“Your pardon, sir.”
Calvraign turned from the balcony to see his young servant bowing at the entrance to his quarters. Seth was his name, but Calvraign hadn’t been able to get much more out of him. He was a timid sort, and the barbarian bard’s eminent status with the king probably unnerved him. But Calvraign was determined to work on the lad. He had little need for a servant, but great need for a companion who was not in the slightest concerned with the give and take of the court.
“Yes, Seth?” he said, trying to set the boy at ease with a smile.
The servant merely looked puzzled. “The Master Bard Brohan Madrharigal requests the honor of your presence, sir,” he said with due formality.
It was all Calvraign could do to keep from laughing outright, but he restrained himself to prevent Seth from scurrying for a hole to hide in. This was certainly a humorous change in circumstance.
“By all means,” said Calvraign with a smile, “show in the master bard.”
Seth proffered another short bow and opened the door to the chamber, admitting a mildly perturbed Brohan.
Calvraign was quick to press the point on his teacher and mentor. “Ah, thank you, Seth. You may leave us now.”
With obvious relief, the boy retreated from the main chamber to the small larder at the east end of the suite.
Calvraign turned a quizzical eye to the bard, pursing his lips. “Ah, Master Madrharigal,” he sniffed. “I’m honored, of course, but I have so little time. Be quick about it, if you will.”
Brohan nodded. “Yes, of course.” He sat on the edge of the teak settee in the middle of the small receiving room and continued with good-natured sarcasm, “I realize you have,” he searched for a seemingly elusive word, “something to do. A man of your station.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” responded Calvraign, still enjoying the theater of the moment. “I’ll have to have my servant remind me exactly what that is.”
“Well then, perhaps my news should wait,” deferred Brohan. “I don’t wish to inconvenience your schedule.”
“That, I think, should be my decision, Master Bard. Out with your news!” Calvraign mimicked an impatient gesture he had noticed the Archbishop Renarre was quite fond of. “I haven’t time for your games!”
Brohan could no longer maintain a straight face, or even, by any real degree, his composure. He broke into a fit of boisterous laughter at Calvraign’s spontaneous impersonation, sliding down onto the seat of the settee with a soft creak.
“I would wager if the archbishop ever saw that, excommunication would be your only reward!” he said, recovering himself. “I would be sparing in its performance.”
“That is one man I don’t wish to even notice me,” Calvraign agreed, joining the sitting bard.
“Well, too late for that, I’m afraid,” mused Brohan as he gained some semblance of himself. “From the moment you entered that chamber, he was on edge. Mayhap even before you entered.”
“I don’t understand,” Calvraign confessed. “What could I possibly have done to get his attention?”
“It’s nothing that you’ve done, lad,” surmised Brohan. “It’s what the king has done that got his attention.”
“To be fair, that got everyone’s attention. Even ours.”
“Sure enough,” yielded Brohan, “sure enough. In fact, that still has my attention.”
“Have you had a chance to speak with the king in private yet?”
“No,” said Brohan. “He hasn’t been out of the royal apartments since the reception. Too much carousing for his advanced age. Word has reached me that he will wish a private audience with you when he is able.”
“Isn’t that unusual? Even beyond the other night?” asked Calvraign.
It was uncommon perhaps, but not rare, for a brave warrior to be knighted for valor in service of his lord. It was not even odd for that title to be hereditary, or in some occasions even for land to be granted. General Kiev Vae, after innumerable campaigns defending the westernmost borders, was granted that same land along with his House status. That, of course, was quite rare. House status was a hard thing to come by other than birthright. None since had been so promoted into the ranks of the peerage.
“Yes it is,” confirmed Brohan. “Admittedly, King Guillaume has always been generous in his support and curious about you and your progress. That much is old news to me. But his public display of affection, his mood, quite out of the ordinary. I underestimated his regard for your father.”
“I still don’t understand what this has to do with the archbishop.”
“Who can tell, with that one?” Brohan threw his arms up in the air to underscore his exasperation. “If I were to hazard a guess, which I quite enjoy doing with politics – in private, of course – I would say he disapproves of your pagan upbringing. Not known for their devoutness to Illuné, the Cythe. He prefers keeping honors like this, how shall I say, in the family. Add to that the fact that Agrylon shares the king’s enthusiasm, and he has every reason to hate you.”
“Hate me?” croaked Calvraign, his eyes a-bulge in their sockets.
“Aye,” said Brohan, “there is nothing on which they agree except their mutual hatred. If you are favored by one, you will be despised by the other.”
“But he’s a priest!”
“Oh, technically, yes,” dismissed Brohan with a frown. “But at this point his duties regarding the Church are mostly political. Collecting tithes, persecuting heretics, blackmailing nobles, plotting to discredit his rivals, increasing his holdings and his influence on the king. Not to mention gathering his own private army of the Knights Lancer. There’s very little proselytizing in his position anymore.”
“But, that’s just… awful!”
“Oh yes, but at this point all the branches of the Church are the same. Kazdann, Illuné, Irdik, it doesn’t matter. Faith is a dying commodity.”
“Artygalle…?”
Brohan smiled, patting Calvraign’s shoulder in fatherly comfort, “Aye, Sir Artygalle is a good man. He has more genuine piety in his left foot than most of the court. Aside from a few like him, it’s all lip service, I’m afraid.”
“Even the king?” asked Calvraign, his hope dangling on the end of his tongue.
The bard shook his head. “Maybe once, long ago.”
This made absolutely no sense to Calvraign. “Then why in the great wide world is the Church so powerful?”
“Because it’s an institution now, boy – and institutions are powerful.” He stood rather suddenly then, and stretched. “But this is neither here nor there. You’ve distracted me from my purpose, Cal. We have an invitation to accept!”
“An invitation?”
“Aye,” said Brohan in a lowered voice, raising his eyebrows with a smile. “The Lady Aeolil has extended her cordial wish to have us join her and Prince Hiruld this afternoon for a ride.”
Lady Aeolil, Calvraign groaned mentally, not thinking twice about the presence of the crown prince. Of course, it wasn’t Hiruld he couldn’t stop staring at. And, if it wasn’t bad enough that he knew he was helpless in the throes of a desperate crush, having Brohan to delight in his misery only made matters worse.
“I look forward to it!” Calvraign lied with enthusiasm. He wasn’t going to make this any easier for Brohan than it had to be.
Considering the ferocity of the winter that year in Providayne, the weather was more-or-less pleasant for the crown prince’s riding party. The sky was clear and the suns bright, and the wind had quieted to a murmuring breeze. It was still cold, by all accounts, but beneath the layers of fur and cloth that the nobles had wrapped themselves in, it was comfortable enough for an afternoon ride.
Calvraign was no longer so intimidated by the men and women of title around him. They had accepted him into their own, pleasantly if not enthusiastically, and he found their ways pretentious but not unbearable. Brohan had helped the groom choose the right steed for Calvraign, who had only ridden once before in his life. She was an older ma
re, called Smoke for her coloring, with an even temperament but a grand look about her. In her day, she had been the groomsman’s pride, and was clearly still his favorite in the ways that counted. She would shift this way or that with but the lightest touch on the reigns and never bent to search for a nibble while a rider was on her back. Neither Calvraign nor Brohan wanted him upon a mount that would appear any less stately than the rest of the party.
Shortly after this business was finished, however, Brohan drifted away toward Aeolil. Calvraign was about to reluctantly follow when he was approached by Calamyr Vespurial, perhaps the last person of the lively throng he had expected to greet him, astride a powerful roan gelding. Calamyr had the pale skin tone common to the aristocracy, and flashing blue eyes. His light blond hair was coifed about the nape of his neck, falling just over the collar of his thick winter garments. His doublet and cape were of forest green, trimmed in purest gold and touched with a prismatic glimmer of precious stones. A pendant hung about his neck in the shape of a diving eagle with outstretched claws.
“Good greetings to you, Sir Calvraign.” His accent was as rich as his raiment. “I hope I am not intruding. If you would allow me, it would be my pleasure to accompany you this day. I fear my good name slightly tarnished by my unseemly behavior the other night.”
Calvraign tried not to be too impressed with his casual eloquence and easy manner. Brohan had warned him that acting like a commoner would have him treated as such. “It was I who acted the buffoon, milord,” replied Calvraign. “You should have no worries – but I would welcome your company.”
“Excellent. A fresh start then,” said Calamyr with a one-sided grin as his horse fell alongside Smoke. “Today will not be a good day for hawk or hunt – but for conversation, I think, it will do nicely.”
The riding party was clattering through the bridge gate-house now, with a detachment of the royal guard and various retainers at either end and each side of the main group. The ponderous main gate was already open, and their way lay clear to the bridge that spanned the gap between Dwynleigsh and King’s Keep over the Ciel Maer. The grey support columns that sank into the frosted lake were granite, as was most of the bridge itself, but some portions were of wood, ready to be torched into ash in the event of siege. No one had ever attempted such a siege, to Calvraign’s knowledge, either by land or blockade, and he doubted very much if anyone ever would. In total, the bridge was the better part of an Imperial league in length. If he were a general, he would take the city and leave the king on his little island. Capturing a king was merely symbolic if all his holdings were in your thrall.
They rode on, engaged mostly in small talk, and to his surprise, Calvraign found Calamyr quite pleasant. Calvraign could sense his confidence like a static charge between them, reminding him that whatever character he might pretend to have, Calamyr already possessed by virtue of his high birth and noble upbringing. He wore a long sword at his side, sheathed in a jeweled scabbard and secured with a golden peace knot. Calvraign felt the tug of the bare leather scabbard that held his father’s sword and looked back across the water to hide his envy.
Calamyr told him of the wars, and his part in them, with somewhere between Brohan’s theatrics and Artygalle’s thoughtful reserve. As an heir to the vast House Vespurial, he had been granted his spurs as a right of heredity. As a captain in the cavalry, that right had been tested and proved in the heat and blood of battle. He was not much older than Calvraign, perhaps two or three years, but already he had felled a score of enemy knights and was respected by his peers in matters of war.
The crossing seemed to take no time at all, and Calvraign was so engrossed in Calamyr’s recitation that he hardly noticed when they passed into the bustle and hum of Dwynleigsh itself through the Harbor Gate. There were a few ships hauled into dry dock for the length of winter, and even one Maeziir boat, unwilling to allow the dangers of the season to hinder their all-important commerce, putting sail into the ice-strewn lake. The docks themselves were walled off by several defensive partitions, the first jutting from the lake to enclose the small inner harbor, the second flush with the shore line, creating a sort of bailey between the lake wall and the city wall proper. Fishermen sat in small lean-tos on the thicker ice in the shallows closer to shore, their lines disappearing in the rough holes they cut in the lake’s surface. All before them made way for the entourage, baring their heads and bowing as their crown prince made his way through their midst.
When Calvraign finally had the presence of mind to look about him, they were well within the city walls, riding down the wide main thoroughfare and almost to the crossroads in the center of the lower city. From there they would head to the West Gate and out into the country for their outing. The smells of roasted nuts, fried apples and fresh baked bread wafted from the vendors and the bakeries as they passed. Even in the cold of winter, the city was a hive of activity. Merchants and hucksters sold everything from foodstuffs to textiles, linens, jewelry, and the odd ‘ancient fae trinket’ or two.
Even more impressive than the variety of goods was the diversity of people. There were dozens and dozens of dusky-skinned Maeziir, mostly wealthy merchants and bankers; a scattering of the fairer folk of the Southlands, enjoying the peace of the traditional winter truce; and more than a few tall, bearded sailors bellowing and singing of some foreign shore. There were so many people in the crowds that soon individual faces melted away into a whirlpool of shifting expression, color and noise. Calvraign almost felt panic sneak in on his excitement as he tried to estimate how many times Craignuuwn and all its folk could fit inside this massive city. Then, piercing the crowds in a shimmering rainbow of swirling cloth, a small party of men made their way just ahead of them and off into Argys Yard. Their skin glinted like burnished copper in the sun. Their gait was steady and purposeful, even through the jostling of the crowd, and their bearing straight and regal.
Calvraign sifted through lessons in his mind even as they drifted out of sight. “Ishti’in?” he said, excited and uncertain, touching Calamyr’s sleeve and pointing at the disappearing figures. “They were Ishti’in!” he said again, but this time with certainty.
Calamyr glanced and shrugged. “Yes, a delegation of some sort has been sent by their king, or padrah, or whatever it is they call him.” He watched the milling crowd fill the empty spaces left by the Ishti’in like tide pools, as unconcerned and uninterested in their passing as he himself seemed. “The world is full of barbarians, Calvraign, and you’ll see all sorts here. Soon enough, you won’t even notice them.”
Calvraign was still sensitive about the ease with which the wellborn bandied about that term, but with a look at Calamyr’s face he realized no inference to his own heritage was intended, so he let the matter drop. But Gods Above, the last thing he wanted was not to notice them. The Ishti’in were from a land so far west that it didn’t even appear on most maps. And these men he’d seen for but an instant were more vivid and real and mysterious than even his wildest fantasies had been. There were no people on Rahn so exotic or mysterious, save perhaps the Kaojinn. He wondered if Brohan had seen them.
“Still, ‘tis a sight, this city, even for me,” continued Calamyr. “You never quite become accustomed to it.”
“Aye,” sighed Calvraign, as they passed beneath a canopy of poplar and elm, green as if in the gay spring of Birthingmoon. Ahead of them, an archway flanked by two eagle-headed marble guardians loomed over the crossroads. “Even the stories don’t do it justice. It’s hard to understand why the aulden deserted such a work of beauty.”
Calamyr placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his grip hard but not painful. “They abandoned it because we took it from them, Calvraign. Surely Master Madrharigal taught you as much. Regardless, building a city that pleases the eye alone is of little worth to its occupants. Strength is more valuable than beauty. That is why we have added our own human touch, so we don’t lose it as did they. Dwynleigsh is not likely to fall a second time.”
Calvraign was s
low to respond. In matters of history, he was inclined to believe the master bard over the nobleman, but his innate sense of courtesy made disputing him difficult. “History always by the victor is writ,” he quoted from Kiev Vae’s Ethics And War.
Calamyr stopped short his own reply and smiled. He was not one to miss a diplomatic response. He nodded his approval of the boy’s quick aplomb. “Well said, Sir Calvraign,” he praised with discernible honesty. “If you are as quick with a blade as you are in conversation, I’m glad our first encounter did not color our friendship.”
Calvraign couldn’t help but grin at the memory of that awkward attempt at honor. Looking back now, he could think of several methods wherein the same result could have been accomplished. Methods that did not involve knocking over two of the most important young lords at court. “Yes,” he agreed aloud, but then, with a note of resignation, “A pity Lord Garath’s pride is so great.”
Calamyr rolled his eyes. “Garath,” he said in exasperation. “He acts a man half his age. Thank the bright moon he’s not the heir. Ezriel has a head for it, but not poor Garath. His temper is hot as the hells and less forgiving. Don’t worry yourself over the matter. Eventually I’ll dissuade him from his aloofness, if the king doesn’t first, and you’ll see he’s not so bad after all.”
Calvraign shrugged. “All in time, I suppose.”
Presently they were turning westward, and the smells of food were washed away by the thick scent of hot metal, sulfur and ozone. They passed through Smithy’s Row without speaking, for the clamor of mallets pounding on steel drowned out any attempt. Business was always good for the smiths at tourney festivals, for aside from war, this was the venue for much of their trade. It was said that at the Winter Festival there were arms enough to put steel in the hands of every man, woman and child of Dwynleigsh. After seeing the gleam of countless blades as they passed, Calvraign no longer dismissed this as hyperbole.
Just as they drew near one of the city’s great parks, now packed with merchants, their wares, and the tents of those with no luck at other accommodation, Calamyr tapped his arm. “Over there,” he said, indicating a relatively small area devoid of activity. A large canvas was secured over what Calvraign guessed to be a statue. “This is the monument King Guillaume commissioned in honor of his son, Vingeaux. He will unveil it at the ceremony where he names the Winter Champion.”
In Siege of Daylight Page 26