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

by J. Wesley Bush

  A smile creased Timble’s thin lips. “That’s exactly my plan.”

  Returning to the daylight, he found the castle bustling with activity. It was a nice change. Sieges were a bloody bore, aside from exploding pots of pyrophor. “What’s happening?” he asked a passing townsman.

  “Leax plans to storm us in the morning. As I hear it, the rock man warned her Ladyship and Sir Chegatay.”

  Fear mixed with satisfaction at being right. If a storm was coming, he needed to deal with the traitor in their midst. Who knew what mischief he could cause? Hornbill seemed the likeliest of the knights. He’d betrayed vows to his wife, so why not to his lord as well? And his lover rotted in Chimkant, a prisoner of the Crown, giving him a motive for revenge.

  Timble visited the western wall and found that Hornbill had the night watch. A quick search of the castle turned up nothing, so he found a safe place to observe the Garrison Tower for Hornbill’s exit. After an hour, he saw men dump buckets of tainted pilgur into the rubbish fire, but over the course of the afternoon, three more knights and serjeants fell sick to blue rot. He imagined more would follow until the last of it was digested.

  To fight off boredom, Timble passed the time practicing coin tricks and thinking up riddles. “I drive men mad, for love of me. I’m easily beaten… but never free!” He cocked an eye at his imaginary audience. “Well, gold, of course!”

  Just after the sun disappeared, Hornbill left the tower and took his place on the wall. It was easy to watch him from the courtyard, but for the next seven bells the most suspicious thing he did was pick his imposing nose. An hour before sunrise, Hornbill became the least of Timble’s worries, as Belgorshan trumpets pierced the morning stillness.

  The watch commander sounded To Arms from the main gate – three long horn blasts repeated for the next two minutes as bleary-eyed soldiers poured out from every crevice of the castle, settling helms in place and stringing their bows. By the end, nearly a century of townsmen, villagers with horsebows, and castle guards manned each wall. Timble sauntered up the stairs to join those near Hornbill. If the knight tried anything, he would be ready.

  A reedy whistle floated on the air, pitched almost too high to hear, followed by horrible whines and snarls. “Troll whistles,” one of the guards said. “The handlers are bringing out their beasts.”

  Timble risked a look over the battlements and instantly regretted it. Firelight caught the leprous-looking hides of at least a dozen trolls bounding through the muddy riverbed. They were off the leash. Beyond them, he could see a mass of torches, like an endless legion of evil fireflies.

  Peering down through a murder hole, he watched as a troll reached the castle foundation and scrabbled to find purchase on the slimy rock. It crouched and leaped to the dry stone above, its claws digging into the mortar. Timble loosed a bolt from his hand crossbow, but aside from a snarl, the creature took no notice of the twig impaled in its shoulder. Lanky, corded limbs propelled it ever upward.

  “Move aside!” Without waiting, two guardsmen muscled Timble out of the way and dumped a pot of steaming pitch down through the murder hole. A shriek rent the air. Timble reloaded his crossbow, took a moment to build up courage, and glanced anxiously down the hole once more. A radiant green eye stared back at him, no more than a pace below. Then he saw a melted, charred snout as the monster gnashed its teeth, trying to gnaw him through the stone. A claw shot out of the hole and swiped at him. “Shite the bed!” He lost his footing. Talons raked through his leather breeches, leaving trails of agony in their wake. He dropped the useless crossbow and pulled free his dagger. The monster seized his ankle and began to pull him down into the hole. Only half of him would fit. He stabbed ineffectually at the pallid claw.

  “I’ve got you!” Strong hands grabbed him under the arms and started pulling. It was like two bears fighting over a rabbit. Movement caught the corner of his eye and he saw a serjeant charge in, hefting a pole-hammer. Down it came, crushing the monster’s wrist between steel and stone. The claw clamped down reflexively and then released him. Timble watched through the murder hole as the troll lost its grip on the wall and fell to the rocks below.

  The next few minutes were blurred with pain. Timble sat back against the cool stone of the battlements and cut free the shredded leather to expose his wound. Two bloody furrows crossed the length of his calf. He suppressed an urge to vomit. Other people’s blood never bothered him, but he hated to see his own. Men shouted, and a sinuous troll came over the wall, perhaps five paces distant, but all Timble could think about was the bloody leg. After taking off his helmet, he unspooled the woolen cloth worn underneath for padding. Catching his breath at the pain, he wrapped the cloth tightly around the wound and tied it off. It would hold, for the moment. Now where to hide?

  A troll that had made it over the battlements was still fighting. Two burly guards had its neck trapped in the jaws of a mancatcher, while others were thrusting spears into its body. It was quilled with crossbow bolts, but still fighting. Half a dozen men lay dead or dying around it, and the walkway looked like the floor of a slaughterhouse. Knots of soldiers were struggling to keep three other trolls at bay, as the beasts tried to force their way over the wall.

  A thump sounded against the wall. Timble looked to see a ladder jutting up over the battlements. Peeking over the side, he saw more of them on the way. The Belgorshans had used the trolls as a distraction while they approached the walls. But the riverbed was slowing them, the troops struggling over slimy rocks and pools of clinging mud. What should have been a wave of men was instead a series of trickles following paths of least resistance. An arrow struck the merlon nearby, stinging his cheek with flecks of stone. Timble wisely pulled his head back.

  A second ladder fell into place against the battlements, this one closer than the first. Timble limped over and tried to shove it away, but the bloody thing was too heavy. He felt it shiver as the soldiers below began to climb. “I need help over here!” Burly villagers joined him and they heaved the ladder backward just as the first Belgorshan reached the top. He made satisfying noises on the way down.

  The effort left him woozy and he slumped against the battlements. That was enough battle for one day, he decided, limping down the steps and looking for a quiet place to hide.

  CHAPTER 42

  L arissa tossed and turned in bed, listening to the nighttime creaking of the Fieldstone Tower and Kaan’s snores from across the hall. It was hard to imagine a time when her biggest worry was overcooking the ale. Now she fretted about the invading Belgorshan army, along with the rest of Chimkant.

  The conciliator’s spies had recently brought news from the siege of Nineacre. Leax’s army was enormous, bigger than anything they had expected, and while the initial assault had failed, it was only a matter of time until the Harlowes fell and Belgorshans marched on the capital.

  Chimkant was packed full with peasant refugees from the March, driven out by both Vyr and Belgorshans. Where previously only perhaps one person in four wore the darenga, it was now at least a third. Shantytowns surrounded the city and desparate villagers begged on every corner.

  King Randolf was panicking, and each day brought fresh requests for pacts: extra protections for himself and the Council, for fear of Leax’s pactmakers; enchantments on the weapons and armor of household knights; pacts to strengthen the city gates; wards to hinder enemy spies from entering the city; and so on endlessly. They seemed driven more by the king’s fear than any real plan, and all but the physical improvements would fade after a moon’s turn.

  Initially the magus had done most of the pacts, but they quickly wore him out, so now Larissa spent her days pacting as well. It only took King Randolf a moment to issue an order, but each required negotiation with the light outer faie, convincing them of a pact’s rightness. And they were immortal and had no real sense of time or urgency. Once they finally agreed, eldritch power flowed through the pactmaker’s body, which was thrilling, but completely exhausting.

  Seeing th
e light faie everyday made it hard to keep them too much in awe. Each had individual quirks, like people. Cauladra the Gracious lived up to her name, meeting Larissa either in Far Ingarsby or creating a comfortable chamber filled with music and beautiful things. Tidurion, meanwhile, always overpowered her, building the conflux according to faie ways.

  Apart from the faie, Larissa was practically alone. The king rarely permitted Gladwin to leave his side. Magus was even worse. Not only was he drained from constant pactmaking, but Lockridge’s dungeon had changed him. He was impatient now, with no time to train Larissa and no tolerance for conversation. Each night he went out and returned early in the morning. One time she asked to come along, but he only patted her on the head, managing a tired smile. “I’m working to expose Lockridge. This is too dangerous for a child, even one touched by the faie. Now back to bed.”

  Larissa’s body was tired, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Probably best to read something. It was painfully slow, but books were now her only teachers. She grabbed the jasper and steel from the bedside stand and prepared to light a candle.

  Footsteps groaned on the stairs: Magus was going out again. Temptation fought briefly with obedience, but she quickly wrestled it into submission. Larissa slipped from the bed and pulled on a dress, then laced up her boots and waited until Magus left. Holding her breath as she passed Kaan’s door, she tiptoed down the stairs and glanced out the sliding peephole on the front door. Magus had crossed the square and was heading toward the river.

  Larissa exited the tower, left the door unbolted for fear of making noise, and then followed in her master’s steps. Aysul was shining brightly overhead and there was almost no fog, thanks to the Green Lady drying up, so Magus was easy to trail. Who was he going to meet? She imagined it would be one of Lockridge’s servants, or maybe a spy.

  Duke Lockridge’s town house was just to the right, in the Merchant’s Quarter, but Magus passed by, continuing to the riverfront. Nearing the docks, she heard music and rough laughter. He was probably meeting someone in a tavern. She’d never been to a tavern, but thought people met in them.

  “Lambkin,” a voice slurred from the shadows of a guild hall, not three paces away. “Where’re you going at this hour? Are ya lost?”

  Larissa yelped in surprise. Intent upon the magus, she’d never noticed the fat man leaning against the wall. “I’m hurrying to catch my father. No time to talk, Uncle, sorry!”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just spare a good fellow a dance.” As he stepped into the moonlight, she saw that smallpox scars had left his face as cobbled as the street. He wore beggar’s rags and carried a crutch. But there was nothing crippled about him. Before Larissa could even cry out, he closed the remaining distance, yanking her up by the arms. His voice turned menacing. “Spare a kiss for a good fellow?”

  An oozing sore puckered his lower lip. His breath smelled like rotten milk. Disgust and fear roiled Larissa’s stomach. She turned her face away and began to squirm in his grasp. Desperately, she looked toward the magus, but he had already disappeared. Terror drove all thoughts from her mind and froze the screams in her throat. But then she felt the remains of power in her reservoir, like a warming furnace behind the breastbone. On instinct, she stared up into the ruined face and met his eyes. And she bit him.

  Faie power flowed through the eyebite. It was nothing like the other times. The man’s body quaked like someone was shaking him. Blood spurted from the corners of his eyes and the whites turned red. The man tossed her away and then fell to his knees, wailing in agony and digging knuckles into his eye sockets.

  Thought came back in a rush. Should she wait for the city guard? That would mean questions and losing Magus’s trail. “Blind beggars get more coin!” she told the man, half-angry and half-guilty. Turning from him, she hurried after Magus.

  The street ended at the Green Lady. A grain barge sat drunkenly atop river stones in the middle of the dry bed and a street followed the strand in both directions. To her right was a noisy tavern, where darenga-clad workmen sat on a bench out front, singing a ragged chorus in proper Jandari.

  Larissa froze as she looked to the left and saw Magus perhaps twenty paces distant, with his back to her. He was talking to a girl of Larissa’s age. Far Ingarsby had no liftskirts, but she knew the girl for one — her hair was wrapped in purple linen, as the law demanded.

  Magus was holding her under the chin and speaking intently. As she crept closer, Larissa noticed the girl’s slack expression. Magus was using his gift. He never spoke much about it, but she had seen it in use. The girl nodded foggily and took his arm. Larissa hugged the shadows as Magus gave a quick look over the area and then guided the liftskirt further up the river bank. Larissa’s heart turned sick. She wanted to believe he was just going to question the girl, but had a terrible feeling he wasn’t.

  The two walked in silence and Larissa followed them to an alley where the second storeys of the shops crowded out the sky. No lights burned in the windows. Magus stopped at a glassblower’s shop, rapping lightly on the door. A man ushered them inside.

  Magus was probably lonely, and she understood that he might gather rosebuds, but the situation made her sick all the same. And why use faie power? It could only be to avoid paying the poor lass. Deeply disappointed, Larissa turned and trudged home. She took a winding route to avoid the blind beggar, the thought of him only making her feel worse.

  It was two bells until dawn when she reached the tower. As quietly as possible, she eased open the stout door and crept inside.

  “What mischief have you been up to, child?” Kaan’s croaking old voice came from the library. “Master Tancred won’t be pleased to hear of it.”

  “I just needed some air.”

  “For air you open a bloody window. Was you meeting some idiot boy?”

  Larissa though of the fat man and the liftskirt. She remembered Mother with stammering Gamil on the other side of a curtain. “No! I swear it.”

  “When he comes back, he’ll want to speak with you. Now come sit by the fire and read like a good lass.”

  An hour later, perhaps more, Magus returned. He scowled upon seeing the two of them, but then covered it with a smile. Deep bags sat under both eyes and even in the firelight he seemed pale. “Studying already? You should be sleeping. We have to ward the Narima Gate in the morning.”

  “Our Larissa decided to go for a walk, Master Tancred. Thought you might have words for her.”

  Magus’s expression sharpened. “Where did you go?”

  Larissa was tempted to lie, but respect and healthy fear won out. “I followed you. Wanted to see how you were setting after Lockridge.”

  “How dare you?” He was sometimes irritable, but Larissa had never felt his anger before. The handsome face was white stone. His fists balled tightly. “You had no right to follow me. I am your master.”

  With Kaan sitting nearby, Larissa chose her words carefully. “I didn’t see nothing bad. Just you talking to a friend.”

  His gaze sat heavily on her for several moments and she worried he might beat her. Finally, he nodded. “Off to bed. And don’t ever follow me again. The streets are dangerous at night.”

  Back in her room, Larissa stared at the shadows on the wall and tried not to cry. It had been a terrifying, confusing night. Why was the magus so angry? It made sense to be embarrassed, and the girl was much too young for him, but he certainly wasn’t the first to lift a skirt. A disloyal thought came to her mind. Shame could make a man angry, but so could fear. Was that what made him so angry? What if he was hiding something?

  Timble’s words came back to her: Tancred is a treacherous schemer. At the time, she thought it was simply bitterness talking, but it was hard to deny Tancred was ambitious and that sometimes a darkness shone through his smile. More thoughts that she had long pushed aside came back to her. She remembered the dream with Kirilith, where she slit Magus’s throat. Did it mean something? If only she could ask Kirilith, but the good faie never discussed one pactmaker with ano
ther. They saw the conflux as a holy communing. And what of the message Avishag had sent to him through the witch? Magus had cut her throat before she could deliver it. The woman’s skull was crushed, so it was lost forever.

  Then she realized that someone could set her fears to rest, if his skull was still intact.

  With that thought she finally drifted to sleep, where a fat beggar with bloody eyes waited in her dreams. It seemed only minutes later that Kaan began calling for her to wake up. She cleaned her teeth with vinegar and rosemary ashes, washed up in the basin, and went downstairs. Magus looked haggard but greeted her as if nothing had happened the night before. Larissa was happy to do the same.

  They spent the morning at the Gate of Augur Narima, Chimkant’s southernmost, Larissa making pacts to permanently strengthen the portcullis and mortar, while Magus cast wards against ill intent. Afterward, they lunched on meat pasties from a wandering piemonger. “What’s next?” Larissa asked, mostly to break the silence.

  “Sleep. Sir Gladwin convinced the king to go hunting as a cure for his disquiet. We have no orders this afternoon.”

  Larissa tried to keep her voice light as she asked, “Would it be all right if I took Kiyandla riding? She hasn’t been free of the stable in weeks and I don’t want her to lose tone.”

  “Very well. Be home before the gates close. If you get stuck outside all night, I’ll have Kaan take a whipping cane to you.” He smiled faintly, but Larissa nodded all the same.

  It took an hour to reach the stables, saddle Kiyandla, and hide a spade in the saddle bag. Impatiently, she picked her way through the busy city streets and left through the Pannage Gate, paying the fee of six copper half-moons. It would normally have been a joy to escape the city, and the rye fields and fruit orchards were just as beautiful as she remembered, but the grimness of the task robbed her of pleasure. The pony kept a fast trot, but even still the miles dragged forever. She needed to know the truth.