Through all this clamor, one voice rose above the rest, distinguishing itself with the most attractive offer by far. “Here we are, noble sirs, here we are! Over here! No cost to the Champion of the Day. That’s right, over here! Over here, noble sirs!”
They climbed aboard without further ado, and the red-faced old driver greeted them with a gap-toothed smile. “Aye, fine show, that, sir. Well done, indeed! Won a pretty penny, I did, wagerin’ on you, sir! Be a crime to charge you a wooden mark, it would! To the Keep, eh? Right then, off we go!”
The carriage was comfortable enough, though the jostling didn’t seem a great pleasure for Artygalle. He tried to keep the discomfort to himself, but from the pallor of his face and the squint of his eyes, it was clear enough that he was still in a good deal of pain. The ride was mercifully short, however, and they pulled up to the Harbor Gate without incident. The driver was surprised when, upon viewing the carriage’s occupants, the guards waved them through to cross the bridge. This was a rare privilege, and the carriage master mumbled happily to himself the whole way across.
They unloaded at the Bridge House Gate, and after a heated but fruitless attempt to pay the driver, entered King’s Keep.
“Shall I send for a litter, sir?” asked one of the guards.
Calvraign started to agree, but Artygalle would have none of that indignity. “I will walk, sir,” he said, “but thank you for your kindness.”
They crossed the open expanse of the lower bailey, cluttered as it was with the livestock for the upkeep of all the festival guests, and a noticeably larger contingent of knights and men-at-arms. The honor guard of each visiting House had staked out their own separate region of the bailey, some playing at cards or throwing dice with their counterparts, others eyeing the men of other Houses warily.
Calvraign noticed that most any activity stopped as they passed, as attention was abruptly shifted in their direction. Some looked on in friendly curiosity, a few even waved hellos or saluted them, but there were more than a few who watched them with unmasked suspicion.
Crossing through the gate into the middle bailey alleviated some of this attention. It was empty, save for a few stable hands exercising the horses. Artygalle’s gaze was drawn to the horses, parading in circles on their tethers while the stable hands clicked and cooed encouragement. Calvraign guessed at the worry in his eyes.
“Aeolil took care of Windthane,” he assured his injured friend. “Don’t worry yourself.”
Artygalle smiled. “So Inoval said. I hope she was not overly put out on my behalf.”
Calvraign laughed. “I think it was more on her own behalf. You worried her silly out there. She was pretending not to notice, but I was watching her, and she was beside herself once or twice, at least, worried for her horse.”
“Aye,” agreed Vaujn, “and you were pretending not to notice her not noticing. That was almost as much fun as the fighting.”
Calvraign blushed. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.
“That’s okay, I think the rest of us do,” Vaujn said.
As the Upper Gate House drew near, a small group of figures came into view, awaiting their arrival. Calvraign knew the reception was for them because the three gathered outside the gatehouse were all underkin. Vaujn’s step quickened noticeably.
“Welcome back, Captain,” said the first of the kin, and Calvraign was surprised at the melodic timbre of her voice. “Mother Chloe said that you were bringing in injured and we should give you a hand. She’ll take care of him upstairs. As for that,” she said, pointing at the pile of armor Vaujn carried, and then nodded to her two companions, “Daính and Thruhm will take that off your hands. The forge is already stoked up.”
“Thank you, Läzch,” Vaujn said, surrendering his portion of Artygalle’s armor to one of his waiting soldiers. “How’re things here?”
The kinswoman scratched at her cheek. “Not much I know about that, sir. We’re just trying to stay out of the way, for the most part.”
“Good enough,” he said. “Let’s get Sir Artygalle here up to Chloe and see what she can do for him. Oh, and this is Calvraign, if Chloe didn’t already tell you.”
“She did,” confirmed Läzch. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Calvraign was amazed that all of the kin were fluent in Dacadh, and felt a little guilty that he couldn’t display equal familiarity with their native language. “The honor is mine, milady,” he replied, unsure of what title might be considered proper.
He immediately wished he hadn’t attempted to guess, as all the kin broke out into loud fits of laughter.
“Ah, after you, milady,” Vaujn said, shaking his head.
Calvraign slumped his shoulders and sighed. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be forgetting that mistake for some time. He certainly didn’t have the opportunity on the rest of the trip to the kin’s guest quarters. Vaujn and Läzch made a point of it. Even Artygalle was coaxed into a quick laugh here and there, sending a pained glance of apology to Calvraign for every errant chuckle.
The kin were located several levels lower than Calvraign’s own accommodation. It was a position of moderate honor, and probably the best that could be done on such short notice. Calvraign conjured an amusing if completely fictional incident wherein the previous occupant was forcibly relocated to less desirable surroundings in order to give the kin their due respects. If there really had been such an expulsion, it was more likely done with a good deal of grace, aplomb and understanding for the put-out host. But that was much less fun to imagine.
Two kinsmen stood guard outside the chamber door, arms crossed on their armored breasts, necks stiff, and brows stern. They wore their helms, but their face shields were pulled back to glare menacingly at the innocent ceiling.
“Sir!” greeted one of the kin in a deep baritone.
Captain Vaujn nodded to the soldier. “Ouwd,” he said, then to the other, “Hæschp. How goes it?”
“All’s well, sir,” replied the one called Hæschp, knocking a brief pattern on the door before opening it.
Calvraign smiled at the guards as he entered, but they made no indication of noticing. A group of kin was waiting within, playing at a game of cards, and their expressions were less irresolute. Calvraign noted that the room was carefully laid out and organized like a miniature barracks, everything neatly in its place. Vaujn made introductions so fast that Calvraign had to give his full attention to remembering the faces that went with the strange names.
“…Sergeant Mueszner here, my acting lieutenant,” he was saying, “and the one scowling over there is Corporal Darrow. Náinh is the smiling one with the winning hand and the corporal’s coin. She’s Daính’s sister – he’s the one with Artygalle’s armor, remember. And this is Daehl. She’s a mean old crone, be careful.” Vaujn ducked a flying object with a grin. “And Cuhrbern is the one there about to get me a drink.”
Cuhrbern took the hint and moved toward a wooden keg in the small larder as Vaujn turned to the last occupant of the room. “And it is my pleasure, sirs, to introduce my lovely wife and squad chaplain, Mother Chloe.”
Calvraign and Artygalle both bowed slightly at the waist, the latter with some support from the former. Inoval stuck to the background, his lips silent but his eyes alert. “It is our pleasure, Mother Chloe,” said Calvraign, endeavoring not to repeat his embarrassing mistake with Läzch. “You show us a great kindness.”
“Yes,” Artygalle agreed. “Thank you for your considerations. I am in your debt.”
“Mmm,” was the chaplain’s rather ambiguous response, but Calvraign could see her attention was not on the etiquette of introduction. She was already leading Artygalle over to a vacant bed. “Let’s have a look at you, then.”
Vaujn nudged Calvraign over to a long table, where Cuhrbern delivered the captain’s requested beverage. “Care for an ale? This is the best excuse we could drag out of the cellars. I’m afraid we’re no longer very popular with the wine steward. I think he called Daehl insufferab
le and rude. My fault for sending her, I suppose. She’s got what you might call particular taste when it comes to hops and barley, and she’s not shy about expressing herself.”
“I’ve got particular taste?” Daehl shot back.
Vaujn waved off her protest. “Anyway,” he dismissed, “I figure we’ve got some time to drain a few tankards while we wait for dinner. Will you join me?”
Calvraign had absolutely no desire for anything remotely alcoholic. Even with most of the day behind him, his body remembered the consequences of the previous night quite clearly. “I don’t think…” he saw something in Vaujn’s eyes somewhere just short of disappointment, “…one or two will hurt.”
“Bring another, Cuhrbern – for our friend,” announced Vaujn in triumph. When the drink was delivered, he went on. “So, tell me a bit of yourself.”
Despite Vaujn’s lackluster description of the beer, it was by far the best that had ever passed Calvraign’s lips. He tried to pace himself, but found the liquid flowed almost of its own volition as he spoke, and he’d drained his first about the same time he finished his rather abbreviated and uneventful life story.
“Well, that explains a lot,” said Vaujn, motioning for refills. “You’ve got poise without pretense. I like that.”
“Thank you,” Calvraign said, pleased with the compliment. But he was all too aware that he was drinking the strong brew much too fast, and that the more he talked, the more likely he would be to continue this pace. He decided to shift the pressure of speaking onto the kinsman, not only for his curiosity, but also to preserve his sobriety. “What of you? How did you and yours come to be in King’s Keep?”
“That would be Osrith’s doing, mostly,” answered Vaujn.
“Damn Shaddach Chi,” Corporal Darrow mumbled from behind his cards.
Vaujn glared in his direction, but when he spoke, it was to Calvraign. “Yeah. He had some trouble with one of the Guhddan-kinne on his way here. Needless to say, that kind of trouble has a tendency to spill over a little, and we ended up, um, escorting him the rest of the way.” The captain ignored the sudden fits of coughing that broke out amidst his eavesdropping squad. “So here we are.”
Calvraign took an extremely small sip of his beer. “Trouble with what?”
“Oh, Guhddan-kinne, it’s um,” Vaujn searched for the words.
“It’s like a demigod,” supplied Chloe from the other side of the room, not pausing from her work. “Relative of the gods would be the literal translation, I think.”
“Thanks,” Vaujn said.
Calvraign’s eyes widened. “That sounds like a good story! Did you kill it?”
Vaujn shook his head. “Not from lack of trying, but no. This Pale God’s not so easy to slay as that.”
“Pale Man,” corrected his wife.
“Right. Anyway, ask Osrith about it someday, if you want your head bitten off and the answer shouted down your bloody throat. He’s run into him before.”
Calvraign sat in silence as his heart pounded like ten thousand angry drums in his chest. He tipped his mug and drained it in one prodigious swallow while Vaujn went on about wild dringli and Sunken Cities, cave-manti, and ancient-magic-better-left-alone. Normally, any one of these would have sparked his interest. But he’d stopped caring so much at the mention of the Pale Man.
“Thirsty, are you?” Vaujn asked, smiling happily. “Cuhrbern, get up and bring him another. Me too, while you’re at it. You might not have any hair on your face yet, Calvraign, but I’ll wager you’ve got some on your chest.”
Calvraign didn’t pay the captain any attention. He took his refilled mug from Cuhrbern with shaky hands and brought it once more to his lips. In Craignuuwn time passed at a predictable and constant rate. Life was lived in seasons there, with specific chores and responsibilities for each one. In the capital, he was learning, things happened from moment to moment, moving on from one to the next without regard of those caught in between. And right now, he was feeling crushed between a multitude of moments. Knighthood, hive-spiders, Greycloak, the Pale Man.
“… damndest way to travel,” Vaujn was saying, “but handy, I’ll admit.”
Calvraign set his empty mug back on the table with a hollow clang. Cuhrbern, having understood at last that he was the designated servant of the hour, brought him another.
“Why was the Pale Man after Osrith, anyway?” Calvraign asked, his wits bolstered by the hearty liquid in his belly. What was it Brohan was always saying about the enemy? he thought, Oh yes: know him better than you know yourself.
“Good question. Something about a magic stone, an ear-all or something he called it.”
Chloe sighed. “Iiyiraal.”
Vaujn’s smile was strained. “Yes, thank you, dear. An ee-year-all,” he said, sounding out each syllable. “He was supposed to bring it to the king, from what I understand. Don’t know what for, but it must’ve been important for all the trouble it’s caused.”
Calvraign had heard of iiyiraals. The aulden had used the smaller ones to record dreams, messages, and even stories or songs. They called those dreamstones. The andu’ai of old had used larger ones as focal points for the casting of incredible magic. Andulin had used one like that – the Eye of Miithrak – to destroy the Starless Pool. In legend, at least.
“It must have contained a message,” Calvraign thought aloud. “Something the Pale Man didn’t want anyone else to know.”
“I suppose,” Vaujn said, indifferent. “It’s out of our hands now, thank the All-father. Take my advice, stuff like that is best left alone, if you have any choice in the matter.”
But I don’t. Calvraign felt a little dizzy as he returned the empty mug to the table yet again.
Cuhrbern started to get up again, and not happily, but Vaujn motioned him to sit back down. “You might want to slow down there,” advised the captain. “What it lacks in taste, it makes up for in wallop, if you catch my meaning. A smart man knows his limits, right?”
“Limits?” Calvraign scoffed, looking Vaujn straight in the eye. “I’m beyond my limits by just about any measurement, I’m afraid. All of them.”
Vaujn shrugged. “Okay, then,” he said. “Drink up! Cuhrbern, two more if you please!” He knocked his empty mug on Calvraign’s. “To limits!” he chortled.
“To limits!” said Calvraign, returning the salute.
They never consummated their toast, however. At that moment a loud and agonized scream split the air. Not a startled shriek of surprise, or a muffled curse of pain, but the unmistakable, desperate shriek of a man meeting his death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WHEN ANSWERS COME LOOKING…
BROHAN stifled a yawn. He didn’t feel like sleep, but his eyes were tired from hours of ceaseless reading. The hosskan had it worse, from what he could tell, as there were no chairs in the King’s Library suited to her massive reptilian bulk. Kassakan didn’t complain, though, and neither did the master bard. Despite the circumstances, having the chance to sort through the volumes of research, history and arcana made available by Guillaume and Agrylon was a guilty pleasure for the both of them. The joy diminished somewhat as time passed with no answers forthcoming, but only somewhat.
They hadn’t spoken much of their reasons for this work yet, but as intensity eroded into fatigue, a word here and there helped keep them refreshed. First it had been the introductions. They had both heard of each other, perhaps even met in some trivial sense at this court or another, but they’d never spoken at length. Then a bit of idle chatter regarding Osrith in his more infamous years as a sell-sword, a topic that much intrigued Brohan. In Mazod and the Iron Coast, there was even a ribald song or two about his exploits, though they weren’t popular with the authorities.
Kassakan pushed a leather-bound volume across the mahogany table. “It is written in Askani, and a dialect I’m not familiar with. The diagram, however – I believe it details the lay of stars at Ebhan-nuád. From the logbook, it appears to be pre-Imperial, during the reign of Ki
ng Peallus.”
“Askani?” Brohan said, skeptically. “Not a scholarly tongue. I can’t imagine who would have been writing in Askani, nor any augurs or seers from the time of Peallus, either.”
Brohan opened the book with a light touch, pressing the pages between his fingers. “It’s calf skin,” he observed. “A fine vellum, actually. That’s consistent with Peallusian custom, and these are certainly Askani runes.” He traced over the dark blocks and lines of the dead language with his finger. “The author’s name is Elden Second Son.”
Brohan shrugged, looking over at the hosskan and tapping the page with his finger. “Second Son. That is a title of their priestly caste, and a notable one. The First Son led the church. But they did not worship the Swords or the Old Ones in Askan – they were a breed apart, the Askani. Unfortunately, what they worshipped, exactly, the church purged from all memory as apostasy. Even what little I know is considered heresy. Some suspect it was the andu’ai-”
“No,” Kassakan interrupted, “it was not the andu’ai. The Atrevus lancers crushed Askan, and the Quorum erased all but the hint of their culture from memory. In the East. We remember their legacy, if not their language, among the hosskan.”
“A legacy of blood and ruin I leave you, sons of Askan,” Brohan recited in mock pomp. “Ah, Archbishop Atrevus. One of my favorite zealots. I hope it rankles his spirit that the dramatic proclamation of his victory has degenerated into a base curse. A minor bit of revenge for the Askani, I suppose.”
“Dragons,” Kassakan stated, eyes on the master bard. “They revered dragons in Askan.”
Brohan looked up, the light of the candelabra dancing in his eyes as he met her gaze. “Dragons?” he repeated expectantly.
Kassakan continued, “The Askani religion was an old one, older than the Dacadian Holy Mother Church or even the legends of the Three Swords themselves. Truth be told, and you will have to promise not to tell the current archbishop I said so, but the Three Swords themselves were once the Three Scions of this older church, before they were deified. Illuné First Daughter, Irdik Second Son and Kazdann Third Son. The Dacadian Church was once but a heterodox cult within the old church of Askan, Master Bard. Atrevus’ pogrom was a bit of theological matricide, I’m afraid.”
In Siege of Daylight Page 51