The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  Ogden was too busy relishing the negotiated agreement for the latest child’s fate to disturb him. It wasn’t a direct assault on Rosemount, but a plot to murder the Starling boy was the next best thing. Ogden jerked himself from his inner revelry. There were girls in line too? Bare heads made it impossible to tell on the younger ones.

  Before the girl took two steps towards the culling tent, a piercing wail was emitted from within. The flap tore open and there stood the last boy to enter, or what was left of him. Hands shielding his disoriented face from the burning sun, the child was little more than a skeleton garbed in pasty cloth. His skin had morphed colorless and throbbing veins of tar snaked dangerously close to the surface. Blood, normal blood, painted his lower jaw. The boy took one confused look about, then sprinted down an empty corridor of tents.

  A female crafter, identified by the sinuous ink etched into her face, caught herself on the ground with two blood-soaked hands as she stumbled from the tent. “Stop the boy!” she yelled hoarsely.

  The Forerunner’s movements were lightning. Before the words fully left the mystical woman, Rav’k was on his feet, a substantial bone dagger leaving his hands. Where had he kept that hidden? Flying between leather tent walls and structural lashings, the blade met its mark truer than an archer’s gift, the knobby handle protruding from the boy’s spine just below the skull. The boy sunk immediately to the ashen earth, and the brief chaos was over.

  What in the godless realm just happened? What were the crafters doing in there? What was he doing here, bringing this twisted world back across the river? Light scorch it all. If every last Grayskin perished in the assault, Ogden would not mourn the loss.

  Aside from his leather breeches and heaving muscles, Rav’k wore only grimness, and turned on Ogden with a threatening gaze. “Think on this day, whiteface. Think how easily we dispatch our own, our sons and daughters. Think how easily you will be dispatched when our need for you turns to waste.” Forerunner Rav’k spun in the baking sand, abandoning Ogden and the line of children.

  The remaining youth had just witnessed an elder scolding one of their unruly cohorts for all their interest. Ogden was not so unaffected. Word of Ryecard Starling’s northern discovery had arrived in the same message as Breccyn Starling’s fateful actions. Ferals, moonshadows as Rav’k called them, were a thing of the past until reading that message. Though not certain what the culling tent’s escapee had become, there was only one thing, one horrific thing, that came to mind. Had Ogden cultivated Cairanthem for his family’s resurgence, or was he simply reintroducing long eradicated weeds? When his kin took the Thorn Throne, this would be their problem. Dealing with this unpredictable bear and his horde of warriors would be their problem. Waste might be his grandest achievement here. Waste and universal ruin. He swallowed heavily, the dryness in his throat having nothing to do with the intense temperature.

  CHAPTER 9

  Despite having taught Wyn Fellsword the saddle and the blade, Ryecard considered himself the lesser on both accounts. The pale liegeman was gifted. Always had been. Castles and crows, it wouldn’t be long before Breccyn, too, surpassed his old man handling sword and steed. If the king permitted the boy to live a touch longer, that was. Blade handling aside, neither Wyn nor Breccyn could match their sire with Lore as his partner.

  Ryecard rode hard, league upon league passing under hoof like a bird on the breeze. Free of the stifling bottleneck that was King’s Fork, the breeze was Lore’s lone obstacle. She was home here, the rolling grasslands feeding her insatiable desire to run. An animal less capable than the prized mare would have withered long ago. A steed more capable was not to be found.

  In many ways, horseback riding and swordsmanship were one and the same. Balance, precision, anticipation. Your body was necessary to do it. Your mind was necessary to do it well. Ryecard worked both mind and body, leaning deep into Lore’s muscular neck and gripping the reins with a gentle firmness like a she-wolf carrying her pup.

  The reflection had him missing his own she-wolf at the moment, if not the distressing pups that had him departing so soon. He wanted nothing more than to rein-in and return to Meryam’s embrace, but battles weren’t decided without men to fight them. Every soldier in the history of soldiering would rather cozy-up to his sweetheart than poke another man full of holes. The memory-seared image of his daughter’s broken face drove him on. His son’s thread-thin fate drove him on.

  Shifting thoughts like these, family and task, love and duty, consumed much of the trip’s rushed duration and as the fourth day dawned, he found himself passing beneath Rosemount’s massive gates.

  The capital was spectacular. Surrounded entirely by indomitable walls and filled to bursting with cobbled boulevards, stone structures, and enough regional dialects to baffle a well-versed translator, Rosemount was a nation all its own until King Cairan’s Unity. It lacked the towering spires of coastal Somerset or the expansive views of Mar Lanton but compensated fully with meticulously kept gardens and ornate fountains that shamed even the most fantastical of children’s tales. Ryecard inhaled deeply, taking in power, majesty, complexity. Taking in the home of his childhood.

  Such was the distance from outer wall to royal residence that the final leg of Ryecard’s journey saw the sun rising and setting over the one-time city-kingdom. The lord steward was known to the King’s Lance, and as the distant ramparts divided the last rays of day, Ryecard entered into the extraordinary home of his dearest friend.

  Lore was received by the stable hands with all the esteem and adulation of a visiting dignitary. His horse’s welcome did nothing to settle the unease he felt for his own reception, however. Ryecard had battled Furmen in the bitter northern mountains, engaged marauding Grayskins in the east and south, and faced down Ferals on every spit of ground in between with a steady hand. Pushing open the heavy doors to the throne room, his appendages trembled anxiously.

  The throne room was as ripe with character as the city that hosted it. Vaulted ceilings supported by elegant columns provided abundant space for mosaic glass windows and intricate tapestries that spun Cairanthem’s birth into visual tale. The First King riding across a field of brilliant flowers, an army of Rosemarked at his back decorated one. On another, five men and women casting incantations over a hillside-carved entrance, the shining eyes of some rotten creature glowing in the lightless gap between solid door and frame. Yet another captured four men on bended knee offering crowns to the First King, celebrations commencing in the background. The red and black Unity flag occupied any remaining space. It was an impressive room, fitting of the striking throne at the far end and the similarly striking man seated there.

  Erick Romerian wore a richly detailed cape, partially concealing red silk above the waist, with fitted pants tucked smartly into polished boots rounding out the bottom. The garb had Ryecard’s tan trousers and traveling cloak looking entirely barbaric. Groomed brown hair, easily mistaken for black in its depth, was neatly encircled by intertwining stems of bronze. The king appeared every grain his title.

  Numerous finely dressed nobles, of which there was no shortage in Rosemount, lingered past the day’s dealings, filling the throne hall from door to dais. Ryecard recognized most of the house colors and sigils worn, but could only attach a few of the older faces to the bloodlines represented. Had it been so long? Despite the throng, the king noticed his old friend instantly.

  “Brother!” the king’s voice echoed as he stepped down from his seat. Men and women dropped conversation mid-word, expressions of conceit and disapproval taking form.

  “My king.” Ryecard dropped to one knee in imitation of the tapestry rulers, but was quickly hoisted up by the shoulders. Two capable arms wrapped around him, and Ryecard returned the embrace guardedly. This near, he could almost feel the exaggerated thorns that protruded in every direction from the bronze crown.

  “You’re as ugly as the day you were hatched,” Erick followed, clapping Ryecard’s back. The nobles retreated a few cautious steps, never
removing their disparaging eyes from Ryecard. A herd of deer watching a lion. To Ryecard’s mind, it was the lion who had to worry here.

  “And the light shines on you even as the sun sets, Your Faith.”

  “Bull’s milk. And enough with the formalities already.” The king took one expectant look towards the great door, then led Ryecard up the dais to where his Lord Captain and advisor stood. There was clearly no love between the two men. “We’ll take drinks in the large council chamber, Jago. Once you’ve seen an attendant to us, you and Ozias are dismissed.”

  Ryecard offered a respectful nod to Ozias Stellen Fellsword, accepting the same in return. The man had always been a little too pretty, but was ready to fight at a butterfly’s breeze nonetheless. The scars spoke to that. His precise posture spoke to that. If discussions went well with Erick – a province-sized if – drinks and memories long past would have to be shared.

  “I think it best, Your Grace, that at least one of your advisors attend,” Tobiah Jago said, ignoring Ryecard’s presence. “Your dialogue with Lord Steward Starling will certainly merit the wisdom of many men if the kingdom’s interests are not to be neglected.”

  “The topic is friendship, and cool wine will offer sufficient wisdom,” Erick replied.

  “Your Grace-”

  “Enough, Jago. Your meddling hands can content themselves with idleness for one night.” The old man’s brow wrinkled further than Ryecard thought possible. What Erick valued in the ancient stork, and his father before him, was anybody’s guess. Ryecard had known Tobiah Jago far too long to know so little of him, and cared for the man like a thorn in the foot.

  A bow from each of the advisors – one noticeably less gracious than the other – and Ryecard was entering the familiar confines of the large council chamber. Wine served, the savory liquid rejuvenated Ryecard’s travel-wearied body and mind. It did little to ease his doubt, as did the king’s cordial opening. As mistrustful as the nobles were, at least their behavior had been predictable.

  “Tell me of the aqueduct, and of the Grayskin’s Blight,” King Erick opened.

  “Forgive me, Your Faith, you will find I am not here to talk about aqueducts and Ferals.”

  “You are not here to roll dice either and yet you will,” Erick countered pleasantly, reaching for the board and several ten-sided stones that had been delivered along with the wine. His tone turned distinctly somber. “And you will find I am not so eager to confront why you are here.”

  Ryecard hesitated and was ashamed for it. Gods be cursed, this was Erick, the boy he’d swallowed noxious berries with to merit a healthier glimpse of the academy nurse’s generous bosom. He couldn’t start out distrusting the man. He had no reason to.

  “They were brasher than I recall,” he said finally, rolling a single dice to decide order. Aside from prodding one hornet’s nest or another – the berries was one instance in many – Force and Fortune had been a favorite game since youth. The king swept up the dice and took his turn.

  “Decades do that to a memory; dull the details until all that’s left is shadow. My father’s vision was to eliminate the Blight so that even shadows would fade. His greatest accomplishment, it seems, was never truly accomplished at all.”

  “Nobody knew they could survive beneath without coming up to feed. Ozias, you, me; we buried them alive. It would have taken your father a million men further to bury them dead.”

  “A million men, or four unwilling nations,” the king mused. The dice showed squires, a losing roll, and Erick withdrew his forward-most peg. Servants entered, lighting more candles and topping-off cups. “We need to secure the iron doors.”

  “How? It’s not the iron that holds the creatures back.”

  “Yes, and we took care of the witches a breath after the Ferals,” Erick said with a touch of regret. “Betrayed them, some still say.”

  “Some like the shadesayers?” The familiar comforts of friend, drink, and game diluted Ryecard’s wariness further and he spoke openly. “We did what needed done.”

  “Not everyone was as willing to see my father’s orders carried out.”

  “Not everyone saw what we saw. Nobody should wield that kind of power.”

  “Even your king?” Erick asked, watching carefully as Ryecard repositioned several pegs.

  “Have you found your faith once again, then?” Ryecard asked.

  The king tossed the dice, immediately cursing his luck. “No. I love the gods no more than you. Perhaps less, given my wife’s adoration. But when I close my eyes, the injustices of that day replay themselves like a haunting dream. They helped when others wouldn’t. They helped and suffered for it.”

  Whenever Ryecard pondered the injustices and betrayals of that day, he need only think on a single night, a few years prior to the sealing. That recollection dredged up worse nightmares than anything he could have visited upon the priesthood bearers.

  “Nothing can be done for the sealed doors, Your Grace,” Ryecard said, tearing his mind from both memories. “The South’s quarries should be halted though, until a plan is formed.”

  “With the heathens on our doorstep? The river is our sole protection, one they’re determined to nullify if it takes ships built of sand. Even now, the watchtowers have them repositioning their numbers as if they knew where we have positioned ours. They’re not there to fish. They will invade. A wall uniting the watchtowers, and any army crossing the Ash will pay dearly.” The king advanced following a fortunate roll.

  “If the South keeps digging, we may all pay,” Ryecard said, his voice trailing. How could the Grayskins know where Cairanthem was positioning its armies? Not even Ryecard fully knew, and most of his men were on the front.

  Silence took root. When at last Erick spoke, frustration was ripe. “Can no problem have a clear solution? Are you going to spin that leather until your hand falls off, or make a play?”

  Walls, aqueducts, Ferals, Grayskins; there was one dilemma Ryecard had interest in above all else. “Apologies, Your Grace,” he responded, yanked from the yet unspoken source of his fidgeting. “Clear solutions do not make leaders, murky ones do not make friends.”

  “At present, I wish I was neither,” Erick replied solemnly. “It’s a wonder I have friend or follower, the decisions I face.” A sigh of resignation broke his speech. “You defied my summons and left the lad at home, didn’t you.”

  “I did.” Ryecard replied, meeting the king’s gaze head-on.

  “Smart man,” Erick said unexpectedly. His second statement was not so unexpected. “Everyone in Rosemount, including the rats, wants a public execution.” There were more noble families in the capital than the four provinces combined, not that nobility in the provinces counted for anything anymore. Ryecard did not doubt that every last one of them wanted to see his son’s head on a pole. The wary glares in the throne hall certainly seemed to affirm this. And that was not counting the lower capital-born. Or the rats.

  “And you?” Ryecard inquired cautiously.

  Erick stalled, scouring the dismal board and finishing off a long swallow of wine. “What do you make of your son’s actions?”

  Ryecard snorted. When you didn’t have a move, forcing your opponent’s was often a good move in itself. “I wouldn’t have him scrubbing swine vomit from the city streets for a career, but when it threatens to soil my daughter, I’d gladly hand him the tools.”

  “Swine vomit? Sounds like something I’d say,” Erick remarked.

  “Aryella’s mild words for the men.”

  “Undoubtedly fitting, then,” Erick smirked. “A lark is a lark, and a jay a jay to that one.”

  Ryecard wasn’t so humored. “She carries opinions like a gambler carries coins, and holds them back as often. Between shadesayers and barkeeps, her head’s filled with enough fanciful notions to author a storybook. I wish I could say why she was there that night.”

  “Respectable people are sometimes found in unrespectable places,” the king offered.

  “She’ll be del
ighted to know the King of Cairanthem has taken her side,” Ryecard replied flatly. “How has your family taken the news?”

  “Willa left for the North. She hasn’t heard or she’d surely be in my ear regardless of the miles. Were my son king, yours would already be dead, though I’m certain his sister would condemn the world to torture - every man, woman, and child - before losing your boy. She’s raving mad for the boy. Come to think on it, I haven’t seen Cecily since the news arrived. Frightening, but her love-clouded wit may be the most rational of the bunch.”

  “Does that mean you agree with her?” Ryecard stopped short of asking for his son’s pardon outright.

  Again, no direct answer. “My father brought safety to the people. He unified them, laid the foundation for prosperity. What is my aim? What is my purpose? Roads and infrastructure, common language, industry, economy, the aqueduct. Stability and prosperity, that is my legacy, and I can have neither without order. Preeminence Law provides that order.”

  “The law was meant to reward those who had given everything for those that would give nothing, not shackle their offspring with injustice for generations to come,” Ryecard argued.

  To this point, the trying issues had touched the men’s words but not their moods. Now the room felt darker, the candlelight less warm. Every peg-move became suddenly personal.

  “You clearly believe in nobility, raising your family as such. How does this differ?”

  “I believe in being noble,” Ryecard responded, flanking with several pegs. “Living in a keep does not shelter my children from justice. The king’s mark shouldn’t either.”