by John Marco
‘Of course.’
‘Then why don’t you read your father’s letter?’
‘Oh, no. Not you, too.’
‘Well, I carried the damned thing around for almost a month. The least you could do is read it.’
‘Why should I?’ Richius shot back. ‘Why is it any of your business? My father wrote that letter to me, not you or Jojustin or Dinadin. It’s my concern, not yours.’
‘Easy,’ Patwin interrupted. ‘We already know what the letter says. We guessed it a long time ago. Now you have to know it. You won’t be able to go on until you do.’ Patwin’s expression softened. ‘Jojustin’s right, Richius. Read the letter and put all this madness to an end. Be king.’
Richius could hardly speak. ‘Maybe,’ he said, the word emerging in a whisper.
‘I’ll help you all I can. We all will. Dinadin, too, I’m sure.’
‘That,’ said Richius pointedly, ‘I’m not so sure of.’
‘Richius, he’s just angry. It’ll pass. In his heart I’m sure he knows the truth of things. And if he doesn’t, I intend to help him remember. You had nothing to do with Lucyler’s death, or anyone else’s. So don’t go believing Dinadin’s nonsense, because it will only make you crazy.’
‘You’re a good friend, Patwin, but you don’t have to spare me. Dinadin’s mad at me for a hundred reasons, and at least half of them are true. My father did abandon us. I did keep us all in Dring longer than I should have. And Voris took Lucyler away because I wasn’t there for him. Dinadin’s right.’
‘He’s not right!’ said Patwin angrily. ‘You were our leader. You had to make the tough decisions, not Dinadin. And wasn’t it his idea to go to Ackle-Nye in the first place?’
Richius leaned back in his chair and peered through the dining-chamber door. Jenna was in the kitchen. He could hear her insistent scrubbing of the pots and knew she couldn’t hear them, but he had no idea when Jojustin would return.
‘Listen, Patwin,’ he said almost soundlessly. ‘I’m not riding for Gilliam’s, not today at least. I’m going to the House of Lotts.’
‘Dinadin’s?’
Richius nodded. ‘I want to talk to him, see if we can put this ugly mess behind us. You’re right to say I’m going to need him. We all have to stay together to protect Aramoor from Arkus.’
Patwin looked stricken. ‘Do you really think the legions are coming?’
‘Maybe. If they do we’ll have to be ready for them. Don’t misunderstand me, Patwin. I hope to God Jojustin’s right, but if he’s not...’
‘Then it is war again,’ said Patwin solemnly. ‘I’ll ride with you to the House of Lotts. Gilliam’s, too, if you wish.’
Richius put his hand on Patwin’s shoulder. ‘You’re always welcome.’
At that instant Jojustin burst into the chamber, a giant broadsword in his fists. The suddenness of the old man’s entry made Richius spring from his seat, startled beyond words.
‘Here it is!’ Jojustin cried.
Richius recognized the weapon at once. He had seen it strapped across his father’s back countless times. In all the castle, loaded though it was with swords of every design, there was none so large and ominous as this. With its chipped blade and battered hilt, it looked like a relic from a bygone time. It didn’t gleam like other swords, for its metal had long since turned a lusterless gray. But it had a glow all its own, a kind of aura that only those intimate with its past could see.
‘Jessicane,’ Richius said softly, reaching out to take the sword from Jojustin. He let his fingers caress the blade, feeling the cool, imperfect metal against his skin. Jessicane. The name of a wife and a mother, a woman all but unknown to Richius, after whom this weapon had been called. ‘Jessicane,’ he repeated, speaking directly to the sword. ‘I thought for sure you’d been buried with Father.’
‘It’s yours now,’ said Jojustin. ‘So everyone will know you are king.’
Richius hefted the weapon to the level of his chest. It was far larger than he was used to, at least a full foot longer than his own sword. But his father had been a giant of a man, easily capable of swinging such a huge weapon. Even when he had grown to manhood, Richius looked like little more than a schoolboy next to his father, and since his two years in Lucel-Lor had only weakened him, he found the sword difficult to lift with one hand. He managed, though, despite the small ache it sent coursing through his wrist, and held the sword out for the wide-eyed Patwin to inspect.
‘The sword that won the war,’ said Patwin dramatically.
‘I never thought to see it so close. Can I hold it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Richius, gingerly passing the sword over to his comrade. Patwin quickly wiped his oily hands over his tunic and took Jessicane as though it were something holy, careful not to soil the weapon’s already well-worn hilt.
‘Ooohh, heavy.’ He twisted the sword in his grip and scanned every inch of it, every nick and blemish, hardly breathing as he did so. At last he handed the sword back to Richius, saying, ‘It’s beautiful. But you can’t carry it, Richius. It’s too old.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Jojustin. ‘You just run your hand over its edge and then tell me how old it is. That sword’s as sharp as the day it cut Gayle’s heart out.’
Gayle, Richius knew, was Angiss Gayle, the long-dead uncle of Blackwood Gayle and the brother of Talistan’s present king. At the drop of his name, Richius braced himself for the story he was sure would follow.
‘Your father was only twenty-seven when he killed Gayle, Richius,’ Jojustin continued. ‘Not much older than you are now.’ The old man’s eyes glassed over as his mind skipped back through the years. ‘The three of us were all so young then, your father and Edgard and I. I’ll never forget the moment he plunged that sword into Gayle. We were both there with him, fighting alongside him. Lord, that was a day!’ Jojustin sighed. ‘But I must have told you that story a thousand times.’
Richius chuckled. ‘You and my father both. But I don’t mind. It was a great day. It should be remembered.’ He paused, regarding the sword with a distant reverence. ‘I only wish I’d been there to see it.’
‘Be glad you weren’t,’ said Jojustin. ‘Your father had enough sense to want his children to live in a free nation. That’s why we went to war with Talistan, and that’s the only reason we’re all still around to talk about it. Now you remember that, Richius. Keep that thought with you always and you’ll be as good a king as Darius was.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Richius said, and knew in that instant that he meant it. He would do his best to fill the empty throne his father had left him, even if it meant battling all the legions of Nar. He smiled grimly. Darius Vantran had Angiss Gayle to struggle with for Aramoor’s independence. Now, twenty-five years later, his son had Arkus of Nar to fight.
‘I know you will, lad,’ said Jojustin. ‘You and Patwin and all the other lads are fine replacements for us older soldiers. Now, finish your breakfasts. I’ve got work to tend to.’ He turned, stepped halfway out of the dining chamber, then called back over his shoulder, ‘Do me a small favor, would you, Richius? Don’t make too much of a noise at Gilliam’s. There’s no sense in getting everyone all stirred up over something that probably won’t happen.’
‘Don’t worry,’ answered Richius. ‘I’ll be . . . discreet.’
‘That’s all I ask,’ said Jojustin, turning and leaving the room. When he had gone Richius stared back at the sword. Patwin was right. It was old, but there was something timeless about it. He felt a kinship with the weapon, felt the spirit of his parents forged into its metal. Jessicane was all he had left of either of them.
‘Lord, that’s big,’ said Patwin. ‘Are you really going to carry it with you?’
Richius shrugged. ‘I might as well. I lost my sword in Lucel-Lor, too.’
Richius and Patwin set off for the House of Lotts shortly after breakfast. Unlike most of Aramoor’s noble houses, the House of Lotts was on the sea, far from the uneasy border the tiny nation shared with
its neighbor, Talistan. It was, Richius remembered, a considerable distance from his own home. But the road leading north from the castle was a good one, and the wind had abated into a calm, almost mild breeze. Above them hung a cooperative sky, a passive, mother-of-pearl canopy of clouds that Richius guessed was empty of snow. With luck and a steady pace, he was sure they could reach Dinadin’s and return before nightfall.
Within an hour they came to the end of the sprawling Vantran property, past the horse yards and farms to the place where the path narrowed and the trees stood thickly abreast like sentries along the roadside. A hood of evergreen branches closed over them and dripped melting snow onto their uncovered heads. Richius welcomed the cold tickle of the drops. It was good to be outside again, to have a horse beneath him, to be with a friend, to comment on things of small matter. Here, under the perfume of fir trees, it was easy to forget his burdens.
As a boy Richius had ridden these paths countless times, first sharing the back of his father’s mount, then later on his own. He often came this very way, taking the winding road to the little bit of ocean that Aramoor claimed as its coast, and watching the white-capped waters pitch the tiny boats of the fishermen. It was here, amid the ancient trees, that he learned to be a horseman – the goal of every Aramoorian male. Here was where his father first raced him home to the castle, and where Edgard showed him how to swing a sword from horseback. And not far away, on a ridge too steep for a young, aspiring Guardsman, Jojustin had bandaged his arm after a particularly bad fall. The recollection made Richius flex his elbow. It still twinged when the weather was damp. He smiled. Darius Vantran had been an only child, but he had given his son uncles just the same. Now only one of them remained, and that made Richius cherish the officious white-haired Jojustin more than ever.
An unexpected wind gusted through the tunnel of trees, shaking loose cakes of snow from the branches above. Richius shivered slightly beneath his long riding coat, silently thanking Jenna for the shirt she had made him. He glanced over at Patwin and watched him turn his face from the wind. His cheeks had gone an unhealthy-looking crimson. A patch of fallen snow landed on his shoulder and he cursed.
‘Are you all right?’ Richius asked. ‘You don’t look well.’
Patwin coughed before answering. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, brushing the snow from his coat. ‘I’m just not used to riding so much yet.’
‘I should have made the trip myself. It’s silly for you to be out again so soon.’
‘No, Jojustin’s right. You shouldn’t travel alone, not yet. Don’t worry about me. I’m just tired.’
Richius frowned. Tired was the least that Patwin looked. Even at this distance he could see the little red specks staining Patwin’s periwinkle eyes. At just over five feet, Patwin was a small man, thin-boned and slightly-muscled, and the time he had spent traveling through Lucel-Lor had almost killed him. It was true what Patwin had said over breakfast. He really had nearly died trying to get Richius his father’s last letter. But even Richius believed his friend had recuperated over the last month, fattening up on sleep and Jenna’s good cooking. Now, seeing Patwin sway in his saddle, Richius knew he’d been wrong.
‘This is fever weather, Patwin,’ said Richius. ‘We should go back. You need rest.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Patwin insisted. He pointed his chin toward Richius’ horse. ‘As long as that old nag can keep pace. I don’t want to still be out here when the sun goes down.’
Richius leaned over and patted his horse’s neck. ‘Don’t listen to him, boy. He’s just mad because you’re prettier than he is.’
‘Why do you still ride him, Richius? He can’t do half the things the war-horses can. You should find yourself a new horse. One that’s not so . . .’
‘Old?’
‘Well, yes. You’re a Guardsman. You need a horse that fits your station. Like this one.’ Patwin gestured to the horse beneath him. Dragonfly was one of Jojustin’s own horses, a fine dapple-gray beast with a perfectly arched back and impeccable gait. A horse befitting a Guardsman of Aramoor.
‘Thunder’s good enough for me,’ said Richius. ‘We’ve been together too long for me to just get rid of him.’ He gave the horse’s ear an affectionate scratch. ‘Haven’t we, boy?’
‘Thunder,’ Patwin scoffed. ‘Looks to me like Thunder’s lost some of his rumble. How old is he, anyway?’
Richius quickly counted the years. His father had given him Thunder on his sixteenth birthday, the best gift a boy of Aramoor could hope for. That made the horse about . . .
‘Fourteen, I think,’ Richius answered, fairly certain of his figure.
‘Fourteen? And you don’t think you should have another horse?’ Patwin shook his head in disbelief. ‘We should ask Dinadin to pick out one of his for you, Richius. If war does come, you don’t want to be riding that old bone bag into battle.’
‘True enough,’ said Richius amiably. The average stable hand could tell with a glance that Thunder was indeed past his prime. But he was still an able-enough runner, and the thought of retiring the old horse for one of the Lotts’ choice geldings simply held no appeal. As an Aramoor Guardsman he had saddled many horses, horses that were faster and stronger than Thunder had ever been. None, though, had claimed the place in his heart that this sweet-tempered gelding had. Thunder was precious to him, an old friend who, unlike too many old friends, was still around to comfort him.
‘If the time comes for war I’ll have Jojustin find me another horse,’ Richius said finally. ‘He’ll probably let you keep Dragonfly if you want him. Maybe I’ll take Shadow or one of the others.’ He shrugged, knowing it would be difficult to find a suitable horse for him. He disliked the disposition of most warhorses. Though not as aggressive as the sort Talistan bred – a stock well known for biting even their masters – Aramoorian horses were often fiery and difficult to control, requiring more whip than kindness. Worse, the long conflict in Lucel-Lor had depleted their stables so that now most of them stood empty. If war did come, finding mounts for battle would be their first problem.
‘Let’s ask Dinadin to see some of their horses anyway,’ said Patwin. ‘You can’t keep riding Thunder if you’re going to be king.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Richius. ‘But I really don’t think there’s much chance of that, do you? Jojustin’s wishing for too much.’
‘I don’t know, Richius,’ said Patwin. ‘Jojustin has an ear for these things. If he says you’re going to be king . . .’
Richius chuckled. ‘He does seem to believe it, doesn’t he? Still, it would be a miracle. My father hated Arkus and the emperor knows it. And with the Gayles telling him things . . .’ He shook his head. ‘No chance.’
‘And how do you feel about it?’ Patwin asked. ‘Don’t you want to be king?’
Richius shrugged. ‘It’s preferable to war, I suppose.’
‘Oh, come now,’ Patwin admonished. ‘I don’t believe you really feel that way.’
‘You’re not a prince,’ said Richius sharply. ‘If you were you’d know how hard it can be. I can just imagine what being king would be like. Everyone would want something from me, expect me to do things. Particularly Arkus. If he does make me king, he’ll want something for it.’
‘You don’t know that. Maybe Jojustin’s right. Maybe Arkus just wants a king here he can depend on, someone who won’t cause trouble for him. He’s still at war with Liss, after all. He can’t afford any strife within the Empire.’
‘Maybe,’ said Richius. The war between Arkus and the islands of Liss had been going on for almost a decade, and no one expected Arkus to divert any of his forces away from that cause. Liss was too important to the emperor, more important than even Lucel-Lor had been. Whatever designs Arkus still had for Lucel-Lor were a mystery, but everyone in Nar knew the emperor intended to take Liss, whatever the cost. It was more than just greed now. It was a matter of personal honor. Somehow Liss had managed to keep the machines of Nar from swallowing them up, a feat none of the conquered nations of
the Empire had accomplished. Aramoor hadn’t done it, nor had Talistan nor Gorkney nor a dozen other states. Only Liss had been able to stare into the eyes of the dragon without being devoured. It was a circumstance Arkus could neither fathom nor allow. To Nar and all its ugly ideals, that kind of boldness was an intolerable cancer.
‘We have to be ready,’ Richius concluded. ‘I can’t imagine that Arkus is afraid of us, the condition we’re in. With Talistan on our border his legions could roll over us in a week.’
‘All the more reason for you to hope Jojustin’s right,’ said Patwin.
Richius nodded. Despite his opposition to being king, it was a far better choice than the possibility of war with Arkus.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, eager to change the subject. ‘It’s not too late to turn back.’
‘And have Jenna think I’m still ill? Forget it. I don’t want her fussing over me anymore. All she ever does is ask me about you.’
‘Oh?’ asked Richius casually. ‘Does that bother you?’
‘Why should it? She’s your problem, not mine.’
‘Maybe you should take another look at her,’ said Richius. ‘She’s a pretty girl.’
Patwin shook his head. ‘She’s not interested in me. It’s you she’s got in her blood.’
‘That could change. Maybe if I talked to her, told her what a fine fellow you are . . .’
‘You think I’m sweet on her, is that it?’ asked Patwin defensively.
‘You’re certainly acting like it. Are you?’
Patwin’s face colored. He looked away, a thin, embarrassed grin on his lips.
‘A little, maybe,’ he confessed. ‘But it doesn’t matter. She’s in love with you, Richius. And if Jojustin’s going to marry her to either of us, it’ll be you.’
‘That’s not for Jojustin to decide,’ said Richius. ‘King or not, I won’t marry. Not Jenna, not anyone. I intend to make that very clear to Jojustin.’
‘But you must marry, Richius. You must have an heir if you’re to be king. It’s expected of you.’ Patwin chuckled wryly. ‘I’m not sure you have a choice in it. Even kings have their orders, I suppose.’