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

by J. Wesley Bush

  A knock came from the door. “Yes?”

  “Pardon, milady.” A house girl tentatively stepped inside. “There’s a knight of the Hidden Throne asking after you at the foot of the tower.”

  Helaena exchanged a giddy smile with Saafi. “Thank you, miss. I’ll join him directly.”

  At the dressing table, she smoothed her face with a creme of white lead. The little pot had lasted her entire time with the bowmaids, but she’d used nearly all of it while in Swanthorpe. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward so Saafi could dust her cheeks with powdered flame tree blossoms. Lastly, she put on the scarf that Addison had given her. “How do I look?”

  “Like a girl with sin on her mind.”

  “Not quite what I was going for.” Helaena paused at the door. “I must remember my vows.”

  “Exactly! Remember they don’t say anything about a little harmless kissing.”

  “Addison’s kisses are far from harmless.”

  She found him at the base of the tower, dressed in the simple, midnight blue cassock of the Order. He was cutting slices from a persimmon, but tossed the remainder away as soon as he saw her, rubbing his hands together to dry them.

  “You got my note.”

  “I did, my Lady. Regretfully, I did.” He smiled and held a hand out to her. “Is there time for a last walk in the orchard?”

  “Of course.” They followed the curtain wall to a small grove of fruit trees, just beyond the central keep. An herb garden adjoined it. This was their favorite place — secluded, but public enough to be decent. Kissing a celibate knight was fine, so long as one made a show of being discrete; such was the hypocrisy of courtly love. Though in her honest moments she knew things had gone far beyond courtliness. She was going to miss him.

  He took her arm, and she felt a familiar, guilty thrill.

  “I was so glad to hear your family is safe,” Addison said. “Will you see them on your way to the Sanguine Cliffs?”

  “Aye. Prince Lyle is going to request permission to leave the frontier and return to Chimkant. He wants to try and heal the breach between our houses. For me, it’ll be good to see Mother again. Between losing Father and the horrors of the siege, she’s been harrowed.”

  “From what I saw during my visit to Nineacre, your mother’s quite strong-minded.”

  “She is, though some of that is artifice. She was raised a Swan, after all, and they’re fed deception along with their mother’s milk.”

  Addison steered them under a dense arbor of grape vines. “And yet you trust them to help your family?”

  A moment of doubt arose, and she could almost hear Grandmother’s voice. A crow doesn’t pluck the eye of a fellow crow. She pushed the thought aside: Uncle Waldrich had never failed her. “I do. The Swans fight amongst themselves, but they always unite when dealing with outsiders. Now that the Family Council has voted for us, they’ll come together.”

  Addison stopped and turned toward her. They embraced at a discrete distance, by cupping one another’s elbows. She saw worry in his smile, and it brought a chill of doubt, but only for a moment. Waldrich and Grandfather would always take care of family. Eager to change the subject, she asked, “Are you returning soon to the chapterhouse in Jandaria?”

  “Actually, I’ve received permission to transfer here to Swanthorpe. The local chapter has several promising young Restorationists. I might be able to do good work here. Besides, Squire Brinley seems to like the place.”

  “You’ll be missed in Jandaria.”

  “And I will miss Jandaria.” He ran fingertips along her chin and then cradled the nape of her neck. Chill bumps rose on her arms. Their lips met, but with urgency she hadn’t experienced before. He tasted of persimmon and smelled of horse stable and good sweat. The kiss lingered much longer than they had previously dared. Aching in the pit of her stomach, she broke it off and stepped back. “Our vows.”

  Addison laughed, the sound unsteadying her knees. “I think we’ve explored the frontiers of our vows these past weeks. It’s probably best that you’re traveling.” His cheeks pinked and he added, “Though I wish you weren’t.”

  It was definitely time to go, before she did something equal parts foolish and regrettable. God, but she was going to miss him. Stepping up, she planted a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth and then retreated from danger. “Be well, Brother Addison.”

  “Be very well, Lady Helaena.”

  ***

  Mirko the Strangler, as they called him now, led three centuries of men through the Belgorshan forest. Of the thousands who began the retreat from Harlowe Ford, many lay dead on the savanna in hasty graves. Most of the others had left soon after they reached the safety of the forest, wanting to go home to their villages or towns, no matter the danger. Some would be hung as deserters, for none had a writ of discharge, but the hope was that with so many workers dead, local lords would be reluctant to waste a healthy slave or peasant. Mirko had nothing but contempt for them. The time of Belgorsk’s liberation had arrived. Those who stood to the side were little better than the oppressors.

  During the long march home, Mirko had discovered he was a good speaker. At night around the fire, he would tell the men what Wicke had said about the time before the false priest-kings. He taught that the Belgorshans had once lived by their own laws, each man a king on his own land. The chiefs had ruled at the sufferance of the people.

  He also told them what Wicke said about the High King, that all men were equal before his throne. They would ask him questions, and often it was of something he and Wicke had never discussed. He always came up with an answer, usually one he thought Wicke would agree with, but sometimes not. Wicke was gentle, and too good to understand the corruption of Belgorsk. Only blood and fire could purge it.

  Cousin Stepan and Vasik One-Arm hiked beside him, his two most trusted men. A thin, ravaged fellow named Horvat guided them through the thick woods, not far from his village. “This way, milord,” Horvat said, pulling aside an elm branch to let Mirko pass.

  Mirko shook his head and motioned for Horvat to go first. “I’m no lord.”

  A few minutes later, Horvat stopped in a glade of chestnut trees and whispered, “We’re close.”

  Mirko gathered the century and half-century leaders in the sun-dappled glade. “Horvat, repeat what you told me.” The man seemed to wilt under the attention. “Be easy. This is your family.”

  Eyes firmly on the ground, Horvat pointed north-east. “There’s a manor house maybe two hundred paces from here. The lord is in Jandaria with most of his soldiers. And his sons.” He flashed a nervous, snaggle-toothed grin. “But his daughters ain’t in Jandaria. And I bet neither is the coin he keeps in a strongbox.”

  “How do you know this?” asked a century leader.

  Horvat peeled the sleeve of his mud-brown tunic. “That’s his brand. I was one of his manse slaves. The least of them.”

  “Here are my orders,” Mirko told the leaders. “Kill any nobleman you see. You can have the noblewomen for yourselves. Give peasants and slaves a choice: swear an oath and join us or be on their way. Any who resist us are traitors to the people. Treat them as you would a noble.” He paused and considered how much trouble money could cause. “Bring any valuables you can carry to the courtyard. We’ll use ‘em to buy needful things, and win friends among the people. Anyone who steals will be treated as a nobleman. Now go, tell your men.”

  Even as he gave the orders, his father’s voice came back to him, “Don’t divide the pelt before killing the bear.” But this was a new world, and good things were coming for the wretched poor.

  Soon after, the centuries separated and filtered through the woods to surround the manor, which was deep in the forest, connected to the world through a rutted road barely worth the name. A belt of tree stumps and refuse piles surrounded the low, dark walls. It would be difficult to cross the clearing without being seen.

  Mirko paused just inside the tree line and observed. The gate had a watchtower and the manor hous
e had windows overlooking the walls but peering closely Mirko saw no one in either place. It seemed Horvat was right. He gave a whistle and the men trotted across the clearing, spears at the ready. He approached the manor alongside Stepan and Vasik, the knotted cord dangling from his fingers. The wall was just over head height. As they reached it, Stepan knelt and clasped his hands together to help him over the wall. “You first, Cousin Mirko. The first fruits belong to you.”

  ***

  Larissa guided Kiyandla down the sandy hillside toward the gates of Great Keferi. It was vast, much larger than Chimkant, the only other city she had known, and felt ancient rather than old, as if it had risen with the surrounding mountains. The walls were taller than Chimkant’s, and she saw a chariot circling the parapets, so they were terribly wide as well. Giant soldiers with beards and coned helmets were carved into the stone of the walls.

  The journey from Chimkant had left her sore, but with few memories. Grief had shadowed her thoughts, and she had only vague impressions of dry hills covered in scrubby bushes, peasants with the oiled-wood skin of Coastermen wrapped in white cotton garments, green valleys with streams, and distant, snowy-headed mountains.

  Along the way, she’d found that Keferi had no hatred of pacting, and she fed herself by trading spells for food with villagers, their faces all blending into a common, needy look. Her fear and grief were such that she had barely listened to the requests, let alone weighed the morality, simply using her reservoir and avoiding the faie.

  She joined the queue of travelers seeking entry to the central gate. The air was heavy with the smell of donkeys, oxen, and produce. A carved, savage-looking bird with two heads stared down from the gatehouse. Soldiers poked through carts and wagons, directed by robed officials with beards twined in silver thread. Travelers gave the officials coins in exchange for little squares of parchment. She fretted as the soldiers drew nearer. Only a few tin coins and a shaved-down silver piece weighted her purse.

  A pair of soldiers approached, and one took hold of Kiyandla’s reins. The pony was already nervous in the crowd and jerked her head twice. Murmuring softly in Keferi, the soldier stroked her muzzle and then looked up to Larissa and said something in a questioning tone. The sound reminded her of the Coasterman accent, mushy and deep in the throat. She forced a smile and shook her head.

  “You— Jandari.”

  “Aye, Jandari.”

  “What business in Mizal Keferi?”

  Remembering the Fieldstone Tower and her once-glorious future, she winced and answered, “Hedge mage.”

  The soldier laughed, and then said something to the official, who tugged his beard impatiently and growled a response. “He say you no witch. Too many Jandari. Too many beggar. Keferi have own problems — Manticore problems.” He turned back to the official and they spoke again in their slow, bewildering tongue. Larissa noticed a ruby-red carbuncle the size of a thumb sprouting behind the soldier’s ear. Pulling from her reservoir, she made a wiping motion at the back of his neck and called out loudly enough to gain their attention, “Cleanse.” The angry boil puckered and shriveled, dwindling until only smooth skin remained. The soldier pressed a hand to his neck and babbled to the official. There was no talk of coins or parchment squares as they hurried her to the front of the queue and through the gates, murmuring apologies in two languages.

  Passing through the gates was like entering a different world, a different time. From her studies, she knew Great Keferi had stood for thousands of years before the first Jandari considered civilization. It smelled of rotting things and spicy cooking. Though the street was wide, it was packed with animals, stalls, and all manner of people. Peddlers called out in rhyming gibberish from every side. It was a good place to lose any pursuers, but she would not lose herself. She would work as a hedge mage, making enough money to live until she gained the strength and skill needed to win justice for Gladwin.

  ***

  Timble was vigorously bored in the sick room, and the gouge in his shoulder itched him to madness, Clark Istvan griped if he scratched it, and Hands would lecture on about disease seeds. The vinegar and fat they smeared on his wound permeated everything. Worst of all was the quiet. Lady Alethea no doubt thought it was an honor to have a private room, especially one in the Lord’s Tower, but he had a thousand words churning and no one to take them. When a knock finally came at his door, he wanted to leap from the bed, but the throbbing in his shoulder laid him out. “Come in!”

  Duke Harlowe poked his head into the room. “Up for a visitor?”

  Ignoring the shoulder’s complaints, Timble pushed himself up against the headboard. “A hundred times yes, Your Grace. Heard you returned. I was glad.”

  A wide bruise was healing on the duke’s forehead, but it was the angled, pink scars on his neck that Timble had been dying to see. And there they were. God, he was jealous. He could eat for years in eastern courts just by showing off those scars and telling all about tumbling the Green Lady.

  The duke stood for a long while, his eyes on the Harlowe tapestry hanging by the bed. “Thank you, Timble. Thank you for your selfless service. You have served as faithfully as any sworn knight: discovering my father’s killer, uncovering Lockridge’s betrayal of the realm, and fighting with distinction during the siege.” He met Timble’s eyes. “As soon as you can travel, I would be pleased to honor you with a feast, as well as the mount of your choosing and a bannerman’s ransom in wealth.”

  Timble nodded. He felt gratitude, of course, but more than anything a powerful sense of loss. It would be time to travel again. For the first time since the jongleur troupe, he had belonged somewhere.

  “However,” Duke Harlowe said before he could answer, “I would ask instead that you stay, and become a member of my household.”

  “As your fool?”

  “As my hidden hand.” The duke walked to the door, peered down both sides of the hall, and shut it firmly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and spoke intently in a whisper. “Since returning to Nineacre, I’ve learned much, and it’s set me to thinking. The past year has seen too many oddities to be coincidence. The Vyr attacked out of season, with more intensity than usual and armed with new steel. Priest-King Leax invaded Jandaria unprovoked and did it with a seemingly limitless purse. Even now, he is rebuilding his army and with what funds?

  “My father was murdered by Lockridge, weakening the March and leaving an untested boy in his place. Meanwhile, the emperor has lulled the Covenant lands to sleep by talking peace, while his sister buys influence in the Swanlands. When Jandaria goes down, the Swans will be surrounded and fall easily into his hands. Nothing will stop him from driving through Aventir and Great Keferi — the first is divided by a well-timed succession crisis and the second faces a losing war with the Manticore Kingdom.” The duke paused for breath. Timble was struck by how young he looked, and how frightened. “I probably sound like a paranoiac.”

  Timble shook his head. “No. All of this is much too subtle for Leax, and you’re right, his first army would have bankrupted Belgorsk, let alone the new one he’s building. The emperor is trying to rewrite the rules of the game – he means to conquer all the Covenant lands.”

  “If we’re correct, Timble, the dagger will soon be as vital as the sword. An army is blind without intelligence. I need a man like you in my household.”

  Not since the troupe had he belonged anywhere. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Call me Selwyn. If we’re going to conspire to stop an empire, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.” He flashed a wry smile. “It’s only fair to mention you’re probably joining the losing side.”

  Timble thought he was probably right, but somehow it was worth it.

  Let’s Keep in Touch!

  For news on upcoming books, and curated content on sci-fi and fantasy, life, culture, and shiny objects, sign up for the J. Wesley Bush Newsletter!

  You can also find me at jwesleybush.com, or on Facebook.

  Enjoyed Heir to the Raven?


  I’d love for you to leave a review on Amazon. It’s the best way for new people to find the book!

  List of Characters

  House Harlowe

  Duke Garzei Harlowe: Lord of the March

  Duchess Alethea Harlowe: Wife to Garzei, born a Swan

  Ardashir Harlowe: Eldest son of Garzei

  Selwyn Harlowe: Younger son of Garzei

  Helaena Harlowe: Daughter of Garzei, bowmaid tithe leader

  Rupert Harlowe: Dissolute older brother of Garzei

  Sir Reyhan Oakes: Hearthguard to Garzei

  Sir Chegatay Lockton: Castellan of Nineacre Castle

  Lord Khaje Dexter: Garrison commander of the Sanguine Cliffs

  Lord Sehzad Wicke: Bannerman to Garzei, Restorationist

  Lord Batuhan Switt: Bannerman to Garzei

  Lord Filip Hewland: Bannerman to Garzei, naval commander

  House Yates

  King Randolf Yates: Ruler of Jandaria, Duke of the Shield Forest Duchy

  Prince Lyle Yates: Only son of Randolf

  Sir Gladwin Ramsey: Hearthguard to Randolf

  House Lockridge

  Duke Lockridge: Duchy of the North

  Sir Eddin Maddox: Hearthguard to Lockridge

  House Swan

  King Bertram Swan: Ruler of the Swan Kingdom

  Baron Waldrich Swan: Son of Bertram, head of the Black Swan faction

  Dukes of Jandaria

  Duke Boyd: Duchy of the Coast

  Duke Killyngton: Duchy of the Sand

  Duke Mauntell: Duchy of the Savanna

  Duke Hornebolt: Duchy of Cape and Isle

  Duke Shear: Duchy of the South

  Royal Council of Jandaria

  Justiciar Archbold Mackmain: Minister of Justice

  Eldest Hoshaber: Speaker for the Faith