“And your son?” Gladwin asked. “Is he well?”
“Other than his insubordination, yes. Prince Lyle came through the battle intact. Which is more than we can say for when he returns,” the king said, scowling. “I’ll strip the hide from his back myself.”
“This is excellent news, Sire. Selwyn Harlowe is trapped between hammer and anvil,” Duke Lockridge said, pounding a fist into his palm. “And the boy is made of poor steel. He’ll shatter.”
“Have we already chosen war? I was told this was to be a discussion.” Gladwin moved away from the king, approaching the table. “Wars should not be started lightly. We’ve given negotiation no chance at all.”
Eldest Hoshaber nodded in agreement. “The sixth augur was a warrior, and even he wrote ‘It is far more glorious to win an enemy with words than the blade.’ Have you all forgotten?”
“God forgives all things, but a king cannot,” Jasper said, taking a piece of smoked cuttlefish from the communal plate and biting off a hunk.
“Your Majesty, give me a chance,” Sir Gladwin said urgently, taking a knee beside the king. “The Harlowes know me well. I will offer them terms — the Young Duke will come to Chimkant, apologize before the court, and hand over those who assaulted your men. Please grant me leave.”
Larissa watched the men across the table suppress mocking smiles at Gladwin’s pleading. She wanted to eyebite them like she had Marizka, but none so much as glanced at her. “Stand, Gladwin, you shame yourself,” Lockridge said gently.
“Yes, please take your place.” The king stood and turned to Duke Lockridge. “Give us the document.”
Lockridge reached into the satchel at his feet and pulled out rolled vellum. He handed it to the king, who hesitated only a moment before rolling it out flat.
“Selwyn Harlowe is attainted, forfeit of all rights, lands, and titles.” King Randolf poured yellow wax on to the vellum and pressed his signet ring firmly down. “Anyone aiding this rebel will receive the same.” The war party cheered, pounding the table in approval.
Larissa saw Gladwin’s jaw ripple with tension, but he moved behind the king’s seat, stiff as a poker.
“Lord Jasper will continue as marshal for the duration, and Duke Lockridge will be his deputy. Both commanded with distinction during the Herring War, and we trust they will lead us to victory.” The men pounded the table again. Larissa felt ill.
“There is one other matter,” Gladwin said after they had settled. “The magus has not been given an advocate. No one has seen him since the arrest.”
“It cannot be risked,” Lockridge said. “Even without pacts, Tancred has power over the mind.”
“It is a traditional Jandari right.” Eldest Hoshaber glared at Lockridge. “Even an inquirer cannot strip it from him.”
“Jandaria is at war now, and we must make regrettable compromises,” Lockridge said. “I cannot allow anyone to approach him, not without a magus to provide magical protection.”
“I am the magus.” Larissa wondered why everyone was staring, then realized she had spoken. She stood, hands trembling at her sides. “I was the apprentice. Now I’m the magus.” Her head felt light and hot all at once.
“The wench has you at that,” King Randolf said with a laugh, raising his cup to Larissa. “Every kingdom needs a magus and the girl is next in line.”
“She is a child, Your Majesty. Tancred will twist her.”
“Not with me standing over him with an ax,” Gladwin said. “The girl has insight. Let her speak to him.”
It was agreed and by evening Larissa and Gladwin walked through the massive gates of Lockridge’s town home. The duke instructed his guard captain to escort them and left with a polite farewell. They followed the captain across a smoothly cobbled yard and through the fluted doorway of the house itself. “It’s beautiful,” Larissa whispered to Gladwin, her eyes drinking in the dancing figures painted on one wall and graceful sculptures flanking the hallway.
“When we travel to Aventir one day, you’ll see many homes like this. For two centuries no one has invaded, and they’ve remade their castles into things of beauty.”
The captain led them downstairs into an undercroft. Even here the walls were whitewashed and brightly lit. They passed through storage rooms filled with casks and crates, then past the baths, and then through a stout wooden door and an iron gate. This led to a narrow hall lined with cells. It was dark and cold and smelled rancid from smoldering tapers casting a sickly light. A thin man sat on a stool at the far end. Larissa might have thought him a prisoner, were it not for the filthy blue livery he wore. The captain spoke for the first time, calling to the gaoler. “Loker, come here. Magus wants to question Tancred.”
The thin man stood and wandered over, expression perplexed. “But Tancred is the magus, Captain.”
“Just unlock his bloody door.”
Tancred sat propped against the rough stone of his cell, hair matted with wet filth from the wall. The guards were taking no chances, with a leather muzzle over his mouth, eyes covered by heavy cloth, and his hands and feet shackled tight. Loker took a deep breath and stepped into the cell. “You want me to take off the muzzle, milady?” His eyes pleaded with her to say no.
“There’s no need. We faietouched can read the thoughts of others,” Larissa said, peering at the gaoler and enjoying his terrified reaction. She grinned. “I’m just taking the piss. Yes, please unmuzzle the man, but leave on the blindfold.”
It took Loker several tries to unbuckle the straps, as every time Tancred moved, the gaoler jumped back in fear. At last Tancred sat upright, groaning. Gladwin stood to the side, dagger in hand.
“Lockridge allowed you to come?”
“King Randolf made him. I’m magus now, at least until they release you.”
Tancred smirked, his chapped lips twisting sourly. “Lockridge isn’t going to release me. I’ll be found guilty and executed, if they don’t simply cut my throat and say I tried to escape.”
“I disagree with Lockridge on many things,” Sir Gladwin said, “but it is hard to imagine him stooping to treachery.”
“Something has changed in him. I don’t know what. And Lockridge has always been ambitious.”
Gladwin rapped Tancred lightly on the head with the flat of his dagger. “How is that any different from you?”
“You and I fought for the king’s ear, but we never made him a puppet. Now that he’s taken me down, you’ll be next.” Tancred smacked his head back against the wall, making a frustrated face. “And now Selwyn will be replaced with his fool of an uncle. Lockridge’s fool. Has King Randolf announced it yet?”
“You know I cannot say, Tancred. You’re a prisoner.”
“Why did you say Rupert Harlowe is Lockridge’s fool?” Larissa asked, receiving surprised looks from them both. They seemed to have forgotten her. “Well?”
“The gaolers were gossiping about it,” the magus answered. “Rupert was here yesterday, as were some Eastmark bankers. Lockridge paid off his debts.”
“What you say has the appearance of reason,” Gladwin said, “but Lockridge has always been honorable and faithful, while you’ve always been a conniver.”
“And he has witnesses who say you did it,” Larissa said miserably. “Do you have anything to prove you’re innocent?”
“If you looked into my eyes, you might see the truth. But Gladwin is likely to use that dagger on me if you do. Funny things happen to people who look in my eyes.”
“Aye, I would have to kill you,” Gladwin said, running a thumb over the edge of his blade. “Assuming for a moment that you are innocent, is there anything we can do to help prove it?”
“Make sure I get an open trial. Those witnesses are lying. Fair judges will see the truth.”
Gladwin sighed. “I will try. Hopefully the king still listens to my counsel.”
Tancred turned his masked face toward Larissa. “Protect the king, child. He faces many dangers, but magic is the greatest of them.”
; “But how? I’ve only made one pact. And that one was a mistake.”
A chuckle echoed forlornly in the cell, but then Tancred’s voice turned grave. “Go to Kirilith the Shifter. Or seek out Cauladra the Gracious, or Tidurion. Tell them you wish to shield the king from harm. They always grant it, but we must renew the protection at the beginning of each moon.”
Larissa nodded. “I will. But what if I’m not strong enough?”
“You lack experience but have plenty of strength. And it is much easier to shield a person magically than to attack them. Otherwise, no king would long survive on the throne. The new moon comes in four nights, so be ready.”
“I will,” Larissa promised. She slipped into the cell and embraced Tancred, holding her breath against the stench. “Be safe until we see you again.”
After a moment, Gladwin pulled her away. “Have a care, Larissa,” he said sternly. “This is nothing but words for now, and those of a schemer. Save your affection until we’ve learned the truth of things.”
Gladwin walked her back to Tancred’s home in silence. She could tell he wanted to think in peace. Evening was approaching, and men headed home covered in the residue of their work, chandlers in beeswax and fat, butchers spattered with blood, and poor tanners reeking of lime and dogshite, the essentials of their trade. Twilight gnats nipped at Larissa’s cheeks and hands.
They arrived at the Fieldstone Tower. Larissa tilted back her head to take in all six storeys and the wooden peak at the top. Faces peered out from the midway point, and she realized with delight that one of them was Kirilith, though age had weathered his nose somewhat flat. Gladwin rapped the brass ring on the door. Larissa heard shuffling feet, and then Kaan pried it open. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he handed her a letter. “Took the liberty of reading it, milady. The army marches tomorrow morning and King Randolf expects you to join him.”
CHAPTER 31
T he Belgorshan army had marched for three days but covered less than thirty miles. Muddy roads were part of the problem, and the vast size of the army, but Addison knew that Leax was the real cause, always calling the halt in mid-afternoon. He preferred feasting and hawking to the rigors of the march. It was foolish and self-indulgent, paying mercenaries for a half-day of work, but Addison was thankful for the slow pace.
Every minute of delay was a chance for him to escape and warn Jandaria. Serjeant Furtick rode just ahead of him, guiding his mount around a dead pack horse in the middle of the path. Addison would normally take time to clear the road, but now obstacles were just what he wanted. Brinley was behind, whistling bits of songs and commenting on everything they saw.
Looking past Brinley, Addison noticed a messenger in royal livery working his way through Paldrick’s column. He bantered with the men as he passed, and a few of them raised cheers. When he caught up to their lance, Addison asked, “What news?”
“There’s a village just ahead with wide fields. Priest-King Leax wants a melee, Paldrick against the Golden Spur Company. Offering a feast to the winners.”
“Is he providing blunted weapons?”
“No, a melee in the old style. But the priest-king offers compensation for any loss of man or animal.”
They reached the village two hours later. Sullen peasants stood in ranks as the army passed by, dressed in clothes little better than rags. A few women wailed loudly, their sons probably drafted into the army. Everyone was coated in mud from prostrating to the nobles. A gentle hill rose just behind the village, covered in spring wheat, yellow and ready for harvest. At the far end of the field Addison could see the Golden Spurs setting up camp.
Paldrick came riding by, motioning his company to the hillside. “The rest of the army will continue on to the next village. We’ll do the melee for Leax and spend the night here.”
The latrines were only shallow scrapes in the ground and the tents still flat when Leax lost patience and ordered the mercenaries to the field. The king sat on his Amber Throne at the top of the hill, attended by his freaks and Chosen. His herald waded out into the middle of the wheat field, gave three blasts on the clarion, and then called out, “For this engagement, ransom will be three orricks for a serjeant, eight for a knight. Only one horse per combatant, and mounts must not be attacked. The winning company will feast tonight with Priest-King Leax in his pavilion!” That brought cheers from both sides of the field. “To arms, to arms!” With a bow, he returned to the priest-king’s side.
“Armor up!” Paldrick called. Grooms helped serjeants and knights don their armor and then ran to fetch the horses. Furtick cinched his sword belt tighter. “I’ve fought alongside the Golden Spurs before. Lighter than us – two serjeants to a knight. We should win a fair ransom today.”
“Good. We can give it to the peasants who are losing their harvest.”
Serjeant Furtick sneered but cut off his answer as Brinley arrived with the horses. Intrepid pawed the ground and snorted as Addison mounted. The stallion seemed eager for the charge, but Addison felt none of his usual excitement. If he were injured or killed in the melee, who would warn the Covenant lands?
The companies aligned by lances. The Golden Spurs outnumbered Paldrick’s Heavy Horse by about twenty men, but they looked ragged in comparison. Sir Clive rode the length of Paldrick’s formation, inspecting the men. “Serjeant Hugh, dress right. Sir Roger, the girth is loose on your saddle. See to it.” On both sides of the field, grooms and squires brought lances to the men. “Found you a good one, sir,” Brinley said with a grin. “Nice and solid.”
Once all was in place, the herald reemerged, raised the royal banner high, and brought it sharply down. Then he ran from the field as two hundred combatants spurred their horses into a charge. Addison dropped his visor, and nudged Intrepid into motion. All thoughts of politics fled his mind as he couched the lance and settled into the saddle. Wheat flew past in a yellow blur. Intrepid’s muscles heaved beneath him. Serjeant Furtick raced to his left, Hugh to the right. The line of Golden Spurs rushed ever closer. His target was soon clear, a knight on a broad-chested roan. Addison shouted for joy as the two sides crashed together in a thunder of steel and horseflesh. His lance struck the opposing shield with a sound made of pure happiness, pitching the other knight to the ground. The shock of impact traveled the length of his arm. Dropping the shattered lance, Addison drew his sword.
The fight dissolved into anarchy. Addison circled about, raising his shield just in time to fend off a blow from a great sword. The two of them traded hits for a moment until another horse stumbled between them. The swirl of battle carried them apart. Ahead, he saw Furtick hard pressed by two Golden Spurs. Galloping forward, Addison slammed the flat of his blade into the back of one man’s helmet, then wrestled him from the saddle while he was stunned. If armor quality was any indication, it earned him eight orricks. Furtick and the remaining Spur were locked together, their horses muscling into each other. Addison moved to help. A cry sounded from his left. With a sinking feeling, he twisted in the saddle, just in time to see a hounskulled knight swinging a mace.
The next thing Addison knew, he was lying on a cushion and everything hurt. It hurt so much that he tried going back to sleep just to avoid facing it. His head felt like it had been smashed with a mace. His helmet was off but his armor was still on. He vaguely remembered owing someone eight orricks.
“Where’s the bloody key? It must be on you.”
Addison cracked an eye and saw Furtick leaning over him. It seemed like there were two of him. Everything was painfully bright. The serjeant was feeling inside the neck of his armor. “Looking for something?” Addison asked, straining over the words.
Furtick growled and put a hand to Addison’s throat, his other hand pulling a dagger free. “Where’s the key to your strongbox?”
It took Addison a moment to understand. “You’re robbing me?”
“I’m turning you in, Brother.” He tapped the pommel of the dagger on Addison’s chest. “That mace took the lacquer right off your armor. That’s when
I remembered you, the Garnet Knight.” He flipped the dagger again and pressed the point into Addison’s cheek. “Leax is free with his money, and a spy from the Order will fetch a tidy reward. But first, let’s see what you have in that box.”
The words came too quickly. Addison blinked and tried to clear his head. Furtick made an impatient sound and gave him another thump on the chest. “Tell me!”
Addison smashed a metal gauntlet into the man’s chin. The blow was feeble, but unexpected. The dagger fell from his hand. Then Furtick was on him, hands closing around Addison’s throat. He tried to struggle, but heavy armor and a spinning head slowed him down. Furtick’s mouth twisted in a snarl as he choked Addison, muttering a string of curses. Then his bloodshot eyes widened in surprise as something struck the back of his head with a wet thud. He fell across Addison’s chest, convulsed twice, and then flopped to the ground.
Brinley held the bloodied strongbox in his hands, looking just as surprised as Furtick. “I think I kilt him,” the boy said, staring down at the body.
“Let’s hope so.” Addison rubbed his throat and sat up. An urgent part of his mind forced itself through the fog of injury. “How long have I been asleep? Where’s the rest of the company?”
“At the feast, sir. We won the melee.”
Thank God. That left only Brinley to worry about. If the boy stayed behind, they would hang him for certain. “How would you like to be my squire?”
The boy set the strongbox on the cushion. “A proper squire? With training?”
“A squire for the Order of the Hidden Throne. Later you can choose to join the Order as a knight or seek your fortune in the world.”
“I’ll get the horses!”
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 19