seasoned in bland Belgorshan fashion on a serving table, along with fresh-baked bread and jugs of passable wine. “Help yourselves. I’ve sent the servants away so we can speak at ease,” Paldrick said, slipping a pork rib to the lymehound curled nearby. The flat-headed dog licked at his master’s fingers a moment before setting to work on the bone.

  Paldrick was a man of honor, and Addison found that he liked this captain, despite the man being a mercenary. He took no joy in spying on him. That didn’t prevent his ears from perking up when one of the knights asked, “You sat with Priest-King Leax and the other captains today. What word did—” Another interjected, “What was that lunacy on the city walls this morning?”

  Paldrick held up a hand. “That was not so barbaric as it appeared. The peasant truly was a spy for Duke Harlowe, so he deserved it.”

  The men nodded begrudgingly. Spies could expect no quarter in any land. After a long swill of wine, Paldrick added, “From what I could glean, Leax knew to watch for the man. He implied he has a spy of his own in Jandaria, and while it’s hard to separate the fat from the meat when Leax talks, I think he just might, especially since they came damned close to poisoning the Jandari king.”

  The conversation turned to logistical matters of no concern to Addison, so he pondered who the turncoat might be. It appeared certain the traitor had been in Nineacre the night of the assassination. Selwyn was no suspect, of course: the boy had clearly never wanted to inherit the duchy. Duke Lockridge had been close by, but he was the one who saved the king, odd behavior from an assassin. As for the magus, Addison had never trusted him, for he was too smooth by half. Yet it was hard to see what benefit he would gain. King Randolf was weak-willed and the magus had his ear. He could hope to climb no higher. The only others who were close enough for the deed had been the hearthguards. He knew Gladwin Ramsey personally, and there was no finer knight in the civilized lands. Addison would think ill of himself before Sir Gladwin. As for the others, he knew little of them.

  It was most likely someone in the Harlowe household, for they knew that Selwyn had dispatched the pigeon seller.

  Whoever it was, he had to warn Jandaria of the traitor among them and the army at their door. First, he just had to find a way to slip free of sixty thousand men.

  CHAPTER 27

  L arissa lay sleepless in the Fieldstone Tower, marking the night’s progress by calls from the city watch. Ever since the blightyard, Midya’s specter had waited in her dreams, laughing and taunting. Avishag wanted to sift her like wheat, and still Magus kept her from contacting the good faie, saying she was unready. Ready or not, she needed protection.

  She recalled what Magus had let slip in past weeks: A pactmaker must clear the mind and then will herself to the Veil; she would then call on a faie and together the two made a conflux, a bridge between Trosketh and the world of the faie. It wasn’t much to go on.

  Crossing arms across her chest, Larissa shut her eyes and took a deep breath. For several, aggravating minutes she tried clearing her mind of thoughts, but this naturally led to thinking about clearing the mind of thoughts, then further thoughts about how it wasn’t working.

  Body and soul were connected, so perhaps posture had something to do with it. In turn she tried bowing her head, lying prone, and kneeling with her forehead pressed to a prayer disk of holy clay. Nothing bloody worked.

  How had it been with Avishag? She remembered the dark faie calling her, an itching feeling that drew her from the body and into something like flight. She had always longed to soar over the savanna, away from Far Ingarsby. It had been like that.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured the shifting, twisting village gate high above from that time with Avishag and then reached toward it. Like a loosed falcon, her mind slipped free and soared away from the world, going upward and inward all at once.

  As she pushed it open, the pandemonium of noise and colors buffeted her again. It was so deep and endless, much worse than looking down from a castle tower. Desperately, she called out, “Kirilith!” His cult was strongest in Far Ingarsby – perhaps he would be kind.

  The chaos quieted and forms began to emerge. Larissa blinked in confusion, and it gradually began to look a bit more like home. After a few moments that felt like hours, she was stooped by the old rill, running her fingers through the water. It felt so real.

  The hedgerow kraal of Far Ingarsby looked just as it had before the Vyr scorched it. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of tall grass and listened to the wind moving through it.

  “Is this your home?”

  Larissa yelped and uttered her foulest curse. Opening her eyes, she saw a boy perched in the branches of an acacia. “I think it must be. Why else would someone construct such a place?” He grimaced and pulled one of the tree thorns from his hand.

  “It is,” Larissa said, wide-eyed. He had skin the color of honey and a beautiful smile. Golden motes played in the air around him. It truly wa
s Kirilith.

  “I’m Larissa.”

  Kirilith laughed. The sound reminded her of silver fish in a river. “I know who you are,” he said, alighting from the tree. “We all know of you, changeling.” He squinted at her. “You’ve treated with the dark. I can see it on you.”

  “Not on purpose, I swear!” Larissa said fervently, standing and wiping wet hands on her dress. “I didn’t know who she was.”

  “You can make no more mistakes or the light faie will abandon you.”

  Falling to her knees, Larissa bowed her head. “Never again, my lord. I swear it.”

  “Stand up,” Kirilith said, laughter in his voice. “I would pull you up, but we aren’t really here, are we? No need to bow to me. I’m not the High King.”

  Larissa stood, brushing off her dress. On a whim, she tried willing away the dirt and it became instantly clean.

  “What pact do you wish to make?”

  There was one thing she needed above all else. “I want protection from Avishag and the other dark faie.”

  “What power does she have over you?”

  With a sigh, Larissa recounted the pact she had made. “Can you help?”

  The boy’s infectious smile was gone. “You’ve made a geas, and I don’t know a way to break it. If you choose not to fulfill the oath, death is the only escape. You’ll have to decide if you can live with Avishag’s request.” He raised his hands apologetically. “As for the rest of the dark ones, you simply need to deny any pact they ask of you. The only power they have is your own greed and ambition. Other than protection, do you want anything else from me?”

  After a moment’s thought, Larissa shook her head. “Not now, but thank you.”

  The boy gave a playful bow. “I serve those who serve Him.” In a blink, he was gone. Assuming the way in was the way out, Larissa walked back through the night gate and in no time at all was in her body once more.

  For hours after, she lay in bed, remembering every moment of the conflux, giddy with happiness. She had spoken with a good faie and he hadn’t rejected her. Kirilith had also cured her greatest fear – she could refuse Avishag. It might cost her life, but not her soul.