by J Glen Percy
Stunned silence filled the room. No one took the news harder than Meryam and no one managed their expression more proficiently. Rumor of his departure would be circling the streets like a delivery cart by this time tomorrow, and the reason behind his travels would make ruling in his stead much more difficult this time. Floodwaters was not a far exaggeration, and on more than one front.
Turning to his daughter, Ryecard said, “You’ll not leave the keep or I’ll argue for you to take your brother’s place at his trial. Understood? That goes for you too, Gabryel. I am too weary to discuss your little venture in the Old Ward, that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”
“Can I go with you, father?” Mykel asked suddenly. “I could help.”
“I’m sure you could son, but I’ll be going alone,” Ryecard responded. “There’s considerable risk I won’t be received well by capital or king. It’s best no one leaves the keep until I return. Once word gets out, there’s bound to be more Rosemarked in Shorefeld eager to push the law. Or to exact the punishment themselves,” he added.
Mykel’s manner quickly matched that of his chastised siblings. Despite the boy’s request and Ryecard’s explicit orders to his other children, Mykel was the only Starling that would garner no worry. Now to moderate the worry that did exist.
“Forget what I said earlier Wyn, a jailor couldn’t keep this lot from trouble. See that they’re safe and look after my wife. This endeavor will be much shorter than the last, but I fear it won’t be easier on anyone for it.” Ryecard’s expression was more than a little apologetic. Wyn was as much Ryecard’s son as the king was his brother. They did not share the same blood, but they had shared blood. More, they had shared life.
“As you say, my lord,” the snowy man replied, nodding.
The children stood to offer their father farewell, his welcoming embrace having occurred mere hours earlier. Sadness touched every face in the room. He returned the sentiment tenfold, a thousand-fold and more, and for the first time since laying eyes on his treasured wife in some distant memory, it frightened him. Duty and love were marching towards the same field, drums beating and weapons honed. There were oaths to prevent this kind of thing, oaths that Wyn himself had given Ryecard. Floodwaters indeed. Ryecard addressed his children once more.
“If you cause further trouble for your mother, I will cause trouble for you. You’re good children. Thicker than thieves, but good children. Please act like it.”
* * *
“I wanted a daughter and you gave me four sons.”
Details settled and preparations made, Lord and Lady Starling lay beneath light furs in the master chamber. The breaking surge far below entered through open windows. Ryecard had longed for this night through a northern winter and now that it had arrived, it was all but spoiled by his looming errand. It wasn’t the first his children had dashed the many comforts of this bed.
“Sons or daughters, you expect your children to be less independent than you?” Strands of silver woven through Meryam’s golden-brown mane captured the ambient moon-glow.
“Independence without responsibility is chaos,” Ryecard replied. “Aryella’s recipe calls for a heap of the one and little, if any, of the other. That girl is more reckless than I ever was.”
Meryam released a small laugh. “I would argue that as a matter of perspective, husband. You forget how long I’ve known you.”
“Long enough to forget,” he teased. Then added sweetly, “and not long enough yet.”
The comment had Meryam rolling on her side, one arm placed on his. “She has eyes for a boy, you know.”
Ryecard lifted his head. “Stir the bloody crows, you mean she has a pair that aren’t swollen shut? It’s not someone from that seedy inn, is it?” Both thoughts had his skin crawling. Ryecard was of course familiar with the primary draw to the Gambling Jester. It was neither gambling nor jest.
“Of course not,” came Meryam’s sharp reply. Knowing his daughter’s… palpable opinion of men, he wasn’t truly concerned. The vision of her injuries simply had him on edge. Besides, if Aryella was frequenting the Jester with that purpose, his wife would see those injuries magnified herself. “I’m not sure who, but I am certain there is a who.”
“More choppy seas for a father that’s already lost control of the ship. Whoever the man, he had better be accustomed to washing his own linens and cooking his own meals.”
“She only wants to be treated as equal.” Meryam removed her hand deliberately, and her affection with it. “As do we all. Perhaps her independent search for equality has inadvertently guided the West towards its own forsaken independence and equality.”
Ryecard’s widening eyes reflected moonlight and disbelief both. “Lost control of the ship, did I say? This captain has fallen clean overboard. You would have this be the catalyst for some revolution? No, I believe our daughter’s recklessness is all yours.”
“You’d not so readily disregard notions of freedom were your ties to the land stronger than marriage.” Hand already withdrawn, Meryam replaced the distance too.
“Is the West not my home? Is its very welfare not my hourly charge? The notion is readily disregarded because it’s foolish.”
“No more foolish than Aryella’s demands,” Meryam argued. “Though as your son stated, your rose distinguishes your concerns from those of your subjects. Liberty, justice, and the like.”
“The law is justice! Or have you forgotten its origin?” Ryecard paused, steadying himself. “Unity has blessed us, Meryam, all of us. We are building roads, bridges, aqueducts; adding to the miracles and prosperity of people all across united Cairanthem. This is liberty.”
“You can build a thousand aqueducts and lick Erick’s palms for a decade, and your children and wife will still be mud-footed mongers in the eyes of their kingdom for it.”
Ryecard shook his head irritably. “If it wasn’t so readily refuted in books, I’d fear for your version of history. Kingdoms constantly at war with each other, fields too perilous to plough, and the scheming sorcerers who could save us all, the gods’ own chosen ones, calling on their powers for gain instead of good. This is what you want?”
It was doubtful she heard a word of it. “We could be Braemar once again, the land of shoreline and steed,” came her wistful response.
“And the people would follow the Fairfields once more?” Ryecard asked, doing his best to extinguish the fancies.
“The people would follow you.”
“The people follow King Erick Romerian on Rosemount and none other. The same king I played with as a boy and bled with as a man. The same king I’ll beg for the pardon of our own boy’s blood. The Starlings will sooner flee to the Ash Mouth Isles than fracture Cairanthem. Light, I’ll take us to the Forgotten before I take this kingdom there,” Ryecard finished harshly. Whether his wife had heard anything he spoke, he had certainly heard enough.
“As close as the two of you are, the king’s hands are tied,” Meryam followed sullenly. “The capital-born he appeases with Preeminence Law outnumber and outweigh the surrounding provinces. He will not jeopardize his kingdom for Breccyn’s life.”
“I’m not so certain he should. I’m not certain of anything at the moment,” Ryecard replied gravely. “No, there is one thing of which I am certain.”
“Oh?”
“Our son did those men a favor. A shadesayer’s slanted imagination couldn’t comprehend what I would have done to them in that alley.”
Meryam smiled subtly but remained silent. Ryecard would have traded his best horse barring Lore, and perhaps the cherished mare herself, to know what she was thinking.
“The difference between deft and daft was always less than a letter with you, Ryecard Starling” For some reason the loving jab, and whatever thoughts had led to it, had his wife rolling closer again. “Please take care. For your kingdom and your family.”
“Take care? I’ll be leaving it behind with you and our spirited litter where it longs to be.” That earned her hand once more, an
d a small peck on the cheek as well.
“You live in my heart, husband.”
“And you in mine.”
CHAPTER 8
“Save the boy’s heart for his mother.”
Ogden listened curiously as the imposing chieftain pronounced the grim fate of the next bare-chested youth in line. Like the boys awaiting his judgment, Forerunner Rav’k wore nothing above the waist, exposing his smoky chest and arms to the beating sun. Tightly stretched leather adhered to every well-formed muscle and tendon that comprised his folded legs. He was a bear of a man, or whatever equivalent beast they had on this side of the river. A shrewd and clever bear. Strategically, and with no small difficulty, it was Ogden’s task to guide that bear by the mouth like a blind mule. As for himself, Ogden hoped the gray man sitting next to him saw an old and feeble messenger and nothing more.
The doomed boy, indistinguishable from every other male in camp - including Forerunner Rav’k himself if not for his size - entered the animal-skin dome with utter indifference. There ought to be some emotion there, Ogden thought. Apprehension, sadness, fear. Something. The line following the boy was as bold-faced as he, and as seemingly disinterested in the nearness of their fates. Once they entered the culling tent, they never came out.
“I know a dozen Cairanthem lords that would freely relinquish the rich lands you seek if the secret of your boys’ bravery was shared,” Ogden said, trying not to imagine the fate waiting on the other side of those flaps. “Do they not fear death?”
“Manalla’s Children do not fear the dance with Null’s Shadow,” Rav’k replied, examining the next child in line with a practiced eye. “What purpose does fear serve?”
Ogden agreed somewhat with the sentiment, especially this side of the river where the very land was persistently trying to kill you. Not to mention the horrifying beasts and unforgiving weather. “I suppose it’s not death you have to fear. The pain that takes you there on the other hand….”
Rav’k directed the second boy to follow the first with a flick of his hairless head.
“You miss my meaning, whiteface. Whether stolen peacefully in the night or at the torturous venom of a rot viper, fear does not change the outcome. They have reached the age of accountability. They knew this day would come. They knew the outcome if unprepared. Fear, as always, has no part to play.”
No purpose. Perhaps that was the reason behind the shaved heads. Men and women alike, there wasn’t a head of hair in the camp. Even the deceiving crafters - glorified shadesayers, really – wore their scalps as barren as the Drablands themselves. Ogden’s own wispy hair was matted beneath the intense sun. In all his long years, Ogden could not recall a southern summer half as hot. The heat did not touch the chieftain.
Encampment traffic moved in and about the line, paying little attention to the children aimed for the slaughter. They were a somber people. Living in this hostile landscape, Ogden could see why. Aside from whatever task weighted their weathered hands, every woman carried a bow of exotic horn and sinew, while the men wore bone weapons of varying shape and size across their exposed backs. Every Grayskin was a hardened warrior, but this was too far. Children were your legacy. He cared nothing for these people, wanted to use every last one until his family’s aims were met, yet his horror over this ritual was unparalleled.
Ogden had been in the sprawling camp where the River Ash lapped its lifeless eastern bank for nearly a month and was no more accustomed to the strange customs than on the day he had arrived. Scant clothing - and drum-tight where it did exist - hairless heads, strong convictions in the crafters and their gods, murdering their own children; he understood firsthand why traveler’s tales and watchtower reports named them savages. Useful savages, he reminded himself.
“When loyalty and duty fail, fear is sometimes needed to motivate,” Ogden argued carefully. One thing he had discerned, the Grayskin’s code of need and waste was a touchy one.
Rav’k appeared puzzled and thoughtful all at once. “I’m not of the mind to argue, whiteface, but I’ll concede that need, like Null’s Fire above, shines differently on each of us. The gods provided legs to you and I alike, yet you ride the backs of some animals rather than eat them. Is this not waste, of the beast’s flesh and your own? The only reason your animal hasn’t met our fires is our need for you. I won’t have you trailing like some dawdling Drabling.”
“Then for my horse’s sake, let’s talk more of that need,” Ogden replied quickly, looking to where his seasoned gelding, Fleet, swished his tail at the flies. The number of biting insects had not changed on this side of the river, at least. Another nod sent a third boy into the tent.
“Our legs carry us over land swifter and farther than any beast but quickly lose purpose in water. Our clans to the north carry out limited raids in small boats. The gathered clans require a wider path across Terra’s Vein. Ships, you call them.”
The pact uniting the various Grayskin tribes was likely as thin as the one Ogden himself was shaping with them, though a lack of competing flags did suggest more than surface-level unity. Then again, in this purpose-driven culture, what good was a banner other than to occupy a capable man’s hands?
“We can supply the requested ships-”
“Required,” Rav’k corrected. “The required ships.”
“We can supply the required vessels, but payment terms have yet to be decided. The limited extent of your planned conquest is insufficient. One part of one province may achieve your aims, but it does little for ours.”
Rav’k gave no indication of thought. “Can my people eat the brick and mortar of Rosemount? Payment is the destabilization of your kingdom through our necessary invasion, not the entire nation on a platter.”
A shrewd bear to be certain, but this wasn’t Ogden’s first hunt either. Even shrewd bears could be guided. You simply had to know where to poke. “And when the king drains Terra’s Vein to dust by way of his stone channel, what of your newly conquered fertile lands? The only way to guarantee stability is to guarantee no one remains to threaten it.”
This time, the seed took root in the Forerunner’s mind, but still he refused. “We take only what we require. I won’t expend Manalla’s Children, my people, for needless greed.”
“And what of these children?” Ogden asked tactfully, gesturing to the line. When reason and pandering failed – neither had so much as budged the steadfast man in a month’s time - emotion was a potent alternative.
The sensitive question achieved its intent, igniting fury behind the Grayskin’s eyes.
“You believe we kill our children for needless greed? Without purpose? Wastefully?” Hammer against anvil, each word was iron forged through steely jaws. “Look around you. How long would our scarce resources survive if the weak were allowed to live? How long would they survive? Tell me whiteface, should we let our children suffer starvation and disease, or swallow the impossible sting of sending them early to the other side? How long must we pay for our ancestors’ creation? Is a thousand years not enough? We are strong, and the young kingdom ripe. We will take what land we require. Our penance is over.”
From where he sat, Ogden could just make out one of the enormous watchtowers on the far side of the river. Every noble on that side knew the Grayskins were preparing a large-scale invasion. With this latest revelation, only he knew why. Battling the forsaken landscape, dreadful creatures, and each other for the past millennium, the clans had had enough. They weren’t sacrificing their children to absent gods, they were plucking stunted fruit before it could rot on the vine. Their purposes were not entirely different from his own, really. For their children, they were coming home.
“There is a way that could save Grayskin lives.” Ogden played cautiously to the man’s uncovered emotions, his internal satisfaction nearly throwing it to the stagnant air. The seed was growing, centuries of resentment, centuries of impossible hardship, feeding the notion of a total assault like manure. Was that sweat on the Forerunner’s brow? “If played correctly,
your people will have their land and mine their status, with little spent by either.”
Rav’k condemned another youth, allowing a pensive moment to pass. “Go on.”
Very good. The Forerunner still did not believe it possible. Not yet. But he wanted to believe, and that’s precisely where Ogden wanted him.
“The king’s provinces are positioned about himself like donned armor, protecting his innards from outside threats. A smart man he is, but he is not his father. If a blade were driven straight to the heart, the innards would die and the armor lose its purpose.”
“The heart is undoubtedly shielded as well. How does this cost less of my warriors?”
“Surely among the oldest, I am not the sole member of my house making preparations.” Nor was he the most powerful, not that he would ever reveal the fact or even cared. Just as a doting uncle might craft a toy boat for his brother’s children, all of his work was for the younger generation. “A fissure has recently opened, I am told. A divide that if deepened, may bring the Romerians to their knees and Cairanthem to its collapse before the blade is needed at all.”
“How do we deepen this divide?” Rav’k replied curiously.
“A young man by the name of Breccyn Starling opened it. If he were to die in the proper manner, no diplomacy could close the gap, and no amount of internal bloodshed would fill it.”
If the truth was known, he quite admired the Starlings and their unorthodox rise to power. They were good people, good leaders, but this wasn’t about that. This was about delivering that which his posterity deserved, and he was so very close.
Little did the king know how very close Ogden’s family was already. So close, in fact, that assassination by his queen might be the lesser betrayal. And not that the option hadn’t crossed Ogden’s mind, he simply did not wish to make enemies with the kingdom he was working to seize. Killing Romerians or Starlings was certain to do that, as was inciting a civil war. That’s where the gray heathens came in.
For the first time Rav’k looked up and down the line, weighing them as children and not burden or utility. The big bear could taste the end of his people’s tribulation, and Ogden had made it all the more savory. “Killing one man will achieve all this?” the Forerunner asked, transfixed on the line. “We will kill this man and see if the Five grant truth to your prediction. Then I will determine how deep to thrust my spear point.” In the same compassionless breath, Rav’k turned to the youth before him. “Save her heart for her mother.”