The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  Up and up the men climbed, higher and higher, each alone with their thoughts. They reached the pinnacle before Tobiah realized their location, reverent bows from workers combined with the pungent odor of bird pinch as greeting. King Erick ignored stench and people alike, striding purposefully across the royal aviary to the west-facing opening.

  The space was large and its elevation dizzying. Open on all sides, the pointed roof offered scant protection from the elements, and nothing for the fall. Hundreds of coops and cages formed a dozen straight aisles where keepers managed the sharp-beaked birds, and runners stood ready to manage the messages themselves. Regardless of additional danger, a breeze of any magnitude would be welcomed by the nose at the moment. If the throne was the guiding brain of the kingdom, and the well-traveled roads its arteries, this roost was its nerve chord, transmitting direction and communication to the farthest corners. From this vantage point, the expansive, former city-kingdom was a tangle of latticed streets and alleys, terminating at the outer wall. Farmsteads and wilderness could just be seen beyond.

  Standing at the very edge, the king released a deep breath. “Have you ever studied a spider’s web? Cut a single thread and nothing. Cut the right thread and a linked reaction leaves the entire painstaking creation luffing in the wind. Impossibly strong and incredibly fragile all at once.” He paused contemplatively, unconsciously tracing his own Rosemark. “There’s no way of knowing which thread is which, or how many others will fall.”

  “Cutting the wrong thread may weaken the net for a time, but leaving weak anchors to fester, failing to clean fragile silk, these will surely be the ruin of all.” This time it was Tobiah’s turn to hesitate. “Kingdoms are the web rulers weave, Your Faith. Better to luff in the wind for a time than steadily gather flaws and filth as a cobweb until your inescapable dusting.”

  The king was silent for a long moment, observing the intricate weave sprawled across the landscape before him. Whichever way he decided, there would be permanent consequences in the coming months. Ryecard Starling was far more likely to forgive the execution of his son – not that it was a possibility - than the capital-born were to forgive the crown’s forgiveness. If the king chose to forsake the law, Tobiah was certain Cairanthem’s dusting would come sooner rather than later.

  Ozias waited with an unnerving calm befitting only a Fellsword, and Tobiah nearly licked his lips with desperate eagerness. At last the king sighed. “Send a bird to House Starling summoning father and son to Rosemount. Curse the noble monger for his sense of nobility, the boy will stand trial for his crime.” With that, the king turned his eyes to the heavens. “Gods grant me some way out before they arrive.”

  * * *

  Erick waited with his Lord Captain while Tobiah saw to his orders. The morning had beaten the tired king into the musky bird pinch and he yet had cabinet meetings, hearings, and receptions before the sun would reach its daily peak.

  “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, your father destroyed what was left of the gods to remove any and all above him.” Erick hadn’t a clue what Ozias Fellsword was talking about until the man continued in hushed tones. “Tis acceptable for the queen to appeal to powerless deities; she needn’t appear as the ultimate authority. For the king to supplicate publicly on public matters gives strong impressions of weakness. If I may be so bold,” he added.

  “It wasn’t public matters on which I made my appeal,” Erick replied wearily, recalling his half-hearted plea from moments prior. “Worse.” Was the man chastising him? Ozias Stellen was one of the few that knew what truly happened to the priesthood, and Erick hadn’t prayed to the Five since that terrible day. Today certainly gave him cause to start.

  “Worse, Your Faith?”

  No, it wasn’t chastisement. The concerns of a longtime friend, perhaps. Were it Tobiah Jago the king was addressing, chastisement would undoubtedly be the word.

  “Cecily is mad for the young lord. Is a father not allowed to pray for his children?”

  “A girl’s heartache is hardly worse than inner-kingdom strife, if I may once again be so bold, Your Faith.” The man could be so bold, but that did not make him right.

  “You don’t have a teenage daughter,” Erick replied flatly.

  * * *

  Later that evening, a figure stood in the shadows of the royal stables, observing as the king’s oldest daughter tacked her horse and made ready to depart. He was careful not to be seen; she would surely recognize him. The late hour confirmed the figure’s suspicions, so too did the amount of gear the princess packed. This was no sunset pleasure ride.

  Everyone knew Princess Cecily was in love with the first-born Starling boy. Not everyone knew that this very morning, the king had sent hawk summoning the boy to almost certain execution. Even fewer knew that the princess had overheard her father’s summons. The figure knew all of this.

  The setup was too perfect, and once the figure’s kin was notified, his family’s path became crystal in its clarity. Some webs crafted by rulers needed dusting long before fully woven. Leaving on her own, clearly against the king’s will from the secretive nature, a few aiding threads could be plucked to speed the process. The princess could not reach Shorefeld. She would not reach Shorefeld.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lord Steward Starling returned home from his season-long absence with little fanfare. A handful recognized him in the Stallion Spine Mountains along High Road, and several more welcomed him at King’s Fork - or simply the Fork as locals called it – offering food and rest to their beloved lord. His passing went otherwise unnoticed, exactly the way he wanted.

  He was apprehensive nearing the densely crowded Fork, but the congestion of caravans and trade was so thick he had little trouble losing himself in the clamor. More troubling was navigating the bustling crossroads, the onetime lonely inn erected there now flanked by permanent storehouses and market stalls with more than enough vendors and patrons to fill them. The frustrations of traversing through aside, the liveliness was a good thing, yet another sign of hard-earned stability and safety. From there it was a day’s ride to Shorefeld – much less if the road was open and Lore encouraged to stretch her flanks – every mile of which happened discreetly, and despite the constant traffic.

  The nondescript arrival suited Lord Starling. Had word traveled in front, villages across the province would have turned out to welcome him home. His people loved him, and this despite his king-decreed stewardship over them. He was gratified for his adopted home’s embrace, he simply did not require banners to wave and heads to bob wherever he went. Beyond the time these things seemed to consume, the praise was more than a little misguided. So few recognized that their newfound prosperity, in actuality, had little to do with the man running the province and everything to do with the absence of Ferals. And of course, Unity. Looking around, these people had nothing to do with the one thing and wanted nothing to do with the other. It was a dilemma that only decades of proof and prosperity would resolve.

  Ryecard’s mind raced from one trouble to the next as Lore’s pounding hooves covered the remaining miles home. How could the pale beasts have survived three decades underground? During the Feral Wars it was believed driving them underground, cutting them off from their primary food source, was the only way to eradicate the creatures. How many yet lived down there? Ryecard was beyond disturbed, but also determined not to sour his return.

  “When the weather finally acknowledges the season, I will show you. It’s miraculous, certain to shape the kingdom’s future as surely as the king himself.” Caught up in seeing his dear wife, Ryecard pushed every worry to the corner of his mind. Meryam had been enthusiastic in her greeting as well, embraces and kisses aplenty, though was currently fiddling with her gray-streaked braid. “Can you imagine? Water from the Ash channeled thousands of leagues over mountains to our very gates? We will compete with Eastern Province in crop production and aid the North in industry. Whatever the world throws at our young kingdom will break like the waves on Shorefeld’s c
liffs. The blessings of a single, united realm roll on.”

  “Food for the entire kingdom is a great accomplishment, husband,” Meryam replied blankly. The topic of unification was a sensitive one with his provincial-born wife. Sharp as she was, she was certainly not blind to the gains her former kingdom had seen as a province.

  The keep’s primary structure opened into a large room that stretched all the way back to the wooden terrace overlooking the ocean below. The space had been a throne room once – the high-backed Meadow Summit yet occupying its original place of prominence - though the long years since Unity and the abolishment of the monarchy had left the throne vacant and the room nearer a reception hall in formality. It was the functional furniture surrounding the oversized stone fireplace that saw use these days, and it was here that Ryecard addressed his less than attentive wife. Wyn Fellsword was present too, leaning against the barren hearth and chewing his lower lip like a heifer on her cud.

  Ryecard dismissed his wife’s emotionless response and his liegeman’s unnerving uncertainty with a deep breath. There was only one place in all of Cairanthem where the prevailing sea breeze combined salt, timber, and stone into such an inviting fragrance. Only one place where his family could be found.

  “The children will love the reservoir,” he continued. “And the horse-driven pump, people will journey from every corner to watch as rivers are propelled over the Stallion Spine.”

  Nearly imperceptible, Ryecard caught a flicker of the ghostly man’s eyes towards his wife. Uncertain or not, the man radiated danger. More importantly, if Wyn was uncertain, something more dangerous than himself was afoot.

  Meryam held her silence, causing her husband to address her discontent at last.

  “Something troubles you, is it word of the Ferals? They were of little threat to me,” he fibbed. Silence. “The Fairfield’s then? Please say Lord Gerrit let you be while I was away. No amount of harassment will bring back his kingdom, or his royalty. How many years can a soured fruit hold onto its bitterness, I wonder? For all its days if that man is any indication.” Ryecard sat next to his wife, placing a considerate hand on her knee. “Whatever it is, I am home. Let’s take the evening for a ride with the children. Free your head.”

  Wyn’s glance toward the Lady Meryam was not so fleeting this time, and at last she broke her silence. “It is the children.”

  * * *

  Ryecard’s homecoming meal, like the homecoming itself, was a quiet affair. The older children, Breccyn and Aryella, kept their heads low to ward off invitation of their father’s ire. Gabryel and Mykel mopped their stew with large bread heels, anxious for drama, but likewise anxious to not become the focal point. Even Wyn Fellsword stared sullenly into his bowl. Ire, drama, disappointment; each would have their turn. This was merely the tranquil pool above the rapids.

  As for Ryecard, his appetite had steadily decreased throughout his wife’s account, replaced by a tangle of emotion knotting his gut. Anger battled worry for top position, but fear, outrage, and confusion were present in force as well. Instead of operating his fork, his eating hand steadily worked the leather bracer around his left forearm.

  The involuntary habit grew more vigorous as the family gathered in the common chamber after supper. It was a comfortable room higher in the keep, capable of accommodating the entire family for games of stones or storytelling before bedtime. Tonight, the atmosphere was ominous. Ryecard would rather face the pale she-witch and her Feral friends again.

  “Read this,” he commanded, handing his oldest son a message from Rosemount that confirmed the nightmare as reality. Breccyn stumbled over every word until Ryecard ripped the note from his hands in frustration. “It says that when their doom befell, your life became forfeit under Preeminence Law.”

  “Well it’s wrong,” Breccyn remarked swiftly.

  “Wrong?”

  “Their doom more thrust than fell.” The quip was met by stifled laughs from his siblings.

  “Is this a joke to you?” Ryecard demanded. Anger was walloping worry at the moment.

  “The law is a joke to me,” came his son’s pointed response.

  Ryecard maintained his level. “How can nobility have no respect for the king’s law?”

  “It’s because I am nobility that I have no respect for the law. The mark on your wrist protects you. What about your family?” Breccyn’s passion was understandable, his head the wager and his father betting against him at the moment, but pointing to the ever-present yet seldom mentioned distinction between Ryecard and his family was a precarious gamble. “The king is your friend and a decent man. He will understand,” Breccyn argued.

  “The king is the king,” Ryecard responded, removing his hand from the concealing bracer. “And the messenger hawk has already informed on how understanding he intends to be. What is the first thing you’re taught in school, surely it stuck better than your letters. No? Mykel, you seem the only one capable of honorable conduct, recite Preeminence for your siblings.”

  Mykel did not gloat but did as his father asked. The words came sheepishly, head bowed, as if he were the magistrate condemning his brother.

  “Those from the capital are marked with the rose,

  Those with the rose are above province law.

  Should anything happen to any of those,

  The same to the monger by king shall befall.”

  The youngest Starling finished with an all-encompassing apologetic look.

  “I know the law!” Breccyn shouted. “So I am to kiss the feet of villains and drunkards forever because a king before my time won a war? Because you won a war? Prior laws would have defended my actions, whether the offender was great or groveler, born of this world or of the gods, and not for some silly brand. They beat her half to death,” he said, pointing to his sister. “I can accept that I am not the great man you are, Father, but not for some mark segregating people born in one location above those born in another.”

  Ryecard’s anger drove his other emotions into the dust – he was very mindful where his son inherited it from – but whether for the situation, or the fact that he agreed with the astute young man, he could not say. If only that astuteness had taught the lad how to bottle his impulsiveness, there’d be no need for any of this.

  “Where were you, Wyn?” Ryecard snapped, turning on his liegeman. He was having difficulty bottling his own impulses at the moment. Perhaps because the bottle was already full. “Encouraging my children’s madness from the sidelines?”

  “My apologies, my lord steward,” came Wyn’s response, expectedly lacking protest.

  “Wyn had nothing to do with it,” entered a third voice. The Fellsword lived in each of the children’s hearts; it was no wonder Aryella risked making herself known in his defense. “And if he had?” she continued bravely. “Swine vomit has more redeeming qualities than those Rosemarked pigs.”

  “And you dragged the Starling name right through it,” Ryecard scolded, disregarding her vulgarity and the bruises she still wore from that night. The swelling brought a special sort of pain, a father’s anguish, with every glance. “Gods be cursed Aryella, what were you doing there?”

  Aryella’s was the third temper on the rise, and she tugged at her braid as visual indication. “My brothers learn science and history, industry, war, combat, politics, math. My education, carried out privately so as to not disturb importance, provides how to walk, what to wear, and how deeply to curtsy based on age, authority, jurisdiction, and a thousand other considerations that would have an old seadog sick. I’m forbidden from brandishing anything longer than a seamstress’ needle and anything shorter than a priestess’ patience. It’s not an education, it’s a baker’s mold. What was I doing there?” she repeated incredulously. “Living, father. I was living.”

  “You’re sixteen,” Ryecard interjected, but his daughter pressed on.

  “This manure-mangled man’s society would have me confined to a sewing circle or a horse’s back, and the horse’s back only so long as nob
ody sees.”

  As keen as her older brother and twice as impulsive; stones it seemed, never rolled far from the mountain. She was a lady though, not some street tough with no regard and no future. And something would have to be done about that tongue of hers.

  “This is not about you. Do you not understand? Your brother’s life is forfeit.”

  “My life was forfeit the instant mother’s nurses pulled a girl into this world,” she replied.

  “When the Grays invade and the kingdom bleeds on the battlefield, you’ll be grateful for that long hair.” Another glimpse of the welts twisted Ryecard’s insides.

  “You would have let the men have their way?” Breccyn asked defensively, diving back in. “Watched as they beat your daughter, my lord steward? ”

  “Don’t patronize me, son.”

  “Would you, Father?” Mykel pushed. The boy had moved to Breccyn’s side after reciting the law and the other twin was shifting that way now.

  “Tell me you agree with the law,” Breccyn continued. “Tell me you believe your Rosemark puts you above your family, and I’ll sign the executioner’s order myself.”

  All four Starling children huddled together, uniform defiance painting their faces. They were troublemakers to be certain, but they stuck together. Could a father ask for more? It was the first cause for smile Ryecard had since hearing the predicament, not that it made it to his lips. Meryam watched her husband carefully, as did Wyn.

  Ryecard’s children surging from the opposite side, there was only so long his words could brace the failing dam. “I do not, son. Nor do I believe you were wrong to protect your sister. I question her attendance there, and I question your elevation of the situation. But if there is any question, I will not lose my blood for the blood of two villains, Rosemarked or not. Tomorrow I head to Rosemount to argue your life and undoubtedly Preeminence Law itself. Make no mistake, floodwaters will be released. Now to learn which direction they flow.”