by J Glen Percy
“You did not earn anything.”
She bared her forearm, the sigil of her sires raised permanently above the adjacent skin. “Then you’ve silently resented me your entire life. And your father? This mark isn’t new.”
No, the brand wasn’t new, and neither was the inequality it enforced. Gabryel had a friend in Shorefeld whose fingers had been removed because she had shuttered a wagon’s door on the hand of a Rosemarked. The girl was ten at the time. Staring at the princess’ mark, all Gabryel could see were his friend’s useless nubs.
“Your family executing my brother is new,” Gabryel countered, shaking the vision from his head. “Would you condemn him?”
Cecily hesitated, tracing the rose-patterned scarring. “No, I would not,” she replied at last. “But neither do I believe that people should feast on bread, having refused to harvest the grain.”
The comment silenced Gabryel, as did the man yelling in their direction.
“Quiet over there!”
“Is that it then?” Cecily spoke softly. “You and I are fated to lock horns forever now?”
Her point was fair. Would he feel differently had his father remained in the capital and he himself owned the Rosemark? He kept his mouth closed, as much for her thought-stirring perspective as for the otherworldly man stalking towards them.
The figure Cecily had identified as Kadin knelt in front of Gabryel, his opened cheek glistening in the dark. He moved his punishing gaze from Gabryel to Cecily and back again.
“You and I’ve not had the pleasure. Please, allow me.” His tone was calm, unassuming. Steady, like a deceptively slow current capable of pulling men under and carving at the earth. “The first you should know is that I pride myself in honesty.” Unnervingly calm, almost jovial. “I promised to deliver a young man in Mar Lanton once, a year or two your senior but no more. Fancying himself clever, the lad struggled, augmenting my assortment of... memories in the process.” The man pointed to his scar-riddled head, clearly not referring to its inner contents. “And that’s where most would have deviated from their word. Not I. I delivered the boy. Then I de-gutted and de-bowelled him through the very same opening.” He paused, allowing the horrific account to sink in. “Now then, with that as our foundation, I’m certain of my truthfulness when I say you intend to be a good lad.”
Gabryel’s jaw worked silently.
“Good,” Kadin followed. Curling lips twisted the fresh wound, opening the gap menacingly. He turned to the fire, then hesitated. “Do remember, others can pay for your misconduct as readily as you. My cooling supper upholds that simple truth, doesn’t it princess?”
With that, the unsettling man strolled back to the camp. Gabryel released a detained breath. It was the second time in as many nights that fear had paralyzed his very blood. The Feral certainly wasn’t a man; he wasn’t sure this Kadin figure was either.
“What was that about his supper?” Gabryel stammered.
Cecily ignored the question, but was clearly moved by Kadin’s words. “I recognized Poet when you rode in,” she said. “Does the gelding know his way home?”
“Do pigs wallow in their pinch? What’s that to do with anything?” he asked sharply.
“Losing my liver trying to escape is better than losing it while sitting around like an idling mong.... Like a lazy idler.”
Gabryel looked to the fire and the Feral-matching man sitting there. The bumps covering his skin reappeared instantly. “Take us with you. I can help.”
“So it’s friends once again, Gabryel Starling?” Cecily asked, lifting a single eyebrow.
“I don’t know what it is,” the boy replied sullenly.
CHAPTER 18
Whitehaven was a fortress, a city under constant siege. Iron plated ramparts containing regular arrow slits lined the full perimeter, the wall itself fortified by impaling assault obstacles crafted of sturdy lodgepole timber. Furmen tribes making their home in the World’s Wall long took exception to the old kingdom of Telerus encroaching on their territory. With Cairanthem’s unification and the advent of the Northern Province, nothing had changed.
Visitors traveling through the halo of clear-cut land found themselves halted by an armor-plated gate. Enormous gears and chain-hoisted counterweights effortlessly drove its hulking motion. Guards kept watch day and night, ready to seal the entrance with the pull of a lever and strand those outside to the grisly will of the wild men. Passing into the iron-shingled structures and wide lanes, it was steam, not smoke, that vented from metallic chimneys here. A perpetual haze rested on the streets as a result.
Wearing the same metallic snakeskin as every other structure, a single mast rose high above all else. Rivaling the spires of Somerset and the ancient watchtowers themselves, the central tower’s true height was concealed by the manmade mist from within the city’s walls. From without, the tower was an ominous eye watching over the barren killing fields and forests beyond. It was for this tower that the lady of Shorefeld Keep steered her small band.
Meryam pulled cloak to chin. She could use a fire, a real fire right now. She would not find it here. The element was used to marvelous effect in Whitehaven – steam wasn’t birthed of thin air after all – but so too was it feared. Whitehaven had been razed to the ground more times than history could count by its mountain dwelling enemies. The burned-out rubble from the last major assault could still be seen in many places. Iron construction, made affordable by Cairan Romerian’s Unity, was the answer. That, and keeping fire – and the fuel essential to its life - out of the public’s hands.
Wyn’s cloak hung loose over his mount The nipping air did not appear to touch him. Then again, the man’s skin could be fabricated of the same frosty mist that permeated the air. Everything about him spoke of coolness and death. He was a coiled snake, reserved, but coiled nonetheless. A snake she felt comfortable having around her children.
She wasn’t so sure about his sword anymore. The eerie glow was enough of a miracle to restore some faith in the Five. That didn’t mean she wanted the thing near her children. Ryecard surely would not. For now, Mykel’s proximity was the only to worry about, and on this errand, that was concerning for more than solely the sword. As long as the boy stayed nearby....
It was difficult denying the benefits of Unity when standing in Whitehaven, a thriving city – if still persistently besieged - that up until the Feral Wars saw ash falling as frequently as snow. But that was precisely what Meryam was here to do, and she had it on Gerrit Fairfield’s word that the man leading this province would be receptive to that perspective.
Like practically everything in the reconstructed northern capital, the main hall of the Iron Bastion was a technological wonder. What little light pushed through the city’s permanent fog was captured by a series of precisely positioned panes and mirrors, illuminating the chamber more effectively than any number of candles. Delivered to the room through exposed cylinders filled with steam, the unseen warmth was welcomed, yet unseemly. Ducts they called them. Functional, advanced, and not at all comforting. Yes, a real fire would feel good right now.
“Best tell your girls to calm their skirts,” Meryam said once pleasantries were exchanged, and her and Wyn seated. Now where had Mykel gotten off to? Perhaps he had returned to the antechamber with Fennel and Shri. “Wyn Fellsword is off limits.”
“Is the fabled ghost of Shorefeld yours then?” Lord Ahmet Redmond replied with a knowing smirk. Handsome, and aware of the fact, the northern monarch had been a child when the First King declared Unity. He wasn’t much older than Wyn’s thirty-five, and the ladies that regularly flocked his courts were presently taking an interest – to put their featherbrained giggles politely - in her husband’s liegeman. Their hands remained all over the lord steward despite.
“After a manner.” Meryam had certainly provided for Wyn as her own, though that was clearly not the... untethered man’s insinuation. “He is nobody’s, a man with an oath in payment of a debt is all.” Wyn remained silently impartial to the conversation. And
the girls.
“And what oath is that?” Lord Redmond asked.
“Loyalty above love. Exclusive to one at the strict exclusion of the other.”
The lord steward whistled, turning from the loose-skirts - Meryam doubted the contents of their heads justified a more dignified description - for the first time. “An oath can shackle a man as surely as a master, and that is a heavy oath.”
“It was a heavy debt,” Meryam replied plainly. “He took it freely.”
Lord Redmond studied Wyn carefully through the circular lens he wore over one eye. Another technological peculiarity, that. “Then it is heavily binding indeed and your mythic reputation rises all the higher, Fellsword. It would take more debt than ten lifetimes could bestow to forsake the female form myself, and trust me, this life has bestowed aplenty.” He turned back to the girls. “Which brings us to the point of your husband’s project, Lady Starling.”
Meryam supposed the ridiculous looking glass helped him see, just not beyond his own borders. He was a visionary young man, she admitted, so long as the topic affected him. Half her battle today would be fought focusing Lord Redmond on what was best for both of them. The other half would be tearing his attention away from these tittering halfwits.
“What of the aqueduct?” she asked irritably.
“The king demands men for the project, land as well. He demands the defense of his northern border. He demands even more soldiers to protect against Grayskins to the south and east. Even now, the queen herself is here, demanding weapons for the effort. Our ledgers buckle beneath the weight of their own ink. The North cannot finance these things alone.”
Somewhere a clock tolled. Large, wall-mounted gears rotated a single notch, reorienting the overhead glass to the traveling sun. The room brightened ever so slightly.
Meryam had worried Gerrit Fairfield’s information was merely a piece in his next plot. The conniving man’s guidance concerning the North’s discontent, at least, was proving true. Now, if only the girls were gone. “I fail to see the relevance,” she spoke cautiously.
The lord steward apparently appreciated the danger of extra ears as well, even those with nothing in between. “Come off it you blathering twits, the lady said he’s off limits. Take your chirps and whispers elsewhere. Go on.” His command was stern, yet his lensed gaze followed them all the way out the door. So too did their unbearable giggles for Wyn. The Fellsword could have been fashioned of Bastion iron for all he noticed. “Apologies, my lady,” Redmond grinned. “That lots’ mouths are looser than their skirts, and that’s telling a touch.”
Meryam welcomed their exodus, but neither was she amused. “You were saying....”
“Ah, right. Technology such as the aqueduct is only possible in the North. In fact, one day I suspect your horses won’t be needed to drive the reservoir over the mountains. You would think a nation - a province - like ours, harried continuously by outsiders, would be at a disadvantage. Not so. Advancement is born of necessity. Why has the North advanced? Why is a unified Cairanthem advancing? Because it must, or it will perish. Safety breeds only complacency.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because progress requires two parents. Conflict without currency creates regression rather than progression. Your husband is as culpable as the crown in unfairly demanding that cost of the North. Speak, when have we been offered aid against the Furmen villains?”
“My husband has offered all he can. You know well that the provinces are not permitted their own standing armies. Furmen on one side and raiding Grayskins on the other is the only reason Rosemount tolerates your weapons and militias.”
“What about horses?”
“The West has its own burdens,” Meryam responded.
“In a united realm? You don’t say,” Redmond commented dryly. “Lord Starling must be dismayed that Unity hasn’t cured the kingdom’s every ailment. Unity was his invention in part, was it not?”
Meryam hesitated. “You will find my support of Unity is not so steadfast as my husband’s. I believe there are other ways to achieve prosperity for the realm. Older ways.”
Now that they were getting to it, she found herself acutely aware of Wyn’s presence. The man was honoring her husband’s will to protect her even as she herself was dishonoring her husband. Where did that put Wyn’s honor? She would worry about that on the road home. For now, she needed a coiled snake in the room.
“Then Lord Steward Starling is unaware of your visit?”
“My husband is in the capital negotiating our son’s life. I fear his words will do nothing. The king, or his blood near as I can tell, has already sent an assassin.”
“What came of it?”
“Nothing. Wyn upset the scheme. The assassin awaits trial in our cells.”
“Interesting,” Lord Redmond offered. “The fire-haired savages who breach our walls never make it that far.”
“To trial?” Meryam asked.
“To the cells,” Redmond replied directly. “So if I have the straight of it, when your husband’s words fail, you wish to have friends that will stand behind the Starlings? You do realize you are seeking agreements without the man necessary to make them so.”
“Ryecard will see my way of things,” Meryam replied firmly.
“And which way is that?”
“The way of freedom, of equality under the law. The way where my children and yours are not labeled as leeching mongers and treated as such. Agriculture in the West, industry in the North, the mighty aqueduct uniting our two kingdoms-”
“Kingdoms?” Lord Redmond interjected. “Then my lady is talking treason.”
“I am talking independence.”
“Independence is treason!” he rebuffed, the words echoing through the chamber.
Meryam’s emotions had run away with her tongue and she feared she had said too much. Wyn’s expression was chiseled indifference. “If we could have these things under a united Cairanthem, so be it. But even were we to convince King Erick that the provinces should be something more, his hands are tied by the millions upon millions of Rosemarked. Their country bled for the world, now the world bleeds for them.”
Lord Redmond nodded. “I was but a boy then, deciding as counseled that only a fool agreed to be involved in the foolish. If only we could return knowing the First King’s aim, the eradication of the Ferals, was not so foolish after all.”
“Our eyes aim forward, yet looking rearwards is always clearer,” Meryam added.
Lord Redmond considered for a long moment. When his mind returned, the man was solemn, concerned even. “Won’t you be crushed?”
“Not with the Grayskins on the other side. Not with you on ours. With a large enough showing, I’m hopeful Rosemount will settle for peace without a war.”
“And if not? Rosemount eradicated a centuries-long scourge and conquered the realm concurrently. I would not underestimate their ability to wage war on two fronts. Still, to revive Telerus....” The name stirred embers in the man’s eyes. “We do have the weapons.”
“What weapons?” Meryam asked eagerly. “The same promised to the queen?”
“Nothing has been promised as of yet. Your... notion changes things. You women do have remarkable timing.”
“What weapons?” she repeated flatly.
Reaching behind his high-backed seat, Lord Redmond retrieved what at first appeared to be a defective crossbow. The mechanism, crafted of metal and wood, was shaped similarly but lacked a stirrup and the bowing limbs responsible for launching projectiles. Instead, a tiller-mounted tank was connected to the device by steel tubes. A long pipe existed where the arrow groove should have been and a mystical vapor vented from several joints. Standing, the lord steward turned towards the plain yet impressive iron-worked chair at the opposite end of the hall.
The Iron Throne had sat vacant for thirty years. It was the First King’s generosity that allowed it to remain, the high seats in the other provinces as well. His accompanying decree, however - use of the
thrones was an offense punishable by death - limited their functionality to collecting dust and serving reminder of the power he had stripped. Generosity indeed. Shorefeld Keep itself contained the oak-carved Meadow Summit, though never having been a monarch, Ryecard paid it little mind. The towering Iron Throne, regal even in uselessness, was pockmarked with grape-sized holes.
“Bring another!” Lord Redmond shouted.
From a door leading onto the elevated dais, two guards escorted a struggling woman towards the large chair. Layers of grime hiding her face and heavy furs concealing every other tell, her screaming served as sole indication that it was in fact a woman. Struggle though she did, the guards forced her onto the throne, and tethered her with heavy ropes. The tongue spoken by the woman was unknown to Meryam, but she knew her to be of the Furmen tribes. Her hair, unrestricted flames in both color and texture, if nothing else, gave that away.
Before Meryam could protest, Lord Redmond shouldered the piece, racking a lever underneath, and stared down the length through his glassed-eye. An audible click, a sharp whistle, and steam erupted from the tube like ocean spray against the cliffs of Shorefeld. It was not the only spray witnessed. The woman’s head simply disappeared in a mist of red, a solid thunk from the immense throne backstop accompanying the display.
“Spit-swallowing hell!” Meryam cursed. “Are all women merely objects to you?”
“Women? That was no woman. How does that bed-rhyme go again?
There are no women beyond World’s Wall,
Killers and beasts is all, is all.
Beasts for fathers and killers for ma,
Swiftly cause them to fall, to fall.”
“How lovely,” Meryam forced through clenched teeth.
“Oh there’s more, but you’d have to ask a child.” Her disgust grew and Lord Redmond took notice, his tone turning solemn. “Have you ever tried to reason with wildfire, my lady? Snuff it out or let it spread; reasoning will only get you burned. Fire for hair, temperament, and weapon; they are the living, breathing incarnation of the element. Destruction is their only desire.” Finishing, he barked out a laugh. “Besides, the savage had to be punished for planting her rump there. The law’s the law.” Meryam’s stomach churned. How many holes were in that chair back?