The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  “Careful, Starling. Next you’ll be telling me you weren’t in the council chamber encouraging my father to decree such a law. The Rosemark is a birthright, no different than land and fortune passed down through generations. We bled for the kingdoms when they would not bleed for themselves. Their monger children would yet be Feral feed if not for the capital-born.”

  “My monger children,” Ryecard followed softly.

  The king shook his head, the thorny crown exaggerating his dismay. “A runaway cart barrels down a hill, on course to crush a Rosemarked lord. You have the opportunity to change its path, but in doing so you’ll kill a penniless monger.”

  “Do I know what each man has done, or what he will yet do with his life?”

  “It does not matter. What matters is who they are.”

  “What they’ve done is who they are.”

  “Their family is who they are!” the king shouted, closed fist causing dice to jump. “Their lineage, their name; these bring honor as well as any deed. Ceres, my unscrupulous heir, my sole heir, be damned otherwise. Has provincial life twisted your mind so far?”

  “Has the throne twisted yours? Women despoiled, men beaten, property stolen; the law breeds crime beyond Rosemount’s walls. Crime that is not a crime because the victims, by law, cannot be victims. Women heavy with child line your walls, risking life and limb to smuggle inside and bear their children on Rosemount’s streets. How long before monger children are traded as slaves? I was young and arrogant then, but now I see what my children see. We vanquished the pale monsters and replaced them with the Rosemarked.”

  The two servants in the room, having spent the last while nervously searching for a reason to be anywhere but here, either found that reason or valued their skin beyond caring, and exited hastily. Instead of erupting, the king’s voice was soft, his composure tranquil. Unsettling so. “So the line has been drawn.”

  “Do not make the decision for your daughter or our friendship. Make the decision because it is right. Because it is noble.”

  King Erick took another roll in the ensuing silence, countering with a potent attack that removed several of Ryecard’s pieces from the field altogether. The move left the board in stalemate, the only way forward for either man spelled complete ruin for the other. “You speak of honor and nobility, Ryecard Starling, but you forget I was there that day. I was there as the most honorable man I knew forgot his honor. As he did what needed done. What needs to be done is not so clear to me as it was to you on that day.” Ryecard’s eyes were fire. Judgment on that day so long ago was no more fair than judgment on his son. The king hesitated, softness failing to mask the razor’s edge beneath. “Three of the eight moon-marked are wielded by Fellswords in the open. Were I to pardon your boy, were I to change the law, a thousand could not keep order in the capital.”

  “Then what is your decision, my king?” Ryecard forced through clenched teeth. “I will not lose my son to this law.”

  Backs against the wall, both men searched for a way out, only, there was no door to this cage. There was no winning for either man, nor for the young kingdom. Unity, Cairanthem’s very being, had been predicated on reward for Rosemount, who had suffered in the Feral Wars, and punishment for the surrounding kingdoms who had abstained. Eyes fixed vacantly on the mired board and nowhere to turn in reality, King Erick gathered the dice and rolled.

  CHAPTER 10

  Breccyn’s bedroom was located high above the chirping crickets and lantern bugs that frequented the warming spring months. On this side of the keep, the crashing waves were muted to a static hum, a gentle wind that did not shake the leaves. The weather had improved considerably over the past several weeks, leaving shutters open to the nighttime sounds. More than these entered the window as Breccyn slept, however.

  The assassin had scaled the fortress’ timber perimeter and the stony fortress proper, letting herself in through a hollow in the towering structure. What was the purpose of a massive stronghold when it was pocked with more holes than battle-broken armor? What’s more, the holes appeared as if they were put there to begin with! The very size of this dwelling was wasteful in more ways than one.

  The chamber itself was even less functional if it could be believed, the elevated wooden frame that her target slept on was particularly baffling. Nearly as vexing was the animal pelt splayed across the floor. What purpose did it serve if not for sleeping? Why the colorless needed shoes when the ground neither sliced nor burned your feet was yet another question she’d been puzzling over since arriving.

  She stalked softly in her own calf-laced leather flats, planning her escape before performing the task. She had spent much of her life scouting game and enemy raiders from the pinnacles of crags and vertical escarpments, but scaling down such without light was foolhardy at best. A hive with this many holes must have other ways. Then again, knowing the colorless’ tendency towards waste, perhaps scaling the walls was the preferred method of coming and going.

  The young man stirred in his sleep. It was difficult to believe that this stranger’s death could save tens of thousands of Manalla’s Children, difficult to the point of suspicion. She wasn’t worried that her chieftain had lied. He would never lie, least of all to her. She was concerned that her chieftain had been lied to. Still, the accurate directions guiding her across this strange, beautiful landscape spoke to the truthfulness of her purpose here.

  The directions were also specific on the instrument she was to use. A hand in length, the blade’s reflective material was unknown to her, as was the dagger’s origin. The tool was far less sharp than the unbreakable bone weapons of her native land – several of which were concealed around her body despite skin-tight garments - but she was provided with the blade as instructed, and she would use the blade as instructed.

  The time had come. The assassin stood over her quarry with knife drawn. There was no honor in killing a man in his sleep, even a colorless, but that mattered little. Need and purpose could always be dissected to their root. Honor was subjective, slanted to serve individual perspectives. His death would allow thousands to live, his quiet death would allow her to live.

  As she moved decisively towards his exposed neck, the chamber door flew open with a shuddering crash. Light poured in, silhouetting a figure there and forcing an impulsive dilemma; follow through with the kill or defend herself? The specified instrument left her hand without additional thought, seeking the newcomer like a homed-in scent stalker. A long blade matching the shimmering material of the knife appeared instantly, skillfully deflecting her projectile into the still quaking door. Another breath and the stranger was advancing.

  The stranger’s blade was nothing like the discarded knife, it turned out. She was convinced the dagger would give way if struck more than a few times with her own weapons, yet it was her own razor-edged tonfas that groaned beneath every blow. Her forearm-length weapons weren’t the only things surprised, nor the man’s blade the only thing surprising. Up close, he was a ghost. Lifeless skin and frosty hair, his eyes held none of the softness that she’d come to expect from her time concealed amongst the colorless. It was said the crafters could wake the dead long ago. Perhaps this man was an eternal corpse. A more dreadful thought suddenly crossed her mind. Perhaps he was a moonshadow.

  Perspiration breaking like nothing Null’s Fire had ever inflicted in the unforgiving wastelands back home, she dismissed the speculation as needless. Every instinct, every grain of concentration was poured into repelling the ghost’s invisible attacks. She was a great warrior – only the best would serve the now ruined task – yet it took less than a blink to know the pale man was better. Her moves were lightning, and still he moved faster. An arcing swirl had her tonfas shifting defensively in one direction when his strike landed from another. She reflected on the wastefulness of the mission with her final conscious moment, then the dim room went black.

  * * *

  “What in the ward-wasting idler-wallow just happened?” Breccyn exclaimed, rubbing his ey
es yet again. It wasn’t drowsiness he wiped away - the commotion had fully cured that - it was residual disbelief, clinging like a tick, that required additional scrubbing.

  “Your death nearly, my lord,” Wyn replied casually, striking a wall-mounted lamp. The orange circle spilled over the motionless assailant. Peculiar, but the assassin was undoubtedly a woman despite her shaved head, the form-fitted garb leaving little to the imagination. Stranger still….

  “A Grayskin?” Breccyn asked, pulling pants over smallclothes while taming his racing pulse. She was the first he’d seen beyond Mykel’s books, and her outlandish appearance did not disappoint. Curiosity riveted his gaze to his would-be killer. “Is she dead?”

  Wyn glowed in the present light, much like his blurring moon blade moments before. How the Fellsword maneuvered the legendary weapon in this space was a wonder. How he dispatched the assassin without leaving a mark was a wonder. “No more than you, though her head will likely feel akin to Gabryel’s after a long night in the Ward when she comes to.”

  “She wanted to take mine clean off; I’d say hers is a feathery punishment.” Overcast skies next to Wyn’s pale radiance, the woman’s complexion returned none of the light it received. Nor Breccyn’s engrossed focus. “How did she find her way here?”

  “A better question, my lord, is why?”

  Breccyn nodded thoughtfully. “At least there’s no chance she carries the Rosemark.”

  “Oh, I’d have helped her to your throat before jumping into that boiling pot,” Wyn stated flatly. Breccyn was too absorbed to offer anything more than a smirk.

  “You may have found the pot regardless,” came a distinct voice from outside the room. The heavy door had closed during the fight and now pivoted slowly open, revealing a visibly troubled Meryam. Her eyes were fixed on the sparkling knife handle protruding from the sturdy wood. “She may not have the Rosemark, but she was sent by those who do. I know this dagger, it was a gift from your father.”

  “To whom?” Breccyn asked.

  An ominous pause preceded Meryam’s response. “Ceres Romerian,” she said finally.

  “The prince? Do you really think he would send such an obvious message?” Breccyn replied, stalking over and jerking the knife from its resting place. Shiny black jewels encrusted the grip, and a ruby far larger than gaudiness ordered or practicality desired served as an oversized pommel. The red and black of Unity. “Wyn?”

  “I’ve known mug-anchored barflies more stable than Prince Ceres. Still, it does seem rather blunt. More puzzling, where would he find a Grayskin, and why would she agree to it?”

  “The Grayskins can hang for all I care. She, at least, will hang,” Meryam followed firmly. “Ceres has ambitions even beyond what the men in his family have delivered. Supposing the king intends to pardon you, it’s sure as the sun to secure support from the capital-born.”

  Breccyn nodded thoughtfully. “And supposing the king intends condemnation?”

  Wyn’s eyes narrowed, searching beyond the present for answers. “Then it would achieve his end all the same while drawing support for the Romerian family. Perhaps even support for an heir that currently has little.”

  “King Erick would lose father’s support, though,” Breccyn responded.

  “If condemnation is the king’s decision, your father’s support is lost anyhow, my lord. The choice of weapon was intentional, suggesting that the peculiar assassin was as well. Either the Romerians want you dead, one or all of them, or someone wants us believing so. Until the king passes his judgment publicly, prudence would have us behaving as if both are true.”

  The swelling chirp of crickets filled the vacant air. Wyn was right. If the king was going to lose something regardless, how might he gain as well? The gift dagger distanced him from Breccyn’s death, but tied his sole, universally detested heir to it directly. The Romerians would undoubtedly lose the Starlings, but Ryecard would not easily muster the West against Preeminence and the crown when it wasn’t the crown who truly acted on the matter. In addition, Rosemount might finally find something praiseworthy in their future ruler.

  “Hang them all,” Meryam sighed. “The hour is late. Wyn, please see this trespasser to the cells. Whether given freely or forcibly coaxed, more answers will be had tomorrow.” Fondly squeezing her son’s shoulder, Meryam exited.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Breccyn said as his mother left. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “You could order several guardsmen to carry her for me, my lord,” Wyn proposed.

  Breccyn was too far lost in tonight’s riddle, and Wyn’s very brilliance, to riposte with anything witty. He hadn’t even considered the stubble-length proximity of death’s grasp tonight. Rubbing his suddenly prickling throat, he did offer an appreciative grin.

  Admiration crowded out every sliver of envy, but tonight’s events had Breccyn more set than ever on the greatness his Fellsword friend clearly owned yet plainly denied. And as dire as they were, tonight’s events might just have opened the door to that greatness. If Ceres was behind this plot, the Starlings and Romerians would never be allies again. If Ceres hired the assassin, the prince had just welcomed a challenge to his moon-marked sword. Breccyn would have his greatness.

  * * *

  Meryam did not return to her room. She was not the sort who waited on the hourglass to pour truth into a sculpted chalice. She was a hunter, tracking information methodically through the fogbanks and squalls it so often found. The pursuit wasn’t easy, the course, shifting and choppy. And truth itself made for slippery quarry even with the winds at your back.

  She had played it off, but the Grayskin woman was troubling. Every heathen east of the river was lining up to seize the Romerian empire. Why would the two be working together? There were thousands of sell-swords and assassins in Cairanthem, surely more than a few with a goat’s bone against the Starlings. Did they not check the Old Ward? Why not hire one of them?

  Of the countless lessons that accompanied noble life, Lady Starling held that truth often lurked in the shady places of the world before spreading further. This belief had her preparing a visit to Lord Fairfield’s estate – the hour be cursed; she’d wake the dead if she thought there was information there - as she wound her way down the spiraling stone stairway.

  “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, reaching the keep’s main hall and discovering it was not empty. A lone candle burned steadily at the far end, illuminating the squared-off face of the very man she was seeking. Lord Gerrit Fairfield, sturdy enough in chest and arms for blacksmith work, made the low-backed chair he occupied appear as toy furniture.

  “An interesting greeting for a man seated in his childhood home, Lady Starling. Nobles have always been welcome within the keep. Has something changed this night?”

  “I believe you mistake welcome with allowed,” she replied flatly, quickly smothering her surprise and striding across the long room.

  “Hmm. Then I’ll plainly answer that I have always found profit in the wants of others.” Lord Fairfield stood and gestured for her to sit, a mountain range looming over a delicate hill.

  “You’ll find no wanting here.”

  “Of course I will,” he jeered. “Your son’s fate is on every tongue in Cairanthem. Who in the kingdom is more wanting than our dear mother bird?”

  The light played tricks with his strong features, reminding Meryam of a dubious street peddler pushing questionable goods. He couldn’t possibly know of the assassin; could his presence here be mere coincidence? She doubted that very much. Not with Gerrit Fairfield.

  “I need information,” she said at last, to a knowing smile from the lord. “Information and guarantees of fealty.”

  “You know my loyalty lies with King Erick, as does every man’s,” Lord Fairfield continued through his smile. He hesitated briefly. “Though, everyone has a price.”

  Meryam just managed her eyes from rolling over. “Allegiance sold to the highest bidder like common mercenaries? The former kings of the Wes
t have fallen far.” Gerrit was loyal to no one, least of all the family that removed his from power. And bartering his loyalty? A slimy peddler to be sure.

  The man’s smile cracked. “You were loyal to those kings once,” he sneered. “When my father died and your husband appointed to lead in my place, you dropped my family like a hot coal. The Fairfields built this house, built this kingdom; not the Starlings. You would do well to reflect on history and the various colors you have carried before lecturing on loyalty.”

  “The kingdom your family built is no more, and my loyalties were forged anew and forever the day I took the Starling name,” came her satisfied reply.

  “Are you so certain on either account? Your husband favors Unity, Your Ladyship, independence. Are you wholly undividable then? Is Braemar truly lost to you?” Involuntary astonishment took control of Meryam’s features, and the crooked grin returned to the lord’s lips. “What, you don’t believe that pillow talk resonates solely within your walls, do you?”

  The cursed man had ears everywhere, some evidently growing from the stones forming her private chambers! As of yet, it did not appear as if he knew anything of tonight’s plot, however.

  “I stand for the people of the Western Province, or Braemar, or whatever you would like to call it. Your father was a good king. My husband is a good lord steward, and I follow his judgment.” The implication that a scheming profiteer such as Gerrit Fairfield would fail at either couldn’t be clearer if the barbed words themselves had left her mouth.

  If the man was insulted, it did not show. “You cannot stand and bow at the same time, Lady Starling. You are right to divide from Ryecard on this. Independence should be ours.”

  “At the cost of war? Lives, property, relations-”

  “An investment in the future,” Lord Fairfield stated simply. “Free of Preeminence Law.”

  “Ryecard is arguing the law presently, attempting to prevent war. King Erick isn’t a bad man. Cairanthem isn’t a failed state. Work with Ryecard and we can be rid of the law.”