The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  The younger boy plucked a few pieces from the board and awaited his brother’s move. Even to the casual observer, it was clear the light stones now severely outnumbered the dark.

  “It’s your lack of study that makes you look foolish. Maybe if you would stop taunting me for the books I read and turn a few pages yourself, you’d know,” Meryam’s youngest replied.

  Out-met and out-matched, Breccyn could play nothing but defense. “I simply said you should get out more. That’s not taunting.”

  “And if you ever want to win again, you should stay in and study,” Mykel jibed back. Obedient as he was studious, caring as he was intelligent, Mykel was truthfully the only child she did not have to worry after. “Am I right, Wyn?”

  Wyn kept his eyes on the blade. It was dangerous to jump between a brothers’ quarrel. Except, perhaps, with the Starling boys. Fifteen years Breccyn’s senior, Wyn had known all the children from birth. He was their brother in all save blood. And Meryam’s blessing.

  “No, young master, Breccyn does not need study.” Mykel’s face sagged in rejection beneath his neatly parted hair, then brightened as swiftly with Wyn’s continued barb. “Your uncivilized brother would have to learn his letters first.”

  Breccyn’s face put on hurt. “Uncivilized says the man harassing a beaten general. Is it not enough to watch my brother destroy my armies and pillage my lands?”

  “Merely recalling the general’s taunts towards his brother yesterday over the instrument of his demise today,” mused the preoccupied man. Breccyn raised a thoughtful brow in acceptance of the well-played insult. Wyn’s superior or not, Breccyn’s brow was the only thing he ever thought to raise against the man. Stone sliding against blade, Wyn continued, “Endless hours in the study aside, your tactical brilliance seems a rare gift, young master.”

  “Brilliant if it wasn’t the end of me,” replied Breccyn, considering his final hopeless move on the board.

  Mykel donned a beaming grin. “If you can’t best them with muscle, best them with mind. That’s what father says.”

  “A sound strategy,” Wyn agreed. “Though I believe you’ll have to work harder on your strategy to draw Lord Breccyn into another match than you ever will the game itself.”

  “Right you are there. Eight years my junior and whipping me like an insolent whelp.” Breccyn ruffled Mykel’s neat head of hair in conceded defeat.

  Lady Meryam watched the entire scene with a mixture of fulfilling warmth and thinning patience. Sharp and heavy-handed, or firm and persistent? Her Ladyship of the Stallion Crest, or determined mother of four? Kind encouragement certainly hadn’t worked.

  “Insolent whelp is right,” she exclaimed. “Your brother won’t be the only one doing the whipping if you don’t mind.” Sharp and firm it is.

  “I’m moving, I’m moving,” Breccyn protested, reflecting on the lay of the board one final time before rising to his feet. “Where is the little villain anyhow? That boy could be anywhere.”

  “You’ve a brighter head on your shoulders than that,” Meryam responded.

  “Loosing arrows in the Old Ward, then. I thought you said he couldn’t go down there.”

  “I did. He listens as well as the rest of his siblings. His older siblings,” she corrected, noting Mykel in the room. The feeling plaguing her mood lingered on as she finished scolding. “I’ll be glad when your father is back, and for more reason than one.”

  “While I’m off fetching vagrant siblings, where is Aryella? Or should I know that too?”

  “No, I’ll free you of that responsibility. The brightest minds in the world couldn’t say where that girl is.” If Mykel was always lost in books, and his twin brother somewhere in the Ward, Aryella could be anywhere within the four provinces. If the girl’s spirit caught the currents right, she might be found without.

  “Bless the stars for that,” Breccyn muttered before turning to the silent liegeman. “Why don’t you put that stone away and leave some steel on the blade. Up for an evening stroll?”

  “I’ll go with,” Mykel interrupted enthusiastically.

  “Now you want to leave the walls?” Meryam asked sullenly.

  “Isn’t that what everyone’s been telling me? Go see something beyond the inner walls?”

  Turning to the fire, the lady stared deeply, as if the solution to her foreboding lay just beyond the flames.

  “It will be lantern-hour soon. I won’t be trading one twin for the other. Not tonight. The ocean air carries more than a new season.”

  “Sounds like something the market shadesayers would say,” Breccyn said, throwing on his fur-lined cloak. “Have you taken to interpreting signs, mother?”

  For a long moment she was silent, hypnotized by the erratic orange fingers tickling the ember logs. She held the gods firmer than her capital-born husband, but not firmly. The priesthood had done nothing for her native land as it was folded into the kingdom, stripped of its former name, and retitled the Western Province. Why would she do anything for them? The omens carried on the wind were her intuition, not superstition.

  Maintaining her focus on the fire, she said finally, “I’ve taken to following my instinct, the one thing that can’t be tainted by the words and wiles of others.”

  She withdrew herself from the hearth to see Wyn standing at the door, and her eldest son coming over to bid farewell. “They’re all cracked, reading bones and rubbish and telling of the future,” Breccyn said. Mykel sulked in the broad sitting chair but thankfully kept any further protest to himself. One taste of the crisp air and the boy would be regretting the decision anyhow.

  Meryam placed her hands to either side of her son’s head and laid a gentle kiss there. Her lips formed a mischievous smile. Lady of the land, or queen of the known world; always a mother. “At least they can read,” she teased. “Hurry back, son.”

  The respite from concern did not last long. As she watched the two men ride out from the warmth of the high chamber, a chill seized her spine, not letting go until it had traveled the full length. It was a lady’s job to care for the children, and from the background shadows, see the cogs of the province greased. Something was coming that threatened both. She simply did not know what.

  CHAPTER 2

  The wind brought with it an impenetrable veil that hastened the darkness. Lanterns were already aglow, unevenly lighting the timber-crafted shops, inns, and houses that comprised the provincial capital as the two men exited beneath the keep’s stone gateway. Fortunately, any moisture was held fast overhead. From the cliffs overlooking the sea where Shorefeld Keep was perched, the roughly cobbled lanes quickly gave way to hard-packed streets and alleys that were little more than swine-bogs under any amount of precipitation. The lack of moisture did not make it a nice night for riding, however.

  “I can read,” Breccyn insisted, drawing his cloak tight. Wyn offered a doubtful smirk in reply, to which the young lord followed up modestly, “Just not well. I don’t know why it’s so humorous to you lot, do you Anchor?” He patted his dun’s stout neck in search of otherwise absent sympathy.

  “Because it’s true, my lord. You should appear as a man of us commoners, not be one. Stir the crows, most provincial-born can read anymore.”

  “What’s the point? Swords are all that matters.” Breccyn paused momentarily, allowing a clever grin to take hold. “And their point is far easier to recognize.”

  “So you enjoyed being flogged by your brother back there?”

  “An insignificant child’s game.”

  “Aye, with significant assertions, my lord.”

  The two men picked their way down narrow streets towards the Old Ward. Illiterate or not, there was no questioning Lord Breccyn’s elite status. Pinned to his cloak - itself finer than all save those inside the kingdom’s capital – was the gold stallion of his family. It wasn’t simply the sigil either, the mounts carrying the men were every bit as proud and noble as the beast depicted on the crest. If the hour did not confine residents to their homes, the w
eather did, leaving the streets mostly bare. Even so, the homeless blind would recognize the young lord and his vassal.

  “Do you suppose your father could run the West if he lacked the talent? Or the king, the kingdom? Would the king have appointed your father as lord steward? Information is power, my lord. Lasting information is written.”

  Breccyn glanced crosswise at his father’s liegeman. Relaxed in appearance on his black mare, Dhaneb, the man was death to those who underestimated him - and those who didn’t, for that matter. For some reason, the dismal weather didn’t touch the older man as it did Breccyn.

  “The king and my father are dear friends and comrades in arms. I doubt his ability with books was weighed heavily. Besides, he could have the information recited. Spend his usual bookkeeping time elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  “Drilling armies, chasing Grayskins, mucking every field west of Rosemount until the entire province is rid of meadow meatballs, if it so pleases.”

  “Ah, clearing pony pinch is much more pressing than managing a quarter of the realm.”

  “You know my meaning, Wyn. I want to do things others will write of, the gods could care one way or the other whether I read about it.”

  Wyn shook his head, recalling youthful dreams of glorious deeds. Foolish dreams. “One day, if the years are good, you’ll become the next Starling to order Western Province for the king. Is your plan to parry and riposte his every communication with a blade?”

  “If I don’t agree with them,” Breccyn replied matter-of-factly.

  A knowing snort forced its way from Wyn’s nostrils. “When the prince takes his father’s place, I suspect there will be plenty.”

  “There already are,” Breccyn replied, pointing to a wind-whipped banner hardly visible against the starless sky. Breccyn did not need to see the large red cross dividing a solid black field, the image of a blooming rose at its center, to know it was the banner of Cairanthem. The banner of Unity. It was the only banner allowed in the provinces and had been since well before his birth. Breccyn avoided steering the conversation down that perilous route. “My father says the king will cling to the throne for as long as the prince is his son.”

  “Till one foot’s in the grave and the other, a pile of horse mess,” Wyn agreed. “Knowing what’s coming your way, I’d clear those pastures especially well, my lord. Keep the king’s feet firmly planted for as long as possible. His heir is a villainous one, and that from His Grace’s own mouth.”

  “I’m not bothered. Ceres’ petulant temperament will see the truncation of his lifespan one of these days. Affront the wrong man, he will.”

  “If it’s the front he faces, the only truncating will be of the wrong man’s neck. I’ve watched the prince best nine men at once.” Breccyn put on his best unimpressed air, guiding Anchor down a side street. “Two of them were seasoned archers, twenty paces removed,” Wyn followed flatly.

  The feat was truly impressive whether Breccyn showed it or not, but the eldest Starling had witnessed similar tasks before, and by the man he was speaking with no less. “You could best him. You’re a Fellsword.”

  “Your fixation on the notion should have me watching my back,” Wyn chuckled. “You forget that our prince carries one of the moon-marked as well.”

  “Yes, though the tale of how he acquired such is more than suspect.”

  “There is nothing suspect about his skills, my lord,” Wyn replied earnestly. “If it wasn’t treason to say so, I’d say you are hoping to be that wrong man for your chance at his sword.”

  Breccyn did not deny the accusation and instead focused on the core of his troubles. He had a name, he had a title – however empty given current laws - but what he truly yearned for was greatness. “You’re recognized kingdom-wide, Wyn, without the designation of prince or lord steward pushing your name. I want to be known. I want to be great.”

  “Being known does not make greatness, nor does besting a kingdom of warriors. Generations come and go, ancient trees wither above dying roots, and kingdoms – our own Cairanthem not the least – invent and reinvent themselves as the ambitions of men shape history. The gods gave way to new beliefs, were they not great? Greatness is earned in life, not worn.”

  “Is my father not great then? Or King Romerian?” Breccyn argued pointedly.

  “And yet they will both feed the worms like the lowest idler upon their deaths, their greatness as you call it, as fleeting as their lives but for the impression on our memories.” Wyn paused for a moment. “Endearing ourselves to those who follow, that is greatness. That is how we live forever. Acts of love and valor brand the mind more deeply than any stroke of the blade. For your family to remember my loyalty and service, not the number of men I’ve offed in battle, that is lasting. That is greatness.”

  Greatness not worn in life? Acts of love above acts of the sword? Breccyn pondered the liegeman’s words, and ultimately the liegeman himself. Wyn Fellsword was family in all but blood and name. Skin deathly pale as if born under the full moon’s glare, and snow-white hair to match, he certainly couldn’t be mistaken for Starling blood. Perhaps he was originally from the far north and east? Perhaps he was from the moon. Either were as likely for all Breccyn’s parents, and the liegeman himself, would confirm. One item required no thought; the man riding next to him was the greatest swordsman in the kingdom, whether Wyn owned it or not.

  The stoic ghost began humming softly in the silence that followed. His cloak covered his horse more so than himself, yet he held the tune without waver against the stinging air. Mysterious indeed.

  * * *

  Gabryel was precisely where Lady Starling had supposed. The Old Ward was located directly inside Shorefeld’s southern wall where the sloped terrain began leveling into the famed, rolling grasslands of Western Province. Just as spring rains blown in from the ocean washed down the hillside, so too did any poverty and despondence in the city. Like mites to a mouse, crime followed. Every city had its unsightly parts; the Old Ward was Shorefeld’s.

  Deep within the district’s characteristic rundown structures and trash-laden streets was a small, partially covered ring where lowlifes gambled on everything from dice to duels. Presently, standing mid-arena and looking every bit a resident of this part of town – light hair disheveled, youthful cheeks coated with dirt, and clothes torn in more than one place - was Gabryel Starling. The boy stood at one end of an illuminated lane, bow in hand and quiver across back. Forty paces away nearly a dozen arrows congregated at his target’s center, all within the size of an apple.

  There were more people milling about here than in the upper city, but not for any general liveliness. Most simply had no place to go. At least half the crowd gathered beneath the open-walled roof were simply avoiding the weather. The other half were quite raucous and genuinely interested in the boy and his bow. Fortunately, the light was such that no one took notice of the mounted men.

  “Fool of a featherbrain,” Breccyn cursed, reining in short. From horseback, the men had a clear vantage over the unruly pack. Men, most with a few more steins in their belly than wits in their head, shouted back and forth between each loosed arrow. “We’d better snatch him out of there before some brute beats us to it.”

  “Let the young master have his fun,” Wyn stated firmly before Breccyn could dismount.

  Breccyn offered the older man a sideways look once again, only, this one had his jaw hanging slack in disbelief. The pale man was all duty and protocol, with a dash of raw granite for good measure. Fun was not in Wyn’s language, waywardness not in his character.

  “From the looks of the hefty purses at his feet, the little rogue’s been having his fun all afternoon. There’s no telling how many enemies he’s made. Whatever honor they’ve held to thus far will dwindle by the hour.”

  “And the drink,” Wyn concurred. “But whatever wealth walked into the Ward today is walking out in Master Gabryel’s hands. How far do you think they’ll let him go?”

  “And?”
/>
  “When your sigil doesn’t work on the scavengers here, you’ll be turning to your sheath. You’re a good swordsman, Breccyn Starling, but not that good. There are too many. Have a mind to observe the bear’s den before treading into it. Let’s keep an eye and wait for the right opportunity. My lord,” the liegeman added with a courteous nod.

  It wasn’t the ghostly liegeman’s wisdom that had Breccyn wringing the leather reins, it was his own blasted eagerness. Of course the dutiful man wouldn’t let Gabryel continue this nonsense if not for good reason. Wyn Fellsword was more predictable than the tide and yet, managed to wash something new ashore nearly every day.

  Breccyn relaxed his grip. “They’re both fiends, Wyn. The one teaching me how to behave, the other teaching me how not to. Who is the older brother here?” Another released arrow disappeared into the precise cluster, and half the crowd cheered. The other half moaned or released guttural challenges to those nearby.

  Wyn did not answer and instead picked up his wordless tune once again. It was a strange sound coming from the vigilant and deadly man, like a fully alert lion whistling the Rose Anthem. Not that Breccyn would ever say so, clearly.

  “You’ve been more full of life as of late,” Breccyn said above the fluctuating clamor. “Humming the night away and speaking deeply of endearment. Could it be you have stumbled across a pile of money of your own? Or does this mean my father’s sworn sword intends to break his vows?”

  “Perhaps the new season has lightened my heart?” Wyn offered.

  “Ha. Does that season have a name? What color is the season’s hair? You’re certainly not speaking of this blustering horse heap of a night.”

  The younger Starling freed one arrow and had a second nocked, drawn, and released before the first hit its mark. The crowd roared in delight. And outrage.

  “A liegeman can have no other loyalties above his liege. That includes a lover.”

  “Well I think you were madder than a spring hare when you gave my father that oath.”

  “Duty perishes at love’s hand, my lord. Men refuse the call when a warm bed is at stake, or worse, a child’s embrace.” The weather could not touch the man, but something about his words did.